Deadly Desire

By Robert Joseph

When homicide detective Raff Rafferty is assigned to find the killer of a reclusive millionaire, he becomes embroiled in an ever-tightening web of danger and deception. Could the killer be the beautiful guru who is not only the millionaire's heir, but also claims to be the reincarnation of a revered Tibetan lama with mystical powers? While Raff tries to catch the killer and resist the temptations of this seductive woman, he must also fight to save his own life.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Robert Joseph
• Release date: Aug 11, 2015
• ISBN: 9781311350015

Robert Joseph

After selling more than a million print books published by Ballantine, Berkley, Fawcett, Pinnacle, W. H. Allen (UK) and Landemann (Scandinavia), author Robert Joseph is currently working on the Raff Rafferty detective/thriller mystery series, the first seven of which are now available. In addition, Robert has written many screenplays, including the film THE DIVINE LOVERS as well as works for the stage. He currently lives in rural southern Nevada.

Book preview

Chapter One

Dense fog swirled around Willard Weems, dampening and chilling his face. As he headed toward the meditation pavilion overlooking the Pacific Ocean, his feet in leather sandals followed the path of black and white pebbles raked into an intricate yin-yang design. The colorful Buddhist prayer flags attached to the eucalyptus trees lining the path flapped in the strong wind from the sea. Several hundred of feet below, huge waves crashed against the jagged rocks at the foot of the cliff. To keep from thinking about the possibility of stumbling and falling, he chanted the secret mantra the Rinpoche had bestowed on him upon the occasion of his eightieth birthday. A sardonic half-smile creased his hollow, deeply lined cheeks as he contemplated how his heirs might greet the news if he should happen to fall.

What a greedy bunch they are, he thought.

For his now eighty-eight years Weems was in good shape, his white hair cropped close to his skull, his body lean and agile from the arduous daily yoga routines the Rinpoche prescribed for him, as well as the strict vegetarian diet and herbal teas the Tibetan holy man personally concocted.

As the outline of the octagonal pavilion became visible through the misty grayness of the morning, he clutched his russet-colored robe more tightly around him against the cold ocean wind.

Entering the eight-sided structure, he faced its altar-like centerpiece, a gnarled and twisted Monterey cypress from whose trunk water issued, its force spinning a wooden prayer wheel inscribed with Tibetan script. Weems recalled with awe and amazement the day the Rinpoche had touched the desiccated old tree. Water had spouted forth and continued to flow ever since. It was that very act which convinced him that Devachen Rinpoche should be his spiritual mentor, and Weems had erected the pavilion in the guru’s honor.

Prior to retiring and essentially withdrawing from the world, Weems had been a successful businessman. Starting with a small, local cement plant, he parlayed that humble beginning through ingenious maneuvers, astute timing and lucrative mergers and acquisitions into one of America’s great fortunes. His name and photograph appeared in magazines such a Forbes, Fortune and The Economist. At least a half dozen presidents had called on him from the White House for economic advice. But Weems was not satisfied with achieving only worldly success. Inwardly, he felt unfulfilled, believing that true satisfaction could only be found in the spiritual realm.

Sitting on the damp, cold tile floor with its inlaid geometric mandala design, Weems closed his eyes, folded his limbs into the lotus position and touched his thumbs to the adjoining forefingers. Breathing only through his nostrils, he repeated the mantra over and over, hoping that today would be the day he would achieve the transcendence for which he so desperately yearned. As he drifted deeper and deeper into a meditative state, specks of violet light began to dance behind his closed eyelids, stirring a twinge of excitement as he recalled that the Rinpoche had said that such phenomena heralded the beginning of profound insights and wisdom.

Suddenly something brushed across Weems’ face that seemed to have the feel of long human hair. This odd sensation was followed by a sudden sharp and severe pain in the side of his neck. His hand flew to the site of the pain. It felt wet and sticky. His blood! Opening his eyes, he saw blood on his fingers. His blood! He realized that the blood was spurting from a prominent vein in his neck, probably the jugular.

A small, dark figure wrapped in a black silk kimono hovered above him. A wild, tangled mass of long, thick obsidian hair obscured the individual’s face. From the voluminous sleeve of the kimono a thin arm and bony hand with long, talon-like nails emerged. The hand clutched an ornate dagger with an oddly shaped, triangular blade. Again the assailant struck—and again and again, plunging the dagger into the old man’s flesh with such fury and speed that Weems was unable to react. The last thing he heard was a strange, keening squawk that sounded like a cry of demonic joy as everything went black, and he collapsed onto the tiles, his blood saturating his robe and rapidly pooling, obscuring the mandala beneath his body.

