Murdered by Success Read online

  The combination of the two of them was quite strange. Connor looked like he should be her assistant, not vice-versa.

  The dynamic got even stranger when he scurried back to Julita, his face crumpled with concern. He spoke to her in hushed tones. Then Julita spoke for him. “Connor would like to know how long the staff has been working here and if you’d trust them with your life.”

  Liz found a smile from somewhere, even though she felt a little disturbed. There was something very strange about all of this. “Yes,” she said. “I would. You don’t need to worry about anything.”

  He laughed then, so loudly that it made Liz jump. It was a hearty, grown-man’s laugh that didn’t look like it could come from such a small body. “Worry?” he said, incredulous. “I don’t do worry. Come on, Julita, let’s go inside.”

  He took charge and led them into the upper level of the lodge. Liz followed along, feeling like she didn’t know if she was coming or going. “Yes, we can do a quick tour of the lodge first, then I’ll show you to your cottages.”

  CHAPTER 2

  Charlotte Moynahan sat in the California mansion she’d thought would make all her dreams come true, feeling thoroughly miserable. She stared at her reflection in the dressing room mirror.

  Normally, she was the type of woman who really made an effort with her appearance. She’d arrange her afro hair into beautiful twists that bounced on her shoulders, or have it braided and sew long straight black hair on top for a sleek look. She always had her nails done, and her makeup was always perfectly applied with expert contouring.

  But now? All of that felt so worthless and unimportant. She wished she could curl up into a ball and rock back and forth, but the baby in her womb was so big now that had been an impossibility for months. She couldn’t even tie her shoes anymore, so her favorite high-end sneakers had been replaced with anything that would slip on, like moccasins, mules, or sandals.

  But the troubles of pregnancy were minimal. In fact, she rarely ever thought of them. Instead, her thoughts were consumed with Connor.

  “You’re too young to get married,” her mother had warned her when he’d proposed. They’d both been eighteen and had only dated for a few months in high school. He’d gotten down on one knee at the senior prom and proposed to her.

  Connor hadn’t been the most popular guy in school because of his insatiable drive and relentless pursuit of success. He always said he was allergic to average. Other people said he was a jerk who wouldn’t get anywhere, because he was so blunt and rude. He needed to be patient, they said. He needed to slow down, and “live a little.”

  But Charlotte had seen the spark in him and accurately predicted it was a marker of his future success. He just did not give up, no matter what. She recognized it as the same spark she’d seen in her father, who had started from nothing and was now the managing partner of a very successful law practice with over fifty branch offices located around the country.

  Her father had mixed feelings about Connor. Charlotte could remember their Big Conversation, as if it had happened yesterday. It was on the day Charlotte discovered Connor’s secret, the thing nobody at high school knew.

  For some time, Charlotte had bugged Connor to meet his family. He’d said he had a regular mom and dad, and a regular little brother who went to a regular middle school. They lived in a regular house, and had a regular dog.

  But he’d never invite Charlotte over. She couldn’t understand why, and one day she burst into tears, saying, “You’re not really serious about me, that’s why. You’re ashamed of me, aren’t you? That’s it, isn’t it, Connor?”

  “No,” he’d said. “Of course not. That’s just ridiculous.”

  But nothing he said could convince her. Eventually he sighed, and looked down at the ground. “Okay, you can come next Saturday. Meet me on the corner of 10th and Beauchamp.”

  Her father had insisted on coming along. They met Connor on the corner, and he got into the back seat of her father’s car. He gave them directions, and eventually they pulled up in front of a YMCA.

  Charlotte turned back to him, laughing. “Huh? Okay, so you live at the Y? Good one, Connor. Sorry, Dad, Connor likes to make jokes. Give Dad the address to your house. You know, the one you told me about.”

  “I can’t,” Connor said quietly.

  “Why not?”

  “Because it doesn’t exist. This is where I live, at the YMCA. I don’t have any family. But don’t worry,” he hurried to add, “Joe Treadwell, you know the real estate investor guy, he’s agreed to mentor me. But he said I had to finish high school first.”

