Luca Mystery Series Box Set

by Dan Petrosini

  He placed a large triangular vase overflowing with massive stems of birds of paradise and left. Admiring how the orange flowers contrasted with the black vase, an idea hit me and I went to the art house.

  Flicking on the lights, the building came alive, highlighting its special lighting. I loved this place. How many nights did I sleep in here before the right mix of meds contained my anxiety? Even after things settled down, I’d considered moving in here, but it wasn’t practical. With only a half bath and no kitchen, it would needlessly complicate life, something I needed less than most people.

  There were plenty of spots to hide the slim package. It could be taped under one of the viewing benches, secured behind a painting, or even dropped inside a sculpture. Besides the odd appraiser or insurance representative, no one came in here but me. It was perfect.

  Circling the room, I thought the best place would be to tape it to the underside of one of the velour benches, whose pale green fabric had a couple of inches of overhang. The cleaning girls would never see it. I settled on a bench that faced a Richard Prince piece called Even Lower Manhattan. Dark in both its color red and mood, Prince had inserted an unreadable piece of newsprint by the edge of the painting. The mystery of the piece drew me in every time. I wanted to reach into the painting, pull the newspaper out, and read what it was about.

  The air conditioning kicked on, breaking my concentration. I’d have to wait until the staff left to hide it.

  ***

  Where’s the tape? I needed the heavy kind. Couldn’t trust scotch tape with this, and I couldn’t ask the maintenance guys. After checking all the kitchen drawers, I headed to my desk. Sitting on top of the desk was a box from Microsoft. My new laptop had finally arrived. Tugging at the tape, I opened the box but took a layer of cardboard with it. I froze. No way I wanted that to happen with the mushroom packaging; I could poison myself. If I put it in a plastic bag, the plastic would rip when I took it down, but the original packing would be intact.

  Leaving the laptop box, I rummaged through the bottom drawer for tape and stopped when I found an old photo of Marilyn and me. It was taken the same year we had married, at an event commemorating the one-year anniversary of Senator White’s election.

  The Ritz Grand Ballroom was packed. I said to Marilyn, “I should’ve raised the minimum donation to get in tonight.”

  She smiled. “You did fine, darling. There’s always a way to raise more when you need it.”

  A photographer knelt before us as a reporter from the Wall Street Journal approached. I wrapped my arm around Marilyn and smiled for the picture. The reporter said, “Good evening, Mrs. Boggs. Mind if I borrow your husband for a quick interview?”

  “Not at all. I’ll see you later, Gideon.” She pecked my cheek and made a beeline to Pam Biondi, Florida’s Attorney General.

  “This is quite an affair you’ve put together, Mr. Brighthouse.”

  “People enjoy supporting the senator.”

  “What can you tell us about the senator’s plans?”

  “Senator White is working on a bipartisan plan with Senator Blalock to resolve the immigration stalemate.”

  “That’s a difficult subject to tackle, but I’m interested in what his plans are for higher office.”

  The rumors that had begun to circulate made me tingle, but I had to be careful. “The senator is focused on the second year of his six-year term.”

  “That’s noble, but there’s a rising chorus who say the senator should run for president.”

  “While that’s a flattering proposal, the senator is committed to serving the good people of Florida and intends to serve his full term.”

  “What if the movement grows? Would the senator consider making a run for the White House?”

  Marilyn was dancing with the aging patriarch of the Collier family and smiled as she sashayed by.

  “This all makes for interesting speculation, but I’d like to get back to my wife before old boy Collier steals her.”

  I headed to Marilyn and chatted with Collier before whispering in her ear, “The word’s out. All the Journal wanted to talk about was White making a bid for the White House.”

  She squeezed me. “Oh, Gideon, can you imagine? That would be wonderful.”

  “I know, it’d be amazing, and we’d help make sure it happened.”

  I tossed the picture back in the drawer, wondering how we got to the point where she was having affairs and I wanted her dead.

