P'town Murders: A Bradford Fairfax Murder Mystery (28 page)

Cinder was shaking his head. "I think you got the wrong killer, hon. Now who do you think would've sent you a tape like that?"

"I've been trying to figure that out."

"Well, it had to be someone with access to the Ice House."

"I've been wracking my brains to think what Ruby and Ross and Hayden all had in common..."

"They were all Buddhists..." Cinder said, with a wave of his highball glass.

Brad smiled. "Very funny..." Suddenly his smile vanished. He snapped his finger. "
They were all Buddhists!"

"I just said that."

"And who would they have had in common?"

"Well, there was that car guy. Come to think of it, he was at the house the night Ross died. I was sure surprised to see him there, but he's quite the hotcha-hotcha hunk with his clothes off, let me tell you."

Brad was perplexed. "The 'car guy'?"

Cinder's forehead scrunched in concentration. "Yeah, you know," he said, shaking his bangles. "That nummy guy at the funeral. The Rim-Porsche-something-or-other."

"Oh, God!" Bradford said, recalling his dream where the rim flew off the Porsche and chased him and Zach down the hill.

And that's when he remembered Zach saying he was
going to
learn the hundred-syllable mantra with the Reluctant Rinpoche that afternoon.

"Zach's with the Rinpoche!"

37

Cinder was a surprisingly good runner in women's flats.

"It's all that marathon training," he shouted, as they raced toward the Buddhist temple. "I just hope we get there in time!"

That thought was uppermost on Bradford's mind as they ran. Once there, however, he was less sure what to do. From outside, the building appeared sedate. The Asian characters above the door probably said
Welcome, Fellow Buddhists,
but at that moment they seemed much more dire in their directive.

"This is no good," Brad said. "We can't be seen standing here." He thought for a moment. "Look, I've got to get around back and see if I can get inside. Can you do something to distract attention away from me?"

"Honey, my entire life is about distracting attention away from other people and onto myself. Just leave it to me," Cinder said, already approaching the front door.

Brad waited a beat before slipping into the yard. It was cut off from the property next door by a large and very full hedge. At least this one was only honeysuckle, he noted. Brad passed a side window as a fierce-looking Asian man came into view. He ducked behind the hedge and the window slid to a close. No further alarm was sounded. He hadn't been seen.

A knocking reached his ears. "Hel-l-o-o-o?" he could hear Cinder call out. "Is anybody
homo?"'

Good boy!
Brad thought as he moved toward the back of the house. The yard yielded little coverage as he crossed the overgrown garden. A wind chime tinkled at his approach. He tried the porch door. It opened and he slipped inside.

Brad proceeded cautiously down the hall, keeping his eye open for a hideaway in case anyone approached. He heard Cinder at the front door asking to see the 'Rim Porsche.'

"He no here," a man's voice replied.

"I'm having a crisis of spirit," Cinder cried. "I need guidance and you could be just the man to help me."

Brad took advantage of the distraction to slip upstairs. He searched quickly. The second floor was unoccupied. It wasn't until he reached the third floor that he smelled incense coming from under a closed door. It opened onto a dim interior. Bookshelves flanked a window at the far end and curlicues of smoke encircled the room. A body lay stretched beneath the window.

Zach!

Brad ran over and shook him.

"Zach!"

He was breathing, but he didn't move.

"Ah! Mr. Bradford," said a voice from behind him. "Don't worry. I haven't harmed him."

Brad whirled to see the Rinpoche seated on the floor, completely at ease in a lotus posture.

"You, on the other hand, may be in for some rough treatment."

"Your English has improved," Brad said.

"Thank you. I wish I could say the same for my Tibetan. I can't speak a darn word of it apart from a few phonetic readings from that illustrious fairy tale, the
Book of the Dead"

"You won't get away with this," Bradford said. "There are four people at this very moment who are aware of the fact that you offed Hayden Rosengarten, Ross Pretty, Big Ruby, and James Shephard."

The Rinpoche laughed. "And are those people Marilyn Monroe, Judy Garland, Bette Davis, and Renée Zellweger, by any chance?"

The sarcasm stung, but Brad decided to overlook it.

