The Tamerlane Game

“Who is this speaking, please?” The voice was formal but familiar. “Hatfield? Is that you?” “Chief?” “What the hell did I do? Dial the office by mistake? “This isn't the office, Chief . . . I'm at Victor Lomax’s house.” Gordian could hear him take a deep breath. “What the hell are you doing there?” Hatfield paused. “He's dead. Victor Lomax was murdered this morning. I called your place. I was just gonna try Linda’s . . . Alex, are you there?” “I'm here,” Gordian answered. He could feel his jaw tighten. “What happened?” He listened, tracing circles on the kitchen table. “I'll be there,” he said finally, and hung up. “What is it, Alex? What's happened?” He sat down and put on his shoes. “Victor Lomax was murdered this morning, in his own house, in his own bedroom.” She sat down in slow motion. “Who? How?” “An explosion. A bomb was rigged to the audio he had in his room. I guess he woke to music every morning . . .” His voice trailed off. “Are you going there?” He nodded. “I'll stop by the college and see you later.” “What about Carla?” “Hatfield sent someone over to the college to tell her.” “I'd better get over there, too,” she said, putting some dishes in the sink. “A bomb. Alex, be careful.” He was at the door. “He had something for me, an early edition of Poe he picked up in Boston a few weeks ago . . .. Shit, every year I lose a friend.” Victor Lomax’s house was a low, wide rancho in Alvarado Hills, an upper-class suburb of San Diego. The bright looping driveway glistened in the sun, and a trace of sage was still in the air when Gordian arrived. He found Hatfield in the hall, not far from the master bedroom. As usual, he seemed a bit overdressed. Navy blue suit and buttoned-down shirt. “He’s still in there, if you want to see.” “Is there anything left to see? “Not much. That bomb would have scattered an elephant.” “What do the experts say?” Gordian walked toward the bedroom but stopped at the doorway. The room looked like a giant junk shop. He glanced down at the sheet on the floor only once. “The bomb was wired to the clock, which turned on the CD player. It went off right at seven.” “Why the hell did he have it so close to the bed?” Gordian muttered. And they walked back toward the living room. “How well did you know him?” “Well enough. He helped me years ago when I first joined the department. He was a friend .... Does anybody know anything? A maid? A butler?” “There's only a butler, a Hawaiian, or maybe he's a Filipino. But he wasn't even here when it happened. He had the night off and got here even later than we did this morning.” “Did he mention the daughter, Carla?” “Do you know her?” “Not well. She studies with Linda.” “He said she spent the night with a friend to study for an exam. I sent Simmons over to the college.” “Linda knows. She'll help. What else?” “Well, the Hawaiian says there's a son.” “Yeah, Phil.” Hatfield scratched his head. “Why am I telling you all this if you know it already?” Gordian disregarded the question. “He lives with a girl over at the beach. What about Lomax's partner?” “No one answered at home. I sent two men down to the bookstore.” “Call him and make sure he stays there. Tell him I'll be down later in the afternoon.” “Anything else?” “Where’s the butler? “He's out on the patio with Jeffers. His name’s Carlo.” Sitting passively, his hands folded on his lap, Carlo stared into nothingness. He was a frail man in his late 40s. “Nothing much here,” Jeffers said, walking over and lowering his voice. “He left the house right after dinner last night, and we were here when he came back this morning around 7:45.” Jeffers' unshaven face frowned. “He's so damn matter of fact, like we were talking about the weather. He's been with Lomax a couple of years. You think there'd be some reaction, something.” Gordian walked over. “Carlo, what kind of mood was Mr. Lomax in when you last saw him?” “He was fine.” The voice was thin, but confident. “He was in good spirits, told me to enjoy the night off.” “Were there any calls, any visitors, anything different?” “Nothing. Mr. Lomax finished dinner, went into the den to work on some book orders, and then came out to watch the news. He was sitting in that chair when I left him.” He nodded toward a huge recliner just inside the patio doors. “What about Carla?” “She called her father around 5:00 and told him—you know, I've told all this to your assistant already.” “Go on.” He sighed loudly. “She said she was spending the night with her friends so they could study together. I haven't seen her since yesterday morning.” “And Mr. Lomax’s son?” Carlo stared at Gordian. “I haven't seen him in a week. He's not a very frequent visitor,” he said coldly. Walking to the edge of the patio, Gordian looked out over the broad grounds. The landscaping was Polynesian. Several islands of dwarf palms and Bird of Paradise, an herb garden, two wooden bridges arched over a V-shaped pond that was nearly covered with lilies. A showcase—beautiful, imaginative, unused. Hatfield followed Gordian to the front door. “Finish up here and I'll call you later at the office.” “Oh, I almost forgot. There's a book for you. I think it's a book.” It obviously was. Tightly wrapped in brown paper and taped in one corner, with Gordian's name written in flowing script. He stared at the package but didn't open it. “Want me to go with you to Lomax's store?” “No, I'm not going to do that much.” “What about the son?” Hatfield asked. “Let's take care of the daughter first.”