  ***

  We reached a tipping point three years ago in March. Senator White was holding a rally at the Naples Grand Resort that I’d arranged, and Marilyn hadn’t shown up for it. I called her several times, but she never picked up. Our campaign had been playing nonstop defense since a pay-for-play scandal had broken. White had sponsored some agriculture legislation that would give disproportionate benefits to his largest donor. The blowback was ferocious. White couldn’t get his talking points across, forcing us to double our efforts to push his agenda.

  The ballroom had zero energy that night. It was the fifth lackluster event in a long week. I was tired and in no mood to stick around for a post-event evaluation. As soon as White went up to his room, I said my goodbyes, telling everyone Marilyn wasn’t feeling good and drove home.

  I can still see her on the bedroom chaise reading. Entering the room, I asked, “Where were you? I needed you to be there. You’re making me look bad.”

  She shook her head. “You don’t get it, do you?”

  “Get what, Marilyn?”

  She silently picked her book up and began reading.

  “Stop playing games, will you?”

  Never taking her eyes from the book, she said, “You’re wasting your time with White. He’s finished.”

  I hated her dismissiveness. “What are you talking about? We’re just getting the campaign started.”

  “You’re talking like a fool, Gideon. People are running from him.”

  “That’s not true.”

  Placing the book in her lap, she said, “Really? How busy was your event?”

  She had a point. The ballroom was just about a third filled. “It was okay, they’ll come around.”

  She laughed, “Wait till you see tomorrow’s editorial.”

  What did she know? How could she not inform me? “What are you talking about?”

  “Let’s just say it’s safe to say he doesn’t have many friends left.”

  “Well, if they leave him at the first sign of trouble, they weren’t friends to begin with. Where’s their loyalty?”

  “There is where you’re wrong again. You’ve got to run at the first hint of rot.”

  “That’s not how I operate.”

  “That’s the difference between you and me, Gideon. The Boggs never associate themselves with failure.”

  It was a verbal stomach punch, a dreadful revelation that exemplified the difference in our DNA. I hoped it wasn’t permanent, but when I woke up on the couch the next morning, the reality that things had changed haunted me.

  I tried to bridge the gap, but the relationship continued to erode, albeit at a slower pace. Then my heart attack hit and what remained of the relationship quickly disintegrated into full-blown dysfunction.

  Chapter 12

  Raul Sanchez

  Taking the stairs to Alejandro’s apartment, my legs felt heavy. Why was I so tired? The heat here was no worse than Mexico. My job on Keewaydin was physical but nothing crazy. Everybody says it’s the stress from mama’s cancer. Maybe. But what about the stress of toeing the line with so many chances for easy money?

  Alejandro’s was on the third floor. He was another fool, cleaning offices at night and cutting lawns in the day. A cat ran by. I tried to kick it, then knocked on the door.

  “Hey Raul.”

  “What the doctor say?”

  Alejandro frowned. “She’s weaker. Doctor says your mama needs more dialysis.”

  “When she getting it?”

  He shook his head. “They said Med
icare won’t pay for more.”

  “What?”

  “Said she gets what everyone else gets.”

  “But he said she needs more, no?”

  “Yeah.”

  “So, what’s next?”

  Alejandro shrugged. “He said you could pay, but it’s like six grand a month.”

  ***

  “Raul, grab me another flat.”

  I pulled the last flat of begonias off the trailer and took them to Pedro, asking, “How many people they having?”

  “I dunno, man.”

  I said, “I can’t believe we’re ripping these pansies out. Who’s coming, the fucking president?”

  “Charlie said somethin’ about a charity thing.”

  “Charity? With all the shit they throw out around here?”

  “I know what you mean, man. But they got money.”

  “It ain’t right, especially when they throw out food.”

  Pedro planted another begonia and said, “I asked the jefe one day if we could have the leftovers, but he said no.”

  “Me too, he told me to mind my business.” I mopped my brow. “Pena’s got no balls, man.”

  “Last place I was at, they always gave food to us when they had parties.”

