McMahon was familiar with the area and didn’t even have to consult a map to find Simon Street, a small artery off Sequoia. He stopped in front of a tan split-level and peered across Traynor’s chest, studying the front door.
“What’s the name we want?”
“Doerr, Celia Doerr.”
He notched the gear lever into park. “This must be the place.”
Traynor glanced around. “Riiight. Where are we anyhow?”
McMahon gave him a light tap on his left biceps. “Hell,” he said, “everyone knows that. We are where we are.”
“Three million comedians out of work,” Traynor said, “and I got to get the reincarnation of Henny Youngman. Don’t quit your day job, okay?”
“Take my wife …” McMahon said. “… Please,” quoting one of the old comedians more famous jokes.
Traynor glared at him and got out of the car. However, he couldn’t help but smile when McMahon came around from the street side, giggling at his own stupid joke.
Traynor rang the bell. After a few moments of silence, he wondered if anyone was home, but then the door opened and a woman who looked to be in her late thirties or early forties stood before him. “Celia Doerr?” he asked.
“Yes, can I help you?”
“I hope so. I represent Mindy Hollis’s family.”
“Represent them?” Her words were directed to Traynor; however, she stared past him. He knew she was studying Jack McMahon, whose demeanor was probably transmitting cop to her. Her gaze returned to Traynor. “What do you mean?”
He pointed over his shoulder with his right thumb. “Her family hired my colleague and myself to find her.”
“I don’t know if I can help you. I haven’t seen her in weeks.”
“We know,” Traynor said. “We also know where she is.”
“Thank heaven, I was worried.”
Her mouth said one thing; her cold eyes and expression something else. Traynor went for the kill. “She’s in the morgue.”
A sudden transformation swept across Celia Doerr’s face. Her mouth opened and her eyes widened. “The morgue?” Traynor watched her closely and decided that Celia Doerr was acting as if she was surprised—and it wasn’t good acting. He was certain that she’d already been aware of Mindy’s death.
“Yeah,” McMahon said from behind Traynor, “the morgue. It seems Mindy went out and got herself dead.”
Doerr took a step back. “I can’t believe that.”
“Believe it,” Traynor said, studying her closely and looking for any indication that she was shocked by the news. “Look, it’s awkward standing here on your porch—can we come in?”
“Of course. Forgive me, but the neighborhood has been infested with door-to-door evangelists of late. Apparently, God told them Simi Valley is in need of salvation.”
When she stepped back, Traynor walked through the door into a comfortably furnished, but by no means lavish, living room. There was a small fireplace that he doubted had ever seen a fire. On the mantle were pictures, one of which was of Mindy. Doerr led them to the couch and when they were comfortable, asked, “Would you care for something to drink?”
“I’m fine,” Traynor answered.
“Me too,” McMahon said.
“Ms. Doerr …” Traynor said.
“Call me Celia, please.”
“Okay, Celia. I’m intrigued. You seem—”
“Kind of old to be Mindy’s roommate?”
Her candor surprised him. “Yes.”
“We worked together at a place in the valley. She lived in a hotel and her funds were running out. I know how tough life can be when you’re young and far from home and offered to rent her a room. It’s so easy for a young woman to get into trouble out here.”
Mindy’s fate was ample proof of that. Traynor glanced at McMahon to see if he wanted to ask anything, but he seemed content to let him lead. “Was she seeing anyone?”
Doerr tensed and Traynor knew she was debating whether or not to tell them something. “Well, I hate to tell tales …”
“Celia, Mindy is beyond being hurt.” He nodded toward McMahon. “My friend and I want to see whoever murdered her brought to justice.” Or, he thought, just plain brought down.
“Well, there was this one guy. However, she was very secretive about it.”
“Secretive?” Traynor reached into his coat pocket and took out his notebook and pen. “Can you be a bit more specific?”
“That’s the problem—I can’t. She never brought him here.”
“Did she ever mention his name?”
“No, that’s what I’m talking about. Mindy always went to him and sometimes I wouldn’t see her for days.”
“Did he ever pick her up at work or someplace where you might have seen him?” McMahon asked.
Doerr seemed surprised that he had interjected himself into the interview. “Well, I did see her get into a car once, but I can’t be sure it was his.”
“What type of car?” Traynor asked.
“One of those expensive sports cars. I think it was European.”
“A European sports car,” McMahon repeated, “so we’re probably looking at somebody with money.”
That made sense to Traynor—after all, Mindy was accustomed to being around people with money. Lots of money.
“Where did she meet this guy?” Traynor asked.
“I can’t be sure, but she spent a lot of time at a club.”
“What sort of club?”
“A health club—although I think it’s a stretch to call any club with a bar a health club.” She pulled open a small drawer on the table beside her chair and took out a book of matches, which she handed to Traynor. “I mean what type of health club gives out matches? To me, that seems to endorse smoking.”
He read the name and address from the matches and handed them to McMahon before turning back to Celia. “You’re going to be visited by the police. Until today they had her listed as a Jane Doe. That, however, ceased when we identified her this morning.”
“I understand.”
