Domino

by Chris Barnhart

  "I've made my mistakes. I can't afford to make any more. I'm not Andy. I'm not that smart. Not exactly college material. I made a good living and Morgan has invested my money in some good businesses. This is my security, Hugo. My protection from ever having to scrap and crawl up from the streets."

  "You were on the streets for exactly two weeks when your mother died and you decided to run away... Little miss rich bitch on the streets for two weeks."

  "My mom and I were dirt poor, Hugo. We lived in east Hollywood, in a one bedroom apartment filled with Armenian immigrants that were little better off than we were. My mom worked nights in a photo lab and my brother sent us a little money from time to time when he had it. When mama died, Andy wanted me to go to the Middle East with him. Do you know that women, even American women over there can’t drive a car, go out even to the store without a male escort? What a life would that be? That’s why I ran away I was not exactly a rich bitch."

  "That was still a long time ago. You'll never be back on the streets, Clary. That's behind you. You've made it. You can't go back. You've got to forget the.....alley. Okay?"

  As soon as he said it he regretted it. He could see the fear in her eyes, the sudden tenseness in her shoulders. He wanted to hold her like he had done all those years ago. He put his hand over hers and smiled at her in the mirror.

  "I'm sorry, Clary. I didn't mean to bring that up."

  "I still have the nightmare sometimes. I can still see their faces, feel their hands..."

  He squeezed her hand, wanting to do more but not knowing exactly what.

  "I saved you,” his smile brightened. "I was a damned hero. All I needed was a cape and a sword."

  "I think you were wearing tights," Clarissa returned the smiled. Hugo's bright humor had broken the black spell.

  "And how did you repay me? You lied to me."

  "If I told you I was fourteen would you have given me the job?"

  "No, but then you did make me a famous hairdresser. Did you see me on that morning show last week? I was marvelous."

  "I was a good receptionist, too."

  Hugo sighed wistfully. "Until a New York modeling agency took you away from me. I was heartbroken."

  "You were not."

  "I was, Clary. Honestly."

  "Can you do my hair tonight like you did for the Harper's cover we shot in Paris? Remember?"

  "That? You want that? Really, Clary, that was two years ago and way out of style. Alright, whatever you want. You know, I still worry about you. Morgan Wolfe scares the shit out of me. Clary, if you need to talk, you call me, okay? Anytime. If you need me, you call. Promise?"

  "I will. I promise."

  "This shampoo is drying out your hair. I'll bring you something new next week. Come down to La Jolla, why don't you? You'll love it. I did the new place all in silver, black and pink."

  Clarissa smiled up at Hugo's image in the mirror. "What would I do without you to worry over me, hon?"

  Hugo leaned forward and kissed her forehead. When he looked at her, there was a grin on his face. "You'd look like hell."

  Hugo planted a kiss on her forehead. On the surface, everything looked perfect for her, but he couldn't shake the apprehension he felt. Morgan Wolfe did scare him and the thought of Clarissa married to that dark eyed man made Hugo's stomach knot.

  Clarissa checked her make-up one last time in the mirror. Hugo had given her hair a condition treatment, a cut, and added a bouncy curl to her straight, fine hair, managing to be done at the stroke of seven. He would not be caught dead in the Wolfe Den after Morgan's explicit orders.

  She adjusted the thin shoulder strap of the short black cocktail dress, adding a pair of long diamond earrings and diamond studded watch. She admired the diamond ring on her left hand for a long moment, and felt again the rush of joy and sense of accomplishment flood through her. It was close. So close. Then everything she had dreamed about would be hers.

  The black sateen oblong box rested under one single white rose on her dressing table. She smiled to herself as she picked up the flower and smelled its wonderful fragrance. Morgan was a hopeless romantic. It was these little details of their love that she cherished. She opened the black box and gasped at the exquisite beauty of the thin strand of square cut diamonds that lay on a pillow of red velvet. Clarissa carefully picked up the necklace and held it to her throat, admiring it before she fastened the clasp. Love was wonderful.

  She stopped downstairs at the mirror on the wall near the front door to check her makeup for the last time.

