Death at the crossroads, p.48
Death At the Crossroads, page 48
part #2 of A Camelia Belmont Mystery Series
Maricopa County Superior Court is real, and I’ve spent way too many hours there over the course of my legal career; however, the attorneys, clients, and scenarios portrayed are fiction. Likewise, the law firms of McCaffrey, Rhodes & Rodriguez, AndersLaw, and Sherman Wright are all fictitious.
The Arizona Women Lawyers Association, of which I am a past president, is a supportive home for women attorneys, particularly those who aspire to the bench.
Paradise Valley Police Department is real; however, Det. Jose “Moony” Luna, Waylon “Tank” Sherman, and the circumstances portrayed are fiction.
Durant's is a fabulous RatPack kinda place, popular with the legal community. I’ve enjoyed a lot of great steak dinners there and yes, you enter through the kitchen. The Henry has a wonderful, fresh-yet-homey feel and is the perfect spot for hanging out with colleagues and friends. El Chorro and The Hermosa Inn have two of my favorite patios for summer evenings lingering with friends. For takeaway, two of my faves are Pizza Heaven (the BBQ Chicken Pizza is making my mouth water just thinking about it) and Duck & Decanter (try the Creamy Herb Chicken Salad).
Paradise Valley Country Club and Phoenix Country Club are both real golf clubs.
Addiction, substance abuse, and mental illness are rampant within the legal profession. Coupled with the systemic misogyny in the field, women are even more severely impacted, both personally and professionally, by these challenges. My insights on this problem are here: https://bit.ly/DonisonOC
None of the characters in this story are real people (even though some of these characters sure think they are!) and none of these events actually happened. However, two characters were influenced by real people. Dr. Carlos Chavez is inspired by the delightful, compassionate Arnold R. Lopez, LCSW. Cate Sanchez is inspired by the most talented, funny, brilliant legal assistants I’ve ever worked with: Mary Sanchez, Diana Garcia, and Cathy Skiles Chavez.
As Suzanne Anders came to life on the page, real women were on my mind. Two sweet souls in my circle—a beloved friend from law school, and a dear client—died as a result of ovarian cancer. My sorrow over their loss drove me to spotlight that insidious disease as a message to my mystery loving sisters to not ignore the little warning signs. While Suzanne Anders isn’t based on the tragically short lives of either woman, I like to think my memories and their beautiful spirits infused the fictional Suzanne with some of their grace and joie de vivre.
About The Author
Pamela Donison, JD, has been a writer in one iteration or other her entire life. Currently a practicing attorney, she is a former award-winning military journalist and acquisitions manager for a division of Harcourt Brace. Her work has been published in numerous legal periodicals, as well as chapters in three legal anthologies.
Pamela writes under the pen name PJ Donison, because . . . bias exists. https://pudding.cool/2017/06/best-sellers/
Her first full-length novel, Death Comes For Christmas, is a soft-boiled murder mystery set in Regina, Saskatchewan, and the origin story for Camelia Belmont, an aspiring female investigative attorney. Death At The Crossroads is the second in the Camelia Belmont Mystery series. Pamela is currently working on Death Of The Butcher, set in Valencia, Spain, her current favorite city on Earth.
Her short fiction has been published by The Dillydoun Review, Drunk Monkeys, and the anthology Crime Wave 2: Women of a Certain Age, published by Sisters in Crime, Canada West Chapter. Her short story “Tontine Dream” will be in Crime Wave 3: Dangerous Games, coming in October, 2024.
Pamela is a member of Sisters in Crime and is the 2024 President of the Canada West Chapter. She is also a member of Crime Writers of Canada, Writers Guild of Alberta, and the Pacific Northwest Writers Association, as well as a member in good standing of the State Bar of Arizona. Pamela and her spouse, Brian, live most of the time in Lethbridge, Alberta, the traditional and unceded territory on the ancestral and traditional Indigenous territories of the Blackfoot and the Metis Nation of Alberta, Region III.
Email her at hello@pjdonison.com.
