“Fond memories, Gumdrop?”
“You back again? I thought I gave you a job to do.”
“Yes, my liege, only I was getting in everyone’s way, so I figured I’d come back and hassle you instead.”
“My father brought us here a few summers. The place was already on the decline by that time, but as a kid I was oblivious, and my father loved the place. I guess it brought back some of his fond memories.”
“So Daddy Grumpy Pants actually took you on vacation?”
I sneered at Cabrera. “Back in the day, before I was old enough to understand what he was doing to my mother.”
“The old douchebag.”
God bless Cabrera, he hated my father because I hated him. What a sweet and compassionate dude.
“The aging Casanova still down in Palm Beach?”
“To the best of my knowledge.” I sighed. “Probably baking his liver and running through the last of my mother’s money.”
“What’s he gonna do when he’s all tapped out?”
“Not my problem.” A notion popped into my head, and I began walking toward the deep end of the pool.
“Where are you headed?”
I kneeled in front of one of the plastic skimmer covers. It seemed odd to me that it would still be in place after all these years. We had a pool at our house, and I used to find small frogs in the skimmers that had hopped into the pool and gotten sucked in. I lifted the cover. What can I say, old habits die hard.
Cabrera grimaced. “What are you doing, Mather? You’ll get skin crud from sticking your hand in there.”
“I’m looking for frogs.”
“What?”
Water hadn’t flowed through the skimmers in years. It was bone dry and black with mold. Nonetheless, I reached in with my glove-clad hand and felt around.
“That’s a waste of time,” Cabrera moaned.
“Let me indulge myself.”
“What are the chances someone stuffed—” His eyes widened as I withdrew a mold-covered brown leather wallet. “Holy shit!”
“Yes. Holy shit.”
He raced to my side as I opened the wallet and explored its contents. “Mather, you must have psychic powers or something.”
“You won’t catch me channeling the dead anytime soon, but I’ll bet we’re about to learn the victim’s identity.” A New York State Driver’s License was visible through the yellowed plastic ID holder. It belonged to a male. His name was Lewis Pesch.
“Amazing!” Cabrera spouted. “They never taught me anything like that at Quantico.”
“Nor me,” I said, “but sometimes you just have to follow your hunches.” I continued to look through the wallet. It contained about a hundred dollars in cash and a folded piece of paper. Pesch must have torn a page out of Outside magazine, a travel and adventure magazine I had picked up in the past. Cabrera and I both read the ad at the same time.
“Incredible,” Cabrera said with disbelief in his voice. “Do you think?”
“Yes, my good man. Yes, I do.”
Chapter 54
The printed document I found in Lewis Pesch’s wallet was an ad for a hunting trip. It was the type of ad that would only appeal to a specific type of person, a predator:
Catskill Fantasy Kill: Experience adventure beyond your wildest dreams. It’s all waiting for you just two hours from Manhattan. CFK provides an unparalleled thrill for that exceptional hunter who seeks only the most rare and unusual hunting adventure. Experience the excitement of bagging the most intelligent and most cunning game of all. Experience the thrill of the hunt as only CFK can offer. This is no pleasure cruise, so be prepared to rough it. You’ll be out beneath the moon and stars and surrounded by the most opportunistic of predators. Are you a man’s man? Do you have what it takes? Indulge your murder lust in one of the most unique settings imaginable. Not for the faint of heart. Tenderfoots stay home!
The ad provided a phone number to call for information and reservations.
“It’s a psycho’s ad. It’s an ad to hunt humans.”
“I know how it reads but isn’t that far-fetched?” Cabrera said, expressing absurdity. A moment passed before he caved, “Could it be?”
I frowned at him. “Are you kidding? You know shit like this happens all the time. The only reason we don’t know about it is because we’re not omnipotent.”
“You’re not? I thought your middle name was Odin,” he jibed.
I struck a pensive pose. “Chloe Odin Mather—has a nice ring to it, don’t you think?”
“No. I don’t think. Doesn’t the magazine screen their ads? I’m sure the bureau has a task force that monitors this sort of thing.”
“They do nowadays. They only tightened up on Internet sites and magazine ads after they realized that terrorists were using ads to communicate with each other in code.”
