CoverBoys & Curses (27 page)

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.

           
“We both have an early day,” he
said. “How about I whip you up one of my special omelets?”

           
“I don’t have any eggs,” I said.

           
“Okay. How about pancakes?”

           
“No pancake mix, no syrup, and no
eggs.”

           
“Toast?”

           
“Sure. I think I have a toaster. And
the coffee is in the fridge,” I said, wanting him to leave my bed.

           
I’m not certain, but I think Brock
sensed my distance. It was far better that than for him to know my sadness and
fears.

           
I quickly showered and donned yet
another bleak business suit. On some days they suited me well, I thought.

           
As I walked out of the bedroom Brock
pulled me against the wall in the same hall where we had left our ripped off
clothes from the night before.

           
“We need to talk,” he said.

           
I pushed him out of my way. “I’ll
grab some toast but I need to run. Like you said, we both have an early day.” I
scurried to the kitchen.

           
“Shit. The sun is barely up and we
have time. I need you to know that I’m not the bachelor baseball playing hunk
of the year most people think I am.”

           
My eyes rolled and Brock must have
seen the smirk that crossed my face, spreading as fast and long as the tracks
left in the snow by a team of Iditarod dogs.

           
His face turned to a crimson red. I
could see the pulsing of blood at his temples.

           
“Listen to me! I can’t be celibate
but I sure as hell am the best candidate to be monogamous. With you. I love
you.”

           
I fell back toward the toaster,
trying to disengage any connection, I suppose.

           
I said, “You love me as a childhood
pal, but all grown up. Yesterday you thought I should have nails in my garage
and get nailed. That’s what friends are for.”

           
“Damn it again! I love you. I always
have and I always will.”

           
His eyes pierced my heart but it
didn’t sting too much.

           
“Damn it again! Say it or I swear
I’ll walk right out of here and this time I won’t come back. I can’t take it
anymore.”

           
I wanted to say it. I knew it was
true. But I also knew if I spoke those three words aloud Brock Townsend would
be my next loved one to die.

Chapter Eighty

Choices

VICTOR
ROMERO HELD his face five inches from the computer monitor. He studied the
images over and over again. Dr. Nathan Judd, New York City. Dr. Judd Harlan.
Tucson. Dr. Harlan Coal. Los Angeles.

           
They were one and the same.

           
Romero grabbed the phone.

           
“You sitting down, Wray?”

           
“Hell no! I don’t have the luxury.
Not like your retired fat ass.”

           
“For your information, I’m working
my ass off on your investigation.”

           
“What do you have?”

           
Romero told Detective Wray all he
had found, then sent the images over to Wray’s computer.

           
“Sonuva bitch!” Wray yelled. “Did
you hear I’m working on a double homicide that somehow must be connected to
that scum ball?”

           
“Timing is everything,” Romero said.

           
“You’ve got that right. We can’t
place Coal anywhere near the scene. Airtight alibi. And he’s playing all
nicey
-nice with us. Full cooperation and all that shit.”

           
“Get him in for a polygraph if he’s
so damn helpful.”

           
“Already scheduled.”

BROCK
STOOD IN FRONT of me, regaining his composure or at least the tawny color in
his face, until he turned away.

           
“Brock?”

           
“About that self-proclaimed sabbatical
from your best friends.”

           
“What about it?”

           
“You’re making choices, Lauren.”

           
This time I was the one fuming. “You’re
damn right I am. My loved ones don’t get pissed off at me. They don’t move away
to Mozambique. They die! Last time I took inventory I was down to one
girlfriend!”

           
“Life is about choices. Sure, God
gives us our starting ground. We’re born rich, poor, beautiful, ugly, or even
diseased from the get go.”

           
Brock had a younger brother born
with Spinal Muscular Atrophy. Ninety percent of children born with this
affliction don’t make it past two years. Brock’s little brother made it to ten,
and long enough to see his older brother have talent scouts come knocking at
the door after watching him pitch a few games.

           
“You’ve made choices, Lauren” Brock
continued. “You decided to go to university. You decided to major in journalism.
You decided to go it alone and start up your first magazine, sell it for a
fortune, then move here and start up another one.”

           
“It’s not exactly like heading west
in a horse and buggy with Indian arrows flying at you.”

           
“But somewhere along the way you decided
to become a victim.”

           
“No. That word is not in my
vocabulary.”

           
“Maybe not. But it’s in your mind.”

           
“The deaths of my mother, father,
fiancé, and two good friends are not in my mind.”

           
“But you’re allowing those events to
come in and take up residence. You’re making a decision.

           
“Every decision we make come from
one of two roots. It’s either a love based decision, or it’s one that’s fear
based.”

           
I felt my rage escalate. “When did
you become so all fucking mighty? God knows you sleep around with any pussy you
can have for a night, you drink too much and smoke rancid cigars.”

           
“Touché. So I guess you and a whole
lot of other folks would call me a hypocrite because we wild bachelors choose
to call that behavior all part of the human experience,” he laughed.

A
hypocrite and a sleaze ball. You bet! And now with the audacity to try and
lecture me from some spiritual pulpit, I thought. “You might as well be oozing
a snout full of snot. It would be preferable to the verbiage coming out of your
mouth.”

           
“Slanderous. Even coming from you. Don’t
you think I hurt like hell when my little brother died?” Brock’s voice cracked.
“Hell, I had to see him on the sidelines, in a wheelchair, and we all knew I
had a real chance at making it to the big leagues. This was my little brother,
Lauren, and I felt sorry for him, but all he did was clap and cheer and whistle
when I made a good play.

