Warren Murphy: Date with Death

"What about the FBI?"

"They've been called in, but they've gotten nowhere. At first they suspected that the bodies belonged to Cuban spies, but they've given up on that. Then the CURE computers came up with a couple of interesting facts. One is that the murders seem to correlate to a dramatic increase in reports of missing persons coming out of Mexico."

"You mean they were missing in Mexico, and dead in New Mexico?"

"They're not the same people. For the past few weeks, most of the people reported missing have been young women. None of the murder victims found in the desert have been young women. Not one. It's the only consistency in the pattern."

"Doesn't sound like much of a lead. What's the other information?"

"It may not be anything, but there's been a sudden increase in air traffic in and around the Sangre de Cristo Mountains. That's in the same general area as the murders."

"Air traffic? Are they shooting these guys from helicopters?"

"No. The wounds on the bodies were inflicted at close range from a handgun. A Ruger Blackhawk. It's one killer who's doing all the damage, but he won't be easy to find. The mesa's a big area. And if this business goes on much longer, the press is bound to get hold of the story and terrify the whole Southwest. When that happens, the killer will almost certainly go into hiding, and we'll miss any chance of catching him. The president's concerned."

Remo nodded. "I thought my cop days were over," he said.

"Somebody has to do it," Smith said, rising. It was his favorite phrase, covering every unpleasant task Remo had to perform, from killing unlucky witnesses to swabbing up bodies.

"By the way, I've arranged to have a car for you at the airport in Santa Fe," Smith said. He slipped Remo a circular wire with two dirty keys dangling from it.

"Smitty, you're a prince."

"An emperor," Chiun hissed.

"Save your flattery," Smith said. "I knew you'd need a car, and this was the only way I could think of to keep you from stealing one. It's a blue 'fifty-five Chevrolet."

He walked away. On his seat were two tickets. When Remo picked them up, Chiun snatched them out of his hands.

"I thought he said Santa Fe, but I could not believe my good fortune," the old man shrieked.

"Uh, yeah," Remo said uncertainly, taking the tickets back. "Santa Fe's supposed to have some nice sunsets."

"No, no. That is not why we are going to this place. It is where Mona Madrigal lives."

"Oh," Remo said. Gently he nudged Chiun into the boarding line. "That's great. What a fantastic coincidence."

"This is no coincidence," Chiun said stubbornly. "Is the daily rising of the sun a matter of coincidence? Obviously, Emperor Smith, in his divine and radiant wisdom, has seen fit to reward an old man for his many years of service. He has arranged for me to meet the lady of my dreams."

"Little Father," Remo said softly. "I don't want to hurt your feelings, but I'll lay odds Smitty's never even heard of Mona McGonigle, or whoever she is."

"Madrigal," Chiun snapped. "Do not be duped into believing that all men are as shallow and ignorant as yourself." He elbowed his way through the crowd to sit in his assigned seat.

"Insult me all you want," Remo said, "but Smitty's not going to come through on this one. We're going to Santa Fe on assignment."

"A mere ruse. If you knew the ways of emperors as I do, you would realize that this dead body business is merely a ploy to bring us to the city where Mona Madrigal dwells."

"So you can meet her," Remo said.

"Now you understand."

?CHAPTER THREE

After slowly savoring the last morsel of chocolate torte, Miles Quantril put his fork down and patted his lips with a starched white linen napkin. "You may clear now," he murmured. He daubed his mouth one last time for good measure and then dropped the napkin on the china dessert plate.

An elderly, white-haired servant materialized at Quantril's side. Quickly and silently he cleared away the luncheon dishes, taking great pains not to spill a single crumb on Mr. Quantril's Savile Row suit. The butler had once made that mistake, and by way of reprimand, Quantril had kicked the servant in the buttocks. On particularly cold nights, the butler's hindquarters still throbbed dully even though the incident had taken place more than a year ago.

In his long career as a butler, the elderly gentleman's gentleman had worked for viscounts, barons, lords, and kings. None of them had ever put a boot up his butt for any reason. But then, none of them had ever paid half as well as Mr. Quantril. Now that he was nearing the age of retirement, the butler decided that money was a great deal more important than dignity. You couldn't bank a lifetime of good manners and refinement. So he would remain at his post until the end, and he would be especially careful not to spill the crumbs.

When the servant slipped silently out of the room, Quantril picked up the magazine beside him. It was open. From its pages, Quantril could see his own picture. He enjoyed reading about himself.

At thirty-three, he was tall and handsome and faultlessly groomed, from his razor-cut hair right down to his carefully manicured nails. Today he was dressed in one of his 280 custom-made suits, along with a color-coordinated shirt, tie, and pocket handkerchief. His black Italian loafers had been shined to mirrorlike perfection.

Miles Quantril lived up to the image of him projected from the pages of Time and Newsweek and People. Born of Old Money aristocracy, he was one of the richest and best-looking bachelors in the country. He was surrounded by wealth, pursued by beautiful women, and driven by work. "America's Favorite Tycoon," the magazine in his hand proclaimed. "Where Does He Go Next?"

"Where indeed?" Quantril whispered, his gaze passing over his penthouse office. The afternoon sunlight flooded the glass-and-chrome desk resting atop the plush carpeting. A bank of computers lined one entire wall. Another wall was covered with the rich leather bindings of a half-million-dollar collection of rare books. The office reflected just the right balance of power and elegance.

He smiled. "Oh, you have no idea, my friends, where I'm going to go next. No idea whatever."

Looking back, he realized that his success had been inevitable, with or without his family's fortune. He was a born leader.

He'd first felt the flush of power when he was six years old and caught the upstairs maid and the chauffeur screwing in the linen closet of his parents' mansion in Southampton. He blackmailed both servants for a hundred dollars apiece.

At prep school, Quantril became the youngest drug dealer in the history of the academy, a fact uncovered when he got caught by the school authorities. Were it not for a sudden large donation to the school's building fund from the Quantril family, young Miles might have been expelled. As it was, he was subjected to the severest punishment he had ever experienced: He was grounded for three months.

It was a sad time for Miles Quantril. He was twelve years old, with nothing to do but ride the thoroughbreds in the family stable, watch one of his three TV sets, swim in the Olympic-sized pool with its automatic wave machine, play in the private bowling alley in the basement, shoot grouse, and while away his spare time in the multimillion-dollar chemistry lab his father had given him for Christmas the year before. It was a wretched existence.

But Quantril persevered. In his lab, he discovered how to make bombs. They were crude at first, only blobs of plastique with varying amounts of nitroglycerine and TNT, but they improved with practice. Within six weeks, he was setting off land mines in the family rose garden. By the age of seventeen, he had developed an explosive powerful enough and accurate enough to blow up the local police headquarters.