Lethal Trust

by Lala Corriere

  Lethal Trust

  Table of Contents

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHAPTER TEN

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

  CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

  CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

  CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

  CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE

  CHAPTER FORTY

  CHAPTER FORTY-ONE

  CHAPTER FORTY-TWO

  CHAPTER FORTY-THREE

  CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR

  CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE

  CHAPTER FORTY-SIX

  CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN

  CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT

  CHAPTER FORTY-NINE

  CHAPTER FIFTY

  CHAPTER FIFTY-ONE

  CHAPTER FIFTY-TWO

  CHAPTER FIFTY-THREE

  CHAPTER FIFTY-FOUR

  CHAPTER FIFTY-FIVE

  CHAPTER FIFTY-SIX

  CHAPTER FIFTY-SEVEN

  CHAPTER FIFTY-EIGHT

  CHAPTER FIFTY-NINE

  CHAPTER SIXTY

  CHAPTER SIXTY-ONE

  CHAPTER ONE

  THE WOMAN’S ROBUST arms burst through the double doors from the darkened Tudor home and she fled outward, creating her own bodily microburst. For a mere moment, she stood barefoot out on the grassy grounds, her head bobbing and jerking. Her piercing screams intermingled with a hysterical laughter wove together a tapestry of macabre sounds that aroused the immediate intrigue of a nearby coyote pack. They began their own song of bark in reply.

  Dressed in a long white nightgown soaked with streaming rivers of red, she began twirling in unsteady circles. What little light cast from the moon reflected the whites of her bulging eyes and captured her facial contortions through flashing shadows.

  She looked up to the sky and raised both fists toward an unknown enemy, and then fell backward to hit the ground.

  I waited, peering through my night vision glasses from behind the closed gated driveway.

  I saw no other movement. No sound but for the distant high-pitched yelps of coyotes, losing interest and moving on.

  I called one of my detective buddies on the police force who had a penchant for being the first on the scene, 24-7.

  “Cassidy Clark. I wondered when you might be troubling me again,” he said.

  I rambled off the address, explaining I was at the perimeter of the home on a stakeout, and needed both his presence and an ambulance.

  “Officially, you are to stay put in your locked car until help arrives.”

  That spoke volumes. He knew I never did anything officially. Grabbing my bag, I easily scaled the iron gate and raced toward the motionless woman.

  No pulse. And the blood appeared to be from severe scratches that covered her face, neck, arms, and legs, while more blood had streamed from her nose. The frothy vomit at her mouth did little to obscure the blue lips. Her hands were stained red, with pooling under her fingernails.

  Reeling around toward the front door, I reached into my bag for the Glock, but only after slipping on a glove preparatory to turning the door knob.

  Locked? Either the electronic keypad had an automatic relocking feature, or someone from inside locked the door behind her. With my flashlight and drawn gun and with a sure-footed pace in the dark, I made my way to the sides and rear of the home, trying doors and looking for open windows for any signs of forced entry.

  The effort proved futile and I returned to stand guard over the deceased victim until the police car lights called my attention. I yelled over to him to get his spotlight aimed in my directions.

  The detective lined up the light and emerged from the car only to stop at the gate.

  “Can you open it?” he said.

  “Nope. Is that a problem for you?” I teased.

  Moments later, after he toppled over the gate, he knelt by my side and evaluated the scene after confirming the victim was deceased. I offered that I hadn’t been inside the home but I knew they’d find it clear.

  He sighed. “You and your knowing things. Okay. Let me have it. What are you doing here and why?”

  “New client. She hired me to investigate a person, her maid, and by her description and photos, this is our victim. My client presented a pretty strong case for me to take her on, claiming a trifecta of sins. She insists her maid is stealing from her, dealing drugs, and screwing her husband.”

  The detective glanced back at the body and then joined me on the stairs that led to the front door. The siren from the ambulance became more audible upon its approach.

  No rush, I thought.

  “A cheating husband is your thing. The other two grand deeds? The theft? I’ll need to know what and when, assuming she hasn’t filed a police report,” the detective said.

  I shook my head. “Didn’t want to get the police involved until she had proof.

  “The maid worked three homes, this being the second. And she’s been living here all summer as a caretaker. My client suggested I could find her here and maybe her husband.”

  “Don’t you have people working for you that run your surveillance?”

  “Plenty. Let’s just say this case intrigues me.”

  I didn’t know why but this was the truth.

  The ambulance arrived outside the gate, along with another black and white.

  “Just hop over and bring a body bag,” my police pal yelled, already relishing in their disdain for the difficult access. He then requested the officers to get inside to conduct a search.

  “There’s a side pedestrian gate,” I said. “Locked, but I can pick it in a second.”

  He stiffened his back and whined; “Now you tell me after I rolled over that gate? I’ll get it. We won’t be moving the body until forensics gets here with their cameras and bag of tricks.”

