Lethal Trust

by Lala Corriere

  “Cass, I don’t mean to alarm you,” he said still puffing from the return from his quick jaunt. “A parked car on the road across from you appeared to have the binoculars pointed in this direction.”

  “Details,” I said.

  “Black late-model SUV. I couldn’t get the license plate number but it was Arizona.”

  “I need to remember to shut my drapes when I’m walking around in the nude,” I laughed. “Don’t worry.”

  “Your home. Kind of secluded. I have an issue. Sans the binoculars I have an issue.”

  I’d be doing enough worrying for the two of us.

  “Moving on,” he said while sitting back down and finally taking a sip of the now tepid coffee. “I think we’ve gone over everything regarding the hit-and-run and the shoddy police work. Now, this fire that took the life of Manny Childs and his wife is another story. I was looking at what few photographs were taken at the scene.”

  While I had my whisperers guiding my intuitions, I trusted Schlep with anything he found unusual in transcripts, numbers, research, and photographs.

  “Look.” He tossed two photographs over my way.

  I guess maybe my mind was on what Stacie and her mother wanted to see me about later so I had to ask Schlep what I was looking at.

  “Look at the ground around the home. Right at the foundation. One helluva manicured lawns and grounds, but look.

  “Cassie, Manny didn’t smoke and his wife had severe asthma. No smoking. Their home didn’t even have a fireplace.”

  Sure enough, I saw what had caused his excitement. Three cigarette butts rested in their own little teepee near the side door, undisturbed and fresh at the time the photographs were taken. Other butts had been dropped along the perimeter of the house.

  We both knew the butts hadn’t been taken into evidence where DNA tests could have been conducted. At the time the unknown cause of a fire should have warranted and those butts be bagged into evidence.

  “Believe it or not the fire investigators closed their report with a determination of the cause of the blaze as drapery sheers catching on fire due to lit candles.”

  “Are you thinking what I’m thinking?” I said.

  “You bet. A woman with severe asthma would not likely have lit candles in her home and there would be no ciggie buts,” Schlep answered.

  “And the goddamned case is closed.”

  Schlep shook his head, also shaking out his shaggy brown hair. “We won’t be getting our hands on any more potential evidence,” he said.

  “Dumb question, but what about the coroner’s report? Anything?” I asked.

  “Bodies so badly charred they could only suggest an identity through early dental records of both Mr. and Mrs. Childs as they were both known to have their dental work performed in Mexico. Location unspecified. We’re talking thousands of dentists that Americans visit regularly or infrequently. There was no way to determine if the female was pregnant at the time of death. No way to conduct toxicology reports.

  “We know that the fire department was slow to arrive on the scene as the home alarm system wasn’t activated. When the neighbor finally saw the blaze and called it in the response came quickly but the property gate was closed and the doors that they could reach were locked. An elapse of precious time,” Schlep spoke as if reading a file from somewhere in that rocket-mind of his.

  “I’ll make a few calls to some friends of mine in badges. Maybe we’ll get a bone. Meanwhile, I need to prepare for Stacie Childs and her mother, Schlep. Will you work on that Michaels man for me?”

  “On my way to my man cave,” he said, and that made me break out into a full grin.

  Schlep, happily married to the man of his dreams, didn’t pull off the man cave so well. He insisted on bringing in his old desk and a flimsy guest chair. I managed to get him to allow me to provide him with a decent desk chair, a credenza, and a matching bookcase. You couldn’t see the wood of the bookcase that brimmed with books, papers, and files. It amazed me that he could retrieve any document in seconds.

  For his man cave décor, he had one framed photograph taken at his wedding, and one orchid that he seemed to keep in bloom in perpetuity. Mine at home only had leaves. Pretty leaves.

  “Oh, and by the way.”

  Schlep’s constant interpretation of Colombo, but reserved for me. Lucky me.

  “I’m with you all the way, but it seems like we keep adding suspects and the only ones truly crossed off of our list are dead.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

  CLAUDIA AND STACIE CHILDS arrived an hour later. Fashionably fifteen minutes late. They both wore dour faces that showcased their similarities in appearance. Blonde hair. Blue eyes. Pinched noses.

