CoverBoys & Curses

by Lala Corriere

  I swallowed dry air. “I think the man has a beach house near mine. At least someone strongly resembling him does.”

  I was afraid to say more. Harlan Coal had told me his assistant occupied the house. He told me that the night of the storm when the lights had gone out. Not mine. The man with the braid. His lights.

  “Anything else?” Detective Wray hammered.

  Brock nodded to me.

  “I can’t be certain, but it’s possible I’ve seen him around at The Centre.” I spelled it out. C.E.N.T.R.E.

  “Where Carly Posh lived?”

  “Yes, Ace. Couldn’t you have put that together on your own?”

  “I like confirming things here and there. Now tell me one more thing. Who is in charge of this”—he spelled it out, “C.E.N.T.R.E.?”

  Again Brock nodded.

  “His name is Dr. Harlan Coal. He’s a psychologist.”

  “Okay. Good enough. I want you in my office first thing in the morning.”

  “Should I bring my lawyer or more black mourning clothes?”

  Detective Wray stared me down with his chocolate glazed eyes. “I’d tell you to bring a helluva gun for self-protection but they wouldn’t let you through security.”

  Chapter Seventy-Six

  VICAP

  AND WITH THAT night came another dream. My own personal nightcap.

  Wedding dress. Paper. Burning—everyone burning alive but me.

  Except, maybe? Did I see Payton very much alive? And now Carly?

  BROCK DROVE ME to the police station. On our way I told him I would not mention the photographs.

  “Why the hell not?” he asked.

  “Call it that same gut feeling.”

  “Stop with this.”

  “I’m serious. I think for damn sure I take all this more seriously than anyone else, including the detective. If Coal is involved he might as well have raped me, too.”

  “But apparently Coal prefers little boys.”

  Brock’s humor only fueled my heated position. “You’re along for moral support. And I appreciate it. But let me play this my way. It’s my life on the line. And just maybe this whole thing has to do with that creepy man wearing a braid and not Coal.”

  “You’re too damn loyal,” Brock said.

  “Like a Labrador. And I’m too damn stubborn.”

  “Stay away from him, Lauren. He may like his sex from little boys but he wants something else from you.”

  DETECTIVE WRAY SAT us down on two sticks of chairs in front of his desk. His office didn’t exactly offer the deep seating chairs mine did. He was playing on his turf, now.

  “The Centre, Ms Visconti?”

  I told him everything I knew. Almost. Carly had been his patient and suggested I go. I did. Harlan Coal helped me. Carly moved onto his compound to be nearer Coal’s work. She seemed happy. She was embarking on a new career with a brand new energized dream.

  “And this deceased male, Armand?” Wray asked.

  “You know his name?”

  “Give some credit where credit is due,” Wray laughed. “We found a hefty set of keys on his body. Any idea what locks those keys might fit?”

  “I don’t know any more than what I told you yesterday. Not about any keys. Not even anything about the man. He moves with the shadows, and—”

  I broke to think back to the man that I saw taking photos of me, then disappearing. At the hotel bungalow. The warning calls and notes and hellish leather grip around my throat. Was it this man? I thought yes.

  “Ms. Visconti?”

  “I don’t know. The man killed Carly after raping her. We all know that. Maybe he’s the one that’s been after everyone—”

  “Yes. Everyone you love and loved. The Visconti Curse,” the detective whined.

  A knock sounded at the door and it opened. Detective Wray jumped to his feet.

  “Excellent timing,” Wray said. He made the introductions to an FBI agent in VICAP, reminding both me and Brock it stood for the Violent Criminals Apprehension Program.

  Wray said to me, “You like quid pro quo, so let’s get started.”

  The agent said, “Ms. Visconti, I’m a case profiler. I’m here to share a few things we know about this case.”

  “And it’s not to leave this room,” Detective Wray interjected.

  “Agreed,” Brock and I both said in unison.

  “Let’s start with the multitude of multiple stabbings. Clearly all events relate to you and your magazine. Specifically, the articles.”

