Richfield & Rivers Mystery Series 2 - Stellium in Scorpio

by Andrews

  Barrett's office was impeccably decorated. She'd had it completely remodeled since we'd visited last, maybe to entertain her guests, or perhaps just to entertain herself. Lots of leather and polished wood and museum quality objet d'art adorned the sweeping lines of her cherry-topped desk, held in suspension by nearly unseen silver legs in the shape of nude women whose arms stretched overhead, in a 1940s Esther Williams dive style, to hold the desk top aloft. A leather minimalist chaise stretched out near the window, beckoning someone to read a manuscript while enjoying the studio grounds. Her shelves were lined with elitist trophies, including some for rowing. She rose to greet us, wearing her signature pressed and pleated, cuffed dress pants, with expensive patent loafers peeking out from under them. Her shirt was the most expensive item, light blue textured cotton with navy accents around the buttonholes and a tiny navy crest. She was tall, flat chested, and smoothly gender-agnostic from her tiny gold earrings to her pinkie ring and gold coin cufflinks.

  "I'm so glad you came," she said, in a double entendre every female writer in Hollywood could attribute to her. "And you too, Callie, of course." She extended a long, graceful arm, indicating we should take a seat together on the leather couch across the polished coffee table from two chairs where she and Jeremy would no doubt be seated. "Are you going to tell me what you're pitching to Jeremy?"

  "No." I smiled.

  "Then I can't jump in and help you if things go south." She gave me an I-warned-you shrug.

  "South is fine." I shrugged back, truly not caring.

  Moments later Jeremy came huffing in the door with a thick, black, battered satchel briefcase that I couldn't imagine was still being manufactured in modern times. His shirt had a lunch stain on it, his glasses needed a good cleaning, and his shoes had never seen polish.

  This guy has to be rich and for real, or no one would give him the time of day. He's a nebbish, as my Jewish friends would say.

  Barrett took his briefcase and stowed it away, remarking on what he might be hiding in it, including his mother, based on its weight. Nothing seemed to faze Jeremy. He was oblivious to insult and seemed only to be made nervous by his own personal time schedule. Barrett began with the usual "You remember Teague Richfield and Callie Rivers," and then we all shook hands, and said our hellos, and created small talk for a few minutes, after which Barrett set the stage with, "Jeremy has funds to deliver six pictures this year, and he's come to me for suggestions about the type of films that would be groundbreaking, but relatively low budget. So, that's why I asked Teague to leave her work in Las Vegas for a day and come over and pitch her absolute favorite theatrical to you." Barrett tossed the line off with the confidence of someone who embraced exaggeration as a staple of good business.

  For a split second, I wished I had given this more thought. He was a big-time Hollywood director. He might be a schmuck, but he was a schmuck with bucks, and this was possibly my moment. I glanced at Callie, who gave me a riveting look that clearly said, "This is a great story, go for it."

  "Okay." I looked at him thinking, If you interrupt me one fucking time, I'm out of here. "This is a love story between two women, one of whom is about to complete her religious training to become a nun, and the other who is married to an abusive husband. In the course of getting counseling from the younger woman, the married woman falls in love with her." I paused, giving Jeremy time to order a scotch, or scratch his crotch, or do something that would irritate me, but he never took his eyes off me. I went on for another fifteen minutes, describing the way the relationship developed, and what motivated them, psychologically and physically, and the moment of crisis in the middle of the film, and the climactic ending, and then I paused.

  No one spoke for a few seconds. Then Jeremy slapped his leg with his hand like some old-timer hearing a funny joke, and yelled, "I love this film! I'm going to make this film. It's risky, it's romantic, it's a little raunchy even for Middle America. It will be talked about. We'll film it in New York. Do you have a treatment? I need a two-, five-, ten-page treatment, whatever tells the story. Get that to Barrett, and she'll get it to me, and we'll take the next step. I love it!" He stood up. "Sorry, I have another pitch meeting across town. We'll be seeing each other. Good. Very good." And he left.