  “It’s a fucking waste.”

  “It’s the way it is, man.”

  “They’re sticking it in our faces.”

  “I know. Hey, amigo, go get more flowers.”

  Pushing the trailer, I slow-walked it to the dock. If it weren’t for Mama, I would’ve ditched everything. Grabbed me what I could. She needed me, she’s sick. And now she needed big money for dialysis. Man, the way I knew to get serious money was by doing what put me behind bars.

  If I got nailed again, I knew what would happen. Me, I could handle being in the joint, but it’d kill mama. Locked up in Mexico, she came every week, but each time she looked a shitload older. If I went back in, it’d kill her before the kidney cancer did. There had to be a way to get the cash to help her.

  I loaded the trailer, thinking it wasn’t easy staying straight. A big-assed yacht, music blaring, sped by. Man, some people had it easy, just like the Boggs woman. Born on third base and the bitch thinks she hit a triple. She’s got more money than God. You know, she could fix this shit fast. I’m gonna lean on her. How can she say no?

  ***

  The deck had more chairs than a hotel. I looked for places to touch up, keeping my eye on the sliders. She usually left the house after lunch. Moving a club chair, I saw her in the window by the sink. Grabbing the paint can, I went to the window.

  Boggs saw me. She smiled, and I put up a finger, beckoning her. Her smile disappeared and she stepped back. I held up my paint brush and she relaxed, opening the slider. A blast of cold air hit me.

  “How can I help you?”

  “I’m sorry, ma’am. But I─I need to ask you something.”

  She leaned away from the door but said nothing.

  “Uhm, you see it’s about my mama.”

  “You’re Raul, correct?”

  I nodded. “I work with Senor Pena.”

  She smiled. “Tell me. What’s happening with your mother?”

  “You see, she’s got cancer, in the kidney.”

  Boggs frowned. “I’m so sorry.”

  “I know, and it’s bad, real bad.”

  “It must be difficult for you.”

  “It is.”

  “How can I help? Would you like Mr. Pena to give you time to be with your mother?”

  “She needs dialysis. More dialysis.”

  “Raul, I’m sure if that is what the doctor prescribes, it’s nothing to be fearful of.”

  “But she can’t have it.”

  She almost reached for my hand. “I know it’s frightening to see your mother go through this, but dialysis, as serious as it is, is what she needs and you shouldn’t be afraid of it.”

  “We want it, but we don’t have the money.”

  A diamond earring appeared as Boggs tilted her head. “Doesn’t she have insurance?”

  “She got Medicare, but they only give her once a week, and doctor says mama needs more.”

  “I understand. There’s an appeal process when people are denied treatment.”

  “She’ll be dead by then.”

  She pursed her lips. “I see. Maybe there’s something we can do for your mother. Let me talk to the office and see what can be arranged.”

  ***

  The boat dropped me and the rest of the maintenance crew back on the mainland. I got in my car, slamming the door. A couple of days had passed, and that bitch never answered me. Who the hell do these people think they are?

  I threw gravel leaving the parking lot and headed east. Needing a brew, I stopped in a Seven Eleven. I bought a six-pack, guzzling half a can before getting in the car. Driving around, I tried to think things out. But except for one time, I’d kept things square, and where’d it get me?

  By the time I got to our shithole, there were five crushed cans on the floor. Ripping the ring off the last beer, I couldn't shake that Boggs was playing with me.

  She even had the gall to give me the shit she felt bad mama was sick. I almost believed her, but it was just a game. She shouldn't fool with me. The bitch didn't know who she was fucking with. I drained the last can, watching Alejandro drag trash cans to the curb. The sucker was taking the whole building out. I got out of the car.

  “Yo, Alejandro. You wanna take mine out?”

  “Hey, Raul. We need to talk.”

  “What of?”

  “Your mama.”

  “What about her?”

  “It’s not good. The doctor’s worried.”

  “About what?”

  “Something about her blood. Said she really needs more of the dialysis.”

  “Those fucks should just give it to her then.”

