Bye Bye Bones (A CASSIDY CLARK NOVEL Book 1)

by Lala Corriere

  He had just pulled out his checkbook to pay the locksmith when he heard the familiar sound of the vintage Porsche. Jessica Silva had decided to pay him a visit.

  “What are you doing here? And where’s the P.I. I hired for you?”

  Jessica slinked her trim figure over to within kissing range of Jaxon’s face, then flipped her long black hair across his face.

  “Nice to see you, too. And in my not-so mathematically inclined vocabulary, P.I. means pi, and that’s an irrational number, at best. I told your dick-buddy that I was driving directly here and then on to the station. Here, I made you lunch and you’re welcome.”

  Jaxon’s wide smile revealed sparkling teeth that matched the sparkles in his green eyes every time he was with Jessica.

  “He’s not a private investigator or a piece of pie. He’s security.”

  “He’s probably parked at the end of your drive. Now, tell me what’s going on.”

  Jaxon gave Jessica an embrace and a kiss, long on the pull, and gestured her inside. Grabbing two plates, utensils and a couple of seltzer waters, they went out on the side courtyard. The sun wouldn’t be as intense but the weather had changed. Even in February, some days were warm and the exterior ceiling fan would be welcome. As an added incentive, Jaxon wouldn’t have to look over the spot where his dog had taken his last breath. He made a mental note to add that to the gardener’s list. A flowering tree needed to be planted on that spot. From the thermal bag, Jessica pulled out a platter of her homemade lasagna. A bit heavy and hot for lunch out in the heat but he could never resist it.

  “You know me. When I’m nervous, I cook. And you made me plenty nervous last night.”

  Jessica knew all about the stalking ex-wife and her insane antics.

  “There’s more,” Jaxon said.

  Her spatula dropped to the travertine tile floor when she learned that Gecko was dead.

  “Gecko’s dead? She killed him?”

  “I believe she did. All of this security is a precaution. Sandra has a way of going after anything and anyone I love. And you can bet she’s heard about you.”

  Jessica bent down to clean up the lasagna sauce.

  “Gecko is with the vet right now. He’ll provide us with the evidence we need. While I can’t prove it was her, I can prove poison killed him. The police can’t do one damn thing about it but I sure can.”

  His cell rang. Out of habit Jaxon glanced at it and then grabbed it.

  When he hung up, his skin was gray and the smile had hardened to a clinched jaw.

  “That was my security man, and by the way, let’s call him Marcus. He’s at the end of the drive and Sandra has driven back and forth four times. The alarm company is coming up the drive.”

  “That should scare her off,” Jessica said.

  “Or get her riled up,” Jaxon replied.

  Chapter Four

  ONE OF MY FOREVER best friends, Tracy McClendon, called me for an urgent spa day at our favorite resort. I felt her earnestness and readily agreed. The weather had turned. We were back in the high seventies. Perfect for my kind of a winter day.

  Tracy, an African-American with a size perfect body and beautiful hair that she left in natural curls, would lick my wounds while making me feel like I was helping her.

  We found it surprising that our careers didn’t comingle more often with me being a detective and she a news reporter for a local station. The reason was she usually worked the south side and that didn’t involve me. Translated, she worked thefts, home invasions, gun violence and gang crimes fueled primarily by drugs.

  She had great news to share. Because of her arduous work on her news stories, the station was promoting her to the investigative reporter position.

  She also had bad news to share. Her husband of ten years had filed for a divorce.

  Shocked, I managed the words, “You two were so perfect. Are so perfect.”

  “I’m not that perfect in his mind.”

  “That’s impossible,” I said. You have both been blessed with a beautiful child. How old is Tessa now? Six?”

  “She’ll be seven in June and you’re expected at the party bringing balloons, the cake and your exceedingly dry wit.”

  “What am I missing?” My knees obnoxiously shook under one of the blue and white striped umbrellas at a patio table by the spa’s pool. The more divorces I heard about, the more I knew wedding bells weren’t for me. Enduring one bad marriage was enough.

