Skidgel backed up, stumbled over the coffee table, and collapsed onto the couch with his legs on the table. He spat a wad of blood onto the matted, urine-yellow shag rug.
McMahon waved the DVD case at Skidgel and said, “You said you only dated Mindy a couple of times.”
“That’s right.”
McMahon turned the case over and read the credits. “Says here that Vincent Beneventi is one of the producers—isn’t that your professional name?”
“Of course it is.” He lightly touched his swelling jaw and slurred when he spoke. “See, you didn’t believe I was really a producer, did you?”
“Who’s the woman on the cover?”
McMahon bent over him and held the case close enough for Skidgel to read.
“When I found that movie, you looked like you were about to shit yourself,” Traynor said. “Why?”
“Uh … that’s a movie that you can’t buy at the corner adult store. It’s for special, limited distribution, one of the ones we only sell to special customers.”
“It’s empty,” McMahon said. Traynor turned his attention away from Skidgel. McMahon held the case open, showing that there was no disc inside. Traynor turned back to their host. “So, where’s the DVD?” For a brief second, Skidgel glanced nervously at the Blu-ray player. Traynor noticed. “That’s one hell of an impressive entertainment system you got there, Vern. Why don’t you turn it on and give us a look?”
Skidgel’s face took on the air of a man pleading for mercy as he faced the death sentence. “No reason to be fussy,” Traynor continued, “just play whatever’s in there.”
“I don’t think you guys would like it …”
“You don’t? Why in the hell not?” McMahon asked.
Skidgel began sweating, and he tried to avoid making eye contact with either of them.
McMahon grabbed him by the neck of his shirt and pulled him forward. “Why not, Vernon?”
“Because …”
“Then turn the goddamned thing on.” McMahon bent forward until his face was within inches of Skidgel’s. “Is there something on that disc that you don’t want us to see?” His voice lowered to a sinister level. “Is that Mindy Hollis on the cover?” He smacked Skidgel in the forehead with the plastic case, and then grabbed Skidgel’s shirt and shook him until he flopped back and forth so hard Traynor thought his neck would snap and separate his head from his body. “Well, is it?”
Skidgel tried to hide his head in his arms, but Traynor saw enough of him to see he was nodding his head yes.
McMahon shoved Skidgel back and stood erect. His fists were clenched, and Traynor would not have been surprised if he reached for his gun. He placed a hand on McMahon’s arm, hoping to restrain him. He felt the tension leave McMahon; he turned to the cowering man and said, “Turn it on …”
McMahon stepped away from Skidgel and stood to his left. Once again, his hands were clenched into tight fists.
Skidgel’s hands shook when he reached over to the end table and picked up a remote control. He gave Traynor another furtive look and then began beseeching each of them in turn. “Look, guys …”
“Play it,” Traynor said. “No more games. I want to see what’s in that player—and I want to see it right fucking now!”
Resigned to his fate, Skidgel turned on the television.
It took several seconds for the circuitry to illuminate the display, and Traynor saw the menu screen for The Black Orchid. “Select the chapters menu,” he said. Skidgel moved the cursor down, and the screen changed, displaying thumbnail pictures of the various scenes on the DVD. Traynor scanned them and saw a series of pictures of Mindy Hollis. He saw stills of her being sodomized, and performing sexual acts that many people considered pleasurable—people who were willing participants. However, from the look on Mindy’s face, he could tell that she was anything but a willing participant in the making of this movie. Seeing the degree of degradation to which this naive young woman had been subjected enraged Traynor.
However, those stills from the early chapters were nothing compared to the last five, which featured her murder and dissection. Traynor turned to McMahon and said, “Are you thinking the same thing I am?”
McMahon seemed as angry as Traynor. “I always believed that snuff films were an urban myth—but that sure as hell shoots that theory all to hell.”
At that moment, Traynor knew that he himself was capable of subjecting Skidgel to the same tortures that Mindy Hollis had endured before the film’s ultimate climax—her death and mutilation. Traynor looked away from the screen and glanced at McMahon. His complexion was pasty and his eyes had narrowed to slits. Then Traynor looked at Skidgel … He was staring at the thumbnails as if in a hypnotic trance. When Traynor asked, “You have a favorite scene, Vern?” his words were full of loathing and distaste.
Skidgel jumped up and turned his attention from the screen to Traynor.
Traynor tried to maintain control, but his voice was elevated when he said, “During my twenty-five year career in law enforcement and as a private investigator, I’ve come across scumbags who I thought were the lowest of the low.” He pointed at the screen. “But, you’re the first son of a whore I’ve ever wanted to take behind the barn and use a chainsaw on …”
He knew it took all Skidgel’s strength to keep looking at him and not the screen. “All I did was …”
“Set up a beautiful young woman to be slaughtered for some sick perverts’ entertainment,” Traynor roared. He turned back to the screen and said, “I’ve seen enough, turn that fuckin’ thing off.”
“We can’t,” McMahon said.
“What?”
“If we’re going to get the rest of these scumbags, we got to watch it all … whether we like it or not.”
