Lethal Trust

by Lala Corriere

  Paul Childs’ third wife and the widow, was the first person I investigated in order to cross her off of the list. It didn’t matter that she wasn’t listed as a potential heir. The woman had influence.

  Claudia came from meager means. Her father, a mill-worker and her mother, a waitress, lived in a small town in southern Colorado. She was an only child.

  She squeaked by with a GED and never pursued higher education, but I think a fair evaluation of her was that she sought a way out of that tough life. By what means beyond her incredible beauty, I didn’t know, but she met Paul Childs at the Kentucky Derby. No one thought their marriage would last, so I could deduce, but they passed their thirtieth and I had noted the length of a diamond and pearl jubilee necklace that Claudia often wore. I believe pearls to be the traditional symbol of a thirtieth anniversary and diamonds, the contemporary. She wore both well.

  It was hard for me to digest the hundreds of photographs of her I had pulled up over a wealth of internet sites. The woman slipped seamlessly into the moneyed world and rapidly gained her education in haute couture. Besides the anniversary gift, she often wore a gold and diamond necklace designed with the Scorpions’ team logo. It was likely worth more than my car, and I drove a nice set of wheels.

  I confirmed her three real estate holdings that she solely inherited, and her whopping bank accounts that made me want to break open my old piggy bank to see if my dad might have stuck something up inside the dude.

  Digging beyond the material things, more articles and media photographs evidenced her to be an attentive mother and by all reports, a good wife.

  It seems that the third time was a charm for Paul Childs in marriage.

  Claudia’s conduct in bringing the family together to discuss the trust illustrated to me that she may have no favorite child. If she did, she hid it close to her heart and under layers of Gucci silk scarves.

  I had no freaky feelings. No reaction, good or bad. I believed Claudia had no involvement in the trust and didn’t care. She had plenty of the green stuff to keep her sated.

  I phoned Schlep to learn what he might have discovered about Claudia Childs. I react to a lot of logic but I also react to what I feel. Those damn hairs on the back of my neck that tell me there’s trouble. My sixth sense seemed to be on hiatus.

  Schlep, as always, had dug further. Deeper. Smarter. He informed me that Claudia had a vituperative side to her.

  “What do you mean?”

  “She’s had more than one cat fight with both of the former wives and even a girlfriend of one the children. An incident drew the attention of the police but any record of the occurrence appears to have been wiped clean.”

  That’s my Schlep. He can un-wipe any wiped slate. There was no such thing as a tabula rasa in his world.

  “What did you find?” I asked.

  “An incident at their country club. In the ladies restroom. It was some big bash with music blaring so no one heard any noise, and no cameras. I spoke with some patrons that attended the event. Most will not speak publically but two persons claim they saw a young woman exit the restroom with a sizable shiner, complete with blood.

  “My advice to you, Cass, is that no matter how sweet Claudia Childs seems to be in public you do not want to cross her.”

  “Done. I don’t do bitches but I know how to suck up to them. Thanks, Schlep.”

  “Oh, and by the way…”

  Here we go. Schlep always had a BTW.

  “The girl Claudia Childs might have smacked that night is one Angela Fine. She was dating the eldest son of Paul Childs at the time. Hunter Childs.”

  “Track her down and I’ll call her. You never know,” I said.

  “Ms. Fine will not be talking. She drowned.”

  I hate gum. I had nicotine gum in my mouth. I spit it out and lit up. “Where?”

  “Parker Canyon Lake. It’s south of Sierra Vista. It’s pretty remote. With the digging I did I learned that bad weather came in fast and horrific that day with wind and heavy rain. The private boat belonged to Ms. Fine’s father. The coroner’s report shows the cause of death as an accidental drowning. They found the boat at the bottom of the lake,” Schlep said.

  I took in a deep drag of the damn cigarette. “Funny. The Childs’ family seems to have the Midas touch and a penchant for euphoria. Bad shit happens and no one knows so it disappears. It’s kind of like Pig Pen, but their cloud of dust is sprinkled with gold dust.”

