I didn’t want to leave Adolf alone in the car while I checked out of the hotel. A 130-pound German shepherd who feels abandoned might be unkind to the upholstery. Using my belt as a makeshift leash, I brought him into the lobby and asked if he could accompany me to my room while I packed to check out. The clerk pulled a face.
“Well, then, perhaps someone could hold him for a few moments,” I suggested as an alternative, eyeing first one, then another, of the clerks behind the counter. Although Adolf had but an hour ago worked his way through the better part of a five-pound bag of kibbles, he unquestionably had a lean and hungry look. They decided I could take him with me.
Adolf must have been trained to heel, for he walked naturally with his nose just a few inches next to my left knee. He was therefore not immediately visible to the square-jawed man with a crew cut, who greeted me with the pointy end of a .38 Smith & Wesson as I entered my room. I had little time to upbraid him for his lack of manners. I’m sure his mother taught him not to break into girls’ rooms and point guns at them.
Apparently one of Adolf’s triggers was the sight of a pointed gun, because before you could say “blitz,” Adolf had him down with his gun hand clamped in his huge jaws. With his other hand, the man brought out the Taser. I had followed Adolf into the fray, and if Adolf was a red-dogging linebacker, then I was the free-safety backup. I kicked the Taser away and commanded that Adolf “helta.”
Adolf held the man as he had held me earlier.
“Let go the gun,” I commanded. He did, and I picked it up.
“Call the dog off. I came here to talk.”
He was on his back looking up at me. When he attempted to rise, Adolf growled warningly at him.
“Do you always begin conversations with a gun in your hand? I don’t suppose you lose many arguments that way, do you?”
“If I wanted to kill you, Ms. Jamison, you’d be dead. I truly am here to talk.”
“Okay, so talk.” I cocked the hammer of the .38 and pointed it at him.
“Jesus, be careful. That thing’s got a hair trigger.”
“Mmhhh, too bad, and me still a bit shaky from my recent electroshock therapy.”
I continued pointing, my index finger resting lightly on the right side of the trigger guard.
“At least let me up, for Chrissake. It’s a bit hard to form sentences with this devil slavering in my face.”
“Listen, mister. You’ve been somewhat less than chivalrous to me. Tell me why Adolf here shouldn’t shred your jugular.”
“I apologize to you, Ms. Jamison. If you’d let me explain who I am, you will, if nothing else, have your curiosity satisfied.”
He had a point there.
I said, “Adolf, frei!” as I remembered hearing Ernst say. The big shepherd let go and backed up, eyeing his former quarry warily. The man got to his feet rubbing his wrist, then walked over to the table and sat down. I stood a distance from him across the room with Adolf at my side and the .38 aimed at the center of his torso. I nodded for him to begin.
CHAPTER 30
You once asked me who I am. My name is Owsley Bloodworth. I’m Ashley’s first cousin, once removed if you care about such details. I’m a retired marine lieutenant colonel. I spent 20 years guarding American embassies and spying on foreign ones. Since my retirement, I’ve been employed by Ashley to perform, ummm, special services.”
I interrupted. “And that included tailing me, I take it. Didn’t I see you in Orlando six weeks ago when I first came here? And later in Istanbul? You were in Topkapi Palace that night, weren’t you? And L.A. too, huh?”
“No secrets. Your job was to find Ashley’s assailants. I commend you on your success. My job was first as a backup. If you failed for any reason to find the men, or if you found them and were unable to report back, which, I understand, nearly occurred, I was to take over. Secondly, once you found them, it was my mission to discover the details of each man’s life, so that Ashley could fit their punishment accordingly.”
“God, Ashley swore to me she wasn’t out for revenge, that she wanted only to know who the fathers of her children were. I suppose I’ve been duped,” I said dejectedly.
“You’re not the only person in the world to have been taken in by my illustrious cousin. Her experiences, of which you and I have exclusive knowledge, have both scarred and shaped her life.”
“So you admit that you and she were responsible for the atrocities in the football stadium.”
