CoverBoys & Curses

by Lala Corriere

  Theresa ran as slow as the last smidgen of catsup oozing out of the bottom of a spent bottle. She’d also been an employee of Falls & Falls for some thirty years.

  “Did you call his home? And his cell?” I asked.

  “He doesn’t pick up!”

  “Who’s there with you?”

  “Theresa, Curtis, Kathleen, and me. We’re all here.”

  “Sterling, it’s Wednesday. Doesn’t your dad play gin at his old tennis club today?”

  “Not until 11:00. He should be here by now.”

  “He probably didn’t charge his phone. You know how he is. And he’s just running late. These things happen. The man likes to play his cards and he’ll be there.”

  I didn’t believe my own words. Something was wrong.

  “What the hell do I do?” Sterling asked.

  “You wait twenty minutes and then you call some of his gin buddies. If he’s not there I’ll meet you over at his house. In the meantime, if it will make you feel better, you call the police and see if he’s been in an accident.”

  Silence.

  “Just give them your dad’s name and a description of his car. And the roads he takes to work. Okay?”

  “Okay. But Lauren, I’m scared to death.”

  “I’m worried, too,” I admitted, but we both knew he liked his nips of booze, too. Sometimes it didn’t matter the time of day.

  Fifteen minutes later I agreed to meet Sterling at her father’s home. I was closer.

  MY ROUTE TO Oliver Fall’s house proved short and direct. I arrived well before Sterling. With the garage sealed up tight and no windows, I couldn’t tell if his car was inside.

  I rang the bell and used the heavy brass door knocker. I called out his name, always Mr. Falls to me.

  Kicking off my heels, I sprinted across the lawn and the perimeter of the front. The window blinds were closed. I headed toward the side of the modest home when I heard the familiar engine purr of Sterling’s car.

  She wore an ashen gray face with the key fob shaking in her hand. I grabbed it from her and unlocked the front door. Sterling had the presence of mind to disengage the alarm system.

  Looking through to the family room, we could see Mr. Falls asleep on the sofa.

  “Good grief,” Sterling grumbled. “Daddy must have gotten into his gin bottle before his gin table today.”

  She stormed ahead of me. “Dad. Get the hell up. You blew off your meeting with Theresa and you had us all worried sick.”

  I knew what was happening. Mr. Falls always met his commitments, in spite of his penchant for a nip or a guzzle of liquor now and then. Concern and worry turn into anger before the next stage, which is usually truth. They say love is blind. This was that special beautiful bonding love between a father and daughter as I saw it unfolding in front of me.

  And I knew this much was true. The loving daughter was blind to the reality she was facing.

  Chapter Sixty-Four

  Another Memorable Memorial

  PARAMEDICS ARRIVED WITHIN ten minutes. They were about ten hours too late.

  Falls died of massive coronary heart failure. Although my mom, dad, fiancé, best friend, and every other death I’d encountered were unexpected, Sterling knew in her heart that this day was inevitable.

  I understood that grief is an equal opportunity employer.

  THE MEMORIAL SERVICE displayed the dignity of the man we were honoring and remembering. Quiet. Respectable. Even Sterling toned down her glitz. Flowers overflowed. No one could prevent the mourners’ arrival en masse, although the final wishes of Oliver Falls dictated cremation without pomp and circumstance.

  Brock had an away game. Excused. But where was Carly?

  Sterling and I hadn’t really made any plans for afterward, but I presumed I would take what guests might linger on to a nice meal at an equally quiet restaurant. Sterling shocked me when she told me she was unavailable. She and Dr. Coal were leaving together. They had made other plans.

  “I didn’t realize you even knew Dr. Coal,” I said.

  “Daddy liked Harlan,” Sterling said. She must have seen the distress in my eyes. And maybe jealously, which is hardly an appropriate emotion at the conclusion of a memorial service.

  “Daddy probably liked Harlan because he knew he’s the only male friend I have that hasn’t jumped my bones. That’s a record for me, you know,” Sterling said in defense.

