Traynor gave him a light tap on the jaw. “I got one more job for you.”
“Okay.”
“Find me a flight to LA.”
Nonverbal responses will either support or contradict the spoken word.
—FM 3-19, Law Enforcement Investigations
5
That night, Traynor called Deborah Hollis, explained what he’d learned, and got her immediate approval for the trip. Before hanging up she said, “I’m going to call in a favor or two—if they haven’t buried or cremated that woman, I want you to look at her.”
Then Traynor called Charley. “You get me a flight?”
“Yeah, Jesus, airfares have skyrocketed, Ed.”
Fortunately, Traynor didn’t have to worry about that. “When do I leave?”
“One twenty-five in the afternoon, tomorrow. Boston to Burbank via New York and San Francisco. With the intermediate stops, you’ll arrive around ten at tomorrow night left coast time. Your fare is almost 300 bucks.”
“First class?”
“Economy.”
Traynor shrugged his shoulders. “What the hell, Hollis can afford it.”
On Saturday morning Traynor was perched in front of the post office, sipping from a cup of takeout coffee and doing his best not to look like a vagrant or a stalker.
Manuel was obviously a creature of habit. Traynor couldn’t have been in place more than fifteen minutes when a Lincoln limousine pulled up with Jack McMahon at the wheel. The “would-yuh” made it a point to ignore Traynor as Manuel stepped from the backseat and walked around to the rear of the car. The trunk popped open, and he removed three medium-sized packages.
Traynor tried to remain inconspicuous as he watched him stack the boxes and walk toward the entrance. It was a waste of effort. Manuel’s head was cocked to the side, and the packages blocked his view of anything to his left—including Traynor. The door closed behind him, and Traynor glanced back at the car. McMahon beckoned him over. The side window slid down and McMahon said, “He’ll mail those packages and then head for the Funky Fox restaurant.”
“I know it.”
“I’m heading back to the estate … He’ll call when he wants a ride back.”
“Thanks.”
Traynor stepped back onto the curb, waved, and watched the Lincoln pull away from the curb, quickly merging into the traffic. Traynor waited for a couple of seconds and then started on the three-block stroll to the restaurant. The Funky Fox was a retro place—its décor could be described as 1960s chaos, and the inside looked like a flea market, with the wares hanging from the walls. At first glance, one would call it a dive—and by most standards, maybe it was. However, Traynor thought, that it had the three most important features of a successful low-scale restaurant: the food was above average, the portions were large, and the prices were inexpensive.
It took Traynor less than ten minutes to get there. The Fox was primarily a breakfast place, and on weekend mornings the line stretched out the door and onto the sidewalk. He must have been just ahead of the rush, because in less than five minutes, a table opened up near the door and Traynor grabbed it. Two or three minutes later, Manuel walked in. He stood by the entrance, searching the interior for a place to sit, but there were none to be found.
Manuel was obviously a clothes horse; even on his day off, he wore a black suit, white shirt, and tie. His indigo hair was slicked with some type of oil, and it glistened in the morning sun. Traynor motioned to him and indicated one of the empty seats at his table. “I don’t mind sharing if you don’t.”
Manuel shrugged and sat down. He stared at him for a second and said, “You’re the man Ms. Deborah hired to find Ms. Mindy.”
“That’s right. I was sitting at the table yesterday when you helped your boss into the house.”
His face reddened. “I’m sorry you saw Mr. Hollis like that.”
“I don’t know what Hollis pays you, but I’ll bet it isn’t enough for you to have to make excuses for him.” Traynor offered him his hand. “Ed Traynor.”
For a moment, Manuel hesitated—Traynor assumed he was surprised that someone would want to shake hands with a lowly house servant. However, it didn’t take him long to get over the shock. “I’m pleased to meet you.” He released Traynor’s hand and sat back. He appeared to be assessing the situation. “This isn’t a coincidence, is it?”
“No, Manuel, it isn’t. If I’m going to find Ms. Mindy, I need to know as much as possible about her. Who she hangs with, the type of places she goes, does she party, things like that.”
“I don’t know if I should tell you anything.”
“If you’re worried about Ms. Deborah, don’t be. She knows that I’ll probably be talking to everyone on the staff.”
Traynor placed his cell phone on the table. “I’ll make you a deal, okay?”
Manuel stared at the phone, then at Traynor—his eyes piercing and brows narrowed. “What kind of deal?”
“You use that phone to call Ms. Deborah. If she says it’s okay to talk to me, you tell me what I need to know. She says no, I buy you breakfast and we go our separate ways.”
He seemed to ponder the offer. “The family hired you?”
“Ms. Deborah did. She’s very concerned about her sister.”
Manuel seemed to come to a decision. He pushed the cell phone forward and leaned back. His face suddenly looked younger than before, and Traynor realized that this was the first time he’d seen him at ease. He said, “I suppose one could say that it’s my duty to answer your questions.”
A server approached the table. She had more piercings than a barroom dartboard. Silver balls and studs lined both ears, and there was a small silver ring in each corner of her lips. She dropped two menus in the center of the table and said, “Coffee?”