“Ah, I wondered if you knew about that. I’d lost track of you that day when you staked out the orphanage. I had other matters to attend to. So you followed them. You’re both brave and foolhardy, Ms. Jamison. Had they caught you, they’d’ve cut off your tits and left you disemboweled at Beck’s feet.”
“You, how can you justify an act of such utter barbarity? It’s vile and inhuman. Civilized people don’t behave that way. They live according to the rules of decency, if not of law.”
“Well, well, aren’t we little Miss Self-righteousness? If you’d been tortured, raped, and left for dead, you’d feel differently. Do you think the law would’ve touched the pious Dr. Beck? All he did was have sex with a student hippie stoned out of her mind on cocaine. He was wealthy when we caught up to him and could’ve afforded a better team of lawyers than O.J. Simpson had. What jury would convict him, Ms. Jamison? What court would sentence him?”
“That’s not the point,” I responded weakly, knowing that in a way it was the point.
“But I concede that castration while alive, making death welcome, would seem harsh to you. You don’t know how truly evil a man Beck was.”
“Tell me.”
“You’ll figure it out, Ms. Jamison, if you haven’t already. I’m not going to tell you.”
“And you discovered that Angelica was producing kiddy porn, after I finally tracked him down?”
“That’s right. I’m surprised you didn’t. It wasn’t very well covered up. Harry was a lucky fool in many ways, a weak link in the chain.”
“Why not simply collect evidence and turn him in? What maleficent mind would devise using Jeanne-Renée as a decoy? And allow her to be ravished! That was truly sick. What does Ashley have to say about that ‘special service’?”
He was silent.
Suddenly light dawned on me. “Oh, I see, I really do see. Here’s the piece that completes the puzzle.”
I withdrew the red cigarette butt from my shirt pocket and flaunted it. “She was there at Harry’s, wasn’t she? Or are you smoking designer butts?”
He said nothing while I glared at him.
“And she was there in Turkey, right? I saw her in the limo, after the slaughter.”
He remained impassive, shaking his head from side to side, a gesture I found ever more irritating.
“She concocted all this, this horror. You’re just a goon.”
I was shaking with anger and it was making him nervous. He put both his hands out in front of him to ward off an errant shot.
“Take it easy, please. Point that thing away from me. I’ve no reason to pull any tricks. You’re blaming the messenger. Ashley wanted to be an instrument in Angelica’s downfall. She wanted it related to his crime against her. The cops were slow last night, and things went a bit further than we’d planned.”
“Allowing your own child to be sexually exploited in a porno flick is ‘going a bit further than planned’? Is that all you can say? It’s monstrous! A sane person wouldn’t think this up. Sane people don’t act this way.” The pitch of my voice had risen an octave.
“Maybe so. But let me tell you this. The D.A. cut me some damn good slack for taking the cops to a bust where plentiful evidence would lead to multiple convictions. The cops were told to give me a free hand. I was able to set it up so that after the bust, Ashley told Angelica to his face who she was. She assured him that he’d spend life in prison for abusing his own child. And, she showed him photographs of Beck’s martyrdom, being sure to point out what his mouth held. In so doing, sh
e stepped back from the brink of insanity on which she had teetered for so many years.”
“Does she know she’s an accessory to the crime? Do the cops know she gave her child over to him?”
“As far as anyone’s concerned, Jeanne-Renée was kidnapped by two unidentified foreign women. They’re unlikely to be found as they’re departing the country as we speak. ”
“I thought there were some things a person wouldn’t do for money but I guess I’m wrong. How in hell do you live with yourself?”
“This is crap, Ms. Jamison. You’re preaching.”
“If I had your morality, I’d shoot you right now. It’d be prima facie justifiable homicide in self-defense. I can see the headlines: ‘Intruder shot with own gun.’ I wouldn’t even need a lawyer.”
I slid my finger off the trigger guard and let it curl around the trigger. At the same time I grasped my right hand with my left, and brought both arms up into the classic sharpshooter’s stance. I trained the .38 on his heart. “Is there anything else you want to tell me?”
