He moved his liver-spotted hand toward mine, but not touching.
“Please. Indulge an old man, just for a short while and an even shorter story.”
He seemed harmless enough but his voice haunted my soul. And he was wasting my time.
Recognizing my reluctance he said, “Let me start with an admission. One of several I’ve come to deliver. I am the person that has been warning you to stay away. Go away. And above all, to be careful.”
“You’ve been threatening me?”
“No. Just warning you.”
“You call a chokehold and a rabid wolf-dog at my door a harmless warning?”
“I know nothing of that. Only a couple of notes. And a few phone calls. Oh. And the golf clubs along with its content.”
I felt like an Etch-A-Sketch. I had just been shaken and it left me with nothing. I had no orientation. No map to where I was or where I was going. “You sent me that claim ticket for the golf clubs?”
“I didn’t know your plane was late. I planned, somehow, to meet you and give you those photos. Had a bag of clubs in my car and checked them. Then I went out looking for your friend’s Jaguar. I had just spotted it when those street thugs jumped me. They smacked me around, broke my hip, and stole my wallet.”
“The wallet with the receipt in it,” I said.
I paused. “Did you call me just the other day?”
“Only then did I realize you are so much like my wife. She called herself piss and vinegar and she was proud of it. I realized you have a strong heart and determined mind, not to mention the testicles of both the matador and the bull.
His warbled voice and mastery of the simile caused me to smile and ease up on the tension.
“I had my helpers make certain of your welfare.”
Threats. My safety. Nonsensical.
“The geriatric doctor on your tenth floor. He’s my very best friend.”
“He’s watching me?”
“Yes.”
“And who the hell are you?” I asked.
“Ah. My last confession. I don’t think this will be easy for you, Lauren, but I am your grandfather. My name is Nathaniel Judd.”
Nathan Judd. The bad seed. The Visconti Curse. The very bad seed. The rapist. Senior?
Nathaniel Judd paced his words again, but they came across as bullets from a semi-automatic rifle. I fell lifeless as I listened to his story.
Nathaniel Judd and his red-haired wife bore four children. One died a hero in military battle. One died only a few years ago, a victim of cancer and a third continued to lead a quiet and fruitful life in Chicago. But his first born—
The black sheep that raped my mother. Nathan Judd.
“What I’m trying to tell you is that you come from good stock. An honorable family with honorable lineage. Those seeds of greatness are in you.”
“Who is this man that fathered me? Your black sheep?” I got up to leave. For good.
His tone of voice, mired by the ages, sparked with a fresh nervousness, “I’ve given you enough to digest for one day. We’ll meet again soon. Just know you have more family that loves you and cares about you. You have good blood in those veins of yours.”
Chapter Eighty-Six
Polished & Sharpened
VICTOR ROMERO ALMOST knocked over his prized Mexican beer as he fumbled to answer his new smart phone.
“Damn this thing! Whatever happened to a fucking phone you just pick up and talk into?”
His old friend, Detective Tom Wray, roared from inside his jiggle-belly.
“What do you want? I don’t want to be crying over my spilt beer because of you.”
“Shoot me later,” Wray said. “For now, I have something you’re gonna want to hear.”
“I’m listening. And drinking. And getting ready to light up a fresh Cuban cigar.”
“You retired rat. Good thing you have a friend like me that has a better friend over at VICAP.”
“That special agent?”
“He put a rush on that flash stick you came up with. You know the one your sorry ass department couldn’t read?”
“Yeah. Yeah. What’d you get?”
“That Payton Doukas was smarter than both of us combined. The stick has everything on it. Nude porno shots of little boys and a man I know here as Dr. Harlan Coal. Newspaper clippings, quick claim deeds, false identity documents, plus a dirty Excel spreadsheet file that’s bigger than my first computer.”
“Okay, then. Nail the bastard,” Romero said. “Hey, one more thing. What about that stolen gun we still have over here as evidence? ”
“Keep that thing locked-up tighter than your girlfriend’s liberty hole. I don’t have all the pieces but you and I both know you’re dealing with a murder. Looks like your so-called suicide broad knew too much for her own good.”
DR. COAL SLLIPPED onto the farm largely unnoticed, despite his flowing white robes and dark sunglasses.
He reached his sanctuary. Not as welcoming as his quarters on the compound, of course. But private. Very private.
He practiced. He observed his moves in the one mirror on the farm and listened to his voice. It was not really the words which were memorized, but his inflection. Perfect inflection.
And then, with a couple commands, his stage was prepared, his audience waited, and he walked on stage.
Also, a little bit of chemicals were provided with the beverages. Just a little. Control.
He appeared before his masses—his ants—from behind the wispy white stage curtains.
“We’re gathered here to learn together. We want to learn to laugh and cry. Both, we need. We want to learn tenderness and forgiveness. Both we need.
“I’m not here to convert your thinking. I’m here to give you permission to begin to think. For many of you it will be the first time.”
Sixty, maybe eighty people had gathered across the freshly blanketed lawn. Young people in their twenties or so. Blue-hairs well into their eighties. Children. Plenty of children.
