Evil Cries

by Lala Corriere

  “You certainly did,” I said.

  Gage returned with a frothy chocolate milkshake with extra whipped cream on top. And an ink pen.

  Zoey was growing tired, but she insisted she had enough strength to down the shake.

  “What’s up with the pen?” I asked.

  “Before our perfect witness, Ms. Falls, I do present you with an engagement ring.”

  Zoey perked up. “Say what?”

  Gage took my left hand and dotted the pen along and around my ring finger. “Oh, it’s permanent ink,” he said.

  Zoey tried to laugh, but I saw her wince in pain. She smiled.

  I smiled.

  Gage and Harry smiled.

  Chapter 89

  It’s Not a Fresh Dolphin Catch

  CAPTAIN MORGAN HOVERED low, maybe twenty feet above the waters, inducing more conflicting winds that whipped across all three boats.

  Shirley reached for the barf bag.

  “It’s okay,” Morgan said. “Our guys know how to handle turbulence. I guarantee you The Rachel doesn’t.”

  The Cutters fired two shots each, to the starboard side and the port side. From our advantage it looked like someone onboard The Rachel fired some shots back. The Cutter moved in closer. Firing closer.

  “What’s happening now, Captain Morgan?” Taylor asked.

  “Our guys are in communication with them. A male passenger is screaming something about a White Goddess. They’re telling him and whoever else is onboard that it will take a couple bullets below their galley to disable the vessel’s engine, and also most likely sink it.”

  Looking through the binoculars, it was a man that raised the white flag. We watched as six heavily armed men jumped aboard. It was hard for me to see for sure, but it looked like the man was bent over and crying.

  Ten excruciating minutes later, we all heard the message. “Male subject secured. No other passengers aboard, but plenty of blood, and our guess is it isn’t a fresh dolphin catch.”

  Chapter 90

  Goodbye. Hello.

  BEFORE THE SERVICE FOR Victor Romero I had a chance to speak with both Detective Taylor and Shirley.

  “Curious minds want to know. What will happen to Armstrong?”

  “The bastard lawyered up with a ship-to-shore call before we even reached him, but he isn’t going anywhere. For starters, the pools of blood onboard The Rachel are a match to Rachel Lee’s. And back to the beginning of all of this insanity, with his SUV and filed found on his computer, we can positively ID him as the one that hired Manny Perez, that young kid going clean, only to go in and shoot up your place.”

  “Why?”

  “He wanted to be your knight and shining hero, riding in on the white horse to rescue you. Shirley ruined that little dream of his. To answer your question, we have enough evidence to put him away for about five life sentences. He will never step outside the Federal Prison. I’ll stake my badge on that.

  “By the way, it may sound a bit indelicate now, but are you missing any delicates?”

  “What?”

  “You know. Personal items. Lingerie.”

  My head cocked to one side. I felt the flush consume me. I stammered, “Yes.”

  “Can you describe the article for me? Please.”

  “It’s a bustier. White, with black ribbon running through the edges. Oh, please. Why?”

  Detective Taylor pulled a photograph out from his notebook he kept in his pocket. He showed it to me.

  There were three such intimate garments, folded perfectly, like two-dimensional origami, and placed inside what looked to be a red velvet-lined wood box.

  “Come by the station when you can, and identify it for us. My best bet says the other two belong to the first two wives of Marcus Armstrong. We clearly know you were intended to be wife number three.”

  “Where was this?”

  “We turned up a hidden room. Looked like a closet door in his main office. The man kept his trophies there. Three pairs of lingerie items and a helluva lot of items taken from his Mexican prey.”

  I looked again at the photograph. “Folded like a fancy dry-cleaner.”

  “Folded like a true psychopath,” Taylor said.

  THE MEMORIAL SERVICE WAS held at St. Augustine’s Cathedral, Tucson’s largest Catholic church, and one of the oldest. The house of worship filled to capacity an hour before the scheduled service. Expecting the large turnout, outdoor speakers had been placed, so those left at the stairs and grounds would be able to listen and feel included.