Enjoy this excerpt from
PJ Donison’s next novel,
DEATH
OF THE
BUTCHER
A Camelia Belmont Mystery
1
Finis Mors
The End is Death
Sunday, March 10
Claudio Abarca methodically chopped bursting ripe tomatoes at his kitchen counter, tossing them into a shallow bowl as he went. A half kilometer away, El Micalet, the 485 year old bell at Catedral de Valencia, rang the hour: one o’clock. He crushed cloves of garlic with the flat of his blade, minced them, and stirred them into the tomatoes. He ground fresh sea salt over the mixture, maybe a bit too much. Finally, he drizzled his best olive oil, a gift from a wealthy parishioner’s private olive press. Just as he pulled a fresh barra de pan from its paper bag, a rapid knock interrupted his meditative meal preparation.
He wasn’t expecting anyone. Not today. Not on the Sabbath.
He wiped his hands on a faded dishcloth and slap-slap-slapped toward the door in his worn slippers. The only person who would show up like this . . .
“Enzo! I wasn’t expecting you—” Claudio began.
Enzo pushed past him, agitated, twitchy. High on something.
This isn’t a good idea.
“Yes, but I’m here, aren’t I? I’m here and I want to dance. I want to eat a lot of food. And then I’ll let you fuck me, padre.” Enzo’s cold smile revealed twisted teeth, one canine missing. He hummed an unfamiliar tune, ran his hand over his hair, and did a little shuffle. “Dance is over. I’m hungry.”
Enzo was wound up and it scared Claudio to be alone, in the sanctuary of his home, with a drug addled freak.
“Where’s Ivan? Does he know you’re here?” Claudio was much more afraid of Enzo’s dealer-pimp-boss than he was of Enzo.
Enzo shrugged. “He’s at the beach with some of his Russki friends.”
One less idiot to worry about.
“Why don’t you shower while I finish making lunch?” Claudio extended his hand toward the bathroom. “By the time you’re done, I’ll have a feast ready.”
Enzo sniffed an armpit. “Good idea. I smell like a cabro.” He kicked off his boots, dropped his jacket on the couch, and headed toward the bathroom, just off the bedroom at the back of the apartment. “I won’t be long.”
By the time the bathroom door shut, Claudio’s mind was spinning out of control. Enzo could be dangerously violent. He knew because the man had shown up more than once with bloodied fists and swollen, purple bruises on his face and body. His back bore a pale scar from the forty-six stitches required to close up a knife wound from a street fight.
With the thought of the knife, Claudio hustled to the kitchen as fast as his 76-year-old legs would carry him. He pulled open a drawer and extracted a long, thin boning knife, then scurried to the bedroom. He pulled up the corner of the mattress and tucked the knife in, blade first. Only the end of the handle was visible, which he deftly covered with the duvet.
Just in case.
He wiped the sheen of nervous sweat from his upper lip and hurried back to the kitchen. Claudio sliced the bread and chorizo, then scooped olives into a dish. The chicken roasting in the oven wouldn’t be ready for another half hour. He set a second place at the table.
He glanced at his phone. Should he call someone? But who? Who on earth could a Canon of the Roman Catholic Archdiocese of Valencia call at one in the afternoon on a Sunday to complain about his current favorite prostitute showing up high and unannounced? Who would take that call?
No, Claudio was on his own.
He took a long sip of cold, crisp Verdejo. Maybe the shower would calm Enzo down, soothe whatever chemical beast was riding him today. He heard the water stop and braced himself. He poured a glass of wine for Enzo, and placed it on the table in front of the second plate. He ran thick hands over his broad face and down the back of his nearly-bald head.
Tranquilo, tranquilo.
Enzo—with his dark eyes and permanent smirk, curls slicked back, muscles taut under smooth brown skin—reminded Claudio of an otter as he strolled through to the dining area wrapped in a towel. He pulled out the chair opposite Claudio and plopped down, wriggling his pinky in one ear.
“The shower was just the thing, padre. I feel like a new man,” Enzo grinned and held up his glass of wine. “And I know how you like a new man every now and then. Salud.” He took two deep gulps, draining the glass.
Claudio chuckled and passed the bowl of tomatoes. “The chicken isn’t ready, but we can start with the salad.”