"You see, Mr. Fairfax, this meeting isn't by chance. I've known all along that you would stumble onto the truth. I've even prepared for it."

"And what truth is that?"

"That your friends were getting too close to something for their own good, which is why, as you so cleverly put it, I 'offed' them."

"The P'Town murderer," Brad said.

"I humbly accept the honorable title," he said, with a slight incline of his head.

"Why Ross? He could never have hurt you!"

"So true! But an eager young proselyte who discovered his Rinpoche at a house of disrepute might speak about it sooner or later. I couldn't take the chance it might be sooner. I was as surprised to see him there as he was to see me, but the damage was done. I'm sure the bardo must have looked lovely on an overdose of Ecstasy."

"And James Shephard?The boy on the beach? Is that why you drowned him?"

"Precisely. Both knew me as the Reluctant Rinpoche. And both were such promising young students, too."

Brad drew a breath. "So why Big Ruby?"

The Rinpoche shrugged. "Regrettable, I must say. She made the best lattes on the Cape. But I couldn't have her telling you that I'd borrowed her gun, could I? For ceremonial purposes, of course. At least, that's what I told Halle the night I came over. Halle would never suspect me, but you'd already spoken with Ruby."

"So you sneaked into the Ice House and shot Hayden Rosengarten in the forehead, then vanished with the tape of your own visit the night you killed Ross. And on the way home, you tossed Ruby's gun into the ocean in a place that would be convenient to find—with a little tip-off."

"Precisely."

"And was it you I overheard threatening to kill Rosengarten on the telephone a few nights before?"

The Rinpoche's face showed surprise. "My, but you do get around."

"You're the 'queer fish' he threatened to expose to the world."

The Rinpoche smiled. "Yes. I need to maintain my status as a visiting Rinpoche for a while longer. As you may have guessed, I have important work to do in the next day or two."

What work could that be? Brad wondered, as his father's words returned with a vengeance:
Everyone has a reason for the things they do. You don't have to like or agree with it, but you'll be better off if you understand it.

Here was the
real
motive. He was standing before the intended assassin of the Dalai Lama!

In a flash, the Rinpoche flew through the air, landing on one foot while lashing out with the other. Brad ducked in time to avoid a vicious kick, but the Rinpoche's hands transformed into whirling blades of destruction.

I thought that happened only in old Bruce Lee films, Brad mused, as he assumed a defensive posture. Hands flew swifter than the eye. Feet kicked out with brutal savagery as blows were countered and returned with infinite precision.

"I see you've mastered a few of our martial arts skills," the Rinpoche noted as they circled the room. "I will enjoy this. To conquer one worthy opponent is better than vanquishing a thousand weaklings."

As the man spouted philosophy, Brad saw his opportunity. His foot flew out and connected with the Rinpoche's shoulder, but he received a swift blow in return. He struck again immediately, causing the Rinpoche to double over in pain. Brad's knee came up and caught him square in the jaw. The Rinpoche's face contorted in surprise and anger.

"You're not that good!" he snarled.

Big mouth, Brad thought. You can't talk and fight at the same time. You're using both sides of your brain and one of them has to take precedence. But while Brad was thinking, the Rinpoche was also busy looking for a point of weakness. His heel connected with Brad's thigh, sending him reeling. He followed up with a kick to his side. Brad staggered and fell.

This wasn't a Kung Fu movie. They both knew an accomplished fighter could kill an opponent with a few
swift
blows. Brad looked over at Zach's unconscious form and felt a surge of love.
I have to save the kid!
he thought, staggering to his feet. One good strike was all he needed to deliver.

But Brad's strength was nearly gone as the two parried and danced around in what was more a John Woo
ballet-de-violence
than a Bruce Lee
tour-de-force.
He might never land that final blow.

Just then the door opened and Thoroughly Modern Cinder came cracking down on the Rinpoche's head with a heavy metal frying pan. It should have been a wok, but it was a mere skillet that left Renée Zellweger crying tears of joy over the expensive oriental carpet.

