by Ronnie Allen
She loved their gluten-free menu--actually, starchy carb-free menu. She was obsessive about her weight, after having lost a hundred pounds in her thirties, right before she began her fashion line. She had turned her life around after her doctor had given her an ultimatum. Lose weight or fall victim to innumerable illnesses her doctor had listed nonchalantly. None of them appealed to her. Not after all the work she had put into going to the top design college in Manhattan, getting her degree, all the while raising her daughters, as a single parent. The only ones who were more proud of her than herself were her girls, whom she worshipped. They had survived despite their childhood full of angst.
The same motivation and mindset she used to get through those four years of college after a messy divorce from an abusive husband, she just transferred to weight loss. Lose it or die, just like you almost did so many times from that bastard. She had finally made it. The fashion line she had created was one she could actually wear. Now a size eight, she’d never allow herself to gain that weight back. She had become the role model to her daughters, that she had hoped to be for so many years. She gave herself an imaginary pat on the back as she did every day when she left work. Yes! She had made it to Broadway, in New York City, the fashion mecca of the world.
The crowds of people rushed in all directions toward their destinations, consuming the streets. It was a tsunami of people flooding Broadway and Fifty-Ninth. She slipped the phone back in her tote. She couldn’t make her call now with all this noise. To top it off, an ambulance siren blared right next to her on the other side of the steel barricade, and none of the cars moved. They couldn’t in the bumper-to-bumper traffic. She glanced at the ambulance.
That poor soul.
She literally didn’t have the room to move closer to the display windows of the high-end boutiques to avoid to traffic and intoxicating fumes from car and truck exhausts.
Then she saw them. The life size gorilla, tigers, leopards, and elephant costumes. They had taken over Broadway, their heights, alone, overwhelming the pedestrians. She laughed out loud, mesmerized by the natural colors in their faux fur and skin. The newspaper article in yesterday’s paper came to reality. The Maxwell Gallery on Seventy-Ninth and Broadway was introducing the work of new painter, Hans Witier, a South African who celebrated endangered species in their natural habitat in his works. They had done so much promotion for the event that these lifelike creatures had consumed social media for the past few months. She stared at the leopard, recognizing the brand of faux fur, from some wisps moving in the wind. Her friend used the same material in her faux fur coats. As they walked by, people petted them, smiled as the creatures waved. Some people stopped in the middle of the street to take pics with them. It was a fun time, the hour before rush hour. It was a fun time for her. For others, annoyance at the intrusions was apparent as they pushed the animations aside.
She rummaged in her tote again and pulled up her smartphone. Her mail lit up from industry colleagues. She did a double take and stopped dead. People bumped into her from all sides at her unexpected halt. Fright steeled her body. She didn’t budge.
No. Can’t be. Steven Larcon has been murdered?
Frantically, she checked her Facebook. The news had spread into every post.
Why in hell didn’t someone in my office bust in to tell me?
Maybe because she threatened to fire them if they disturbed her. When she was on a deadline, like for next week, nothing mattered but that deadline. The articles said there were no suspects yet. She froze.
Should I come forward and give them the list? Oh my God! He was one of her closest friends and supporters when she was up and coming. Steven was the one who convinced her to leave the bastard after she showed up in his office with a black eye and swollen cheek. No amount of makeup hid it. Steven saw through the dark shades she wore. He had said, ‘You’d never cover up those gorgeous blues, so what did he do now?’ Tears flowed. She’d lost her main supporter, confidant, mentor, and friend. Poor Steven. The articles said he had been killed, but not how, or where.
She knew his family wouldn’t be all that broken up. He had confided in her as well. His wife was an ice cube, so he did have to look elsewhere. She closed her eyes in appreciation. Not once had he come onto her. He respected their industry relationship. Her mind wandered to his many flings. Most of them had been with single women. He wasn’t the type to break up a happy marriage. But there were those two. She nodded at the possibility.
Should I?
She’d sleep on it.
