by Ron Fisher
I took a step closer to get a better look, and all hell broke loose. Bright spotlights on the eves of the castle glared on, and an alarm went off. Evidently, there were motion sensors near the house. If there were cameras, I didn’t see them. Alvin came around the corner in a dead run straight at the tree line. I turned and ran, too.
The alarm went off as fast as it came on. I guessed Kroll didn’t want to attract too much attention or call out the security service that probably monitored the system. Men poured out of the front door like an offensive line coming out of the tunnel before kickoff. I didn’t think they saw us because they split up and headed in different directions around the house. The hookers streamed out behind them holding drinks and laughing and giggling like this was all part of the festivities. Wilson Kroll turned them around and herded them back into the house like a muster of colorful peahens.
Alvin and I made it back to the car, did a hasty U-turn and went back out the way we came in. I kept the headlights off until we were out of sight of the house. Behind us, on the shoulder of the road a hundred yards on the other side of the house, the taillights of another car came on and sped off in the opposite direction. Someone else was parked within watching distance of Kroll’s castle. Who the hell was it?
No one seemed to follow us, so maybe we’d made it without being seen. Deer, raccoons, and other roaming animals could set off a security system like that—and hopefully, that’s what Kroll would think.
“I wonder if the other guy got away?” Alvin said.
“What other guy?”
“The peeping tom I saw looking in a back bedroom window when I was behind the house. He was watching a couple getting it on and took off running into the woods when the alarm went off. I was surprised he could run so fast wearing that long coat.”
I realized I was looking at him with my mouth open. “Long coat?” I said.
“Yeah, and he was wearing a mask like you said the guy who hit you in the head wore. That smiley-face mustachioed mother-fucker that protestors been wearing on TV.”
“The Anonymous mask,” I said. “Jesus Christ, it was Teddy.”
I wondered if it was his car I saw hurriedly driving away. I tried to picture the taillights, but that didn’t help me identify the make of the car.
“Our Teddy boy must have felt left out of the entertainment he provided and come back to at least get a look,” Alvin said, and shook his head. “Pusher, pimp, and a peeping tom. The boy is one versatile motherfucker.”
“I need a drink,” I said. “Follow me to Natasha’s. We need to talk about all that’s happened, and I know she’s got an unopened bottle of good Scotch going to waste in her liquor cabinet.”
“Lead on,” Alvin said, and got into his Jaguar.
CHAPTER THIRTY
We both drove to Natasha’s and parked out front. I could see her through the window, sitting on her sofa, watching TV with a glass of wine in her hand. I knocked on the door, and she let us in. Her hair was loose on her shoulders, she wore no visible makeup, and was barefoot. She wore jeans and a faded sweatshirt with the circular emblem of Smith College on the front. She would have been the very picture of the girl next door, were it not for her toenails, which were painted Chinese red with toe nail art of an abstract design, and the huge diamond studs in her earlobes.
“Get yourselves a glass of wine, and sit down and tell me about Wilson Kroll’s party. I want to hear everything.”
“I don’t drink alcohol,” Alvin said
“Oh, are you Muslim?” Natasha asked. “I’ve got orange juice and club soda.”
“I’m not Muslim, I just don’t put poison in my body,” Alvin said without humor.
“I’ll take the poison,” I said.
“There’s booze in the cabinet there,” Natasha said. “Glasses and ice in the kitchen. I’m not much of a host, so make yourself at home Alvin, J.D. already has,” she added, giving me an exaggerated wink.
She never lets up.
I went into her kitchen and brought back two glasses of ice, a bottle of scotch from the liquor cabinet, and orange juice out of the fridge for Alvin. The scotch wasn’t just any scotch. It was an unopened bottle of Glenmorangie 18-year-old single malt, going price about a hundred and fifty bucks. First, free Macallan at the USEC party, and now a Glenmorangie. The Dark Corner was turning out to be single malt heaven for me. I placed the scotch and the glasses of ice and orange juice on the coffee table.
