CoverBoys & Curses (17 page)

Chapter Fifty-Two

Stashes
of Stills

“THIS
WILL JUST TAKE a minute, Ms. Visconti,” the detective’s voice boomed.

           
“Please be short and to the point.
I’ve got a business to try and salvage.”

           
“Entertain me, for just a minute.
What do you know about Sukie Fields?”

           
“Sukie? She’s a brilliant
photographer. She rarely complains and she works overtime for free. She under
promises and over delivers. And for the record, if you’re still of an unjust
curious mind, I don’t know her sexual orientation. It’s none of my business.”

           
“What
do
you know about her personally?”

           
My fierce stare caught his congenial
eyes and a soft smile. “She’s a woman of
myst
—” I
caught my speech. “She’s a quite, private woman. She works behind the camera, Detective.
She’s shy.”

           
“So you’re telling me you know
nothing about her beyond work ethics and acumen?

           
“You started to tell me she’s a
woman of mystery, right? What does she do when she leaves here? I mean, does
she watch movies, go to gay clubs, play with—“

           
“Zip your mouth on your prejudices,
Detective Wray. Are you trying to tell me that after all this time working your
big
slasher
investigation your prime suspect is a
five-foot tall Asian senior citizen?”

           
“In a court of law you’re innocent
until proven guilty. In my court you’re a suspect until cleared. That’s the way
it works.”

           
“Sukie Fields wouldn’t hurt
someone’s feelings, let alone their body.”

           
“She has no alibis for the nights of
any of these murders.”

           
“Because I’ve told you she’s a
loner. Lots of artists are loners. Now I think you’ve overstayed your one
minute of intrusion.”

           
“I’ll be right back here until
something makes sense with all these stabbings and this maddening numbers
game.”

           
“And I’ll be
lawyered
up along with every other employee that works here. You can call my
receptionist for the lawyers’ phone numbers.”

           
“One more nicety from me before I
leave. There are no leads on the man who showed up at your doorstep.”

           
“And I should be surprised?” I
snapped back. I looked at my purse. Geoff’s anti-number-six Voodoo potion was
inside the zippered compartment. I could use a good dose of it.

           
“The thing is, mind you it’s not
official business, but I have a friend in Tucson.” He palmed a business card.
Or rather, a number scribbled down on a torn index card.

           
“He’s a former federal agent.
Retired about a year ago. Good guy. Good friend, and believe it or not guys
like me have a good friend here or there.”

           
“Tucson? This is about
my
good friend, Payton Doukas?”

           
“Still don’t see any connection with
what I have on my hands here, with you. But this guy knows his stuff. Beats you
flying off to Tucson and getting yourself in more trouble. Give him a call and
see what he can do for you.”

           
I accepted the number for a Victor
Romero.

           
“Just seems I’m always delivering
you bad news. I thought maybe you could see me for the old softie that I am,”
he said.

           
“Thank you.”

           
“Not saying he can do anything for
you. Not saying there is anything to do.”

           
I guess it was his way of saying, “You’re
welcome”.

VICTOR
ROMERO ARRANGED for the conference call. He’d give the Visconti woman exactly
sixty minutes. He kept to a tight schedule, with nothing else to do. Retirement
didn’t suit him.

           
It took Romero forty minutes to
deduce he wasn’t wasting his time. Lauren Visconti rose up between the red lines
and black dots as a little pistol. And as for her friend’s pistol aimed at her
own head?
 
Not for a minute in his bones
did Romero think Payton Doukas pulled the trigger.

           
The first thing on his new agenda
was to find the missing brother, who may or may not want to be found. He
cancelled the haircut and the golf lesson; they were the only two things on his
calendar for the week and he loathed both appointments.

I
AM THE PRODUCT of rape. My mother was dead. I’d not become a bride before the
groom-to-be was dead. And the father of the bride, too. All facts.

           
A best friend was dead, too. Fact.

           
And in spite of all of this, or
because of it, I turned all of my focus toward business, and the business took
me to the west coast. My intention was to produce a magazine unlike any other.
An emotive, intelligent, and sexy magazine well received by women and some
open-minded men, or at least the curious.

           
Now I sat in front of my fireplace
with four file folders on my lap. The night cloaked the air with damp and cold.
The roar of the fire comforted me for what I was about to do.