  There was a long, stretched-out silence.

  “Where is your family, son?” Charlotte’s father finally asked.

  “My mother’s dead. My father, well, maybe another time.”

  Charlotte’s father’s eyes were kind. He turned in his seat to look at Connor. “Go on.”

  “Okay,” Connor said. “My father killed my mother, when I was a little boy. He was convicted of involuntary manslaughter and spent eight years in prison.”

  Charlotte gasped. “No!” Her eyes welled up with tears.

  “I went into foster care,” he continued, “but my dad got back custody of me when I was thirteen.”

  “How did that happen?” Charlotte’s father asked.

  Connor shook his head. “My father knows how to get what he wants. Anyway, he wasn’t a good father to me, so I ran away. I was just getting into real estate then and reading up on Joe Treadwell and his success across California, so I got in touch with him.

  “I didn’t know where else to go. He told me to go back to high school and when I’d graduated, then he’d mentor me. So here I am.” He nodded at the YMCA. “And in a of couple months, I’ll be out of here and sitting in Joe Treadwell’s office. The moment prom is done, I’m there.”

  Charlotte’s father nodded. “It’s always good to have a backup plan, son.”

  Later that night, Charlotte and Connor were wrapped up in each other’s arms in his small YMCA dorm room.

  “Do you think your father hates me?” Connor whispered while he stroked her hair. “Do you hate me now?”

  “No, of course not,” she said. “I don’t, and he doesn’t. My dad was homeless once, and then he became really successful. I wouldn’t be surprised if he offers you a job.”

  And sure enough, he did.

  But Connor turned it down. He didn’t want to get into law. He wanted to eat, sleep, and breathe real estate, and Joe Treadwell made good on his promise. He let Connor shadow him, and Connor made himself more than useful. He learned the real estate lingo, inserted himself at all the right moments, and did little jobs before Joe even had a chance to ask him to do them.

  As soon as he got a paid job and got his headshot included on the Treadwell Properties website, at the age of eighteen years and four months, Charlotte’s father had given his blessing for them to get married.

  Charlotte’s mother always said they were too young, but Charlotte had been adamant. “I love him, Mom. I know he’s the one for me.”

  But now, sitting at the dressing table and not even knowing what day it was, because they’d all merged into one, Charlotte wasn’t so sure she’d made the right choice.

  “Mrs. Moynahan?”

  Charlotte turned to see Elena at the door, her round body and cheerful face bringing a warm presence everywhere she went. “Hi, Elena.” She’d asked Elena more times than she could count to call her Charlotte, but Elena couldn’t bring herself to do it.

  “Are you all right, Mrs. Moynahan?” Elena asked kindly in her Eastern European accent. “Do you need anything? Are you having any cravings?”

  “No, I’m fine,” Charlotte said. “I don’t need anything.”

  “Okay. But you need to get dressed. It will make you feel better. It is already 11:00 in the morning, and you’re still in your pajamas. That is not good for the soul.”

  Charlotte sighed. “What’s the point, Elena? It’s not like anyone�
��s going to see me.”

  Elena bustled through the room, and drew the curtains open, exposing a bright sunny day outside. “That doesn’t matter. You will see yourself every time you walk by a mirror. Anyway, why not take a drive? You used to love taking that car out.”

  “My bump’s too big now,” Charlotte said, morosely. That wasn’t the real reason, though. In truth, she didn’t want to see anyone, and she didn’t want anyone to see her. No eye contact, nothing. She felt like she just wanted to sink into a deep dark black hole of nothingness. Once she’d loved her brand-new Jaguar. It was purple, her favorite color, and had soft gray leather seats. Now it meant nothing to her.

  All of the beautiful things she’d enjoyed with Connor had become worthless to her. It all felt so hollow. She didn’t want to get in touch with her mother, because if she confided in her mother, it would only prove that she’d been right. She and Connor had married too young and in too much haste.