“Everything is arranged for the race tomorrow,” Natasha said. “I talked to Kelly, and she’s excited. She’ll be here at nine, so Alvin, why don’t you meet us here about that time, too. Everything starts at ten. I only have one parking pass, so we’ll all go together.”
Alvin gave me a puzzled look. I hadn’t told him who Kelly was, so I did.
“Guess you’ll be going as my date, big fellow,” Natasha said to him.
“Be my pleasure, but you know what they say. Once you go black . . .”
“Yeah,” Natasha said, “and I might just ruin you for all your other women. That’s what they say about me.”
They both laughed, so they were probably joking, ‘probably’ the key word here. At least Natasha was aiming her flirts at someone else for a change.
“So, don’t keep me in suspense,” she said. “Tell me what happened tonight.”
“You aren’t going to like it,” I said. “We followed Teddy to Greenville where he procured ladies of the night for Kroll’s party. We watched him pick them up from Eddie Smoke, along with a package that had to be drugs.”
She sat for a minute staring sadly into the middle distance. “Oh Teddy,” she finally said, as if speaking to him. “Are you sure about this, J.D.?”
“Positive. When we got back to the Kroll Castle, Alvin and I sneaked a look through the windows. Everyone was having a fine old time. The girls were there, and there was a lot of table-top coke snorting going on.”
“Was Teddy there?” she asked, dread for the worst on her face.
Alvin and I exchanged glances. “No,” I quickly said, before Alvin could speak. I couldn’t imagine one good thing coming from telling Natasha we caught Teddy peeping into a window at people screwing—wearing the same mask he wore when he tried to brain me with a polo mallet. She wouldn’t believe it anyway. I appreciated her loyalty to him, but she was wasting it. Teddy just didn’t wake up one day and decide to be a drug dealer and a pimp. While he obviously had no experience providing for himself, with a little grit, he could have done so, and legally. My opinion of his lack of moral fortitude hadn’t changed. Teddy Crane was a bad guy, even if Natasha couldn’t see it.
Natasha took a bathroom break, and I caught Alvin looking at me.
“What?” I said.
“You were right not telling her about catching Teddy peepin’ in that window. You need to watch it with her where he’s concerned.”
“What do you mean by that?”
“Rich people always stick to their own kind. When the shit hits the fan, she'll choose him over you, no matter what he’s done. So, watch your back. Don’t put your life in her hands.”
I looked at him, then nodded. He was probably right.
When Natasha came back out, she said, “Let’s talk about tomorrow. What can I do to help?” she said.
“What you’ve been doing. Point me to anyone else who might have done business with Kroll, or knew Jamal particularly well. Other than that, we enjoy the race and let things percolate. Kroll will probably have learned we're on to his hookers and drug parties, and I might yank his chain a bit if he’s there. He seems to have a short fuse, and maybe he’ll shoot his mouth off about something he shouldn’t.”
“Oh, he’ll be there,” Natasha volunteered. “He’s got a couple of horses in the race.”
“Then he’ll be surrounded by his friends from the party. If they're investors in Kroll’s syndicate like I think, they’ll have a stake in those horses, too. So Alvin, be somewhere close when I talk to him. I wouldn’t like it if some wi
se-guy-type got into my face.”
“Leave them to me,” Alvin said. “You’d probably hit him in the neck.”
Natasha gave us both an inquisitive look but didn’t say anything. Neither did we.
“Then there’s Kroll’s veterinarian, Sam Squires. He’s had time to contact Brandon Wise, the insurance investor, and come clean—if he’s going to do it.”
“Or he’s halfway to Alaska by now,” Natasha said.
“I don’t think so. I think Squires will do the right thing.”
“You’ll trust him, but not Teddy, whom I’ve known all my life,” Natasha said, an edge to her voice.
I stole a look at Alvin, who shot me a glance that said, “See?”
Alvin went to his motel room in Tryon, Natasha went to bed, and I made myself a cheese sandwich, poured myself another scotch, and called Kelly.
I filled her in on the day and night’s events and told her I had Alvin “Big Hurt” Brown watching my back now. I kept my description of Alvin to a minimum. Meeting Alvin in person would do far more to lessen her worries for me than a description ever could.
