The Last Temptation

by Gerrie Ferris Finger

  Whitney said, “As you can see, no Richard Lake in here.”

  The tables were dressed in the dining room, but no patrons sat at tables. We walked through two administrative offices and arrived at the door of the smoking room. It’s now or nevah stuck in my mind. When I walked in beside Whitney, eyes averted. The men busied themselves reading, napping, looking at nothing. The Orson Wells look-alike came up and bowed palms-together to Whitney. His puzzled glance bordered on distress. The air was redolent of cigar and tobacco smoke.

  “Do I look like I’m from Mars?” I asked him.

  “Ahem,” the man said.

  “Moriah Dru,” Whitney said, with an elaborate sweep of his hand. “She’s graced our company in hopes of finding her man.”

  Orson didn’t know whether to laugh or leave. Clumsily, he turned and slunk away. Whitney followed, with me at his side. He said, “This is the first time our bastion for the comfort of males has been invaded by a female.”

  We strode down the hall. I said, “Word on the street is, this is a high-class strip place.”

  “Women are allowed in the theater for entertainment purposes, and we have women counselors.”

  “Counselors? Is that a new name for an old profession?”

  “We are not a whorehouse.”

  The theater was as surreal as the night I’d been Mr. Chapman. On the black stages, women in white gossamer swanned. “This is novel,” I said to Whitney. “Men choosing ballet over gold poles.”

  It was Lake who’d called their dance routine ballet. Where are you Lake? Cry out, if you hear me.

  Whitney said. “Remember I told you this is a place of refuge and reflection.”

  “The only refugee in here is the head of Curriculum Paradigms, Inc.,” I said, pointing to Dr. Brommer, who stared like a zombie at the dancers.

  “I forgot to warn you,” Whitney said. “No outing the patrons. You’ve seen Dr. Brommer. Now forget you’ve seen Dr. Brommer.”

  “I’m forgetting.”

  “You don’t see Richard Lake, do you?”

  “We haven’t been everywhere.”

  I looked for the altar at the back of the theater. No altar, no Celtic cross rising behind it. I reckoned that the theater room wasn’t as deep as the night I’d been here and guessed that a floor-to-ceiling wall—one that matched the other three walls—hid the altar. I didn’t see any cracks from where I stood—just solid wall. They couldn’t have moved that massive cross, unless it was papier-mâché or foam, but I didn’t think it was since the room was not as deep as the other night. Then I noticed the catwalks jutted from different positions off the side stages. Everything, it appeared, was moveable.

  Turning to Whitney, I said, “Where can I find a—facility?”

  His mouth turned up, not a smile exactly. “Exit over there.” He pointed toward the exit I’d used as Mr. Chapman. “Go left. Then the first left is a ladies’ dressing room. Take care to make sure you’re entering the door marked ‘Femmes Dressing Room.’ I’ll wait here for you.” Yeah, he’ll run to the first monitor he can to where I’m going.

  Out the door, going left, I saw the hall camera. I came to the dressing room door. I calculated the Celtic cross had to be hiding inside a walled room about ten feet wide, between the auditorium and the dressing room. Alone in the dressing room, where rack after rack held costumes, I looked for peephole cameras and couldn’t see any, and, more importantly, I didn’t feel like I was being watched. I floated through white gauze. A row of lighted mirrors lined the wall. I touched each mirror panel. Solid, and not two-way. Walking toward the toilet stalls, I entered the one closest to the altar wall and ran my hands over the mahogany panels. I rapped lightly and whispered, “Lake. Lake. Are you there? Can you hear me?” The only thing I heard was my voice catching in my throat.

  I left the stall and ran my hands along the wooden wall leading to the mirrors and touched a panel that pushed inward. The panel opened into a skinny hall that curved behind the mirrors. It ended at a door marked LINENS. The door was locked. Why was a linen closet locked? I hurriedly searched my purse for my pick kit. Taking it out, I wondered how long Whitney would give me for a bathroom visit. One, two, and pop, the dinky lock opened. I dropped the slender tool in my purse and palmed my automatic.