  “You’re dating him?” I asked.

  “A few times. If you can call no sex a date. He’s not my shrink, Lauren. You can’t go after him on ethic charges. And in case you haven’t noticed he’s a drop dead hunk.”

  “Of course,” I uttered, still unsure why it was a private affair between the two of them, and right after the service. Yes. Coal was my shrink, although after the invitation to buy the home on his compound I had neglected to schedule any further sessions with him. Somehow I got the feeling Coal could be more persuasive than Gabri when it came to buying a home. Somehow I didn’t want a dead person’s house. And I certainly didn’t want to move away from the beach.

  The timing was all wrong, but still I wanted to ask Sterling what Coal was like. The man and not the shrink. On a date. And I wondered why in the world, if he wasn’t the seducer, had Sterling not yet seduced him—in totality.

  The timing was wrong. I would wait.

  CARLY WAS NO WHERE to be found. I kept phoning her studio and cell. Finally, I called Sterling.

  “Oh, yeah,” Sterling said. She took off for a few days. Gave her employees some time off, too. She was going to take some days for herself, and then go install some big design job. You know the one. The job that’s going to cash flow her new antique store.”

  I knew. And I didn’t. Honestly my mind and time and efforts had been driven back to CoverBoy, and then to help Sterling handle her father’s final goodbye. I had left the tumultuous affairs of Payton Doukas into the capable hands of Victor Romero. As for all the heinous stuff going on with the slayings that seemed to surface with every issue I printed, I guess I had left that to Detective Wray. It seemed to me there was some guy out there pulling a Robin Hood thing. Instead of robbing from the rich he was robbing the world of all evil.

  “You haven’t spoken to Carly?” I asked.

  “She’s not returned my calls, like I could care right now,” Sterling said. “She’s a big girl. Chasing her dream.”

  Chapter Sixty-Five

  Fateful Decisions

  ARMAND’S REGURGITATED memories could satisfy him for weeks. Occasionally, after an especially delightful encounter, he could go for months.

  He was no killer but he loved blood. He obtained his fix with the brutality of his own hands. The burgeoning skin that instantly swelled under the force of those hands only caused him to want more. He preferred the screams that came with it, but he acquiesced to Coal and stuck with the rohypnol. Sort of. Sometimes he cheated on that promise. When living in the desert he’d experimented with the abundant oleander foliage, and later he learned the wonders of camphor. Armand especially liked the convulsions when he used camphor. It beat the hell out of fucking a passed-out ragdoll on the roofies.

  He abandoned the rohypnol all together after he had found the magic of the colorless, odorless, and tasteless scopolamine.

  How stupid of him to waste time on the other drugs. Yes. So easy to get from his homeland in Bogota, scopolamine became his drug of choice.

  Armand had long known that he had two problems. One, rohypnol might cause a type of amnesia, but in recent court trials clever attorneys had placed their poor little victims under hypnosis and their lost memories were not lost at all. They were there on the hidden transcripts of the brain all along.

  Harlan Coal assured Armand that he could take care of any of those memories, claiming them as false, or even laying the fresh veil of a new memory over any reality. But that led Armand to his second problem. Coal had made himself indispensible to him.

  Armand was quick to reclaim his roots. The borrachero tre
e. Scopolamine and its drunken pollen stopped any recorder in the brain. Not a pause. No record. Just STOPPED.

  A few seeds and the drug could be lethal. Armand learned this to be true through trial and error. But pure and cheap scopolamine, easily acquired throughout Bogota and the harvested fields of Ecuador, allowed Armand to be in control of his own destiny. This secret, he owned.

  I love my life, Armand thought. The rohypnol and all the other drugs leave my conquests like splayed out dolphins after the slaughter. How fun is that? With the borrachero his little playmates were free to scream, slither, and slash back at him. Just the way he liked to come—good and hard.

  He did enjoy the privacy of the Bel Air house. The huge walls afforded him more options, but too many times Harlan Coal would ditch some of his boy toys inside. He’d have to keep them doped up, along with any of his bloody little whores.

