Ari stared at the now-empty alley way. He knew Josh thought he’d become soft, but he hadn’t. Now that Bianca was back in his life, he thought it might be a good idea to think more about his own karma. He wasn’t sure if anything he did at this point was going to affect it, but he had to at least try. For years he’d heard Kelsey talk about Xanadu, but when he’d stepped through to Aihika and had seen a foreign world in a different dimension with his own eyes, he’d gotten a clarity he’d never had before. He realized that his life’s actions meant something. That there really and truly was a path for his soul. For the first time in his life, he admitted to being scared that maybe how he’d acted recently might come back to bite him in the ass. He felt his back tighten with stress when he thought about Kelsey’s descriptions of the hell realms. He rolled his shoulders and tried to shake it off. Perhaps his future plans could affect his future karma. He could only hope.
Ari wondered what was going to happen to him now, because he was sure something would. It was how Josh operated. Things didn’t just “end.” The last time they had a big fight, Ari found the Internal Revenue Service on his tail about the funding for a philanthropic organization he chaired at the time. Everything had been accounted for perfectly, but Josh had sicced them on him just to make his life difficult. The guy thought that was funny. Funny as a heart attack.
I really need to consider getting new friends. Hopefully, Josh would realize Ari was right. He’d calm down, and things would get back to normal. For now, Ari would finish up the final preparations for the Middle East, and then in the morning, he’d drive out to see Bianca.
After that, he’d put the new plan in motion and in fifty years, the face of the Middle East would be forever changed.
That is, if Josh didn’t screw everything up.
Chapter 7
Richard Bain reclined in the upholstered wingchair and nursed his scotch. He was just biding his time. Kelsey and Desmond had been holed up in their hotel room for hours now, and he was not too patiently waiting for them to make an appearance. He glanced at the Glencairn Whiskey Glass in his hands and put his nose to it. The smaller tapered opening was perfect to smell the bouquet of this decadent drink. A twelve-year old, Johnny Walker Black Label Deluxe Blend Scotch Whiskey. It didn’t get much better than that. He didn’t enjoy a lot of things in life, but a good Scotch did the trick.
A woman played some George Gershwin tunes on the piano in the corner. Not too loud, not too soft. It was nice. He took a sip. He had to give the Craggs points for their top-shelf liquor and presentation on everything they did here at the hotel. But the place definitely wasn’t his style. He eyeballed the reception area. While the furnishings were a testament to the Craggs taste and wealth, he preferred a minimalist approach. His apartment in New York City and his home in Los Angeles were austere visions of glass and black leather. Not this excess where every single surface was covered with lace, tapestries or knick knacks that did nothing but require people to dust them off. It was more than a bit claustrophobic and nothing matched. He felt like he’d walked into some eccentric old lady’s home who had dementia and a hoarding obsession.
He finished his drink, and for a brief second forgot about the stifling motif and let himself enjoy the lingering complex flavors of the scotch. There was so much in this single, final sip. The flavors came in layers. The hint of apples, then malt, and then the lingering spices of vanilla and ginger that remained on his palate. He put down his glass on the end table next to him and watched the two chicks making out by the bar. He knew they were doing it just to annoy him, because every now and then one of them would glance his way and wink. He turned away and stared at the flames in the fireplace, trying to be patient. He let himself imagine the things Kelsey was doing to Desmond in the hotel room and knew that if he were in the guy’s place, he might never let her leave their bed.
The bartender, a pale, burly, soft-spoken guy named Herb, came over and brought him another drink. He couldn’t keep the staff straight as to who was who. Some were the Craggs, these pasty white family members with long, skinny faces and overly round blue eyes, and the others were dark skinned from some Polynesian country. Whatever. Most of them looked exactly alike once you divided them into the two basic subgroups, so he didn’t bother getting to know them. He didn’t plan on staying here long enough to care. And the cosplay costumes? Corsets? Really? It would be nice if the staff were hot, but they were either rail thin or overweight, and he felt they all looked ridiculous in their dress-up uniforms.