  “Funny. I can hear you, Cassie. You’re going to have black lungs if you don’t quit smoking.”

  I hung up. Good excuse. I had work to do. All who had made me who I am and had since I was seven years old, had not been around very much. The feelings. The voices. The knowing what had happened or what would happen in the future. I didn’t feel much anymore. I felt alone. The only thing I knew to do was good old-fashioned detective work. I ran to our office’s Wall of Suspects obscured by the map of Southern Arizona. Armed with the long list of possible perps that Stacie had presented to me, I’d have to write small on the large board.

  And I still didn’t know I even had a crime to work.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  HUNTER HAD HIS SUV gassed up and ready to go. He fired up the engine and took off, heading toward the highway.

  He would not be accountable to anyone, and he needed to think within the seclusion of his remote hideaway in Colorado. No one knew about it, let alone where it was located. He’d been clever and put the deed to the large cabin under the entity of his new L.L.C..

  He had one mission. He would figure out the way to secure his top spot and end his father’s stupid game.

  Before he left, he summoned Mason with one phone call.

  Mason, eager to remove himself from the family drama, complied.

  “I have somewhere else to go afterward. Meet me to push back a few before I head out?” Hunter said.

  Hunter, already seated on the patio of the mid-town pub known for their taste-bud charring spicy Mexican food, ordered two double margaritas, with a couple extra shots on the side.

  “Man, I hope you aren’t driving too far,” Mason said as he approached the table and spied the drinks delivered to the table.

  “I’m fine. I promised you something, and I make good on my promises.”

  It was true. Mason had depleted his supply of the opiates, but he still didn’t know if that might be what Hunter was referencing.

  Hunter ordered a steak burro and charro beans. Mason asked for a small salad. The establishment didn’t have salads but for the notion of sliced iceberg lettuce and diced tomatoes. He passed. Hunter doubled his order for Mason, insisting it offered the best of the items on the menu.

  After devouring their meals and having consumed the double margaritas, Hunter looked at the shots of tequila remaining on the table. He nudged one closer to Mason.

  “You’re going to gulp this down, and then I’m going to give you one more freebie. You still seem a little shaky. A little pale.”

  Mason consumed the golden liquid with one gulp.

  “You’re going to go toward the bathrooms, but you’re going to enter the first door that says employees only.”

  “What the fuck?”

  “They’re ready for you, and I’ll be your hero for life.”

  That was it. Mason had his first hit of heroin. Ten seconds later the opium flooded his being as he felt nothing but intense pleasure and joy. Maybe a feeling of heaviness. Maybe, he felt a bit itchy, but the sense of euphoria coupled with his slowed breathing equaled a divine state of being. Pure nirvana, he thought.

  And then he grew nauseous. A person in the room recognized the signs and pushed the hurl bucket next to him. He grabbed a nearby paper towel off of a roll and continued to enjoy melting into this amazing feeling of relaxation. An ‘I don’t give a shit’ feeling, even while he was puking.

  His new friend helped him toward a cot in the same employees’ area.

  He had no concept of time, but Mason saw that the sun had set. Ho
urs had passed?

  “You’re good to go,” that new pal said.

  “And Hunter?”

  “He’s long gone. I’m telling you you’re good to go. Just don’t break any traffic laws.”

  Mason, still euphoric and trying to comprehend the experience if not relive it, drove himself home without incident.

  He couldn’t wait to tell Hunter how great a gift he had been given.

  Yanaha

  HOPEFUL TO CROSS off of my list was Paul Childs’ first wife. Yanaha proved to be a bit of a challenge for me while looking into her background, or lack thereof.

  Schlep and I worked in tandem, but separately. I needed his extra pair of eyes and I needed them fresh without any discourse from me to mislead him.

  I easily found the marriage certificate, but I could find no record of Yanaha’s birth.

