Black Orchid

by Vaughn C. Hardacker

  Deborah sat quietly, obviously pondering what she had just heard. After a few moments, Lebow said, “You’ll have to excuse Sergeant Engle and me. We have to go to work.”

  “Of course,” Deborah replied, “thank you for all your help.”

  Lebow nodded and Engle smiled, and then they were out the door.

  Deborah drank some orange juice and set her glass down. “Ed, do you have a passport?”

  “Yeah.”

  “With you?”

  “Since nine-eleven I use it as ID whenever I fly.”

  Her eyes were steely when she looked at Moore. “I have an idea,” she said, “that may entice Toledo to come to north of the border. Byron, I want you to fly back home and send Manuel here.”

  “How does Manuel fit into this?” Traynor asked.

  “You’ll need someone who speaks Spanish while you’re in Mexico City.”

  “Mexico City?”

  “Remember the old saying about Mohammed and the mountain?”

  “Of course.”

  “Well, in my plan, you and Manuel are going to be Mohammed.”

  “But,” Traynor objected, “Manuel will only get in the way if things get intense.”

  “Oh, I doubt that. You haven’t filled him in, Jack?”

  “Didn’t think there was reason to,” McMahon replied.

  She turned back to Traynor. “Manuel has a number of skills.”

  “Be that as it may, given his current position, they may have diminished,” Traynor said.

  Deborah stared out the window and seemed to have tuned him out; his arguments were getting him nowhere. She turned back to him, smiled, and said, “Don’t worry about that.”

  Traynor wondered what she was keeping from him.

  It is the spirit of the men who follow and of the man who leads that gains the victory.

  —George S. Patton (1885–1945), The Cavalry Journal

  15

  They left the restaurant and drove back to the airport. In the terminal, Deborah shook Moore’s hand and then walked back to them. “You aren’t going?” Traynor asked.

  “I’m staying with you guys.”

  “Until Manuel arrives?”

  “Until the end.”

  Traynor rolled his eyes in exasperation and turned to McMahon. “Don’t you have anything to say?”

  “Nope. She’s the boss and I make it a point never to question the person who signs my paycheck.”

  Traynor turned to Deborah. “This is not a tourist trip. I can understand you sending Manuel, but if you come along, there’ll be two of you to watch over …”

  “One,” she interrupted. “I’m not going with you to Mexico City. My plan calls for me to do something else.” She gave him another of her impish smiles. “Besides, don’t be surprised if Manuel ends up taking care of you.”

  He stared at her. “What is it about Manuel that I don’t know?”

  McMahon interjected, “Manuel is a former mercenary. He worked extensively in Mexico and South America, and after that he worked for the DEA. He was undercover in Mexico for eight years—and survived. That should tell you something about his abilities.”

  It did. For a number of years, Mexico was long considered one of the most dangerous places on earth for businessmen or tourists—let alone an undercover narc. Traynor knew that Manuel must have some extraordinary skills if he had survived that long. “If he’s so good, why in the hell is he wasting his time babysitting Cyril Hollis?” There were times when Traynor’s mouth was like a runaway train—and this was one of them. He cast a nervous look at Deborah. “I’m sorry, that was uncalled for.”

  “I understand. No one knows my father’s shortcomings more than me. To answer your question, Manuel has a considerable price on his head from a number of organizations—the sort of groups that would kill his entire family if they knew where he was. My father pays him extremely well, and Hollis International provides security for his relatives in the Caribbean. In return, from time to time, he takes on special assignments for the corporation.”

  “Still, I apologize.”

  “Accepted,” Deborah said. “Now that we have that settled, let’s go. I’m curious about the DVD you found.”

  That made Traynor’s head snap up. “Deborah, I wholeheartedly advise you against watching it.”

  “Why? It may help me understand what happened out here. As loathsome as it may be, I believe I can handle seeing it.”

  “Are you going to tell her or am I?” Traynor asked McMahon.

  “Deborah.” McMahon paused and after a few seconds, said, “The movie is not just a porno.”