  "Morgan, I'm leaving," she called out. His cold hands on her almost bare shoulders made her jump. He moved with unnerving silence, with less noise than a breeze through the trees.

  "You are truly lovely, darling," Morgan whispered in her ear. He turned her around slowly, drinking in her beauty.

  "I'm taking the Mercedes," she informed him, forcing mock anger into her voice for having to go to the party alone.

  "Do you like the necklace?" Morgan asked, ignoring her act.

  "It doesn't really go with this dress, but it will do for tonight."

  "I'll have Virginia take it back first thing in the morning since it does not please you," he toyed with her.

  "No need," Clarissa countered, enjoying the game. "I'll just buy a little something to go with it."

  "I knew you'd work it out."

  "I'm an enterprising woman."

  "And stunningly beautiful."

  Morgan pulled Clarissa gently to him. She twisted coyly away from his grasp and turned once again to the mirror to fluff her hair.

  "I wish you were coming with me, Morgan. You won't change your mind?"

  "I can't. Don't be too late tonight."

  Clarissa threw a flirtatious smile at Morgan's stern, handsome image behind her in the small mirror. "I just may not come home at all."

  The side of his mouth curled into an almost imperceptible sneer and his dark eyes flickered with menacing lights and shadow. When he spoke, it was a low and guttural whisper, and an icy sensation crawled up Clarissa's spine.

  "You'll come home, Clarissa."

  She fumbled in her purse for the car keys so that Morgan would not see her hands tremble. How was it possible to love someone who you feared? Clarissa had asked herself that a hundred times in the last few months. Morgan was so good to her, so loving and generous. His love making was gentle and skilled, sending her to erotic heights she never dreamed her body capable. He gave her the best of everything, listened to her eagerly when she needed to talk, to express her views, frustrations, or feelings. He was the father she never had, the brother who cared about her life, the dream lover she'd only until now, read about in novels. He was her white knight, her prince, her secret admirer, her friend.

  Then there were the black moments, fleeting fragments of frozen time, when she looked into his eyes and saw the boiling clouds of an impending thunderstorm laced with wild lightning reaching out to stab her helpless soul. It took all her will to tear herself away from the crystal fire in that mask of momentary evil. Then it would be gone. The domino, the mask of Morgan Wolfe would smile at her and she could fall into his arms as if the black moment had never materialized. She would forget the paralyzing fear that held her for that elusive hellish second.

  "Do you have the Mercedes keys?" he asked softly, and her fear broke into fragments of dust. She dangled them teasingly on her little finger.

  Suddenly, Morgan grabbed her shoulders and pulled her roughly to him, smiling at her half-hearted attempts at escape. He kissed her passionately, then let her go.

  "Don't wait up," she told him coyly and he reached for her and kissed her again.

  The six-car garage held the less expensive of Morgan's auto collection; a gray Jaguar XJ6, a red Mercedes convertible, two identical black Cadillacs, an old Ferrari Dino, and a brand new nondescript blue Lexus. The basement garage under the house held the classics; a 1948 Tucker, a white Cord, a red Shelby Cobra, two Mustang convertibles, a '57 Corvette, a 1936 Du
esenberg SJN convertible coupe, and Mario Andretti's 1965 Indy Car.

  Clarissa slid into the white interior of the red Mercedes convertible, put the key into the ignition, and turned it. The engine droned but would not start. She tried a second time, then a third, grinding the starter motor to shavings until she had completely drained the battery. Clarissa slammed her purse against the steering wheel.

  "Damn it," she yelled in frustration.

  She decided to take the Jaguar, although it was not her favorite car to drive. Just as she was getting out of the convertible, a black Mercedes sedan pulled up to the front door. A man she recognized as one of the art gallery owners, Brian or Ryan something, got out and was about to knock when the front door opened for him and he stepped inside.

  Clarissa remembered him as a nervous young man who looked much older than her, with thinning brown hair and wide sad eyes. She had attended his younger brother's funeral with Morgan a couple of weeks ago. Both of the brothers, she knew, worked for Morgan at Roth Galleries. It was sad that Avery Roth had been killed in that robbery attempt at the Beverly Hills gallery. The robbery had made all the papers and the television news, with nervous Byron stuttering before the cameras. Ironically, Clarissa thought, Morgan, who actually owned the internationally famous galleries, was never mentioned.

