Lethal Trust

by Lala Corriere

  “Because I don’t trust computers or phones.”

  Hunter grabbed three beers and a bowl of peanuts, tossing them onto the table and.”

  “It’s too damn cold for beer. And you? You have to think straight,” she said, shoving the bottles aside. “Business, first.

  “Mason, Hunter tells me you are the brains of this operation.”

  “It’s more of a fine opera,” Hunter said.

  “I’m speaking to Mason,” Isidora barked. “You get your mother a cigar. I think better that way,” she ordered Hunter.

  She moved her arms in on the table to look Mason squarely in the eyes.

  “Yes, Ma’am. I feed Hunter all he needs to bring to the Scorpion’s management table. He’s talking the talk. Budgets. Policies. Negotiating contracts and understanding salary caps. He’s even able to talk about increasing ticket prices with the data behind him.”

  Mason’s voice dropped to a whisper, “He doesn’t even know how to read an Excel spreadsheet, let alone make sense of them and what needs to be done. I manipulate the numbers.”

  Overhearing part of the conversation, Hunter returned with three cigars.

  “Yes. It’s true. Mason’s teaching me how to lie with statistics. I admit it. He’s brilliant,” Hunter said.”

  “I understand. The two of you are making the Scorpion’s look good on paper,” Isidora said, cutting and lighting the cigar. “Where do I come in? Why am I realizing true good numbers?”

  “We followed your advice,” Manny stood with excitement. “I met a guy during my years at Vanderbilt. He’s now a chemist. Stable employment with a good firm. And yet, he has another side. Another avenue of income. Us.”

  Hunter said, “We pay him pennies on the dollar for his concoction. It’s an undetectable form of steroids. Now, the players haven’t been told exactly what they’ve been taking, but they know. Hell, they’re buying it from Mason on their own. The coaches must know and gleefully look the other way.”

  Isidora studied her cigar and breathed in and out through pursed lips. With glacial speed she said, “So, we’re still in the business of making the Scorpions look good.”

  “And our vein of income is rich, plus with their trust, the players have opened their wallets to other streams of our goodies. They can take them during season, and they seem to have opened the floodgates to those that can’t get enough of our shit. Ask Mason.”

  “It’s like there’s some sort of hole in the food supply, and that doesn’t include what’s going on around here. Weed is legal in Colorado. For a while the dispensaries were kicking ass selling it at ridiculous prices. Now, everyone’s growing it and everyone wants to sell it. There are some legal limits, but it comes down to supply and demand. There’s plenty of it. The price is down.

  “So, our products are special. The goods Hunter just spoke of as shit. How are you selling so much?” Isidora asked.

  “Just like the coaches and players look away, so does the law around here,” Hunter said.

  “No one knows of Hunter’s involvement with you, and I’m dead. My buyers know me as Hitch. That’s it. It’s fucking perfect, and I thank you for making me dead,” Mason said. “I have no greedy bitch-wife and I’m out of the family nightmare. It’s the best life.”

  CHAPTER FORTY-SIX

  JIMMY NOT ONLY CONDUCTED surveillance with an eye for detail; he never missed a scheduled time to call in with his reports for four days.

  Schlep sat across from my desk as we conducted our video conference.

  After complaining about the bitter cold in Cretted Bute, Jimmy gave us the details of his findings.

  “The big Rhino was sitting outside the home on the first afternoon. Later that evening a pearl white SUV arrived. AZ plates. A rather large woman got out of it.”

  Schlep took down the Arizona plate number and in seconds reported it as registered to the same IHM, L.L.C. as the Rhino.

  “Two hours later that vehicle was pulled into the garage. I didn’t have the right angle to see if any other cars were parked in there. I could only make out a mountain bike. Maybe a raft.

  “Early the next morning the Rhino drove away. Haven’t seen it since.”

  “And he didn’t see you?” I asked.

  “No way. From then on it was quiet, although I did see the man you have identified as Manny Childs. He looks like he’s carrying a full backpack and heads toward town every morning. I stayed in position at the house. Three or four hours later this Manny person returns. He’s mostly on foot and alone, but he does drive a beat up rusty old truck. No plates.”

