Lethal Trust

by Lala Corriere

  “Do you get me now? It’s the end that counts. Not the means! You sacrifice all if you want it bad enough. This will be me heir. My only heir. I have entrusted you to make the right decision.”

  Childs walked around the table and approached his appointed trustee that spoke up, nose to nose. “This is a cruel business, my friend. I want the one child that wants it as bad as I wanted it and that one child can and will carry on the Scorpions’ legacy. Not a bunch of spoiled brats.”

  He turned to all three men. “You will note that there are only men present and no women. Don’t pull that sexist crap on me. There are females heirs apparent in this trust. My every son and daughter, by birth or marriage, is an heir apparent. Do you understand?”

  All three mean smiled with grand nods, but incapable of hiding their trepidations evidenced by tapping toes and fidgety fingers.

  Unable to peer back into the conference room because of the window tinting, Black looked at his watch. It had been twenty minutes. He snuffed his cigar and returned to the meeting.

  “I will reiterate, I am uncomfortable with this family trust. I’ve made my feelings perfectly clear,” said Black. “His wishes are clear and this is a legal and binding document.”

  Paul Childs spoke from the head of the table with a tacit and unyielding voice. “I am of sound mind, Mr. Black. These are my final requests. Before you, I present my most loyal friends and business associates with whom I have great faith in and with whom will fulfill my last wishes. In other words, my wish is your command. Do you understand?”

  Sam Black nodded.

  Paul Childs carefully rolled out a myriad of Townsend pens he had had personalized for each of his named trustees that needed to sign the documents. All three men were appointed on to his board of trustees who would ensure his trust and his explicit wishes would be met.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  IT HAD BEEN SEVEN MONTHS since the family trust became official. Not one person knew about it, to include Paul Childs’ wife, Claudia.

  Gossip grew rampant regarding his apparent failing health. His forgetfulness. Obvious fatigue splayed plastered across his face. But Childs never missed a single game, and he made more practices than might a drama queen helicopter mother fussing over her young daughter’s dance lessons.

  The Tucson Times featured plenty of photographs with Childs at the stadium, with the mayor, and even the president. Dressed in a suit of his team’s colors. Always a brown suit, crisp white shirt, and gold tie.

  But then there were those moment only a quick camera could document. The Times also rolled out a series of photographs with Childs looking confused and in bewilderment, and it was never because of a play in question on the field.

  The rumors spread like the invasive buffelgrass that plagued the desert with a threat of raging brush fires.

  Claudia Childs, Paul’s wife, shielded herself and as best she could, her husband, from the press and roving cameras. Two children stood up to field the questions and try to quench the gossip.

  Banded together, Nick Childs and Manny Childs presented a solid fortress like the mammoth upright gates to Jurassic Park in an attempt to embrace the media while protecting the reputation of both their father and the team. They had the program down pat. They’d smile and embrace whomever gathered with a quick acknowledgments of thanks for their caring about Paul Childs’ welfare. They’d deliver a brief report that their father had been enduring a lot of stress on and off the field but he had been receiving proper care as he prepared himself for the next big game. Conspicuous in its absence were any details. Nick and Manny would josh around with the vultures, as they deemed the press to be. They flirted with the pretty girls and wrapped up before any questions were presented, with both of them and arms above their heads, yelling in unison, “This is the year we go all the way. Go, Scorpions!”

  On this day, both Nick and Manny received simultaneous texts.

  Claudia called for an early evening family meeting, sans her husband. He was away getting his weekly rolfing and reiki session that would last a couple of hours.

  All of the children arrived at their family estate nestled in the Catalina foothills of Tucson. While Claudia knew some would want a glass of wine or something harder, she presented them with iced tea and an offering of sugar and lemon.

  “What’s this about?” Hunter, Childs’ oldest son demanded upon storming into the home. He put his face into Claudia’s and stared her down.

  Claudia tried to deduce if they were the eyes of someone enraged, put-out by the inconvenience of a family meeting, or simply a spoiled little shit.