Then there was the drug trafficker on Staten Island, to whom he still owed money for his son Adam’s habit. She had discussed him with Steven. Even though he withheld payment, Steven didn’t think these guys would hurt him or Adam, because of their celebrity status. Who knew? Then there was the guy who had pirated Steven’s designs. A Canadian who had hacked his computer. Steven tracked him with his own resources, sent him a rather explicit cease and desist order, and threatened him with a formal law suit for noncompliance. The guy laughed in his face. That had really pissed off Steven, and that was just a couple of days ago.
Then there was the guy that Steven had fired for incompetence. He’d screw up orders time and time again. Her mind went to all of the employees he’d let go. He had discussed all of them with her. It tormented him to end someone’s livelihood. But he had to do what was best for his company.
Then it hit her. Oh my God! The affair with Calinda. Oh, no! That was it.
***
BlackCloud sat at a bar stool at the window in a cafe on Broadway and Sixtieth. She had just dived into her cranberry-vanilla muffin when Meghan stopped dead to look at her smartphone. She couldn’t tell what Meghan was reading, but she bet it had something to do with Steven Larcon. Seeing Meghan just standing there, in a cocoon of airspace, annoyed the heck out of her. People just walked around her as Meghan kept her gaze on her smartphone.
Shit. That woman’s in la-la land.
Cloud double-checked her appearance in the reflection of the cafe window, inhaling her double chocolate latte through a wide straw. Yes, that gooey makeup she put on covered her freckles. How in the hell do women feel good wearing this crap? Fuck it. This better be over real quick.
She put on the thin leather gloves and zipped up the thousand-dollar black-leather jacket that Ram had bought for her for the occasion. The navy, wide-bottomed pants also fit her damned good. She had to admit it. She looked good. She nodded at her reflection in the mirror. Five feet ten and stunning. For the first time in her life, she was pleased with her height. She even looked great in those hazel contact lenses and short blonde doo that Ram insisted she get. Too bad this look would be short-lived.
She put her hand into the vertical zipped compartment in the back of the designer tote. The Ruger was ready to go, silencer and all.
What a shame to waste a six thousand dollar handbag just to hold a weapon. What the fuck? It isn’t my money.
She slipped off the stool and exited the café, just as Meghan began walking, hunched over as if in tears. Cloud glanced at her watch then pulled the wide cuffs of the jacket down to cover her hands.
Damn it! Two-fifty.
Just ten more minutes and it must be done. If she missed the moon in Mars conjunct hour, she’d be dealt with. Harshly.
***
Sam and Mrs. Larcon sat at a conference table in the rear of the precinct. “Mrs. Larcon, I see that you’re nervous and fidgeting.”
She ignored Sam and continued to focus on her cuticles with her hands in her lap.
“AriellaRose is in the ER,” Sam continued. “Doctor Khaos went there to see she gets immediate attention. Do you want to go and we could continue this later?”
Good test, Sam. See what kind of mom she is.
“That’s perfectly all right, dear.” Mrs. Larcon made eye contact with Sam. “My daughter--” She swallowed as if she had a bitter lemon stuck between her teeth. “My daughter has never wanted my company, even when she was ill. And she gets il
l a lot. The poor thing.”
“Tell me about that, Mrs. Larcon.” Sam folded her hands in front of her on the desk and gazed with intent at Mrs. Larcon.
Mommy Dearest relaxed.
“She couldn’t care less about taking care of herself. Just look at her. She eats what she wants, despite doctors telling her she’s allergic. She hasn’t ever stepped foot into a gym. Me. I couldn’t go without my aerobics and Zumba. Steven insisted upon it. If I didn’t look the part of a fashion icon’s wife, he’d tear me apart. And I mean that literally. Mr. Fusspot, I’d call him. God forbid my scarf had one shade in it that conflicted with the rest of my attire. Whenever we were getting dressed for an event, he would come into my dressing room and make me model. Thank God, I still have my figure. I’m fifty but I still look damned good. Would you believe that Steven would even come to the salon with me? He would drive my stylist crazy! He would bring his own swatches that he made up for her to copy. Some for the reds he loved, and some he warned her against even trying. That poor woman. But I have to admit. This shade of dark auburn I love. And my eyes, green? Not mine, dear. Mine are blue-gray, almost like yours. At least, now, I can get rid of these painful lenses.” Sam glared at her. “Yes, Detective. That’s very shallow of me.”
