Carol (Carol Schmidt Series) (11 page)

There were tears rolling down her cheeks now as she moved right up
to the priest until her shins pressed against the little footstool on which his
feet were resting.

She lifted one foot and let it rest on the stool, and began
masturbating. To her right she heard a sound, but she forced herself not to
look.

Her soft vagina was unresponsive under her fingers, but she
continued, wincing and gulping with fake pleasure as the man beneath her
drained his whisky and puffed on his cigar.

Leaning forward a little, she moved from side to side, letting her
tits swing. It seemed to arouse the priest.

“What else?” he said, laying down his cigar and putting his hands
behind his head.

His cassock now fell completely away from him on both sides, having
been completely unbuttoned. His fat, hairy belly sat there like a dead animal,
and his penis, the foreskin pulled forward, was swaying gently.

“Come on,” he said, reaching down and retracting the foreskin, the
shining head of his revolting organ coming into view.

She masturbated faster, spreading her legs and turning slightly
until she was side-on, her nakedness on full view to anyone who might chance on
them from the archway to her right.

Again, there was a sound.
Come on
, the priest was murmuring,
a hand down at the base of his cock, pulling the skin right the way back,
urging her to take him in her mouth.

Keeping her legs wide, she leaned down, mouth open, eyes closed,
ready to take his full shaft in her mouth. There were still tears on her
cheeks. His body smelled of soap and tobacco and his helmet was glistening.

With her mouth open wide, just inches from his horrible cock, she
paused.

Flash. Flash.

Immediately she was fully upright, fingers spreading her sex, astonished
eyes staring at the camera, tits hanging down. The perfect whore.

Only, she wasn’t a whore.

She was a seventeen-year-old convent girl.

And Don Bonavente would never be bishop now.

In a second she was dressed. The priest was shouting, cursing, struggling
to his feet. There were more flashes. It happened so quickly she hardly saw the
photographer at all, just a figure in black in the archway.

Then a gunshot. Father Bonavente had grabbed a pistol from somewhere.
He let loose two, three rounds, and the photographer twisted, spun on his heels,
and lunged for the door.

In the process he dropped the camera. Another bullet smacked into
the archway, shattering the plaster. By that stage the photographer was gone.

Carol found herself crouched behind an armchair, the camera over on
the floor close to the door. Bach’s
B minor Mass
now reached its finale.
And from the mirror of a dresser on one side of the room she watched as the
priest slumped down onto the footstool, his head in his hands, his big white
belly between his knees.

She was out of the door in a moment, racing down the building’s emergency
stairs, avoiding the lift. Someone would have heard the gunshots. In seconds,
she knew, there would be people in Father Bonavente’s apartment.

As she burst out onto the street, forcing herself to slow down as
she walked calmly away, she gripped the camera close to her chest.

The guy on late-night duty at the first class desk looked her up and
down a couple of times, surprised to see such a young woman turning up at
midnight with no luggage other than a camera. There was an air of suspicion in
his manner, but also something admiring, as if he recognized that she was
special, a girl her age capable of being in Mexico City in the dead of night
yet looking fresh and confident.

She met his stare and returned it defiantly. And in doing so she
realized that she deserved his admiration. What she had just done had taken real
courage, the kind that leaves your guts twisted and your mind in a spin. But
she hadn’t faltered. That’s what the Cardinal had recognized in her, an inner
steel, a will that could not be bent or turned against her. She had finished
the job. Better still, she had gotten the camera.

As she wandered into the First Class Lounge of
American Airlines
,
she knew she’d done it. She’d escaped the convent, and the country.

Grabbing a coffee, she went and sat over by the TV in the corner,
which was on low. A couple in their middle years were there, well dressed,
expensive hand luggage. They invited her to join them, sensing that a woman
girl would not want to be alone all night in a Mexican airport lounge.

They’d missed their flight, they told her, didn’t want the hassle of
checking into a hotel again. It was only six hours until the first flight to
New York. What was her story?

Story?

Carol had no idea.

Her story was ahead of her.

A couple of houses
down a man was mowing the front lawn. They sat in the Cardinal’s large black
Mercedes and watched. The man had taken off his shirt and his torso was honed
and well worked, but a little
full
, the kind of body a naturally stocky
guy gets when he hits forty, no matter how many hours he puts in down the gym.

He was around five-eight, and his hair was thinning, cropped short
to try and disguise the fact. Handsome? Hard to tell. The sun was beating down
on him, and his face was screwed up against the glare as he pushed the mower up
and down the small, neat lawn.

“A lawyer,” the Cardinal said with just the hint of a smile.

He lifted his arm and tapped his wristwatch.

“Two thirty on a Wednesday afternoon, you see?”

Carol nodded.

The street they were on was modest but pretty. The houses were not
very large, and were in a vague colonial style, each one with the exact same
small yard in front. There were trees all the way down the sidewalks on both
sides, and in the air was the faintest hint of birdsong.

