Ch. 3: Mal's Dinner Guest
August 2 | Dusk
When would the video interview end? With a vacant smile, I glanced at the unfinished paperwork cluttering my desk out of frame. The contract on top reminded me, I had things to discuss with my "benefactor," Darcy Cyprian.
"Ms. Ashivant, one last question," Letty Chandler spoke from my laptop. "No one can argue that the pro bono work done by Ashivant, Ashivant, & Claibourne has positioned your firm as a heavyweight in the prison reform and abolitionist circles, but off the record–"
I rolled my eyes, unamused. "Ms. Chandler, you know I don't believe in anything off the record. That's against my religion." My younger sister, Cherie, giggled at my comment. "Hush," I mouthed around a grin. She went back to chirping to her songbirds in their gilded cage.
Cherie's flaxen-haired identical twin, Ava, was draped on a nineteenth-century sage green settee nearby. She handed me a glass of wine. We were in our home office in Ponchatoula, miles from the New Orleans rat race. My sisters knew public relations made me testy. Hence, the premium bottle of Sine Qua Non.
With an exaggerated sigh, I took a generous sip. On camera. To hell with Letty Chandler hating to do clean-up in post production. "Are we almost done? You promised this wouldn't take more than an hour. You may have time to kill, but I'm a busy woman." I made a point of checking the clock as I picked up Darcy's contract and gave it a blase scan.
"Okay, then, on the record." Letty's voice sharpened to a filet point. "Everyone knows you didn't personally take on Jack Slozovik's charity case–"
"Slobodnik," I corrected her.
"Anyway, you always leave the grunt work to your subordinates in New Orleans. So, as a busy defense attorney, do you feel any remorse for getting paying clients like that mass murderer Stratford Bingham released on a technicality?" she asked.
My lips curled as I leaned toward the webcam. Did she want a soundbite? Letty and I had history, and she liked me about as much as I liked her. Ava lurched to her feet, seeing the sparks fly, but she wasn't swift enough to curtail my response.
"Remorse? No, Letty. I think congratulations are in order," I said.
"What she means, Ms. Chandler," Ava barged into view, "is that our firm believes justice was served, and Mr. Bingham, an innocent man, was exonerated. If you'll excuse us, that's our time. Ashivant, Ashivant, & Claibourne thanks you for the interview." Ending the stream, she tossed her blond bob in mild exasperation. "Damn it, Mal. You have no goddamn filter."
"Now, Ava, you saw what happened." I touched a foot to the vibrant rug covering the mahogany hardwood and swirled around in my office chair as she strutted back to her seat. "There I was, benignly answering her asinine questions, when she baited me."
Ava narrowed her eyes. "Oh, is that what I saw? I thought I witnessed you going for blood against your college-era nemesis." She let out a chuckle that Cherie echoed.
Maybe it had been mean of me to allude to Letty's flagging viewership and declining media spots with that dig about her having time to kill, but the woman was an entitled bully. She had spent the better part of the taping trying to paint my pro bono defendant as someone who "fit the profile."
I tucked away a smile of agreement with the twins. Yes, I had gone for blood against Letty, but that was our business, and we had a guest. I gave a nod to the client idling at the backgammon table across the room. Cherie tucked a lizard she had gotten from somewhere into her pocket, and skipped over to our visitor, while I answered the phone vibrating against the ceramic planter of the pothos on my desk.
"Mal Ashivant speaking."
"Mm, I always forget that you sound as delectable on the phone as you are in person," a silky male voice replied.
Lips tightening, I straightened in the high-back leather chair. "Careful, Darcy. I bite back." I softened my inflection. "Anyway, you're just the person I wanted to chat with. I'm reviewing the contract we signed on the first, and I wanted to confer with you on the benefits."
"Your pro bono has RSVP'd to the party I'm throwing next Friday. Phase one is a go. Have your car pick him up at eleven, and clear your schedule. You'll be his escort," Darcy Cyprian spoke over me.
I paused at the way the billionaire, commanding his investments from his metropolitan condo, thought he owned me, too. "About that contract. Upon completion of our arrangement, the law firm needs to stand independent of you."
"Of course, beloved. Once I get what I need, I won't require your services any longer. Make sure Jack is treated to an unforgettable experience."
I caught Ava's eye as I lowered my voice to a whisper. "You know I'll do my part, Darcy. The question is, will you do yours? I want the deed to the house, full control of the firm, and Cherie's trust fund relinquished to me. Are we clear?" Ava swirled her wine with a subtle nod. I inclined my head to her.