In a true martial arts tale, it would never have happened that way. It must be the hero who triumphs against all odds, never the blonde femme fatale and especially not the blond-devestato man wearing a frilly
oop-she-bop
dress and size thirteen women's flats. But this wasn't a movie, and so be it. Happy endings sometimes came true in the most unexpected ways.

The hero strode—limped, actually—over to his beloved and awakened him with a kiss. Zach stirred and rubbed his head.

"Holy Hollywood,
Bradford! I dreamed we were fighting a dragon and you were almost winning when Renée Zellweger came in and stole the scene."

Brad smiled and tousled Zach's hair. Cute kid, he thought. Maybe I'll keep him.

38

Grace called twice before ten o'clock and then again at the crack of two before Brad finally managed to open his bruised eyes. Zach passed the phone up to the loft where he lay sprawled, wings fully revealed to sky and dune.

"Good work, Red. We're all very proud of you. The Dalai Lama should rest easy now, if he even experienced a moment of doubt or dread. When I met with him last week he seemed to think there wasn't a worry in the world. Do you think he really is omniscient?"

"You met with the Dalai Lama? When?"

"Right before Rosengarten's murder. That's why I wasn't able to call you back. We'd set up a security meeting to discuss alternate plans for his talk in case his would-be assassin hadn't been captured, but he wouldn't hear of it. He would speak in Central Park on Sunday, come hell or high water. He's almost as stubborn as you."

"At least he's safe," said Brad, grinning at the thought of the colossal forces brought together. Hurricane Isabel probably had nothing on those two.

"In fact, I believe he's about to begirt his talk any minute."

Brad looked over at the clock, noting the time with a start.

"As for the others, I understand the local authorities are dealing with them. Your Officer Nava had a particular zeal to bust Johnny K. for impersonating an officer while causing bodily harm to a certain drug dealer in his jurisdiction."

"Poor Fred," Brad said. "What about Jeremiah Jones?"

"No crime in growing flowers, as far as I know. That's all he's guilty of, unless he admits to contemplating blackmail. Halle, as you so skillfully figured out, was Rosengarten's daughter. Apparently

Ruby bought the gun to protect them from him. It's ironic it ended up being the weapon that killed him, but by someone else's hand."

Bradford cleared his throat. "Well, I guess that's nearly everybody..."

"Oh—that missing houseboy turned up in Key West. He got frightened when Johnny K. knocked you out and he simply ran away."

Just one person left, Brad thought. But I'll get to him later.

"We have more precise theories on the who, what, when, and how much of it, but that can wait till you get back. How are you feeling, by the way?"

Brad rubbed the back of his head. "Alive—mostly."

"Zach tells me you didn't sustain any major injuries. And apparently you're responding well to his healing techniques. Not that we won't ante up for the medical bills, if need be. But it must be nice to be in the hands of a genuine healer."

Brad wasn't sure what to say. "He's good, I guess."

"Good?" Grace snorted. "That boy's the best thing that's happened to you in a long time. And don't you forget it." She paused. "Just an opinion, mind."

Brad handed the phone back to Zach, who climbed onto the ladder, looking down at Bradford lying before him.

"See something you like?" Brad asked.

"Oh, yeah," the boy said, running his hand over Brad's tattoo.

"Is that your hot hand or your cold hand?"

"You tell me."

"Feels pretty hot. Wanna make like the winged stallion?"

"Oh, yeah!"

Brad made a quick stop at Purgatory later in the afternoon. He just needed to confirm one thing with the handsome barkeep, now that he knew Perry wasn't the killer.

"G and T?" Perry asked when he entered.

"Not today," Brad said. "But a little information would be appreciated."

Perry gave him a wary look. "Shoot," he said at last.

"I saw you leave the Ice House yesterday."

Perry waited, expressionless.

"Did you by any chance leave with some videotapes?"

After a moment, Perry nodded. "Yes."

"Have you destroyed them?"

Perry nodded again. "I was in them. So was Ross."

Brad thought for a moment. "They've already got Rosengarten's killer," he said. "So I guess the tapes aren't necessary now."

"I had nothing to do with his murder," Perry interjected.

"I know that now, but you'll forgive me for having wondered. Ruby told me you claimed you'd kill him if you ever got sick."