CoverBoys & Curses

by Lala Corriere

  At first it was just one photograph that captured my mind. A pillow on the floor. A pair of wire rim glasses, common enough. A dhurrie rug. Again, common enough.

  What was it that unsettled me?

  I scoured more images and returned to the one that held my stomach captive.

  The durrie rug. It was a pattern I knew.

  I sorted through the photographs again. A realm of familiarity engulfed me.

  My eyes and my heart froze when I focused on the statue of the ivory elephant with a raised foot and in a boat, and perched on a blue slab of stone. Lapis lazuli.

  It had been in his office. I saw it there on my first visit. Definitely he had told me it was one of a kind.

  Chapter Sixty-Eight

  Perhaps Not Circumstantial

  AS THE ROOM swirled to keep up with my stomach, I snagged my cell phone and called the only person I could think to call. Someone who had helped the bad things go away, ever since grade school.

  Brock was at my house within twenty minutes.

  “Forty-two of these photographs,” he counted out. “That’s not just one moment of indiscretion we’re looking at.”

  The photographs now lined the top of my dining room table. The dimmer on my chandelier was set on high to cast the maximum light on the disgusting exhibit.

  Brock asked me to find a magnifying glass, which he knew I often used to scour Sukie Fields’ work.

  “What should I do?” I asked.

  “You’re sure about this statue?”

  “I’ve been told it’s one of kind. And that one of a kind is in Harlan Coal’s office. Plus I recognize other things, including the rugs.”

  “You should call the police. That detective.”

  “I have to think about that. The man already believes, and with every right, that I’m up to my eyeballs in murder.”

  “Okay. Then think about this. How is it you ended up with these photographs?” Brock picked up the photo with the statue. It seemed eerily weighted in his hand.

  “I have no idea. Coincidence?”

  “Something stinks,” Brock said. “Think back. We were together when we found the wallets. The day I picked you up at the airport and we ran into those would-be car thieves.”

  “So maybe they belong to you. You should have taken them.” I tried and failed to break a smile.

  “You returned the wallets to their rightful owners. And then some guy sends you back a receipt and the receipt lead to these clubs.

  “Did you save his name and address?”

  “No. I remember I didn’t use any tracking numbers. No insurance or return receipts. I just wanted them out of my possession and back to their owners.”

  The rain continued to pelt down against the glass panes of my windows. It would have hurt like peas flying out of a peashooter against raw flesh.

  Bare flesh. Young boys. Dr. Coal?

  I jumped up to close the plantation shutters. I suppose I tried to keep out the boogey-man.

  Brock dropped the photograph back onto the table. “Do you think someone put those photos in the golf bag after it was already here at your house?”

  “Now you’re scaring me!”

  “I’m not the one who wants to scare you. The obvious suspect would be that gloved maniac that threatened you at your doorstep. He wanted to scare the piss out of you. I think we need to call that detective friend of yours.”

  “He’s not my friend, and wait, Brock. Please. Just you and me, for now. Let’s keep playing detective ourselves. It’s a gut instinct. Please.”

  “No telling how old these kids are,” Brock said. “A lot of ‘em look to be of age, but then we have ones like this and we’re looking at a serious crime, Laurs.” He tossed over a photo of a skinny little boy pulling himself up out of a black Jacuzzi. He had the face of a cherub; the only puffy flesh on his body filled out his cheeks. He couldn’t have been more than ten. Maybe eleven.

  “Where are these kids now?” Why do you suppose not one of them has come forward or gotten any media attention?” I choked back tears.

  “There’s no crime without victims. And you and I have both seen your Doctor Coal in action. He’s a fucking bona-fide bullshitter that could sell bicycles as transportation in the middle of the fucking Aegean Sea. You know what he does. He’s the provider of verbal lobotomies!”

  I nodded. Disdain filled my mind just as despondency laced my throat. “Through experience, I know a few things too many about the pathways of our legal system. Just because some of Coal’s possessions seem to be in the photographs, he’s not in them. He could claim it to be anyone. Especially with his no-locks-on-doors policy.

