Lethal Trust

by Lala Corriere

  At my gate, his car was awaiting him. I wouldn’t see my man in weeks, or maybe months.

  We got in our rocket sex and our intimate conversations, but I had misused many precious moments with him. I hated myself.

  “I love you, Cassidy, and I’ll be back in a flash, straight to you. I am loyal to you. That, you can trust.

  “I have my work abroad, and you have your intensive work here. I can’t and don’t expect you to drop your life upon my erratic arrivals.”

  “But when will I see you?”

  “As soon as the moon and the stars bring us back together again, and that won’t be soon enough for me.”

  Long deep kisses. Langui but urgent and lusty. A longer embrace. I grabbed his butt and pulled his torso close to mine. And then, Marcos pulled away and entered the car that waited for him. He told me he had arranged for it because he would be on his tablet the entire ride to the airport.

  That was our relationship. Odd, but it worked and I loved him.

  As I waved goodbye I realized Marcos was the only man I could have a relationship with and it sucked because it was only part-time. If he had sex on his journeys abroad I wouldn’t blame him. Our hearts were melded. Full-time.

  I hated myself, but I had to get back to Schlep.

  “You don’t look so good, Cassie. Do you want to take a break and get back to this later at the office?” Schlep said.

  “I look fine and feel like shit, but that’s not stopping me from our work.”

  Schlep did this huge arm stretch from side to side. He still wore his baggy clothes, but I could see the band of his swim trunks poking out at his scrawny waist. I loved it that he was so comfortable in his body.

  “No laps yet?” I asked.

  “Here’s what I have so far,” he said.

  “This Isidora Childs is the newest drug lord in town and she’s playing high stakes.”

  I vehemently shook my head. “Are you telling me that the Old Pueblo, Tucson, truly has two drug lords in operation?” Bibbione told me the truth and I should take his warning seriously regarding both Isidora and her son, Hunter.

  “I’m sorry that I missed this with the cursory background check I ran.”

  “That’s only what I asked you to do, and no doubt that information was hidden deep. It’s my bad.”

  Schlep continued, “We can deduce that Anthony Bibbione and Isidora Childs despise one another. They’re competing on the same turf. If you want to go in this direction, we’re back into the throws of the drug crisis in our backyard.”

  I couldn’t grasp the full spectrum but I felt my bones cringing as I immersed myself, in my way, into the battle between these two drug lords. Two in Tucson? In reality I suppose I should not have been surprised. Opiates and that quick decent into heroin had become epidemic in every corner of what we thought to be our safe zones. Bring in the fentanyl and the klonopin? Now the new kid on the block, carfentanil?

  Schlep’s nose was back into his laptop as I tried to get a grip on the new information. Why was Bibbione at Claudia Childs’ fiesta party, and lurking in the shadows?

  He wasn’t there to hunt me.

  Isidora’s son? Hunter?

  Schlep continued, “Anthony Bibbione still owns his vast estate at the airpark in Oro Valley. Meanwhile, Isidora Childs live on an equally sprawling estate on the northeast side. I’ll send you some files, but they appear to be archenemies.”

  “Send me the files and take a swim, Schlep. I’m going to my den to try and get a grasp on this.”

  My idea of getting a grasp on things wasn’t necessarily running to my computer. Instead, I sat in my favorite lumpy chair in the corner of my den and lit a candle. The scent of nag champa soon encompassed me. I closed my eyes and breathed in the musky scent.

  I was missing something. My intuition was failing me except, with Schlep now back investigating Hunter and his mother, Isidora. I knew I had to have a talk with Stacie. And, I had to track down her half-brother, Mason.

  An hour later I drove by Mason Childs’ residence. As Schlep had reported, the grounds appeared to be well-tended. Opulent in the sense that most Tucsonans, if they have any grass, limited it to their backyards. Mason’s front lawn was lush and manicured. Three fountains graced the entrance and all were dripping water creating a Zen-like ambience.