  He shrugged. “I know.”

  “This shit’s all fucked up, man.”

  “We gotta do somethin’”

  “I’m gonna handle it.”

  “Whaddya mean?”

  “Later, Alejandro.”

  Walking to our place, I told myself to be smart about things. There was easy money to be made, big money. It was all sitting right there, asking to be taken, but I couldn’t get greedy. I’d go at it slowly, take a couple of pieces and see how it goes.

  I hesitated before pulling the screen door open, trying to hear if mama was up. This was one night I hoped she was sleeping. The TV was on, but mama was sleeping in her recliner. I lowered the volume and she stirred.

  “Raul?”

  “Go back to sleep, Mama.”

  She tried to get up. “I make you . . . something.”

  I put my hand on her bony shoulder, “Stay, Mama; rest.”

  She fell back into the chair. “I’m so tired.”

  “It’s okay, Mama. It’s gonna be okay.”

  “The doctors say . . . I need more . . .”

  “I know, Mama. I’m gonna get it for you. Don’t worry.”

  Pecking her cheek, I fixed her blanket and said good night.

  I went to my tiny room. I grabbed a backpack and stuffed a black T-shirt and black chinos in it. Standing on the bed, I reached to the back of the closet shelf and pulled down a duffel bag. Making sure the blinds were closed, I dumped it out on my bed.

  The small pile glinted in the lamplight. I grabbed my favorite, a jet-black Colt .45 and pointed it at the cracked mirror. It was too much firepower for such a soft job, but you had to be ready. Being with the Latin Kings, I knew you can never have too much muscle.

  I slipped the gun and a blade in the backpack and put the other weapons back in the closet.

  Chapter 13

  Gideon Brighthouse

  I generally steered clear of the main house on Wednesdays. It was the day Marilyn would bring her playmate, currently smooth-talking John Barnet, to the island. From the outset, I didn’t like Barnet, and I initially tried to keep Marilyn from doing business with
him. He was a real showman, and I guess that’s why she ended up being drawn to him. Who puts a liquor store in Waterside Shops? No way he can make any money, in my opinion.

  Wine was a tough business, I was always told. People who knew, said beer was where the money came in to pay the bills, and trust me, no one is going to Waterside to pick up a six-pack, even if it’s craft beer. Barnet spent a fortune outfitting the space his store occupied. Where’d he get that money from? When Marilyn started doing business with him, I had the family office make discreet inquiries into his past. There wasn’t much. He was from Los Angeles, had a couple of liquor stores where the clerks were behind plexiglass, and the biggest sellers were fifths of Jim Beam.

  Barnet always wore a pin, even when not wearing a jacket, to signify he was a sommelier. It shouted insecurity and made me suspicious. The office verified he’d attended L.A.’s National Wine School, achieving the lowest certification possible. There were four levels of certification, and you needed a level three certification to get a pin. I mentioned it to Marilyn, but she accused me of being jealous. She was partially right; I was envious of his wine knowledge. I wanted to see him challenged on it, but since almost everyone knew less than him, it never happened.

  Knowing wine and making money from it, at least in the Los Angeles neighborhoods where he did business, were two different things. It was a puzzle I’d wasted energy on because I saw how he captivated my wife, and I believed he sucked it out of from another rich woman.

  I was feeling good about my plan. A side benefit would be I’d never see Barnet again. If those two knew what was coming, they wouldn’t be cavorting around. They knew I was on the island, but they pretended they were alone. I was tired of being made a fool. They’d change it up if they knew their affair was going to come to a screeching halt this weekend.

  On Saturdays there was only one housekeeper, and she always did the pool house around the time Marilyn would finish her yoga class. I’d put the mushroom into her juicer when she went to get the coconut milk, and that would be it.

  A rush surged through my body and I smiled. I hadn’t felt this good since before the heart attack. Believing I should have done her in a year ago, I got up and headed to the main house. For some reason I wanted to see them together; maybe it was my conscience demanding reinforcement.