Gillette Lemaitre rolled the weathered baseball, given to her earlier by Camille, from one hand to the other on her dining-room table. A photograph of Planning Commission Chair John Spalding sat in a silver tray along with a document containing his original signature. Next to the tray was the unlit black candle.
Gillette came from a long line of practitioners. Her great-great-great-grandmother on her mother’s side, Juliette Dupree, was said to have been the colored mistress of Jean-Luc Fantoché, the governor of Louisiana in 1852, and credited with getting him elected for two terms despite his blatant incompetence. Juliette Dupree made available to the governor the substantial benefits of her powers and allowed him into her bed only because he was sympathetic to the plight of Negros.
The candle flickering on the table in front of Gillette contained remnants of wax from the same candle that burned in Juliette’s parlor in the French Quarter so many years ago. The black wax had been lit and protected by generations of Dupree women. Cruel plantation owners met sudden and inexplicable deaths, infertile woman gave birth, wandering husbands returned to their wives, and countless fortunes built on the backs and graves of slaves were lost overnight . . . All under the illuminating light of this black candle.
The only light in the room came from the dancing flame. Louie paced anxiously from side to side on the wooden perch in his cage. The occasional car driving past the house could be heard through the wood-shuttered windows.
Gillette closed her eyes and gently pushed the baseball across the table toward the candle. It rolled over the picture of John Spalding and the document containing his signature. When it tapped the candle, the flame suddenly flared, sending sparks and a white plume of smoke into the air. Louie released a loud “Squawk!” and doubled his pace at the sight of fiery display. “Squawk, squawk!” he continued until the fire slowly subsided and resumed its gentle dance atop the black candle.
Gillette opened her eyes and gently tapped the table three times with her open palms. The billowy fabric of her floral caftan dangled around her wrists as she continued patting in intervals of three, her eyes fixed on the flame and the fire consumed her senses. All she could see, hear, taste, smell, or feel was the yellow and blue blaze twinkling in the reflection in her eyes.
She lifted the baseball to the flame and waited patiently for the fire to consume the famous signature and yellowing leather. Soon, the black wool yarn beneath the leather began to crackle and pop in her hand. She placed the burning orb onto the silver tray and watched as it grew to a ball of fire.
She then reached for the photograph. John Spalding’s ruddy cheeks and questioning eyes seemed to anticipate what was to come as she moved his face closer to the flame. Gillette lifted the bottom corner of the picture to the tip of the flame. John’s face was quickly engulfed in the fire. Gillette placed it back onto the tray and removed the document containing his signature. She did the same with the paper. John’s signature was soon lying on the tray burning with the picture and baseball.
The flickering flames caused Louie’s shadow to dance on the wall. The black candle went dark when the baseball, paper, and photograph were fully consumed. The room was now pitch-black except for the last of the orange embers on the silver tray. The only sounds in the room were Gillette’s labored breathing and Louie’s claws scratching against the wood perch as he paced from side to side. Her job was done. John Spalding’s fate was now sealed by the flame.
“It is, and so I let it be,” were her final words.
The morning headline in the Los Angeles Times rushed across the city like a flood.
PLANNING COMMISSION CHAIR DIES IN FIERY AUTO CRASH
John Spalding, forty-three, died at the scene of a crash on Wilshire Boulevard near Beverly Hills, the Los Angeles Coroner’s Office reported. Spalding was a school board member for more than a decade at the Los Angeles Unified School District and was then appointed to the City Planning Commission. Friends and colleagues said, “He was a pillar of this community. His whole family is so involved in Los Angeles politics, and he was a really good friend.”
“We’re all so shocked by this very tragic death,” said Mayor Camille Hardaway. “John was an extremely friendly, hardworking, good family man,” she said. “He was always cheerful, upbeat and down-to-earth. I once saw John walk clear across the street to pick up trash someone left in the road because that was the kind of man he was. He always tried to help make Los Angeles the best city it could be.” The mayor called Spalding’s death a terrible tragedy for everyone in the community.