  It seemed most of what Stacie Childs had told me was true about Yanaha, but there was plenty more.

  Raised on the reservation, by all accounts she proved to be a woman of deep devotion and faith to her culture and community.

  Her education lacked. Home schooled, I came to learn that she soon fell under the watchful eye of the tribal council. At a tender age, she soon became a respected member of the council.

  She did dabble in snake venom. I could find little on that but that might be why the tribal council was eager to include her into their circle. Secrets. Lots of secrets.

  Her apparent distaste of money caused me to dig deeper. How the hell did she meet and marry Paul Childs?

  Bingo! She met him at a sweat lodge where she served as a hostess.

  It still seemed odd to me. Paul Childs was maybe exploring a spiritual side but clearly at that time in his life he focused on winning the big game, securing an NFL franchise, and becoming a billionaire.

  Why did Yanaha succumb to the advances of a white man when her culture was so deeply engraved into her spirit and her life? Did she seduce him?

  I felt jumbled messages. The two entered into a marriage that was doomed. They tried, but when they lost their child whose life was taken before it began, it broke them. Love might be blind, but sometimes when disaster and heartbreak hits the twenty-twenty vision comes back.

  I tried to calm my crazy mind, meditate, and sort out what were true facts and what were messages.

  Yanaha, while certainly interesting, dropped off of my A-list. She lived a contented life. She had a comfortable home in Tucson and a new truck that she filled up with essentials and then drove them to the reservation and her people.

  Schlep, too, found no birth certificate for the woman. We scratched it off as maybe a cultural thing. I felt nothing, which means I felt reassured. I closed the email and my file on Yanaha.

  MASON BECAME a frequent at the Mexican restaurant, as well as a regular visitor to park benches and alleys, when he could find them in a not-so-lucid state of mind.

  He also had accounts with both Uber and Lyft and the occasional taxi.

  The taxi drivers asked too many questions and were too chatty. He preferred his other modes of transportation. They knew him. They didn’t ask stupid questions.

  In a brief moment of reality, while sitting in the back seat with a silent driver, he wondered where Hunter had disappeared to and why he wasn’t helping him.

  It was a fleeting thought. He really didn’t care.

  He cared about getting home. And when and where he could score his next H.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  HUNTER DROVE OVER thirteen hours to Crested Butte, Colorado. He didn’t have snow tires but he’d thrown in the chains just in case. The roads proved to be clear.

  Driving all night long and only stopping to do roadside pees and buy a couple of sodas, he arrived at his house at daybreak.

  Having formed the L.L.C. for the secretive purchase of the four-million-dollar home he called a cabin, he laughed out loud when he thought about how he’d practically stolen the house from the owners that had lost their wealth with one bad stock choice. Vail Associates had bought the resort and housing prices were soaring. Did the idiot sellers not know this, or were they both suffering from Alzheimer’s like his father, he wondered.

  Hunter had already laid out his ideas for the furnishings and he’d already laid the interior designer. He walked into a dazzling home replete with the grand piano no one would play unless he wanted to screw the designer again. She’d been the one to insist upon it and she played with a decent amount of talent. He had a reckless need for her talents on top of the piano, and in bed, and on the kitchen counter.

  Plenty of snow remained on the slopes, but skiing wasn’t his game. He’d driven there to clear his mind, figure out his next move with this nasty family matter to ensure his role as the sole owner of the Tucson Scorpions, and both score and sell copious amounts of drugs.

  Hunter needed sleep. He grabbed an energy bar out of the pantry, poured himself a Chase vodka, and dived into the white duvet on the bed.

  Having forgotten to turn up the heat, Hunter awoke a few hours later shivering.

  “Fuck it,” he said aloud. He grabbed a thick Turkish robe out of the bathroom and headed for the living room and the mammoth fireplace. Within minutes he would enjoy a roaring fire.

  The morning sun and crystal blue sky enthralled him, but he knew of the trickery. It would be damn cold outside.