“The world is not what it seems. Our lives certainly aren’t about time-clocks and paychecks. You are here because you understand this. You understand the true origins of our world and life itself.”
Coal positioned himself onto the great chair. He held his arms wide open with the fabric of the sleeves now billowing with the breezes.
“Let’s talk about anger. Who are you angry with?” Coals words quickened as he felt he owned his audience in the palm of his hand.
“Are you angry with your spouse? Your mother or father? Your child? Are you angry with yourself? Are you angry with me that I have sent our less learned members into detention?
“I am here today to free our young men into your welcome arms. I am here to trust that you will show them the way. The only way. Take care of the young boys I entrust back into your care. We will need their youth and spirit as the future unfolds before us.”
Coal tossed the keys to the cells into the audience with a final caveat.
“Do not be fooled by their rhetoric. Do not listen to their delusional stories. You are only here to heal their souls.
“We shall all prosper or die in purity and goodness.”
The chanting began. Drugged, somewhat.
His people would weep and then they would sleep. No harm done. They would awaken by dawn and remember the keys to the cells and release all the little bastard ants. And their guru would be a couple thousand miles away. A new name he disfavored for its lack of strength. William Clark seemed so egalitarian to him. But the name and the identity of a dead man cost him only a couple nickels. And maybe his new boring name would do him well, hidden in the moneyed communities where no one would think to look.
Yes. William Clark of Wichita, Kansas.
He could give a rat’s ass about the farm land and The Centre. He had more than enough hard cash in his bank account. Or William Clark’s account, that is.
MOON BLADE KNEW there would be no turning back. But maybe—just maybe—there could be an end to the m
adness.
Removing the macarta knife from its treasured hidden resting place from inside the left leg of the suit of armor, Moon Blade stationed it on the kitchen counter.
Polished, sharpened and ready to slice and dice. Just the way it should be. One more time.
Chapter Eighty-Seven
Mrs. Teller Tells
My tenant on the tenth floor wanted to meet with me. My geriatric doctor tenant and apparently the friend to my biological grandfather.
In less than fifteen minutes he sat before me. No introductions were necessary, nor were further clarifications needed as to who he was and why he stubbornly held onto his lease rights in my building.
“I know you have reason not to like me much, Ms. Visconti, but you can’t argue that I’ve been a good tenant.”
I could argue with him. I could use his floor for expansion. And good or bad, he was a fucking spy.
The man twisted and turned in his chair, like a dreidel on a highly polished wood floor and spinning with the same game of chance.
“The thing is I’ve stumbled upon some information I think you might want to know.”
Although tolerance was no virtue of mine I told him I would listen.
“I have a good practice. Lots of patients. Seniors, you know.”
He started popping his knuckles. He did a better job of popping than Orville Redenbacher. I had no idea why he would be nervous.
“Yes, you are a busy doctor.” And I’m well aware of all your senile patients crawling into my elevators with their bulky walkers and canes and using my paid security guards as personal ambulatory attendants, I thought.
“I have a patient. Mrs. Teller. She’s a good woman. She’s been my patient for years and sometimes—most times—I seem to always feel better after my visit with her more than I think I helped her.”
My new heels were killing me. Should have cut off my little toes but rather I would take them back to the retailer. I wanted to confirm an important luncheon date. I wanted to be away from this new friend of my new family.
“Ms. Visconti, are you listening to me?”
“Go on.”
“Well the thing is Mrs. Teller is just a part-time resident. She spends most of her time on her family ranch in Kansas.”
Good god, I thought. Who is screening my appointments?
“Mrs. Teller is still active in her community. She struggles with her speech but she’s as sound of mind as they come. And she has good friends. Reliable connections. People in the know about sales of properties and such.
“I know that you know that I’m a friend of your grandfather, like it or not. I just wanted to make sure you were okay in any way I could. Staying out of your way, too. But this lady, this patient, she brought his name up!”
“Who?”
“That Coal. Dr. Harlan Coal.”
I rolled my taught fingers through my hair and away from my face. I wanted to see the old man. I wished I had the habit of popping knuckles.
“Seems he’s managed to get himself on the title to a large ranch just outside of Wichita. A very large ranch. Over a thousand acres, Mrs. Teller says. And the scary thing, well—this is conjecture—but one young man owned the whole shebang. No one seems to know what happened to him, not that I’m any alarmist. Just seems odd, though. I’m out of the loop these days with all these new therapies, I suppose, but I know this name. I guess you know that. Judd. Then Coal. I know he’s doing very well in town. Seemed odd enough that this man would pull up stakes in L.A. and want to go to Kansas, but then he went and quickly quit claimed the deed over to some other fellow. Some man named Clark.
I had that same Etch-A-Sketch feeling. Shaken down to nothing but a blank screen.
The geriatric doctor reached for his wallet and pulled out his business card. He told me to call him if I ever needed anything, and he said it with genuine concern, his eyes penetrating mine as if roots had intertwined the two of us.
The door closed and I sat back down at my desk. Palming his card, something called to me. Plain black raised lettering. Nothing fancy on a doctor’s card, of course. Name. Address. Phone number. And his specialty. Geriatric Psychiatrist.