Throughout their meal, Enzo talked, rambling off into neighborhoods of slang unfamiliar to the old priest, but Claudio understood the gist of it. Enzo . . . well, actually, Ivan had been promoted, and his new role came with a new boss. A ballena, a big whale from St. Petersburg, higher up in the Tambovskaya than the last guy. They were expanding their reach, moving beyond the city, into the villages and small towns west, down the coast. And they needed names. Lots and lots of names. The type of names Claudio had already been passing along, but now they wanted them from more towns, all the way to Malaga and beyond. They wanted to own the Spanish coast. But they needed mourning relatives if their Pig Butchering operation was going to be a success.
Claudio nodded and listened as Enzo stuffed his face, washing mouthfuls down with a second bottle of wine. The man had an enormous capacity for food, yet barely an ounce of fat on his body. No doubt the meth helped. As he talked, his towel slipped away, and Claudio stole guilty glances at the dark puff between his legs. Finally, Enzo pushed his plate back and wiped his mouth on the faded cotton napkin.
“Gracias, padre,” Enzo said.
He pulled the towel together and, grabbing a pack of cigarettes from his jacket, stepped onto the sunny balcony. Claudio tidied up the kitchen, watching through the window as smoke curled around Enzo’s sharp face.
Enzo was a disgusting piece of shit who deserved his eternity in hell, but Claudio was almost as addicted to Enzo as Enzo was to everything else: nicotine, caffeine, alcohol, oxy, meth, sex. But today, Claudio felt a seismic shift in their dynamic. Enzo was no longer afraid. No longer in thrall to Claudio. This new boss, Alexsei Petrov, had given Enzo big ideas about moving up in his vile criminal business, and it could only mean trouble for Claudio. Potentially fatal trouble, if he didn’t deliver.
And Claudio knew he couldn’t. He was already mining the Diocese for every dead property holder he could find, and he had no authority or plausible reason to obtain that information from other dioceses. What excuse could he possibly give? The only thing he could do is what anyone could do: read the obituaries. He would be rendered useless. And useless people did not survive the harsh winter of Russian mafia discontent.
He could feel, already, the dry taste of the words in his mouth. The weak and helpless resistance he might try to offer. The steely grip of Ivan’s meaty hands—
Claudio flinched as Enzo’s arm fell across his shoulders.
“I’m clean, I’m full, I’ve already danced, and now . . .” Enzo whispered. “How about a little pleasure, then business.”
Claudio heaved a sigh, despite his arousal. He wished he didn’t want what he wanted so badly. He leaned into Enzo’s shoulder.
“It will be our last time, Enzo. I’m going to Rome next week, like I told you. And I don’t know exactly when I’ll be back.”
He followed Enzo to the bedroom, and their ritual began. First, the defrocking of the priest. Enzo stripped him down, methodically removing each layer of clothing. If this were olden times, the church would remove Claudio’s vestments—those heavy, ornate robes that marked him as a holy person—just as Enzo was doing this afternoon.
Afterwards, curled into himself, Claudio’s shame and self-loathing brought on waves of rage. He looked over at Enzo, already sleeping. Even though he was in his thirties, with his hair falling in soft curls around his face in the fading afternoon light, Enzo looked like a Renaissance boy. But he was no innocent niño. Enzo was an addict, a whore, a street-dwelling swindler, probably a sociopath. A dangerous piece of shit. There was only one clear way out of this mess.
Claudio rolled over and quietly slipped the blade out from between the mattress and bed frame. He clutched the handle with a prayer on his lips, rehearsing his actions in his mind. He would roll over and, without hesitation, shove the boning knife into Enzo’s neck, slicing the artery. He would press his pillow over the wound to absorb the blood. He would wait for Enzo to expire. It wouldn’t take long. He would call the police and report the home invasion, the struggle, the rape, the self defense.
He released a long, slow breath and rolled back towards Enzo, who was staring at him with a leering grin.
Claudio tried to hide the knife, but he was too late. Enzo laughed as he pried the knife from Claudio’s knobby, arthritic hand.
“And what did you think you were going to do with this?”
“Nothing . . . I . . . it’s for protection, when I’m alone. And I realized it was here, by the bed. I only meant to move it back to the kitchen, but I didn’t want to wake you,” he stammered.
“And what if I don’t believe you?” Enzo ran the tip of the blade across Claudio’s lower lip. “What if you’re a liar, and you meant to cut me?”