Chapter Two

Monterey County Sheriff’s Department homicide detectives Gabriel ‘Raff’ Rafferty and Enrique ‘Hank’ Tafoya drove as fast as they could down the thirty-five mile stretch from Monterey to Big Sur in the a dark green Taurus sedan from the Department garage. The vehicle’s many aerials made it conspicuous despite being unmarked. Even with Raff’s notorious lead foot, excessive speeding was out of the question. The narrow, two lane highway, draped along the western slope of the Santa Lucia mountains, clung to the oceanside bluffs, coursing through switchback after switchback. Even for two homicide detectives in a hurry to get to the scene of what would undoubtedly be a well-publicized murder, Raff had to go easy on the gas pedal.

Montañamar, the estate of Williard Weems, was located in Big Sur, which was more or less a loose collection of individuals and their secluded residences rather than an actual community. The stretch of land bearing that name lay between two rivers, dubbed El Río Grande del Norte and El Río Chiquito del Sur by the original Spanish explorers. It was probably one of the most scenically spectacular spots on earth with its high cliffs, rugged mountains, pounding surf, deep canyons, rocky coves and bird-filled coastal lagoons, all framed by towering redwoods.

I can’t believe it, Hank said, shaking his head. Somebody bumped off old Willard Weems. And down here where there hasn’t been a murder for fifty years or more! They say his place is like a fucking Fort Knox.

Shit happens, Raff said with the resigned shrug of a jaded cop.

My dad used to work in one of his cement plants shoveling limestone in those kilns, Hank continued.

Weems made a whole shitload of money starting with cement, Raff remarked. They used to call him the ‘Cement Czar’.

I wonder what they’ll call him now? Hank mused.

Probably ‘dead’, Raff quipped as he slowed the car, looking for the entrance to the Weems estate.

It was close to sunset and already fog was beginning to coalesce over the Pacific when the Taurus turned into the drive. The huge, electronically controlled wrought iron gates were wide open, and a Monterey County Sheriff’s Department patrol car was parked just inside. A young deputy, leaning against the hood looking bored, recognized the two veteran detectives and snapped to attention.

Good afternoon, Detective Rafferty, Detective Tafoya, he said.

Raff squinted to better view the metal name-tag on the deputy’s shirt. How are things going, Deputy Chang?

Fine, thank you, sir. Chang replied as he stepped aside and waved them in.

The Taurus proceeded around the curving driveway, lined with neatly trimmed sycamores, redwoods and big leaf maples to the main house. A host of various types of Sheriff’s Department vehicles were parked in the circular drive. Raff and Hank added their dowdy vehicle to the fleet and got out. Although large and sprawling, the Weems residence was architecturally undistinguished and resembled nothing more than a vastly overgrown California tract home.

A veteran deputy, Clifford Wells, came forward to meet them. The sheriff’s been calling every five minutes asking if you got here yet, he said.

Where’s the body? Raff asked.

Follow me, Wells directed, leading Raff and Hank around to the rear of the house where a series of French doors opened onto a long veranda with arched pillars which spanned the entire length of the house. One of the French doors was open.

We figure that Weems left through that door and went down this path, Wells pointed out as he led them along the trail of artfully raked black and white pebbles toward the promontory jutting out into the ocean. Through the approaching fog, the sun glowed a deep, dusky orange, illuminating a number of colorful banners with exotic foreign lettering flying from the eucalyptus trees bordering the path.

What’s with the flags? Hank asked.

The estate manager says they’re Buddhist prayer flags from Tibet, Wells explained. It seems that Weems converted to Tibetan Buddhism a few years ago.

You’d think a guy who made as much money in this country as Weems did, would at least fly an American flag, Hank grumbled.

Who discovered Weems’ body? Raff asked.

The estate manager, Wells answered. The cook got worried when Weems failed to show up for lunch. It seems he insisted on eating at exactly noon. She asked Taylor—that’s the estate manager’s name—to go look for him.

Where are they now—the estate manager and the cook? Raff asked.

In the house, Wells said. They’re pretty shook up, especially the cook.

At the end of the path was a pavilion encircled by yellow police tape. Various Sheriff’s Department support personnel were swarming about the wooden structure. A young male police photographer was snapping hundreds of photographs with a digital camera while gowned and rubber-gloved forensic technicians dusted for fingerprints, gathered hair and fibers with sterile forceps and performed other searches for evidence. They carefully placed the results of their work in labeled plastic or paper bags.

The body itself was covered by a tarpaulin. A pair of technicians from the coroner’s office stood patiently beside the corps with a stretcher while the Assistant Coroner, Dr. Gail Eisenberg, dictated her findings into a tiny recording device. She snapped it off as Raff and Hank approached.

Got any idea how he died, Gail? Raff asked. He had always found her appealing and believed that beneath all the forensic facts and science, she was a sexy lady. There had even been a period when an affair between them might have been possible, but happily married to Cindy at the time, he resisted temptation.

