CoverBoys & Curses (14 page)

Chapter Forty-Three

Tit
for Tat

I
DIDN’T NEED a roaring fire. I didn’t need a glass of wine. I didn’t need an
Eiderdown pillow to float my worries away.

I’d
offered Detective Wray to follow me out to my back deck. Sterling fell behind,
pretending to clean my kitchen while assuring me she was within earshot. My
kitchen wasn’t dirty and Sterling was no maid.

           
“You said you had something to tell
me, Detective Wray. Please. What is it?
Quid
pro quo
.”

“That
prominent plastic surgeon you wrote about, The Dr. Scars-Away? Dr. Wrinkles
away—and the one that left your lady friend dead on his table after a tummy
tuck.”

“His
name is—“

“Hell, I
know his name. You might as well have given out his social security number.”

“He’s a
jerk.”

“He’s a
dead jerk. Slashed to death. Thirty-six times.”

“So you
jump to the conclusion because, again, this upstanding man in our community—his
death is somehow related to me?”

“Numbers
are games. Games are numbers. You may not even know you’re playing this game, Ms.
Visconti, but you are, indeed. And the numbers out there are starting to add
up.

“You
have my attention. But you did tell me that you were no good at math.”

“First,
you promise not to repeat this. If I hear it on the streets or see it anywhere
in print I’ll know it came from you. You got that?” he demanded.

I
nodded.

“There’s
a chain of evidence that directly ties these murders together. You are the
common denominator.”

The
nebbish man crossed the threshold and yet I was the insulted one. I also
realized I was at the top of his list of suspects. I was a strong link in some
horrific chain.

“Lauren,
go back with me to one of your first feature articles. The models. In
particular, the lovely model that got herself involved in cocaine and god knows
what else. We found her passed out and dying in front of a
laundromat
.
We know she was near a known drug dealer and she liked to chase the dragon. You
hearing me?”

“Yes.
One of my first articles. Correct.”

“She wore
some fancy bauble on her finger. I’m told it was a five-carat emerald.”

“I know
about the ring. Closer to ten carats.”

“And we
found the ring finger severed. The emerald, gone.”

“Actually,
it was her index finger. The stone was that big.”

The
detective managed an uneasy grin. “I’m going to tell you something, and not because
I particularly like you or your magazine.”

I met his
stare. “I thought you liked
CoverBoy
.
And I don’t think I particularly like you either, Detective,” I said.

“The
model’s ring and her finger were gone long before we got to the crime scene.
Eyewitnesses placed it on her finger that night. Not hard to imagine someone
chopped off her finger to get at it. That stone would have pretty much paid my
mortgage for a year. I would have noticed it.

“Then we
have your woman from Afghanistan.” He opened up his notepad again, rifling
through the first pages.

“Her
name is—was, Dhurra. Dhurra Sulayman.”

“That’s
it. Good girl. Well, the first real evidence was that one of a kind emerald
ring—the one someone so eagerly carved off your model. It turned up in Dr.
Sulayman’s
throat. Inserted after she was stabbed to death.”

I gasped.
I felt dizzy in my stomach. The thoughts of the model and of my dear Dhurra.
The thought of the wolf-dog. It would have gone after my throat. His mouth hung
open with rabid-looking foam drooling down both sides. All he had to do was
pounce and snap his powerful jaw closed on my throat.

I only
then noticed that I’d kicked off my Prada’s and was curled up in a tiny ball,
again. This time I was on the back deck. With an armed detective. The fear felt
the same.

“I’m
afraid it gets worse,” Wray said. “Do you want to hear it?”

Immediately
I regained my posture. My legs went to the floor. For support? My back
straightened and again I looked directly into his coal eyes.

“
Dhurra
Soyl
—”

“Sulayman,”
I said.

“Right.
Well, she sustained more injuries than the external slashes.”

I
fidgeted. He watched me as I tried to be invincible. I hoped he couldn’t hear
my hammering heart. I sat on my hands to steady the shaking. “Go on,” I said.

“Her
attacker carved off her, uh, her labia.”