  “Carrying anything else?”

  “Just the pack on his back and a sometimes a couple of grocery bags.”

  “And the woman?”

  “I got a better look at her. Short. Older. Overweight, one helluva a fur coat and matching hat. Fur boots. Black gloves. Dark fancy sunglasses. She came out to the porch, walked around, and went directly back inside.”

  “Any other description?”

  “Nothing but that she looked like a pregnant bear with gigantic red lips.”

  No doubt he was describing Isidora. The woman Bibbione had warned me about and Hunter’s mother.

  “It’s day three. The lady tore out of the property before dawn. She hasn’t returned. I had a tracking device to put on the vehicle but didn’t risk my tracks in the snow. It’s off my radar.

  “The house is quiet. A couple of interior lights and smoke coming from the chimney.”

  “Okay, Jimmie. Get back to your room, get warm, and get a good night’s sleep. Catch a flight out of there tomorrow. We’re going to need your feet on the ground here,” I said.

  I ended the video chat, cradled my head into my hands held out across the table, and turned my gaze into Schlep’s pensive eyes.

  “You have a plan?”

  “I have a date. With Taylor. I’m hoping we can put one of your squiggly lines connecting her to the murders, and then we’re all over this little trio of desert dwellers that suddenly have a penchant for visiting Crested Butte.”

  My phone rang. I identified the caller and answered the call on speaker.

  “Ms. Clark, this is Seth Childs calling. You may remember me.”

  “Of course, Seth. Call me Cassidy. How can I help you.”

  “We haven’t spoken in some time. I assume you are still active in investigating my father’s unfinished affairs.”

  “That, I am.” I purposely answered with few words. He’s the one that called.

  I could hear him clearing his throat and the obvious sound of ice cubes clinking as they fell into an empty glass. Glancing at the clock, it would be after six in the evening in New York.

  Schlep was shaking his hands upward in hopes that would somehow prompt the unseen caller to speak.

  I waited.

  “The thing is, I don’t know that it’s appropriate for me to be calling you, but I felt there are a couple of things you should know.”

  “There are no rules, Seth. Go on,” I said with a mustered up calm voice because I, too, was eager for his words to flow.

  “The thing is, I don’t need you wasting your time looking into me.”

  Schlep rolled his eyes to the ceiling. Like, neither of us had heard that line before.

  “And, why is that?” I said.

  His voice became forceful and the words flooded my ears, sucking me in like a sweet baby’s breath. “Even if they used a branding iron of the Scorpions’ logo burned into my skin and down to my bones, I wouldn’t exact ownership, Ms. Clark.”

  “I see. And, may I ask why?” I’d just branded him in my own way, figuring he was a stock trader with his roots entangled down the sidewalks on Wall Street. And, as a money-guy, motivated by the greenbacks.

  “I’m asking for your confidentiality.”

  “You aren’t my client. I don’t owe you that but you don’t owe me this information. Yes. You have my promise.”

  “I’ve been diagnosed with Alzheimer’s. It appears it’s e
stablishing residence in my brain rather quickly, like my Dad’s. I guess the true value of being a son of Paul Childs ultimately comes down to his genes.”

  “Thank you for sharing this, Seth. I’m truly very sorry. And I won’t say a word.”

  “I hope that might help you. You have a nice weekend, now.”

  “Wait! You said you had a couple of things I should know.”

  I could have given birth during his long and painful pause.

  “Let’s just say I thought that maybe, just maybe, blood isn’t thicker than water. That family isn’t all about blood. I’m not so sure anymore.”

  CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN

  BREECIE ARRIVED AT THE resort and conference center in Scottsdale hours before the two-thousand-dollar a seat dinner would begin. She’d already booked a facial and massage at the hotel spa. She had planned every minute of her adventure. Her gown would be waiting for her as soon as the room opened to receive her.

