Black Orchid

by Vaughn C. Hardacker

  “We got problems. That last movie—”

  “I told you guys that I didn’t want anything to do with you after that.”

  “Well, here’s the scenario. The woman’s family has money—more money than they know what to do with—and they hired a bunch of mercenaries to deal with everyone involved in the filming.”

  Hale’s face turned ashen. “Christ, man, all I did was operate the camera. You were—”

  “It doesn’t matter to them. They’ll say maybe you didn’t do her in, but you didn’t stop it either.”

  “What about the others?”

  “That’s the really bad stuff. Celia and Skidgel are dead, and Jabłoński is about to run out on us. That leaves only you and me.”

  “But my name isn’t on that film—not even a fake name.”

  Provost looked at Hale as if the man was dumber than an amoeba. “Don’t you wonder what Doerr and Skidgel might have told them?”

  Hale dropped onto his couch and held his head between his hands. “Oh man, what the fuck are we gonna do?”

  “I don’t know about you, but I’m on my way out of town. I cleaned out my bank accounts and I’m headin’ south.”

  “South?”

  “Yeah, Brazil or maybe Argentina.”

  “I ain’t got enough money to take it on the lam like that. If Jabłoński talks, I’m dead meat.”

  Provost said, “Exactly.”

  Hale looked up to see the flash of light on the knife blade a microsecond before it was driven into his chest. He grunted with pain and fell onto his side. There was a quizzical look on his face as he asked, “Why? I won’t say nothin’ to anyone …”

  Provost pulled the knife free and drove it into Hale again. “I know that … now.”

  Provost straightened up and turned toward the door. Before he exited, a female voice called from the bedroom, “Darren, are you okay?”

  Cursing under his breath, Provost walked toward the voice.

  An officer may make a warrantless arrest for a felony as long as he has sufficient probable cause to believe a felony has been committed and the person he’s arresting is actually the person who committed the felony.

  —Police Procedure & Investigation: A Guide For Writers

  78

  Traynor was eating lunch when McMahon walked into the dining room and flopped down at his table. He immediately saw that something was on his mind. “What’s up?”

  “Maybe nothing, maybe something.”

  “Okay, so why don’t you tell me what it is that might be something or might be nothing?”

  The hostess approached the table and McMahon ordered coffee. When she left, he turned back to Traynor. “Angela called.”

  “And?”

  “This morning LAPD got a call from someone in the valley …”

  “Which valley? This place is full of them.”

  “San Fernando.”

  “Okay.”

  “They answered the call and walked into a double murder.”

  Traynor was still unable to determine why this would be of importance to them.

  However, McMahon wasted no time in clarifying.

  “The victims were a guy named Darren Hale and his girlfriend. Hale was a cameraman, and he’d made several pornos with Jabłoński.”

  “You think he was behind the camera?”

  “There’s one other fact that makes me think that.”

  The waitress returned, placed his coffee in front of him, and quickly departed.

  McMahon took a conspiratorial glance around the room and then said, “A new Jag was seen leaving the scene around the time that the crime scene techs think it went down.”

  “Provost.”

  “Yeah, Just Call Me Larry fuckin’ Provost. He must be running scared.”

  “No doubt. Well, this changes things,” Traynor said.

  “I know. Jabłoński is the only one left who can identify him as the man under the hood in The Black Orchid.”

  “Does Manuel know about this?”

  “If he doesn’t, he will in a few seconds.”

  Traynor looked up as Manuel and Deborah took the remaining chairs at the table. “You heard?” he asked them.

  Deborah nodded. “Angela just called.”

  “So,” he asked, “what now?”

  “We let the cops worry about finding Provost,” Manuel said. “We’ll go after Jabłoński.”

  “Ahhh,” Traynor replied. “Another case of ‘if the mountain won’t go to Mohammed …’”

  “Exactly.”