  Reluctantly, Clarissa got out of the convertible, opened the garage door behind the Jaguar, and slid behind the wheel of the "old fogies" car as she called it. She searched her purse for the keys, and her frustration mounted as she discovered that they weren't there.

  "Damn you, Morgan," she hissed under her breath as the thin heels of her shoes clicked angrily on the cobblestone driveway toward the front door. Her anger reached its peak when she discovered that the front door was locked and she didn't have those keys either.

  "Morgan, open the door," she shouted. "I don't have keys and the Mercedes won't start." There was no answer. "Morgan!" she cried louder and pounded her delicately manicured fist against the stained glass window in the heavy oak door. "Morgan! Are you there? Can you hear me? The car won't start. Damn. Morgan!"

  Clarissa turned and stood facing the circular driveway and the iron gates between the brick pillars in the wall that circled the Wolfe Estate. "Now what?" she thought, as the anger subsided. Her gaze drifted up to the apartment above the garage.

  Alex Rogers was Morgan's new right hand man. He was an expert in international sales and marketing and Morgan raved about how profits had increased nearly forty percent in the year since Alex took over. As with everything Morgan did, Alex became personal property. Morgan moved him out of his modest San Fernando Valley suburban home into the garage apartment, gave him one of the black Cadillacs, a seven figure yearly salary, and kept him virtually chained to his side.

  Clarissa felt uncomfortable around Alex. He was tall and imposing with chiseled features, and he never smiled. It was not fear that she felt, but it was the way he was always looking at her with his piercing blue eyes. It was not the kind of stare that undressed her or threatened her. She could never put her finger on it, except that she felt like a butterfly pinned to a board whenever he glanced at her. He never spoke to her, or smiled or acknowledged her presence except to give her that momentary scrutinizing examination.

  His apartment over the garage was dark and the usual strains of classical music that wafted from the windows when Alex was home, was silent. There would be no help from him tonight. He was probably at the meeting with Morgan.

  Clarissa picked her way over the lawn, around to the side of the house and peered into Morgan's den. It was dark and empty. She continued around to the back of the house and opened the wrought iron gate to the pool area. The pool light was on and Clarissa heard the faint strains of an argument coming from the guest house. Lights blazed where Marco Camponello, Morgan's personal bodyguard and chief of security, lived. Clarissa shivered involuntarily at the thought of the man. She had one run in with him when she first moved to the estate. She had mentioned to Morgan her dislike of the swarthy, beady eyed guard and since then Marco had not come near her, even purposely avoided her. It was his raspy voice she could hear coming from the guest house and it made her nervous and more eager to get into the main house.

  She tried the door handle of the french doors leading to Morgan's office/den. The handle wouldn't budge, so Clarissa assumed it was locked. She gave one frustrated shove to the door, and it popped open. Startled for a moment, and smiling to herself about the verbal abuse Marco would get from Morgan about the office not being secured properly, she entered the dark den.

  Morgan purposely left nothing of importance in his desk so it was rarely locked. Everything was kept in the file cabinets behind the wall of books Clarissa had seen it open only twice. Spare car keys were kept in the top desk drawer for Alex and Marco. Clarissa herself had once needed the spare key to the Mercedes when hers had been broken by an overzealous mechanic. Virginia had told her that the keys were in the top desk drawer and to just let her or Morgan know if she took one.

  Clarissa flipped on the desk lamp and pulled open the drawer. There were no car keys but a small black box caught her attention. Clarissa opened it and nearly dropped it. Inside was the most beautifully carved crystal angel. It was delicately intricate, with a sweet face and hands folded in prayer. She held it up to the lamp and the crystal split the light into a magnificent rainbow.