  The hall continued. It was shoulder wide for me; a fat person would have to slither sideways through it. The walls felt like slabs of slate and got progressively cooler. My gun clicked against something metal. A lever. I pulled down and heard the latch release. The machine that opened the door whined softly, and cold air and the scents of incense and foreboding guided me through the opening. It was seconds before my eyes adjusted to the gloom and shadows. Rooted to the floor, I let my brain process what it could see. A sarcophagus stood in front of the cross. A body lay on it. A wave of terror stopped my breathing. I took two quick steps when suddenly I was yanked backward by an unseen hand.

  “Get back from there.”

  A woman. I slipped the automatic in my slacks pocket and whirled around, breaking her handhold. The redhead was dressed in black as before.

  She said, “What the hell are you doing in here?” I moved backward, toward the figure on the vault. “Stop,” she called. “Or I’ll kill you.”

  I laid my palms against my thighs, a hand touching my gun.

  “Fredrica,” a man called.

  Whitney’s voice, coming from behind the cross. He said, “Back away, Fredrica.”

  Whitney slinked from the cross to the head of the sarcophagus. He said, “Miss Dru, you have outdone yourself.” He lifted a hand. “Unfortunately.” I thought he had a gun, but it was a clicker. Two clicks and a sliver of light from the rafters burgeoned and grew. The stage light shined on Lake.

  Whitney was at my side, taking my elbow, guiding me toward the ornate altar-crypt, and Lake. I told myself not to panic. Frenzy will get you killed. He said , “Remember we talked of religion on the day we met? I was amused when the judge told me your name. I, too, trace my roots to the religion of the Druids.”

  “The Druids hung people in baskets and burned the basket,” I said, grateful for the control in my voice. “What are you doing to Lake?”

  “Immolation from the branch of an old oak tree is frowned upon by our enlightened society.”

  Lake lay so still. Keep the tension out of your arms and hands. “Why are you doing this?”

  “Lieutenant Lake invaded my privacy, my cloister.”

  Lake was the color of blue ice. I could almost make out his facial bones. I reached out. His hands, crossed at his waist, were as cold as death. “Oh no, no, no.”

  Whitney said, “He’s not dead. He lies in a deep sleep.”

  “Why?” I reached up to rub Lake’s cheek; it felt like marble. I looked at Whitney. “Like this?”

  “You have my Kinley. I have your Lake. It’s time for an exchange.”

  “You’ll never see Kinley again.”

  “So cocksure, aren’t you? Now I have two to swap.”

  “You could have ten, you’ll never get Kinley. You kill us and you’ll get the needle.”

  “Speaking of which,” he said, and then turned and beckoned. “Fredrica. Come.”

  The redhead advanced with a box held between her hands.

  I had little time and one chance to pull the automatic from my pocket, one chance at one fluid motion. But first I had to goad him, divert his attention. I said, “After our discussion today, I found out the rest of the story.”

  “I don’t care,” he said.

  “You should. It’s about the armored car robbery. The FBI knew Harry arranged the inside job. They also knew Harry palled around with a man named Dewey. After the robbery, Harry and Dewey disappeared. Then down in New Orleans, they found a body they identified as Harry’s. A few hundred-dollar bills from the robbery and a ticket to Rio were under the burned body. A few hundred? A paltry sum to convince the feds that the body they found was one of the robbers. It wasn’t, was it? Harry is still alive, isn�
�t he?”

  Whitney gave me an oily grin and glanced at Fredrica. I pocketed my right hand and raised my left to point a finger in his face. I said, “Harry’s alive and well and living in Palm Springs. He killed Eileen for you because she was having you investigated. When you came to me you knew she was dead, but Kinley was missing, and you and Harry didn’t know where Tess had her hidden. Oh yeah, Harry knew Tess was Arlo’s daughter.”

  “Don’t outsmart yourself, Miss Dru.”

  “But you know something, Dewey, the FBI’s still got you on their wanted list. They’re still looking for you, Dewey Whitey.

  “Don’t call me that.”

  The redhead stood near Whitney. She said, “Bradley, it’s okay. This will soon be over.” She held a needle up and adjusted the syringe’s plunger.

  “What’s in that?” I said.