  “What else might it be?”

  Another pause.

  “A snuff film.”

  “What’s a snuff film?” she asked.

  “They filmed everything,” McMahon said. “Mindy’s rape and all of the things they made her do. Then they murdered and mutilated her on camera …”

  At that moment, Traynor learned something about Deborah Hollis. She was an expert at hiding her emotions—possibly a skill learned growing up with a drunk for a father. He made a mental note to never get into a poker game with her.

  Her eyes narrowed and her complexion reddened. “I’ll handle it. But if I’m going to finance and manage this operation, I want something that will piss me off enough to let you guys do what you do best. I want my sister’s butchers to pay.” She glared at each of them in turn. “If the law will do it, fine—if not, then we will.” She paused and took a breath. “Do you know what pisses me off?”

  Everyone around the table remained silent.

  “What really gets to me is that people actually buy shit like this …”

  “And pay thousands of bucks for a copy,” Traynor added. “These are people more in your class than ours. The average pervert can’t afford it.”

  McMahon shuffled his feet and looked nervous. “Skidgel is known for enticing innocent women—those who have no idea that he’s involved in an illegal side of the porn industry. We’ve been told that established porn stars steer clear of him. He and Toledo go in for realism. Their movies feature women who have no idea what they’re walking into.”

  “Deborah,” Traynor interjected, “Skidgel was lying to us when he said that he sent her to the site alone. The shoot was in a very isolated place and someone had to take her there. From what we’ve learned, the only person she knew who could do it was Skidgel. Either way, the truth of the matter is that she was led into a trap. They were waiting for her with the cameras rolling the second she stepped through the door.”

  The Gulfstream landed at six that evening, and when Manuel strode into the terminal, Traynor was amazed at the transformation in him. In Portsmouth, he would have sworn that the man was what he appeared to be: an overpaid and underutilized bodyguard. As usual, he wore black—although now it was a pair of cargo pants with a tight T-shirt that showed off his well-developed chest muscles. His biceps stretched the sleeves until they looked as if the seams would burst. Back east, his hair had been long but conservatively cut; now, however, it was sheared off close to his scalp. He sauntered, rather than walked, to them and stopped before Deborah.

  She hugged him and said, “Thank you, Manuel. I’m glad you came.”

  “Ms. Deborah, there is nothing could have kept me away.” He pulled back and turned his attention to McMahon and Traynor. “Good work, men. When you came out here, I had doubts as to the success of your mission. I only wish it had happened a couple of weeks sooner.”

  Traynor was still amazed by the change in Manuel. Then he realized that he shouldn’t be surprised; in order; to stay alive for eight years as an undercover DEA agent in Mexico, Manuel had to be one hell of an actor.

  Manuel ignored McMahon and Moore, and looking at Traynor, he said, “Now, we should leave—there is much to be done before we venture to Ciudad de México.”

  Establishing and maintaining effective rapport with suspects during an interrogation is instrumental in obtaining their cooperation
and getting them to expose facts they would not otherwise feel comfortable disclosing.

  —FM 3-19.13, Law Enforcement Investigations

  16

  They were in Deborah’s hotel suite, discussing the trip to Ciudad de México, which Manuel said was Spanish for Mexico City. Over the years, Traynor had dealt with his share of Hispanic gangbangers and had picked up enough of the language to get his point across in most situations. Nevertheless, no one was ever going to accuse him of fluency.

  Getting to Mexico City was not going to be a problem; the Hollises’ Gulfstream would take care of that. Traynor told Deborah that he thought flying on a private jet seemed a bit ostentatious. She quieted his reservations when she said, “The Gulfstream is one of the most crucial elements to my plan.”

  That left the main problem, as he saw it, to ordnance. Getting through customs with the weaponry he was certain they would need was going to be a problem. However, Manuel didn’t seem worried. He addressed Traynor’s apprehensions, saying, “We won’t need weapons until we find Toledo. In fact, while traveling, they’d only get in our way.”