“You don’t scare me, Ms. Jamison. I’ve faced far more dangerous people than you on a daily basis. You won’t shoot me. Leastwise, not deliberately.”
He smirked as he made his last remark and I had to curb an ugly desire to carry out my threat. I let my aim drift up to a point between his eyes, and then back again to his chest.
“There’s one other thing,” he said in a steady voice.
“Talk.” I continued aiming, my finger still inside the trigger guard.
“It’s the reason I paid you this visit in the first place. You never asked. I came to tell you that insofar as you’re concerned, my mission is complete. You’ll never see me again. And insofar as Ashley’s concerned, your mission is complete. You’ll never see her again. A call to Taylor will verify that you’re no longer employed. He asked me to tell you to send in your expenses, including the cost of getting home from here.”
“What?” I nearly shrieked. “I want to hear that from him. Call him.” I gestured toward the telephone with the gun barrel.
He walked over to the desk and dialed. “Taylor, this is Owsley. Ms. Jamison wishes to speak with you.”
I made him put down the receiver and turn on the speakerphone. I motioned him back with the gun barrel while keeping him in the sights.
“This is Dagny Jamison. Is this Mr. Bloodworth?”
The unmistakable voice at the other end, sonorant and genteel, began with an apology and ended by explaining that he had spoken with Ashley and he was satisfied that all was well. And true, he no longer required my services.
“I wonder if he has any idea what outrages you and Ashley have committed,” I said, after disconnecting. “It nauseates me.”
“It’s all over, unless you begin shooting.”
“No, you’re lying. It’s not over. There’s the third man. I saw you in L.A. What deviltry do you have planned for Richard Sangfroid?”
“Nothing that need distract you from your appointed rounds. Sangfroid’s punishment will be diabolical, yet the least draconian. Ashley’s revenge is to show him a graphical account of the ruined lives of his one-time cohorts, Beck and Angelica. My job is to flaunt their fate in his face, not easily done since the man is guarded day and night, but I’ll figure it out. He’ll learn from me that his former victim is now a cunning, demented harpy of infinite resource, and that she’s biding her time until she swoops down upon him. After I succeed in conveying that message, he will not enjoy peace in his lifetime, nor does he deserve any.”
He paused, thoughtfully. I was speechless, a rare moment for me indeed. His description of Ashley was remarkably apt.
“You did good work, Dagny,” he continued, “if I may call you this. I sincerely regret that I had to ill-treat you earlier. It was safer than a conk on the head, you know, and I needed you out of the way—out of harm’s way. Let bygones be bygones.”
He put out his right hand. A menacing growl came from Adolf, who had watched the entire scene with unflagging attention.
“Just go,” I said. “Get out of my sight.”
“All right,” he said, turning the extended hand palm up. “Be so kind as to return my property.”
I flipped open the cylinder of the .38 and ejected the six cartridges. I opened the door to the hallway, and as he left the room I handed him the weapon and quickly shut and bolted the door.
My shoulders sagged from the tension, and Adolf, too, relaxed. He sat with one of his hind legs tucked sideways under him, a canine form of slouching. He looked up at me, focused on an invisible spot on my forehead. His eyes were lustrous pools of black opal in a rich amber setting beneath shaggy brows. The dog made not a sound, but the eyes said “high five.”
There was no way I was going to leave Adolf in the pound for “adoption.” Families don’t generally adopt pets large enough to devour triplets. He’d be euthanized after a few weeks.
I called the rental company and received permission to drop my car in Raleigh. It was a 10-hour drive with pit stops, but flying would be slower by the time I’d arranged for Adolf to accompany me in an air-kennel. Besides, there was little urgency, and the long drive would let me think through events of the past few days.
Being now unemployed in this matter, I could let it drop, technically. But I was heavily invested, intellectually and emotionally, and I’m far too obsessive to turn my mind off a case with more loose ends than a janitor’s mop.