“Why would I hurt you, Enzo? You’re my darling, you know that.”
Claudio started to rise, but Enzo pushed him back and rolled onto him, straddling him. He tossed the knife back and forth between his hands, laughing.
“Yes, but what if you’re not really going to Rome? What if you’re not really going anywhere?” Enzo stopped and glared into Claudio’s eyes. “What if you actually want to kill me? To get rid of me? To show the new boss that you’re the real boss?”
“What are you talking about? I don’t know anything about your boss, and I’m not trying to get rid of you. And of course I’m going to Rome. The Vatican called us in for committee meetings. I’ll be back when it’s over. Three weeks. A month at most.” Claudio’s mouth was dry, and he struggled to swallow.
“What if I told you not to go?” Enzo’s hands were on his hips, his face suddenly contorted into a mask of fury, his voice rising to a shriek. “Claudio! We need you here. I’m ordering you not to go!”
“Don’t be a child. Of course I’m going. It’s the Vatican. For the love of God, I can’t tell them no.”
“But you can tell me no? Your darling? Your beloved?” Enzo was leaning over Claudio, screaming into his face. “I’m the one who gives you every disgusting thing you want, but you will tell me no?”
“Enzo, I give you things as well—”
“Give me twenty five names and five thousand euros, you filthy maricon, and you’ll never see me again.” Enzo licked his lips. “Or take your chances with Ivan.”
“You know I can’t just come up with names out of thin air! I have to screen every family, make assurances, introduce them to Tomás, grease the wheels.” Claudio tried to reason with him, but Enzo’s dangerous mood was kicking off again. It was making Claudio anxious, but he wouldn’t let on. “And I don’t have five thousand just laying around. You know damn well I’d have to go to the bank for that kind of money. And get off me. You’re too heavy to be sitting on me like a baby.”
Claudio tried to push him off, but Enzo was too strong. He pinned Claudio’s arms and leaned over him, screaming.
“I’m not your fucking baby, padre! I’m no one’s baby. I’m a motherless bastard, and I’m the new fucking boss. You don’t give me orders. Not now. Not ever again!” His face was red and his eyes were darting around as if shadows were chasing him.
Claudio froze in terror, squeezing his eyes shut as tears drained down his temples. They’d fought before, and it often got loud and physical, but nothing serious. They’d traded a few slaps, once or twice a forceful shove. But today felt different. There was a new, nihilistic edge to Enzo this afternoon.
Enzo’s palm connected with Claudio’s face in a stinging reminder.
It’s the Sabbath, for the love of God.
But Claudio knew he deserved it. The older man began to cry, silent sobs racking his shoulders.
Then, without warning, in one swift movement, Enzo crushed his pillow onto Claudio’s face.
“Stop fucking crying. Who’s the baby now, huh? What’s that Claudio? I can’t hear you!”
Claudio kicked, he clawed, he tried to flip the younger man off him, but it was no use. He was pitifully weak compared to fighting-fit Enzo.
Claudio’s last words were a torrent of muffled screams that no one heard. As he dragged in a mouthful of wet cotton and feathers, desperate for one breath of air, his heart spasmed from the oxygen deprivation. Claudio’s life left the room on the afternoon breeze, rustling the curtains as he went.
Claudio was off to meet his maker. The only question was, which one?
# # #
The scent of sardines sizzling in olive oil and onions wafted through the vents, into the dim hallway of the building. But even the tantalizing stench of Señora Fernandez’ mid-day meal couldn’t mask the other smell sneaking out from under the door.
Death.
Fidel Lombardo fumbled with the mass of keys in his beefy paw, trembling with dread over what they would find in Father Claudio Abarca’s modest apartment. He’d assumed Claudio was in Rome. The old priest had been bragging to anyone who would listen that the Vatican had called him in for something or other. Fidel tried to recall the last time he’d actually seen Father Claudio. Was it last week? No. It was a week ago Sunday. They’d passed at the front entry as the priest returned from mass. Nine days.
The two Policia Nacional officers at his elbows were crowding him, making it even more difficult to find the right key. Couldn’t they see he was nothing more than an honest superintendent, trying to help? Couldn’t they be more friendly in their inquiries?