  Hunter made himself a robust cup of coffee but skipped the sugar and cream. He added some bourbon and sat back down to enjoy the fire and try to think straight.

  No one would be looking for him, and even if there was yet another family emergency he always turned off the GPS on his phone. He had as long as he wanted to consider his options, but soon enough he would need to get his butt back to Tucson to prove himself the man.

  AS IF ON CUE, SCHLEP waltzed into my office as if he wore tap shoes. Was he weird and quirky? Yes. But our brilliant star with a mind that has memorized the encyclopedia, and then updated it daily, it seemed, wore a broad grin which meant he was bursting with words and thoughts and ideas to share with me.

  “I was just thinking about you,” I said.

  “And, I was just thinking about you which is why I brought you a coffee and a biscotti.”

  “Bribery will get you everywhere,” I laughed.

  “Like more work?”

  “I do have something for you to peek into,” I said.

  “May I start with the hit and run? Nick Childs?”

  I wouldn’t have had a second to nod in compliance. Schlep could voice a stream of consciousness in a nanosecond.

  “If it was any normal civilian there would have been a chance to find this car, but the police didn’t put out a BOLO.”

  “Because they didn’t want any cop or deputy to be on the lookout. My instincts tell me the car went straight to the chop shop and that shop was waiting for it.”

  “Yes! I agree.” Schlep, rarely animated stood up and paced the floor in front of me. “I don’t have your ability to see things but that makes the most sense. I’ve scoured the records of fourteen of the top auto collision repair shops around town. Nothing. No type of rear end damage that came in without a police incident report. Now, if it was an old beat up car and the occupants had passports, it could have easily crossed the border.”

  I knew different. “No. It went to a chop shop, and that’s just not my intuition talking. The police at least took photographs they begrudgingly shared with me. Those tread marks left at the scene had plenty to say. The vehicle purposely backed up and ran over Nick Childs. That, and the threads on the tire evidenced only moderate wear. Not brand new and not a junker. The car is gone, Schlep.”

  “The thing is, and we can agree upon this, the traffic accident investigators did none of the things they should have, or at least they aren’t in the report. There should have been tread casts made. A reconstructionist would measure the skid marks and record them. They’d perform a skid test to verify the exact coefficient of friction operating.”

  “I have no i
dea what you just said but I’m sure you’re right,” I said.

  “Here’s an easy one. They didn’t even bother checking surveillance cameras at the scene. I know this because I saw one and went to talk to the owner. Unfortunately, it recorded over what it captured every twenty-four hours.”

  “Time enough for the investigators. They could have caught a license plate,” I said.

  My dogs, Finnegan and Phoebe, came running up to lick Schlep’s lips, face, arms, hands, shins, and anything else they could.

  “I love it that they love me,” Schlep said, letting Phoebe continue to lick as he pulled her up to his lap. She rewarded him with more wet kisses. He then promptly did a discreet spit to the side. “Tastes like fish.”

  “By the way, if you look at those reports, the officials at the scene are required to log in their time. These investigators were only there twenty-eight minutes,” he said.

  “So?”

  “They should have been there ninety minutes, or even two hours.”

  “I guess they got the message that the case was closed before it was open,” I said, knitting my eyebrows in mock disbelief. “What about the coroner’s report?”

  Frustrated, Schlep began tugging on his shaggy hair and pointed in an aimless direction as he drew imaginary circles in the air with his index finger. He knew that I already had my answer but indulged me, anyway. “The conclusion, in total, came down to an accidental death. Case closed and filed away.”

  I began muttering and wringing my wrists so tightly that the reddened skin became its own life of frustration. I moved on, instructing, “Schlep. Next up I need you to find out about the inner workings of an NFL team. I mean, I know we have a general manager who answers directly to the owner. I need to know the hierarchy of the power structure. I think every team is a bit different.”

  “The NFL is not my specialty but I can have a full report to you and I can deduce that you are specifically interested in the Scorpions. Next? I know there is a next, Cassie.”