  Victor’s wife and four children sat in the first pew, with Gage and me at their side. Steve Taylor wheeled in Zoey, with Shirley following.

  The service presented itself more as a wake. Simple and short, it was what Romero wanted. He preferred that the mourners leave their tears at the door and move on to a reception to celebrate his life with food and jovial conversation. The folding of the American flag and a procession of salutes was to end the sadness, per Romero’s Will.

  Ushers led guests toward the reception room, starting with the Romero family. Shirley, Gage, and Zoey remained behind.

  “What are we waiting for?” Zoey said.

  “There’s someone that’s only just arrived and she wants to see you,” Shirley said.

  “If she couldn’t make it to the service on time then she can wait and talk to me at the reception. Now, let’s go.”

  “I don’t think so, Zoey. You aren’t strong enough to wheel yourself out of here, and I don’t see anyone willing to help,” Shirley said.

  Zoey scowled, looking at the three of us still seated.

  “This isn’t right,” Zoey said, flinching and recoiling in disgust. “I’ve said goodbye to one of my best friends. Now I want to be with his people.”

  “First you’re going to be with your people,” Shirley said.

  “And here she comes,” I pointed.

  Steve Taylor pushed the wheelchair toward us.

  Zoey caught her breath with a gasp.

  “Mama! Mama, is that you?” Zoey cried.

  The old woman answered with a weak but certain voice, “I know who you are, girl. You’re my child. You’re my little Zoey.”

  Chapter 91

  Bravo!

  RE-LOCKING A GLASS cabinet in my gem and mineral room, I heard the distinct click-click-click of women’s heels approaching me.

  I turned to face Shirley, meticulously dressed in a tailored blue suit, her almost gray hair elegantly swirled into a French twist.

  She saw the object in my hand I had pulled from the cabinet and asked, “Did you really find some sultan, sheik, or czar to buy that thing?”

  “That’s the kind of money it would take,” I said, holding the priceless carved black opal in my hands. “You’re just in time for my ceremony. Stand back!”

  Shirley shrugged and moved to my side.

  I said, “Value of one of the world’s largest carved black opals? Priceless. Value of it being shattered into pieces? Priceless.”

  With all of my might, I threw the treasure hard onto the travertine floor. It splintered into broken pieces.

  Shirley showcased her beautiful white teeth with one broad smile. “Bravo!”

  I looked at the mess on the floor and grabbed the broom I had already stashed nearby. With all of my enthusiasm bent on destruction, I failed to notice the exquisite bouquet of Birds of Paradise in one hand, a man’s cowboy hat in the other.

  “What’s up?”

  She tossed the hat onto a nearby counter.

  “The flowers are to celebrate you, although I’ve just witnessed you’re doing quite well on your own. I’ve come to tell you that I’ve sold that dreadful diamond ring. I divided up the proceeds between three worthy agencies. One works solely as legal aid to help with the process of those immigrants truly seeking citizenship. The second focuses on teaching English to our friends from south of the border, and the third offers an outreach program that provides housing and job-placement assistance. All three have scholarship p
rograms for those who truly deserve it.”

  “Bravo to you,” I said. “Well done and thank you.”

  “You’re welcome.

  “About the flowers. They’re special to me. Most people don’t realize that once the first blooms have faded from any stem you can gently open up the green part of it that supports the gorgeous blooms. Inside is another one you can lift out. Sometimes another one, and maybe more. This is a little secret the florists don’t want people to know.”

  I studied her. She broke eye contact with me.

  “Shirley, I appreciate the flowers. I really do. But you could have told me about the donations over the phone. Tell me why you’re really here.”

  Shirley looked down at the pile of shattered opal I’d manage to amass. She cleared her throat and finally looked back up. “I’ve come to say goodbye. My work is finished here. My cases are closed. I’m on my way back to Quantico. I have a flight to catch and I can’t find Taylor. I picked up the hat for him in Nashville. Do you mind giving it to him?”