  I made a u-turn and parked in front of the house. I estimated he had about two acres of land. Neighbors flanked each side but were largely out of sight. The only one watching me was a feral cat lounging under the shade of a palo verde tree.

  I rang the bell. Rang it again. Then pounded on the tall tambour wood doors.

  Nothing.

  The closed blinds offered me no opportunity for a voyeur on a mission. I noticed the cameras surrounding the property so I dared not snoop around in the backyard. Still, walking back to my Mustang I flipped open the mailbox.

  The box was stuffed full.

  Now, my intuition kicked in. Finally. It seems to always start with the hairs rising up on the back of my neck, but this time I felt the chills. It was ninety-nine degrees outside and I shivered.

  In the good old days I would have picked the lock and walked in. I called the chief of police my buddy and he rarely asked me any questions. That wouldn’t be the case anymore.

  I zoomed back to my home and ninety minutes later I returned in my dilapidated SUV, a croppy short blonde wig, and body padding that added the look of about forty pounds. I slipped on my gloves and within minutes found myself inside the home with no apparent alarm. I glanced at the walls by the door. The alarm panel stared at me, blankly. Good. Lady Luck was on my side. Maybe.

  A thin layer of dust laced the classic southwestern furniture, but otherwise the home looked orderly. Maybe almost too neat. Not quite a model home, but damn close.

  I didn’t feel the magic. The walls seemed to tremble as I slowly moved through the home. Maybe those walls mumbled. It wasn’t right. Room by room, I advanced through the living spaces and the dining rooms, the kitchen, and two dens, all equally dusty but so tidy. Approaching a stunning stained glass door at the end of a wide hallway, enough warning nerves were running through my body that I drew my weapon before tapping on the door and calling out Mason’s name.

  Silence. I pushed it open.

  The inside of the vast room told a different story. I had left a little bit dusty but very well-appointed home and entered into a strange abyss. With an enormous master, the only furniture included a twin bed, a nightstand with a cheap gooseneck lamp, and an opened entertainment cabinet. The muted television broadcasted an old black and white sci-fi movie.

  Dirty dishes and rotting food splayed out across the floor. Along with drug paraphernalia. Lots of paraphernalia. Pill bottles littered the area next to the small unmade bed. A bag of green leaves wouldn’t be fresh oregano. Several needles. In the far corner was a pile of nested shoelaces. I looked back at the bed. Half-hazard but in place and under stiff foam pillows, several folded squares of aluminum foil with burn marks protruded from beneath with the exposed bag of white powder. I glanced back at the pile of shoelaces. That wouldn’t be grandma’s home ground flour in the bag of white powder.

  I stood with what felt like several minutes but perhaps in reality ten seconds, and stared at the closed door. I called Mason’s name out again with my hand tight on my gun as I kicked the door open.

  I’ve seen many bad things. Scenes of death. Lots of blood and some guts. One time, brain matter. I had not been prepared for this scene in the master bathroom of Mason Childs.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

  MASON CHILDS’ COILED BODY rested against the side of the jetted tub with no water. There would be no need to check for a pulse. His entire body cast a shade of steel blue as the blood splattered on two walls marked the territory of his death in red.

  Two syringes, often called works by users, were in the tub with the body. The rubber tourniquet, the tie-off, remained loosely wrapped around his arm.

  Most disturbing to me
was the writing, in blood I could presume, splayed across the mirror.

  Muratore lived and died here.

  A THIRD HEIR APPARENT to the Childs’ trust lay dead in his own bathtub.

  My hands were tied. I had to call it in to the police and pray that whoever showed up would be someone I knew on the force. Someone that liked me or at least tolerated me.

  Forty minutes? That’s how long it took for the first-responders to arrive. I guess I shouldn’t have reported that the guy, already dead and probably due to an overdose, wasn’t in any hurry.

  While waiting, I took a seat on the front veranda, listened to the gentle sound of water falling from the fountains, and pulled out my tablet. I researched the word or name of Muratore. Of Italian origins, it also meant a bricklayer. A mason.