  In spite of their scowls, I knew I wasn’t the target of their anger. I thought so, anyway.

  Both seated on the sofa in my office and with iced tea, Claudia began pulling at the huge pearl earring on her left ear. Stacie sat to her right.

  Claudia began, “I’ll get to the point. Do you believe the deaths of both Nick and Manny to be accidental and coincidental?”

  “So far the police do but I’m not convinced,” I answered.

  “Foul play?” Stacie whimpered.

  “That is what you hired me on to find out, Stacie. These are not closed cases in my office.”

  “And the death of Mason?” Stacie asked.

  “What have you done to get to the bottom of this?” Claudia demanded.

  “I assure you, a lot. We’ve interviewed Manny’s maid and several of his neighbors. To be frank, Manny’s life might have been had two sides. He might not have been all that you knew him to be.”

  “What the fuck does that mean?” Claudia said. I use the word too often, but I wasn’t expecting it out of this classy lady in her Gucci clothes and her cleavage exposing the huge gold pendant with the Scorpions’ logo, slathered in diamonds.

  Her reaction made me want to shut my trap up, but I was hired by the daughter to find facts and disclose them.

  “The police found copious amounts of drugs and paraphernalia in Mason’s home. Serious stuff.”

  “That means not just a little marijuana or coke?” Stacie asked.

  I nodded.

  “You are to keep all of this and your investigative findings between only us and not the press,” Claudia said.

  “I have no control over the press but I think it’s fair to say this is a ticking time bomb with regards to public police records.”

  “Why the hell did you involve the police?” Claudia roared.

  Wow. The second time in one day. “Mrs. Childs, your first two sons’ deaths are a matter of public record, even with the cases closed. I had no choice when I saw Mason’s home littered with the drugs and no sight of him until I went into the bathroom. I had to report the death.”

  “Why were you there and how did get in?’” Claudia asked.

  I turned to Stacie as a diversionary tactic. Her Tucson tan had darkened, but her face seemed gray.

  “Do you want me on your team or not, Stacie? You are my client. I’m trying to help you get to the bottom of all of this with a clear resolution but I can’t operate and best serve you if I’m the one being interrogated.”

  Stacie gave her mother’s hand a squeeze and told me to proceed.

  Claudia tugged at the earring again.

  What the hell was that about? Some sort of secret message, like Carol Burnett?

  Claudia blurted out, “I believe Hunter is living way beyond his means, and he has plenty of means.”

  She took out a small black notebook from her purse. She removed a page and wrote on it and passed it to me.

  “This is his annual salary.”

  I accepted the note and almost gagged. I’m wondering how anyone could not live within this means Daddy had set up for him. It was his home. He sold it and bought a home in the pricey foothills, and then a beach house in Puerto Penasco. He traded in his Mercedes for a Ferrari. Schlep, in his office, would be researching Hunter’
s sale of the Mexican property and the possible purchase of a cabin in Crested Butte, Colorado, gaining a reputation as the new not-so-secret place for the elite beautiful people and their wads of dough.

  “One thing before we go,” said Claudia. “I thought private detectives were more discreet. You have this long red hair thing and you’re driving around in a red convertible. It’s like you want to stand out.”

  That was a new one for me to have to defend.

  “Mrs. Childs, I assure you I am one of the best in my field. I have a designated closet that holds all of my disguises. I can look old and fat. I can look like a slut. I can even look like a man and you’d never know the difference. As for my car, it’s interchangeable with a white van that has numerous business magnetic signs, or an old pickup. To the best of my knowledge I’ve never once been made. That would include me touching your shoulder at the Wild Garlic restaurant last night. Remember? I told you the scallops were excellent.”

  Claudia took a deep slow breath and took another tug on her ear. No verbal response to me but her face reddened and her back stiffened.

  Both women stood in tandem to exit. Claudia said, “Now, Ms. Clark. Get to work. Real work. I don’t want another dead child under your watch.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

  My recent hire, a younger version of George Foreman, scored one for our team on his first assignment running surveillance. His sole task was to first find Hunter Childs, and then tail him.