  She was blue and morose on this nice sunny day because she knew Connor was cheating on her. And it wasn’t the first time.

  As soon as Elena left the room, Charlotte took the letter out of the drawer of her dressing table, where she’d slipped it between the pages of a notebook, and read to herself the part she’d underlined.

  I don’t know your name, it read, but just know your man is sleeping with a whole bunch of different women. And if he doesn’t give me the money I’ve asked for, the whole world is going to know.

  CHAPTER 3

  “I’m Norman Brown,” Simon Moynahan said, stretching his hand out to the man sitting next to him at the bar, a ruddy-faced construction manager, for a handshake.

  It was an Irish Pub, the type Simon always drank at, because of his Irish heritage. That was despite the fact that his Irish family had disowned him, and that was all of his family. His mother and father were Irish Travelers, nomads, and very strong Catholics.

  They’d cut off all contact with him even before what Simon called ‘The Incident,’ and he knew there was no way they’d talk to him again, even if Jesus appeared out of thin air and commanded them to. Okay, well perhaps in that instance, but nothing short of that.

  “Great to meet you, Norman,” the man said. “I’m Peter Dashkov. What brings you to town?”

  “Business,” Simon said. “I sell private helicopters to businesses and high net worth individuals.”

  “Aha,” Peter said, “then we have the same clients. I oversee construction for only the biggest mansions on the West Coast. We have some seriously prestigious clients. I would name drop, but it’s against my contractual agreements, y’know?”

  “Of course, mine too,” said Simon, another bold-faced lie. He’d never worked with that type of person, and he’d never set foot in a helicopter in his life. But Simon enjoyed lying. Acting, he called it. He’d had plenty of practice, having changed his identity more times than he could count. In fact, he'd done it so many times that whenever he wrote a number in his phone book, he had to write a letter next to it to identify what name they knew him as. He’d been…

  Leiston Deterville, a luxury car salesman from Louisiana.

  Chuck Rozwadowski, a stockbroker from Kansas.

  Guiseppe Caradoni, an Italian-American businessman from the Bronx.

  And, of course Norman Brown, a helicopter salesman.

  There were many others, too, but those were the ones he played with the most.

  The truth?

  He was Simon Moynahan, and he was a part-time horse breeder, part-time con man. He was also a violent abuser with a string of domestic violence convictions under his belt. It was Sarah-Jane, Connor’s mother, who’d landed him in prison, though. In his mind, she’d just provoked him and provoked him and provoked him.

  She wanted to wear what she chose, instead of the outfits he carefully picked out for her. He’d successfully gotten her to quit work and stay home to take care of his every need, but until he’d smashed her cell phone with a hammer, she’d stayed in contact with her old work colleagues.

  The way he looked at it, she’d caused her own death. If she’d just stayed in her place, she wouldn’t be six feet under. All she’d had to do was keep herself to herself. But no, she’d started going to church. Sometimes when she looked in his eyes back in those churchgoing days, there was light and love there, instead of brokenness and fear. And he hated it. When she looked at him like that, he wanted to tear up the entire world.

  Anyway, she’d gone under the sod, as they say in Ireland, and he’d wound up in prison. He’d taken on a new identity there, a white supremacist as part of the Aryan Brotherhood. He was prisoner 45021 to the screws, the name the prisoners called the guards, and said his name was Mitchell Anthony for the benefit of everyone else, because the Aryan Brotherhood didn’t take too kindly to Irish last names like his.

  He’d gotten some prison tattoos while he was inside, one of his cellmates dipping paper clips in ink and making his painful way across Simon’s pale skin.

  When he was finished, a wobbly WHITE PRIDE had appeared on his chest. They wanted him to get a tattoo like that on his forehead, too, which shocked him to his core. No way was he doing that. How would he get away with all his scams? Anyway, he didn’t really care as much as these guys did. He wasn’t a true white supremacist. He wouldn’t have fought for it, and he didn’t particularly think there was anything to fight for.

