“This gallery is going to be huge for us. Don’t ask me why, but I can feel it in my bones.”Gage said on his was to fetch the new puppy stuff.
From the reporter’s desk:
Get Over it Magazine Draft
Untitled By L.C.
Eleven Years Ago
Zoey Lane turned eighteen. Her uncle, a cop up in Phoenix, and always mega-annoyed that she’d been working underage for peanuts, called Zoey and told her to go to an address in the foothills of Tucson. His birthday present. Ask for a man named Victor Romero.
When she got there the police were removing their yellow crime-scene tape. Before she could even find the name of the person she was meeting, a man called out to her. “Zoey Lane?”
Vic Romero introduced himself and told Zoey she had been hired to do the clean-up. On a trial basis as a favor to her uncle. A homicide had been committed. It would be pretty ugly in there.
It was. Luckily the corpse was long gone. They said the female homeowner had been raped and stabbed over thirty times. The husband was already in custody. The evidence had been photographed and collected. Now Zoey would make the house like new so the estate lawyer and hungry heirs could put the property on the market.
Blood-splattered walls and floors, from the top of the winding spiral staircase, and all the way down to where the body must have been left, had been there for some time. A gigantic pool of dried blood remained at the bottom of the staircase. That’s when Zoey learned that human bodies usually urinate and defecate at the time of death.
She had no idea.
The pee would be easier to clean up than the blood, Zoey knew. She didn’t much like the idea of cleaning up either.
The Romero guy got her bill. Told her to double it before he submitted it. Her eyes grew wide like the cantaloupes her father used to grow. She didn’t tell Romero that she already had.
Besides, she was going to have to invest a bunch of money into protective gear, enzyme solvents, and heavy duty trash bags if she was going to be in the blood-and-guts cleaning business.
Chapter 10
The Price of Love
MARCUS GLARED AT the redheaded woman he had so diligently tracked down, then shoved her into the chair. “You dated him. You wanted him. You wanted to marry him when he was a deadbeat artist. Nothing’s changed, except now, rather than the drip wannabe he was back then, he’s showing in world-class galleries and has pieces in museums. Long story short—he’s going to be making serious money and that tells me you want him even more.”
Rachel Lee accepted the neat scotch he offered and pulled on it hard. “What’s my take?”
“For one, an even playing field. I have unwelcome company in someone you want named Gage Beauchamp and that someone is in my way. You step back into his life, play good, and not only can you have a famous artist as your future, but you’ll also get a cool million from me when she’s mine. No catch. I only want the castoff woman.”
“She’s worth that much to you?”
“And more.”
“I don’t know. It’s not the same game. If you did your homework you’d realize he dumped me.”
“Maybe it is the same game. Maybe it’s not and so we change it. I’ve got twenty-thousand bucks here that says we can play the change game. You get yourself a decent wardrobe. Buy yourself a phony degree in something that will ring his chimes. Show him you’ve made something of yourself.”
“And just how am I supposed to pull this off?”
“He’s booked into the St. George in Chicago in two weeks. I’ll arrange for you to be there. I’ll tell you exactly what to do and you’ll do it. You mess up and you’re on your own.”
“How can I fuck it up?”
“Hey! Watch your mouth. Lose the potty talk now. And you won’t mess it up if you do as I say. Like making yourself into something he wants, and fast. And it’s you and me, Rachel. If anyone else learns about this little venture I’ll know who to hunt down.”
“The fucking money is the only thing gonna do any talking around here,” she said.
Dr. Marcus Armstrong counted out twenty–thousand dollars and placed them in Rachel Lee’s hands.
She stuffed the bills into her deep and hungry discount hobo bag.
Chapter 11
Just Girl Talk
SHIRLEY THOUGHT ABOUT it all the way to Sterling’s store. Something had her craw up and she couldn’t pinpoint what it was. Something that made her craw abnormally crazy.
With a forced confidence, she slinked through the front doors of Falls & Falls.