Sure. That’s easy, Gail answered, yanking the tarpaulin aside and exposing Weems’ corpse. Massive blood loss, secondary to multiple stab wounds.

Raff frowned. A knife?

Probably, she replied. But one with a peculiar triangular blade that makes it seem more like a stake or a spike.

Maybe the killer thought Weems was Dracula, Hank joked.

I assume the weapon hasn’t been found? Raff said, glancing at the edge of the cliff as if to indicate the possibility that the killer had thrown this unique knife into the sea below.

Gail nodded. Correct.

How long has he been dead? Raff continued.

I’d estimate about eight to ten hours, Gail replied.

While Raff talked with the assistant coroner, Hank turned to the photographer. Got enough pictures yet? he asked.

You can never get enough, the young man replied, snapping yet another before laying his digital camera aside and switching to a video camera to tape the scene as well.

From the pavilion on the promontory overlooking the sea, Raff and Hand returned to the main house and entered the kitchen. Its stove of at least a dozen burners, several wall ovens, a huge walk-in stainless steel refrigerator and multiple sinks made it resemble a restaurant or a hotel more than a private home.

A tidy, middle-aged Latin woman with rings of dark braids circling her head was seated on a high stool at the granite-topped central island sobbing. A pale, rosy-cheeked man in his forties with wispy blond hair strategically combed over an equally rosy scalp was attempting to console the woman.

There, there, Mrs. Sandoval, he was saying in a distinctly upper class British accent. You really must stop crying. His tone, more reproachful than sympathetic, only served to intensify her sobbing. Raff noticed that he was careful not to get his exquisitely tailored Saville Row dark blue suit, starched white shirt and delicate blue silk tie, which matched the handkerchief in his breast pocket, stained with the cook’s tears.

Raff and Hank flashed their badges and introduced themselves.

I’m Nigel Taylor, Mr. Weems’ estate manager, the well-dressed Brit responded, as he shook hands with both detectives. And this is Mrs. Leticia Sandoval, our cook.

Mrs. Sandoval dabbed at her eyes with a tissue and nodded politely.

How may I help you gentlemen? Taylor inquired. "I’m afraid Mrs. Sandoval and I are still rather in shock over the dreadful thing that happened here today. Bloody awful

it was, I say."

It’s bloody awful, all right, Raff thought, as he clicked on a pen-like recording device. Why don’t you tell Detective Tafoya and me your version of what happened, Mr. Taylor?

Well, Mrs. Sandoval and I arrived around seven this morning as usual, Taylor began.

Hank interrupted with a puzzled frown, You don’t live here on the grounds?

Unfortunately not, Taylor said. Raff thought he detected a note of rancor in the estate manager’s voice. Not since the arrival of the Rinpoche. That’s when Mr. Weems arranged lodging for us in Carmel. I drive Mr. Weems’ Bentley up there every evening and return in the morning together with Mrs. Sandoval.

Who is this ‘Rinpoche’? Hank asked.

The full name is Devachen Rinpoche. ‘Rinpoche’ is a Tibetan title roughly similar to the British title ‘lord’, Taylor explained. A few years ago Mr. Weems became fascinated by Tibetan Buddhism and engaged the Rinpoche as his personal guru.

And where is this Rinpoche living? Raff questioned.

In the guest house, Taylor replied, pointing out the window to a second somewhat smaller building across the vast, carefully landscaped grounds, now illuminated at twilight by cleverly concealed lamps.

Is he there now? Hank asked.

No, Taylor replied. He’s conducting a sort of seminar in San Francisco at the moment.

Does anyone else live on the grounds of this estate? Raff continued with the questioning.

The Rinpoche shares the guesthouse with the Rinpoche’s manager, Mr. Jason Lytell, Taylor said.

Manager?! Hank repeated, furrowing his brow.

The Rinpoche is a very busy person, involved in seminars, private consultations, writing books and so forth. He’s a very busy person. Apart from the Rinpoche and Mr. Lytell, there was no one else here on the estate with Mr. Weems once Mrs. Sandoval and I left for Carmel.

You mean he rattled around this great big house alone all night? Hank asked. He was astonished by such a thought, having grown up in a three bedroom home in Salinas with his parents and eight brothers and sisters.

Mr. Weems believed that silence and solitude were essential to meaningful meditation. He was quite taken by the practice. One might almost say obsessed, Taylor remarked.

Raff strolled over to the window and peered across the veranda and the extensive, now lighted grounds. What about gardeners?

And cleaning people? Hank quickly added.

I arranged for a Japanese gardening service in Carmel to come down here several times a week. I must say, Mr. Weems was quite pleased by my selection, Taylor answered proudly. As for cleaning, relatives of Mrs. Sandoval—a married couple—do that.