  “You want to pick your poison?” she said, a cackle in her throat.

  “Are you going to personally murder me?” I asked Whitney.

  “I am not a murderer. I have never taken a life. My relatives enjoy the undertaking more than I do.” He laid the clicker at Lake’s feet and casually slid his hand toward his coat pocket.

  “Tell me about this place. The purpose.” My gun was in my palm, hidden from Fredrica with the needle and from Whitney, who kept his opaque gray eyes on my face as if trying to mesmerize me.

  “The Cloisters?” he said. “I thought you’d have figured it out. The members are troubled men. They’ve been ostracized because of their preferences—their inability to open their souls.”

  “They’re predators, in other words.”

  “If you wish. They are here to redeem themselves, Miss Dru. Redemption. Don’t we all seek redemption?”

  “Apparently you haven’t found it.”

  “I certainly have. Time and again.”

  “You’ve a yen for little girls, isn’t that your problem?”

  “I’ve never harmed a small child.”

  The woman broke in, “My brother has fought all his life against the evil that invaded him in the hills of our native state. This place is his sanctuary against the temptations in the outer world. This cloister has been his salvation. As it has been many’s salvation.”

  “You’ve had a few recidivists,” I said. “McCracken and Rossi.”

  “Unhappily,” he said.

  “So let me get this straight. What happens is, these rich men with a hankering for perverted sex join here to get over their desires by what? Looking at dancing women and drinking fine wines and liquors and having great meals?”

  Fredrica tapped the barrel of the syringe. “They come seeking salvation, whenever they feel the ache in their souls . . .”

  Don’t tense up. “More their loins,” I said, finding the trigger with my index finger.

  “When they feel the ache, they can retreat here,” she said, the shadows flanking her merciless face. “Talk to their counselors.”

  “An AA for predators,” I said and looked at Whitney. “They stand up and say: ‘Hi, my name’s Dewey. I have a problem. I want to screw little girls.’”

  Whitney’s hand came out of his pocket. I raised the gun and shot him in the forehead, then swung the gun at the same time Fredrica raised her arm. I saw the needle flash. My bullet went through her wrist. She cried out, dropped the syringe and fell on it.

  I ran to Lake and ripped open the soiled dress shirt and listened for a heart beat. None coming from his cold chest. Froth lined his lips, and I wiped it with my fingers. I felt for a pulse. None I could discern. I ran my hand through his hair and down his forehead. No response. Turn him, get him moving. I put my arm under his back. I’m strong, but he was dead weight. Lake, please, please . . . After slapping his cheeks and getting no reaction, I took his stiff hands in mine. Warm up. I tickled his palms, he’s ticklish there. Nothing. I wanted to cry. You can’t.

  I was so absorbed in getting life back into him, the thunderous racket didn’t penetrate at first. When the altar room became an echo chamber, I raised my head and heard the pandemonium—feet pounding, shouts. But, above the fevered pitch, rode the voice of authority.

  Commander Haskell.

  A muffled shot like a tinny twenty-two came from the theater. Haskell burst through a door hidden in the auditorium wall. He glanced from me to Whitney—dead on the floor—to Fredrica holding her leg in horror.

  Haskell stood over Lake. “My God.”

  “Ambulance,” I said.

  “On the way, when I heard the shot . . .” He put his hand on Lake’s forehead and said, “What’s in him?”

  I went to Fredrica. She lifted her grotesque face. I demanded, “What drug?”

  She hissed and slumped dead. The needle in the syringe had blood on the tip. Hers.

  Four paramedics ran in. One dropped beside Fredrica. Her eyes were wide in death. Three ran to the sarcophagus and opened kits. One clapped a respirator cup over Lake’s mouth and nose.

  Haskell picked up the syringe and sniffed it. “Cyanide.”

  “You sure?” the lead paramedic asked.

  “I smell almonds.”

  “Me, too,” I said.

  “Can’t get a beat,” a paramedic cried. He moved the stethoscope around Lake’s bare chest.

  The head paramedic looked at me and Haskell. “I can’t smell almonds, but we’d better go with it—and pray.” He turned to his crew. “Poison kit!”