  “So,” Traynor replied, “we’re going to fly into Mexico and take on a drug lord with no weapons.”

  “We’re not going there to take Toledo on, as you put it.”

  “Then why are we going?” Traynor asked.

  “Have you ever sold or bought drugs?” Deborah asked him.

  “Not of late.”

  “Congratulations.” She smiled a demure smile and then said, “You’re about to become a major player.”

  Now he understood her plan. He and Manuel were going to Mexico City to make Toledo an offer he would be a fool to ignore. They were going to entice him to make a drug deal with Traynor playing the role of a crooked cop looking to make fast money. Nevertheless, Traynor was still uncertain how they were going to get Toledo into the hands of American authorities.

  When he returned to his room an hour later, Traynor poured a glass of bourbon and walked out onto the room’s small deck. While he sipped the smoky liquor, he couldn’t help but run the events of the last few days through his mind. Unbelievably, three days ago he had been in his office reading a mystery novel, no job in sight, without a care in the world. Now, he was about to fly into a foreign country to con a drug kingpin, who also led a gang of drug dealers and killers.

  He stared up at the night sky, wishing that the smog and ambient light didn’t block his view of the stars. Rather than the streetlights reflecting off the haze, he needed something serene and clean to look at. Something that might transport his mind away from a world inhabited by people who thought that there was nothing wrong with paying thousands of dollars to buy a movie in which a beautiful young woman was brutally raped, murdered, and butchered. The very idea that anyone would consider such a thing entertaining baffled him and made his skin crawl.

  He downed the drink, went back into his room, and prepared for bed. He had to get up in four hours, because in six hours they would be heading into the desert to locate the scene of the crime. Before he slid between the sheets, his phone rang. It was McMahon. “Come out to the parking lot.”

  “Why? We’re going to that cabin in a few hours.”

  “Hey, I’m just passing on the message, okay?” McMahon said. “All I know is that when the man says be someplace, we’d better be there.”

  McMahon parked the car on the street and Traynor looked at him and then at Deborah and Manuel with surprise. “How the hell did you get us into the jail to see Skidgel at two in the morning?” he asked McMahon.

  “Lebow and Angela called in some favors,” McMahon said.

  “For a couple of street cops, they seem to have a lot of juice,” Traynor responded.

  “I don’t know about that,” McMahon replied.

  McMahon led them away from the front entrance and around the building to a parking lot filled with police cars. They climbed a short staircase and he knocked on the door. A uniformed police officer opened the portal and peered at them. His gaze fixed on McMahon. He looked more than a little nervous when he said, “At least you’re on time, Jack.” He stepped aside and let them in. “I’m way out on a limb with this,” the cop said, “so all I can give you is fifteen minutes. Don’t waste it.”

  He led them down a flight of stairs into the bowels of the building. When he opened a door, Traynor saw that they were in the holding cellblock.

  “Third cell on the right,” the cop said. “I’ll be back in a bit—you better be ready to leave by then.”

  McMahon nodded and said, “Thanks. This means a lot to us.”

  “If we get caught, I’m sure that will console me while I’m standing in the unemployment line…. Fifteen minutes.” He walked away, leaving them alone.

  They found Skidgel lying on a small cot in his lockup. He was asleep until Manuel rattled the door. Skidgel jumped awake. “What the fuck!” He saw them and immediately shut up. He peered through the bars with narrowed eyes. “How’d you get in here?”

  When Skidgel saw Deborah, he made a mistake. “Hey, babe,” he said. “You should be in movies …”

  Traynor wondered if Skidgel was a sadomasochist. Because if he was, then he was about to be very happy. When Skidgel approached to get a better look at Deborah, Manuel reached through the bars, grabbed the front of his orange jumpsuit, and jerked him into the bars. Blood spurted from Skidgel’s nose and he cried out. “I’m gonna sue you, asshole! You got no right to …”

  “Shut your trap,” Manuel hissed. “We only got a few minutes and you’re going to tell us what we want to know.”

  “What do I know that you guys want now?”