“So you didn’t have too much independence then?”
“None. Nada. Steven was involved in every part of my life. Even my volunteer work.”
“That’s wonderful. What do you do?”
“Larcon Cosmetics. We create a line for women who have gone through cancer, burn traumas from abuse, disabled veterans who are scarred. We give them the makeup and teach them how to use it. When the makeup is applied, all scarring is hidden. Some women use it to even hide something as adorable as freckles. But if a woman is unhappy, we will help them.”
“How long have you been doing this? I haven’t heard of your cosmetics division before.”
“Going on nine years. We keep a low profile. Women are recommended by their physicians and come from the Tri-State area. We don’t even have a website, and never do that social media rant. Women in these situations want privacy, and we respect that. But their end result is life changing. We respect that, too.”
“Very nice, Mrs. Larcon. Do any of your children work with you on this?”
“Valerie, a little. What I mean by a little is less than one hour a month. So a minuscule amount is more like it. Adam and AriellaRose, they do nothing to give back. Adam models for Steven’s dear friend, Jaye Manning.”
“Jaye Manning?” Sam feigned scanning the file. “Um, didn’t you tell Detective Valatutti and Doctor Khaos there was friction between them?”
“My dear. Whenever you have two brilliant men working on the same project, using the same fabrics, there’s bound to be friction. Just a battle of egos. But their end results brought in millions for both sides. Men and women love wearing the same look when going to affairs. Photographs come out stunning. So any arguments were petty and definitely not life altering.”
Okay. Jaye Manning might be lower on the suspect list. “Mrs. Larcon, tell me about AriellaRose. You mentioned her ill health.”
***
BlackCloud followed behind Meghan. She nodded as her cohorts, BlackFlower and BlackMoon came up on either side of her. They had followed Megan’s path for over a month. That woman was predictable. Every Thursday, at one thirty, she left her office on Broadway and fifty-Eighth, had lunch at the Bistro, and by two-thirty she made the three-block walk south to the outdoor parking lot. She wanted to make it home to take her daughters to gymnastics. That irked Ram to no end.
Cloud scrutinized her friends’ attire. Dressed up in pants suits, conforming to the outfits of the pedestrians around them, so they’d fit in, she was pleased at the results. They had a couple of blocks to go, so she let her mind wander to their preparation. Ordinarily, right before her job, she’d pay full attention. This was her responsibility, and she’d relish the credit for this one. Just like Flower had the credit for the Steven kill. This would really put her in Ram’s good graces. Now Cloud had to prove she deserved that, too. Her friends wore the outfits Ram had selected for them. They must have just come from the Brooklyn brownstone. Ram spent a fortune on their clothes and made a closet on the upper level of the house. Ram had tons of clothes, none of which she’d ever wear. Cloud had taken her outfit home yesterday.
She thought about why they couldn’t reach Ram. Good thing they knew where she kept the spare key. Cloud wasn’t worried. Just curious. Ram would disappear for days. Most likely with her boyfriend. She’d come home happy. Probably from fabulous sex.
Cloud was the tallest of the trio, but not the most shapely, so she felt great getting smiles of approval from her friends. Wow. Their outfits were different from the Larcon kill. That guy was so trusting, so receptive, that they were able to get close. He had actually believed them when they approached him for money, looking like homeless women. When they walked up to him--wheeling the grocery wagon they borrowed from the store down the street, with tattered clothes, hair a mess--he’d opened his wallet to take out cash without hesitation.