  He wasn’t happy about his son, Connor, marrying a black woman, but that was because it was his family and close to home. The fate of the white race as a whole? He really didn’t care. The only thing he cared about was himself, and his views on the subject of race were somewhat moderate, rather than the extremism he saw in prison.

  “So,” Peter asked. “Got any family, Norman?”

  Simon smiled. “You bet I do. That’s another reason I’m out here, to come visit my son. He’s doing very well for himself.”

  Of course, that was true. But that was where the truth ended.

  “He got himself a nice California girl. A real beach babe, a surfer.”

  He and Peter chuckled together.

  “Good for him,” Peter said.

  “I came here to see if she has any bronzed and beautiful friends for me,” Simon said, then laughed out loud. “No, not really. Well, I’m coming to see him because my son and I are like brothers. You know, close as if we were bound by glue.” He interlaced his fingers and pretended to try to pull them apart. “See? Nothing could get between us.”

  Although outwardly Simon had a jovial attitude about his son, but on the inside he was seething because Connor wouldn’t return any of his calls.

  Connor had dared to defy him by running away at the age of fifteen, just two years after Simon had won custody and gotten Connor back under his control. Man, that judge was stupid. Of all Simon’s accomplishments, that had been one of his proudest. He viewed it as if he was an innocent man being crushed by the system.

  He’d had his wife taken away from him, then his child, and had been locked up in prison. When he’d come out and found out his son was in foster care, he felt a sense of shame. Not remorse. That was something Simon never felt, or if he did experience it, it was like a pesky fly he could swat away at will. No, the shame was because he’d sullied the family name.

  Although his parents had tried to teach him many things that hadn’t stuck, such as morality, ethics, being a good man, being a protector, and fearing God, the one thing that had lodged itself deep in Simon was family pride. And a son in foster care didn’t fit that image.

  When Simon got out of prison, the only thing he’d thought about was Connor. He’d move mountains to have his son back, and he had to do a few shady business deals in order to get around the legal systems of California that stood in his way.

  He did consider having other children to replace Connor, but there was something about the boy that wouldn’t let him give up. Perhaps it was the fact if he couldn’t get Connor back, it would have been a victory for his deceased wife, Sarah-Jane, an
d he wanted to beat her in their final battle. In any case, he worked long and hard and finally got Connor back.

  To Simon, the two years he’d had Simon had been glorious. His son had been by his side day and night, and Simon made it his mission to turn Connor into a little carbon copy of him.

  He’d helped Connor in all sorts of ways. He’d given him the right clothes to wear. Told him how to talk and carry himself like a “real man.” Taught him how to bury all his feelings and be a tough guy. He’d had to use his belt on Connor a few times, but that had always been very enjoyable to Simon.

  He yelled and swore at Connor whenever he did something that didn’t fit in with Simon’s perfect image of the way he wanted him to be. Within time, Connor had started to become the ideal boy Simon had always dreamed of.

  But then, one morning, Simon woke up and found his breakfast wasn’t on the kitchen table. He stormed into Connor’s room, ready to give him a hard backhand across the face, and ask him what world he thought he was living in. But Connor wasn’t there. Connor didn’t come back that night, or the next, or the next, or the next.

  Simon tried to track him down, but he couldn’t find him. It was like he’d vanished into thin air. It was a very dark time for Simon. All he could think about was getting Connor back.

  The next time Simon saw Connor was in the glossy pages of a magazine when he was at the San Francisco airport. Simon was in the middle of one of his scams, this time a fake property development in Dubai, and saw an article about a real property development project his son was doing. Connor was pictured in an expensive-looking suit, with his wife.

  Simon felt rage begin to churn in his gut.

  All right, Connor, you want to play that game? Simon thought. Time for you to see what a winner looks like.

  The way Simon saw it, Connor’s success without him was a willful act of defiance. Now it was time for the final confrontation. Either, Connor let Simon back into his life and shared his success and wealth, or, well, Simon knew how to bury bodies. Especially those of people he loved, like Connor’s mother.