  “And he wants me to move onto The Centre grounds.”

  “He fucking what?” Brock yelled. “Why didn’t you tell me this? When?”

  “It’s no big deal. A home became available at The Centre and he asked if I wanted it.”

  “Bullshit. Fucking coincidence, my ass.”

  “I know you’re the poster boy of baseball on game days,” I said, desperate to change the subject if only for a moment. “No drinking a few full hours in a row. But you’re off the field right now. How about a brandy?”

  “I bet my doctor would insist upon it. Help with my physical therapy. I’m sure somewhere in there I was told alcohol relaxes the muscles.” Brock foraged in my kitchen until he retrieved the coveted bag of popcorn.

  “We do what we must to heal your shoulder,” I said from the bar. “I’ve never understood how they can expect anyone to play as many games as you guys play. You give up over half of your year, and on the road.”

  “Way more than half, if we’re lucky, babe. We can still make the post-season if we keep at it. It’s why I don’t take on a serious relationship, remember?”

  We retreated to my living room. As I had done in the dining room, I drew the plantation shutters closed to keep out the boogey-man.

  “Yes. I remember. All you players with pent-up emotions and living in hotel penthouses. You poor boys have to resort to getting off with your groupies.”

  I turned on the gas fireplace to take the chill out of the air but the freeze penetrated my soul. CoverBoy had run the article on perverts, albeit only perverts in the priesthood. Could there be a connection there?

  Ding. Dong. The priest was dead. No one was denying any connection there. At least not to me.

  Brock chomped away on handfuls of the popcorn, spilling much to the floor.

  “Something about those car thugs?” His question was rhetorical in tone. I didn’t attempt to answer.

  Brock waved his brandy snifter in the air, imploring a refill. I obliged.

  He stuffed a final wad of popcorn carbs in his mouth. “Maybe that asshole Coal tried to hurt those kids, and somehow they knew you could help.”

  “No way. I didn’t even know Coal then. And we’ve just established that we don’t know when those photos were actually stuffed into the golf bag.”

  “Lauren. There are a couple things we keep sidestepping.”

  “We’re sidestepping a lot for the moment, but I’ll bite. What?” I could call it whatever I wanted. Synchronicity. Coincidence.

  Brock glided the basket of popcorn to the table beside him, as if he had a catcher’s mitt and he was sliding with the prized ball to make a homerun. Safe. Home base.

  I’d propped myself up against a chair, on the floor, preferring to stretch my legs out in front of me. Some tension eased out of my body with each stretch.

  “Why are you so nervous?” he asked.

  “Nervous?”

  “Yeah. Whenever you’re uptight you pull on your ear and pop your neck.”

  “I’ve heard that before,” I said, remembering Carly’s comment to me. “Lucky I’ve never seen it.”

  “Sometimes you add a nervous giggle. You’re not giggling tonight,” he said.

  “I’m thinking, Brock. You told me to think.”

  Brock remained quiet. The rain abated; the thunder provided regular and ominous
booms partnering with blazing bolts of lightning that penetrated the protection of the closed shutters.

  I watched as the gas fire fought a few drops of rainwater that had fallen down the flue. The fire won.

  “There’ve been a couple times I thought Coal was coming on to me,” I said.

  “Wishful thinking?” Brock asked.

  “Damn you!”

  “I’m just stating the obvious. If we’re right, he’s not into beautiful redheaded women.”

  Damn me. Once again, Brock got it right. At least, maybe.

  “What kind of money are you paying him?” Brock asked in such a matter of fact manner the arrogance in his demand didn’t even hit me before I proffered my response.

  “Probably five times as much an hour as L.A.’s top psychiatrists. Ten times the daily rate of a day spa where you can buy eight hours and a sprout lunch and heal instantly.”

  Brock didn’t back off now that he was reeling again. “How much? Are your bankers checking you into Mount Sinai for a brain scan? That kind of big?”