You could just imagine a kid on his pedal bike every morning weaving
down here at a hundred miles an hour, flinging newspapers onto porches; then,
people in dressing gowns shuffling out to pick them up, grumbling that they’d
landed on the grass again, that the kid should take more care... Any more
suburban and you’d have needed Dick Van Dyke to put in an appearance.

“Is this one of his regulars?” she said, her eyes fixed on the guy
doing the mowing.

“One of several on his busy schedule today.”

“And every day it’s the same?”

“Some days he never makes it into his office. He has an
extraordinary number of lawns to mow. Quite extraordinary. He also fixes
dishwashers and replaces light bulbs.”

Carol watched as the guy finished up and wheeled the mower over to
his car on the drive. In a second it was in the trunk, and he was coiling up
the extension cable as he walked slowly up to the front door of the house.

A lady with neat white hair was already there, waiting for him with
the unplugged end of the cable. They talked for a minute or two, laughing like old
friends. Then she pulled out a bill and tried pushing it into his hands. He
gesticulated in a friendly way, shaking his head, his hands waving an earnest “no.”
There was something warm and protective about his manner, like she might have
been his grandma or an old aunt.

Finally, he put an arm around her narrow shoulders, gave her a kiss
on the forehead, and was off, talking over his shoulder as he jumped into his
car and reversed out into the street. A toot of his horn and he was gone.

“With any luck,” the Cardinal said, watching the guy’s dark blue
Ford disappear, “he’ll be going home. Gets up late. Lunches late. You know the type.”

Not long afterwards, the Merc pulled up outside a substantial
suburban villa. They were only twenty miles away, but the house prices had more
than doubled. Each dwelling now had its own trees, and the front yards were
bigger, landscaped, the kind of yards that really did need regular mowing.
Right there was the blue Ford, up by the front door. Next to it was a black
Porsche Cayenne.

“Jerry Hobbs,” the Cardinal said. “Friend to the old and needy. One
car for them, the other for him. Nice touch, don’t you think?”

She said nothing, already admiring the house, which was in the
modern Mexican-suburban style, perhaps four or five bedrooms. I bet it has a
monster kitchen, she told herself, wondering whether she’d get chance to cook
something up for Mr. Hobbs. Because she was about to find out whether mower-man
was good company. And, well, everyone gets hungry from time to time.

They waited until he’d disappeared into the house.

“Have you had any thoughts about the other thing?” she said,
quietly. “The thing I mentioned?”

The Cardinal grinned, something that suggested he was rather pleased
with himself, or with her. With
both
of them. For a moment she was taken
aback. It wasn’t often you saw the Cardinal smile, not in
that
way, at
least.

“Yes indeed. I have looked into Mr. Alex Strange in considerable
detail, especially into his dealings with young programmers over the years.”

He left it at that, toying with her, amused at the obvious personal
interest she had in the case.

“Let us deal with Mr. Hobbs here,” he added, sliding the Merc into
gear and moving off. “Then we’ll talk more about your little project.”

*

Jerry Hobbs, Attorney at Law, had an office on the fourth floor of a
corner block downtown. Not the fanciest location, but a decent business address.
There were more lawyers’ name on the wall of the lobby as she ran her eyes down
the brass plaques and found Hobbs, among insurance brokers, graphic designers,
and one or two consultants who offered “solutions” of an unspecified kind.

His office was number 14. That, she told herself as she rode the
elevator alone, was a pleasing coincidence. According to the Cardinal, Mr.
Hobbs had fourteen interesting cases to his name spanning a little over five
years, and that was just in-state. One more and there would have been no
coincidence. Or was it more than coincidence? Sweet justice?

Down the corridor she went, still trying to work out what kind of
solutions were on offer in this particular block. The carpets were drab and
gray, and smelled intensely of pine, as if someone was trying too hard to keep
hold of the cleaning contract.

Number fourteen. A polite knock on the mahogany door and it opened
right off.

“Mrs. Denvers,” he said, a broad, welcoming smile on his face. “Come
in, please.”

He led her through a small ante room, just enough space for a sofa
and a low table, stacked with pristine copies of
Golfing Today
and
Departures
.
His office was larger, but not huge, and there wasn’t a window. Why pay for a
corner spot when you’re hardly ever there?

“Please, take a seat,” he said, as he slipped behind a steel and
glass desk, almost nothing on it, just a phone and a yellow legal pad.

He busied himself with his pad as she got comfy opposite in a
leather chair. She could see how he was conscientiously keeping his eyes off of
her, playing it formal and serious. This despite the fact that she was in a
black silk blouse that was extremely flattering, plus a skirt that rode way up
her thighs as she sat and crossed her legs.

“Find the place all right?” he asked, clasping both hands together
and lifting his eyes to meet hers, his gaze just a little strained as he forced
himself to avoid looking at any part of her body other than her face.

“Yes,” she said, meeting his stare.

He was in pretty good shape, she told herself, now that she’d had a
closer look. Square jaw, just enough fat on the chin to suggest that he didn’t
deprive himself of the better things in life, and a tan to confirm his
commitment to the outdoors, mowing mostly.

“So,” he said, palms open, sweet smile, “what can I do for you?”