Spalding has been in the news lately because of his very public opposition to the mayor’s plans for the new Dober Stadium. He was recently quoted as saying, “I am completely opposed to this waste of taxpayer money. It is nothing more than the mayor laying the foundation for her run for governor at the expense of taxpayers.” Spalding went on to say, “Camille Hardaway will only build this travesty over my dead body.”
Spalding is survived by his twenty-three-year-old daughter and his wife, Mayra. Spalding’s roots run deep in Los Angeles. His father, Tony, was the city clerk and his aunt, Maria Ribeiro, was the city treasurer. LAPD are investigating the crash along with the California Highway Patrol. The cause of the crash has not been determined.
“Oh . . . my . . . God . . . This is perfect!” Sheridan shouted bursting into the bedroom. “Camille, look at this!”
Sheridan ran across the room with his white bathrobe trailing behind like a cape, and silk boxers barely containing his flapping member. It was just before 6:00 a.m. when the Sunday paper was delivered on their doorstep with a thud. Camille propped herself onto her elbows in bed and shook the remains of sleep from her head.
“You are not going to fucking believe this,” Sheridan said, tossing the front page in her lap. “John Spalding got himself killed,” he said excitedly.
Camille felt a quiver travel through her body.
“He crashed on Wilshire and went off the overpass onto the freeway. Died instantly. This is fucking amazing.”
Camille reached for her reading glasses from the nightstand and read silently. As the print leapt from the front page, she could see the flickering black candle in her mind.
An autopsy is scheduled, authorities confirmed. Police said Spalding was driving west on Wilshire Boulevard when, for unknown reasons, his car spun out of control on the overpass above the 405 Freeway, crashed through the cement rail, and plummeted onto the roadway below. Fortunately, the freeway was empty at the early-morning hour and no other persons were injured in the crash.
This was the third time Camille had relied on Gillette to “handle” a vexing political problem. Her chief rival, who threatened to unseat her in her second mayoral race, dropped dead from a heart attack only days after it was announced he was gaining on her in the polls. The police officer who tried to blackmail her with information that would have surely cost her the mayor’s office, and possibly land her in federal prison, was found dead of “natural causes” a week after he boldly asked for half-a-million dollars in hush money. Each “death” . . . courtesy of Gillette and her black candle.
“I guess he was right,” Sheridan said standing over Camille as she read silently.
“Right about what?” she asked, never looking up from the paper.
“He said you would only be able to build the stadium over his dead body.”
“Don’t be crude,” she snapped.
“I’m not being crude. It’s the truth. He was your only real opposition. Now that he’s dead, there is nothing standing between you and the stadium. It’s fucking amazing,” Sheridan said, laughing out loud.
Camille threw the paper to the floor, bolted out of the bed, and angrily cinched her silk robe around her waist. “This isn’t funny, Sheridan. It’s horrible.”
“Since when do you care how you get what you want? It usually doesn’t matter as long as you get your way.”
Sheridan was right. There was no expense too high if Camille had a goal in her sights, an
d usually someone other than herself paid the price. John Spalding’s death was his own fault, she silently reasoned. If he hadn’t been such an asshole, I wouldn’t have had to involve Gillette. He left me no option.
Dober Stadium was to be the crown jewel of her second term in office. It would be the accomplishment showcased while making the case for being the first female governor of the state. She could not—and had not—let John Spalding rob her of that dream.
“Why are you being so sensitive? The dick got what he deserved. He should have known better then to mess with Camille Hardaway.”
“This isn’t about me or the stadium. This is about the tragic death of a colleague.”
“Colleague, my ass. He never passed up the chance to fuck you over. And you’re wrong; it is about you. The universe knows you want the stadium, and it also knew John Spalding was the only person who could stop it. The stars always line themselves up perfectly whenever you need them to, and this is no exception. Face it, Camille, this is about you, for you, and because of you.”