I sat up
so that my hands could go now go to my forehead. My head sank back between my
legs which were already poised back under my body where my hands had been.

“We
found the doctor’s privates in your notorious plastic surgeon’s throat.”

A violent
shudder seized me from my hair to my toenails. Shockwaves pulsed through my
bones as if they were dense and powerful electrodes.

The
detective’s relentless words continued, “You see, now. The murders are directly
related to one another. And we’ve known for some time that they are directly related
to you.”

Chapter Forty-Four

Next
Victim, Please

STERLING
BROUGHT ME a Bailey’s on the rocks. I asked her to stay. Detective Wray’s scowl
insisted that he speak with me alone.

He told
me the time had come for me to discuss Tucson and Payton Doukas, but first he
warned me again not to repeat the information he had shared with me on the
chain of evidence that linked several murders together. He knotted that chain
around both my mouth and my heart.

I told
him all that I knew, which wasn’t much but I found it alarmingly easy to be
candid. I had nothing to lose this late in the game.

I explained
my frustration, more certain than ever that something was very wrong and it
started in Tucson. After Payton’s death grief came swiftly. Then the anger. The
whys of it all with no reasonable answers. Anger is a much more painless
emotion than grief, but when it reaches the precipice of rage the toll is far
worse. I was reaching that edge.

And no
one was going to threaten me. I wouldn’t scare away.

“So this
threat tonight, and others before. You think they are about your friend in
Tucson?”

“Yes.”

“Did you
feature her in your magazine?”

“Of
course not.”

“Was she
stabbed?”

“Gunshot.”

Detective
Wray listened to me with care, making a few notes and more than a few scowls.
Finally when I had nothing more to say he dropped his notebook into his pocket.

He asked
me to show him to the door. His eyes told Sterling not to follow and she
behaved.

“I
understand you are upset. But from what you’ve told me, there is no connection
between your friend in Tucson and what I have here on my hands.”

He thinks they’re on his hands?

“You
have someone in another state dead by gunshot. You happen to be questioning an
entire authority that has ruled the incident—the death, a suicide.

“Now
here I am dealing with a slew of stabbings. Multiple stabbings and those, Ms.
Visconti, are murders. They’re acts of rage. We call them overkill. And those
are connected to you.”

My hands
began to tremble. Nothing made sense to me but that the Lauren Visconti Curse
continued. “Are you saying I’m a suspect, detective?”

“I am
saying you’re involved, whether you like it or not. And that makes you a person
of interest. Why don’t you give me a heads up? What’s your next great story to
hit the stands and when?”

I laced
my hands behind my back to hide my nerves. Why was I so nervous? I couldn’t
think straight, let alone speak. My dry mouth felt coated in volcanic ash.

“Ms.
Visconti?”

“It’s
about Catholic priests. And it will start hitting mailboxes tomorrow morning.”

“Oh,
great,” he said. “I’m
gonna
need the names of your
next victims.”

Chapter Forty-Five

Cat
Fight

DETECTIVE
WRAY DIDN’T leave until I printed out the entire article.

He
scanned it, shook his head, stood, shook my hand, and left saying only, “I’ll
be seeing you.”

“Shit.
It is pretty explicit,” Sterling said, after perusing the contents of the new
CoverBoy
issue on my computer monitor.

Sterling
stayed with me through the wee hours of the night. She wanted to know more
about why a man had attacked me at my door. I told her the truth, for even
Detective Wray said it had nothing to do with the stabbings. A warning to stay
away from Tucson. That’s all.

Sterling
gasped, “What do you mean, that’s all? We only just decided to go back there.
Who the hell would know about that?”

“I don’t
know, Sterling. Why don’t we start with who you told?”

Sterling’s
steel gray eyes flashed with anger. “No one!”

“You’re
lying! Fuck that. This is serious.”

She
shifted in her too tight dress, “Well—my dad. I mean, You think I’m some bimbo princess
that will be heir to the entire company but he still makes me put in my hours.
I had to tell him I was planning on taking a few days off. He knew we were
going to Tucson but I didn’t even tell him why.”