Skidgel pointed the remote at the HDTV, and when he hit play, The Black Orchid began.
When the movie ended, Traynor felt like a voyeur. He doubted there was a shower capable of making him ever again feel clean. He strode across the room and pressed the eject button. When the DVD drawer slid open, he took the disc out and returned it to its case. Turning back to Skidgel, he asked, “How many more copies of this you got?”
“There’s a couple cases in the bedroom closet.”
McMahon had not said a word since the movie started, and when Traynor turned his attention to him, he saw that McMahon, too, trembled as he struggled to control his rage. Traynor realized that if they stayed in this room much longer, one or the other of them might kill Skidgel with his bare hands.
When McMahon said, “I’ll check,” his voice was under control, and Traynor knew he had passed his crisis point.
“I’ll call Lebow,” Traynor said.
“While you’re at it, call Angela, too,” McMahon said. “She deserves a piece of this bust. After all, if not for her, it might have taken us days to find this bucket of puke.”
Traynor made the calls and then sat in one of the plastic chairs. “Well, Vernon, ole friend, seems we got some time to kill—you got anything you want to get off your chest?”
Vernon completely deflated. “I’m fucked either way, ain’t I?”
“Yeah, I’d say so. Even if you skate the murder charge by turning state’s evidence, her family has enough money to find you wherever in the world you try hiding. And if that job falls to us, I’m sure my friend and I will take it.”
Sweat dripped from Skidgel’s nose and chin, and his eyes darted from side to side like those of a cornered rat. Traynor wished that the young women in the bus station could see him now. He must have decided that he had nothing to gain by keeping his mouth shut and said, “Okay, what you want to know?”
“How did you get her to agree to this?” Traynor held the DVD case up.
“She didn’t. Neither of us knew it was a fuckin’ snuff. All I did was give her directions and tell her to meet me at the house—it’s east of here, toward Death Valley—isolated and private. I didn’t even go out there … I gave her directions and a key. The crew was already
there, inside, all set up and waiting for her when she arrived.”
“I want the names of every sonuvabitch involved. You lie about anything and I’ll make sure that you’ll get it worse than she did.”
“I do that and I’m fuckin’ dead … No way am I sayin’ anything.” He flopped back on the couch and sat with his arms folded across his chest and stayed that way until Engle and Lebow arrived.
… statutory requirements for victim and witness assistance … from initial contact with offenders through investigation, prosecution, and confinement.
—FM 3-19.13, Law Enforcement Investigations
14
They spent the next four hours at the police station, watching Skidgel deny any knowledge of Mindy Hollis’s death. He did however slip and give them Toledo’s name as the producer who had financed the film. While professionally done, the credits at the film’s end told them nothing, and the only intro to the film was the title. No actor names had been credited.
Finally Traynor felt he had spent enough time staring at the monitor that showed them what was happening in the interrogation room and he beckoned for McMahon to follow him. They left the room and walked outside. It was hot, although the sun seemed muted as it tried to burn its way through the ever-present smog.
“I don’t think we’re going to learn anything. Even if the police do break him, they aren’t going to share it with us. We may as well go get some rest.”
“Maybe,” McMahon said, “Angela will fill us in later. I can ask her anyhow.”
McMahon and Traynor were silent as they drove back to their hotel. McMahon parked the rental and then turned to Traynor. “How you gonna handle this?”
He did not have to tell Traynor to which this he was alluding. It had been on his mind since they had left the police station. How was he going to break this to the Hollises? “You ever wish you weren’t so damned good at your job?” Traynor asked.
“This is the first time for me. I’ll make the call with you, if you’d like.”
“You’re more than welcome to be there, but it’s up to me—it’s what Deborah hired me to do.”
“Don’t forget that she sent me with you—that makes it my responsibility, too.”
“Okay, point well taken.” Traynor opened his door. “Well, we’ll never get it done sitting on our asses.”
They decided to call from Traynor’s room. Ed glanced at the digital clock and noted that it was after ten o’clock. “Quarter past one in the morning back east,” he said.
“I know Deborah,” McMahon said. “She’ll be pissed if we wait.”
Traynor made the call. Without going into the details, he told Deborah that her sister was indeed dead. Before he could say more, she said, “Byron and I will be there in the morning. We’ll have the corporate jet fly us into Burbank.”
Traynor said, “We’ll meet you at the airport.”
“I’ll call you as soon as I get an arrival time.”
He hung up, turned to McMahon, and asked, “So, what do we do now?”
“Get some sleep and meet her at the airport. Unless we’re told otherwise, our job is done. You were hired and I was sent out here to find Mindy—we found her. So, as of right now, you’re unemployed and I’m back to being the would-yuh.”
Within hours, they would learn how wrong McMahon was.
The Hollises’ Gulfstream G500 taxied to the general aviation terminal and McMahon and Traynor waited outside the entrance to the General Aviation Terminal for Deborah Hollis and Byron Moore to disembark. They held their hands against their ears to protect them as the jet engines turned down. The door opened and Moore came out first. He waited at the bottom of the short staircase for Deborah, and they walked side by side into the small terminal. She and Moore looked like a couple of high-powered executives on a business trip. Deborah was attired in a stunning gray suit, white blouse, and expensive high heels. Moore wore his ever-present navy-blue pinstriped suit, white shirt, and power tie.