  How did Mason Childs’ succumb to this? For all of my research I knew the man had a brilliant future ahead of him, and maybe within the Scorpions’ franchise and even ownership. Scouring through my notes, I remembered everyone loved and admired the man. He didn’t own the polished pedigrees of some of his siblings but his devotion to football and his father manifested itself throughout all of my observations.

  I wanted to take a look at the mail in the box at the driveway. I wanted to go back into the home. My Lady Luck was running out. I didn’t have time and my pulsed raged and I had a nervous stomach just as a nosey neighbor came to check me out. I love those nosey neighbors. They can be the true first responders.

  I guess I did look a bit suspicious with my heap of a junk vehicle parked at the curb and my removed blonde wig not quite hidden in my purse.

  After brief introductions I asked if she lived nearby.

  “A block away. I walk every day and we look out for one another around here. So, what are you doing here?”

  “I’ve been checking on a friend,” I said.

  “Mason? Is he sick?”

  “Not really.”

  “I thought maybe he was out of town on a long trip or something. We share a housekeeper, you know, and he paid her a lot of money, cash, and told her he wouldn’t need her for a month or two.” The woman dropped her head, suddenly shy.

  Mason had spiraled down into this person he dubbed Muratore. He knew it, but with the neighbor’s comment it sounded like maybe he had hope of getting clean, given some time. I’d have to check the methadone clinics, but getting information out of them would prove to be tricky. I had tricks, but it would take precious time.

  I decided to open myself up to this good neighbor. Nosey neighbors are gossipers and the best pair of extra eyes.

  “My name is Cassidy Clark. I’m a private investigator and I’ve been alerted to the fact that Mr. Childs has been unreachable for some time.”

  She opened her stance wide and crossed her arms. A body language expert might interpret that as a sign of her closing down, but I knew better. She was thinking. I gave her time.

  She said, “He hasn’t been himself lately. One week he is all handsome and dressed so nicely, and the next week he looks like he belongs out on the streets. I’ve tried to talk to him. He’s a good man.”

  I pushed, “Would you mind giving me the name of your housekeeper?”

  She cocked her head and lifted her shoulders, and then let them relax. “I don’t see why not. Her name is Norma Gonzales. She’s the best and I’ve gotten her several jobs in the neighborhood.

  “Wait. I carry her cards with me. Sometimes she does my home for free when I get her a new home to clean.”

  The neighbor shuffled through the contents of her small crossover bag and produced a card with worn edges.

  “This is the woman. If you don’t live too far away she’ll do your home for you, too.”

  The police cruiser had rounded the corner and headed our way.

  “Wait,” the neighbor said, “He’s okay, right? You didn’t say.”

  “I’m sorry. No. He’s not. I’ll take it from here but I’m sure the police might want to get your name and number before you leave. You’ve been of great help to me. I’m sure they’d appreciate any information you can lend them.”

  She scurried toward the cruiser and started talking to the officer through his raised window.

  Lady Luck stayed with me. I knew the detective. He’d take her information, dismiss her with kindness, and approach me for a chat.

  “Watcha got, Cassidy?” he hollered before even reaching me on the porch.

  “Just another dead body. You know me.”

  “You have a penchant for such things. Care to fill me in?”

  “I have a client that couldn’t reach her half-brother. She asked me to look into it. I did. I found him dead in the bathtub. I think you’ll find it’s death by overdose. There’s drug paraphernalia all over the master bedroom and bath.”

  “I don’t suppose I should ask you how you gained access to the house.”

  “Same old me. The door was unlocked.”

  “Okay. I’ll call if I need you.”

  “I think you might just do that. This is the third kid of Paul Childs’ to die. There might be a situation I might be aware of that your illustrious leader might not have on her radar.”

  “God, the chief hates you! Too funny. And if you stroke my back I’ll stroke yours,” he said.