  “Sit down,” she demanded, pointing toward the other siblings already gathered around the circular sofa and the service set for tea.

  She turned to the large monitor in the room. “Seth, are you online?”

  The son, a New York stockbroker’s image came into view. “I’m here now. The twins are in the background but Chloe’s taking them outside.”

  Claudia tolerated Seth’s wife, Chloe. Only because she never made a peep. She began, “We are here to have a discussion as to clear up any doubt, dreams, or fears about the future of the Tucson Scorpions.”

  Hunter crossed his legs in a protective position. His eyes remained blazing and trained on his step-mother who commanded the conversation.

  “I have no details. I can tell you that your father has a family trust, and this legal document was drawn up before any decline in his mental health. I know that it’s signed and valid and irrevocable. I do not know the specifics of the will as I was not present as a witness,” Claudia continued. “The law is the law.”

  Claudia scanned all of the faces of the children gathered with a glance to the monitor of Seth. Hunter stood up and sat back down, with his legs now spread wide, He thrust his chest forward, and sprawled out his arms. The others poured themselves glasses of tea and seemed relaxed to know everything might be in order, except for the youngest child, Taylor. She shrugged half-heartedly and pulled out her phone to send a text.

  “This is not satisfactory,” Hunter said. “We need to see the trust.”

  Claudia spoke in a forced whisper while moving closer to him, “Do you know when you are named in a will? Often not. The terms of the trust will be revealed in time.” She ran her fingers through her choppy platinum blonde hair.

  “Like with Daddy’s death,” Stacie wailed.

  Stacie was Claudia’s biological daughter from a previous marriage and adopted by her present husband.

  “This is the way, Stacie,” Claudia said, now stroking the solid piece of gold dangling from her neck, a mammoth scorpion image adorned with a shock of substantial diamonds. “I reiterate that I have no firm information for any of you but to tell you your dad’s affairs are in order, legal, and they have been executed for some time. I want no quarreling amongst you. As they say, it is what it is.”

  It was another sibling that spoke up, the usually shy Mason.

  “I have a question. Do you really think the family trust is fair, or why do you, not knowing any details, tell us there will be no quarrelling?”

  Claudia sat down in a formal side chair. Southwestern in design, it screamed of the family fortune with its fine hide and ornately carved gilded wood.

  “I was only recently told by your father’s attorney that this document exists. And I know all of you. Rarely all parties involved in an estate are content when they search through the papers frantically to spot their name. You have all gained benefit from your father’s business. You have the best education that you wanted. You each have your own homes with no mortgages. And yet, looking across this room, every one of you feels deserving of more.”

  Claudia concluded, “This family meeting is over. I’ve told you all that I know in an attempt to quiet your concerns, but I do know one more thing. The Scorpion franchise will not be sold for a minimum of ten years. That’s ten years of hard work. The entire staff, top to bottom, is to remain in place without due cause for termination. You may not realiz
e it, but because the franchise is the newest kid on the block and has risen to such extreme success there are a lot of buyers out there that would scoop it up at far more than the deduced value. This won’t happen.”

  Claudia rose to leave the room, as did all but Hunter and Mason.

  They knew where the bar was and where the good stuff had been tucked away.

  After a couple of drinks, Hunter said, “Let’s blow this mausoleum. There’s a great new bar near the university. Hot young students of the female variety, and a huge selection of tequilas.”

  Mason was all in, and twenty minutes later the two sat at a pub-table, pushing back the premium tequila. While Hunter treating them like shots, Mason preferred to sip the good stuff.

  With little in common and not much ever shared between them, they now talked about wild women and wild places they had visited. Lessons they had learned the hard way and lessons they refused to learn. They did not talk about the family trust.

  The last call came around too soon for Hunter. The waitress was no student, trying to hold up sagging breasts with her super bra that lifted those puppies but caused her aged cleavage to wrinkle.

  “I know a place to go. It’s private. Cards in the back room if you want, but they’re high stakes.”