  “I saw the tides turning as I turned into the total woman, or so I thought. I have a great job, I’m a good mom and with all the conflicting schedules I managed to have a clean home and his favorite meals prepared. If it was about sex, I was there for him.”

  “Then, what?”

  “I couldn’t be the one thing he wanted most. I couldn’t be white.”

  “Crazy! Call it a quick mid-life crisis. Let it go. He loves you.”

  “She’s the second white woman he’s been with.”

  “You’re pulling out an imaginary race card that doesn’t exist.”

  “I’m thirty-five-years old. I know my culture. A black man gets himself a white woman and she’s instantly a trophy. You’ve seen it. O.J. Simpson. Seal and Hiede Klum. Khloe Kardashian. There’s a lot more out there, but you take a black woman marrying a white man, and unless he’s mega-celebrity, it’s like the guy is stealing their women. My sister was whipped raw on her behind when she brought home a white guy for supper.”

  “That was a long time ago, Tracy. Things have changed. Embrace and acceptance is now the norm.”

  “Not that long ago. It’s still taboo here in certain circles. I know it sounds ridiculous but I promise you, even today it’s true. I can’t compete.”

  On some dark level, I knew she was right. And it made me sick. On another level, she was so wrong and stuck on the receiving and giving end of racism. Maybe I could break down those archaic ideas of hers if I did the research and could convince her of the facts.

  SANDRA VICKERY tossed her keys on to the ultra-modern chrome and glass table she had paid six-thousand dollars for, then threatened to dump it on the interior designer’s driveway when she saw one similar to it advertised for half the price. It pissed her off. She got revenge with the fresh cow pie she anonymously had delivered to the woman’s home.

  She poured the first drink. She hated vodka but remembered Jaxon had been fond of it. Even with his inflated income, the bastard couldn’t afford what she was importing in by the cases.

  She rambled off a vituperative soliloquy but even the massive walls of her estate weren’t listening.

  “The bastard! He has the audacity to think he can stop me? He thinks he can cut me out of his life? If he thinks that, he’s more ignorant than I thought.”

  She slugged down the smoothest in all the world vodka, but still choked. She poured another.

  And another.

  The ranting did not abate. Now she was yelling at her father, no matter that he had been dead for nearly five years.

  “Goddamnit, Daddy. How could you do this to me? Leave me like this? You leave me this shit-pile of money and no love? What the hell am I supposed to do with it?”

  She reached for her cell phone. Threw it back down. No one to call. Back to Dad.

  “Seriously? You made your damn fortune in pool supplies? Over eight-hundred stores in the country and that’s what I have as my legacy? Couldn’t it have been oil or land development or hotels? I’m the heiress to a fortune that pimps fucking pool supplies?”

  The vodka hit her veins, swiftly seeping into her brain via her empty stomach. In the total darkness, as Sandra Vickery stretched out on her récamier, she heard the voice of her daddy’s ghost.

  “Of course, Daddy,” she slurred. “Money is power and cash is King. I have all that I need to make me Queen.”

  As she spoke those words again, a wicked laugh from deep inside her throat escaped to show she was delighted with her poetry.

  In the dark, with fingers as limp and uncontr
ollable as her numbed mind, the words would be barely legible come dawn. She scribbled down her list:

  More money to police departments. All the political campaigns: judicial, mayoral, and gubernatorial. Schools and hospitals. Police and sheriff departments.

  That’s good. Lots and lots of charitable contributions. Stand-out donations to food banks. Now she was on to something.

  Jaxon would be hers again. He had to be. If only she could bear his child. God, she hated that, or she would have him forever. She would forgive him his sins with the women he screwed after their divorce. As much as she loathed him, that is also how deeply, and the only way, she could feel that enthralling, inflamed and consuming love for him. He was her destiny. She was his. But to make that a reality, she needed an enhanced plan.