Camille looked at Sheridan coldly. “Don’t ever say that again. I had nothing to do with his death.”
“I’m not saying you did it,” Sheridan said matching her icy stare. “I’m only saying it happened because of you. Let’s face it. It’s not the first time, is it?”
“What do you mean?” she snapped.
“Come on, Camille,” Sheridan said as if he knew more than he should. “The police officer who tried to blackmail you, Robert White. He had a shot at beating you if he hadn’t died, and you know it. The universe has always looked out for you, and this is no exception.”
“You are being ridiculous,” she replied defensively. “I don’t want to talk about this anymore.”
“You’re acting as if you pushed his car onto the freeway. Don’t worry, darling. I’ll be your alibi,” he said with a smile and reached for her arm. “I’ll swear on a stack of Bibles I was fucking you when it happened.”
Camille jerked away. “This isn’t funny, Sheridan. A man is dead, and you’re joking about it.”
Sheridan could see he hit a nerve. He moved in closer. “Honey, I’m sorry,” he said reaching for her again. He took her shoulders and pulled her to his chest. “You know I didn’t mean it. I know you had nothing to do with his death. I was just kidding. It’s tragic, and I shouldn’t have made light of it. I’m sorry. That was very insensitive of me.”
Camille recalled the first meeting with Gillette Lemaitre. Her campaign manager suggested she visit this “unusual” woman who helped a couple of his clients in the past. After a month of encouraging Camille to visit Gillette, Camille finally said yes. Not because she believed in her powers, but rather to stop him from asking.
She remembered sitting at Gillette’s dining-room table and scoffing at the black candle. It’s nonsense, but I’ll try anything to get an edge over Robert White, she desperately thought at the time.
The association, however, came with a price. Camille casually chalked the first death up as a “coincidence.” She dismissed the second death as an “unfortunate accident.” But now, with John Spalding, she found it hard to call it anything other than murder.
This time, it felt like she had pushed the car over the edge of the road herself, even though she was miles away and asleep in her bed at the time the car burst into flames on the deserted asphalt highway, she could almost feel the heat of the blaze while clinging to Sheridan’s comforting chest. She imagined the sound of John Spalding’s cries of desperation when the car crashed through the railing and almost felt the agonizing pain as the flames consumed his body.
Her shoulders quivered slightly in Sheridan’s arms.
“Honey, you’re shaking,” Sheridan said, pulling her closer. “I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to upset you.”
It was murder, and she could no longer deny the blood of these three men was on her hands. Whether she believed in Gillette’s powers was irrelevant now. Three lives had been extinguished because of Gillette Lemaitre’s black candle.
The black candle, she thought, still cradled in Sheridan’s arms.
“I’m fine,” she said pulling away. “It’s just a little upsetting.”
“Of course it is, and I was being an asshole.”
“No, it’s me. I’m being overly sensitive,” she said walking toward the bedroom door.
“Where are you going?” he asked curiously.
“I have to make a call in the study.”
“Call from here.”
“My notes are downstairs.”
Camille left the room and moved hastily down the stairs, looking over her shoulder to ensure Sheridan had not followed as she entered her study.
The light of the candle flashed before her eyes. Her emotions seemed amplified in the confines of the quiet paneled room. The earthy smell of fear mingled with the intoxicating scent of power in her head; power over life and destiny, power to design her future any way she chose. The world seemed limitless. Anything she desired could become reality under the glow of the mysterious candle.
Chapter 4
“There’s no doubt she’s going to make it happen now that John Spalding is dead.” Sheridan spoke on the telephone in his office on the fifteenth floor in the heart of the Financial District. The plaque on the door read “KEYCORP DEVELOPMENT.”
KeyCorp Development owned five shopping malls in Los Angeles County, six 1,000-plus unit apartment complexes, 180,000 square feet of commercial space downtown, and would soon add to its portfolio, 110 acres of prime beachfront property in Playa del Rey.