Traynor nodded. Manuel, ever the proper gentleman, said, “Yes, please.”
When she turned away, Traynor returned his attention to Manuel. “Tell me about Mindy. According to Deborah, her relationship with her father was, at best, strained.”
“She’s the youngest child and grew up in the shadow of her sister. All the family’s attention goes to Ms. Deborah. She’s the rising star.”
Traynor soon came to the realization that Manuel was very well spoken, and most likely highly intelligent. But then, he would have to be if he wanted to survive in the Hollis menagerie. “How did she cope?”
“By rebelling … She would do anything to get attention.”
“Mindy walked on the wild side?”
Manuel didn’t have to think about his answer. “Very. She was the party animal in the family—boys, booze, drugs, anything went. Then in college, she got serious about becoming an actress. She told me that she was going to be the biggest and best in the movies. She also said she was going to do it on her own without help from Mr. Hollis.”
“That’s why she went west?”
“Most likely. The Hollises are a big name on the East Coast, but not so big out there.”
“When you say she got serious, do you mean she went …” The right phrase eluded him, so Traynor settled for the first that came to mind. “… clean and sober?”
“For the most part. She’d still party occasionally, but not like she did when she was younger.”
The server returned, and when she banged the coffee mugs on the table, some slopped over the sides. “You know what you want?” she asked. The early-morning sun reflected off a stud in her tongue. Traynor ordered a ham and cheese omelet, and Manuel ordered eggs over easy, bacon, home fries, and toast. She jotted their orders down and left.
When she’d once again disappeared, Manuel said, “I don’t know how much more I can tell you. I’m just one of the household help—invisible to them, until they need me.”
Traynor studied Manuel. When you’ve spent as much time investigating people as he had, you develop a sense of when people are lying to you, and more importantly, when they’re holding something back. Traynor felt that Manuel fell into the second catego
ry. For some reason, Traynor got the feeling that being a rich asshole’s right-hand man was, for want of a better way of describing it, a cover. During four years as a Marine and twenty as a police officer, he had encountered very few people in the physical shape Manuel was in. Up close, it was evident that the suit he wore hid a muscular, wiry frame, and he was not as old as Traynor had expected.
Manuel met his stare with an unflinching one of his own. It was not the type of behavior one expected from a man who made his living kowtowing to a bunch of spoiled, rich people.
Traynor sipped his coffee, set the mug on the table, and said, “Why do I get the feeling that you aren’t exactly what you want people to think you are?”
Manuel never battered an eye. A knowing smile spread across his face, and he said, “You got me.”
“I do?”
“Yeah, I’m really a spy on a mission to weaken the US government by being a professional codependent to a bunch of drunken millionaires who own businesses that cater to the defense industry.”
“Really … how’s that working out?”
Another smile and Traynor realized that he liked Manuel. “Not so hot. Seagulls keep interfering—people feed the damned things too much.”
Traynor was still laughing when the waitress returned and slid their breakfasts in front of them. She walked away, then returned with a steaming carafe and topped off their coffee. “You guys all set?”
“Nothing more for me,” Traynor answered.
Manuel nodded, which she apparently took to mean that he too was fine.
Traynor went from the meeting with Manuel to his apartment. He grabbed his carry-on luggage and arrived at the gate fifteen minutes prior to boarding. Jack McMahon was standing there. He waved to him.
“What brings you here?” Traynor wondered if maybe Deborah didn’t trust him as much as he thought she did and had sent her staff to check up on him.
“I convinced Deborah to let me go with you.”
Traynor’s face gave away his question.
“I know the area, still have contacts with the LAPD—and I’m licensed to carry a gun out there. Deborah agreed that it might make the job easier. Then there’s a couple other things …”
As he listened, Traynor noted that McMahon was the only employee who dropped the Ms. title when he spoke of Deborah Hollis. He decided to check into that at a later time. He asked, “What might they be?”
“First, Mindy knows me. You’re a stranger and she may not feel very comfortable talking with you. Then …”
Traynor knew what he was getting at, but decided to let him say it first.
McMahon said, “If the worst has happened and we have to ID her body, we won’t have to rely on a two-year-old photograph.”
“Welcome aboard,” Traynor said.
“By the way, they need you at the counter.”
“Why? I already have my boarding pass.”
“You’ve been upgraded to first class. You’re representing the Hollises now.”
“I’m mildly surprised that they don’t have their own jet.”
“They do, but since it’s only the two of us and we’re just hired help, it’s cheaper to fly us commercial, even first class.”
“Well, all things considered, I guess it’s better than being in economy with the riffraff.”
A guilty person[’s] … voice may change pitch or waver and the speed of his response is usually drawn out as he takes additional time to formulate his response.
—FM 3-19, Law Enforcement Investigations
6
Traynor stared out the window and watched the ground fall away. He settled back into the comfortable seat, thinking that if one had to fly, first class was the way to go. McMahon was in the aisle seat, sipping on a beer. “This the first time you’ve gone back?” Traynor asked.
“What?”
“Is this your first trip back to LA since you left?”
“Yeah.”
Traynor probed further. “Why’d you quit?”
