Engle turned toward the voice and saw the maître d’ standing behind her. “I have a lunch appointment with Dr. Provost.” She saw indecision on the woman’s face and took the initiative, walking into the dining room on a collision course with Provost’s table.
When she dropped into the chair across from him, Provost gave her a questioning look. He obviously did not recognize her in her civilian garb. She stared at him and said, “Don’t you remember me?”
His only response was to continue staring at her.
“You’re probably confused by the jeans,” she said. “But we met several nights ago … only I was in uniform then.”
His eyes widened with recognition. “Ah, yes, the cop.”
“Yeah, the cop,” she said. “I’m also the cop who is going to bring you down for the murder of Celia Doerr.”
“Really?” He took a sip from his water glass. “Best of luck there…. I didn’t kill anyone.”
Engle gave him a coy smile and stood up. “Really? Well, time and good investigative work will tell. Won’t it?”
“Obviously, you don’t have any idea who I am, not to mention how much pull I have.”
“Obviously, you have me confused with someone who gives a shit.”
Provost sat back and met her glare with one of his own.
Suddenly, Engle’s face softened into a coy, seductive smile. “Enjoy your lunch, Doctor.”
Provost smiled as if they had been having a friendly discussion. “See you around, officer.”
Engle stood and turned away. She walked several paces, stopped, turned, and made a gun with her right forefinger and thumb. “You bet your ass …”
A man travels the world over in search of what he needs …
—George Moore
70
Manuel and Traynor arrived in LA in the early evening and drove straight to Deborah’s hotel. She met them in the bar, and Traynor was surprised by the many changes that seemed to have come over her. Gone was the inexperienced young woman; she’d been replaced by one with a much more cynical view of the world. His first thought was that dealing with assholes would do that to anyone.
Once they were settled in and drinks delivered, she said, “You’ve both lost weight. I gather your trip to Mexico was more strenuous than any of us expected.”
“I’ve had better vacations,” Traynor answered.
“What about Toledo? Did you learn how he was involved in this?”
Traynor deferred, saying, “I’ll let Manuel fill you in on that.”
Manuel spent twenty minutes updating her on their experiences, ending by saying, “Toledo invested the money for the movie. He convinced me that he had no idea what type of film it was and was never actively involved. He was a drug dealer looking for a way to launder money—not necessarily a maker of porn and snuff films.”
“And this Irish drug lord had him killed?”
“Yeah,” Manuel answered. “But Fitzpatrick is Irish in name only. He’s Mexican in every other way.”
“So that’s that?” she inquired.
“You want the truth?” Manuel answered.
“Will I like it?”
“Probably not,” he replied.
“Tell me anyway.”
Manuel looked at Traynor as if he wanted assistance.
“Don’t look at me. You’re the one that opened this can of worms,” Traynor said.
Manuel turned back to Deborah. “Had we gotten Toledo to the border, he’d probably have been exchanged for one of our citizens being held in a Mexican prison. Once he was back there, he’d have easily bought his way to freedom.”
Deborah stiffened. It was obvious that she was not pleased. “So the trip down there was for nothing.”
“Toledo did tell us that it was Provost that he handed the cash to,” Manuel answered.
“Now,” Traynor interjected, “all we got to do is tie this up and bring these assholes down.”
“I’m working the Provost angle,” Deborah said. “It’s only a matter of time before the floor drops out beneath that scumbag.”
Her language made Traynor smile. “So, all we need to do is gather everyone together and come up with a plan.”
Deborah looked at Traynor. “Something still seems to be bothering you.”
“Yeah, something is. Fitzpatrick—one of these days I’d like to take him down.”
He saw her quizzical look and said, “Toledo might have been a pus-bag, but he was our pus-bag and I don’t like the fact that all we did was lead him to his execution.”
“Well,” Deborah said, “there’s nothing to be done about now.”
“But one day … in the not too distant future,” Traynor said. He looked at Manuel, who nodded.
