Where Evil Lurks

by Robert D. Rodman

  I remembered a paragraph from my brother John’s book, How to be a Private Eye. He once said that this was the basis of all detection and even of all science:

  The universe is an orderly, logical place. When we perceive inconsistencies, it’s because our observations and reasoning are flawed. Inconsistency does not occur in nature. Nature abhors inconsistency. Often when one inconsistency is resolved, others vanish as a result.

  Such was the case as I drove past South of the Border—a gaudy amusement park with a Mexican theme—and entered North Carolina on Interstate 95. My mind had been forced to accept a passel of horrors over the preceding week, and I didn’t really think things could be much worse. But of course just when you think that, they worsen.

  I had fixed my mind on Ashley, still aghast at the deeds she had given rise to. I tried to imagine myself in her place—in the place of a hurt woman, heedless of acting evilly, devoid of moral constraints, intent on what her warped mind thought was poetic justice. What would I do next?

  My mind began to experience the I’ve-almost-gotcha feeling that in me often precedes an insight. It’s similar to the feeling you have when you almost, but can’t quite, think of a person’s name. And then it comes to you, mysteriously, sometimes unbidden—moments after you’ve given up trying.

  When the idea came I thought that if I could see my face, it would be lit up. I nearly craned my neck to peer at myself in the rearview mirror until I realized how silly that was. But I was psyched. The fog had lifted. I had a hypothesis that explained the silence of the children, the wealth of Sangfroid, and why Ashley wanted me off the case.

  But if I had brightened at the thrill of deduction, what I had deduced must have turned me a pallid gray. For I realized that so deeply had I waded into the waters of three evil men and a woman that I could see to the farthest shore, and what I saw chilled the blood in my veins, and made me see that evil lurks without bounds.

  CHAPTER 31

  I spent the rest of the drive formulating plans of action, rejecting them, formulating new ones. One plan was to do nothing, the null plan. It was tempting. Anything I did beyond nothing was at my own expense and risk. Still, the Bloodworths had paid me well, and though Ashley wouldn’t see it this way, entangled as she was in her web of madness, I was acting on her behalf and that of her family, toward whom I felt both loyalty and pity.

  The next day I called Cynthia to see if she’d care for Adolf until I had time to find him a home. I was lucky to catch her inside on an unseasonably warm Sunday. I gave her a brief account of how Adolf had come into my life and she said she’d be proud to mind so gallant an animal. “And by the way,” I added, “he only understands German, so the two years of it that you had to take will come in handy.”

  “German! I have to speak German to a dog. That’s weird.”

  “Hey, it’s just a few words. I’ll fill you in. Dig out your old German tapes.”

  “Sure, I’ll do that, not. Bring him over anyway and I’ll teach him good Southern and feed him grits ‘n’ gravy. Then he’ll be ready for a new home.”

  Next I called Charles. I needed to know what human organs were worth. Charles, being a medical examiner, often handled the commodities. He knew the answers.

  “Paahts is paahts,” said Charles, trying to imitate the old Wendy’s commercial.

  “We’re serious here, darling,” I said.

  “Right. Human bodies have a lot of recyclable components. The most widely known ones are the liver and kidneys. But lungs, hearts and pancreases can be reused under favorable circumstances. So can heart valves, intestines, bone, skin, veins and corneas.”

  “What are they worth, all these ‘components’?” I asked.

  “Well, the cost of organs and other body parts is presumably free, though the recipients must pay for their removal, storage, transfer and implantation,” said Charles. Then, thoughtfully, “But there’ve been black markets from time to time. There, prices are bid into the hundreds of thousands, if not millions. If you were wealthy and you needed a liver to survive, what’s a million bucks? Or a billion if you’re an oil sheik?”

  “And that’s against the law, isn’t it?”

  “Definitely. In fact organ distribution is supposed to be blind to the recipient’s means or status. The criteria for doling out any donated body parts are strictly medical. It’s absolutely illegal to buy or sell them.”