“Things okay in here?” she asked me.
“Of course. The message must have hit the streets that we kill our robbers.”
“Is your boy toy in town?”
“He’s actually a man, and no. Why?”
“I just wanted to meet him, but, hey. Why don’t you come over to my house tonight after work? I live in Sam Hughes. Not too far away. I’m making jambalaya and I always make too much. Zoey will be there and you’re going to love getting to know The Z.”
“Really?”
“Heck, yes! Can you come?”
I hesitated, but had nothing better to do than host a pity party. “Okay, then, but I’ll be delayed so don’t hold dinner. I have to stay late at the store. It may be 8:30 before I can get there.”
“Knowing Zoey, we’ll be in the kitchen with her ordering me around, which means dinner will be late. Just come on inside.”
SAM HUGHES MEANS immaculate homes and gardens near the famous and gracious hospitality of the Arizona Inn. It means the older and stately, with the Old Pueblo charm that is Tucson.
Shirley’s home was no exception. I thought about calling as I pulled up to the drive, because staff had covered for me on closing the store and I was early. Spotting Zoey’s all-too-familiar van, I did as instructed and let myself in, led by the tantalizing aroma of Cajun food.
Shirley and Zoey sat on the living room floor, both Indian-style, with their laptops in front of them and stacks of papers at their side. They were oblivious to me.
“What’s all this?” I asked.
Zoey choked back whatever was in her mouth and Shirley abruptly stood, hovering over the table.
The two of them? Unsettled. Maybe unwelcome. Me? Undeterred. I looked and I saw it all. Computer screens and newspaper clippings.
“Jesus! This is the guy you—”
“Shot dead,” Shirley filled in my absence of words.
“But why?”
Shirley shook her head. After a long pause she sputtered out, “Because I shot him dead! Honey, I want to know what and why.”
“The man is a thug and he tried to rob me. You told me that. We know that,” I said.
“The man has a name. I’ve already told you he’s the third man I’ve killed and it doesn’t go down well when I try to sleep at night. I need to know the why of it all.
“Now come in. Let’s get you a drink and let me properly introduce you to The Z.”
Zoey sprung up like she had on George Jetson’s jetpack, in spite of the few extra pounds she carried. A tight fitting jumpsuit did little to conceal her ample assets, but all I saw were her soulful eyes and brilliant white teeth as she gave me a bosom-brimming hug.
“Sorry about that steep bill,” Zoey said. “Ain’t easy cleaning white grout, and the floorboards had to be pulled.”
“You redid my floorboards? I didn’t notice.”
“Two boards on the north wall. And you’re not supposed to notice if I did my job right, but it was on your bill. Oh, and I do my own dowsing, free of charge, or course.”
“Dowsing?”
“You bet. Clean out any negative energy. I use a—”
“Zoey! Slow down,” Shirley yelled. “Let the poor girl come sit down and have a glass of wine.”
After unnecessary introductions, Zoey began drilling me. Odd. It was more of a soliloquy.
“You are gorgeous. You must hail from good stock. Who taught you to dress so well?
&nb
sp; “You carry yourself well, too. Must be genetic.
“I hear you have a great guy in your life, but, uh, Shirley’s not met him?”
I finally interjected, “She hasn’t. We’ve just barely met, Zoey. No one down here really knows him yet because no one knows me.”
“Okay. Just tell us one thing about him and I’ll shut my trap.”
“I’ll tell you he’s the kind of guy my mother would have loved.”
“Would have?” Zoey asked.
“My mother died in childbirth. I never knew her, but we talk, if you will. I feel her around me,” I said.
“And your father?”
“Never mind. We have plenty of time for that,” Shirley said.
“No, I don’t mind. My father is gone, too. Only a few years, but he comes to me in my dreams. He’s always telling me something, but I’ve rarely been able to figure out what.”
“Enough,” Shirley said. “This isn’t an inquisition.”
