Where Evil Lurks

by Robert D. Rodman

  “I don’t mind at all,” I said, looking around for something to sweep the hair into. “It’s only fair.”

  I found a dustbin, but as I knelt down to use it, and at the same time nab a few strands for myself, the barber took firm hold of my elbow and raised me up.

  “It is not necessary,” he said firmly. “We don’t need any extra help. Here, here’s a fiver. Now, would you please leave? You’re making the customers nervous.”

  Both Sangfroid, who was waiting to pay, and the bodyguard, who had entered the shop attracted by the commotion, were marveling at me. My last hope was to reach down, grab some hair, and bolt, but my nerve failed me. In the end, it was too crazy a thing to do, and I didn’t want a run-in with the bodyguard. I thanked the barber for the five bucks and left.

  CHAPTER 24

  Charles had driven down to spend the weekend, ignoring my warning that he might be bored out of his mind. “I’m never bored when I’m with you, Dagny,” he had said, but this would be a test.

  Sangfroid’s hooker of the evening showed up at the usual time and left at the usual time. The good doctor was a man of habit, if nothing else.

  Maybe it was all the illicit sex I was privy too, or maybe a desire to live up to Charles’s expectations that I was never boring. An hour after Friday’s whore had left, only one light shone in Sangfroid’s house, and I didn’t think there would be anything more to observe that night.

  I brought the wide-angle video camera inside and pointed it at the sofa where we were sitting. At first it was weird to see ourselves on the screen, especially because the image is the reverse of a mirror and you’re not used to seeing yourself that way.

  I tried to do a comedy routine I’d seen on TV but my acting abilities suck, and I can’t tell a joke without laughing before the punch line, if I even manage to remember it. Charles tried too, and he proved to be more adept than me. He did an imitation of a stuffy Englishman whose wife is henpecking him over his driving, and somehow it was terribly funny, and eventually it became terribly darling and I had to kiss the comedian.

  Suddenly we were into stuff that one doesn’t usually see on a TV screen, leastwise not on the networks, and not on prime time.

  Charles is as much an Englishman as any of the Henrys and Edwards that once ruled Britannia, and is far more English than most of the Georges were. He was, in other words, a sensible lover, not given to sensation. He wasn’t the type that needed to make love, if only once in his lifetime, in an airliner lavatory. That was not to say he wasn’t good or creative. He was great in all ways. He knew his anatomy, of course, and was kind, gentle and considerate when he made love.

  “Oh, really, darling, are we really going to watch ourselves on the telly?”

  “Why not?” I brazenly slipped out of my jeans. “There’s so much more to see.”

  There was no arguing with that, and while Charles is not the voyeur I am—maybe that’s why I chose to be a P.I.—he was soon into it.

  Later we brainstormed about Sangfroid and getting a DNA sample. Charles had the idea of somehow finding one of his hookers and, assuming Sangfroid used a condom, bribing her to keep it and give it to me. That was slightly creepy but the main deterrent was how to find the girl before she went there. We had no idea which “escort” agency Sangfroid used, and I doubted we’d find out by calling around.

  Morning came and with it a fresh idea. I love the way the brain works at night. Unencumbered by the mundane processes of vision, digestion, balance and the like, it’s free to focus its power in other directions. This doesn’t mean that I awoke with miraculous mathematical abilities. There are limits. It was merely that I had an approach to the DNA problem that I didn’t have when I shut my baby grays, cuddled in Charles’s arms.

  One of my dearest friends in the world is Hilda, no last names, please. Hilda is a charming, warm human being who considers friendship to be the supreme relationship. I have known her since my college days at UCLA.

  Hilda owns and manages a “modeling studio” in West Los Angeles, located on a dead-end street behind the Veterans’ Administration hospital. The “studio” is actually a twelve-unit apartment house with a recreation room that serves as a central meeting place. The “models” work and sometimes live in the units, coming down to the studio to re-enact several times a day the charade that they’re models and not whores.

  Hilda knew L.A. noir. Although crime syndicates control prostitution and do not suffer competition, they let Hilda keep her pleasure dome on the strict understanding that she did not try to expand her horizons. It was a tribute to her ability to win friends and influence people.