  “You’re spawning hatred,” Wray said.

  The VICAP man shook his head.

  “Slow down,” I said. “I printed nothing derogatory about the runway model. I portrayed her as the victim she was. And the same with Dhurra Solayman. A female victim in Afghanistan.”

  “Exactly,” the man said, “but we feel it’s possible we’re dealing with one person. Someone who suffers from deep-seated resentment. That resentment has festered into fury.”

  I rolled my eyes to the ceiling of the dank and gloomy office.

  “Let me back up. The first two stabbings were rather crude. Almost as if there were no planning, but in fact we know by the removal and insertion of certain objects that this isn’t at all the case. It’s then possible to deduce, in plain English, our killer was getting his feet wet. Operating on a low level of motive. That original resentment stage.

  “It’s possible the first two killings fulfilled certain fantasies. And generated desire. Our killer developed a real taste for the kill. His resentment then escalated into rage, for you see, multiple stab wounds like we’ve seen here indicate overkill.

  “Your magazine articles fueled this rage and gave the killer, in his mind, a vehicle for justified release. Do you follow me?”

  “Yes.”

  “We have a person that is planning his every move. And yours. Maybe in a sick way this person even cares for you, Ms. Visconti. He thinks he’s helping you by bringing down your bad guys. It’s almost like you have your own personal vigilante working for you.”

  Chapter Seventy-Seven

  Forgiveness, Firepits & Farming

  WE DROVE FOR fifteen minutes in quiet. It suited me well.

  “Okay,” Brock finally said. “You’re driving me crazy. Let’s start by you telling me exactly why you didn’t mention those pervert photos to Detective Wray.”

  “Because maybe I’m wrong about that statue,” I defended myself. “We already know Coal blows hot air, so why not tell me it’s an original? It’s just one more little prevarication on his part. So where does that leave us?”

  “I give up. I’m driving. What the fuck?”

  “It leaves us with no evidence. Nothing. Everything in my life is a big nothing.”

  “Tell me what you’re really thinking.”

  I didn’t pause for thought. “I’m thinking that CoverBoy is evil. Or at least creating evil. I’m thinking my dream to incorporate serious investigative reporting into the folds of a fun magazine with all the glitz and glamour of glossy pages and gorgeous specimens of men has failed. I wanted people to learn something about what is going on in their backyards. Instead it’s inciting hatred.”

  “Did you kill any of those people?” Brock asked.

  “Of course not.”

  “Did any of your staff kill those people?”

  “No.”

  “Then it’s beyond your control. You write the truth in order to cause awareness with hopes that these evil truths have a chance to be righted.”

  “I’m all mixed up right now, Brock. The magazine is one thing. That meeting in there with the detective and the fancy agent didn’t even begin to explain to me what happened to Carly, and why. And I still don’t know what happened to Payton.”

  “I’m going to get you home and I want you to make yourself a cup of tea or pour yourself a couple shots of tequila, and go stare at that ocean. That’s your backyard and you’re damn lucky so enjoy it. Go back and wish upon a star with the belief and full expect
ation that your dreams will come true.”

  “It’s daylight. No stars,” I said.

  “A good point that makes my point all the stronger. They’re there, all right. You just can’t see them for the sun. Go back to that child that tossed a knotted tennis shoe lace into her mother’s lap, then went out to play. That little girl knew. She trusted that the knot would disappear when she came back for it. And it did. And it will.”

  “Who would have taken you for some sage old soul?” I said.

  “Not my mother. She was too busy unknotting shoelaces.”

  “By the way,” I added, “Sterling is researching that damn elephant statue as we speak. If anyone can figure it out, she can. We’ll know if it’s an original.”

  MOON BLADE CIRCLED around the blazing firepit, stomping out ashes and scattering others while concentrating on the unfathomable task at hand. Out of control. The situation was out of control. Time for action.