  I was stunned and said nothing. Callie gave me a big smile. Barrett rose and paced proudly like a lion across her den. "So, you think I just fuck with you! Ha! He just bought your story, Teague. Great story. Who's representing you now?"

  "I don't have an agent. I use my attorney."

  "You're so stubborn. Why not an agent?"

  "Agents don't get my work; they like very commercial stuff. Besides, let's enjoy this moment in which we just sold something without an agent."

  "Have your attorney call me. We need to cut the deal," she said.

  "I write the script," I said firmly.

  "Sure." She dismissed my remark, but I knew the battle to come. "Okay, you two go back to Las Vegas. I'll be in touch. This is exciting. Callie thinks so." Barrett beamed at Callie.

  "Very exciting," Callie said with genuine enthusiasm.

  "Try to get your serious friend here to be enthusiastic," Barrett teased.

  "I'll work on it," Callie said, and we left.

  In the car, Callie hugged me, and kissed me, and congratulated me, until it began to sink in that one of my favorite films was finally going to be made.

  "Let's go pick up Elmo and celebrate!" I said.

  ∗ ∗ ∗ ∗

  The road trip back to Las Vegas would have been long and tiresome had it not been for our ongoing speculation about shooting the picture in New York and how much fun we'd have there. We were already talking about how we'd have to teach Elmo what "quiet on the set" meant. I began practicing with him.

  "Elmo! Quiet on the set!" I shouted, and he let out a piercing bark several octaves above his normal bark. We jumped involuntarily and then giggled.

  "Elmo, come on," I continued, "quiet on the set!" The excited tone in my voice told Elmo something big was coming, and he barked louder. "Elmo!" I reached behind me and took his jowls in my hand to get his attention. "Quiet—" I whispered, and he interrupted with a bark. Callie was convulsed in laughter.

  "He's going to need more work, but not in the car, I'm almost deaf," Callie said, and Elmo barked again. She hugged his big thick neck. "Elmo, you're going to be a star!"

  Elmo licked Callie on the cheek in a very ungentlemanly manner.

  "I can't blame you, Elmo. I've wanted to do that all night." I grinned at Callie.

  Callie used an antiseptic wipe to clean her face while I patted Elmo's large head. Success on the horizon made everything okay.

  My cell phone rang. A female voice said, "You return at great peril." The line went dead as Callie stared at me.

  "Blocked call," I said and repeated the warning the woman had just given me. "I swear that voice sounded like Loomis, the front-desk manager. Why would she be warning us not to come back?"

  "How would she have your cell number?" Callie asked. "Wait, she does have your cell! You gave it to her and said don't remove anything or put anything in our room without calling me. She's in a position to know a lot about what goes on there. Maybe she's not trying to scare us, but just trying to save us. Rose is next, Teague. I have to go back there."

  "Well, you're not going alone," I said and took her hand, all conversation about the movie put on hold.

  Across the Nevada state line, just outside the Las Vegas city limits, a police car pulled up behind us. I was doing eighty-five and reflexively slowed to seventy-five. He flipped on his red lights, signaling for us to pull over.

  "Damn!" I said.

  "How fast were you going?" Callie asked.

  “Ten over," I replied. I fumed over how much this was going to cost me as he opened his car door and got out. He wasn't overly tall, chunky, with an antiquated crew cut and dark wraparound sunglasses. He wore his gun holster high on his hip like all the cops I'd ever known and clenched his metal ticket
book, snapping it against the side of his leg in a statement of aggravation, indicating he might have been tailing me longer than he liked before I realized he was behind me and pulled over.

  "Just be careful, Teague. You have a combative square in your chart today."

  I was missile locked on his image in my rearview mirror, something about the way his green pants hung. "He's not a cop," I said and dialed 911, handing Callie my cell phone as the man in uniform swaggered toward us.

  Callie asked for dispatch. "They're taking forever!" Her voice contained a frantic note. The officer was halfway to the car. Someone came on the line and Callie gave them the squad car number. The officer dropped his pen on the ground ten feet from our car and leaned over to pick it up. Callie listened to the operator. The officer's belt buckle and chest blotted out the landscape and filled our car window. She hung up and repeated almost inaudibly, "Not a Nevada police car. They're sending backup."