  The whole scene grew wearisome, even as he folded up his black leather gloves and folded them into his pocket. Better than latex should ever his memory loss program fail him. The gloves scared the shit out of his girls, Armand reminisced. Just like they had the Visconti woman.

  CARLY LOVED BIG BEAR. She breathed in the cool pure mountain air and felt the pulse of time slowing down as she left the big city of angels behind in her rearview mirror.

  In time she would ask Sterling for forgiveness, for even though she knew about Sterling’s father’s death, Carly had a business future to secure. Surely Sterling would understand. Sterling had been born with a sterling silver spoon in her mouth and Lauren’s was golden, but they would both somehow remember Carly’s splintered wooden one.

  The cabin rested on the rim of the lake, protected by a cathedral of towering pines. Carly had never met the non-resident owner but she’d been up to the property on four occasions to tour it, take measurements, and facilitate the deconstruction process that needed to occur prior to the magic of her design work, furnishings and accessories.

  Carly knew the scale of the job would match any king’s castle. The income would be enough for her to place the phone call to Gabriella Criscione. Carly would finally secure her dream antique store.

  The truck had delivered the first phase of furniture and accessories. Although they would be stripped of shipping containers and any wrapping, Carly would be lucky if the king-sized mattress set actually made it into the master bedroom.

  The owner wouldn’t arrive for another two months. His parameters proved to be vast. He didn’t want too much cabin-like horse and cowboy crap, no contemporary look, and no Scandinavian. The left Carly’s design palette wide open, fueled by an exorbitant budget.

  With a bed she could put together herself, decorator towels and linens she could replace before the owner ever knew it, and a remote quiet, Big Bear beckoned her.

  The hundred-mile drive had never been so easy. Carly needed time to think, oblivious to any verdict of fate.

  Chapter Sixty-Six

  Big Bear

  JUMPING OUT OF the van, Carly stretched out her legs, took a deep breath of pine-laced air, then grabbed a load of the new linens from the cargo door.

  A quick walk-through and Carly realized the delivery men did a better job than she expected. Even the beds had been put together. It pays three-fold to treat your people with respect and surprise bonuses, Carly thought. Some designers refused to treat their hired labor as humans, let alone give them tips.

  She eagerly grabbed the August Horn linens and dressed the king bed for a good night of sleep. She’d already made the note to take what would now be used linens home with her and reorder new ones. Even at her cost she would not be one to invest in them for herself, but this time was different. This time was special.

  Carly would enjoy a great night or two of sleep. Maybe even three. She would work hard on the furniture, the art, the lighting and accessories. And she would have time to relish and bless this design job that would launch her into her new career as proprietor of a world-class antique store.

  After finishing making up her borrowed bed Carly toured the rest of the home. New tongue and groove flooring banished any sensation of the cold or damp. The leathered granite counters, installed in the kitchen, three bathrooms, and the wetbar offered a surface of milky green perfection. Copia Designworks hardware adorned walls and cabinetry. Their bronze towel bars hung like pieces of art, cabinet knobs and pulls rose off the cherry wood panels as if each one opened up a treasured jewelry box.

  While firmly attached, Carly could feel the meaty weight of the bronze knobs as she opened up the cabinets. The empty cupboards would be filled with her ultimate kitchen package in another six weeks. She needed the time to lug the heavy pieces of furniture and art around without concern for breaking the new china and crystal.

  Besides, her client wouldn’t be there and expect complete perfection for another eight weeks.

  Chapter Sixty-Seven

  Beach Storm

  RETURNING HOME FROM the sorrow of Oliver Falls’ memorial service, I made several more calls to track down Carly.

  Nothing. Maybe she really did need a great escape.

  My car never got over twenty miles an hour, even though it felt like I’d been taking curves in a racing Shelby with no idea how to shift.

  Traffic was crawling out to the beach communities. Rain pelted down hard as the wiper blades caught blowing grit and sand that scraped across the windshield.

  When my cell rang the diversion startled me, so hard were my eyes focused on staying on the road.

