Black Orchid

by Vaughn C. Hardacker

  Harris slid a set of car keys across the table. “Then you better take this.”

  “What’s this to?” Traynor asked.

  “A company car—a Ford Excursion to be more exact. In the event you have to, as you say, snatch Toledo, you won’t be able to turn in a rental, or park it in the rental return lot for that matter. Just leave the truck in the general aviation lot and give the keys to our employee in the terminal.” Harris looked at Manuel and Traynor in turn. “You know, of course, that we … we being Hollis International … can’t help you?”

  “Isn’t giving us a company vehicle helping us?”

  “We can make the case that we were ordered to provide you with transportation—what you do with that truck is beyond our control.”

  Manuel scooped up the keys. “That should work.”

  “I’ll return the rental tomorrow. You guys need anything else?”

  Manuel patted the briefcase that sat to his left. “This is it. Thanks for everything.”

  “De nada. Hollis International pays me well to be their errand boy in Mexico. You guys watch your backs and cover your asses, okay? I know I don’t need to tell you that this isn’t a place where you should be running around with that.” He nodded to the case, which held the equivalent weight of a million American dollars in newsprint, hidden beneath a top layer of Mexican pesos.

  After Harris departed, Manuel seemed distant, lost in thought.

  “You okay?”

  “There’s something bugging me…. It’s about you.”

  Traynor sat up straight. “Which is?”

  “Twice now, first with Treviño and later with Toledo, your feelings were obvious—so much that I was afraid it would blow everything. Can I trust you not to go nuts on me? We’re too close to the end.”

  Traynor felt his face flush—but not from anger. He had tried to hide his feelings behind an aura of professionalism; still his loathing for the people responsible for Mindy’s death got the best of him and it must have shown. “I’m all right,” he said. “After a while even a skin-diver for a septic cleaning company gets used to wallowing in the filth.”

  Manuel smiled. “I don’t like these bastardos any more than you do. I’d like nothing better than to give them the slow, painful death they deserve, but if we do that, we’ll never get the rest of them.”

  “As much as I want Toledo,” Traynor said, “I want the sonuvabitch who did the on-screen work.”

  “The actual killer …”

  “I want the entire crew. The cameramen, and everyone who was in that house and did nothing to help Mindy Hollis.”

  “That might be a tall order,” Manuel replied.

  “Of course, but as we speak I’m sure Deborah and McMahon are working that end.”

  “So all we have to do is get Toledo north?”

  “That’s all. Although I think killing him will probably be easier …” Traynor mused.

  “And more fulfilling, I’m sure. Still, that’s not our mission. When I was undercover down here, I could have slit the throats of any number of assholes, but my job was to identify and locate them, not take them out. I know your frustration better than anyone.”

  “That doesn’t make it any easier, does it?”

  “Shit, like most things, if it was easy, everyone would do it.”

  Close surveillance requires continued alertness on the part of the surveillance team.

  —FM 3-19.13, Law Enforcement Investigations

  24

  McMahon gave the two men several minutes to get out of the immediate area and then poised himself to breach the wall when he heard Deborah hiss, trying to get his attention. “What?” he whispered.

  She looked up at him. “What are you gonna do if those coons see you and decide to become allies against a common enemy?”

  He paused for a second. “I could have gone all night without hearing that—there are times when you sound like the CEO of a major corporation.”

  “That’s because I am one. As such, when I make a decision, I like to plan for all contingencies.” She tossed him a can.

  He caught it and saw it was pepper spray. “You do have a way of thinking about the things I either overlook or don’t want to consider.”

  She grinned. “That’s why I’m the boss. Be careful. I’m not sure the corporate medical plan covers raccoon attacks.”

  He smiled, gave her a thumbs-up, and went over the wall.