  Rather than send McMahon after Jabłoński, they decided to approach him together. Manuel opted to go to the director’s home while the rest of them went to the studio. When they arrived, Engle and another cop met them at the gate. The security guard smiled at McMahon and then gave his entourage a look of concern. “I’m afraid I can’t let all of you in, Mr. Puller,” he said.

  Engle wasted no time in putting him in his place. “You either let all of us in, or I arrest you for obstruction.”

  For a few seconds, the guard looked confused and then decided to find a way to pass the buck. “Let me call—”

  “You’ll call no one,” Engle said. She motioned her partner forward. “Officer Diaz, make sure that he stays off the phone.” She turned to her companions and said, “Let’s go get him.”

  They passed through the gate and headed for the studio where McMahon believed Jabłoński would be editing the movie he had just finished filming. As they walked, Engle looked at McMahon and asked, “Who the hell is Mr. Puller?”

  “My screen name is Peter Puller.”

  Her mouth fell open and then she started giggling as they walked. “Peter? Puller? Sounds like—”

  “I know, I know. But I had to come up with something fast.”

  Engle shook her head and said, “For the rest of our lives I’ll think of that every time I look at you and it’ll be all I can do not to laugh.”

  McMahon looked at her. “Do you want to?”

  “What, laugh?”

  “Look at me for the rest of our lives …”

  They neared the door to the studio and Engle said, “Once we finish this job … well, all I’ll promise is that we’ll talk.”

  McMahon smiled. “Can’t ask for more than that.”

  He reached out and turned the handle, opening the door. “Ladies before gents.”

  They barged inside and found an assistant editor hard at work. Startled by their sudden entrance, he turned to face them. “Hey, Pete,” he said, “what’s up?”

  “Where’s Kondrat?” McMahon asked. He glanced at Engle and saw that she was still clenching her lips, trying to hold back a laugh.

  “Don’t have a clue. He called in this morning and told me that he wouldn’t be in and for me to start editing the soundtrack.”

  Rather than reply, McMahon took out a cell phone and hit speed dial. When Manuel answered, he said, “Hey, it’s Jack.”

  Behind him McMahon heard the assistant ask, “Who’s Jack?”

  “Him. His real name is Jack Ash,” Engle answered.

  “Jabłoński isn’t at the studio,” McMahon said, ignoring the conversation behind him.

  “I know, he’s still at home. Hold on a minute.”

  After several tense moments, Manuel came back on the line. “It looks like he may be bolting. One of his hired flunkies just backed a car out of the garage and put some luggage in the trunk.”

  “Keep him there,” McMahon said, “we’re on our way with the cops.”

  “He isn’t going anywhere. Trust me.”

  Manuel parked his SUV across the drive, blocking the gate so that it would be impossible for anyone to get by him. He got out of the truck and leaned against the door, watching the front of the house. In minutes, one of Jabłoński’s staff came down the drive and stopped before him. He was a large man and Manuel was certain that he was hired security; if nothing else, the telltale bulge under his left arm advertised that he was armed.

&nb
sp; “Who are you?” the man asked.

  “The guy who’s gonna make sure that your boss doesn’t leave the property.”

  “You the cops?”

  “No, I’m not, but they aren’t far behind me.” Manuel straightened up and said, “Don’t reach for that piece unless you got enough life insurance to support your family.”

  The bodyguard raised his hands and said, “I’m paid to keep intruders out, not to interfere with the cops.”

  “Smart idea. Now, why don’t you go back inside and tell Jabłoński that there’s been a change to his travel plans?”

  “No sweat.” The man turned away, walked a few steps, and turned back. “You ex-cop?”

  “Spent some time with the DEA.”

  “I figured you must be some type of cop.” He walked up the drive.