“Oh yeah, that’s right.”
The crime scene unit had found the remaining bones to the skeleton that Richard Sortern, the golf course general manager, had stumbled upon. They had opined from the general dimensions and pelvic formation that the victim was male.
“It’s amazing that they can tell the gender from a quick glance at the skeleton. I see women walking the streets of Manhattan that I’m not sure about, and these guys can tell from a couple of bones … fantastic.”
Cabrera scolded me, “That sounds like something a man would say.”
“I’m observant, not sexist, Cabrera.”
“That’s what I like about you, Gumdrop, you’re a real man’s woman.”
“And don’t you forget it.”
“In fact, I’d go so far as to say you’re a real man’s man except that you’re too pretty to be a man and you seem to keep Liam reasonably satisfied.”
“Reasonably?” I snapped.
“Don’t get all bent out of shape. I already said that you’re not a man.”
“Liam, above all else, will be relieved to learn that he hasn’t been sleeping with a man. So, do you want to bail on this place and go check out who this Lewis Pesch was? I’m kind of hoping that something juicy will turn up on Colton Hayes as well.” Everything in his file seemed unremarkable. Although we suspected that he had murdered Maisy Grant and was probably part of the Rules of the Kill conspiracy.
“I did hours of research on Rules of the Kill, and all I came up with was some cyber mumbo jumbo pertaining to combat video games,” Cabrera said.
“I never thought we’d find it online. I’m sure it’s only for a closed circle of loony-tune killers and is buried away somewhere normal folk couldn’t find it.”
“Are you talking about the deep web?”
“Yeah, like Silk Road, a place where criminals transact business anonymously. The Outside magazine ad, though … that may yield some results.”
“Maybe. In any case, let’s blow this terrarium before vines creep up our legs and permanently anchor us to the floor.”
I quickly glanced down at my feet. “Great visual, Cabrera. I’ve had enough of this spine-chilling stroll down memory lane. Let’s take a hike.”
Chapter 55
June 2006
Bloom knew a shortcut to the Catskills. Taking the route he had often traveled in his college days, he took the Palisades Parkway to US-6 to Route 17 and thereby avoided the delays and congestion that were ever present on the New York State Thruway. He had worked as a waiter in Catskill Mountain resorts to pay his way through undergraduate and law schools: two years at the Raleigh, three at the Concord, and one at Kutsher’s.
Cherished memories came back to him as he wound around Bear Mountain on narrow two-lane US-6. He thought about his first car, Debbie Dinkowicz, his first girlfriend, and the first time he caught the clap from Blanche Gold because Debbie refused to put out. Blanche was a forty-year-old firebrand slut who followed Borscht Belt comedians from one resort to the next, marking notches on her garter belt. He remembered lying in bed with her after the act had been completed while she entertained him with a list of notable c
omedians who had found their way into her bed: Buddy Hackett and Sid Caesar to name a couple.
“Sid has a cock like a horse,” she had said. “And Jerry Lewis … Jerry only liked to watch.”
Memories made him smile as he sailed up Route 17. He hadn’t made the trip in several years, not since he had delivered the proceeds of sale of the Coney Island house to Jo’Ell. Can’t imagine how big he is now, Bloom thought as he slowed in advance of a speed trap he had fallen victim to once before. Jo’Ell was just eighteen at that time. He was tall with massive shoulders and a barrel chest. He’s twenty-one now—must be as big as an ox.
The proceeds of the old house bought a sizable spread in the Catskills. Jo’Ell now owned a one-hundred-and-thirty-acre parcel on flat ground just south of Lake Cole.
Livonia was standing on the front porch, waving to him as he pulled up. Blunt’s tramp, he thought. Who would’ve thought she’d turn out to be a godsend for the boy?
“I’m so happy to see you, Stuart,” she said. “How is the best lawyer in all of New York?”
She loves me, he mused. And why not—I’m the candy man. I always show up with the checkbook. She still looks good, and her boobs are bigger than ever. Bloom had been on a diabetic diet for almost three years. He had lost sixty pounds and shaved his head. I wonder if she noticed. I’d still like to give her a poke in the pants.