  He made his way back to the gate and a few minutes later it swung open. The other officers had already made their way around the perimeter of the house to secure it when the detective again took a seat next to me on the cement steps.

  “So, what’s that crazy gut of yours telling you?” he pushed.

  “Her name is Julie Monroe. I’ll fill out your usual reports, but not included will be a head’s up to get the tox report back ASAP. I think our dead friend here has been on one bad trip that didn’t work out in her favor. She didn’t even dress for her journey. Look for fentanyl. More likely, the new big guy in town. Carfentanil.”

  “You said she’s suspected of dealing. It’s rare for a dealer to use.”

  “But not out of the question. And that shit is bad. Maybe she was curious. Maybe it was accidental contact. I mean, a lethal dose can sit on the top of a pin. Look at her. She’s been digging her nails into her skin, and some of those marks look more than superficial. They had to hurt like hell, but I doubt she felt any pain,” I said as
I lowered my face to my chin.

  “She was crazed when she busted through those doors. I’ll fill out the reports in the morning, and you’ll keep me in the know, right?”

  “I’m here now. Who did this woman work for, and who is your client?”

  “Client’s name is Jasmine McClendon. Her husband is the kicker with the NFL. Our own Tucson Scorpions. This home belongs to a widower. Sally Riley. She summers in Seattle. Leaves this home in the care of the deceased.”

  After a big yawn, the detective asked, “And you mentioned one more home where the vic had a cleaning gig?”

  “Someone named Childs.”

  “The Childs? Paul Childs? The owner of the Scorpions franchise?”

  “So I’m told.”

  I fiddled with my phone and sent him a list of the stolen items along with photographs, and suggested maybe he could look for them in the home and surrounding vehicles.

  “Where does the rumor of this woman dealing drugs fit in?”

  “I just took on the case. Your guess is as good as mine, but I’ll be calling Anthony Bibbione.’

  “God! You still have the number of our resident Drug Lord?”

  “It changes. I keep current. We sort of came to a mutual understanding after he saved my life.”

  CHAPTER TWO

  WAS IT A GIFT OR A CURSE that held tight to my mind, body, and spirit? At the moment I felt cursed. My bedroom succumbed to the darkness with what little light to be provided by the sliver of a crescent moon and Venus. On this night astronomers confirmed that there would be only six degrees of separation between both unearthly objects. I couldn’t sleep. I felt inextricably drawn toward my bedroom window that faced the northwestern sky, as if I were only six degrees separated from the celestial union. What to most persons would be a beautiful pairing I, in my world, experienced the feeling of impending doom.

  I wasn’t expecting the crazed lady to run out and die in front of me. There was a reason for me to take the case. It would present itself soon.

  The sixth sense has played a major role in my life as a private investigator and throughout my personal life. At the age of seven I knew what every birthday present was underneath my mother’s fancy wrapping paper. By the ripe old age of eight and long before computer search histories and cookies, I made a concerted effort not to tell anyone what might have been on my wish list. Assured of my success in such secret keeping, I again knew what each and every gift I’d find inside the boxes.

  By the age of ten I kept my deepest secret of all. I had heralded myself as a self-proclaimed psychic and yet before I turned thirteen family and friends had caught on to my uncanny abilities, although they largely dismissed them as a peculiar adolescent phase.

  My mother would say, “Cassidy Clark, it’s time for you to put away such childish thoughts.”

  I got it. Mom wanted me to pursue a career in law enforcement like my dad, with a firm understanding it would be prefaced by a solid higher education. I earned my B.S. in Criminal Justice Studies from the University of Arizona.

  During college breaks, rather than hitting the pool or the pool table, I’d read everything I could as penned by or about famed psychics Edgar Cayce and Jeane Dixon. I studied the prophesies of Nostradamus. I might have been regarded as a college student without a life, but the fact is I wasn’t regarded at all.

  In time, those near to me began to beg for psychic readings. I failed miserably and separated myself from the word psychic. I had already separated myself from those that received my boiler-plate so-called readings and yet they wanted more.

  This so-called gift of paragnosis proved to be distressing. Back at university my roomie returned looking gaunt and pale, with swollen eyes and the bags to match. I couldn’t help but gawk at her.

  “Before you ask, it was the worst summer break ever,” she whispered.

  “Oh, my stars. What on earth happened?” I asked.

  “I went hiking with my parents.” She began to whimper as I allowed her time to collect her thoughts.

  “Mom wanted to head back down. Sick of the family thing, I led the way downward on the trail and arrived back at our car. Mom was only a couple of minutes behind me.

  “We waited for Dad. And, we waited. We waited until dusk. Mom finally called the ranger. The next time I saw my dad he was being lifted out of the canyon and put into a body bag. Dad had slipped and fell off of a cliff.

  “We knew that trail. Mom said it was icy in spots. I guess even in June, there could have been some icy patches.”

  I moved to her bed and wrapped my arms around her while knowing that there was no accident. The mother had pushed the father to meet his death at the bottom of the valley.