"Never doubt me, pet. Did you enjoy the treat I sent you?" he asked.
My gaze slid to our guest, engrossed in a one-sided flirtation with a disinterested Cherie. He was paying no mind to my conversation. I returned to the call. "Getting to it as we speak."
"Then, don't let me keep you. Bon Appétit," Darcy signed off.
Swiveling and rising from the office chair with a teeth-baring smile, I eased on my heels and smoothed the jacquard pantsuit. "Terribly sorry, Mr. Bingham. When we invited you for dinner, it seems we double-booked. Thank you so much for being patient," I greeted our visitor.
"No apology necessary. I wouldn't have missed a private invitation to y'alls place for another pardon. You girls didn't go to too much trouble getting ready for me now, did you?" Stratford Bingham burrowed weasel-like eyes into the hills and hollows of my body as I drew near.
With a smarmy grin, Ava culled his attention. "No, you're no trouble, Mr. Bingham."
"I can be trouble if y'all want me to be," he drawled. My sister offered a glass of wine, which he took as he sized her up. Her thin body wore a dusky rose midi dress to perfection. "To what do I owe the pleasure of this invite? What can I do for you ladies?"
She settled on the slate gray ottoman at his shins, forever the coquette. "Well..." She let the word linger and flicked a glance at me. I halted beside his chair. Cherie parked her elbows on the backgammon table and rested her chin on her palms, staring at the man.
Deceptively handsome and charming as a rattlesnake, Bingham ate up the spotlight. He couldn't imagine a woman finding him less than irresistible. I couldn't imagine a woman getting near him without gagging from his narcissism. His inflated sense of self was a weakness.
Smiling at Ava, my lipstick smudged his earlobe as I leaned in with an intimate question. "Before we dine, Mr. Bingham, there's one thing I've been dying to ask. Now that you're legally free and clear, I can finally get an answer. What really happened the night of the murders?"
Bingham lifted an eyebrow and met my gaze. "You into that kind of thing? I'll be damned. I knew you wanted me from the moment you stepped your fine ass into that investigation room, Ms. Ashivant."
"Please. Call me Mal." I traced the cleft of his chin with a fingernail sharp as Letty Chandler's indignation, and he shivered, eager for he knew not what. A high-pitched giggle escaped him. LouLou, Cherie's pet wolf resting by the cold fireplace, raised her head with ears pricked in his direction.
"It's funny 'cause when I thought I was headed to death row, my silver lining was the fanmail I'd get. There's one thing I know about women." Bingham raised a finger, as if he were an authority on the subject. "Y'all love murder and mayhem. The darker, the sicker, the better."
His gray eyes sparkled with elation, going from face to face. His rapt audience of three was all ears. "It makes y'all feel alive, doesn't it?" he asked. "Makes you remember your primal nature. 'Cause deep down inside–in a place most females are too scared to examine too closely–what y'all want is somebody who dominates, someone who reminds you the only reason you're still breathing is 'cause you've kept him happy a little while longer. Ain't that right, Ms. Ashivant?"
"I bet you threw the gun in the canal." I ran a hand along his shoulder.
He grunted a laugh. "Wouldn't you like to know? Some secrets are coming to the grave with me, sweetheart. Enough came out in court, like how I shot them execution style. Not my proudest moment." He didn't sound remorseful.
I floated to the other side of the murderer's chair, and my shadow darkened the olive and mint damask wallpaper behind him. "Yes, even the two-year-old," I remembered.
Coward. I smiled broader to keep from revealing my true feelings. This man had destroyed an entire innocent family to get to the petty drug dealer he was actually trying to take out. The motive? To avoid paying what he owed.
Bingham puffed up with pride at our seeming interest. "Alright, y'all want to know a secret? I made the parents watch me pick off the kids one-by-one," he bragged. "That's a detail that never came out. I know that was heartless, but I needed to set an example. I bet the rest of the Rivieras know not to bite the hand that feeds them now. This is Bingham country."
Nodding, I perched on his lap, and his eyes widened with delight. "I mean, you and your kin kept a lot of money flowing to that cartel. What was a tiny debt between friends? Diablo Riviera never had to put the screws to you in the first place."
"Girl, there's something about you. Most people don't understand, but you get me." Bingham shook his head in wonder.