  “Could’ve saved an entire third world community rather than a Hollywood Hills bi-polar psycho-center. That kind of big.”

  “This is a circuitous set of circumstances. That Detective Wray is right, and we have to figure out why.”

  “Why what?”

  “Why all roads lead back to you.”

  I smacked my glass down so hard on the table it should have shattered.

  Brock looked at me, his beautiful eyes now only casting worry. “What?”

  “Not all roads lead back to me. Where the hell is Carly? She lives at The Centre. Dr. Coal’s center. No one has heard from her in days!”

  Chapter Sixty-Nine

  Missing

  I CALLED AND TEXTED Sterling four times. Maybe my messages came off a bit terse, given the fact she had just buried her beloved father, but damn it! Carly was in trouble. I sensed it in every bone and in the structure of every cell in my body. Something was wrong.

  When she did call, I felt remorse. She was worried about Carly, but still sinking in her own pool of deep grief while saying her goodbyes to relatives and friends as they headed back out of town.

  It occurred to me that with no other heirs, at least Sterling wouldn’t be bogged down with estate affairs.

  I wondered. If I had known Oliver Falls better I would have feared my Visconti Curse. Maybe because I didn’t have much of a relationship with him Sterling’s father had lived a long and happy life, working well beyond his retirement years. Still, Sterling’s voice resonated sadness from a week of trying to pick up the pieces. I had a relationship with sadness.

  I proceeded with a cautionary voice, “Do you know where Carly’s design job is?”

  “I’ve been thinking. I’m not sure. I think she said Big Bear.”

  “Do you know where? No one at her studio seems to have a clue.”

  “There was something about privacy. I remember that.”

  “Sterling, think. What was the client’s name?”

  “For sure she never told me that, but just maybe I have the address at Dad’s store.”

  Falls & Falls had always been their store. Now, upon her father’s death, it became her Dad’s store. That was the unselfish Sterling I knew.

  But why would she have an address there? I wondered.

  Sterling had already disconnected.

  THE NOISE CAME from a car coming up the remote dirt driveway. Carly then heard a door slam shut.

  One of my guys, Carly thought. All of her helpers had keys to her projects. Never once had her trust been misplaced.

  She attended to her task at hand, placing the leather bound books onto the shelves in the library. Books that would likely never be read, Carly had to assume.

  What she missed was the distinct purring from a luxury car’s performance engine.

  A loud voice demanded, “Who is here?”

  From around the corner Carly smiled. “As if you can’t tell by the van parked outside. Larry? Is that you?”

  “You’re trespassing,” the voice boomed.

  “Cut the bullshit, Larry. Mike?”

  Silence.

  Determined to end the cat and mouse game with her drapery installers, Carly stormed out of the library.

  A smallish man stood firm ground at the door front. Actually, the gun in his hand stood all the ground.

  “Fuck,” Carly whimpered as she caught her trembling fall against the new club chair.

  “Carly Posh?” the man demanded.

  Carly tried to stand. Disoriented. Trying to think while she stared down the barrel of a gun.

  “Posh?”

  “Yes. That’s me. Are you A.J. Ehm? The owner?”

  The man chortled something beneath his breath and replaced the gun into the deep pocket of black pants.

  He’s here early, Carly thought. Is it really him? Oh my god. I’m in his home. It’s not ready. I’ve been sleeping in his bed. I’m going to lose this job and my antique store. She retreated further against the chair.

  “Calm down, Ms. Posh.” The man tilted his head as if amused by the sight of her panic. A long black ponytail fell to his left shoulder.

  “I’m sorry”, Carly muttered. The man seemed familiar, she thought. Probably just his voice. I have spoken to him on the phone.

  “I want to see what you’ve done with the place, but I’ve been driving for six hours. There’s a place in town. You look like you could use a meal as much as me.”

  “But you weren’t due in for a couple more—our contract says—”

  “I didn’t expect to find any work completed and I certainly didn’t expect to find you here. Now come. Let’s have some lunch and get to know one another. “And you can call me Armand.”