  This gift would be a curse unless I used it toward goodness.

  After fulfilling my family’s wish and serving on the force, mostly as a bored beat-cop, my internal engine revved as I longed for more. My intuition led me in the right direction and it had never failed me. I called my gift feelings, instinct, gut feelings, or a sixth sense. My loyal business partner, Sheppard ‘Schlep’ Brown, called them my heebie-jeebies. I guess that’s what he felt when he knew I fell into the zone of my knowings.

  While not an on-demand ability, spatiality and time often meant nothing to me. I could sense things that had happened as when investigating a crime scene, as well as having strong intuitions about what the future might hold.

  Sleep eluded me that night as new knowledge came at me with scrambled words and intense but fleeting images held me fast awake. Evil in the form of mankind would once again claim my time and my mind. I couldn’t be sure of anything but that I would be embarking on a big case filled with copious amounts of lies and false innuendos.

  At three in the morning I left my bed and went out to my backyard, grabbing one of my mother’s afghans and a cup of Italian coffee.

  At four I called Anthony Bibbione, Tucson’s mob boss.

  He answered the phone with, “We never seem to sleep, do we?”

  “Dead woman in the foothills. Julie Monroe. Probably drug overdose that might have also been dealing. Is your fingerprint on this?”

  He paused. Barely audible, I heard a female voice cooing in the background.

  “I’m unfamiliar with the name.”

  “Come on,” I said. “I thought we were friends.”

  “We are friends. It’s not a matter of poor recollection. I do not know that name. I think you need to take a fresh look at your own backyard. There’s a new source of action in town. One helluva narcissistic bitch. You’ll hate her. It’ll be fun.

  “Now, Ms. Clark, excuse me. It’s past my bedtime.”

  CHAPTER THREE

  TWO ENORMOUS WALLS of gleaming glass evidenced the grand vistas of the canyon that spilled out across the riparian and showcased yet another spectacular Arizona sunset. To look up, one would see the dancing colors of reds, oranges, and blues, as white popcorn clouds laced the skies with their own shimmers of songs to be sung. Most in the room didn’t bother to take in the view.

  At the vast slab table of granite over mesquite wood sat three men, plus legal counsel, and Paul Childs, the owner of the Tucson NFL franchise, the Tucson Scorpions. Placed before the three men, the intended Board of Trustees, were identical piles of paperwork bound in folders embossed with the logo of The Scorpion team. In the far corner, a young man with a shaved head sat, legs crossed, with his tablet on his lap. After eyes scrutinized him and his presence he nervously stated he was there as an impartial witness and only to take minutes.

  The owner’s attorney, Sam Black, a yes-man of years back, was familiar with every letter of every word in the massive document. He offered time for each member to peruse the pages as he rose from the table with poise and headed for the sliding doors that would lead him to a wide balcony. There, he would light up his Arturo Fuente Opus X “A” cigar. A gift from his client, Paul Childs. They were rumored to cost around seventy-nine dollars each. Black didn’t care about the cost. He most cared about the mild j
alapeno flavor they afforded along with the adjustment to his attitude.

  Months prior he had argued with his client, trying to make him understand the incredible wickedness in the family trust he would draw up for him.

  Paul Childs had answered in kind that he either do it or he could be replaced within an hour. With that, he had handed the attorney the gift of the lavish tobacco, plus a few to spare.

  With the attorney out of the room, one of the trustees spoke up. “This trust will be a heavy blow to your family. Sir, it’s almost cruel.”

  Childs stood and thrust heavy hands on the table. “This is because I came from nothing. I had to want it bad enough. I had to wake up every day with my single goal of someday owning an NFL franchise. I lived and worked that dream every day and I dreamt of it every night. I want that one of my children wants it fucking bad enough they are willing to give up everything, and I mean everything, in pursuit of it.

  “It’s not God and family first in this game. It’s football. Your belly has to ache for the win or they won’t survive and my legacy will be gone. I mean, who would have ever thought I could own an NFL franchise in Tucson?

  “I’ll answer that, myself. No one. No one but me. The sole heir might sacrifice a marriage or two along the way and he or she might need to pray a little harder, but after hours. And I need not mention that there are no after hours. Maybe when you’re pissing. And for the record, that’s either standing up or sitting.”

  Still standing, Childs held his index finger up and slowly pointed, one at a time, to each person seated at the table. While pointing, he used his other hand to wipe off the sheen of sweat above his eyebrows and then rub the back of his neck. Squinting his already beady eyes, he stared down at each man with a scowl on his rugged face.

  “My heir must know the importance of bottom up management. Everyone affiliated in the NFL Tucson Scorpion family has a say, and I don’t care if it’s a goddamned vendor that offers up an opinion. This takes time and patience and insight. The sole heir of this mega-billion dollar franchise will go to the one with an unnerving wicked drive, and that drive will ensure all of the members on our team will make the win. Every time.