I kicked off my too-tight heels and ran to the old-fashioned box that housed my collection of business cards. And there it was. Dr. Coal’s raised black ink.
The Centre
Dr. Harlan Coal
Therapist
Therapist
The
The rapist
I left the information on Detective Wray’s voicemail.
Chapter Eighty-Eight
Thin to Win
WHILE ONLY A simple dinner invitation, Gabri’s voice sounded both sad and tired. And urgent for company. I felt obliged.
I crossed the moat that declared the entrance into Gabriella Criscione’s fortress. After both ringing the bell and knocking, I turned the unlocked doorknob.
She’s immersed in her culinary skills, I thought.
I hadn’t seen her for some time. Rumor had it she was having problems with her legs. A complication from diabetes. Fact had it that she didn’t attend the memorial services of both Oliver Falls and Carly Posh. Both, two huge clients of hers. She was conspicuous by her absence.
“Gabri? I’m following the aroma of your cooking. I hope it’s okay,” I said.
Her gourmet kitchen boasted the finest of every appointment, and yet every time I saw it I failed to see anything, so overcome with the tantalizing aromas of a caramelized onions, sautéed garlic, and always—ripe tomatoes. This occasion was no different.
“It smells divine, my friend,” I said as I walked in.
“Costolette di Vitello and Fava al Guanciale. Veal cutlets and fava beans with bacon.”
And then I finally saw her, less about forty pounds.
“My god, Gabri. You look terrific!”
“I’ve always been strong as a rabid pit bull on steroids, but only my upper body. Diabetes came knocking at my door so I took some drastic measures. The kind you get on a doctor’s table, but still, it’s working. You gotta be thin to win in this world.”
She stirred the inside of a giant stock pot and offered me a glass of Chianti.
Only when I sat down did I notice the large painting hanging above the archway. The hideous painting of her fat former self, unveiled at that fateful dinner party.
She caught my stare. My uneasiness. “Darling, don’t worry. I’ve come to find it quite humorous. We all need to quit taking ourselves so seriously.”
“Indeed,” I managed with surprise.
“Actually, I’ve learned to like that painting. It encouraged me to lose the weight more than the diabetes scared me into it. And I think he’s a rather talented artist, don’t you?”
She said he. “Do you still think Brock Townsend painted that?”
“Oh, heaven’s no. I was too quick to judge. I just think the painter meant no real harm and ended up helping me in the long run.”
Gabri changed the conversation. She wanted to know all about the final goodbyes to both Oliver Falls and Carly. She regretted personal matters prevented her attendance.
“So much death,” she surmised. “It’s like it’s the devil himself.”
My reactions slowed to the beat of a dried up turnip. Nothing. I had nothing. My emotions grew slight.
“You still worry you’ve done something wrong, don’t you, dear? “
I didn’t remember ever telling Gabri about any of my personal affairs, although there had been plenty of press on the CoverBoy articles and the subsequent deaths.
BROCK TURNED UP AT Falls & Falls, and he wasn’t buying jewelry.
“Where the hell is Lauren? She’s not answering her cell, her home phone, and she’s not at work.”
“I haven’t heard from her. Did you check in with Sukie or Geoff? Sometimes she takes off with them.”
“Geoff was with her last night. She asked him for more of that voodoo potion crap. Damned if I know what that means but he hasn’t seen her si
nce. Sukie is on assignment in Toledo of all places. Nothing makes sense anymore.”
Brock called Detective Wray.
“Technically she’s not missing. My hands are tied,” Wray said.
“Sonuva bitch,” Brock screamed. “Give me something!”
Wray let out an audible sigh. “Is there any chance she might be with Gabriella Criscione? Maybe shopping for a new home, income property—something?”
“What’s that supposed to mean? What aren’t you telling me?”
“Calm down. I’m just curious,” Wray said.
Chapter Eighty-Nine
Buon Appetito
GABRI PULLED A HUNK of veal from her simmering pot. She carved it masterfully, reminding me she was the daughter of a gifted surgeon. She layered our two plates with the stock vegetables and beef over a bed of mashed potatoes, then poured a special sauce into a small carafe.
“Buon appetito,” she said.
Taking my seat at her kitchen table I said, “Gabri, I’m not sure why I am receiving the honors. You’re a very busy woman and frankly I guess I need to make it clear that I’m not a prospect for you. Not in the near future.”
“You think this is about money?”
Her raised voice alarmed me. “I didn’t mean to imply that. I’m truly honored.”
“I don’t like to eat alone and these days I’m not throwing many lavish dinner parties,” she huffed as she passed me the warm sauce.
We sat in a hush for a few moments with the fabulous sounds of an Italian aria playing in the background.
“This is delicious. No restaurant on this earth has a dish like this,” I said, spooning up the rich broth I had poured over the main dish.
While not a very good cook I couldn’t resist asking, “What have you done to make this sauce so divine?”
“It’s brain matter,” she answered.
“You mean brain food. Mega nutrients,” I said.
“Both.”
We laughed. I guess we laughed. We talked about the real estate market. We talked about the magazine. Such small talk. I kept thinking she was going to hit me up for some donation or something.
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