That dick. Didn’t he know that, in New York City, you can’t trust anyone? Three women approaching him at once?
There wasn’t a suspicious bone in his body. Ram had been right. She had told them all about him. Little did he realize that the wagon held supplies they needed to cover up the murder. His murder.
Forget about him. Gotta do this now.
They continued to follow Meghan across the street into a bubble of yuppies. The Express Bus pulled up, and a torrent of clock punchers ran toward the curb. Cloud pulled her Ruger from the compartment on the bag, her right index finger on the side of the weapon. She edged herself so close to Meghan, no one could get in between them with Flower and Moon on each side. Meghan was still oblivious--lost in sorrow, Cloud guessed. She moved a little to the left of Meghan. Aiming so the .380 would enter her from the rear but go sideways through her torso, Cloud pulled the trigger as fire engine sirens blared. That wasn’t by coincidence. Sirens blared every few minutes. Cloud had waited for one.
With the suppressor and environmental noise, the hollow point bullet would do its job without drawing any undue attention. The gun made it back into her handbag as Meghan fell straight down. The assassins continued walking, as did everyone on the street.
Okay, Meghan, guess your daughters will have to make it to gymnastics on their own.
CHAPTER 11
Frank entered AriellaRose’s hospital room wearing a long white lab coat over a light blue button-down shirt. He’d even put on a tie. In this Manhattan hospital, they had insisted he conform. So he did. With a new patient. Tomorrow he’d be back in his T and skinny jeans. He adjusted the obligatory stethoscope hung around his neck. He hated that symbolism. He wasn’t any better than anyone else.
She appeared to be dozing, lying on her back with her upper body raised to almost a sitting position. After reviewing her prelim blood work, he ordered an IV with fluids combined with an antibiotic and Solu-Medrol. He was glad he was able to secure a private room. With her father’s murder, and the media wanting to swarm her, this was actually the best place she could be. He approached her slowly and put his hand around her wrist, his fingers on the pulse point. Moderate. She turned wearily and looked up at him.
He needed to confront her about the oxycodone use that her mother had reported, and she certainly appeared to be using. Head nodding, dilated pupils, but he’d wait for the right moment. “How are you doing?”
“Okay.”
“Your chest X-ray says otherwise.”
“What?”
“You have pneumonia.”
“No, I don’t.”
An argument with a patient never made it onto his agenda. “AriellaRose, that’s a beautiful name.”
She gave him a doubtful glance. “That’s where it ends.”
“Come on. What do you mean?”
“Don’t bullshit me, Doctor Khaos. Look at
me. I’m five feet, one hundred sixty pounds. I have scars from chickenpox, my--”
He cut her off. “AriellaRose, Come on. Now’s not the time to be hard on yourself. You need to relax. We have to talk about something.”
She rolled her eyes. “What?”
He pulled up an armchair to the right of the bed, sat, and leaned in toward her with his hands folded in his lap. She looked down with half-closed eyes.
“Spoke with your pulmonary doctor,” he said. “The one you listed with the intake nurse. Luckily, he has affiliation with this hospital as well as your local one, so he’ll be seeing you. But he did tell me he hadn’t seen you in over nine months. At first, he told me he wasn’t your physician anymore. Thought you went to someone else.”
“Why would he think that?”
“Because he had only given you prescriptions for three months.” He waited for her response. None. “He found your blood glucose level to be very high. In the diabetic range. Did he ever discuss that with you?” She swallowed and rolled over on her side with her back toward him. He sighed. “AriellaRose, come on, turn around. I’m not going anywhere.”
“I’m tired. Go away.”
“Nope. Where are you getting your medications?” He leaned back in the chair and waited. And waited.
Her breathing relaxed. She had fallen asleep.
How in the hell can someone with strained respiration fall asleep in a millisecond?
There were definitely more pharmaceuticals in her blood stream than even Blue and asthma meds. And it would be imperative to address the diabetes. He’d have to wait at least another hour for her toxicology report.