  I then explained with much difficulty—the matter was almost too complex for a phone call—my hypothesis, what I planned to do assuming I was correct in the essentials, and how I wanted him to help me. It took a full ten minutes to get through it all, but Charles was a knowledge sponge and he stayed with me.

  “Bloody hell, Dagny, why don’t you just go to the authorities? You’re risking your life.”

  “Lots of reasons. The cops have already given Sangfroid a clean bill of health. They won’t investigate him without probable cause, and there’s no time, and no clear way, to convince a judge to issue a warrant. Even with a warrant, if they botch the timing, the ending will be terrible.”

  Of course he agreed. Charles is quite good at going along with my schemes, cockamamie though they may seem to him. I asked him to meet me in the service flat in L.A. There were still ten days left on my month’s lease.

  I caught up with my mail, both s- and e-, and placed a couple of necessary phone calls. My last task before flying to L.A. was to take Adolph to Cynthia’s farm. His introduction to the two greyhounds the previous night went smoothly enough, though I was careful to feed them all separately. Like middle-school kids, dogs are easily drawn into to food fights.

  Cynthia and Adolph hit it off immediately. After letting Adolph sniff her hands for a moment, she got down on her knees and gently wrapped her arms around his thick, shaggy neck and muttered some guttural sounds in his ear. Although Adolph and I had a healthy relationship during the short time I’d kept him, he had never wagged his tail for me. As Cynthia spoke to him in lowered tones, his tail began to wag and then his whole rear followed suit, undulating as if he were trying out for a hula contest.

  “Well,” I said when Cynthia finally stood up, “this looks like love at first sight if I’ve ever seen it.”

  “He’s gorgeous, Dagny. Do you really think I could keep him?”

  “Yeah, I think you really could, provided that I get unlimited visitation rights.”

  We shook hands on that and then exchanged hugs. I said goodbye to Adolph, who gave me his “high five” look, his dewy pupils shining black, but not a single twitch of his tail did I receive. I guess it was all business between us, but I could look forward to seeing him many more times, and that made me happy.

  I caught the earliest flight I could to Los Angeles, putting me into LAX late in the afternoon on Monday. I drove directly to Hilda’s “studio,” where I received a crash course in sex for pay. She lent me clothes, accessories and fragrances suitable for calling on gentlemen’s homes at night.

  The security guard welcomed me back to Vista du Lac. I told him I was expecting Dr. Clarke and to please send him up when he arrived. I was eager to see Charles, both for the obvious reasons and to make sure that he had his ducks in a row. His role was critical.

  I also wanted to revisit my entire analysis of the matter for one last reality check. Charles was to be the final arbiter on the soundness of both my reasoning and my plans. Once he signed off on them, I’d write it all up in my database so they’d be on record in case something happened to me.

  I’d left the envelope from Ashley’s father in my travel bag. I was impatiently awaiting Charles’s arrival when I decided to open it. Ethically, I should have returned it still sealed to Taylor Bloodworth, but I was at the point where every shred of information might have significance.

  The envelope didn’t contain a written appeal to Ashley, couched in personal, emotional terms, as I’d expected. Inside was a photographic portrait of—I couldn’t believe my eyes—Ashley. Only it couldn’t have been Ashley. The photogr
aph was very old. Its faded, muted colors testified that it was from the age of early color photography.

  The woman was dressed in a long-sleeved, white-ruffled, high-collared shirt, white gloves, and a full-length skirt with a floral design against a dark blue background. Her plentiful light-brown hair was wrapped in a tight bun pinned by several bejeweled hair sticks that held it high on her head. She had posed standing, in the stiff formal style typical of early photographs. In the background were plowed fields and half-leaved trees. Writing on the reverse side of the photo gave the month and year—April, 1907—and the name, Ashley Renée Bloodworth née Stuart.