  “Sodium nitrite and sodium thiosulfate,” the leader said, preparing the syringe. They worked furiously, rhythmically, and the needle went in. “Glucose!” the leader cried. His attendant had it ready.

  Lake stirred. Moaned.

  “Let’s go!”

  Haskell and I hurried behind the hand-carried gurney through the door into the auditorium where they hoisted Lake onto a wheeled cart, and, while they adjusted his air tube, a detective rushed up. He said, “Man dead.” He motioned toward a catwalk, where I’d seen Brommer, and where he was now, slumped. The detective said, “Looks like he was watching a laptop monitor of what went on in that room. He shot himself.”

  Before Haskell could speak, I said, “Whitney let me go hunting for Lake on purpose.”

  We followed the rolling gurney. “Why’d he bring you here?” Haskell asked.

  “I told him I knew about the robbery.”

  “Why not kill you somewhere else?”

  “He wanted me to see Lake die.”

  Haskell put an arm on my shoulder, then dropped back to talk to a detective while I ran ahead. At the ambulance, I said, “I’m going with him.”

  “No room,” a paramedic said. I looked inside the jam-packed medical room on wheels. I would have been in their way.

  Nodding, I said, “I’ll follow.”

  “Grady,” he yelled to the driver, slamming the double doors. Grady Hospital. A long ten minutes from here.

  53

  Commander Haskell was suddenly beside me. “Ride with me.”

  Ahead of the commander’s car, the sirens blared and lights pulsated. He said, “I don’t understand Whitney. He was a brilliant man. He had to know he couldn’t get away with murdering a cop.”

  “Brilliant men seem to think they can. Whitney thought his past wouldn’t catch up with him, and when it did, things started unraveling too fast. Then all he had left was revenge.”

  “How’d he get Lake?” His cruiser slid past cars trying to get out of the way.

  “By invitation. Cocktails, then dinner. At some point, they put barbiturates, either in his food or wine.”

  “Lake didn’t know about the robbery.”

  “I think Rossi talked before they killed him. He told his killers who Mr. Barton really was.”

  “Possible.”

  We were trailing the ambulance. I could visualize the paramedics’ frantic moves to save Lake. I said, “Whitney was suspicious of everyone, had them followed. Me, too, from the minute he hired me. He knew when Bellan Thomas snooped into his past. He knew when Bellan talked to me.”


  “Whitney was going to lose his daughter.”

  “He was going to jail for the rest of his life.”

  “When you told Whitney you knew about the armored car murders, you knew what was in store for you.”

  “Yes. And Lake.

  He sighed, and we didn’t speak again until his car rounded the Grady Curve on the downtown connector. “You gambled and won.”

  I crossed my fingers like I did as a child. “I hope—for Lake.”

  “It wasn’t going to work out for Whitney,” Haskell said. “We would have connected the dots. He should have known that.”

  “He’d gotten away with robbery and murder before.”

  “He let hubris get to him. Happens to them all.”

  “Retribution,” I said. “It was as much an addiction as his sex thing.”

  “Retribution,” he repeated, with something like awe.

  “It got into his soul when he saw his parents gunned down. He had his brother Harry kill the killers. Maybe you could understand that, but he went bonkers with getting revenge, like he had Risso and McCracken killed because they failed his program. Their last temptation did them in.”

  “Wonder why he didn’t kill Lake outright?”

  “His harpy sister was poised to. But Whitney kept Lake alive in case he could make a deal. Lake for Kinley.”

  He shuddered. “Wouldn’t happen. I’m glad you found that invitation in Lake’s loft. Wish our guys would have.”

  “Would it have been enough for a search warrant?”

  “Probably. Consider yourself reprimanded for not coming to me.”

  “I didn’t want to waste time listening to how your hands were tied.” I glanced at him and he at me like we understood each other. He took the hospital exit off the interstate.

  I said, “I called Whitney and he readily agreed to meet me this afternoon. He figured I knew where Kinley is and would make a deal.”

  “Do you know where she is?”

  “Yes, and I’ll have to tell the judge, and the California authorities, if Tess refuses to give her up.”

  “We can sort that out,” he said. “Do you trust the law in Palm Springs?”