  The use of trickery, deceit, ploys, and lying is legally permissible during the course of an interrogation (under certain conditions) …

  —FM 3-19.13, Law Enforcement Investigations

  79

  Kondrat Jabłoński was sweating like the proverbial pig. The entire troupe had descended upon him and he was not happy about it. He was especially unhappy about Engle’s presence—her uniform made things official. They had been “interviewing” the director for the better part of an hour, and Traynor, for one, was becoming weary of his incessant, bullshit denials. “Look, Jabłoński,” he said, getting up close to his face, “you may as well open up—we have your entire crew identified. Toledo, Skidgel, Doerr, and Hale, your cameraman, are all dead. That only leaves Provost loose and he’s on the run. He’ll be caught and then he’ll be rolling over on you like a runaway truck.”

  “I think I want my lawyer,” he replied.

  “Officer Engle, would you step outside please?” Deborah asked.

  Engle got up from the easy chair where she’d been sitting and walked to the door.

  “You can’t leave me with these people,” Jabłoński cried. “You’re responsible for protecting me …”

  “I don’t have any responsibility unless a crime has been committed, and so far I haven’t observed anything but a discussion among a group of friends.”

  “These people are not my friends! They are trespassers—burglars who have broken into my home.”

  “That isn’t the way I saw it,” Engle replied. “I saw your security people open the gates and let them in—right before they took off.” She smiled and left the room.

  They listened until the sounds of her footsteps died away. Deborah grinned at Jabłoński. It made her look like a cat playing with a mouse it had trapped. “Your lawyer may be needed later on,” she said. “But before you see hide or hair of him, you’re going to tell us what you know—even if that means I have to turn these men loose on you.”

  Jabłoński looked at McMahon and saw the stony mien on his face. It was obvious there would be no help from him. He then turned to Manuel. And Traynor knew that scared the shit out of him.

  The director lost his bluster. In turn he made eye contact with each of them and saw not a single sign of mercy in any of them. He reached for his cigarettes; when he tried to get one out, his hands shook so hard he scattered the smokes across the small coffee table. Traynor reached over and handed him one.

  Jabłoński thanked him, retrieved a shiny Zippo lighter from his pocket, and then ignited it—it took him three tries to light his cigarette. Traynor was unsure if it was the nicotine fix he got when he inhaled the smoke or if he decided to make one last futile attempt at being tough, but he sat back and in a defiant tone said, “I still have no idea what you’re talking about.”

  “Bullshit!” Traynor went on the attack. “We know all about you and your so-called career. You came here after several failed movies in Europe and made porn for over a year. During that time you somehow became involved with Doerr, Skidgel, and Provost. We also know that you have made at least one snuff film, possibly more. You used Skidgel, who was nothing more than a shill for you and Provost, to entrap young women into making your films.” He decided to lie and see how Jabłoński would react. “We can prove that you were the director and what Skidgel’s role was. We want to know how Celia Doerr fit into this and who the killer was.” Traynor was careful not to divulge the fact that they were certain that Doerr’s only part in the scheme was to keep tabs on Mindy and ensure that she did not change her mind about making what she probably thought was a run-of-the-mill skin-flick. They were also about 80 percent certain that Provost was the sadist wielding the knife. The problem was that unless one of them broke, they had no hard proof.

  Manuel took matters in hand and reached across the coffee table, grabbing Jabłoński by the front of his shirt. The startled director dropped his cigarette into his trousers and began shouting as it burned a hole in his lap. He beat at it with his hands before Manuel pulled him across the table and the smoldering cigarette fell to the floor.

  “If you don’t tell us what you fuckin’ know, I’m gonna bust your face so bad, your own mother won’t recognize you.”

  “I … I’ll sue you!”

  “You’re welcome to try,” Manuel snarled. “But it won’t be easy with no witnesses.”

  “You have a police officer with you.” Jabłoński’s eyes turned to the door through which Engle had departed. “She will have to protect me.”

  Engle must have been listening because suddenly the front door closed with a resounding bang. “Looks as if your police protection has gone to lunch,” Manuel said.