She gave him a polite peck on the cheek. “You must be parched. Come on in, and I’ll get you a drink.”
“Thanks. I’ll take you up on that. What do you have?”
“Juice and soft drinks. We don’t keep any alcohol in the house. Jo’Ell thinks it’s a bad idea.”
He watched as she strolled toward the house, all the while watching the outline of her round butt in her jeans. “Country life suits you well, Liv. You look like a million dollars.”
She smiled at him and held the door while he hurried up the porch steps. “Better stop staring at my ass, Stuart. Jo’Ell’s the jealous type.”
He was right; clean living had changed her. She no longer looked like a junkie’s skank girlfriend. She looked clean and pure. It was as if all the crud had dried up and fallen away.
He smirked. “No staring at your ass. Got it! So no word from Blunt?”
She seemed pensive for a moment before shaking her head. “Nope. Not so much as a picture postcard.”
“So strange him taking off the way he did. I thought he’d try to mooch off Jo’Ell forever.”
She shrugged and misted up at the same time. “He had a bad drug problem, Stuart. I try not to think about what might’ve happened to him.”
“I’m sorry to say it was for the best. You and Jo’Ell have made a nice life for yourselves up here.”
“Thank you. We’ve got orange and cranberry juice and Coke.” She turned her head, awaiting his response, but was still bent over in front of the refrigerator with her proud butt jutting out like the cliffs on the Pacific Coast Highway.
God, she even sounds like a different person. Despite the warning, he was ogling her while he contemplated his choice.
“Bloom!”
Jo’Ell had developed a booming voice. Thinking he had been caught staring, the sudden introduction startled him.
Jo’Ell was a solid six and a half feet tall and shoulder to shoulder as wide as the doorway—his huge form eclipsed the sun in the sky behind him. He lumbered forward and extended his mammoth hand. His head was as big as a lion’s, with a wild mane of natural hair. His odd deformities now blended more naturally into his mature face. The bridge of his nose was still flat and his eyes were still set far apart, but his looks were a bit easier on the beholder. He was still an oddity but no longer a freak. He took Bloom in his arms, engulfing him. “You’ve lost a ton of weight,” he said. His voice still had an adenoid quality, but years of speech coaching had improved his diction immeasurably, and his stuttering was completely absent.
“Yes. Doctor’s orders,” Bloom said. His throat tightened. “I’m so proud of the way you turned out. With all you had going against you … I feel like I want to cry.”
Jo’Ell’s head dropped for a moment as he remembered the terrible years he had spent being tortured by his father. He walked over to Livonia and put an arm around her. “Mom helped me get through it.”
“Go on,” she said, giving him a playful elbow. “I didn’t do a thing.” She smiled at Bloom. “Stuart, how much money did we spend on tutors and such?”
“About half a million dollars.”
“We got the best money could buy.” She fussed with his wild hair. “I knew there was nothing wrong with your brain a bunch of learning couldn’t fix.”
Jo’Ell was embarrassed and pulled away from her. “I just killed a deer,” he bragged. “You ever eat a fresh kill?”
Bloom wrinkled his nose. “Don’t those things have ticks?”
Livonia flipped her wrist. “Go on now—we don’t eat the ticks, silly.”
“It’s much healthier than the Monsanto meat you buy at the supermarket,” Jo’Ell said. “I hunted it with a bow and arrow—just cut it into steaks.”
“I don’t know, the two of you look so healthy, maybe I should try a little bit.”
“There you go,” Livonia said. “I’ll grill while you two talk your business.”
“Okay then,” Bloom said. He picked up his briefcase and faced Jo’Ell. “Where to, boss?”
Chapter 56
Jo’Ell’s den was large and cavernous. It was built under the southern portion of the house, beneath the upstairs bedrooms. The walls were clear oak. Mounted upon them were the heads of the beasts he had hunted and killed: a white-tailed deer, a black bear, a bobcat, and a coyote, to mention a few. A red fox and a gray fox had been stuffed and mounted in their entirety. They occupied the far corners of his large desk like lions outside the threshold of a Roman palace.