  Glass crashed somewhere outside, followed by a heavy thud and a strangled cry. Clarissa jumped and the angel slid from her hand, falling with a crash onto the desk. The tip of one wing broke off and skidded across the polished mahogany. Clarissa caught it before it fell onto the white carpet. Suddenly, fearful that Morgan would discover her, she put the empty box back into the drawer, slipped the crystal angel and the piece of wing into her purse, and turned off the light. Clarissa knew of a jeweler who could repair the angel's wing. She could take it to him first thing in the morning and have it back before Morgan knew it was missing.

  Morgan had driven the Jaguar yesterday morning and his set of keys might be upstairs on his dresser. Clarissa snapped on the upstairs hall light, entered the bedroom, and turned on the pink shell lamp by her side of the bed. She found the Jaguar keys in the marble tray on Morgan's dresser. She turned out the light and was about to leave the room when the argument outside seemed right below her window. There were shouts and running, what sounded like a scuffle, and Morgan's growling voice. Clarissa separated the lace drapes and peered into the blue-green half-light of the pool area.

  From her second floor vantage point, Clarissa saw Byron Roth run from Marco's cottage. Alex was right behind him, and landed with a flying tackle on Byron's back.

  "Got him!" Alex shouted to Marco who had run around the pool to cut Byron off. Morgan strolled casually up to the scene as if he were bored with it. Alex hauled Byron to his feet and whirled him around to face Morgan and Marco. The glint of a gun shone briefly in Marco's hand and Clarissa was riveted to the window, not daring to move or breath.

  "Your brother tried to run out on us, too," Morgan's voice was filled with anger in the still, crystal clear night. "We warned both of you what would happen if you tried to get out of our partnership. We had an agreement."

  "I tried to talk Avery out of leaving," Byron's voice was shaky and edged with terror. "You said you would give me that chance. Forty eight hours, you said. It wasn't even five hours. Instead, you murdered him."

  "It was robbery," Morgan snapped. "Almost a million dollars was missing from his office safe. Police haven't found who did it."

  "You lying bastard," Byron cried as he tried to lunge at Wolfe. Alex kept him tightly restrained as he continued to struggle against Alex's strong hold across his throat. Wolfe never flinched but pulled a piece of paper from his suit coat pocket. Clarissa strained to see in the dim light. It looked to her like an airline ticket.

  "I don't like business partners who steal from me. Both of you were planning to leave the country. How much were you taking with you, Byron
? We know Avery was taking close to half a million in that briefcase of his and another two in transferred funds."

  "What are you talking about?" Byron was almost pleading. "I'm staying. I'm going to run the galleries for you. Avery cut out, but I'm staying."

  "Not according to this," Morgan waved the airline ticket under Byron's nose.

  Clarissa flinched and drew back a little from the window. She could easily imagine Wolfe's hideous glare boring into Byron's soul, and felt Byron's terror. Her own hands began to shake at the thought of the hell that the art gallery owner was experiencing.

  "I've been loyal to you, Mister Wolfe," Byron's voice was high pitched and whinny. "Avery bought that ticket. I told him I wouldn't go with him."

  "I can't let this go, Byron," Morgan's voice was deadly even and it made Clarissa's skin crawl. "What if all my other business partners heard of this? I don't need those kinds of problems." Morgan tucked the ticket neatly back into his pocket. His reached out and patted Byron on the cheek. "Roth Galleries will be in good hands, Byron, I assure you. Your wife and children will be taken care of properly. You need not fear for their welfare."

  Morgan nodded to Marco. The burly body guard wrenched Byron from Alex's grasp and shoved him toward the pool.

  "Please, Mister Wolfe," Byron was sobbing. "I wasn't going to leave. Please."

  The silenced .357 Magnum in Marco's hand flared in the dark for only an instant. Clarissa gasped audibly, then put her hand quickly over her mouth. Suddenly, she felt sick. Byron fell into the pool, a darkening cloud of blood floated on the surface, dimming the pool light.

  Clarissa was close to panic but she stood riveted to the window. Then she realized that she had not turned out the hall light. Too late. Alex was looking up directly at her. Her panic turned to sheer horror as Morgan Wolfe slowly turned to where Alex was staring. Wolfe's eyes blazed with hell fire hatred as he saw Clarissa framed in the bedroom window. Without so much as a nod from Wolfe, Alex and Marco ran toward the house.