“Anyone
else?”

“No,
Lauren. No!”

“What
about Brock Townsend?”

“What
about him?” She shuffled her feet and ruffled her strands of long blond
tresses. Diamonds on her fingers reflected the glow of moonlight, reminding me
of the brass umbrella stand I’d just slammed into my visitor wolf-dog’s face.

“Did you
tell him?”

“Lauren,
it’s not like that between Brock and me. You have the wrong idea. We hang out
sometimes, but we don’t talk.”

Yeah. I bet they don’t talk.
I said nothing.

“For
god’s sake, Lauren, Brock never unplugged my pipes. Get it? We never did it! I
don’t even know why you would care, the way you treat him. He’s only got eyes
for you but you treat him like shit. And besides, what would it matter? Are you
suggesting Brock would try and stop you from going to Tucson? Stop us from
learning what really happened down there?”

The
wind, bellowing off the ocean surf, caught my red hair and strands splayed
across my face and molded against my glossy lipstick. I pulled the gooey strands
away and shook my head. “I don’t know what to think. I can’t think. I’m sorry.”

Sterling
told me Brock only had eyes for me. She was trying to spare my desperate feelings
while attacking my own behavior. And I couldn’t think.

“With
all this shit coming down, I don’t think we should go to Tucson now,” I
muttered.

“Good. I
don’t ever want to go back.”

“No. You
misunderstand. I can’t go now. I have to deal with
CoverBoy
and any fallout to come. But I am going back, Sterling,
with or without you. I’m not wimping out. In fact, the asshole that greeted me
at my door tonight has just dug my feet down deeper than a pauper’s grave.” And
I’d only just learned how deep ant stacked that could be thanks to Jack Helms.

Chapter Forty-Six

Veins
of Gold

MOON
BLADE HAD SOME serious thinking to do. What the hell better should be done with
a cut-off clit but to cram it into the surgeon’s throat? That came pretty
easily. Now, what to do with a cut out heart? Could it be preserved? And for
how long? While there was no clear plan for another slaying the act would be
mandatory, inevitable and deliciously fun.
           

COAL
PLANNED ON ENJOYING a sizable income from his books and speaking engagements
and the multitude of retainer fees that promised his hand-holding of patients
once a month or so. He’d milk them until they were well enough. Of course, they
were never well enough.

           
The farm turned out to be a bigger problem.
Too much maintenance, yet full of boys. Wonderful young boys.

 
          
He
had to admit he didn’t plan on the extended financial gains that fell into his
lap, for some of his patients would gladly pay him next Tuesday for their
hamburger today. Who would have believed in L.A. so many successful social
climbers were suffering hard times?

           
The solution was simple. And
brilliant. Coal began selling his time for a portion of their businesses, no
matter what those businesses might be. He’d already collected significant
shares of everything from retail to service to industrial and those stocks
became the bottom level of his earnings matrix. After the savings accounts were
emptied, stocks and company shares were turned over along with any trust
accounts and the ample Social Security checks.

           
In little time he found lost souls
that had no home, even if they owned mansions in the city of angels. He seized
those souls and carefully evaluated each one. He farmed most of the younger
ones out to his acreage. As for the others, only after turning over the deeds
to those awful mansions that haunted them with the binding of such earthly
trappings, he kept them on a retainer. Of sorts.

           
He stood on the forty-second floor
of another ‘inherited’ office suite. Stiff black leather covered the sofas,
chairs, and ottomans. Structurally worthless architectural beams, harsh
lighting, and polished stainless steel tables overwhelmed the space with glare,
ostentatiously reflected in a multitude of mirrored walls. The abstract nude
paintings cost the owner a tidy sum of three million. For Coal, their price was
about twenty hours of therapy. Well invested, Coal thought, but only because of
the inherent value. He’d have to research how to divest of them at top dollar.
 
To him, the art looked like the endeavors of a
defiant five year old that had just seen his mommy naked for the first time.

           
The stainless steel and black slate
reception area was empty. No receptionist. No phones to ring. No business.