  McMahon rolled when he hit the lawn and in one motion regained his feet. He checked to make sure he hadn’t been noticed and dashed toward the garage. As he jogged, he heard the racket caused by the fighting raccoons. He hoped that they would keep it up for a while longer, but knew the odds were against it. They had to be getting fatigued and would soon disentangle and run for the safety of the surrounding brush.

  In short time, he reached the garage and squatted in the shadows for a few seconds to catch his breath and listen for any signs that he’d been discovered. Then he slowly circumvented the detached garage. In the rear he found a door. He smiled when he turned the doorknob and it opened.

  Once inside, he paused, this time to allow his vision to adjust to the darkness. Fortunately, the building had two large windows in the rear and side walls, which allowed enough ambient light for him to do what was needed. Attaching the magnetic transmitters to each car’s undercarriage did not require precision—all it required was an area of metal to which it would attach.

  McMahon duck walked to the Porsche he had followed to the house, attached the transmitter to the underside of the car, and switched it on. He quickly repeated the procedure on the other two cars parked there.

  He scurried back toward the door and stopped suddenly when he heard voices outside. The voices stopped by the door and McMahon overheard the discussion. “Those damned coons gone?” a rough voice asked.

  “Appear to be,” remarked the second.

  “It’s gonna be a long night if they keep setting off every alarm in the place.”

  “We figured that, so the alarms have been turned off for a while. We’ll have to make roving patrols for the next few hours. Skidgel is sure on edge tonight.”

  “That puke should be,” a rough voice replied. “I have no idea why the boss keeps him around. From what I hear, he’s into some perverted shit and there are some seriously bad dudes involved.”

  “What sort of perverted shit?” McMahon gritted his teeth when he heard the renewed interest in the speaker’s tone.

  “I ain’t heard anything specific. You armed?”

  “Yuh, as soon as the alarms went berserk, Provost put out the word that we were to get our pistols and enough ammo to hold off an army.”

  “All over some crazy fuckin’ coons?”

  “Hey, it’s a job.”

  “Just the same, my next gig won’t be for some paranoid nutcase.”

  “Makes you wonder what he’s so damned afraid of.”

  “I know what he’s scared of,” a third voice interjected, “and it ain’t none of your fuckin’ business. Keep moving and watch the walls. You see those goddamn animals again, shoot them.”

  McMahon remained still as the voices faded and he hoped, disappeared into the night. He slowly opened the door and peered through the crack. Seeing no one in his line of sight, he stepped into the night. His heart skipped when he heard a voice say, “What the … who the hell are you?”

  McMahon’s mind raced and on instinct he said, “Mr. Skidgel’s personal assistant. When the alarms went off, he sent me out to check the garage.”

  The sentry stepped forward and in the ambient light from around the swimming pool, McMahon saw that he was suspicious. “If you’re Skidgel’s assistant, how come I ain’t seen you before?”

  “Beats me,” McMahon said, “but I’ll be sure to mention your powers of observation to Mr. Skidgel when I get inside.”

  The guard hesitated, unsure whether or not he was in trouble. McMahon did not give him the chance to decide. He lashed out with a straight left
fist and hit him in the throat, leaving him unable to speak. When the guard fell to his knees, choking and gasping for breath, McMahon followed up with a kick to the side of his head. The guard fell forward and hit the blacktop with a smack that McMahon was sure could be heard throughout the estate. His victim thrashed around for several long seconds and then went still. McMahon placed two fingers on the man’s neck, checking for a pulse—there was none. “Damn it.”

  Knowing that he had no other choice, McMahon grabbed the dead man’s arm and picked him up. As he threw the corpse over his shoulder in a fireman’s carry, he was thankful that the security guard was small in stature. He moved away from the garage, and keeping to the shadows, McMahon carried the body to the spot on the wall where he’d entered the property.

  “Deborah,” he called, keeping his voice low.

  “Yes.”

  “Step back from the wall. I’m going to throw something over.”

  He heard her say, “Okay, I’m clear.”