  What came to me as I slept was that Hilda could help me find Sangfroid’s escort service. It was clear that the man was a sex junkie. He was surely well known in the murky netherworld of sex-for-hire. At least he was paying for it and not raping helpless coeds.

  I could hardly call Hilda on a Saturday morning. Friday was her busiest night because her married clients would tell their wives they had to wrap up at the office to free themselves for a weekend of wholesome family activity. Neither she nor her girls would be awake until the afternoon.

  No car came for Sangfroid, nor did he appear outside, leastwise not in view of my cameras. In the afternoon two men drove up whom the guards clearly knew. They were waved on in without any hassle.

  When the hour was “decent,” I called Hilda. She was, as always, happy to hear from me, and when she heard I was in town, she was insistent.

  “You must come visit and bring Charles. I’ll make the girls wear their tops.”

  Charles knew of Hilda, though he’d never been to her place. He was keen to meet her, not out of prurience, but because she’d been my good friend for so many years.

  Saturday afternoons were slow in Hilda’s trade. Only two girls were on duty, and true to her word, Hilda had made them dress modestly, or leastwise less immodestly. Charles did a good job averting his gaze while Hilda and I exchanged news. She wept a little with joy when I told her I’d passed the five-year cancer test the previous month, and gave me a long, emotional hug.

  With the small, but important, girl-talk out of the way, and the ever-present bottle of fine, chilled Chardonnay uncorked, I stated my purpose. I asked Hilda if she could find out who was providing girls to Sangfroid, and what the chances were of getting one of them to do me a small favor. I’d make it worth her while.

  Naturally, Hilda wanted to know the rest of the story. She wasn’t about to get involved in even the smallest violation of the law beyond her prostitution ring, which was well protected. (Her clientele numbered civic and business leaders from L.A., Santa Monica and Beverly Hills, not to mention a number of cops and an occasional assistant district attorney.) Nor would she risk angering any of her organized-crime “colleagues” in the slightest degree.

  I told her, with some hemming and hawing, what I wanted. I was astonished at how nonchalant she was about what I took to be a fairly bizarre request.

  “Oh, Dag, you’d be surprised how often we’re asked to collect semen samples. You’re working on a paternity case, right? That’s what it usually is. I mean, what the hey, we even have it price-listed: $500 over and above.”

  Well, live and learn. Never think you’ve heard it all. I added this one to my collection of arcane facts gathered in the line of duty.

  The paternity case was the perfect cover-up of my true reason. Lies invented by the person to be lied to are perfect because they express what the person is willing to believe. Mind you, I don’t make a habit of lying to friends unless forced to by need, and convinced that no harm could ensue. And besides, it was ultimately a paternity issue, so I wasn’t truly lying.

  “To be on the safe side, Dag, we should use one of my girls. That way, they’ll never meet again, and the little secret will stay kept. After a girl’s been with a man a few times, she might let something slip, you know.”

  “Aren’t we getting ahead of the game, here?” I asked. “We don’t even know the
agency.”

  “Oh, Dagny, Dagny, don’t underestimate your friend Hilda. A man who’s spending a G or two a week will be known to the bosses. They’re my associates, kind of, and we help each other out. We have a network, you know. Huh, we’re talking about computerizing, can you believe it?”

  “I’d watch out for computers, Hilda. They have a nasty way of remembering everything. It’s the first thing the cops go for when they raid a joint.”

  “Ah, we’re ahead of you there. One of the big cheeses is getting a computer that automatically erases itself—is that the right way to say it?—if anyone but its owner touches it. It’s the latest in security.”

  “Sounds good to me, as long as they’re careful not to be always deleting their own files. Anyway, how should we proceed?”

  “Tell me his name and where he lives. Then you two lovebirds work on this bottle while I make a couple of phone calls.”

  I gave her the information and was even able to throw in the license plate number of the car she came in. Hilda returned well before the bottle was empty.