Traynor said, “The cops will be asking many of the same questions we did. They’ll be especially interested to know why you haven’t reported her missing.”
Doerr’s complexion suddenly turned ashen, making it obvious that she was nervous—possibly scared. Traynor didn’t think Doerr had killed Mindy, but he believed that she either knew who did—or at least had a good idea of who had. He wondered if she realized that she had screwed up by not placing a missing person report. Either way, he was certain that she knew one hell of a lot more than she was letting on.
He turned to his partner and asked, “You got any questions?”
“Would it be possible for us to see her room? Maybe there’s something in her things that will lead us to her mysterious boyfriend.”
“Well.” Doerr seemed embarrassed. “I have to be honest. Mindy didn’t exactly disappear. She moved in with Mr. Anonymous. She took all of her things, and I haven’t heard from her since.”
Back in the car, McMahon said, “Mr. Anonymous? I think we were just fed a lot of bullshit.”
Traynor said, “That may very well be the case, but Deborah told me she was seeing some guy named Vincent. How many Vincents do you think there are in southern California?”
“A couple million, and that’s if you don’t count all the Vinnies.”
“How many do you think hang out there?” Traynor nodded at the matchbook he held.
He looked at the embossed type. “At least this gives us a place to start looking for the mysterious Vincent—that’ll narrow it down to only one million.” He flipped the matchbook into Traynor’s lap. “Next stop the Body Boutique. Sounds like a pick-up joint to me.”
“Aren’t all those places the equivalent of the bars we trolled for women in our younger days?”
“Yup. Although it’s a matter of taste. In one, you get the smell of stale beer and whiskey and in the other, sweaty bodies …”
“I’m already g
etting turned on,” Traynor said.
Be cognizant of gaps in timelines and specific questions that the suspect provides only evasive answers to or just does not answer.
—FM 3-19, Law Enforcement Investigations
10
The Body Boutique was one of those functional new buildings with the aesthetics of an assembly line. The first thing Traynor noticed when he walked in was the artificial smell of whatever they used to cover up the odor of sweat. A row of treadmills was lined up across from a line of televisions, all with the sound muted. They were all occupied by twenty- and thirty-somethings, who, Traynor thought, would probably tell you that they enjoyed working out. However, one look at their red, dripping faces was enough to bely that. Traynor had to wonder: How could anyone enjoy an activity that makes you look as if you’re about to drop from exhaustion? He said, “These people look like survivors of the Spanish Inquisition.”
“Obviously, you have no idea of fun,” McMahon replied.
“Fun?” Traynor called his attention to the row of television screens. The runners were working hard to get nowhere; they were all wearing headsets that plugged into audio jacks on the treadmills and stared at the screens before them. “If it’s so entertaining, why do they need TV to get their minds off it?”
He grinned and said, “You may have a point.”
“Ironic, isn’t it?”
“How so?”
“These days, the way to meet a woman is by ensuring that you’ll have no energy left to do anything once you do.”
He looked at Traynor and shook his head. “I gather you aren’t a runner.”
“Hell, before ten in the morning, I’m not even a stander …”
Before they reached the check-in counter, a refugee from Muscle Beach confronted them. “I’m sorry, guys, but unless you’re members or a guest of one, I can’t allow you in.”
“Really?” Traynor said. “And just who the hell might you be?”
“Darrell Duncan, I’m the day manager.”
“What if I want to join?” McMahon asked.
Duncan paused and looked at McMahon and then at Traynor. “Do you want to join?”
“No,” McMahon said. “But thanks for askin’.”
“Then …”
McMahon grabbed the front of Duncan’s sleeveless T-shirt and his voice was barely audible when he said, “Listen, dipshit. We aren’t here for a workout.” He flashed a badge. Even though the shield appeared official, it was anything but. Traynor recognized it as one you can order from any number of catalogs, saying you are licensed to carry a concealed weapon. “You’re sticking your nose into an official investigation, and if you don’t back off, I’m going to break it in front of all these little girlies that you want to impress with those gym-developed muscles.” He pointed to Traynor. “Right about now, my partner is deciding whether or not he should dismantle you. I ain’t sure I can hold him back much longer.”
The confused manager looked warily at Traynor, who did his best impression of menacing, giving him what he called his don’t tread on me scowl. “Maybe we should talk in the office,” Duncan said.
“Yeah,” Traynor said, staying in character. “Maybe we should.”
The manager led them deeper into the sweat factory, past the locker rooms, to a small windowless office that was furnished with only three chairs, a couch, and a cheap desk with a computer and printer on it. Traynor wondered what sort of activities might take place on the cheap vinyl couch. Still wary of them, Duncan placed the desk between him and the two of them and sat down. “How can I help you?”
“Do you know a woman by the name of Mindy Hollis?”
His brow furled. Traynor thought he was making a valiant effort to make them believe he was thinking. “Not off the top of my head.” When McMahon presented him with the picture that Deborah had provided, he took it and stared at it for a second. “Oh yes, her …”
McMahon and Traynor exchanged a quick glance between them. “Suppose,” Traynor said, “you elaborate.”