I strove mightily to draw conclusions based strictly on the facts, free of sentimentality. In this case the facts pointed to conclusions so sordid that my mind revolted. Beck was culling children from the orphanage and shunting them to Angelica via a perversion of the “Underground Railroad.” The Kurdish boy on the set, the presence of the Turkish women, Beck’s wealth, the relationship between the two cousins, their proclivity for sex crimes, and Owsley’s condemnation of Beck as truly evil—all lent their weight to that supposition.
Pieces of the puzzle remained that didn’t fit. Where did the children go when Angelica had finished with them? At first, I imagined that they continued on to their adoptive homes. Their brief, horrid detour through Angelica’s studio wouldn’t come out later in their lives because of the drug-induced memory loss, not to mention shame at any surviving memory fragments plus the language barrier. But after some thought I rejected that notion. Letting those children join a normal family as an adopted child was too risky for the perpetrators. Surely they knew that if even one child said something to ignite suspicion, their lucrative trafficking in child pornography would be imperiled. I didn’t think those kids ended up adopted.
So were they sent back to Turkey, back to the orphanage? No, I couldn’t make that compute either. While the probability was small that any one child would be able to tell what had happened, out of ten or twenty children, there was a much higher chance that at least one would talk, and that’s all it would take. From that point, word would leak out even if the children were kept sequestered in Beck’s orphanage. If the rumor that Beck converted children to Christianity produced near riots, imagine what the actual truth would lead to.
I briefly considered the possibility that Beck murdered the returned children and buried them on the premises of the orphanage. There was ample property for any number of unmarked graves. But I found that explanation forced. Too many people would have to know about it. The truth would out.
No, they weren’t adopted, and they weren’t sent back.
I was well into Georgia by the time my thinking had gotten that far. After a break for lunch, and a walk for Adolf, I resumed the trip with my mind bent on another ill-fitting piece of the puzzle, namely Richard Sangfroid, the one Ashley had dubbed “Little.”
Inconsistencies swarmed about him. First, his apparent wealth. Where did he find the money to pay for his costly lifestyle? A hundred grand a year on call girls alone. A multimillion-dollar house. Physical protection whose cost I estimated to be several times that of the women.
Balancing
that, he earned a high salary, and perhaps the weekly ambulance had to do with some kind of moonlighting. Maybe his employer took on some of the protection costs. He’d been investigated and cleared of accepting bribes, but maybe he escaped detection, or maybe—I was into irony here—he bribed his way out of it. Hell, maybe he was born wealthy. I didn’t know.
The security provisions didn’t ring true. They were supposed to protect him from an organized crime figure, but for that purpose they were deficient. If a mob boss wanted him killed or kidnapped, the security at his home, the squad car patrols, and the bodyguard, would be gnats on a bull’s rump. What he did gain was a degree of privacy not afforded the ordinary citizen. He was shielded from unwanted visitors such as Owsley Bloodworth; and against snoopers such as myself; and even against the invasive probes of media reporters. Was that worth the cost? And if so, why?
There was also the matter of Ashley’s revenge. She named him, Little, as the cruelest of her tormentors. According to Owsley, they were going to show him what had happened to Beck and Angelica, with implied threats that a similar fate awaited him. I had trouble buying that. Ashley had already drunk the blood of a grisly triple murder, and had sacrificed her own daughter to slake her thirst for vengeance. Merely scaring Sangfroid paled by comparison. She needed more. I didn’t think Sangfroid’s precautions could protect him from Ashley. She had already showed the capability and willingness to hire guns and muscle when needed.
Owsley Bloodworth was too eager to get me off the case. He and Ashley must have persuaded Taylor that my services were no longer needed, but why the rush to tell me? Why not have Taylor sack me when I reported in? Why the dramatic break-in of my hotel room? Why the drawn gun? Owsley didn’t fear me physically. It was all intended to intimidate me on the pretext of informing me I was fired. It, too, didn’t compute.
Where Evil Lurks Page 24