  Chapter Seventy

  To Encounter a Stranger

  CARLY SLID INTO THE leather passenger seat of the polished black Jaguar. It was a magnificent machine, in spite of the stench of rancid cigar smoke. They headed toward the small area of commerce near the lake.

  Carly was agreeable to the idea of lunch. It was drawing upon noon and she felt an uneasy gnawing in her stomach. Besides, he seemed like a gentleman. Not exactly gracious, but then again, he was the client.

  She was at an unwelcome juncture in life. Burned out. In her career. Certainly in her private life. Somewhere along their drive in a brief moment of conversation Armand mentioned he wanted to get rid of another home filled with antiques and English attitude, and that home he wanted to turn into a true contemporary. He told Carly he would exchange his valuable antiques for the new stuff, and she could cash in on the intrinsic value he didn’t so much value. Of course, Carly very much liked the idea. The antique store she’d always wanted. But how could he know?

  Armand made a couple of sharp turns. They drove another five minutes in complete silence. It was overwhelmingly awkward for Carly and the longer they drove together in silence, the harder it became for her to initiate conversation.

  Carly watched as Armand’s eyes focused on the road. She decided the silence was fine with Armand. Maybe preferable. She had more time to think.

  No matter how she fought it, she remained passionate about her work. She loved the freedom each canvas of space, room, nook and cranny held for her. She loved it like a potter loved the feel of wet clay on her hands and under her fingernails. Creativity was a fiery experience when she was allowed total freedom. A bachelor usually had few rules, or even guidelines, and this job in Big Bear proved it. Maybe his other house would be an even better job, especially if it was stuffed with unwanted antiques.

  They arrived at the restaurant and Armand pulled the sleek Jaguar under the tacky make-shift porte-cochere lined with even tackier strings of lights. The doorman greeted him by name and Carly followed inside. In spite of clear state laws, the room permeated enough smoke that it distorted the dim lighting. Armand led the way past the bar and to a red leather booth in the back.

  He grabbed a waitress and gave her a quick groping hu
g followed by a juicy kiss. Even before sitting down he ordered a double Jack on the rocks from the girl. Carly asked for an iced tea, but Armand scowled at the notion, snapping at the waitress he had just groped. Ordering her to make it double double Jacks.

  Drinks came within minutes, and soon afterward two plates arrived with pastrami on rye sandwiches. Carly never saw a menu and never asked for the pastrami. She hated pastrami.

  Armand observed her hesitation. “I eat only pastrami and I only pay for pastrami, and the waitress damn well knows it.”

  Carly took a sip of the dark liquid on ice. Her father had taught her how to drink a scotch, but she had never tasted anything quite as awful as this thing called a Jack. There was no way she could drink the whole thing, and never—ever, for lunch.

  Armand devoured half of his sandwich and ordered another Jack for himself. He gulped it down, along with the side plate of fries. He announced it was time to get back to inspect the house. Guzzle and go.

  Although alarmed that the home wasn’t ready for any inspection, this suited Carly. She felt anxious to leave the stench of smoke, hard liquor, and pastrami. But she still had a nagging question burrowing inside her belly. How did he know she was interested in antiques?

  Chapter Seventy-One

  The Inspection

  ARMAND’S BEHAVIOR changed. No surprise, Carly thought, considering all the lunchtime booze he consumed. He was much more talkative, narcissistically jabbering on about his fast life. And he was driving fast, too. Way too fast. Like a Jaguar fast.

  Carly sighed with a quiet relief as they pulled up the familiar long drive of the Big Bear home.

  Armand pulled his Jaguar up to the two huge moss rock pillars that announced the entrance. Carly’s shoulder tension eased when he stopped the car and turned off the ignition key.

  Once inside Armand excused himself, briefcase in tow. “I’m going to change my clothes. Mind pouring me a Jack? Double.” His voice commanded more than asked.