  I met Jimmy at my my small office building I owned along with Breecie. The monsoon had started early that morning, with two inches of torrential rain predicted to fall with squally winds. Now July, the downpour rushed across the desert like a leaning wall of tepid bath water. Even Tucsonans who were stuck on the streets in gushing water and impassible roads where the washes ran through would be celebrating the great gift of rain.

  I ran fifteen minutes late. I hate to be late. Jimmy stood under the canopied entrance to my building, smoking a cigarette. When he saw me, he waved, then snuffed the contraband and put the butt in a baggie, stuffing it into his pocket.

  After providing both of us with the necessities of towels from the storage room, I brewed the coffee as Jimmy sat in my office and looked over my typed notes with the known background of Hunter.

  Having delivered the coffees, I began before I sat down.

  “Jimmy, you got your feet wet outside. There’s no room for that here. You’ll be diving into this project and the waters are muddy.”

  His soft brown eyes locked on mine, not to be outshined by his generous smile. He said, “That’s why I’m here, ma’am.”

  “It’s Cassidy. Saddle up and here we go. I need you to run with this for seven days straight. I’ll need a full report after each day. Are you available starting tomorrow?”

  Jimmy’s eyes gleamed with enthusiasm. He raised a fist and pounded it on his chest.

  “Amen! I’m ready. I’ve got this.”

  We discussed my expectations as he took copious notes. I needed every address Hunter drove to, along with the names of any businesses or if a residence a description of the dwelling. Everything needed to be time-stamped with each destination. Did he accompany someone, meet someone, or arrive and depart alone? Who else entered or departed the location? What, no matter how small, strikes you as odd?

  After I gave him the make and model of the three vehicles known to me that were registered in Hunter’s name, I pushed him a bit further and stated that I needed him to conduct this business from five in the evening until two in the morning.

  His broad toothy grin morphed into a grimace. I thought I’d lost him before he even began.

  “Jimmy, if this is too much I can—”

  He shook his head, glanced down at his notes, and looked me square in the eyes.

  “These hours aren’t going to get the job done right for you. You need me out there putting in a four-to-four. At four in the afternoon he might be headed off to find trouble, but after the bars close, if he’s out there he’s found it. And we might still miss something, you know?

  “Oh, and no overtime for me. My job is to do right by you.”

  My head jerked back and I heard my voice resounding in an octave higher, “You know you’re talking about twelve full hours a day and for a week?”

  “No problem for me and I won’t be sleeping on the job. I told you, I’m your man. I got this. I have a good camera, too.”

  “No flash?”

  “Nope.”

  ONE WEEK LATER I made up a spread sheet from Jimmy’s seven daily reports that documented Hunter’s every move starting from the first night when Jimmy caught up with him leaving his home. Jimmy had thought he’d start there and catch him returning home. It appeared my guy had captured a snapshot of his target’s very breath for a full week, no matter which car Hunter had driven.

  There were the usual things. He’d stopped at a gas station, a day spa where he must have had the works as he didn’t come out of the building for almost three hours, two quick trips to a grocery store and another to a drugstore.

  In the course of the one week he took dinner at upscale restaurants five times. Four of those times he arrived and left with different women on his arm. One time he flew solo.

  The bars were numerous, and sometimes several in one night.

  Of note, Hunter had frequented his mother’s so-called bar that Anthony Bibbione had introduced me to off-hours. He also had driven to his mother’s home five times and spent from six minutes to over two hours on those visits.

  Outside of a bar, at closing time, Hunter exited with a man twice his size. The two were arguing and Hunter reached for his pocket and pulled out a gun. The other man put his hands up in protest, turned and fled into the desert.

  On one occasion Jimmy had the tricky endeavor of tailing Hunter at night on the dark and quiet streets that led to Bibbione’s estate across town in Oro Valley. Hunter drove slowly but didn’t stop. Instead, with his car lights off, he turned around at the dead end.

  As the photographs evidenced, Hunter carried his briefcase with him almost every time he left his vehicle. The briefcase, a soft-sided leather, appeared swollen with contents.