  “Holy Toledo …” Manuel growled.

  Skidgel motioned with his arm. “Last time I checked, he wasn’t here.”

  Manuel jerked him into the bars again.

  “Shit, man, give it a break … that fuckin’ hurts.”

  “How do we get in touch with him?” McMahon asked.

  “He ain’t even in the country. He’s in Mexico. I ain’t seen him since we met in tee-jay1 and that was over six months ago.”

  By this time, Traynor felt like a bystander. His usual MO would be to take charge, but one look at the fear in Skidgel’s eyes told him to let Manuel run the show.

  Manuel jerked him into the bars again. “So, fuckhead, tell us somethin’ we don’t already know …”

  “Okay, okay. There’s this guy who owns a couple of strip clubs in Mexico City. I leave a message with him and he gets in touch with Toledo—by the way, if you want to keep on breathing, ditch the Holy shit—it really pisses Toledo off, you know?”

  Manuel took a small notebook from his pocket. “I want the names of the club and your contact.”

  “It won’t do you any good. They won’t give you shit unless they know you.”

  “Are you suggesting something?” Traynor asked.

  “Spring me and I’ll take you to my contact. That’s the only way to do it.”

  “When’s your arraignment?” Manuel asked.

  Skidgel glanced at the clock mounted above the door through which his visitors had entered. “At ten.” A hopeful look came over him.

  Manuel quickly put an end to that. “The names or you go to your arraignment in a wheelchair.”

  Skidgel’s eyes widened. It was apparent that he believed Manuel’s words. After all, he had gotten access to him at three in the morning. Traynor passed his notebook and a pen through the bars, and Skidgel wrote something on one of the pages and then returned it. Manuel looked at it and then handed it back. “You write for shit. Print it so I can read the goddamn thing.”

  “It won’t do you no good …”

  “Just do as I say.” Manuel still maintained his grip on the jumpsuit and shook Skidgel to emphasize his words.

  “Okay, okay, shit, man, you work in the post office or something?” He printed the information and passed the notebook though the bars again. Manuel glanced at it and must have found it legible. He released him with
a savage push.

  “You’re wastin’ your time,” Skidgel whined.

  “You got enough problems without worryin’ about ours,” Manuel said. “Oh, and there’s one more thing.”

  “Jesus, you’re worse than my ex-wife.”

  Skidgel tried to scamper away, but wasn’t quick enough. Manuel reestablished his grip on the jumpsuit. Knowing that he was about to kiss the bars again, Skidgel said, “Okay, okay, what can I do for you?”

  “The cabin … I want directions.”

  “I already gave them to the cops …”

  Manuel gave him a violent jerk. “Well, you didn’t give them to me.”

  “You got a GPS?”

  “Yeah.”

  Skidgel held his hand out, and Traynor once again gave him the notebook, he printed an address. “That’ll get you there. Now can I get some sleep? I got an appointment in the morning.”

  When they turned away and walked down the corridor to the cellblock door, McMahon said, “It’s been nice knowin’ you, Vernon. Let me know what the visiting hours are at Folsom. I may stop by and check up on you—you know, kind of make sure that Toledo’s contacts inside haven’t cut your throat. That would be a shame, wouldn’t it? A piece of shit like you doesn’t deserve to die quick …” He turned and walked after them.

  Traynor thought Skidgel must have been suicidal, because he looked at Deborah one more time and said, “Hey, sweetheart, I’m serious … I can get you a starring role.” His laugh was abruptly cut off when Manuel charged back, reached through the bars, grabbed a fistful of jumpsuit, and yanked him into the bars so hard that the doors of the empty cells rattled. Skidgel’s eyes rolled up, his legs lost their strength, his head flopped back, and his mouth opened as Manuel maintained his grip. When he was certain that Skidgel was out, Manuel released him. The unconscious prisoner fell to the concrete floor and lay in front of the cell door like a pile of dirty laundry.

  Manuel stormed out of the cellblock, and Traynor, for one, stared after him. Manuel said nothing as he stormed out the door.