Black Orchid

by Vaughn C. Hardacker

  Jabłoński sat as still as a statue. McMahon could see fear in his eyes. “If you talk with your partners, emphasize to them that they fucked with the wrong woman this time.” McMahon paused. “Too bad this movie will never be finished. I think it could have been a blockbuster. By the way, if it does make it to the big screen, instead of Peter Puller, use my real name—Jack McMahon.”

  Jabłoński was still sitting in his director’s chair when McMahon left the set.

  Sometimes a suicidal person may ram his head into a wall or in some other way create enough impact or crushing force to cause fatal injuries.

  —FM 3-19.13, Law Enforcement Investigations

  74

  Traynor made two phone calls and learned that the only US Army base of any size in Kansas was Fort Riley, near Junction City. The nearest airports of any size were in Kansas City or Wichita, both a couple of hours, drive away. There was, his source informed him, an airport in Manhattan, but it was so small he doubted a jet could land or take off there. So Traynor booked a United flight to Kansas City.

  Driving west on I-70 left him with one impression. God knew what he was doing when he put tornadoes in Kansas—there was nothing there for them to hurt. The landscape consisted of rolling hills and grass that had turned brown in the late-summer heat. Junction City was a typical military town. The local economy was geared toward taking care of the thousands of soldiers stationed at Fort Riley. A friend of his had lived there thirty or forty years ago, when her husband was in the army. She’d described Junction City as having two businesses: bars and prostitution. Although he was sure both were still thriving, the latter seemed to have been driven underground.

  Traynor checked into a local chain hotel and was given a room with a beautiful view of the local Super Walmart—the largest store in town.

  Traynor grabbed the local phonebook and thumbed through the listings. Angela Engle had been able to use LAPD resources to check into Skidgel’s background. He had been pleased to discover that the grandmother was on his father’s side. There was only a single Skidgel listed, a Franklin, with a Madison Street address. He consulted a street map and saw that the address was at most a three-minute drive from his hotel.

  He took a quick shower and was outside the Skidgel house in less than five minutes. He cruised along the tree-lined street, studying the post-World War II houses and pausing briefly when he saw a Porsche with California plates in one of the driveways. Junction City was right in the middle of the US, and he wondered how fast Skidgel had to drive to make it there so quickly; one thing was certain, he had driven straight through the night. Skidgel was smart, but when it came to covering his tracks, he was dumber than dirt. A Porsche was not a car that helped one fade into the wallpaper. He wondered what Provost’s reaction had been when he’d learned that his security chief had run off with one of his expensive sports cars.

  Traynor circled the block, found a vacant parking spot on the street with a clear view of the Skidgel house, and settled in to watch and wait for Vernon to appear. He sipped from the cup of coffee he’d bought at a local convenience store and decided that if Skidgel did not appear by nine or ten that evening, he would go back to his hotel and get some much-needed sleep.

  It turned out that he did not have long to wait. A few minutes past seven, Skidgel came out of the house and got into his car. He backed out and headed south along the street, a route that would take him past Traynor. He paid no attention as he drove by, most likely feeling secure. Traynor watched him in his mirror and when he turned left, Traynor followed.

  Skidgel turned onto Washington Street and stopped at the first liquor store he came to. Figuring that he would not be recognized in the rental, Traynor pulled into a spot where he could watch the door and the Porsche at the same time.

  In less than five minutes, Skidgel exited the store carrying a paper bag. He stopped beside his car, put the sack inside, and lit a cigarette. That was when he spotted Traynor. He tried to act cool and collected as he got into the Porsche but gave himself away when he drove onto the street and floored the accelerator, heading toward the highway. Traynor cursed his stupidity for parking where Skidgel could get a good look at him. He put the car into gear and went after him. He knew that he had to head Skidgel off before he reached I-70; there was no way he was going to keep up with a 9-11 in a Dodge Charger.

  Skidgel sped down Washington Street, and Traynor raced after him, barely making a stoplight before it turned red. He kept glancing in his mirrors, looking for a cop. If stopped, he would have to explain that he was a skip-tracer and Skidgel was wanted back in California for jumping bail. By the time he finished, Skidgel would be halfway to Missouri.

  As it turned out, the local police did not make an appearance—at least not then. Traynor saw the highway overpass and Skidgel was almost to the on-ramps. Traynor was surprised by what his quarry did then. The westbound on-ramp split off at a forty-five degree angle and at the speed he was traveling, Skidgel would have an easier time entering the highway. However, Skidgel opted to go east—and that ramp was a much sharper ninety-degree turn. The Porsche flipped, rolling in the air and landing on its roof. The car was a convertible with a canvas top, and when it finally settled, Traynor knew that there was no way Skidgel could have survived. He locked his brakes, hearing his tires squeal as he skidded to a stop, and rushed to the pile of twisted metal and plastic that had moments before been a Porsche. He dropped to his knees and peered at the crumpled interior of the convertible. He saw Skidgel and knew he was already dead. His head had been crushed between the steering wheel and the ground. Traynor could smell the distinct odor of whiskey and knew that the liquor bottle Skidgel had bought must have shattered during the crash. He heard sirens in the night and returned to his car to await the arrival of the local police. In minutes a Junction City patrol car arrived and minutes later a Kansas state cop came off I-70. They interviewed Traynor, who told them that the Porche had flown by him, weaving as it raced to the on-ramp. The cops smelled the whiskey and in no time wrote the accident off as caused by a driver under the influence.