Raff pointed to a long, low building beyond the guesthouse. What’s that other building I see in the distance?

That, Detective, is a stable, Taylor said. It’s empty now and used for storage. There have been no horses at Montañamar for several years, Taylor said.

Raff returned to the center island and perched on a stool across from the still sniffling Mrs. Sandoval. How long have you worked for Mr. Weems?

Almost twelve years, Taylor answered.

Feeling somewhat left out of the questioning process, Hank decided it was his turn to direct some inquiries at the cook. He chose Spanish. "¿Cuántos años ha trabajado Usted por Señor Weems?"

Mrs. Sandoval raised her head and shot him an indignant look. I speak English, she said. I have worked for Mr. Weems for twenty-two years. His wife was still alive when I started.

Raff continued questioning Taylor. Did Mr. Weems have any enemies?

Mr. Weems was a bit of a recluse. He had neither friends nor enemies. In fact, the only person who has gotten close to him in these later years is the Rinpoche, Taylor said.

Leticia Sandoval nodded vigorously in agreement.

After interrogating Taylor and the cook, Raff and Hank checked out the entire house accompanied by the estate manager. The furnishings were comfortable and functional, but, like the house itself, hardly outstanding. The one truly impressive feature, however, was the extensive collection of Asian art throughout the house—Japanese silk scroll paintings on nearly every wall, huge, exquisitely painted Chinese porcelain vases in the corners of most of the rooms, a bronze incense burner in the shape of a horse, a large jade Chow dog and a brightly painted porcelain pheasant perched on a snowy branch in the library. Given Weems’ immense wealth, Raff had expected to see some celebrated European paintings or sculptures or gold-embossed, leather-bound first editions prominently displayed, but all the pieces of value or interest were exclusively Asian.

This place rivals the DeYoung Museum in San Francisco, Raff remarked.

Actually we have more Tibetan art than the DeYoung, Taylor boasted.

Hank stroked the jade dog. Is this thing Tibetan? he asked Taylor.

Chinese, the estate manager sniffed. Ch’ing Dynasty.

This Brit knows his stuff, Raff thought to himself. I wonder what else he knows.

By the time Raff and Hank left the Weems house and headed for their car, fog and darkness had engulfed the entire estate.

Hank asked, Got any ideas who did it?

The cook? Raff replied with a chuckle.

Hank raised his eyebrows. Leticia? She couldn’t swat a fly on a tamale.

What about that estate manager dude?

Taylor? What are you going by—the old ‘The Butler Did It’ theory? Hank laughed, amused that they were already speculating about the identity of the murderer when their investigation had barely begun.

Do you know who I’d really like to talk to? Raff said, then answering his own question, That Rinpoche character Taylor mentioned.

Me, too, Hank agreed. And also his agent or manager or whatever.

I wouldn’t mind knowing who Weems’ heirs are—you know, who benefits from his death, Raff continued. Then maybe we’d have a motive and a suspect.

You think the motive was greed? Hank asked, frowning.

Most likely.

But did you see how many stab wounds there were? The body looked like a fucking dart board only with big holes.

Whoever whacked Willard Weems did it in a state of rage, like they hated the sonofabitch.

So you’re saying the motive might have been revenge?

Everybody hates you when you’re rich. Most rich guys fuck over a lot of people to get where they are. That makes for enemies, Hank said. My dad said it’s better to be poor and have people like you.

Speaking of enemies, I suppose Mark Howard will be at your place tomorrow? Raff asked.

I couldn’t very well say ‘no’ to Cindy when she asked if she could bring him. After all, it’s her daughter’s party, too.

She’s only bringing him to spite me.

Aw, come on, Raff, Hank chided.

No, it’s true, Raff insisted.

As they approached the department vehicle, a gleaming silver BMW sped into the driveway, tires screeching, nearly blinding the two men with its high beam headlights.

Who the hell is that? Raff said angrily.

It’s pretty late for any of our guys, Hank noted.

Raff raised his eyebrows. One of our guys? In a Beemer? I don’t think so.

The BMW parked squarely in front of the door of the main house. A man with a ferret-like profile carrying a briefcase got out. Even in the foggy darkness, Raff recognized Mark Howard.

Speak of the devil, he said, nudging Hank.

Regarding Raff with arrogant disdain as he got out of his car and approached. Jesus Christ! Don’t tell me you’re on this case, Rafferty, he said, curling his lips contemptuously.

Got a problem with that? Raff replied.

"I’ve got a problem with you," Howard shot back.

I thought prosecutors were supposed to be above petty personal shit, Raff replied.

Howard narrowed his rodent-like eyes. In the near darkness the pupils looked almost red. "We should have locked you up when we had the