  “Honor and obey. Right! Just like the meek shall inherit the earth. I say an eye for an eye. And that’s biblical,” she whispered, before crawling up the stairs and collapsing on her brass bed.

  Chapter Five

  I MET MANNING AT a locally-owned restaurant, Hifalutin. Away from distractions, the place screamed the southwest with western art and mesquite wood tables, funky lighting and a happy staff, I frequented the place. Sans Manning. We chose to sit outside on a quaint patio with equipale furniture.

  Manning’s shoulders drooped as he took a seat across from me. He let out a low, long sigh and picked up the menu without so much as looking me in the eyes.

  “Okay, what gives? You aren’t your same old sorry ass self.”

  “I’m tired, Cassidy. And damn frustrated.”

  “But not defeated. I’ve looked over the files,” I said.

  “That means you’ve stayed up for three nights scouring every letter of every word. Give me your take.”

  “I’m sorry. Right now zip on the sleep and zip on any take. I’m bringing Schlep into the equation.”

  “That has-been cop wannabe? Shepard something?”

  I tossed my menu down on the table and rolled my eyes. “Shepard Brown, and he likes to go by Schlep thanks to you guys in the department sending him out on ridiculous gopher runs that you called an assistant desk job. He figures out things in that brain of his, Manning. And I’m not seeing anything. I need to go back to your board. I’ll bring Schlep in and you leave us alone. All day, if need be.”

  “If he’s your guy, he’s good enough for me as long as your fee doesn’t double,” Manning said.

  “Fuck you. That fee. You make me laugh which is a chore this early in the morning.”

  “When are you going to ditch your potty mouth, Cassidy?”

  “It’s part of my charming personality. And how I can best convey what I think of you, my sorry asshole friend.”

  “You have this funny thing you do,” Manning told me. You are mean and ornery but when you say something you think is clever you lift your shoulders up to your ears, dive your head down like a turtle and let out a tiny giggle.

  “Peachy!” I said. And then, before I could catch it, I did that turtle thing again.

  AT DAWN THE NEXT morning, I sat with Schlep inside the magic room at the police department that held the board of knowledge although we still knew absolutely nothing. As Manning had agreed, we had the room for the day. And tough-guy Manning had arranged for coffee, juice and donuts, all spread out on a side table for our informal summit. The gesture was nice. Still, I wanted to sneak in a painter with some color other than the prison gray that covered the walls.

  The board had victims and suspects, with a little room to scribble down theories. The only items on the board were the photographs of the missing women, ages, dates missing and from where and occupations.

  Arduous? No. Productive? No. We reviewed files and stared at the board. Nothing had been added prior to my first visit except the first-tier of the leader board no one wants to be on now listed the earliest possible victim; the eighteen-year-old seeking her real estate license with her entire future ahead of her. With liberties, we added a few more limited facts. I wanted to find any connection between these women.

  Manning sent in lunch. Dry and unhealthy sandwiches but that was his way of coddling us. No doubt our retainer fee would be delayed.

  At three o’clock as I was getting restless, the synergy between Schlep and me hit a wall. We looked at each other, both comprehending we noticed what was there for us to see all along.

  We emphatically understood that none of these women would have entered a stranger’s vehicle without duress. Among the differences in age, race, wealth, locations, working women or socialite status, there was one common thread. None of the women had children.

  “Whatever we have or don’t have, the victimology is consistent,” Schlep noted.

  Nodding to me, he quickly left to do further background on the women, hoping to find something else that might further link the victims.

  Excited, I called Manning in, asking him to sit in the chair Schlep had vacated to view the wall.

  “What’s the connection?” I asked.

  “I’ve given you all I have. There’s none that I can see.”

  “Look at them, Manning.”

  Manning grunted, frustrated by my challenge and scuffing his cheap leather shoes under the cheap metal chair.

  “Damn it, Manning, you’re a guy. They’re all very pretty, don’t you think?”

  Manning’s face turned a slight shade of crimson and he said, “Well, yes. They are. Beautiful. So, what are you saying? Rape? Being held hostage somewhere? Hostage wombs?”