  An honest politician is one who when he is bought stays bought.

  —Attributed to Simon Cameron (1799–1889)

  75

  Provost stared across the table at Jabłoński. “I don’t like us meeting in public,” he complained.

  “I understand why you feel that way, but I need to talk to you. I don’t trust telephones and things have changed. The authorities have Toledo and even though he doesn’t really know much, he’s probably telling them everything he does know.”

  Provost said, “The cops are yanking your fucking chain. I have it from a reliable source that Toledo is dead—killed by a rival gang in Juárez.” Despite his confident words, Provost was worried.

  “I heard that Skidgel’s dead,” Jabłoński said.

  “That was an accident.”

  “Not the way I’ve heard it,” Jabłoński replied. “He was being chased by one of the people who are prying into every aspect of the film.”

  Provost’s interest overcame his worry. “What do you know about these people?”

  “I know nothing, except they have enough money behind them to hound us for years.”

  “Well, let me tell you what the security firm I hired learned,” Jabłoński said. “They are a team—a dedicated and professional team consisting of a disgraced LA cop, a former DEA agent, a private detective, and the sister of the woman—”

  “Killed,” Jabłoński said.

  Provost leaned forward, dropping his voice to an angry, threatening rumble. “Shut the fuck up, Kondrat. We don’t know who is listening. You’re sure you weren’t followed here, right?”

  Jabłoński suddenly looked concerned. “I’m fairly certain. But then, I’m not an expert in these matters.”

  Provost leaned back and didn’t hide his contempt for Jabłoński when he said, “There are times when I wonder just what in Christ’s name you are an expert in.”

  Jabłońsk
i acted as if he were ambivalent to Provost’s anger. “Who else is involved? They seem to know a lot about us.”

  “I’ve been told there are one or more members of the LAPD aiding them.” Provost grew pensive. “We need to find out the names of the local people. I can put political pressure on any local cops who are involved.”

  Their conversation was interrupted when Provost’s cell phone rang. He looked at the display and said, “Shit,” then flipped the phone open. “Yes, governor.”

  He listened for several seconds and said, “Yes, sir. I’ll be there this afternoon.” He closed the phone and told Jabłoński, “I have to be in Sacramento by three.” He motioned for the check.

  Provost strode into the governor’s office with his usual air of superiority and immediately knew he was in trouble. There was no preliminary greeting from the chief executive of the State of California. “I’ve gotten some disturbing news,” the governor said.

  “Oh? What about?”

  “About a major scandal that’s about to break.”

  Provost felt his stomach sink. “What can we do to head it off?”

  “I have to cut off all association with the object of the scandal. A major donor to my reelection campaign has already threatened to cease contributions if I don’t.”

  Knowing the answer to his question, Provost still asked, “Who is it?”

  The governor slammed his fist on the top of his desk. “Don’t play dumb with me, Larry. How could you be so fucking stupid? A snuff film for Christ’s sake!”

  Provost felt his face redden and did not dare look in the eye of the man he knew was about to become his former boss.

  “If I had one shred of evidence, I’d have the state police in here placing you under arrest as we speak.”

  Provost stood up. “I can fight it, make it go away.”

  “It’s too late for that. I cannot allow myself to be associated with anyone who is even rumored to be involved in something like this.”

  “I understand. I will resign immediately.”

  “There’s no need for you to do that—I’ve already announced that I’ve terminated you.”

  Provost turned to leave. He stopped and turned back when the governor said, “Larry.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “If I find out that you were involved in this, I will do everything in my power to see that you get strung up by your balls. If I don’t, on election day, my opponent will be in this office fifteen minutes after the polls close. Now, get out of here—I have a shitload of damage control to do.”

  Provost turned and left the office.

  Native agents are those of the enemy’s country people whom we employ.

  —The Art of War

  76

  Traynor was back in LA at noon on the day after Skidgel’s demise. Deborah and Jack picked him up at LAX. As they drove into the center of the city, they discussed the situation. “The cops wrote it up as a DUI,” he said. “The only mention of me is that I witnessed the accident.”

  Deborah turned and looked back. “Ed …”

  “I know what you’re about to ask,” he said. “Yes, it was an accident. Now, what’s been happening on this end?”

  “I approached Jabłoński,” McMahon said, “and Manuel did the same to Provost.”

  “And?”

  “They tried to play it off as if they were clueless about the whole thing, but this morning they met for breakfast.”

  “So we can at least prove that they’re acquainted.”

  “Yes,” Deborah said, “and I think Larry Provost had a bad day. Hollis International contacted the governor and threatened to pull all campaign donations if Provost was involved with his reelection campaign in any manner. We were told that the governor had summoned Provost to a meeting in Sacramento.”