Deborah immediately marched over to them; it was obvious that the past twelve hours had not been easy on her. Her eyes were red and puffy—no doubt she had been crying. “Thank you, Ed,” she said.
“I’m not so sure that thanks are in order …” Traynor did not add what was going through his mind: that it might have been easier on everyone if they had never found her.
She turned to McMahon. “Considering things, how are you doing, Jack?”
For the first time since they had seen Mindy’s body, the anger left his face and a deep-seated sorrow replaced it. “I’ll be okay,” was all he said.
“Have the police found her killer?” Deborah asked.
“That’s a subject better discussed in private,” Traynor answered.
She stared at him for a second, as if she were wondering what he was talking about.
“There are too many ears around here,” McMahon added. He nodded to Moore. “Byron, good to see you—although I wish it was under different circumstances.”
“Well,” Moore said, “it’s better that we know, rather than spend the rest of our lives wondering where she is and what happened to her.”
“That’s another topic to be discussed in private,” Traynor said.
Deborah turned to Traynor. “What are you saying?”
“Let’s discuss this in the car,” he said, then turned away and walked through the gate in the fence that surrounded the terminal and into the parking lot.
McMahon and Traynor had driven to the airport an hour early and traded the midsized rental for a Lincoln. They entered the parking lot elevator, and Traynor pushed the button for the fourth level. No one spoke during the ride to their parking level, but Traynor knew that Deborah and Moore were staring at him and McMahon, no doubt wondering how much worse this was going to get. He was certain they were thinking that Mindy had been murdered—and what could be worse than that? Forty-five minutes later they entered the morgue—and then they knew.
None of them had eaten that morning, so they went to a restaurant that McMahon knew. He spoke to the owner and they were led into a small room usually reserved for overflow. While they were waiting for coffee, McMahon stepped away and made a call on his cell. He disconnected the call, closed the phone, and returned to the table. “I’ve asked a couple of other people to join us,” he said. “They should be here soon.”
Twenty minutes passed before Angela Engle and Lebow walked through the door. Traynor signaled and they made their way to the table. Once they were seated, McMahon introduced them to Deborah and Moore. Engle turned to Deborah and said, “I feel terrible about your sister.”
“Thank you.” Not one to chew around the edges, Deborah went right to the heart of the issue. “I’d like to know what you’re doing about this guy down in Mexico City …” She could not remember the name and turned to Traynor.
“Holy Toledo,” Traynor added.
Deborah glared at him, suggesting that this was no time for jokes and that she did not appreciate his lame attempt at humor.
He shrugged and said, “That’s what the police call him. Besides it’s easier to remember than his real name.”
“Which is?” she asked.
Lebow answered, “Giuliano Olivas Toledo. Miss Hollis …”
“Deborah.”
“Deborah, there are a couple of issues we have to overcome. First, neither Sergeant Engle nor I are assigned to this case. A crime of this magnitude will be investigated by the robbery/homicide division. Even they’ll have their hands tied. Toledo and the rest of the bottom-feeders that hang around him are Mexican nationals and the government down there has its hands full with the drug cartels, who are getting a lot of media attention around the world. To them, as bad as he is, Toledo is small stuff. Then there’s the problem of the Mexico City Police. If they aren’t the most corrupt law enforcement agency in the world, they’re in the top three. So I’m sure that you can see that neither they nor the government down there is going to give a damn …” He paused and his face flushed when he
looked at Deborah.
“That’s okay, Lieutenant. I’m well aware that in the overall scheme of the world, my sister’s murder is not going to lead the news, except maybe in New England … and even then only for one or two days.”
Lebow took a drink of coffee and continued. “Toledo is able to operate as he does because he greases a lot of palms, both down there and up here … the Mexico City PD is one of the best money can buy. They won’t be jumping with joy about the prospect of turning over one of their major benefactors.”
“So what recourse do we have?” Deborah asked.
“You can go home and try to find consolation in the fact that we got Vernon Skidgel.”
“Who’s he?”
“You know him as Vincent Beneventi, Mindy’s boyfriend,” Traynor said. “He’s the guy who set her up.”
“And,” Lebow added, “you can hope that Toledo and his goombahs come here. But, I’d say that, given Toledo’s history, we only have two chances of that happening—and neither are likely.”
“Meanwhile,” Deborah concluded, “the case gets put in the cold case files, and after a few weeks, months at most, Mindy is just another statistic.”
“I’m sorry,” Lebow said. “We can only do what we can do. Even if Toledo were to come to LA and we get him, there’s no guarantee that he’ll ever see a courtroom. Skidgel was the only one stupid enough to list his name as a producer on the DVD. To be truthful, he isn’t exactly the sort of witness a prosecutor wants to go into court with. He’ll piss off every juror who hears about the shithead’s background.”
Black Orchid Page 8