I shrugged my shoulders, nodded my head, shook my head, and pretty much felt like I’d been attacked by a soft down pillow. A few glasses of wine and a jumbo bowl of jambalaya later, Zoey opened her heart and troubled background. A bleak childhood. Loss. Lots of loss. An American dream not quite what it seemed. A crazy career scooping up blood and guts and then the money came. A dedication to help people in their own bleaker-than-bleak times. All that seemed to add up to happiness with a veil of sadness.
That was Zoey. A hard nutshell veiled in soft layers.
“How old are you, Zoey?” I asked.
“Thirty-one. Why?”
I caught my breath. “Just, so young to be a business owner. And where’s the guys in your life?”
“You’re young, too.”
A half-answer. “I didn’t build my business from nothing. I inherited it.”
“Ah, yes. Sterling. Born with a sterling spoon in her mouth. It doesn’t matter. You got yourself an education and your dad is proud you can take care of the family business.”
I don’t know why, but I immediately felt drawn Zoey Lane. She had panache, which seemed unlikely, given her chosen career. She wore her ample body with pride, along with her African American heritage. There was something else I saw in her. A sadness overcome. Maybe something else.
Zoey’s cell had rung earlier and she refused to take the call. “No interruptions,” she said. Now a second phone in her pocket rang. She bolted up and ran out into the backyard.
I looked at the first phone abandoned on the coffee table, then back toward Shirley. “What gives? She seems awfully anxious.”
“The Z won’t mix business and pleasure and pleasure unless it’s business. She’s a bit convoluted in her ways.”
“Meaning?”
“That phone is her main one,” she said, pointing to the table. “You, me, and most everyone she knows calls that number, but the second phone is for her clients with particularly gruesome jobs. They’re the victim’s families that have engaged her services, but Zoey can’t let it go at that. Just cleaning up and leaving. She wants to talk to them any time they want to talk to her. She takes calls 24-7 on that phone. I’ve known her to get calls six, even twelve months after the fact. And she always takes them.”
Later, the three of us cleaned up the dishes and I asked Shirley to show me what they had on the would-be jewelry thief.
“You don’t need to know anything,” she said.
“Yes, I do. I think I have that right. Besides, I’m as good as the two of you on computers. I’ll find it all out anyway.”
Shirley turned to Zoey, who managed a soft, “I don’t see the harm.”
Shirley quickly started, “The rap sheet is ample, but the tox report was clean. Yet he was flinging his gun around like he was hyped up on something. He had plenty of time to aim to kill or aim to maim. He did neither.
“And that bugs me. I don’t get it,” Shirley said. “The kid spent years doing small-time crime. Public drunkenness. Fights. Drug possession and a couple burglaries. He did his time, but it looks like his worse offense was check fraud and he got off. Sealed records,” Shirley said.
“So. Someone thought they could clean him up. Happens all the time, doesn’t it?” I asked.
“So it would appear. Just like that. And it gets more bizarre. He’s had no arrest since the dropped check fraud charges, but, if you look over here—,” Shirley pulled up her dirt bag of snitch reports, “The street says he’s hiring himself out these days.”
“Makes sense”, Zoey said. “How the heck did he plan to get away with any loot from Sterling’s store? A rent car? Another driver?”
“You mean a rental car?” I asked.
“No criminal is going to want a rental car because of the paper trail. Rent cars are loaners from the streets. They’re registered, licensed, and insured. Clean enough for criminal activity. Drug runs, heists—you name it.”
“Who did the hiring?” I asked.
“Maybe the big guys. The local Italian mob. The Russian mafia. A good chance it’s the Mexican cartels,” Zoey said.
“So our guy didn’t discriminate,” Shirley said. “But the question eating at me is why did he fire all those crazy warning shots? No hit and he knew how to fire and he had the gun aimed directly at me. Nothing. And now he’s dead.”