  “Hell, Hunter. As it is I have to call for a driver. I’ve had my limit. I don’t need a DUI and I don’t need to lose money at a table.”

  “I’ll drive,” Hunter said, holding up the car keys to his new Porsche Carrera.

  A twenty-minute drive through darkened streets and absent of any visible signs of life, Mason spotted the house with a half-dozen cars out front.

  “This rat hole is your go-to place?” Mason laughed.

  “We won’t stay long and I’ll take you home or back to your car. Don’t worry, Bro,” Hunter said.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  HUNTER PUNCHED IN the code on the electronic door lock and the light blinked green.

  Inside, through the haze of cigarette and cigar smoke coupled with the dim lighting, Mason struggled to adjust his eyes and take in the people in the room.

  He quickly deduced they were from all walks of life, and many more were in attendance in the jam-packed room than what the six cars outside might suggest.

  Hippies from an era gone by huddled beside men in suits and ties. Two young boys, far too young to drink, laughed as they guzzled down their beers. His eyes, now focused, Mason easily spotted the three hookers in the room. He turned toward Hunter.

  Hunter had disappeared.

  Casting his blue eyes over toward the makeshift bar in the kitchen, he saw the stunning Mexican woman serving drinks. She saw him see her, and she held up an empty glass.

  He crossed the room after a little shoving and pushing to get there, and she said, “What’s your pleasure?”

  More alcohol was the last thing on Mason’s mind, but this beauty’s chocolate eyes mesmerized and enticed him and he absent mindedly ordered a double shot of tequila.

  He wasn’t so far gone that he didn’t see that the label on the bottle appeared to be crooked. Not his eyes. The label. He knew he’d be drinking bootlegged rot gut, not that he could tell the difference anymore, he thought.

  Still enchanted with the woman behind the bar that flipped her long black hair of silk from side to side like a shiny sea of obsidian, he accepted the drink.

  “How much?”

  “The drinks are free, mi amigo,” she whispered.

  The loud voice from behind caused Mason to sit upright.

  “You found my friend,” Hunter said as he grabbed Mason’s arm, forcing Mason to turn toward him, even while wobbly on his feet.

  “Here you go, Bro,” he said, placing the white pill in front of Mason on the bar.

  Mason pulled back. “What is this shit?”

  “This shit is the best opioid product around,” he said as he pulled out a small plastic pouch with more pills inside. He slipped it under Mason’s palm.”

  “Nah. I don’t do. Not for me.”

  “Indulge me. Live a little. Daddy Childs’ isn’t going to make us happy.”

  Hunter pointed to the pill on the bar. “You do this one. I’ll drive you straight home. Hell, I’ll arrange for a driver to bring your car home to you in the morning.

  “You’ll thank me later, Bro.”

  The Mexican woman smiled and turned her brilliant eyes around to look at her onslaught of new customers.

  She never glanced back.

  CHAPTER SIX

  I COULDN’T SHAKE THE feeling that something troubled my best friend, Breecie Lemay. Roomies in college, Breecie then went on to attend law school. We parted ways as life’s paths dictated, but she now owned and lived in what was my guest house. She also shared my office building with me and we fed each other cases, concerns, and love.

  I had just met with one of my employees to assign her the dead-maid case, which had become solely a cheating husband issue. The items believed to have been stolen had not been recovered. I had discovered that Bibbione had been correct. A new drug queen had taken up residence in Tucson and well known to the police, she was cutting her opiates with fentanyl. No. New game in town. Carfentanil. The maid had been a dealer, but she must have sampled a new batch of goodies. The tox reports came back indicating she had twenty times the lethal dose of the shit in her system.

  Wrapping up for the day, if there was such a thing in my line of work, I whisked Breecie away for a girl’s night out at the Hotel Congress, infamous for an historic fire and the ultimate capture of John Dillinger.

  We claimed two seats in the crowded bar and ordered Cactus Wrens, a wickedly delightful combination of tequila, lemon, agave, and cranberry.