           
The air conditioning sat at
precisely sixty-six degrees.

           
Coal lit up a Cuban cigar and poured
himself a
Glenlivet
, neat, in celebration. He scored
another big one today. Not as big as when he hooked up the Carly Posh woman. Just
like any horny teenage girl lined up at a Justin
Beiber
concert without knowing what
horny
meant,
so it was with Carly Posh and her friends lined up like prey in Harlan Coal’s
hands.

           
Coal flashed back to the two
cock-sucking boy hookers he picked up the night before. He reveled that he
could buy them, and a dozen more like them, every night. But it wasn’t every
night he was focused on. It was all their years he wanted.

           
He loved little boys. He loved their
high voices and their itsy soft pubic hairs, and their easily excited but
beyond-control penises that had never gone deep within uncharted territories.

He
fancied himself in the mirror juxtaposed to his unused executive desk, admiring
his own bulging erection, when he saw Armand in the reflection.

“Damn
it, Armand, what the hell are you doing here?”

“You
changed the locks, remember? You refused to let the building janitors have access.
You gave me the fucking keys so that I can come by and clean up after you.”

Coal
stormed out to the balcony, calling behind, “Bring me my drink.”

Armand
followed Coal outside with the drink in hand. “I’ve been to the farm, like you
said. We need to talk.”

“I’m not
in the mood for any of your problems, Armand.”

“You’re
never in the mood for my problems. I think these rank up there as your
problems.

“The
little boys you keep insisting upon. They’re the ones causing all the trouble.
Now that you won’t allow them at The Centre they’re rebelling. Our cells are
full.”

“I can’t
afford to have them around The Centre anymore. Not now. It’s too risky.”

“And I’m
telling you it’s too risky to have them at all. You discard them like used
popsicles sticks when you’re done with them, but let me tell you—those sticks
are catching fire.”

“Keep
the troublemakers in the cells. Double them up, if you must. Just keep them
healthy and hydrated. Keep them off the proteins. Doctor’s orders.”

“You’re
a fucking predator,” Armand yelled.

“And
you, my dear friend—you are my partner. You just have a need for a different
form of bonus plan than me. You fuck your women, young and old, but the only
way you really get off is by smacking the shit out of them. My savage pal, I’ve
had to clean up after you, too. That’s why we make the most excellent of
partners.”

Armand’s
voice throttled, “My messes bring in more hard money than yours.”

“Child!
You child! Quit counting and let’s call a truce for the evening.” Coal called
for the fifty-year-old scotch and another glass for Armand.

“So now
what, partner? What’s next? I’m on board, whatever it is,” Armand acquiesced
after only a few ounces of the fiery brew.

“We have
Carly Posh. She’s the offspring of a troglodyte but in a little pretty shell of
a body. She’s an unenlightened dweeb longing for a home. Maybe that’s why she’s
so good at interior design. She’s always trying to make a home out of four
walls of bricks and mortar.”

“Fantastic
houses,” Armand murmured.

“I’m
working on Visconti. She’s a challenge.”

“And god
knows you love a challenge. But if she catches you with one of your boy toys
it’s all over.”

“That’s
why I told you to keep them away from The Centre, damn it. And for the record,
I need you away from there, too!”

“What
about Sterling Falls?”

 
Coal brought out the coke. Time for some
baseball. “She’s worth more than Visconti, but nothing until her old man is
dead. Trust me. I’m working on that. I’m having dinner with her and Daddy.”

“Who are
you this time?”

“I’m
still good old Dr. Harlan Coal. Isn’t it grand?”

“With
this circle of girls, don’t you think they talk? They have cell phones. One
mention of you and
 
you’re screwed. It’s
all grand until someone discovers who Nathan Judd really is.”

“Nathan
Judd, the evil one, was my father. He also has another reputation, if anyone
does bother to do any digging. He was the king of gold. And that’s how I
connect with Sterling Falls and Daddy. With the price of metals today no one
will dig any deeper than the dirt that houses the veins of gold.”