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
I was up before Natasha on Saturday morning, showered, shaved, and dressed. I made coffee, found a box of pop tarts in the back of Natasha’s pantry, and stuck a couple of them into the toaster. When that was ready, I took a cup of coffee and the tarts out to the living and room and turned on the TV to a local station.
There was breaking news of another murder by the Carolina Stalker serial killer, this time in nearby Greenville. A prostitute like all the others. The overly-coiffed female announcer said the woman had arrived home around four A.M., and her attacker followed the 23-year-old into her apartment, strangled her, then post-mortem, mutilated her mouth and lips. That Modus Operandi matched all the other serial killings, including the two-gallon clear plastic zip bag over her head, which the killer used to avoid blood splatter.
Agent Mosley R. Smith of the FBI, who was shown at the scene, but not interviewed, was said to lead the investigation, in cooperation with the Greenville Police Homicide Division, SLED, the South Carolina Law Enforcement Division, and members of the Greenville Sheriff’s Department. Every available police officer seemed to be hard at work on the case, making it easy for me to believe no one was looking too hard for Jamal.
Natasha came out in her pajamas and fetched a cup of coffee of her own. “What’s this?” she said, nodding to the TV and sitting down on the sofa next to me, pulling her bare feet underneath her.
“Another Carolina Stalker serial murder. In Greenville,” I said.
Natasha looked at me with widened eyes.
“Oh my God,” she said. “Greenville. Could it be one of the girls from Wilson Kroll’s party?”
“I was wondering that, myself,” I said. “If it was, they’ll probably find out.”
“And learn Teddy's part in it,” she said.
Her first sympathetic thought was for Teddy, not the murdered girl.
“They’ll find out about Wilson Kroll’s sex and drug parties, too,” I said. “And it won’t be good for either one of them.”
“And you’d like that, wouldn’t you?” she said.
“It doesn’t matter what I’d like. This is out of my hands.”
I could feel her watching me.
“Well,” she said, “What are you going to do?”
“I honestly don’t know,” I said, looking at her. “There are more hookers in Greenville than the ones who attended Kroll’s party. But if it turns out to be one of the girls from there . . .”
“I know. You’ll have to tell the police about Teddy.”
I didn’t answer.
She got up and went into her bedroom and closed the door. A couple of minutes later, I heard her shower running.
Natasha came out forty-five minutes later in a summer dress with prints of colorful flowers. She carried a big wide-brimmed peach-colored hat with a dark red ribbon, a hat like ladies wear at the Kentucky Derby.
She stood for a minute looking at it, then sailed it like a frisbee into a chair in the corner. “I was going to be in the hat contest, but I’m not in the mood for it today.”
“Did I do that?” I asked. “Put you in a bad mood talking about Teddy?”
“No, J.D. I put myself in a bad mood thinking about Teddy. It makes me sad how he’s wasted all his family’s money and is screwing up his life. You don’t know him, but he could have been anything if he’d just tried. It breaks my heart.”
She regained her composure and forced a smile.
“Don’t say anything else,” she said. “I didn’t work this hard on my mascara to have it run down my face. So, let’s change the subject before I cry. It’s race-day, and supposed to be fun.”
I heard a car pull up out front, and I could see out the window it was Kelly.
“Here comes your official girlfriend,” Natasha said and leaned over and kissed me hard on the cheek. “I enjoyed the relationship, even though it was in name only.”
Kelly knocked at the door, and let her in. “I’m glad you came,” I said, and we hugged and kissed. Her hair smelled like strawberries, and it felt wonderful to have my arms around her.
She stepped back to look at me. “Is that lipstick on your face?”
I shot a glance at Natasha, and she grinned at me. The kiss was for Kelly, not me.
“Hi, Kelly,” Natasha said and came over and hugged her, too. “Don’t worry. The lipstick isn’t J.D.’s fault. I just said good morning to him with a little old kiss on the cheek.”
I couldn’t read the look Kelly gave her, but a game of some kind was on.