  Catching up on business carried us through our first round of drinks. Breecie had just settled a case out of court but needed to head to Phoenix to take depositions on another one. I told her about all of the cheating spouses I had nailed and that presented with enough evidence, I also managed to get a confession of manslaughter out of a soccer mom, apparently whacked out on cocaine. That would be her defense.

  I ordered us another round, mindful I was the driver.

  “Breecie, we live next to each other and we lead crazy lives, but I miss you. You aren’t hanging out around the pool anymore.”

  “And, you are saying this because, Cassidy?”

  Damn. Her voice carried an uncharacteristic edge about it.

  “Because, usually if I don’t catch you for coffee in the morning I can find you out here for our happy hour. And, I don’t see you much at our offices.”

  “I’ve been busy.”

  “Breecie, last fall you were carrying the heaviest workload in your career, and we still met out at the pool and debriefed.”

  She took a long pull on her drink and sat it back down, dabbing the napkin to her lips without necessity.

  “I’m not the only guilty party. I try to find you and you’re out on one of your jobs. Day and night.”

  I reached for my drink and sat back in my chair, posturing space for her.

  You can’t fool a good lawyer with body language, real or fake.

  “Come closer, Cassidy, and I might talk to you.”

  I pulled up to the table. She didn’t look like my friend of so many years. Breecie usually wore her long silky raven-colored hair down straight, or pulled up into a ponytail. She wore sexy clothes whenever we would go out, and probably pushed the limit in the courtroom as she rightfully showed off her long legs in skirts with slits. Across from me sat a woman whose hair was in a tight bun and a white button up shirt with a bow tie.

  “What is it, and what have you done with my friend?”

  “I guess I have a case of the black dog.”

  I did a quick eye squint and shook my head. “I don’t understand.”

  “Winston Churchill coined the phrase to describe his more severe bouts of depression.”

  I put my elbows on the table, with my face positioned forward and in the palms of my hands. “Lo
ok, we all have our episodes,” I said. “If you rearrange the letters in the word depression, you get I pressed on. Or, we try to.”

  “Not like this. Come on. Look at my damn not-so-perfect life. My father and my fiancé conspired to kill my mother and they succeeded. I pulled my life back together but then lost the love of my life and I lost our baby. I became a slut in Italy just to prove something and I’m clueless as to what that might have been. Let me be alone with my case of the black dog. I trust it will pass, Cassie, but I need to pass through it alone.”

  “Okay, but only after I acknowledge that you lost your soulmate all too soon. I get that. But, that doesn’t mean you don’t have happiness right around the corner. You’re young and smart and drop-dead gorgeous. I’d give anything for your sky-high legs,” I said.

  “You are a bit vertically challenged,” Breecie replied, finally showing a half-smile.

  I offered that we should order something to eat. Breecie declined. I understood. She’d had enough of me but I knew we had recovered our sagging relationship with all of our love and respect, inevitably coupled with the warts and inevitable periods of angst.

  A girl thing. But, something wasn’t right.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  STREAMING SUNLIGHT DID LITTLE to awaken Mason. It might have been noon before he climbed out of bed, but it was still the morning after. The first thing Mason did was puke in the toilet. Tequila? That pill? He had the presence of mind to look out onto his driveway and his car sat parked there, as Hunter had promised. Mason had no idea where the keys might be.

  He reflected on the night prior. Big mistake. Too much booze, for sure, and he really didn’t like this guy, Hunter, referring to him as his bro. All night long.

  He thought about taking that pill and what it made him feel like. Damn. He wasn’t exactly in any pain so taking it was ludicrous, but he remembered a sense of deep relaxation that he’d never felt before, not like any tequila could deliver. A quiet floating sensation embraced him. It overcame him. He remembered that much. All worries and fears were squelched and smacked out of his universe as he drifted into a wave above himself, but he wasn’t exactly high. He didn’t think he was high. He felt euphoric. A strange combination of feeling exhilarated but somehow operating from a calm sense of peace.