           
Spreading the contents of the first
folder on the floor in front of me, I studied the colorful images of the
stunning runway model. She reminded me of the famous model,
Gia
,
who fell victim to heroin abuse and then later AIDS took her life, attributed
to a dirty needle. And what we uncovered behind the glamorous world of models
proved that chasing the dragon was normal, if not mandatory.

The
second folder contained black and white photographs of a brave Afghanistan doctor
who had become my personal hero. I would never forget Dhurra.

           
My disc player turned and Andrea
Bocelli
, my favorite tenor, bellowed. I turned the volume
on high until the floor reverberated with its own drum.

           
The next file contained mostly
collateral brochures from the plastic surgeons’ clinics, plus a few candid shots
my staff managed to snap including one we ran in the article. It captured a
zoomed-in photograph of a doctor leaving his clinic and stepping into his brand
new Lotus.

The last
file folder seemed to glare at me with a taunting stillness. I had requested
it, yet I couldn’t move myself to open it. It held all the notes, photos,
research, and documents used in the article:
Priests, Power & Pedophiles.

           
My fingers ran across the top of the
black string that laced the folder together. I knew what I would find inside.
Everything would be in order. Our research department had documented and
verified every printed detail. As is often the case, I had to open up the
checkbook to get at some of the facts but only because it was money and power
that had put a lock on the truth in the first place.

           
The fire roared and spitted. The
rain pounded in sheets against the sliding doors.

           
All of them were dead, I thought. My
runway model, Dhurra , the plastic surgeon, and now a priest. And a mental
health worker, the ultimate snitch, remained missing.

           
The pounding grew louder. Too loud.
Lightning streaked across the dark sky and a roar of thunder boomed from
somewhere over the ocean.

Pounding.
Now knocking. Now pounding at my door.

Chapter Fifty-Three

An
Open Invitation

The
pounding stopped. Now tick. Tick. Tick. I hadn’t pulled the plantation shutters
and could see it was Dr. Coal, clinking his keys against the window while
bracing himself against the tumultuous winds with his other hand.

“What is
this? Are you all right? I’ve been ringing the bell and beating on your door!”

Astonished
at his presence, I signaled him one moment and ran to the CD player to quiet
Andrea’s voice.

“Loud
enough to fill the Bolshoi,” he teased.

I
grabbed his umbrella and helped release him from his raingear. “What are you
doing here?” I tried to sound polite, but felt off balance. Sweet and sour. That’s
all I could think.

“My aide
is renting a home further down the beach. His power went off so I brought him
some provisions. I thought I should check on you, too.”

My mind
raced in jagged circles. How did he know where I lived? Oh. Forms. I must have
put it on the forms I filled out for The Centre. His aide? Near me? And my
electricity was on, as evidenced by Andrea’s music and plenty of lights. I
fumbled for words. Why was he in my living room? Sweet and sour.

“Come
in. Dry off,” I said.

“If
you’d rather be alone I understand completely. I shouldn’t have just showed up
here.”

“No. Can
I get you something to drink? Tea? Wine?”

“What
are you drinking?”

“Something
stiffer.”

“I’ll
have something stiffer,” he smiled.

I led
Coal toward my kitchen where I handed him a towel and asked him to pour two
scotches as I pulled out two glasses and the bottle. My eyes had already
returned to the photos and files I had left sprawled out by the fireplace and I
had no intention of sharing them with anyone beyond the lawyers.

Coal
finished drying off, then joined me by the fire. I had scooted the file folders
under the sofa

“Allow
me,” Coal said, offering me my own scotch.

“Wow! The
service is impeccable around here,” I said.

Teddy,
my incidental-adoptive cat, came lurking out from the dining room. He acted
peculiar, but isn’t that how all cats act? He hissed at Dr. Coal. I’d never
heard him hiss before. He arched his back. I’d never seen that. And then he ran
into his private bedroom Carly decorated just for him. I had seen that.

 
“How are you holding up, Lauren?” Coal asked,
unbothered by Teddy.

My
shoulders slumped. I could see it in his eyes. The pity party. “You know?”

“Another
tragic murder. Yes, I know.”

“I’m
holding up.”

“Any
more personal threats to you?”

“None at
my doorstep. Just the usual rate of irate. We have some detective on our side,
at least that’s what I try and tell myself.”

“A
private detective?”

“Well,
no. The one assigned to the cases. And me.”

He
sighed. “Oh. I see. One of L.A.’s finest?”