  “That must have rattled Provost.”

  “Of that I’m certain. Manuel followed him to the airport, where he took a flight to Sacramento, and then Manuel waited for his return. Provost booked his flight through a travel agency that Hollis owns. So we knew his itinerary. To cut to the chase, Manuel said Provost did not look happy when he deplaned.”

  “Good,” Traynor said. “It’s all coming together. In short time the heat is gonna be on high and Provost and Jabłoński are going to be in a pressure cooker.”

  “We still don’t know who the rest of the crew were. There had to be at least one other to run the camera.”

  “Once we get Provost and Jabłoński in a cell, they won’t be long in rolling over on everyone involved,” Traynor said. “All we need to do is ratchet up the heat another notch or two.”

  How easily murder is discovered.

  —William Shakespeare, Titus Andronicus

  77

  Traynor tagged along with McMahon while he shadowed Jabłoński. The director spent the morning inside the editing studio. “Probably trying to figure out a way to cut all my scenes out,” McMahon lamented.

  “That would be more than a little difficult seeing as you were the lead.”

  “Yeah, I suppose. However, if it wasn’t for the fact that a lot of money has been spent on it, he’d probably scrap the entire project.”

  “You know, Jack,” Traynor said, “you’re even starting to sound like an actor. How much are they paying you for this anyhow?”

  “They promised me a percentage of the gate. I got to admit, I did enjoy it.”

  “Who knows, if the movie is a success you may have a new career.”

  Their discussion was interrupted by the ring tone of McMahon’s phone—it was the sound of a machine gun firing. He checked the display, said, “Angela,” and answered.

  For several seconds Traynor listened to one half of the conversation, and while he was not certain of the exact words, he knew something had happened. McMahon finally broke the connection and started the car. Without taking his eyes from the road, he said, “The tests on the knife they believe was used to murder the Doerr woman came back. Larry Provost’s DNA is all over it. It looks as if Jabłoński may have to be moved to the backburner for a while.”

  “So we’re going after Provost?”

  “Yes, we are—along with the Simi Valley police and who knows how many other law enforcement organizations.”

  “I guess we now know who cut Mindy up.”

  “Looks that way.”

  Provost turned onto the street leading to his LA residence and stopped the car. There were four or five police cars blocking the gates to the estate. He did a quick U-turn and left the area. In spite of the cold air blasting from the Jag’s air conditioning, he began to sweat. His hands shook as he tried to control the greatest fear he’d ever felt in his life. His first instinct was to try to figure out who had dropped the dime on him. The list of suspects was not very long; the entire production crew of The Black Orchid was only five people. He checked them off in his mind: Skidgel, Jabłoński, Doerr, the cameraman, and himself. Of the five, one was dead, and he doubted that either Skidgel or Jabłoński would have the balls to do it—after all they were in this up to their assholes, too. That left Darren Hale, the cameraman, who strangely enough had remained unscathed and out of the spotlight. Did Hale strike a deal with the cops? Provost made up his mind to find out as soon as possible.

  Once he was safely out of his neighborhood, he stopped at the first ATM he came across. If the cops were looking for him, it would only be a matter of time before they got a judge to lock all of his accounts—and he needed all the money he could his hands on.

  Provost sighed with relief when the ATM spit out the maximum withdrawal allowed. He would have to find a branch office and go in and clean the money out of as many of his accounts as he could.

  His thoughts returned to the last thing the governor had said to him, and he knew that every cop in California and the surrounding states would now be looking for him. Leaving the country for Mexico was out of the question—they would surely have notified ICE to be on the lookout for him. His mind raced as he tried to think of where
he could go.

  He tuned the radio to an all-news station, and in short time knew he was the subject of a massive manhunt. Somehow or another, they had evidence that he had done in Celia Doerr.

  Strangely, he was not concerned about the authorities. It was the Hollis woman and her band of vigilantes that truly concerned him. The cops would be bound by Miranda and the US Constitution—the Hollis bunch would have no such restrictions. He recalled his conversation with the former DEA psycho and broke out into another heavy sweat. Never before their meeting in the canyon had he looked at someone who could kill another human being as easily as he believed that man could.

  He saw a branch of his bank and turned in. After making a furtive search of the parking lot, he darted inside.

  Provost parked in a visitor spot behind Hale’s apartment. He entered the square and then circled the outdoor pool that was in the open center court of the complex. He stopped before a sliding door near the middle of the western side and tapped on the glass. He ignored several screaming kids who were playing in the pool. Suddenly, the drapes were pulled aside just enough for the apartment’s occupant to see who had rapped on his door. The latch clicked open and the glass pane slid apart until there was enough space for Provost to slip inside.

  Darren Hale looked like an advertisement against the use of drugs and alcohol. His eyes were bloodshot and watery, he had not shaved in at least a week, and his T-shirt looked like it held remnants of his entire diet for the past week. From what hair he had, it was evident that it had not seen a comb since he had last shaved. “You look like shit,” Provost said.

  Hale shrugged as if his appearance was of little, if any, concern to him. “What the fuck you want, Larry?”