  The photograph had been taken when the woman was about Ashley’s current age. The year and the family resemblance between the two women suggested Ashley’s great-grandmother. I searched the envelope that contained the photo again, feeling certain that I’d overlooked a written message or some other artifact, but there was nothing more. I replaced the photograph in its envelope and put it in my handbag.

  Charles brought dinner. We needed to monitor continuously to ensure that the rhythmic flow of life at the Fillmore House hadn’t changed. Sangfroid’s chauffeured car returned him from work at the regular time. One or another of his domestic helpers came and went, and most vitally, a girl and driver showed up at precisely the usual hour in the evening. I studied the girl’s apparel with more than a passing interest. I watched the way she walked, held her head, and flirted for a moment with the guard.

  Tuesday was a typical Tuesday for Sangfroid insofar as I could tell, and much the same as Monday. Richard was a man of habit, which was both good and bad. Good for predictability; bad because the success of my plan depended on his seeming to stray from the habitual—which might arouse suspicion.

  Charles visited the coroner’s office to attend to the details for which he was responsible. With a colleague’s help, he borrowed two two-way pagers from the LAPD as well as a matchbook-sized signal emitter and a locator attuned to it.

  Wednesday afternoon crept in a nerve-racking petty pace. We’d been over our plans again, and had nothing else to do but watch the house for anything unusual. Finally, poor Charles said that he was “knackered” from all the waiting, and to re-energize himself, would I mind if he took a walk down to Silver Lake and back. I encouraged him to go and said I’d keep my eye on things.

  Sangfroid returned home at the usual time. That was my cue to begin applying makeup in the style of a lady of the night. I dressed in the same manner and sashayed out of the bedroom to flaunt myself before Charles. He was not amused to see his girlfriend in the guise of a whore. The security guard called to inform me that my car had arrived. Hilda had arranged for the same car and driver that the hookers used when they visited Sangfroid.

  The phone rang moments later. The security guard reported in a voice that barely concealed his amazement that an Emergency Medical Services van had come for Dr. Clarke. With that piece of news, all preparations were complete. I returned to the video monitor to await the triggering event.

  A surge of adrenaline coursed through my body when the anxiously awaited ambulance drove up to the front gate of the Fillmore House and was waved in. I watched through the telescope as it rolled slowly to the side entrance. There, the driver and passenger, both fully attired in green scrubs and surgical masks, jumped out and walked around to the back of the vehicle. They were hidden for a moment by some tall shrubs, and when next I saw them, they were at either end of a stretcher upon which rested a small lump under a sheet. A servant ushered them into the house. Strands of blonde hair wisped from under one of the scrub caps as they passed from view.

  I turned on the signal emitter and put it in my handbag. We tested it briefly one last time. We also tested the pagers—they worked—and I reloaded my little 9mm semiautomatic with a full magazine, topping it off with a bullet in the chamber to give me an extra shot.

  We took the elevator down to the lobby and exited the building. The doormen at the Vista du Lac were agog. Charles patted my butt—“to get you in harlot mode, love,” he said. He kissed me, opened the door to my car, and wished me Godspeed. As I was driven away, I saw him get into the passenger side of the EMS van to await my signal.

  I had barely enough time to light a Virginia Slim before we rolled to a stop in the space where the hooker’s car usually waited. The guard was surprised to see us, but not suspicious, as it was the same car and driver that usually brought the girls. I hopped out lightly and asked for admittance.

  “I’m afraid you’ve got the wrong night, sweetheart. He’s busy on Wednesdays. No girls ’til tomorrow.”

  “Sure he has a few moments for me,” I said. “I’m here to surprise him. I’m a freebie. My boss sent me on account o’ him bein’ such a good customer. You know, customer relations, and all that.”

  “Don’t know about that. I’ll have to call in and ask his permission.”