  She’d once been scolded that a gown should never be made of sequins. Too bourgeoisie. The person that told her this had never seen the golden garment of sequins and fine beading that cut high on side of one leg and on the back, what was of it, the fabric draped down as far as it could go on her bare back to fall scooped against her curvaceous hips.

  With a glance at the clock, and then the mirror, Breecie left her room and road the elevator to the penthouse floor that opened up into the Diamonte Grande Ballroom. The guest of honor, Congressman Thomas Michael Barclay, stood at the podium, having officially tossed his hat into the ring for a run at the senate.

  Breecie didn’t immediately take her seat at her table, but rather stood in the back of the main aisle with a flute of champagne in her gloved hands. She stood there until she was certain she caught the eye of the future senator. She then took her seat near the back.

  Smooth, the man became depleted of words for any politician, and departed the stage as he graciously shook hands with all that stood, and a few that remained seated. Slowly, he approached her table.

  “The Woman in Gold. It was Gustav Klimt’s undeniable masterpiece,” he said, admiring her gown.

  Breecie was familiar with the famed painting and said nothing as she gazed at the handsome man now inches from her. Hot inches.

  “Ms. Lemay, how good of you to come out and support our campaign.”

  “You know my name?”

  “Not formally introduced when we first saw one another. I made it a point to do my own vetting, if you will, at the chance we might soon meet again.”

  “I’m impressed,” Breecie said with a captivating half-smile.

  “You know I must dine at another table. Meet me afterward. See that woman over there seated between the two guests in wheelchairs?” He pointed to a table in the center of the room.

  Breecie nodded.

  He bent down to whisper in her ear.

  “She’s my assistant. Approach her when you can, as I intend to immediately. There’s a small boutique hotel not five blocks from here. She’ll arrange to have a car ready for you outside the lobby to drive you there. The lounge has a small back room. I’ll meet you there at the conclusion of my duties here and we can talk.”

  “I won’t wait long,” Breecie said.

  “Neither will I.”

  THE CAR DROVE Breecie to the understated but quaint three-story hotel with sienna colored stucco and windows and doors painted in a brilliant turquoise trim. A southwestern superstition that the color warded off all evil. The doorman greeted Breecie and quickly escorted her to the quiet lounge, pulling back crimson velvet curtains to reveal a room with just three tables. Candles had been lit on the one in the corner.

  Immediately the bottle of champagne arrived, along with a plate of chocolate covered strawberries with thick green stems.

  She waited no longer than ten minutes when Thomas Barclay entered the private space.

  As soon as he took his seat at the table a neat glass of bourbon arrived.

  “I started a bit faster than you,” Breecie smiled. “But then again, you were rather late in placing your bid for the senate seat.”

  “Planned strategy. Fresh blood. Fresh momentum.”

  “Why did you want to meet me here?”

  “More strategy, I’m afraid. It appears my campaign manager thinks we have a better shot at the win if I remain single and completely unattached.”

  “You’ll pull in the women voters.”

  “You’re both beautiful and smart,” he said.

  Breecie lifted her glass and toasted the rock glass of her new companion’s. She had made the connection on one of his prior visits to Tucson that included no introductions, although he would have deduced she might be an attorney due to the venue of the luncheon. He might be hers for but just the evening. No strings. He was not to be attached to any woman. She liked it that way. The chemistry and the brilliance of the man thickened the lust she felt between her legs.

  They conversed as if old acquaintances. Nothing too close, Breecie thought, as they talked about each others’ university paths, career choices, and futures.

  His was bright as the favored shoe-in Senator.

  When he finally asked if she would join him in a room upstairs, Breecie gently eased her head to one side, stroked her long black hair, and offered a smile as she retrieved her purse.

  The couple used a back elevator to the third floor opening up to a suite.

  Breecie took in the environment. Not southwestern at all. Stainless steel and marble furnishings with white leather seating.

  “And another bottle of champagne?” Breecie quizzed, impressed but not surprised.

  “I had my hopes. I always plan for my dreams to be fulfilled,” Barclay said, lighting the fireplace with a flick of the remote button.