           
“And it killed me when Payton died.
Maybe we don’t know how she died, but it doesn’t take away or alter the pain or
the fact. And then Carly. Dear sweet Carly.

           
“Reconnect with the people that love
you. Your disavowing their friendship is hurting them.”

           
“Okay, already,” I yelled. “Anything
else you have to cram down my throat? Maybe a baseball with porcupine quills on
it?”

           
“As a matter of fact, yes. Let’s
nail this sonuva bitch so-called doctor.”

Chapter Eighty-One

The
Professionals

Brock
made one call and cancelled his physical therapy appointment. He implored me to
do the same with my first meeting.

 
“I have an idea about how to get what we need
from Coal so that you can and will get your sweet butt to the police. With
everything.”

           
Once again his eyes penetrated mine
and I closed my lids tight.
 
There was no
denying I trusted him.

           
I acquiesced and called my office
and cancelled my morning plans. All of them. Then
 
I closed my eyes again and held onto the
countertop to stabilize both my body and my mind.

           
“Let’s take our coffees and go down
to the beach. I need to feel the sand in my toes. It makes for a great pedicure
for you,” Brock said.

           
We walked in a slow silence along
the shoreline—the waves our only steady conversation. We slopped along the
water’s edge, the sparkles of sand and foamy bubbles forming new patterns with each
step we took.

           
“We need to get into that locked
room at The Centre,” Brock whispered, barely audible above the sound of the
waves crashing.

           
“I agree. I think.”

           
“We have to have something to tie
this creep to those photos. And whatever he’s hiding, it’s probably behind the
only locked door on his entire so-called free grounds.”

           
We sat down a few feet from the
surf. “Have you really got a plan?” I asked.

           
“I have the start of a plan. We have
a fireworks home-game coming up, and I’ve got clubroom passes, all the V.I.P
perks we want. We invite Coal and make it an event for him and some of his boys
he has in that cult of his.”

           
“Wait a minute. I never said it was
a cult.”

           
“No protein in their diets, Laurs.
It breaks the body down, and fast. Physically, and mentally, too. The chanting
going on. No privacy.”

“Call it
what you like,” I said.

“He
knows he’d look like a fool or the fraud that he is if he turned down the free
offer for his favorite boys.”

The
thought sickened me. Who would watch those little boys?

“Okay.
Suppose we get the good doctor out to your ballgame. If you’re playing, that
leaves me to do the breaking in?”

“I said
I have the start of a plan. Not a printed manual.”

“So we
come up with one. They buy into it. Then what?”

“I’ll
have security keep an extra eye on them at the game. It’s going to be up to you
to get into that room.”

“Breaking
and entering charges all on me.”

Brock
grinned. “You did say they don’t believe in locks. You might have to plead your
innocence in that you were just trying to help them stick to their own damn
communal laws.”

We made
the turn on the beach and headed back toward my house. I turned to check out
the beach home formerly occupied by Coal’s assistant. The window coverings were
closed tight. There was no sign of life. Literally.

“Hey, last
night when you came home—what the hell were you thinking by attacking a burglar
with a can of old mace?” Brock asked.

“You
want me to become a burglar, but you come down on me for not protecting myself
correctly?”

“First,
I didn’t say we’d steal anything.”

“Glad to
hear you use the word ‘we’,” I said.

Brock
broke off our conversation to make a call. “That’s it. Geoff will take care of
everything.

“And just
so you know, Geoff and I talked about it yesterday. The security company that
guards your office building will be out here starting tomorrow at your house.
Full time. And Geoff will be with you when you go in to get a look at that
wall.”

“You
figured out all of that just now?”

“Like I
said. We’ve been talking.”

I should
have thanked him. Instead I said, “Brock, just what would you have done if
you’d come into my house today and heard me in the bedroom?

“You
mean like ‘heard’ heard?”

“Exactly.”

“Wouldn’t
have gamboled into your bedroom, I guess.”

We
didn’t talk about those three little words, but with Brock’s new plan in play,
I knew he would come back to me without me speaking them. Maybe.

ALONE,
I TUCKED MY head toward my knees and closed my eyes. My hands both fisted as I
accepted the call from Detective Wray.

“What
about Dr. Coal?” I asked.

           
Detective Wray’s response came
quickly, “He’s a person of interest. Turns out Carly Posh had two real estate
holdings and Coal seems to think he’s the new owner of both. For now he’s happy
as a cold clam belly and willing to go the extra mile to help us. He’s coming
in tomorrow for a polygraph.

           
“In the meantime, don’t do anything
stupid. You got that?”

DO
YOU EVER GET that dichotomous sensation that things seem to slow down and speed
up at the same time? That’s how I felt.

           
I made the call from my car while
finding a coveted parking space. Harlan Coal’s voicemail answered, thank god. I
left the message for him that I’d been swamped with a new
CoverBoy
issue. I told him it would be another week or so and then
hoped we’d find some quality session time together. I prayed he didn’t hear
what felt like magpies pecking on the back of my larynx.

           
With my schedule tied up, Coal might
be more inclined to accept the baseball passes. It’s not like I could be that
important to him. But Coal would be up for a game of sticking anything to Brock
Townsend during one of his games. And both games, I now deduced, were being
played by professionals.