CoverBoys & Curses (25 page)

Chapter
Seventy-Four

Unfinished
Business

STERLING
HANDED ME the piece of paper with an address scribbled on it.

           
“Big Bear,” I read. “It’s not like I
can call their police department on a vague whim of a bad feeling and a
photograph of an elephant statue.”

           
“But you can already prove some sort
of child sexual abuse. From someone!”

           
“And how will that tie into Carly?
We need to find her, first. How did you get this address?”

           
“Some guy came in here wanting to
sell loose diamonds. He said he was a friend of The Centre and that Carly was
doing a big design job for him.”

“You saw
him?”

“No. Dad
took care of it. Later he asked me about The Centre. I told him I really didn’t
know much, but for Harlan. He liked Harlan...

“We’re normally
not a street buyer but Dad quickly deduced that they were good quality stones
with legitimate papers. Still, we take our time. Dad’s insistent on following
his procedures to make sure we aren’t peddling blood diamonds.”

“Did your
dad end up buying them?”

“He
never finished the paperwork. I remember one thing Dad said was that the guy
wouldn’t give him a local address—only this one in Big Bear. That bugged him.
And his name was practically nothing but initials.”

‘Initials?”

“Look
for yourself,” Sterling said, pointing back to the slip of paper she’d handed
me.

“A. J.
Ehmm
,” I read. “And did anyone else around here see this
guy?”

“Nope. I’ve
asked. And I have a bad feeling.”

“So do
I,” I said. A feeling as nervous as a stick in a beaver pond.

Chapter
Seventy-Five

No
Ambulance Required

HARLAN
COAL PHONED Gabriella Criscione.

“Our
relationship is over,” Coal said in a measured and hushed voice, as the dutiful
new servant provided his morning cocktail.

“We’re
family. We’ll always be relatives and we’ll always be the family with the secrets,”
Gabri replied.

“Not if
someone digs deep enough,” Coal said.

“I think
they’re digging our graves, good doctor.”

“I’m
sick and tired of cleaning up other peoples messes.”

“I
forked over several million dollars in leads to you,” Gabri warned.

“And
you’ve made as much in those leads,” he warned.

While
still listening to his angry outburst, Gabri decided she would host an intimate
dinner party that night. Even for a few guests. She sharpened the knives and
then began tackling the venison, with the phone cocked between her ear and shoulder
and listening to the rants coming from the other end.

It mattered
not what Coal had to say.

As
always, she would cut her own meat. Her servants would prepare and serve and
take no credit.

STERLING
REGRETTED THAT she couldn’t leave the store. She protested too much. She almost
rambled in her graveling. I knew she was bone dry scared.

           
Again Brock came to the rescue. He’d
be a handful on the 100-mile drive to Big Bear, loathing his aching shoulder
all the way. Loathing the fact he was benched. Still, he proved to be the
better driver.

           
The navigational device led us straight
to the driveway of what I’d call a mansion cabin. Like none other I’d seen.
Carly’s van was at front. I sighed with relief. A black jaguar had pulled in
behind the van. All good. Given the late hour, maybe Carly had finally found
her Romeo. I felt better. I made myself feel better. I’d already been
calculating how to ask Carly for her forgiveness that we interrupted her
private time.

 
          
After
ringing the bell and knocking on the door and having no answer, Brock turned
the doorknob to find it unlocked.

           
My concerns over any apology
careened to the porch stoop.

           
I guess Brock moved in ahead of me.
I remember both of us calling out for Carly. I remember thinking all about me.
I’ve just entered a stranger’s home. Breaking and entering. And I remember thinking
about the Visconti Curse. My very own curse. And I thought it was time for me
to be a savior, damn it!

           
Brock grabbed my arm. Of this, I am
certain. He shoved me back toward the front door and I resisted all the way.
And I was glad I lost.

           
“Get out of here. Call 911. Tell
them two people are down and we need ambulances.”

           
I obeyed. I had hoped for the
adrenaline rush we all see in the movies but instead I got a slow motion film. And
no cell phone reception.

           
Brock appeared out on the front
porch. After understanding my shock and inability to place the call, he tried
from his phone.

           
Now he didn’t ask for any
ambulances. Only for the local police.

ANOTHER
LOVED ONE had died.
 
We were four
girlfriends, then three, and now two.

Brock escorted
me to the front pew. After all, Carly was his grade school friend, too. Carly
had long ago abandoned the notion of making amends with her family. No
representative of the family appeared.

           
Sterling showed up for the service
in a draping black dress that covered her arms, legs, and even her lacking
cleavage, usually trumped up with jewels. Perhaps death was getting to her,
too. We were morphing into God knows what. My world had already spiraled down
from down.

           
We’d all noticed Detective Wray at
the back of the church. As the service drew to an end he stood still in the
same spot. Only the slightest nod indicated he wanted a word with me. Sterling
and Brock followed.

           
“I know my timing stinks,” he said.

           
“Good. That’s one thing you got
straight,” I said.

           
“No good time for these things. I
understand you knew the deceased male,” he said.

           
“It depends on your definition of
the word
knew
.”

           
“Ms. Visconti, I need some answers.”

           
“Not here, Detective Wray. Please.”

           
Wray thumped on his unopened writing
pad. “I thought this was one of your best friends. And you found her. I mean,
if that’s true wouldn’t you want to tell me everything you know, and as quickly
as possible. Our killer may be catching a jet to Malaysia by now.”

           
I backed into the corner of the
church. Wray, Brock and Sterling all followed.

           
“Wait a minute. What killer? I
thought you had this one figured out. The man raped Carly, she stabbed him with
the only weapon she could find, and then he shot her dead. Am I missing
something?”

           
“I want to know about the man.”

           
I gulped. I held my breath. I bit my
bottom lip to keep it from quivering. I couldn’t hide my eyes refilling with
another stream of tears.

           
“Ms. Visconti, you’ve yet to tell me
what you know about this place called a center. You’ve left me flying and flitting
around like a bat without sonar.”

           
“But these deaths and their causes
are explained, right?”

           
“Yes. But we still have no ID on the
male. No driver’s license. The Jaguar turned up as stolen. Did you know this
man?”

           
Brock tightened his grip on my arm. He
whispered in my ear that maybe it was time for me to get my lawyer involved.

           
“I don’t know him, but I think I’ve
seen him”.

           
I turned to ask for Sterling’s help
since she had the Big Bear address. She had disappeared from sight.

           
As if reading my mind Brock said,
“We got the address from Sterling Falls. She has all the information on this
guy.”

           
“All false. A phony name. Probably
heisted diamonds. And that address at Big Bear? It’s tied up in an estate
probate. The owner died almost a year ago.”

           
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.”