  “Mr. Jabłoński,” Deborah said in a voice filled with reason, “we are going to find my sister’s killers. To be completely frank with you …” She stood and strolled to the window. Her back was to them when she said, “We will do whatever it takes to resolve this issue.” When she turned and glared at him, she was cold, hard, and resolute. “You better pick up that cigarette,” she said. “It’s burning a hole in the carpet.”

  “Kondrat,” McMahon said, “looks to me that the script has been changed—and anyone can see that you’re royally fucked. Why don’t you relax, accept the inevitable, and tell us what we want to know?”

  “I can’t,” Jabłoński said, “it would destroy me.”

  “You’ve already got one foot in a prison cell and the other on a banana peel. Your career,” McMahon replied, “is already over. You aren’t up against a bunch of irate citizens with no power. You’re up against a multinational corporation that owns everything from computer companies to newspapers and entertainment businesses.”

  “Many producers and directors in California have made adult films,” Jabłoński said.

  “We’re not talking about porn,” McMahon answered. “We’re talking about multiple murders and snuff films. I would venture that the next camera you see will be that of a news broadcast exposing you to the world.”

  The director’s shoulders slumped and his head dropped. He was defeated and he knew it. Suddenly, he looked like an old man. “It was Provost,” he said. “The man is a cold-blooded killer …”

  “How many snuffs have you made?” Deborah asked.

  “Three. Provost was the killer in each.”

  Offer the enemy a bait to lure him; feign disorder and strike him.

  —The Art of War

  80

  As much as he hated to do it, Provost knew that he had to get rid of the Jaguar. It was too easily spotted. He had no delusions about his plight. The police would have a BOLO on him by now and all things considered, he was most likely the number-one priority of every law enforcement agency in the state. He fled LA, driving east on secondary roads until he felt the city was far enough behind that he could stop.

  When the sun dropped below the western horizon, he found a no-tell motel in a no-horse town on the edge of the Mojave Desert and checked in. The Desert View Motor Inn was a throwback to an earlier time when motels consisted of small, one-room cabins barely big enough to hold a single bed and a cubicle that served as a bathroom. However, it had two things in its favor: the park
ing area was hidden from the highway behind the cabins, and it looked as if he had been the first customer since the Gold Rush of 1849.

  Provost still had one major factor to deal with: his face. As an integral part of three gubernatorial campaigns, he had been interviewed any number of times. Even if he were being grandiose, he believed that he was one of the most recognizable nonentertainment figures in southern California. He stowed his meager luggage in the cabin and returned to the office.

  The same old man who had checked him in was sitting behind the counter, listening to a Los Angeles Angels game on an old AM radio. He looked up when his only guest entered. “How c’n I he’p yah, Mr. Hefner?” he asked, using the alias under which Provost had checked in.

  “I got a splitting headache. Is there someplace where I can buy something for it?”

  “I got some asp’rin. Yore welcome to take some.”

  “Aspirin won’t be strong enough. These things really kill me.”

  “Well, they’s a Supermart about a mile east. They got just about anything you could need. It’s a good thing, too. There in’t nothin’ else b’tween here and Nevada.”

  “I’ll try that, thanks.”

  Provost exited the office and paused on the steps. A large mart could be a magnet for cops. The problem of the Jaguar popped its head again. He turned and poked his head through the door. “I shouldn’t drive with this headache—it hurts so bad, my vision blurs.”

  “Yuh, I get them ever’ now and then—usually when my sperm count gets higher than my blood pressure.” The old man laughed at his own joke.

  Not seeing the humor in the statement, Provost said, “Is there cab service around here?”

  “Kinda. Elwood Pearson runs a service, if you can call one cab and a cell phone a service.”

  “Would you arrange for him to pick me up?”

  “Yup.”

  “Tell him I need to go to the Supermart and I’d like for him to wait and bring me back.”

  “No problem, but knowin’ Elwood it’ll be expensive.”

  “Can’t be as expensive as a car accident,” Provost replied, backing out of the door.