  “This’ll be easy,” she said. “He has a standing order for Monday, Tuesday, Thursday and Friday. Apparently, he has his favorites, but he likes new girls, too. And best of all, get this, he worries about disease—just like a doc, huh?—so he uses a condom.”

  Hilda’s private quarters, where we were sitting, were just off the rec room. She kept the door open to be aware of any activity, and to be able to call for service. She made the girls wait on her, which they didn’t seem to mind. She rang a little silver bell and two seconds later a girl poked her head in the door and asked “D’ja ring, Hilda?”

  “Come in, Lisa. I want you to meet my friends.”

  Lisa was a stunning woman of about twenty with glossy brown hair, large, perfectly shaped breasts, a narrow waist and a small, firm butt. It was too late to blindfold Charles. She would arouse envy in women, and arouse men, period.

  Hilda explained that on Monday she was to work “out of the Rampart office”—that was the escort agency that covered the Silver Lake district—and that she was to “obtain a specimen.”

  Hilda told me that Sangfroid was paying $500 bucks a pop for his girls. I wondered, indeed, where he was getting the money. That’s $100,000 a year and not even tax-deductible. I paid Lisa $1,000 in advance and gave her another $500 to compensate the girl she’d have to replace. Confidentiality was an expected part of the deal.

  I congratulated myself a bit early on the easy conclusion to which I thought I’d brought my case. No dramatic thefts or car wrecks. No assaults, either on me or by me. Through my telescope, I watched Lisa enter Sangfroid’s house Monday night at nine. She left one hour later, and in the yellow glow of the streetlights I thought she wore the expression of that proverbial canary-swallowing cat.

  BOOK FOUR

  ASHLEY

  CHAPTER 25

  I was far too excited to sleep, so when the phone rang at midnight I answered on the first ring.

  “Come get your prize,” said Hilda without preface. “He liked Lisa so much he gave her a huge tip and asked for her back.”

  “Oh, thanks Hilda, but it’s kind of good news, bad news. I mean, good news about the sample, but I’m worried about Lisa blabbing at some later time. She doesn’t seem like your brightest jewel.”

  “For sure, Lisa is no scholar, but she’s a good little whore, and she’s my little whore. I know what I said about the girls talking, but I’ll go over the point with Lisa. She’ll keep her mouth shut. Trust me, Dagny.”

  I hadn’t much choice. Even if Lisa did blab on another visit, I couldn’t see how Sangfroid could draw the right conclusion. And even if he did, so what? What could he do about it? I booked an afternoon flight to Raleigh, stopping on my way to the airport to collect the semen-filled condom, which Hilda had thoughtfully packaged in a zip-up plastic bag and placed on ice.

  I called Ashley the morning after I returned to Raleigh with the good news. As usual, she asked for the details, which I gave her.

  “At least you didn’t use yourself, as I thought you had when you told me what the sample was. He was a disgusting goat, Little was. After your episode with Fatboy, I wasn’t sure where you’d draw the line. You’re a good team player, Dagny. I’m glad I have you.”

  “Do you want me to bring the plastic bag to you?”

  “No, actually not. I’ll send a courier, like we did the first time.”

  “Were you satisfied with Beck’s sample? Was there an analysis?

  “Yes, as a matter of fact. He turned up negative for Benton’s father.”

  “I’m not surprised. It’s got to be Sangfroid. I’ll send you his picture and you’ll see the resemblance.”

  “I’ll test the sample in any case, but I’ll give you the benefit of the doubt, as I did before. Would you send me a final report and a final reckoning on the finances including your bonus?”

  “Will do. Anything else?”

  “Oh, feel free to keep or sell the surveillance equipment. I’m well satisfied with what I got at the price. So I ask you, is there anything else?”

  “No, I believe that’s it.”

  “All right, I’ll have the courier there by two tomorrow. Goodbye, Dagny.”

  I spent the rest of that day and half of the next on paperwork. By the time the courier came, I was able to give him not only the semen sample, but Ashley’s credit card, the remains of the cash advance, an invoice, and the neatly printed final report.