  McMahon stepped up on a large landscaping rock and strained as he pushed the body over the wall. It hit the ground with a dull thud and he quickly followed it over. When he landed, Deborah was staring at the corpse, her hand over her mouth and her eyes the size of pie plates. “Is that …?”

  “A dead man? Yeah, he caught me coming out of the garage—I tried to knock him out before he called anyone else. I guess I hit him harder than I thought.”

  “Jack, what are we going to do with … him?”

  “Right now, we’ll put him in the back of the SUV until we figure out a better solution.”

  “A better solution?”

  “Yeah, like maybe finding a good cliff to throw him over.”

  “You can’t be serious.”

  He reached for the body and hefted it over his shoulder again. “You have no idea how serious I am. You wanna open the hatch?”

  McMahon and Deborah were silent as they drove along Topanga Canyon Road, west of the 101. He turned onto an unpaved secondary road and followed it through a series of hairpin curves until a turnout appeared in their headlights. After parking the SUV, he walked to the guardrail, stared out for a few seconds, and then returned to the truck. He stopped beside the passenger door and waited for Deborah to lower the window. “I don’t suppose you have a flashlight on you?”

  Still too shocked to speak, Deborah shook her head no.

  “Okay, you wait here. I’ll be back in a few minutes.”

  “What about …?”

  “Him? Don’t worry, he isn’t going anywhere—at least not until I get back.” He returned to his vantage point and disappeared over the rail.

  As he slid down the steep slope, he tried to remember the terrain from previous trips. “I hope it hasn’t changed too much,” he muttered as he descended the slope. Suddenly, he crashed into a bush. He peered around and saw that the rest of the hillside was still brush-covered. Perfect, he thought. He used his hands and feet to scramble back up the incline.

  When he suddenly appeared beside the SUV, Deborah jumped in surprise and let out a scream that was muffled by the closed windows. He waved cheerfully, hoping to calm her, and then walked to the rear of the truck. A soft click told him that she had unlocked the doors. The hatch rose by itself, and he pulled the body out. In the dim interior light, he saw Deborah staring through the gap between her and the vacant driver’s seat. Her face looked ghostly and pallid in the dim interior lights. He looked at the corpse and grunted as its full weight settled on his shoulder. He grumbled, “We got to stop meeting like this,” and closed the hatch.

  Reaching the railing, he looked back at the truck and although he could not discern her features, he knew that Deborah was staring at him through the side window. He waved again, hoping his casual attitude would offer her some comfort, and then dumped the body over the barrier. He placed one hand on top of the rail and vaulted over. The body had slid on the sandy loam and shale and it took him several seconds to catch up with it. He grabbed the guy by the shirt collar and pulled the body past the brush-line. He grunted and pulled until he determined he was far enough in the bush for the body to go undiscovered until some other hearty fool decided to scale the slopes of the Topanga Mountains. Once the dead security guard was hidden, he used both his hands and feet to scurry up the gradient for, what he hoped would be, the last time.

  Back in the truck, Deborah stared through the windshield, intentionally avoiding making eye contact. “Deborah, are you all right?”

  “I just realized that I’m an accessory to murder.”

  McMahon listened quietly, realizing that she was correct. He tried to put her at ease by lying. “It was self-defense, not murder.” He pulled a pistol from his belt and placed it on the console. “He was wearing that and would have used it to defend one of the men who murdered Mindy. He gave me no choice—either I killed him or he would have killed me.”

  “But it happened during the course of a burglary.”

  “Actually, it was breaking and entering. Burglary is when you take something—I left stuff.” He put the truck in gear.

  “Don’t try to mollify me with jokes, Jack.”

  He heard the concern and fear in her voice and tried to ease her apprehension. “All I can say is that anytime you get involved with people like Skidgel, shit seems to happen.”

  She reached across the console and touched his arm. “Jack, I know you wouldn’t have killed that man if you had any choice. It’s just that I’ve never been involved in anything even remotely like this. When I sent you and Ed out here to find her, I had no idea it was going to lead to people dying.”