Sheridan quietly set up the company during Camille’s first year in office. He was the sole owner under the alias Michael Kenigrant. His 200 employees had never met the mysterious Mr. Kenigrant. The company was now worth $460 million-plus, most of which was made on deals involving city hall insider information. Camille was unaware of the corporation’s existence or the vast fortune her husband had amassed during her tenure as mayor. She had no idea he used confidential information innocently passed over candlelit dinners or in the back of her limousine and occasionally just as his erect member was preparing to enter her trembling flesh.
“Tell me what you know, Brandon,” Sheridan said into the telephone.
Brandon Birdsong was the only person who knew the identity of Michael Kenigrant. Brandon was Sheridan’s seven-figure-a-year front man. He spoke on behalf of the reclusive “Mr. Kenigrant,” oversaw the day-to-day operations of KeyCorp Development, and protected, with his life, the identity of the corporation’s owner.
“Gloria Vandercliff,” Brandon said in his usual succinct and efficient tone. “She’s an eccentric heiress who lives in Bel Air. Never married and no children. Hasn’t been off her estate in over twenty years. Inherited the Playa del Rey property, along with an estate estimated to be in the billions, from her father, a Mr. Cecil Vandercliff. The senior Vandercliff made his money in real estate and iron.” Brandon took a breath and continued reciting the exhaustively researched dossier on the eccentric Miss Vandercliff. “She is a huge baseball fan and particularly of the Los Angeles Dobermans. Camille’s people have already been in touch with her, and she’s willing to sell the property to the city for the astoundingly low amount of 120 mill—”
“I know that already,” Sheridan said, interrupting Brandon. “I need to meet her before any deals are made with the city. Set it up,” he snapped.
“It won’t be easy. She never leaves the house and rarely has anyone in. She’s pretty batty from what I hear.”
“I don’t give a fuck how crazy she is. I need you to get me a meeting with her.”
“Sheridan,” Brandon said cautiously, “are you sure you want to touch this one? The construction of Dober Stadium is going to be watched by everyone. It’s going to be one of the largest sports arenas in the world and one of the most expensive development projects the city has ever taken on. The media is going to scrutinize every aspect of this deal. If it ever comes out you owned the property and sold it to
your wife, you also run the risk of it coming out you are Kenigrant and have made millions using information you’ve gathered from Camille. Not only could you lose everything, but you’d also probably face jail time for corruption. In addition, no one will believe your wife didn’t know you owned the land. Even if she’s able to talk her way out of it, her career would be left in tatters, and, of course, she could never run for governor.”
“Don’t you think I’ve already considered all that,” Sheridan said angrily. “I stand to make at least 100 million on this deal, and there’s no way I’m going to pass it up. She’s in too deep now with the stadium plans. There’s no way the city can back out now. She’ll have no choice but to pay KeyCorp Development whatever price we name. Believe me, Camille’s a tough girl. She can take care of herself.”
“I don’t doubt that,” Brandon said with a hint of sarcasm. “But remember, this all hinges on whether you’re able to convince Vandercliff to sell to you instead of the city.”
“Don’t worry,” Sheridan said confidently. “I know these dizzy old money types. Stroke their egos, maybe do a little Stepin Fetchit. Let them think they’re superior to you. By then, they’re so drunk with power they’ll do anything you want them to.”
There was silence on the line. Sheridan sensed the revulsion from Brandon oozing through the receiver but quickly dismissed it as the reaction of a weak inferior whose sole job was to do his bidding and implement his commands.
“What name shall I make the appointment in?” Brandon asked, afraid of what the answer would be.
There was a brief silence before Sheridan responded. “Sheridan Hardaway,” he finally answered.
Brandon released an audible gasp before he spoke. “Why take the risk now?” was his immediate reply.
“Because the payoff is worth the risk. I don’t trust anyone—not even you—to handle this.”
“Sheridan, you’ve made millions on this setup with Camille. I don’t understand why you’re willing to risk it all for this one deal.”
The Committee Page 6