“Mr. Bain, I saw you finished your drink. You seem to be a man of discriminating taste and I thought you’d enjoy trying this one. It’s a Speyburn Arranta Single Malt and sweeter than the other one you were drinking. Personally, it’s my favorite.” Herb handed Bain a tumbler, this time filled with a rich golden liquid.
Bain raised his brows in surprise. “Thanks, I appreciate it.”
He took a sip. This one was definitely sweeter. He could detect honey and spice. He rolled it on his tongue, and the faintest hint of vanilla again lingered on his palate. He put the drink down, knowing that he could get drunk later. Right now he needed a level head.
Ah, finally. Kelsey and Desmond had decided to grace everyone with their presence, and they strode into the lounge. Bain had to admit that Kelsey Porter was even more beautiful in person than in the scant few photos he’d gleaned online. Finding out what this woman looked like before he’d come up here to confront her had proven harder than he expected. She was apparently an elusive, private woman who kept a low profile social media presence, which seemed odd for someone her age. In fact, it was nearly unheard of. There was not one selfie, lip puckered, nudie bathroom shot to be found. No Facebook, Twitter, Instagram or other social media accounts touting the normal exploits shoved out for all the world to see. And he’d definitely searched. He’d found a high school yearbook photo, a tae kwon do tournament shot from when she was a kid, and one photo of her graduating from college that had appeared in a local paper.
The couple stood by the fire, and Desmond stroked Kelsey’s back affectionately. She was wearing a body hugging black dress and heels that made her legs appear like they were a million miles long. Damn, she’s pretty. Kelsey turned slightly, and Bain noticed a tattoo on her lower left leg. Some symbol he didn’t recognize. He thought it looked Egyptian, but he couldn’t tell. What is it with this generation and tattoos? He had none himself, his aversion to needles being the main reason.
Absently, he took another sip of his drink and tried to figure out a way to find out what he needed from her. Deep in his bones, Bain knew Mickie Laruso was not Misterio. He’d never had a case go so very wrong, so very quickly, and he was damned if he wasn’t going to figure out why. It wasn’t just because he lost the legal trial. He could care less that his stellar reputation was at risk with the public. That meant nothing to him at all. The lawyer job had always been just a cover. What mattered was the work he had done undercover for the FBI on this case. They’d been tracking Misterio for the past year. If he could find Misterio, that Senior Intelligence Officer position they’d been dangling in front of his nose like a carrot, was his. The celebrity entertainment aspects of the job, the buff body shots, the gossips and rumors he sometimes intentionally fueled himself, were just fodder to distract people from who he really was. Society had sunk so low and was so depraved these days that you could be the biggest asshole on the planet and people would eventually forgive you. How many disgraced former wife beaters, killers and drug addicts were now superstars with adoring fans willing to forgive any transgression? How many politicians sexualized women, mocked disabled people and told racist jokes, and yet were still considered presidential material? He’d contemplated slipping a sex tape out with him and a Playboy Bunny to get more attention, but at the last minute, changed his mind. His team at the FBI would never have let him hear the end of it and the legal ramifications were something he didn’t want to even attempt to deal with.
Bain took another sip. The thi
nk tank at the FBI felt certain Misterio was tied into the horticultural biotoxin-related deaths related to the terrorist factions in the Middle East. Someone had found a way to poison entire populations by putting some unknown agent in the water or in the soil, and the FBI was determined to get to the bottom of it. He wasn’t personally upset that they were hitting terrorist strongholds, but the question was what else were they capable of hitting? What was Misterio’s ultimate plan? How far would he go? What was his agenda and who was he working for? Would it start in the Middle East and then extend to the terror networks outside the area? Worse, what if the toxic bioagents spread, or hit the wrong water supply by accident? If it even was an accident? What if it leaked into Israel? This potential threat could compromise the security of the United States, Europe, and every other nation aligned with his country. It could take the entire fragile network down.