  The pause was awkward. I didn’t know what to say for the stinging in my heart. I nodded.

  Shirley pecked me on the cheek. Bittersweet tears filled both of our eyes.

  “I’ll be back to visit. I have my home in Sam Hughes under the watch of a caretaker, but I like to come and check on it every six months or so.”

  I lifted my chin and stared her in the eyes. Tears gone.

  “You need to be back sooner than that.”

  “Why? Is anything wrong? Are you feeling okay?” She started fidgeting and pulling at her perfect hair.

  “All is fine. Look at these Birds of Paradise. My take on their inner hidden secrets is that they represent second chances.”

  “I don’t understand,” Shirley said.

  “All will be fine when you come back here to help me plan my wedding, Mom.”

  Shirley pulled both hands to her chest. “Me?”

  “You heard me. A good mother would never abandon her daughter at a time like this. And you’re a good mother.”

  Your sneak peak at

  Kiss and Kill

  By

  Lala Corriere

  Coming Fall, 2013

  Chapter 1

  CALL HIM MY very own personal stalker. We made eye contact. He saw me see him. From behind, Barclay Stone, oblivious to my panic, yelled out my name. And poof. Evil disappeared. Again.

  Stone’s arms thrashed through the sea of women. Excluding weirdos, only a rare man shows up at a romance author’s book signing. Barclay Stone III wasn’t rare. He was raw.

  One could not escape the voice booming from his slight frame. Armani-clothed arms jabbed their way through the line of loyal readers gathered to secure autographed copies of my newest title, ‘Lovers, Liars, and Lairs’.

  “Chyna! I need to talk to you. Just for a sec.”

  I looked up at him, less than thrilled. God forbid anyone might think my jerky-quirky publicist was a love interest. And a second with Stone always escalated into high decibels of verbal disagreement followed by the proverbial offer of a romp in his golden haystack.

  I’m allergic to hay.

  The timid grandma at the front of the line asked me to inscribe the book to ‘Henry’. I wondered if Henry was her lover or the liar.

  “Ladies,” Barclay’s false sophisticated charm slid into overdrive, “I won’t keep her from you long.” He yanked on the red sleeve of my dinner suit.

  “Honestly, Stone. I can’t leave my readers waiting in line.” It was easier for me to address him as ‘Stone’ rather than ‘Barclay’. My preference would have been ‘Bark’.

  He hushed his voice but the message remained terse. “Oh yes you can. I arranged this entire event for you. Without me you’d have three high-school girls asking for your autograph without one of them buying a fucking book.”

  He was right about that. When I first hired Stone I had an image problem. Chilly. I guess I was the stone. People often mistook my shyness for unfriendliness. Not true. A stranger was to me a friend I hadn’t met. But get me in front of them and I’d freeze. I’d show up like a glass jar of cloudy sun tea left out overnight. In Buffalo. In January.

  Barclay Stone brought fame to my table, and then taught me how to be famous. And it hit so fast and so hard I was desperate for his expertise. I’ll give him credit, even though most of the original ideas came from his grandfather who passed down the golden key to the family-owned agency.

  In one swift movement Stone grabbed my hand, released my antique Mont Blanc pen to the table, and dragged me over to the far side of the store.

  I pleaded with Stone, “Okay. Me first. Did you see him?” My eyes raked across the people stationed in line as others completed purchases and wormed their way back out the door. The bookstore scanned the ISBN numbers for inventory, but then used old-fashioned brass registers to ring people up. I liked that. The sound of the ka-ching, ka-ching proved soothing in spite of my edgy nerves.

  “Who?”

  Stone was such a jerk. Why would he care, unless the who was wearing tits. “Never mind. No one. What are you doing here?”

  “For starters, you won’t return my calls. We have a situation, Chyna.”

  What we had was an agreement. Failure to plan ahead on Stone’s part did not constitute an emergency on mine. “You always have a situation. This is really the wrong time.”

