A Man Named Doll by Jonathan Ames (popular books to read TXT) 📗

but because he also killed her, it’s in a trust of some kind. Hope this is helpful.” He said that last bit with false humility. He knew he had given me good stuff.

“Extremely helpful,” I said.

“Wild, the whole murder thing, right?” Now he could let out his enthusiasm.

I was silent, thinking. Then I saw that Monica was trying to call me, but I let it go to voice mail. I was going to have to get back to her, but not yet.

“What’s this all about, Hank?” Rick asked, breaking the silence.

“I can’t explain it all, but I will. I promise. I’m still putting it together.”

“Okay. I understand. And like I told you, we’re headed to Costa Rica tomorrow morning. I’ll check in with you when we’re back.”

“Right,” I said, “thanks,” and Rick started to say something but I hung up. I held on to the phone, still plugged into the wall, charging, and studied the obituary and the news articles Rick had sent about the trial. Some other very important details came out:

Madvig and Hagen had three boys: Paul, Andy, and John. The boys had their father’s name. The blonde I threw off the balcony had a money clip engraved with the initials PM. Paul Madvig.

In one of the articles, there was a picture taken in front of the courthouse downtown, showing the doctor with his three sons, who had stood by his side during the trial. It wasn’t the best picture, but I could make out that two of the boys were tall and blonde, and they looked an awful lot like they could have grown up, ten years later, to be the two dead men I had met the night before.

The other son, John, also tall, was dark-haired and a little older, and the doctor himself was short and had a large head. Like a vulture. Like the man who had been driving the Land Rover.

And there was one more very important detail: Madvig was a transplant surgeon. World-renowned.

So then I was thinking that the meeting at Belden hadn’t been about the diamond at all. The diamond was secondary. It was to be used as payment or proof of funds. For a kidney. For surgery.

That’s what the meeting was about.

Lou wasn’t raising cash with a fence so he could buy a kidney.

He already had a kidney lined up and it came with a doctor.

On Tuesday, in my office, he had said he was looking into the black market, and he mentioned a computer whiz at the motel, a young Pakistani man, who could access the dark web. Then on Thursday, when Lou left me a message, he said that it was all working out, and what this meant to me, as I put it together, was that Madvig was still in business, if you knew how to find him. And had enough money. Or a very big diamond.

But something had gone wrong at the meeting. Very wrong.

So I needed to speak to the computer whiz. The one who must have made the connection. I wanted to find out what he knew and to warn him that Lou was dead. I called the Mirage, and Aram answered in a weak voice: “Mirage Suites.”

“Aram, it’s Hank.”

“Oh, my God, Hank.”

“I know. Lou.”

“It’s even worse than that.”

“What do you mean?”

“There was a murder here and a robbery. The police just left. They were asking about you.”

“A skinny cop and a fat cop?”

“Yes.”

Thode and Mullen. They got around. “Who was killed?” I had to ask the question, but I was pretty sure I knew the answer.

“A young kid. Pakistani,” said Aram. “His girlfriend found him this afternoon. Everybody’s checking out. Nobody wants to stay here.”

“When did this happen?”

“Last night.”

“Do you know roughly what time?”

“I watched the security tape with the cops—2:32 is when a man came out of his room. You can’t see his face, but he’s got the boy’s computer under his arm.”

“Why can’t you see his face?”

“Had a baseball hat pulled down. And I told the cops I didn’t know who it was.”

“Was it a Dodgers hat?”

“Yeah. Everyone wears Dodgers hats. Even killers…and poor Lou. What happened, Hank? This has been a terrible day. First they came this morning, telling me about Lou, and I could barely breathe, and then this afternoon they find the kid.”

“Aram, I gotta go.”

“Is there going to be a funeral for Lou?”

“I don’t know. I gotta go.”

I hung up. Dodgers Hat had been at my house around 2:05, when George and I chased him away. Then he’d gone straight to the motel, about a fifteen-, twenty-minute drive. The kid was a loose thread. Could connect them to Lou.

So Dodgers Hat gets to the motel around 2:25, probably looks things over, but doesn’t waste much time. He kills the kid, grabs the computer, and leaves the room at 2:32. Then he drives back, another fifteen, twenty minutes, and texts the blonde—Paul Madvig—at 2:51: All done. Almost back. Be ready to go.

“All done” must have referred to the Pakistani boy.

Then I realized George had slipped through the doggie door into his chicken coop off the kitchen and had been barking for a while. I had been so focused I hadn’t noticed. Then there was a banging at the front door. I took Lou’s gun out of my pocket and moved fast to the kitchen window and peeked out.

It was Monica.

20.

“Jesus Christ, Hap, your face! It must have gotten worse overnight.”

“It did,” I said and let Monica into the house. George came back through his doggie door and started jumping all over her, but she didn’t care.

“I’ve been trying you all day,” she said. “Why didn’t you get back to me? I’ve been really worried.”

Her face was drawn with concern and anxiety, and it made her scar more livid.

“George!” I said. He wouldn’t stop jumping on her. “I’m sorry. I…I had problems with my phone…I should have called.”

“I thought maybe you had died or something on the pills. That’s why I came over.”

“I’m sorry,” I said, and feeling the