“I got your name from a good friend of mine,” she said. “Sadly no
longer with us. Raine Dowler?”

His eyes narrowed, just for a moment.

“Mrs. Dowler, yes. A client of mine. You knew her?”

“Oh, yes. From way back. And she spoke very highly of you.”

The satisfaction in his expression was genuine enough, and it didn’t
seem to convey any great surprise. Yes, his face seemed to say, he knew that
Raine Dowler’s opinion of him had been very high indeed.

Just over a year ago Raine Dowler had died, an eighty-two year-old
woman with no children or other dependents. In the three years prior to her death,
she had taken out a loan against her home on pretty poor terms (the only one
she could get), using a half-decent pension for the repayments. She had also begun
to send cash to a Panamanian charity called
Grace Homes
, making each
donation small enough to avoid raising the suspicions of the banking
authorities, but over a period of time the payments accounting for almost her
entire savings, and including the money freed up by the loan. It was as if Mrs.
Dowler, a life-long spinster, had decided to make a difference, helping to fund
a charity which built homes for poor families in Central America, rather than
leaving a nest egg for the IRS to gobble up on her death.

Grace Homes
had benefitted to the tune
of $160,000, all legally sent to an account in Panama, and now untraceable. Her
house had been left to a charity in her own state, although after the loan was
repaid and legal fees paid, there was not a great deal left. And who charged
those fees? Jerry Hobbs, the man who had also managed Mrs. Dowler’s spree of
charitable giving. The man now looking across his desk at Carol.

“From what Raine told me,” she said, timidly, as if she didn’t
really want to share confidences, “you are an honest person to deal with, and
you might have the, ehm, skills I need.”

“And what would they be, Mrs. Denvers?”

He said it like it was a game. And not one he wanted to lose. There
was intrigue in his eyes, but any sexual excitement at her fabulous body had
vanished now; this was clearly work.

“My husband died recently,” she said, holding up a hand as if to
stop any expressions of sympathy. “He was a shit, and he died because of what
he did. But that’s not relevant, can we leave it at that?”

Hobbs nodded slowly. “Client confidentiality,” he said with a
friendly shrug. He could sense that she meant business, and he wanted it to be
his business.

“My husband was strictly cash-only. I mean,
strictly
. He
didn’t treat me badly. But when he died all I got was a stack of dollar bills.
Well, hundreds.”

“I never heard of piles of greenbacks being a problem.”

“They are when every financial move you make is being watched. My
husband kept this money out of the system. I can’t put it back in. I’m his widow.
And he wasn’t exactly loved by the authorities.”

There was a hint of caution in his eyes now. Money laundering with a
stranger? Shit, no. He was not getting into that. Not a chance.

He almost got up out of his seat, the meeting over.

Almost.

“OK,” he said, very slow, “so what can I do for you?”

 “I just need some advice,” she said, moving fractionally in her
seat and feeling the hem of her skirt move another inch up her thighs. “Nothing
else, absolutely nothing. And, well, that’s covered by client confidentiality,
right?”

“Absolutely,” he said, his eyes now down on her lap and making
little effort to drag themselves back up to a more decent level. It had taken
perhaps a minute, but his resolve was gone.

“I’m not some spy from the IRS or anything,” she said, quite
seriously, straightening her legs and running her hands down her skirt as if
making an attempt to cover herself up. “You can search me for wires if you
like.”

Her smile was so modest it almost hurt. He would have searched her
there and then, across his steel and glass desk. Because however modest that
smile was, the woman sitting opposite him was promising a great deal more than smiles.

*

She arrived as the sun was beginning to set, the sky a dazzling
pink, the evening air warm and just enough breeze to make it feel like silk
against your skin.

“Hi!” he said, opening the heavy door to his villa. “Good to see you
again. Come in.”

He was in Chinos and a white polo shirt. There was the slightest
hint of fat around his waist, but it was outweighed by the toned upper body and
strong arms. There was nothing vain about him; he was naturally solid, and his
butt was firm too, she noted.

He led her into a vast open-plan living area. It was a deluxe
bachelor pad, all leather and plasma screens, but with a substantial library as
well. There was also an impressive collection of whiskeys on an antique table
in the corner. The place smelled of his cologne, not overpowering, but enough
to let her know she was in his inner sanctum, his natural habitat. And she
liked it.

“What can I get you?”

“Whatever you’re having’ll be fine,” she said.

“Two
Pinot Grigios
, then!” he said, disappearing into the
kitchen, which was partly visible behind a couple of pillars, and looked
equally massive. “You hungry?” he shouted as he uncorked the wine. “I have moussaka
on the go, and there’s plenty.”

That was it. The smell wasn’t just his cologne. It was the rich
aroma of fresh herbs. It reminded her of being ba
ck
in
Marrakesh
, w
here she spent a
good deal of her free time these days. And she had lots of free time, absolutely
loads of it. The Cardinal was a demanding employer, but the work was sporadic,
and jobs rarely took her more than a couple of days. In the case of Mr. Hobbs, with
his firm ass and that easy way he had, she hoped it might stretch to three.

He returned with glasses of chilled white wine.