  Stone shuffled the toe of an alligator shoe back and forth across the grain of the bookstore’s polished wood floor. Mostly, Stone didn’t like being ignored, like any normal five-year old. “We need you to increase your production. In a major way. I mean, like double it. Both books and tours.”

  “Who the hell are we?” I whispered. Romance authors don’t cuss. At least not too loudly.

  “That would be me and your editor. Your career-doctors. You pay us handsomely to make you look good and afford you that fat house of yours in Santa Barbara, remember?”

  “You drove all the way to downtown L.A. during Friday afternoon rush hour to tell me this?”

  “That, and I could use a date.”

  Translation. He needs some perverted form of sexual release. What an idiot. “I’m ready for some time off, Stone. You know that. And besides, this should have nothing to do with you. You’re my publicist. You run with what I give you.”

  The store owner flashed me a look of frenzy as the line swelled outside the door.

  “I have to go,” I said.

  “Okay. Forget the date. But what you gotta do is humor me. Work with me, Chyna. I’m in charge of the whole Blaze package or nothing. Shit. I’m the one who created Chyna Blaze.”

  Denounced, I shrugged. “I need to talk to my agent.”

  “Your agent is a non-issue on this one, hon.”

  “My agent is the only one looking out after my best interests.” Did Stone actually look hurt? “Hey, I’m sorry. I just need a break.”

  “Oh, yeah. That sabbatical.”

  “You know what I really want. Time to ensure my adoption goes through smoothly.” The social worker at the adoption center wasn’t too impressed with the idea of a single mom doing book-tours like I’d endured the past year. Not to mention my panic attacks. My sightings of stalkers that didn’t appear to be here. Or there. Or anywhere.

  Barclay Stone shook out his choppy crop of blond hair, puffing up his black padded-shoulders as best he could. He suffered a classic little-big-man complex coupled with an age a few years too young to be taken seriously. It infuriated him.

  “We’re talking double production, babe, or you’re ending up a has-been before your shiny red hair touches the down pillow tonight. Then you get to worry about how you’re gonna feed that adopted kid of yours.”

  I’d just prepared a witty return about his inability to fill his grandfather’s shoes when I saw the inky silhouette of the prowling man. An instant flush consumed my body. My palms grew moist with the resuming panic attack.

  “He’s back. The guy that’s been following me. Just ove
r there.”

  Stone reeled around. “I don’t see anyone, Chyna. Just a room full of your fans, yakking rosebuds that are gonna help pay my rent.”

  Chapter 2

  STONE COULDN’T STICK around. He intended to scrounge up some unlucky girl as a quick date and he was no doubt running out of time.

  “I gotta run. I don’t see anyone, Chyna, but if it’ll make you feel better I’ll ask the store owner to call for their security.”

  “Thanks.”

  He pecked my cheek and returned me to my signing table, then left to talk to the owner. Moments later I heard the purr of his Porsche engine turning over. Double parked, no doubt.

  A uniformed guard showed up in minutes, stayed at my side for the last hour of my signing, then escorted me to my car. I offered him a forced smile and an autographed romance novel as I slinked into the hot leather seat of my black Mercedes. I never saw the stalker again. The guard, wondering what kind of book I had just given him, insisted he didn’t catch as much as a glimpse of any man remotely matching the description I detailed.

  Oh god. It was happening again. Had I really seen him in the first place?

  THE NEXT MORNING my phone rang. Through bleary eyes I made out the clock. A quarter before seven. No need to try to read the caller ID. It would be my agent, Andrew Chandonnet.

  Andrew was a perfectionist and I loved him for it. He was the one reliable constant in my life.

  No matter how late he’d entertain his feminine friends, Andrew would be cranked up and rolling early. He worked out every morning from five until six, then showered, and dressed. He’d pour himself a black coffee with a single sugar cube. Ready to seize the day, he’d sit down to skim morning emails and juice-up the phone lines. But only a handful of his clients would tolerate his early calls. My guess, only me on a Saturday.