“She came in two, three times a week—we haven’t seen her for the past week, though.”
“She come alone?” Traynor asked.
“At first she did. Then she connected with Vincent.”
“Vincent?”
“Yeah. Several of our members tried to warn her about him.”
“Warn her?” Traynor was suddenly very interested in this conversation.
“He’s a movie producer …”
“What sort of movies?” McMahon asked.
“Not the type you’d ever want Mom and Dad to see you in.”
“Porn?” Traynor asked.
“Of the worst kind.” He stood up and rounded the desk, making sure the door was secure, and returned to his seat. “Rumor has it that he has connections with a producer in Mexico, who’s involved in the drug business.”
“Go on,” McMahon said.
“I’ve heard the Mexican specializes in a particular type of film …”
Traynor got the feeling that he wasn’t going to like where this was headed.
“Each time one of these women hooks up with Vincent, they stop coming in.”
“Tell us more about this Mexican,” McMahon said.
“Keep in mind that this is all hearsay, but I heard he doesn’t want big names in the porn scene. He wants new talent for his movies.”
All of a sudden, Traynor got a horrible premonition and felt his stomach sink. “Why’s that?” he ventured.
“He makes films for a select audience. Most of the stars know about him and won’t go within ten miles of Vincent. Not to mention, the Mexican goes in for reality.”
“There’s no such thing as a realistic porno,” McMahon said.
“There is if you arrange things so the woman doesn’t know what’s in the script …”
“Are you telling me,” McMahon said, “somehow they set these women up and film them being raped?”
“That’s what I’ve heard.”
Traynor said, “Where can we find Vincent?”
Duncan’s brow broke out in a sudden sweat. “Look …”
McMahon leaned forward and rested his fists on the desk. “No, asshole, you listen. Mindy Hollis is in the morgue. Someone brutalized her and then mutilated her. My partner and I are going to find the bastard or bastards who did it. Now either you tell us how to find this piece of shit or we’re going to think that maybe you’re in on it. You with me on this?”
He swallowed hard. “Look, if my boss finds out that I gave out information about a member, I could be fired.”
“Or,” Traynor added, “if you don’t, we could take you apart one piece at a time.”
Duncan’s eyes darted between them, and he must have decided that being fired was the better fate. He began typing on the keyboard. In a few seconds, he printed out the information they wanted. Traynor snatched the paper from his hand and read the name Vincent Beneventi and more importantly, an address and phone number.
If there’s anything more important than knowing what you know, it’s knowing what you don’t know and where to find the answer.
—Author’s note
11
Both lost in thought, McMahon and Traynor did not speak until they were on the 101. Traynor tried to erase visions of Mindy’s final hours from his mind. To anyone other than a sadistic psychopath, envisioning what she must have endured was anathema. Still, the one thing that bothered him more than anything else was what and how he was going to tell the Hollises about Mindy’s death. Finally, the silence became too much to bear. “Where is this address?” he asked.
McMahon pulled the GPS from its holder and handed it to him. “Enter it in.”
Traynor programmed the device, and when it brought up the route, he handed it back to McMahon, who glanced at it and zoomed out the display before saying, “Off the 101, not far from Echo Park. I know the area. It’s not the best area in the city, but then it’s not the worst either.”
“I’ll take your word fo
r it.”
McMahon reached around and took a nine millimeter pistol from its holster on his back. “Take this.”
“I don’t have a carry permit.”
“Ed, we’ve just learned that we are about to stir up some shit with some flaming hemorrhoids. Before this is over, you won’t be worrying about anything as trivial as a permit to carry a handgun. We’re talking about people who may have murdered and mutilated at least one person that we know of—need I say more?”
Traynor checked the Glock’s magazine and action. “At least I finally feel dressed.”
They lapsed into silence again. After fifteen minutes had passed, McMahon said, “You seem to be trying to get your mind around something—what’s eating you?”
“You know what sucks?”
“I know a lot of things that suck. Can you narrow it down some?”
“How about having to break the news about all this to the Hollises over a phone?”
“Yeah,” he agreed, “that’s gonna be a giant life-sucking vortex.”
3143 Doctors Drive turned out to be a palm tree in front of a vacant lot. McMahon and Traynor stood beside the rental car and watched the breeze carry a piece of newspaper across the knee-high brown grass. Traynor turned to McMahon and asked, “Is there such a thing out here as green grass?”
“You know what they say about the seasons in Maine?”
“… Nine months of winter and three months of lousy sledding.”
“Well, out here the two seasons are brown and green.”
“Humph. When does the green season happen?”
“After El Niño and mudslide seasons …”
“So, they do have four seasons out here.”
“I guess. Shit.”
“What?”
McMahon looked as if he’d just eaten a large, hairy insect. “I didn’t want to have to do this, but …”
“Do what?”
“Ask Angela for help.” He looked as forlorn as a kid whose puppy had just run away.
“It could be worse. The cops don’t have to tell us anything about an on-going investigation.”
He stared off into the smog. “Something like this she’ll jump in with both feet—even if it means she could lose her badge.”
Black Orchid Page 6