They gathered in a conference room at Hollis International’s LA Office. After greetings had been exchanged, Engle was the first to get down to business. “It appears our man Skidgel has disappeared.”
“What about the others?” Traynor asked.
“I can assure you that Jabłoński is still here,” McMahon said. “We finish shooting in a week and after that there’s the editing to do.”
“I wouldn’t be too sure that he too won’t run,” Manuel said. “He has assistant directors who could do the editing. Hell, with overnight couriers and the Internet, he could still be involved with it—even after pulling a Polanski.”
“Well,” Deborah said. “It’ll be up to Jack to make sure that Jabłoński doesn’t run.”
McMahon leaned back in his chair and nodded. “I got it.”
“Now,” Deborah asked, “what are we going to do about Skidgel?”
“I’d like to deal with him,” Traynor said.
“Okay,” Deborah said. “Who is going to handle Provost with me?”
“He’s never seen me,” Manuel said. “I’ll take him.”
Traynor looked worried, and Deborah said, “Something on your mind, Ed?”
“Other than that I know more about the streets of Singapore than I do about Skidgel?”
“I may be of help there,” McMahon said. “He was very, very friendly with Jabłoński’s assistant, Abigail Allen. She might have some idea of where he ran off to. I’m fairly certain that he’s in the US, though, because the court made him turn over his passport.”
“With enough money, a passport can be bought,” Manuel said.
“Either way,” McMahon answered, “I’m of the opinion that Skidgel is hot for Allen. He’ll want to stay in touch with her.”
“Why,” Traynor asked, “would she help us?”
“In her own way, Abigail is as big a predator as he is. She’ll do anything if she sees a profit in it.”
Deborah sneered and said, “I never understood why people will do some of the things they do for money.”
Traynor wanted to say: “That’s because you’ve always had it,” but for once, he kept his mouth shut. He turned his attention to McMahon. “Can you put me together with her?”
He shrugged. “I don’t see why not.”
With that, their strategy session was concluded.
When Traynor walked out of the conference room, he saw McMahon return his cell phone to his pocket. “You up for a drink?” McMahon asked.
“It’s been a long day …”
McMahon took Traynor by the arm and led him toward an open elevator door. “C’mon, Abigail is meeting us.”
“That was fast.”
Now there are five sorts of secret agents to be employed. These are native, inside, doubled, expendable, and living.
—The Art of War
71
Abigail Allen met them at a bar on Van Nuys Boulevard. After some of the joints Traynor had visited in Mexico, this one seemed very upscale—almost too yuppie for his taste. She sat at a table and smiled when she saw McMahon. “One thing about you, Peter, is that you’re punctual. I like that in a man.” She spent a few seconds appraising Traynor. Her scrutiny was so intense he felt as if he were in a lineup. “Who’s this?” she asked.<
br />
“Abigail, this is Ed Traynor. He’s an old friend. Ed, this is Abigail Allen.”
Traynor nodded and said, “Pleased to meet you.”
“Ohh … and he’s polite too.”
McMahon sat in a chair to her right, and Traynor took the one across from her. A waitress appeared and they ordered drinks. When Traynor ordered a club soda with a twist, Allen gave him a quizzical look. “I’ve been traveling all day,” he said. “If I have a cocktail, I’ll be on my ass.”
“Oh, I hope you were someplace exotic.”
“Mexico. On business.”
“And what business might you be in?” she asked.
“Security. High-level execs hire me to ensure they don’t get snatched while in Mexico City on business.”
“Is it that bad down there?” He saw that she was truly interested.
“Some people consider Mexico City the most dangerous city in the world.”
“Really? I wasn’t aware of that.”
“But based on my experiences, I’d argue that of late Juárez and some of the border cities are much more dangerous.”
“Of course. The drug cartels …”
Their drinks came and the subject turned to McMahon’s sudden stardom. Allen smiled at Jack and said, “He’s really quite good—in fact, he’s far better than I thought he’d be.”