  “I think you’re going to owe me a full body massage. I got stuff for those I trust.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

  DAMN HIM! ANTHONY Bibbione and those damn drugs he had put out on the streets. Damn the heroin and damn the opiates and whatever else was out there robbing people of their lives!

  My only focus was to drive back to my office and get on my computer. Schlep had armed me with the devastating and exponentially growing statistics about overdoses and deaths, and yet still I felt like I was out of the loop. Like, these drugs are in the sleepiest and most remote towns of our country.

  I didn’t want to be back in this drug-ridden world of looking in on abuse from the outside. I felt sick knowing that drugs, crime, and death are kissing cousins.

  With only one internet search I had several sites pop up. I perused a couple. One caught my attention.

  The damn site was targeting kids! I was about to inject my heart with vomit.

  From the beginning, the site warned that if you weren’t old enough to tell your parents off and not listen to them, you were too young. But. Here we go. Your parents are wrong. Heroin is so cool. Heroin is good for your body. And, if you look a little too old you should get your younger brother or sister to buy the H for you. That way the dealers don’t think that they’re looking at a nark. And then the site went on to explain, step-by-step, how to administer the injections.

  Sick. I felt physically nauseous. I knew there were dozens of sites up with DIY meth recipes. I guess I had forgotten. Worse, this site was clearly going after young users.

  What the hell happened to bicycles, and hopscotch, and maypole celebrations?

  I pulled up the number the meddlesome neighbor had given me for Mason Childs’ housekeeper.

  She answered immediately.

  Planning on one of my regular rouses and telling her of my interest in her services, I then declined. I told her the truth. I told her about Mason Childs and his death.

  She struggled, but spoke in perfect English. It was clear that English wasn’t her first language.

  “My Mason? He’s dead?”

  “I’m so sorry to tell you this, but yes. I need your help.”

  “Anything.”

  “Did he let you go?”

  “No, ma’am. He paid me well and told me he was off for a vacation or work. Something like that and that he would call me back.”

  “This is private. Privado. Did you think he might be in some sort of trouble? Problemo?”

  “Oh. Such a good nino. Always good to me. There were signs that his life had taken a bad turn. He’d be so handsome and on his way to work or to see his mother, but then there were the other times.”

  “I know this is hard for you. Bu
t, you’re helping Mason if you’ll share what you know.”

  After a long audible sigh, Norma said, “He’d have bad days. Or bad spells. He’d change. He was temperamental and then despedir me of my duties for the day before I had done anything. He’d be in wrinkled clothes and had dirty hair. Sometimes he smelled bad.”

  “How bad, Norma? Like he hadn’t bathed in days?”

  “Poop bad. And sweat. And all those bad things. And I saw the stuff.”

  I paused. “The drugs that were taking him down?”

  “Yes. I told him to stop. I argued with him. Maybe I should have said something to someone else.”

  “Norma, this is not your fault. You did your job. I do believe that it was the drugs that were Mason’s demise, but you had no control over that.”

  “Thank you.”

  She hung up, but not before I could hear her soft sobs.

  “STACIE. WE HAVEN’T spoken in some time but surely you’re receiving my weekly reports.”

  Her words were tacit. “I need to meet with you. And I’m bringing my mother.”

  This was a surprise. Stacie seemed to have a love-hate relationship with Claudia Childs, based on her own words. She usually referred to her as Mother Claudia.

  Schlep arrived first. He darted toward my office as I hung up the phone.

  “You look frazzled, Schlep.”

  “Because I am. I’ll head to my office and work on the Bill Michael’s research, but there are some things you need to hear. And see.”

  While caffeine was the last thing Schlep needed, I brewed us both a cup and sat down on the sofa, summoning him with my finger and a pat to the chair next to me. I thought the comfort of the soft surroundings might be a good idea.

  Schlep took no time for sipping. “I’ve been going over the deaths of both Nick and Manny Childs. Wait. My report. Where’s my report?”

  “In your car?” I asked.

  He was on his feet and jogging out to his car to retrieve his work. I decided I’d been pushing him too hard. He never forgot anything.