“Alvin Brown, Mrs. Johnson’s nephew, will be coming with us,” I said. “Don’t let his looks scare you. Underneath, he’s a teddy bear.”
“More like a grizzly bear,” Natasha said, laughing. With what happened at the track the other night, you should be glad J.D. has a bodyguard like him.”
“Bodyguard sounds good to me,” Kelly said, giving me an inquisitive look.
I’d told her about meeting Alvin at Mrs. Johnson’s, but not much else.
Another car pulled up outside. It was Alvin. Natasha let him in and introduced him to Kelly.
“Nice to meet you Alvin,” Kelly said, and gave him a kiss on the cheek. “Thanks for looking out for J.D.” She stood back and looked him over. “I won’t worry about him anymore.”
Natasha took Alvin’s arm and we headed to her car. We were off to the races.
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
The crowds were beginning to arrive at the track for the 70th annual running of the Upcountry Steeplechase. Natasha said twenty thousand spectators were expected.
Several cops were directing traffic along Hunting Country Road, as people were parking their cars in vacant lots temporarily designated for that purpose. I noticed no one parked on the shoulders of the road, which must have been forbidden by USEC. After all, USEC and the track was situated in the middle of a private neighborhood. Other cars were streaming into the track area itself, to park on the sloping hillside across from the stands at the finish line. These were the tailgaters Natasha said tried to outdo each other with their lavish spreads. She said it wasn’t unusual to see champagne and caviar, roast duck and filet mignon served on white linens spread out on the grass.
We all came in Natasha’s SUV, and she parked in a reserved parking area right at the track. We made our way into the infield and toward the largest of the sponsor and hospitality tents. Admission to our tent was by special pass only, which was above and beyond the cost of the tickets for the race. Natasha footed the bill for everything. I had no idea what it cost her. Probably more than my weekly salary.
The tent was filled with chairs and tables with white tablecloths and flower arrangements, and a long bar with several white-shirted bartenders behind it. This was a fancy affair. A table covered with food ran the distance of one side of the tent, a guy in a chef’s jacket and hat stood by a huge slab of roast beef, carving
knife at the ready. I almost laughed at the sight. It was only a little after ten in the morning, but I guessed roast beef was okay for breakfast, too. The bar along the other side was already doing business. This was a drinking crowd.
Natasha told us that when the races started the best place to be was along the track by the viewing stands just outside the tent, which meant we could easily come back inside for food and drinks whenever we wanted.
People were streaming in, the women wearing colorful dresses and decorative hats—with Natasha and Kelly looking as good or better than most of them, sans the hats. The men dressed as country squires, some even wearing trilby hats and neckties. I started to feel underdressed in my navy blazer, chinos, and ankle high Duck Boots, even though Natasha said I was perfectly attired, especially with the waterproof Duck Boots. Natasha had suggested that both Alvin and I buy the boots for the event. There was a heavy dew that morning, and the grass would be wet, especially if we went out on the track.
I had no desire to go out on the track again. I’d been there, done that, and still had the stitches in my head to show for it. Alvin was dressed in Alvin clothes: a long gray cardigan, unbuttoned, a white silk mock-neck shirt underneath, black jeans, creased, silver belt buckle and matching silver watch, the customary diamond studs in each ear, with his sculpted physique underneath it all the finishing touch. His Duck boots were black on black. Alvin managed to look amazingly street, chic, and horse-race appropriate at the same time. I noticed people looking at him, and moving aside as we walked among them.
We made our way to the bar, and ordered Bloody Mary’s—all except Alvin, who had a club soda with lime, sticking to his vow of alcohol abstinence.
I saw Teddy Crane enter the tent. He wasn’t wearing his trademark Australian flop hat and long cowboy duster today, but he was in cowboy attire. He wore a western shirt with pearl snap-buttons, jeans, alligator cowboy boots and a lacquered-straw cowboy hat. He had on a belt with a buckle shaped like a horseshoe, almost as large as the real thing. He saw us and made an immediate turn toward the far end of the bar.