  THE FARM NEEDED Coal’s attention, but he didn’t even remember it until four kids brought in the weekly truckload of vegetables and home baked pies. Key on his mind was that he held the key. Or keys, as it were. He had the only other set of keys to the cells on the farm. The little bad ants would be getting food and water, but they hadn’t been outside the cells for—a very long time.

  Something else bothered him but he refused to entertain the insult of thought. Armand had the original set of keys. And like any prison cell, those keys were quite unique. Where were they?

  Chapter Seventy-Eight

  Nailed

  AFTER A MOST DISMAL but mandatory meeting at CoverBoy I headed straight for the beach. Brock was right, after all. I needed to enjoy my own backyard.

  I drove down the street in front of my house and stomped on the brakes. Fear shackled my hands and feet. I froze in place.

  My garage door was open. Not all the way. Maybe twelve inches.

  I could call the police. Sure. Detective Wray or the locals in Malibu. Either way, what? I’d say, “Hey, I have an emergency. My garage door is open. Well, no, ummm, not exactly open. But it’s a whole foot off the floor.” They’d come running. Sure.

  It would be impossible for me to peek inside my garage before whatever, if anything, would see me approaching. I drove past my home, then parked two doors away. Grabbing my cell phone and my keys, I also retrieved the trusty can of mace I carried with me in spite of the fact it was at least five years old.

  I scampered between homes to make my way to the beach, an activity my neighbors would abhor if they saw me. Let them be the ones to call the police!

  Once on the beach, I yanked off my heels, leaping past the two homes until I approached mine, and I came to an abrupt stop. What the hell was I doing? I should have opened up the garage door and checked it out from the safety of my locked car.

  Now what? I looked around. A couple of guys on the beach, possibly within ear shot, if things didn’t go well. A rabid looking dog, too. Not the wolf-dog I had encountered at my front door, but mean looking, nonetheless.

  I steadied my keys and unlocked the sliding patio door. I tried to remove the keys from my lock. They stuck. Sliding the door open on its track, I left the unyielding keys behind.

  Not hearing or seeing anything unusual, I slinked through the door into my own home.

  I’m being ridiculous. This is my sanctuary. My safe haven.

  My heart pounded.

  This is my old paranoia, stemming out of nowhere but mindless threats.

  Geoff had asked me to hire security. That seemed like a really good idea right now.

  It’s nothing.

  It’s something!

  I stepped into the room, bringing up the can of mace.

  It was nothing. Why didn’t it feel like nothing?

  I neared the kitchen, looking at my cell phone and wondering if I should make a fool out of myself and call for the police. Or the guys on the beach. Or the rabid dog.

  I looked across to my front door. Intact. The alarm system flashed green; I must have forgotten to arm it. But my silver coffee service sat undisturbed on the buffet in my dining room. Nothing had been touched. Nothing was out of order.

  I’m a paranoid idiot.

  Relieved, I tossed my phone onto the kitchen counter just as I heard the clamor of steel from the garage. The door to the garage stood slightly ajar.

  I fingered the release on the mace and brought it up to my chest when the door flew open and a crowbar met me in the eyes.

  “Jesus, fucking A-Bubba, girl!”

  I was still trying to spray the mace into his eyes, but rather a stream of the aged chemical dribbled down my fingers.

  “What the hell are you doing here?” He yelled.

  “I think that should be my question since it’s my house.”

  Brock dropped the crowbar onto the floor and took the spewing can of mace from my hands. “You best wash that stuff off of you. Anyway, I asked first. You were supposed be to meeting Sterling for lunch and a movie.”

  “She’s too busy. I’m too busy. And I can use the sabbatical on the beach you told me to take.”

  Brock fired me a look, well aware that was now certain I was the Angel of Death.

  “What are you doing in my house?”

  “I’ll show you,” Brock led me to the garage. “This, Ms. Visconti, is a garage. A real garage.”

  “Wow. Look at all these gadgets and gizmos,” I said.

  “They’re called tools. And I hope this takes me off the hook for breaking and entering with the key you gave me.”