Sweet
and sour. He was so handsome. So charismatic. He was sitting in my living room
and filling the air with an energetic aura. Part of me wanted him to sweep me
off my feet and take me to my bedroom. But he was also my shrink. And he was
asking too many questions, too fast. I wasn’t prepared and I didn’t want to
talk about it. I ignored his follow-up question.

“Luckily
the next couple of issues are relatively tame. An article on steroids from
users and peddlers already behind bars—a throwback from our test issue since we
helped get them behind bars. And June Grooms.”

“Your
magazine will be just fine, Lauren. So will you.”

I took
comfort in the words. And in the way that they were spoken.

I must be crazy. Do not, under
any circumstances, jump from the frying pan into the fire. Finish the drink
with the man and show him to the door.

Harlan’s
cell rang. In disregard to what now had become a downpour, he removed himself
and stepped outside to my deck to take the call while finding shelter under the
small
ramada
.

           
Before I could second-guess myself I
brought out some Gouda cheese and rye crackers, only after scraping off the
sheet of green mold on the cheese and shoving it down the garbage disposal like
any other perfect hostess would do. I also grabbed the bottle of scotch.

           
I glanced at my mantel clock. I
patted down my hair. I ran my finger through my hair to lift it again. Hell, I
don’t know what I did. Coal was the one standing out in the pelting rain. I was
the one that felt like a fool.
        

           
When he finally returned through my
kitchen I ran to grab him another towel.

           
“I’m sorry. I’m so sorry,” he said,
mopping up his tracks.

           
“Don’t worry about it. Is everything
okay?”

           
“Now you sound like my therapist,”
he said. “Everything’s fine.”

           
But it wasn’t fine. His tawny
bronzed face was now a translucent gray, and not from the cold and rain.

           
“Bad news?” I asked.

           
He shrugged. “Sometimes it’s easy to
lose track of the fact that The Centre is a business, but economics dictate
that issue,” he said.

           
“Trouble?” He seemed to have
acquired my trait of avoiding the questions.

           
His jaw tensed, betraying his
frustration. “Seems I have good news and bad news. That was my banker. Our
finance guy has been extorting money from The Centre. Big money. And now he’s
disappeared without a trace.”

           
Coal was the steady rock everyone
else turned to for help. I’d never seen him unnerved, not even slightly upset.
I ached for the sudden change in mood and the serious expression that consumed
his entire body.

           
“You’ll go after him?”

           
“Sure, but it sounds like it might
be a lost cause if no one can find him.”

           
“I have the direct number for the
detective—“

           
“No. Nothing I can’t handle,
sweetie.”

           
“I’m so sorry.”

           
“We have to trust, Lauren. I will
never ever say that I trust too much. Sometimes, as you well know, humanity
disappoints us.”

           
“But you have good news,” I urged,
as we took our places back in the comfort of my living room and the roaring
fire.

           
“Yes. The bad helps us see and feel
and live the good.”

           
“Tell me.”

           
“I’ve already expressed that we
don’t have enough homes at The Centre. So many good people want to live with
us.

           
“One of our homes has just become
available.”

           
His eyes were delicious with
excitement, but I didn’t understand. “Available?”

           
“Mrs. Conrad passed away today. A
lovely woman. A devoted soul.”

           
“How sad,” I said.

           
“Believe it or not, if we think life
is robbed from us in death it’s because we don’t understand it can be a journey
to embrace when the time comes for us.”

           
“But how did she die? Was she ill?”

           
“I don’t know the details.”

           
“But like Carly, this woman owned
her own home, right? Won’t you just buy it back from her estate? I’m sure Carly
told me you have plenty of prospects in place with offers to buy any home on
the grounds.” It was a question more than a statement.

           
“Not necessary. Mrs. Conrad was
devoted to our path. And pure. She left the home to The Centre.”

           
“Wow. That’s a magnanimous gift!”

           
“I don’t think she had any other
heirs. We will respect her final wishes.”

           
It was then that I noticed Coal had refilled
my glass of scotch—did that make three?—and he had barely touched his own.

           
“Do you believe in synchronicity,
Lauren?”

           
“Well, I guess I do.”

           
“This is magical. Forget about the
bad news and feel the good. The rain. The power going off. My checking in on
you. And precisely when I am here with you I get the call about our having an
availability of a home on our grounds.

“It’s
quite clear to me. I think you should buy our home!”