  “And, what if I were to say I had and have my doubts?”

  “I would say that won’t be your final lie of the night,” he laughed as his tall presence moved to press her against a wall.

  She couldn’t help herself. So captivating, this man, and better if only for a night. She slipped away from her heels and pulled him closer, lifting one long leg to curl behind him with a further tug.

  In moments they were entwined in a heap atop the travertine floor, no regard for its cool and hard surface. Gently, they removed each other’s clothes. Gently, he began stroking her silky hair and caressing her face, as if they were devoted lovers.

  He guided her body, inching her toward the bronze legs of the mammoth marble cocktail table situated squarely in front of the roaring fire.

  And then he gagged her and bound her to the sturdy table.

  CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT

  BREECIE’S INSIDES ACHED as if a rake had been shoved up into her entire being. She was able to look at the man now crouched beside her, with only one eye. The other, sealed shut and searing with pain.

  He held a stun gun to her throat.

  She looked down from what she could scan upon her body. Her arms, still restrained, pounded with the fury of an errant jackhammer gone mad. She could make out her already bruised and swollen thighs.

  Barclay remained near her. Inches from her.

  He thrust the stun gun nearer the skin at her throat and motioned with his finger to his lips for her silence.

  She blinked with the one eye and nodded once.

  “Good girl,” Barclay said as he removed the scarf that gagged her mouth.

  “You’ll never get away with this, you sunovabitch,” Breecie whispered in a cracked voice.

  “To the contrary. Let’s start with you. I know everything about you. Good enough Chicago lawyer. Not great. Thinking you’re daddy’s little girl when in fact it was Daddy and your fiancé that killed your dear mommy. And how weird is this? Your fiancé was a promising senator?

  “You took time out and did the local free lawyer shit, and then you met your true love, who’s dead. Just tragic.”

  Breecie dropped her head to her chest near the stun gun and then fiercely raised it to face her dem
on.

  Barclay continued, “You moved to Tucson to be with your college chum, Cassidy Clark. How cute, but she’s no match for me and the powers that be, either.”

  Breecie struggled to keep focused and with one glaring and unforgiving eye.

  “Your friends and your peers and the courts and judges all know you’ve gone off the deep end, my Breecie, my slut. They know you’re out there fucking for the thrill. And they know about the drinking. My dear, the thrill is gone, as they say. No one will believe you. Not fit for any courtroom drama.

  “My assistant was told you were drunk and needed a room away from the press. As for the private room I arranged, you consumed an entire bottle of champagne. Me? Root beer. Flat. The way I like it. They save it for me that way. No bubbles and the color of a hearty bourbon.

  “A got you to your room and left. No cameras in this old hotel. No nothing. You left the room unlocked.

  “DNA, if you like, but good luck. I used a rubber and I know you didn’t like that. And let’s just say that I don’t have that much to offer, if you get my drift. Any sperm may be a bit sullied, too, with some other samples. No fingerprints but on the door when I safely saw you to your room. I asked you to lock the door behind me.”

  Breecie grew fierce, her chin upright and her words forceful but shaky. “You’re insane!”

  “Shhhh! Settle down for the ride. You have some bruises. You liked it. With your past you can’t exactly join the Me Too movement. You consented. With someone. It got a little rough. Go home, a little battered. At least I’ll know I didn’t break your heart.”

  He offered a bellowing laugh as he lowered the back of his shirt. “Look! I’ve already taken a photograph. You scratched the hell out of my back, my wicked one.”

  The marks across his back wore stretches of blood. Breecie looked at her long fingernails to see the traces underneath them.

  Now dressed, he said, “Go back to your sleepy city of Tucson. I know you have work up here in the capital city, but I trust if you behave yourself our paths will never cross again.”

  Breecie took inventory. The sunovabitch hadn’t touched the champagne bottle and glasses. She remembered seeing him light the fireplace with the remote using his knuckles. He hadn’t touch the wall he had pushed her against, only touching her skin. The scarf that had gagged her and the ropes binding her wouldn’t carry latent fingerprints.