The FBI had assigned him to the case to find out clandestinely as much as he could. Landing the job with Mickie had been a perfect way to gain intimate knowledge from the inside out. Bain was amazed at how much evidence had been stacked against Mickie. It was too perfect. Some significant money, networking and power had to have come into this to make the case as tight against him as it was.
Bain turned his scowl back to the lesbian couple across the room as they continued to do their best to irk him. Fine, he’d play the part. Let them think he actually cared. He didn’t in the least. His gold-digging bitch of a wife had left him recently for her personal trainer, Tammie. Little did his wife know that he’d been banging Tammie on the side for the past year. Now he was free of both of them, and good riddance. They had no idea how happy he was. Got them both out of his hair in one fell swoop. He’d fired Tammie and paid his wife off for a quick divorce. They’d never had kids, so that was one headache he didn’t have to deal with. He let her keep the house, the hyper-spastic Chihuahua, and the Porsche, and now he was a free man again.
He watched Kelsey sashay around the room and vaguely wondered if she was into celebrity lawyers. She’d look amazing on his arm when they went out on the town. The entertainment magazines would have a field day with her. I wonder if I could get her into bed? Something about her pulled at his being, and he couldn’t quite put his finger on what it was about her. Why her, over all the other glamour models and actresses that threw themselves at him? It had to be some sort of pheromone she excreted. He actually believed in all that new age shit.
Desmond and Kelsey now chatted with Samantha and Kathryn, and then Dorothea shimmied her round, short hulk up to them. The woman disappeared like a grape into her purple ruffled dress. The corset shoved her breasts up so high she could probably touch them with her chin if she bent her head down. They made Kelsey’s seem small by comparison. Man, this was one weird place—that was for sure. Just five rooms booked in an enormous rambling hotel like this? Each room costing no less than fifteen hundred a night? He didn’t care that there was a blizzard outside and some people didn’t make it up the mountain in time. Something was off.
Bain let his thoughts drift to the letter he’d gotten hand-delivered to him the very week after he’d lost the case. He’d still been reeling from how quickly the entire thing had come down. It just didn’t happen this way. These cases dragged on for months, if not years. But within a week, all the evidence poured in, and suddenly Mickie was lifted to the top of the pile, jury selected, and it was over. The judge had refused most breaks, and made them speed through the process like her demon robes were on fire. It was unheard of. He had never seen anything like it before, and it would be completely unbelievable if it weren’t actually true. They treated this case like it was some paltry age discrimination suit and not a national, and potentially global, terrorist investigation. You’d have thought Mickie declared right off the bat that he was guilty, but he hadn’t. He might as well have. They treated the entire case like he was guilty from the very start. He’d have to check and see if Judge Powell ended up purchasing a second yacht or beach house in the near future, because he knew paying her off, and other people in her circle, was the absolute only way to have gotten this done so quickly. But the legal system was ridiculous. Rapists getting out of jail after three months, and a guy dealing a small bag of dope getting twenty years. Nothing made any sense anymore.
Still, that letter he had received changed everything on his end. He’d been in the office, filing yet another motion to reopen the case when some snot-nosed teen delivered him a packet. He hadn’t even wanted to tip the kid because he smelled so bad, but he only had a ten and the kid grabbed it and fled, probably thinking Bain would have asked for change. Bain was glad the kid left quickly, because when he’d opened the package, what he discovered inside were photos of a greenhouse lab with flower blooms he’d not ever seen before. He wasn’t a botanist, but something about this plant gave him pause. The roots of this one particular specimen were growing in the water of a small aquarium. The aquarium itself was filled with dead goldfish.
When he’d consulted with an old girlfriend who was a botanical toxicologist who could keep secrets, she was concerned. “Richard, those flowers look like they’re Monkshood, or Aconitum plants, but on steroids. See how the flower petals resemble the cowls worn by monks? But these are bigger and not the signature blue/purple flowers but the deepest, darkest black I’ve ever seen. Normal flowers don’t look like this.”