"Of course, I do. My sisters, too. That's why we called you here this evening." I gestured at the twins, who murmured assent. Across the table, Cherie tucked her feet beneath her to hide her squirming anticipation. Fireflies of mischief winked in her eyes. Ava's stylish aplomb hardly wavered. The only hint of her excitement was the way her velvet tongue swept wine-stained lips. Both maneuvered closer, cats stalking in the grass.
I wound my arms around his neck, peering into his spiritless eyes. "I was simply curious. A smart guy like you with so much money and clout. You could've hired some thug to do your dirty work. Why put yourself through the hassle?"
His voice went hoarse with need. "Mal Ashivant."
"Why kill the Riviera family? What threat did they pose to you and yours?" I asked.
"No threat. Not much can threaten me. Got no family, no vulnerabilities. When I was eight years old, I had a kitten that stole my heart. Know what I did? I drowned it in a bucket of scalding hot water to toughen up."
My gaze darted to Cherie at that detail. Her eyelid ticked, and her smile wavered before snapping back brighter. He would regret revealing his ambivalence about hurting animals.
"You're looking for a valid reason, but I did it because I could," Bingham admitted. "I wanted to know what it felt like to kill a man, and with y'all by my side, I imagine I can get away with anything. I think y'all are just like me."
As I stared down the double barrel of his gaze, I unspooled powers he would never understand, nor live to ponder, and there in the chamber was his heart, flint and gunpowder in his arteries. Most hearts glowed yellow-white, traced in burnt orange or livid red, but this man's organ was as black as his soul, beating a death knell for his next victim. Rehabilitation was nowhere to be found in the muscles and sinew. Every breath Stratford Bingham breathed promised he would kill again. He got off on others' suffering.
I almost shuddered away from his depraved thoughts. "Do you know what they say about an idle mind, Stratford?" I asked as I rose from his lap.
He laughed crudely. "It's the devil's playground, and I'm the devil, baby."
"And I am the djinn." I moved in, and the twins rose along with me.
"What?" he asked.
"Djinn," I answered. "Eaters of souls."
Suddenly, his throat closed, and he gasped, clambering at the table in a panic. Backgammon pieces scattered to the floor. His hand went to his neck. He tried to speak, but he couldn't. Bulging veins mottled his sclera as he clutched at the invisible vise crushing his windpipe. His feet backpedaled against the rug. His chair clattered to the floor as his struggling body levitated.
Three pairs of irises went opaque with flames. Wind gathered. Disintegration started at his farthest extremities. Silty metaphysical particles rushed from his fingertips and shoes and made a dervish around him, whirling and swirling. I lifted my head with a hungry smile. My hair whipped around my face.
The drifts of colorful sand flew to paint canisters beside Ava's easel. She calmly produced a brush and wet the tip with her tongue before dipping it into her shade of choice. She began painting a barren landscape with the fading matter of our victim's soul.
I meandered to a shelf where my kamancheh, a four-stringed instrument similar to a violin, was. Bingham's agonized screams coalesced into a melancholic composition within my head, and I began to play. Eyes closed, fingers plucking the cords. The dust of his soul vibrated around the strumming bow as blank sheet music blossomed with the notes as if by magic.
Lithe Cherie fluttered in and out of the heavy drapes cloaking the tall office windows. She was a saffron butterfly or a nimble breeze, dancing to the singular choreography of the mass murderer's demise. Flashes of her yellow dress, pale as limpid dawn, flickered in the shadows and lamplight. Her laughter was lost in the gale of feasting. Sometimes nearby, sometimes hauntingly far. Sometimes as if from nowhere at all.
By his destruction, we created. We took our time. The strings of the kamancheh released a plaintive cry that climbed with intensity. Puppeteered by the music, he was a writhing fixture of dread above us. Against the cathedral ceiling with its luminescent fresco of the heavens, his body became art, and in the background naked hosts, rendered modest with baroque folds of fabric and gauzy clouds, provided contrast.
Either a trick of the light or foreboding brought the rest of the mural to life. This was the dark mysticism of the house.
When the empty carcass plummeted to the floor with a sickening thud, the remaining particles of his soul dissipated to nothingness. The body was present, but the soul had been obliterated. Servants, cued by the precipitous silence, materialized to take the corpse away. He would be carefully disposed of–a car accident, a drug overdose–anything feasible for the life Stratford Bingham had led.
The monster had miscalculated in trusting Malice, Avarice, and Debauchery Ashivant. The three of us turned to the hourglass in a case on the bookshelf, and my sisters and I watched as a grain of black crystal fell to the bottom half of the timekeeping device. In the top, only one crystal remained.
Jack Slobodnik's name was written all over it.