  “Nor did we. In these situations, things have a way of going off on tangents. Ed, Manuel, and I have been doing this for years, and there is only one constant: you go where the investigation takes you. You just keep thinking about what happened to Mindy and eventually you’ll be able to live with all of this.”

  She removed her hand from his arm and straightened up in her seat. “I hope you’re right.” She did not sound convinced.

  “I know I am. Now let’s get out of here. The sun will be up soon.”

  As they drove down the canyon, Deborah’s exhaustion seemed to intensify. “I’m going to drop you at the hotel,” McMahon said. “We’re going to have to watch Skidgel 24/7, so we’ll have to do it in shifts. You sleep until noon and then relieve me.”

  “I’ll arrange for a rental car at the hotel,” she said. He realized she was stating the obvious to keep her mind occupied, and so he let her talk.

  It’s an eerie experience to be surrounded by a roomful of the most monstrous people on earth …

  —Lee Lofland, retired police officer

  25

  Traynor’s phone rang at seven in the morning. He snatched it from the cradle. “Yeah?”

  It was Manuel. “Toledo’s people called. They want to meet this afternoon.”

  “In broad daylight?”

  “Obviously, he’s paid up on his bribes and feels secure.”

  “What’s our plan?”

  “I’m still working on that. The only thing I know for sure is that he’ll have a lot of security and they’ll be armed to the teeth.”

  “What about your friend, Shoucar?”

  “We can’t risk it. So many of the Mexico City cops are corrupt that even he won’t be able to keep this under wraps. Not to mention that what you and I are planning to do is against the law, even down here.”

  “So where are we meeting with them?”

  “At Toledo’s ranchero.”

  “His ranchero?”

  “Yuh, that’s why there will be security up to our asses.”

  “How the hell will we get him out of there?”

  “That’s what our mission for today is. We take no money with us, and we get an idea of the layout. If it looks as if we can take him there, we’ll arrange a time to bring the money. Otherwise, we try to get him to agree to meet us at a place of our choosing.”

  Traynor hung up, feeling like he had
just been given a pair of lead boots and ordered to walk through a minefield.

  The smog was so heavy that the day seemed gray in spite of the cloudless, sunny sky. It felt as if the Earth needed a long shower to wash away the scum. Within the city limits, the street and thoroughfares were always congested and full of SUVs—most of which had started life in the possession of North Americans—and thousands of the lime-green, original Volkswagen bugs that served as taxicabs across the city.

  There was little if any traffic on the country road as they drove south of Mexico City, only an occasional beat-up pickup truck. If the road had not been paved, Traynor could have believed he’d been transported over a hundred years back in time. They crested a hill and looked across a sprawling valley, whose primary occupant seemed to be a large stucco villa surrounded by a high wall, outside of which were acres of agricultural fields and pastures.

  “Unless I miss my guess,” Manuel said, “we’re looking at Ranchero Toledo …”

  “That what he calls it?”

  “Hell if I know. The rich love to give their homes names.”

  “It could be because there’s no mail service out here in the sticks—no street numbers.”

  Manuel chuckled. “I never thought of it that way.”

  As they drove down the curving road, Traynor grew tired of staring through the layers of desert dust and sand that covered the windshield. “My stomach feels as if I ate a bowl of snakes for lunch. It’s like they’re thrashing around in there.”

  Without taking his eyes from the road, Manuel replied, “I know that feeling well.”

  “How’d you stay undercover down here for so long?”

  “Wasn’t easy. There were many days that I was sure would be my last.”

  “So why do it so long?”

  Manuel seemed to ponder the question. “This will sound nuts to most people, but you’ve been on the job and might understand. On those days where I thought I’d die, I experienced some of most intense highs I’ve ever had in my life. The wind rustling through the trees, even traffic noise, took on an intensity unlike anything I’ll ever experience again.”