For several seconds, McMahon seemed reluctant to answer. But then he took a drink and said, “I needed a change of scenery.” McMahon’s demeanor told him that there was more to it than he was letting on.
Traynor changed tack. They had a five-hour flight ahead of them, and there would be plenty of time to return to the subject. “Did Mindy have any friends in LA?”
“Not that I’m aware of. But she’s young and many kids still believe California is Mecca. They think it’s where they’ll find romance, adventure, and success. Lord knows, I’ve met hundreds of them—kids on the prowl for the fast life.”
“From what I’ve learned so far, she doesn’t seem like the type to be easily impressed or led.”
“She isn’t—at least not in the way you usually think of it. But she still had what I thought were unrealistic expectations.”
Traynor turned his attention back to the window and studied the billowing tops of the clouds. They looked like majestic mountains against the bright blue sky. They looked as if you could walk on them.
“You have a plan?” McMahon asked.
Traynor faced him. “A plan?”
“How you want to go about finding her?”
For the first time, it dawned on Traynor that he had no plan whatsoever.
“I guess we’ll just touch base with the local police and hope they lead us in the right direction. I’ve learned that they have a Jane Doe in the morgue—maybe we can get a lead there.”
He chuckled. “Not much of a strategy.”
“No,” Traynor replied, “it isn’t.”
“I think I can help.”
Traynor turned back to the window again. After a few seconds, McMahon took a magazine out of the pouch on the seat-back in front of him and thumbed through the pages. He closed it and put it back. Without fanfare, he said, “I got my ass in trouble a few years back.”
“Oh?”
“I used excessive force on a perp.”
“Been there, done that.”
McMahon gazed intently at his companion. Traynor began to feel that McMahon’s eyes were lasers burning a hole through him. He felt compelled to offer an explanation. “I was a New Hampshire state cop. We got a call about some redneck asshole who’d been terrorizing his family. When it became evident that he’d been sexually abusing his fifteen-year-old daughter … I lost it.”
“Was it worth it?”
That made Traynor pause as he pondered his answer. “Yeah, every second of it.”
“Must have been pretty bad.”
Traynor remembered the incident vividly. “The perp had been battering his wife for years, which I didn’t like, but I could take it.”
Traynor knew that McMahon was assessing him. When Jack said, “You look like you can handle yourself in a scrape.”
“I do okay … I don’t usually start them, but I usually finish them. I walk away the victor more times than not.”
McMahon nodded, indicating that he was satisfied with Traynor’s answer. “Sorry I interrupted, finish your story.”
“We responded to a domestic abuse call, and I walked in on the sonuvabitch molesting his fifteen-year-old daughter. I exploded and beat him senseless in front of his family. It wasn’t nice.”
McMahon seemed to ponder that. “My story isn’t much different,” he said. “The captain felt it would look better if I resigned rather than got fired.”
They didn’t say much for the rest of the flight.
When the police arrived on the scene, they found the body of a young woman who had been bisected.
—Crime.about.com
7
No matter where Traynor traveled, Sunday mornings felt the same: slow and laid-back. He stood on the small balcony outside his hotel room and listened to the quiet. It was just seven in the morning, warm with low humidity, and the only sounds were those of an occasional car passing by and the chirping of birds. It would have been truly beautiful if it hadn’t been for the air quality. Smog hung over the mountain
s like a dirty gray blanket. Bad enough—but when the southern California smog mixed with the smoke of who knew how many brush fires, the result was a caustic atmosphere that burned Traynor’s nose and eyes. The smell of burned wood and airborne ash permeated everything.
His phone rang and he went inside to pick it up. “Traynor.”
“It’s me,” McMahon said. “I took a chance you’d be up. I know from experience that it usually takes a couple of days to adjust to the three-hour difference in time.”
“My biological clock thinks it’s ten in the morning,” Traynor said. “I’ve been thinking that since you know the area, I’ll leave the itinerary up to you. What’s our game plan?”
“I’m going to make a few calls. Maybe I can call in some markers.”
“Okay. What can I do in the meantime?”
“Hang tight, it won’t take me but a half hour or so. Why don’t you grab something to eat?”
“I’ll be here. Call as soon as you get done.”
McMahon called forty-five minutes later. “Meet me out front.” His voice sounded terse, not at all happy.
“What’s up?”
“We’re going to be given a tour of the LA morgue. I got us in to see the Jane Doe.”
“How’d you pull that off?”
The line was silent for a moment. McMahon finally said, “I called an old acquaintance who told me this Jane Doe has an unusual tattoo. They didn’t release the info to the public. They wanted to weed out serious suspects from the usual array of nutcases who confess to every crime in the news.”
“Okay, how does that tie in to Mindy Hollis?”
“Mindy had a tat that could be considered unusual.”
“These days all the kids have tattoos—what does it take for one to be considered unusual?”
“Either way, the Mrs. Hollis would have shit a razor blade if she knew one of her girls had gotten tattooed. So Mindy had it in a place where her mother wouldn’t see it.”
Strange visions passed through Traynor’s mind. “Where was it?”
“Wait and see.”
Black Orchid Page 4