  That evening I brought Ashley’s case up-to-date on my computer and saved everything to a diskette that I filed under “Cases closed.” Two days later an Airborne Express package arrived that contained a check for full payment including the bonus. Written on the “memo” line of the check was a terse “It was him. –A.”

  I basked all weekend in the glorious summer of the triumphant closure of a tough case. I took pride in having earned a substantial fraction of my usual annual income in six weeks. And it all seemed sweeter still on top of the afterglow of the lovely and loving time I’d spent with Charles.

  The phone woke me Monday morning, edging out the alarm clock by ten minutes. I had readied myself during the weekend to return to my regular routine. I was actually looking forward to a bit of the mundane. My substitute, Barry Hernandez, knew of my return and we were scheduled to meet that morning. I assumed Barry was calling to change the meeting time and it annoyed me that he would call so early. But the voice at the other end belonged to Taylor Bloodworth, and when the conversation ended, it would be I who’d call Barry to ask him to continue in my capacity.

  With his old-whiskey voice, in his slow southern way, Mr. Bloodworth told me that Ashley had taken the two children and left Hatfield Hall without speaking to anyone. She’d been gone two nights and hadn’t contacted the family. When I suggested that two nights away was hardly reason to engage a private investigator, he demurred.

  “There are other factors that might best be discussed in person,” he said, “if you were willing. I’ll pay you whatever rate Ashley was paying you.”

  “You could hire a competent P.I. for much less.”

  “Nevertheless, Ms. Jamison, I wish to hire you. At least I’ve met you and received a positive impression. I hope very much that you’ll consent. Please come today and consider it a day of work,” he urged, “and meet me at Hatfield Hall at noon.”

  Thus I found myself once more on the private roadway of Hatfield Hall. Nobody was outside to greet me this time. I parked in my old spot. Autumn was crisping up now and the trees were nearly bare, with only spotty patches of reds and oranges for color. Wafts of smoke from wood-burning fireplaces floated on the autumnal breezes. A solitary seagull screeched its lonely call overhead as I made my way through the chilly air to the house.

  A maidservant admitted me into an elegant foyer decorated with two waist-high Chinese urns and several Japanese scrolls in black and white featuring horses and their masters. She asked me to wait a moment and disappeared into the
house, only to reappear a few seconds later with a request to follow her.

  She escorted me to Ashley’s office, where Taylor Bloodworth greeted me. He was dressed in gray slacks, a blue-striped shirt of expensive cotton, and a tie with a pattern of blue diamonds and yellow lightning bolts. “Please sit down, Ms. Jamison. Would you care for something to eat or drink? I’m afraid I’ve forgotten my manners, not to invite you for lunch at the noon hour. I am, to be frank, quite upset.”

  I asked for iced tea. When the maid left, there was a short, awkward silence as I waited for him to begin.

  “I’m not sure how much you know about my daughter. She said that she hired you to investigate matters regarding her financial interests. I’m afraid I don’t believe that. You were employed to do something special for Ashley. What that was I’m not asking you to reveal,” he said, waving a hand. “I understand and respect the client-privilege relation.”

  “I’m glad of that, sir,” I said. “I mean, I really can’t discuss her case with anyone. It wouldn’t be fair to her.” I fiddled nervously with the straps of my handbag as he waited expectantly for me to say more. “If I may be honest with you, sir, I’m not sure whether it’s right for me to even consider working for a family member of a client on a matter that regards the client. It’s all a bit unusual, if you don’t mind me saying.”

  As I spoke those words, I suddenly wished I’d conferred with my brother John before rushing helter-skelter into what, I realized, was a maze of ethical dilemmas.

  Bloodworth finally spoke. “For the past six weeks or so, dating back, I believe, to about the time she hired you, Ashley hasn’t been herself. I’m not even sure I know what ‘herself’ is anymore. Once I did, but something terrible, unspeakable, happened to her ten years ago, and afterward she changed. To use her own words, she redefined herself.”

  The maid came in with two glasses of iced tea, each with a sprig of mint, a little sugar bowl, a small jug of cream and individual wedges of freshly sliced lemon. She served us each in silence and, receiving a nod from Bloodworth, promptly retired from the room.