  New pegboard lined two walls with hammers, tape, wire, and screwdrivers—even a staple gun, all hanging from red clips. Admittedly, some objects were unidentifiable by me.

  “Why all this?”

  “Because you think you have to be so damn independent, Laurs, but real men don’t hold a car hood up with a golf club,” he teased. “Besides, I figured you needed your nails now. I’ve got a game coming up and it will be too late for my help.”

  “I thought you were benched to rest up your shoulder?”

  “Back in the game next week. All patched up.”

  “Where’s your car?”

  “That’s my bad timing. My car’s being detailed. The kid should be bringing it back in an hour or so. Meanwhile, you’re sort of stuck with me.”

  “Okay. Come on, real man of real garages. I’ll cut you some slack,” I said, leading him back inside my house. “Can you drink?”

  “Got any beer?”

  “White wine.”

  “Close enough. But watch me. Don’t try and get me drunk when I’m this close to getting back in the park.”

  I pulled a bottle of Far Niente chardonnay out of refrigerator. Brock had already located two wine stems and moved fast. I obliged.

  He led me by my hand to the bedroom. The short distance down the hall took us twenty minutes to negotiate. My silk blouse bellowed to the hickory wood floor like a white cloud of angels. Next my shoes. His shoes. His jeans. My hosiery. My skirt. Somewhere along the way Brock’s denim shirt surrounded me as he nailed me to the hall wall.

  I wanted to caress and kiss each dimple, then move to his bounty of carved out abs. I wanted to lick the sweet salty taste in the hallows of his muscled thighs. And I wanted all of him. Inside of me. I wanted all of Brock Townsend.

  His smooth hands stroked my cheeks, my ears, and then my chin. They moved down to cup my bare breasts, and then drew teasing circles around my navel.

  Downward, Brocks fingers traced my inner thighs, teasing me until he saw me quiver under his touch.

  We made it to the recamier in my bedroom. Brock retrieved our wine glasses. I raised mine to meet his. Neither of us spoke. The glasses clinked with the sound of a crystal symphony—instruments in harmony for the first time. We both took just one sip and returned the glasses to the nearby table.

  With still no words spoken Brock took me into his strong arms. He held me close to him, looking into my eyes and pressing closer and closer against my
naked flesh.

  This kiss was different. The passion ran deep and intoxicating. Unbridled.

  He didn’t stop with my lips. He kissed my fingers, my hands, my arms, and moving my long red hair to one side, he then kissed and sucked at my neck. He twirled me around and kissed my back, starting at the nape of my neck and slowly nibbling down the length of my back and toward the curves of my hips.

  My body ached and throbbed. Accepting his hand, we both fell onto the floor. I pressed against him as he pressed even closer to me, both our bodies now singing in symphony with mutual desire.

  He moved slowly, teasingly, lovingly, then fervently and madly, and then lovingly again. When he finally entered my inner sanctum I felt a ripple through my entire body, surging ever upward where I felt a titillating sensation in the back of my throat.

  He rode my body rhythmically. Soft and hard. Passionate and patient.

  I finally succumbed to the ecstasy, my body trembling. I threw back my head and cried out a final surrender into total fulfillment.

  Lauren Visconti is alive and well, I told myself.

  My knees were still weak when my mind finally became engaged and I thought I should rise up from the floor. Brock sprung to his feet and crossed to my mahogany armoire where he knew I had two Turkish bathrobes. His gaze never left mine but to retrieve our wine.

  He offered me his hand and I accepted it as he lifted me to my feet. He embraced me for a small eternity.

  We did make it to the bed, finally, but only as a collapsed tangle of human flesh.

  I can remember falling off to sleep and thinking, oh to be human. To experience life. To experience great love.

  In the pre-dawn glow of promised sunlight, I felt only fire. I awakened to my dream of imminent danger.

  My paper wedding dress was burning.

  Chapter Seventy-Nine

  Listen to Me

  Brock stirred the moment I sat upright in bed. I wiped the tears from my eyes before his eyes could focus in the dim light.