Suddenly she became quiet and looked from McMahon to Traynor. “I don’t believe that you showing up in Vancouver was a coincidence. To be quite frank, I’ve never believed your name to be Peter Puller, either.”
McMahon shrugged his shoulders and said, “Cards on the table, Abigail?”
She looked at Traynor and then turned back to McMahon. “Cards on the table, whatever your real name is. Do you want to start by telling me what this is about?”
McMahon decided it was time to hit her with the reason they wanted to meet with her. “Okay. First, my name is Jack McMahon and I work as a security specialist for Hollis International, a worldwide conglomerate. Ed and I are on a special assignment for the corporation.” He gave her a second to let that sink in and then said, “Do you know what a snuff film is?”
“Isn’t that a movie in which they actually murder someone? They’re a myth …”
“I’m afraid they aren’t a myth, and several of your close friends made one, maybe even more,” McMahon said. “Included among them are your boss and the greaseball that picked you up at the airport.”
Her face became ashen. “I swear that I had nothing to do with it. I don’t believe that Kondrat would be involved with anything that sick.”
“Settle down, Abigail,” McMahon said. “Nobody is accusing you of anything. Nevertheless, you came onto me quite hard in Vancouver—as much as I’d like to believe that I’m irresistible to women, I know I’m not that attractive. Now suppose you tell us what that was all about.”
“Kondrat sent me to you in Vancouver,” she said to McMahon. “He wanted me to keep an eye on you. He said that he’d got a message from Vern Skidgel warning him that there were people looking to …” She paused and then said, “Fuck him over.”
“What put you—or him—onto me?” McMahon asked.
“You were the only person who fit the description we had.”
“Actually,” Traynor said, “it’s not so much Jabłoński as it is Skidgel that we’re interested in at the moment. He seems to have disappeared. You wouldn’t have any idea where he went, would you?”
She looked surprised by the news. She’s a natural actor too, Traynor thought. He decided to play his trump card. “The victim of the film in question was a member of the Hollis family. As you might imagine, they are wealthy and influential…. I’m sure they will gladly compensate you very well if you are able to help us.”
If she’d been the old cash register in the corner store where Traynor grew up, her bell would have rang when the drawer opened. Without hesitation she said, “Kansas.”
“Kansas?”
“He grew up in Kansas. He told me that his grandmother was very ill and he was going to see her before …”
“The town, Abigail,” McMahon said, “what’s the name of the town?”
“He never said. When anyone asked where it was he always laughed and said, ‘It’s easy to find, halfway between nowhere and who cares.’”
“Did he say anything else that might help us narrow it down?” Traynor asked.
“I don’t know if it helps or not, but he said it was near an army base.”
He was not what he seemed to be. He was a psychopath, a cold-blooded killer.
—Paul Doyle, former undercover DEA agent
72
Provost drove through the gates that protected him and his estate from the unwashed masses. Manuel followed him out of Brentwood and into the Hollywood hills. When they were deep in one of the canyons, Manuel cut his quarry off on one of the narrow hairpin curves that were cut from the walls.
He got out of his car and strode to Provost, who had gotten out of his own vehicle. His face was flushed with anger. “Are you nuts or something?” he shouted at Manuel.
Manuel closed in on the indignant man and grabbed his shirt. He snarled through clenched teeth, “You and I need to talk.”
Provost tried to pull free but Manuel tightened his grip and held him fast.
“I … I d-don’t kn-know you,” Provost stammered.
“No, you don’t, but I know all about you, Jabłoński, Skidgel, and The Black Orchid.”
Provost’s face lost its flush and turned pale. “I-I d-don’t kn-know what you’re talking about—”
“I also know what you did to Celia Doerr.” Manuel shook Provost back and forth. Each time he yanked Provost forward, the fist that held Provost’s shirt hit him in the face—a technique Manuel had learned watching hockey fights. “You’re dead meat, buddy. Skidgel has already hauled ass, and if Jabłoński hasn’t done the same, he won’t be far behind.”