  He bent down and leaned his head in to see us. "Hello, ladies."

  My mind was racing; he could kill us right now. Callie went silent, clenching the armrest with fingers that went white at the knuckles. He asked for my driver's license. I reached into my pocket, making a mental note that my gun was in the console and not accessible, but I had the short-handled fire ax I always carried next to me between my seat and the door. I could swing the door open as if getting out, and then smash it against him, giving me time to grab the ax.

  "What did I do, Officer?" I asked flatly.

  "Tell you in a minute," he said and went back to his car and picked up the radio, seemingly checking my license. I took my gun out of the console, snapping shut the barrel.

  "There's no safety on these, so don't touch it," I warned, sliding it between my seat and the console and putting the edge of Callie's purse over it.

  He was back at the window and said, "Ten miles over the speed limit. I'm going to write you a warning." He looked into my eyes. "You ever had a warning before?" And before I could answer, he opened his silver book, wrote something, and ripped the page out, giving me a copy. He sauntered back to his vehicle, and I let a whoosh of air escape from my lungs as I watched him depart. I absently handed the warning to Callie.

  "Look at this," Callie whispered.

  The police car pulled out and slowly cruised past us.

  "It's not a ticket. It says, 'Ring the vault,'" Callie said.

  My skin was covered in goose bumps. "I was right; he wasn't a cop. I swear to God he looked like security-asshole-Ted. That jutting chin looked just like Ted."

  "He's setting a trap," Callie said.

  "What do you mean, a trap?"

  "That's all I know."

  "Well you know, nobody knows enough! Everybody knows something they can't explain or share or figure out, and it's just not very damned helpful!" I said, losing my cool.

  "Being psychic isn't like putting a penny in a gumball machine, Teague. At least not for me. I get what I get. I don't know why or how or when. So stop berating me because I don't have the whole story."

  "You're right. I'm sorry. I'm just nervous. Hell, I don't know anything, so you're ahead of me."

  "You knew he wasn't a real cop. How did you know that?" Callie asked.

  "Green pants. Nevada HP wear blue."

  It seemed forever before the red flashing lights lit up the dark night sky and the police backup went by us in the opposite direction. We didn't bother to flag them down. The crisis was long over. We drove slowly back to town, shaken by what had happened and still trying to piece together the puzzle.

  "There's a boy porn ring. That much we know, if we can judge from Joey," I said.

  "But what does that have to do with Rose? And who's going to such trouble to keep us out of it?" Callie remarked. "We think Mo wanted the ring broken up; Karla doesn't seem to think it exists, and someone in the hotel is making sure the ring stays alive."

  "Where does the money from this ring go? I'm sure it's not tunneled into the hotel coffers. No one wants that audit nightmare. We need to find out where the money's flowing," I said. "Ring the vault. Just phone?"

  "It must be the dealer's ring that gets us into the vault. We need to find a way down into the tunnel. I think the answer's in the tunnel. That's the image I get when I meditate," Callie said.

  "Well, walking through the cash room of a big casino without being an employee with security clearance is about like getting into Fort Knox," I reminded her. "While Ted was jotting us a note, it would have been nice if he could have told us how to get to the vault."

  "Someone will tell us. They want us there," Callie said quietly.

  Chapter Sixteen

  I spoke with Loomis at the front desk as we checked in to tell her we'd been warned not to return and looked into her eyes for a sign that she was the one who had called us on the road. Her expression was impassive, and she said she was delighted that we had chosen the Desert Star for our stay. I told her I wanted security to keep an eye on us and our room, and that I'd let my police contacts know we were back in the hotel. She didn't have to know that my police contact was Wade, and he was in Tulsa, not Las Vegas. Saying his name reminded me to call him. I stepped outside to get reception on my cell phone and to avoid the glass panels in the lobby, and I rang Wade's desk. After a few minutes of describing our situation, I could almost hear his big jaw stiffen.

  "Teague, do you really need to check back into that place? Vegas has its share of bad guys."