“So where did it come from?” he’d asked.
His ex had shaken her head. “I can assure you there are no other specimens like this on earth right now. The sheer size and deep, dark color, and everything about them makes me think of a species that must now have to be extinct. It’s just too damn big. Where did you get this picture? It’s fascinating, but frankly, terrifying.”
“If the photo is even real,” he’d said. “Let’s pretend for the moment that it is. So, this Monkshood plant, if it existed, is dangerous?”
She blew out a harsh breath. “Richard, every part of the Monkshood plant is poisonous, especially the roots and seeds. And a specimen like this? Definitely. I’m certain those fish died because of this plant. As to the extent of the toxicity of it, I can’t possibly know unless I get my hands on a sample to test it. But I guarantee you, if it’s real, it’s deadly. Let’s just hope it’s a brilliant fake.”
But Bain hadn’t thought they were fake at all. The photos depicted city landmarks in the background, and varying images of New Jersey locations across the Hudson River. He started to investigate and found an abandoned pier standing on the exact spot that he could match to the location in the photos. He’d found the building, broke in, and discovered definite traces of recent activity in the basement. Bags of potting soil, broken beakers, and a cracked ten-gallon aquarium that now sat empty. A few more discreet calls and he’d discovered this particular dwelling was owned by a young woman named Kelsey Porter. It wasn’t her only property, either. Turned out that she had properties all over New York City that she rented out. And it turned out many of them used to be old warehouses. Bain’s inner alarm went into overdrive.
A bit more research showed him that this girl was also rich, although he learned much of her money had been originally acquired from insurance policy payouts she had received after her parents had been murdered when she was a child. He couldn’t find much about the case except that they’d been in Tibet at the time. He found that bit of information more than disturbing. According to his old girlfriend, plants like this one in the photo were put to deadly purpose all over that particular section of the world. In Nepal, the roots of the Aconitum ferox were used as a poison called bikh. In China, they used the toxin for hunting and warfare. Heck, the plants were found in Tibet as well. Was this girl cultivating them for some nefarious activity linked with her parent’s connection to Tibet and pinning it all on Mickie Laruso? Who the hell was she and why didn’t anyone know about her? Was she Misterio? This young, beautiful girl? Unlikely. It was more likely she was romantically linked to Misterio and was helping him to cover up his tracks
.
Either way, Bain was determined to find out. So, he’d started to track her, and the connections between her and the case were startling. First, she was dating the very cop who had been appointed to lead the case in New York City over the past year. And two, that cop had disappeared for a few months during a key time period of attacks in the Middle East and then returned with no plausible explanation of where he’d gone. What the hell was that about? Bain had a gut feeling that Desmond Gisborne knew a lot more than he was letting on. Cops on the take were something he was quite used to, and he despised them with a passion. His dad had been a cop for twenty years and been framed for a crime he hadn’t committed. It had gone all the way to trial and his parents had bankrupted themselves paying for his defense. The day of sentencing, his father killed himself before they had the chance to put him in prison. They had eventually found the man responsible for the crime and cleared his father’s name, but that did nothing to bring the shamed man back from the dead. That bitterness hung over his entire adulthood like a pall.
Bain eyeballed Desmond as he paraded his girl around the lounge. The area rug was so thick, it was a wonder Kelsey didn’t fall over the way her spiked heels sunk into the fabric. The photos he’d found of Desmond did do him justice. He was built and fit, just like his dossier showed. Bain also knew Desmond was intelligent and educated. His mind raced with possibilities. What if Desmond was working with Porter to frame Mickie, and then had used these plants in the Middle East? Maybe Desmond was even Misterio. Wouldn’t that be something? What a perfect cover that would be. A cop, on a case, hunting for himself. No wonder he never caught him. Hard to catch yourself, isn’t it, Detective Gisborne?
The Haunting of Cragg Hill House Page 9