Jo’Ell seemed intent as he skimmed over the documents Bloom had given him to sign. He added his name to the final page, slid the packet across the desktop to Bloom, and looked up. “Am I finished?”
“You’re done.” Bloom tamped the pages on the desk, aligning them into a neat stack, and clipped them before slipping them into his briefcase. “You’re twenty-one now, and I’m no longer the trustee of your assets. Your money is yours to do with as you wish.” He handed Jo’Ell a box of blank checks and a ledger book. “You’re still a very rich man, Jo’Ell. Interest and dividends made up for what Blunt spent on drugs and the frivolous gifts he bought for himself. Your cash balance is somewhere just over four million dollars.”
Jo’Ell handed the checks and ledger back to Bloom. “I’m not comfortable with money. I don’t want anything to change.”
Bloom seemed surprised. “Are you sure? I thought you’d be eager to get control of your assets.”
“I’ve got control of my assets, but I don’t want to be a banker. I’m happy with things just the way they are. You write the checks and handle the investments. I trust you. Charge me whatever you think is fair.”
“Are you sure you don’t want to think this over?”
He shook his head. “Not for a minute. My life is simple, and I want to keep it that way.”
“All right,” he said in a breathy voice. “I’ll have to draw up some new papers authorizing me to handle your money and disperse checks. I’ll bill you at my standard rate, if that’s okay with you.”
“More than fair. I don’t enjoy all this legal mumbo jumbo.”
Bloom shrugged. “If you insist.” He reached into his briefcase one more time and withdrew a large manila envelope. He seemed hesitant to hand it over.
“What’s that?” Jo’Ell asked.
“I found some personal things when I cleaned out your file. They’ve been there for so long that I forgot I had them—mostly old pictures and documents that I probably shouldn’t have held onto.”
“Like what?”
Bloom finally handed him the envelope. “Some pictures from when you were young, pictures of your mo
ther and grandmother … your birth certificate and early hospital records. I received them from Steve Dartmouth when I became trustee of your estate.”
“Who is Steve Dartmouth?”
“He was the attorney who brought suit against the physicians who compromised your health.”
“You mean because of the failed abortion?” Jo’Ell asked.
“Yes.”
“But I thought you did that.”
Bloom was surprised by Jo’Ell’s confusion. He’s come so far. Why doesn’t he … Oh. He suddenly remembered that most of his childhood was lost to him. Maybe that had been for the best. His life had been so terrible. His family was murdered, and then there was Blunt. He looked up at Jo’Ell, who had grown up to become a mammoth of a man. Bloom suddenly felt uneasy. I should’ve thought this through, he realized. I’m opening up old wounds. “No, Jo’Ell, that was Mr. Dartmouth who won the monetary reward.” His skin began to tingle, and perspiration broke out across his upper lip. Oh shit! He knew exactly what Jo’Ell was going to ask next.
“When did you come into the picture, Stuart?”
“The court appointed me as your trustee.” Do I dare go any further? It’s too late; the cat’s out of the bag. The wind froze in his chest. Dear God, he pleaded. I need your help.
“Why you?” Jo’Ell asked with mounting curiosity.
“I was …” Bloom began to tremble. “I was Blunt’s attorney.”
Jo’Ell’s eyes opened wide and flashed angrily. “You what?” He seemed more stunned than enraged. “You worked for Blunt?”
“He was your biological father, Jo’Ell, and the court wasn’t recognizing his parental rights after …” In all the years he had known Jo’Ell, he had never asked about his real mother. A recent conversation ran through Bloom’s head. Jo’Ell had put his arm around Livonia and said, “Mom helped me get through it.” Oh my God, does he think Livonia is his real mother? I thought it was just his name for her. Is it possible? Bloom gasped.
Jo’Ell was growing angry. “What aren’t you telling me, Stuart?” he said with the lisp once again noticeable in his voice. The years of speech therapy meant nothing when he was mad and unable to concentrate on his diction. He was once again the tortured little boy using his arms to haul himself across the floor like a baboon. His face took on a wild and frightening countenance.
The Mather Triad: Series Boxed Set (Chloe Mather Thrillers) Page 41