  He never spent the night at a woman’s house and he never took women back to his house. In fact, Jimmy never saw anyone go through the gates of Hunter’s property. That might explain the bulging briefcase, I deduced. Likely filled with a change of clothing, but that wouldn’t warrant his compelling need to keep the case with him almost all of the times he left his car.

  Twice, Jimmy drove to the Tucson Scorpions’ stadium after hours. He had noted that with some of his own maneuvering he found the right angle to park with a decent view of what he described as a two-story stucco building, and on both nights a light went on from inside the same second-floor corner window. One early morning, he drove from an apparent after-midnight sexual rendezvous and straight to the stadium where there would be some players and coaches arriving at the gym.

  Jimmy arrived at my office to go over his findings. I had no other questions but asked for him to call me if he thought of anything else quirky or otherwise.

  “Yes, ma’am…I mean Cassidy. I did one thing on my own. Hope you don’t mind,” he said.

  This was a big no-no of mine but before I became unglued he said, “Hunter Childs drove all three of his vehicles. I figured from the get-go I’d be off the watch soon enough, so I bought some of those GPS tracking devices. The best. I had perfect opportunities to place one on all three with no chance of being spotted. I checked first thing this morning. He’s all the way to I-25 and driving north.”

  “Share that software with me, but you’re in charge of monitoring it. Keep track of your time. Get me the receipt for the devices and you’ll be reimbursed. You did a great job, Jimmy.”

  I handed him his first check, sealed in an envelope. I could imagine his vivid wide grin and bulging eyes when he saw that I had paid him for the overtime, plus a little bit to round off the figure.

/>   So, Hunter Childs appeared to be on his way to his little cabin in Crested Butte that he likely put in the name of an L.L.C.. My paragnosis kicked in with a full confirmation as what might have only been a guess for some. I’m both lucky and haunted with the way I have of knowing things without really knowing anything.

  Time to play, I thought. I booked my ticket to Gunnison, Colorado. From there, I’d pick up the reserved rental car and drive about thirty minutes to Crested Butte.

  If I was wrong, I’d enjoy a nice outing at the right time of year in the cold country. If I was right, I’d likely be hanging around some café even before Hunter Childs’ car hit the town limits.

  With my impromptu sudden departure, I texted Jimmy to check out the Childs’ family plot. I asked him to wear gardeners’ attire if by chance someone noticed him, which I highly doubted. He’d photograph every headstone or what looked like any unmarked burial plots. I expected his results would bear no juicy fruits. Call me curious.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

  ON THE FAR northeast side of Tucson you’ll find twenty-five miles of highway that wind you through the Sky Islands with spectacular rock formations that rise like gods and goddesses to either welcome you or cause you fear. When traveling to Mt. Lemmon you’ll have driven through four life zones, starting at the low-elevation desert and ending up in a wooded forest. The town of Summerhaven is speckled with cabins, a few restaurants and for a seasoned skier, a dismal ski operation that looks like it’s out of the 1940’s in Vail, Colorado. I wasn’t in Tucson anymore. I wasn’t home anymore. While I’d visited the popular ski destinations of Vail and Aspen, Colorado, I wasn’t expecting what I would find in Crested Butte. Bustling, yet subdued and away from all of the glitzy riffraff.

  Having checked my watch and estimated how far along Hunter Childs’ would be on his drive, I could see that I had a good ninety-minutes to spare. Without his address, I had plenty of time to scope it out.

  Fall had turned the groves of Aspen trees that nestled between pines into shimmering copper and gold dancing leaves which seemed to cast their glow over the entire town. Storefronts and houses wore bright hues of paint to reach every spectrum of the color wheel. Driving around, I noticed the laid-back pace of the pedestrians. When in-season, I imagined the streets bursting with more robust activity yet still rendering a quaint Victorian charm without the glamour and glitz. I’d read that real estate was sky-rocketing with the arrival of celebrities and the rich, eager for the escape from neurotic fans and their interminable need for selfies. With the acquisition of the resort made by Vail Associates, more skiers would be flocking to the smaller scaled slopes.