  "Something's happening here, and I think we have to be here to find out what it is."

  "Want me to come out?"

  "You've got no jurisdiction here," I said.

  "Yeah, but I got a hell of a lot of testosterone!"

  I grinned at his macho offering. He was a true friend. "Tell you what, keep searching the players for me, and I'll take a rain check on the hormones."

  "Don't wait until it's too late; I don't own a black suit. By the way, nobody at the hotel, as far as I can tell, ever worked for the newspaper. Happy?"

  "No. But thanks."

  I returned to the front desk, where Callie was still waiting for our room keys. She'd requested room 1250, the room we had before.

  "You want the same room?" I whispered.

  "So we can try to find the source of the videotaping." She turned her head so that no one could hear her as Harem Girl Harriet typed our information into the computer.

  Suddenly Ms. Loomis looked over Harriet's shoulder, placed her hand lightly over Harriet's briskly typing fingers, and caused her to pause mid-strike. With a flick of her finger, Loomis pointed to something on the screen, then looking up she said, "I think you'll like the view in room 1248, and housekeeping hasn't cleaned room 1250 yet." Loomis's eyes held mine for just a second too long, making me wonder what she was up to.

  She’s moved us to a room that doesn't add up to eight, I thought.

  "Six," Callie said, reading my mind.

  "Thanks for taking a personal interest in our comfort," I said.

  "I see Mr. Elmo is still with you." She smiled and began talking a moderate baby talk to him.

  In another twenty minutes we were in 1248, had tipped Desert Bellman Bob, tossed off our trip-wrinkled clothes, and flopped back onto the bed.

  "Shower," I said, dragging myself away from her. "Got to do it before I pass out. My adrenaline high is starting to ebb." I kissed her quickly and headed for the bathroom, turning on the water and letting it steam up the room, then climbing in and savoring the hot water pulsing across my back and buttocks. Callie's hand reached into the shower and turned the water down to tepid.

  "Hot showers zap your strength," she said. "Cool is better."

  "No!" I complained as she stepped into the shower with me.

  "Hot baths killed off the Roman Empire, cooked their sperm so they couldn't reproduce," she said, placing her hand between my legs.

  "Probably saved a lot of women from having to be pregnant in a very dirty and disgusting time," I said, rubbing the soap into my hands and then
onto her stomach, shoulders, and back, then turning her away from me so I could gently scratch and rub her soapy back. She leaned into me.

  "Now don't you love cool showers?" she said and reached back between my legs.

  "I will take a bath in ice water if you will do exactly what you're doing now." She turned to face me and put her cool, sensual body against mine, the water flowing down around us like a waterfall. She kissed me until I was so hot I could have made the water steam from my own body heat, and then focused on one small area of my anatomy, massaging all the tension out of my entire body through that single spot.

  "Would you like to finish this in bed?"

  "Too late," I moaned, climaxing only minutes into our lovemaking. "I can be harder to get?" I tried to defend myself.

  "Really?" she said and resumed where she left off, getting exactly the same results in only slightly more time. I was a limp rag.

  "Okay," I breathed. "I am so damned easy it's embarrassing."

  Callie grinned, patted my behind in a brisk upbeat way, and hopped out of the shower, her voice trailing. "But you're very sexy, darling."

  I stood under the pulsing showerhead, shaking my head in wonder. This woman really had me, literally and psychologically.

  I dried off and slid into bed next to Callie, anxious to return the favor. She was sitting up, her shirt off, her glasses propped down on her long, exquisitely shaped nose, reading a book on energy transformation. She fended off my advances by capturing my arms and wrapping them around her waist and continuing to read.

  "This is just one more example of your being in control of the relationship instead of its being mutual. This is the second time you've fended me off after making love to me and—"

  "I thought we were just having impermanent sex and not a relationship," she tortured me.

  "Well, yes, that was the deal, but it has to be two-way impermanent sex," I insisted.

  "You keep changing the rules," she said, absently massaging my neck with one hand as she continued to read. I fell asleep before I could complain any further.