  I shook my head. “We have no bodies. We really don’t know if a struggle was involved because there’s no DNA under any fingernails. There are no fingernails. We can only theorize that their good looks come into play and sexual aggression may have been a motivation. They’re also quite small, or even with the taller ones, they’re thin. Maybe not too much strength.”

  “I’ll go with being chosen to breed,” Manning surmised.

  I nodded. “Maybe. What are the feds doing?”

  “They’re only interested in the congresswoman. They have their hands full hunting down her political enemies of which she has plenty. That will keep them busy for a while,” Manning said, bringing his hands up to scratch at the unruly hair at his temples.

  “And out of our hair,” he added.

  “Like someone really wants to climb into that mop of yours,” I laughed.

  WHEN SANDRA VICKERY opened the beautiful Papyrus card delivered to her front door, she was uncertain. She didn’t have many friends except for a few who got money from her. This was not an invitation to a fundraising gala. There was no return address.

  After reading the card, she laughed, grabbing a cigarette and a Mimosa. An invitation from the bitch, Jessica Silva. The whore wanted to meet her for a late lunch at a local resort.

  Delicious and perfect, Sandra thought.

  SANDRA SHOWED UP twenty-minutes late but Jessica didn’t mind. The citrus trees were in full bloom. Their fragrances graced the air. The grasses were green. Early March marched in with no last chance of frost in the high desert and the songbirds agreed with the schedule.

  Jessica, already seated out on the patio, stood to greet her guest. She extended her hand which was not accepted.

  “I guess I’ve been summoned,” Sandra said, patting down her Chanel skirt.

  “I thought it would be good to meet in person, rather than me seeing your car drive by my home and the television station almost every day.”

  “Observant of you.”

  Jessica cleared her throat, her fingers forming a steeple in front of her as she held her chin high. “I’ve ordered a bottle of Merlot. Will you have a glass?”

  Sandra snapped at a nearby waiter and ordered call vodka. “I don’t consume anything that will stain my teeth. Now, amuse me and cut to the chase. Why are we here?”

  “To the point. I like that. Not that we couldn’t be enjoying the waterfall and the flowering trees and delight in the birds,” Jessica said.

  With pursed lips
, a forced smile came across Sandra’s face. Her voice was remarkably calm and well-paced, masking the tenacity of the words she was about to say. “I know everything there is to know about you. You’re a lame reporter only getting by on your good looks to be a news anchor. And you’re sleeping with my husband.”

  Jessica threw her back against the chair for support. With her posture perfect and her ponytail of black hair falling straight down the nape of her neck, she replied, “You are divorced. I know that. You know that.”

  “It’s a piece of stupid paper which will be replaced with a new marriage certificate. One piece of paper. Does Jaxon know you have arranged this meeting with me? Or did he send you to do his dirty work?”

  “It wasn’t his idea if that’s what you’re asking. It might have been quite the lunch if he could have joined us but he’s busy getting a restraining order against you. That’s why we could meet today, but not tomorrow, because there will be one from me, too.”

  “Another couple of ridiculous pieces of paper,” Sandra snapped.

  Jessica took a small sip of the Merlot. She paused while she pulled at her long hair before finally saying, “Why do you mean Jaxon harm? It’s been two years. The marriage is dissolved. Why harm Gecko?”

  “Stupid dog.”

  “I take it you aren’t fond of Gecko?” Jessica asked.

  “He was a wretched dog. Sometimes I think Jaxon loved that damn dog more than me.”

  Jessica resisted the urge to scream. She put her hands back to form the steeple, this time leaning forward to rest her chin on top of her fingers.

  “You used the past tense. Now, how would you know that Gecko died? It wasn’t exactly in the news and I didn’t say anything to you.”

  Sandra knocked back her vodka, unflinching. “He’s a past in my life.”

  Jessica glanced at her cell phone. A second text message. She smiled and eased her posture.