Chapter 12
A Sociopath and a Psychopath Walked into a Bar
DURING HIS FIRST FULL weekend on the boat, a cluster fuck of illegal immigrants came by. Traffickers or maybe a gang? Sacrum wasn’t’ sure. He expected company, but not so many at one time. Five of them made their way onto his boat and down to the bowels. They ended up so freaking scared they could have shit on the stars trying to get out of there, but they weren’t telling anyone.
EARLY ON, A pre-med Marcus Armstrong found himself wondering if he was a sociopath or a psychopath. His self-study nearly prevented his admission to med school. That should have been his first clue, Marcus thought while taking inventory of his past.
He knew debates among learned scholars still abound, confounded by the many similarities in the two very different diagnoses.
Both have disrespect for others. A lack of remorse, guilt, and even shame.
Both will exhibit violent outbreaks of rage. And both are excellent liars with charming personalities.
But the psychopath adds other dimensions to the astute shrink, Marcus mused. This charming personality often relies on award-winning performances, as this may be a forced and superficial charm. He plays the game well.
Sociopaths often live on the fringe of society. They may be uneducated, moving from place to place. Nervous. Agitated. Illogical.
Psychopaths are mostly highly educated with steady careers and family. Calm sailing. Logical.
Most psychiatric theories support that sociopaths go off half-cocked and without regard to planning, or even organizing a crime. And mostly, they may never harm a loved one.
Psychopaths meticulously plan everything, including all of their back-up plans. And their loved ones? Anyone is fair game.
Marcus sighed. Relief. He understood. He knew what he was and he felt gladness. He held a fever in his blood. Period.
Today, and for the next few days, he stayed the course as a pillar of the community. Aware of his qualities, Marcus Armstrong found comfort in his hypothesis: Psychopaths are far from nuts. They exhibit the extreme intellect necessary for a rich and full existence.
As Dr. Armstrong, he wore his hair a little too long and with perpetual beard stubble. Not too much, but enough he caught a lot of flak about it at the hospital and even in his private practice, and not enough that he had some worries when slipping into his other life.
His every movement—planned and perfect. While some may have found that encumbering, Armstrong reflected, he only found exhilarating freedom in both worlds.
His home, up Reddington Pass, afforded seventy acres and with that came uncompromised privacy.
With the almost white travertine floors, the white leather sof
as and chairs seemed to float in air, and mingle with his vast collections of crystal and ivory and porcelain.
He was told he had purchased the world’s largest crystal skull. Personal research suggested another one existed. Some day he would seek it out and buy it. Two crystal clusters, each over eight-feet high, marked the entrance to his bedroom, while a seven-foot octahedron marked the entrance to his dining room.
The ivory was legal, arriving here in the states long before the 1989 trade bans. Armstrong was proud of that fact. His collection included 350 pieces, from 2-inch carved sculptures to what he considered—knew to be—the longest tusks in the world. Legal. Sane.
Not so legal was what he considered to be the world’s largest privately owned living crystal. He orchestrated the acquisition from the Chihuahuan Desert. Over fourteen-feet long and weighing sixteen tons. And it was his. He kept it alive in his chamber. Humidity at ninety percent. Temperature holding at 118 degrees. He lost much of the mass as it failed and broke away during transport, yes, but it was his. And it was safe and forever. He would covet it forever.
He was ready for his final acquisition. The milky white porcelain figurine. The White Goddess. A live-action toy. At last. It had been too long. God, how he loved porcelain skin.
It added to his pleasure that, at least according to Swaziland witchcraft, the Albino’s blood brought assured good luck, and more. So much more. He would, someday, taste her blood.
Chapter 13
New Friends and Old
ZOEY, ALREADY SEATED outside, looked over the waterfall and a lush golf course.
“Where’s Shirley?” Zoey asked.
“I didn’t think to invite her,” I said. “Why would I?”
“Because she introduced us. Because I know she wants to meet your guy. I thought he would be here.”
“He’s on his way. And Shirley wanted me to meet you. I have. I like you and I want to get to know you. And she’s a bit out there crazy, anyway.”
Evil Cries Page 4