  “I’m worried about you out in this storm,” Brock said.

  “I’m a little worried about me, too,” I admitted. “Are you home?”

  “You bet I’m at home, and dry. You bolted from Oliver Falls’ reception service before I could tell you the good news that I have a few days off for good behavior. You didn’t even see me there.”

  I’m sorry I didn’t see him. I could have used his shoulder. But this wasn’t good news. Brock’s old shoulder injury had never healed properly, but the pitcher refused to baby it the way it deserved and the coach, the team, and the league seemed to look the other way. For a while.

  “Look, I didn’t bolt. I just knew this storm would hit hard and I wanted to try and beat it. And you sound like you’re in pain. Are you hurt?” I asked.

  “I’m okay. I’ll be back in the game soon.”

  “Did you see Carly there at the service?”

  “Nope. And where are you by now?”

  “I’m almost home. Ten minutes. I have a full tank of gas but I’m low on windshield solvent. I guess I’m sort of hoping it keeps pouring rather than have sand sticking to the glass.”

  “Swing into a station and get some solvent.”

  “Too lazy. And like I said, I’m ten minutes from home.”

  “The forecast is gloom and doom and it sounds like the coast is getting the brunt of it. You take twenty minutes, then call me.”

  I shut off my cell and drove another thirty minutes, sighing with relief when my car pulled into my drive and the garage door rolled open.

  The wind gusts pushed the pelting rain into my damp but warm garage. Closing the overhead door before I exited the car, I listened as the wind moaned and the massive door heaved and creaked. Smell of salt and sand—a refreshing smell now that I wasn’t driving in it, permeated the air.

  Windshield solvent, I remembered. I should put some in now, rather than forget it and risk muddy drive conditions in the morning.

  I popped the release of my hood and pulled it up. When I turned toward the oak cabinet that housed my limited selection of auto supplies, the hood slammed shut.

  A second attempt produced similar results.

  Shit. Okay. Prop it up with something. No big deal.

  The broomstick was too long to squeeze in, I deduced. The squeegee, and where the hell did I get that? It was too short, anyway.

  Feeling like Goldilocks, I searched for just the right size of gadget that would hold the damn hood open. The roar of the wind urged me to
go inside, but logic told me I was safe from any weather if I’d take the time to put the stupid solvent in my car. Hopefully the storm would be gone before my morning commute, but just in case…

  I opened the built-in closets to find them bare to empty. Then I spied the golf bag. The same one I had collected from the airport package service.

  I unzipped the cover and pulled out one of the shorter clubs. Golf is not my game, but I know I used an iron. Just the right size. Goldilocks got it right.

  Once again I popped the release button and lifted the hood, wedging the club into place. I had started pouring the solution into the funnel when the crash sounded and I jumped, losing control of both the solvent and the funnel.

  As the golf bag careened over to the concrete floor, its contents splayed through the air. White golf balls toppled out and pinged across from wall to wall. Clubs spewed out of the bag with a harsh clanging noise, along with dozens of pieces of paper.

  The solvent now poured onto my shoes and the surface under them, blazing a river of steely blue liquid toward the mess of golf clubs. Only then did I realize the papers were photographs.

  Without thought, I collapsed to the floor and scrambled to retrieve the glossy images.

  Revolting. My hands shook as I glanced at the photographs, wiping off the fluid where I could. Black and whites. Color. Sodomy. Fellatio. Naked boys of every size and color. I couldn’t tell their ages, but if they were of flesh and blood, they were all innocent children that had been violated.

  I didn’t want to look at them. I couldn’t look away. One photo, then another and another. I scooped them up and dumped them into a garbage bag, bringing the uninvited nightmare into my home.

  Why were the photographs in a golf bag?

  Where did the golf bag come from?

  Where were the kids’ parents and how could they let their children fall victim to such atrocious evil?

  I dumped the images onto my travertine floor. Nausea set in, an odd companion to an ever more disquieting sense of familiarity. A knowing sense, although of what—I did not know.