Provost’s eyes widened.
Manuel laughed at him. “What? They didn’t tell you that they’re leaving you to take the fall?”
Provost tried a new technique to deal with this threat: bravado. “I have no idea who those people are, or what the fuck you’re rambling on about.”
Manuel had to hand it to the man; he was making a valiant effort to keep up the act.
“For what it’s worth, the young woman you butchered was from a prominent, wealthy family. So wealthy they can afford to track you guys down anywhere in the world—you’ll have no safe haven. So, why don’t you just ’fess up now?”
“You’re insane.”
Manuel pushed him away and he toppled into the ditch. Water splashed as Provost fell. “You’re an arrogant fool, Provost,” Manuel said.
Provost’s head snapped up. “Who are you and how do you know my name?”
“I’m the guy who’s gonna to be all over you like a case of the shingles.”
Manuel took a couple of steps toward his car, then stopped and turned back. “Oh yeah, you might be interested to know one other thing. Do you recall that influential family I told you about? The Hollises have major business holdings in California and for obvious reasons were major contributors to the governor’s last campaign. It wouldn’t surprise me if they have contacted him already. You could become one of California’s fifteen percent unemployed …”
The investigator may be able to speculate as to the suspect’s motivation and present a hypothesis.
—FM 3-19.13, Law Enforcement Investigations
73
McMahon saw Jabłoński smile and lean back in his chair. He felt relieved when he heard the director say, “That’s it,” to Abigail Allen. “It’s finished—in the can as they used to say.”
McMahon walked toward them and when Jabłoński saw him he said, “I got to hand it to you, Peter. You’re a natural.”
“Well, it wasn’t as if I don’t have a lot of experience at being a cop.”
“Still, actors usually tense up and stop being natura
l the first time they face the camera.”
“Ever talk to an undercover cop, Kondrat?” McMahon asked.
“Just you.”
“That what you think I’m undercover?” McMahon felt his guard go up.
“I don’t know. But I’m not entirely buying your story that you just happened to see us shooting on Howe Sound and stopped in to see what was going on. I think you were bound for our set all along.”
McMahon flopped down in the vacant seat to the director’s left. “Well, I did see one of your films and became a fan.”
“Oh? Which one?”
“The Black Orchid.”
For an instant, Jabłoński looked frightened. But he quickly recovered and said, “That’s not one of my films. You must have me confused with somebody else.”
“Oh, you directed it all right.”
Abigail coughed lightly, shuffled her feet, and said: “I have things to do.” Without waiting for her boss to dismiss her, she fled the scene.
Once she was out of earshot, McMahon looked Jabłoński in the eye. “Now that the hired help is gone, let’s you and I stop the bullshit and be honest with each other.”
Jabłoński returned McMahon’s stare and said, “Yes, why don’t we?”
“I’m not alone in this. You fucking morons picked the wrong woman this time. She wasn’t some runaway from Buttfuck, Iowa. She was from money—old New England money and lots of it. There are some serious badasses working this case and everything points to three scrotums—Larry Provost, Vernon Skidgel, and you.”
Suddenly, Jabłoński looked scared.
McMahon immediately picked up on the director’s fear and pressed on. “I can tell you this, Kondrat.” McMahon stood and glared down at him. “Should you try to fly off to Europe, or anywhere short of Mars, there’s enough power and money behind this operation to find you. We’ve already got the moneyman from Mexico City in custody—and Provost and Skidgel won’t be far behind,” McMahon lied. “We know all about the movie—from the financing to the filming. We’re even fairly sure that it was Provost who did the killing. So you see, it’s only a matter of time before you’ll find yourself being a codefendant to the charge of murder one. Since the movie was distributed outside of California—making this a federal case—you could be riding a hot needle before all is said and done.”
Black Orchid Page 27