  “Oh, please don’t spoil the surprise,” I said. “This is something unusual, you know; something a little kinky; something he’s reeeaaly gonna like.” I moved closer to the guard and pulled out the top of my chemise to give him a glimpse. “I’ll do him so sweetly he’ll want me back every night. And you know what?” I moved even closer so he could smell me. “If you be a good boy, there’s something in me for you.” I glanced down at his crotch for half a second, then rounded my lips and took a slow, deliberate drag on the cigarette, just like Lauren Bacall in those old Bogie flicks.

  I moved even closer to him and brushed his lips with mine for thanks. I walked through the gate and toward the side door, hips moving in what I hoped was a decent imitation of Marilyn Monroe. It was my night to imitate sexy actresses.

  I rapped on the side door. A woman in a shawl quickly answered and, after giving me the once over, said in a businesslike tone, “You got da wrong night, lady, he’s busy. Come back tomorrow.”

  Two things were apparent. First, charm would not work on her. Second, to judge from her appearance and speech, she was Turkish. I pulled the pistol from my purse and aimed it straight at her mouth. I said in Turkish, “You will be in Allah’s bosom if you cause me the slightest trouble.”

  Her eyes went wide as teacups. When she got her voice back, she begged me not to kill her.

  “Where are they?” I demanded.

  She pointed toward a staircase. “Below, down the stairs,” she squeaked.

  I pulled open the door to a large coat closet. “Get in,” I hissed, still speaking Turkish, “and make not one sound if you wish to see the crescent moon again.” I shut the door and wedged a chair under the knob. I judged that the shock of a blonde whore speaking Turkish and wielding a gun would keep her speechless and out of my way for a goodly while.

  I removed my shoes. High heels are utterly unsuitable for stealth. I walked to the staircase and began to descend one step at a time. The solidly built stairs hardly creaked despite their age. From below, I heard the hum of small motors and the buzz of fluorescent lighting. That would mask any small sounds I might make.

  I was descending into a basement room so brightly lit that vivid shadows danced beneath me at the foot of the stairs. About halfway down, I could hear voices. I stopped to listen.

  “This’ll be a short night. All we have are the kidneys. Shame to waste the rest.”

  There were grunts from the others, followed by the sounds of a body being arranged on a table, and the clinking of glass against metal and the rustling of rubber tubing. It didn’t strain my powers of observation to realize that I was privy to a homegrown operating room.

  “Which of you is assisting? You’ll need to come around here and prepare his arm for the IV.”

  “I am,” murmured a familiar female voice.

  More shuffling about and then, “Oh, for Christ sake, where are the containers? What’s with you guys?”

  “Sorry, my fault, be right back with ’em,” said a male voice that I recognized.

  His rapid footsteps were headed straight for the staircase. I darted up and ro
unded a corner just as he began to climb the stairs two at a time. So much for my dramatic rescue. I had to wait for him to return or run the risk of losing control of the scene.

  He returned moments later carrying the containers. After a minute, I tiptoed back down the stairs. When I heard the first man speak again, I knew it must be Sangfroid. It was strange finally to put a voice to the man I had dogged so determinedly.

  I also heard a heart monitor beeping, regular bleeps about three every two seconds: it was a child’s heartbeat. I pressed the send-button on my pager to alert Charles, and activated the signal emitter so they could find me quickly when they entered the house. I withdrew the semi, cocked the hammer and slid my finger inside the trigger guard. I was a split second from bursting into the room when the familiar male voice commanded: “Stop! Step away from the table.”

  I froze.

  “What do you mean?” exclaimed an outraged Sangfroid. “How dare you pull a gun on me?”

  “It means you and your detestable practice have come to an end,” said Owsley Bloodworth. “And my colleague is going to provide the details of your demise.”

  I risked a peek. The third person present removed her mask and cap, allowing her blonde hair to cascade about her shoulders. She spoke: “Do you remember me? I’ll tell you the last words you spoke to me. You said, ‘You’ve been fucked by every Tom, Dick, and Harry.’”

  There was a stunned silence and I tried to imagine what Sangfroid must be thinking.

  “Holy fuck!” he gasped, finally.

  “There was nothing holy about the way you fucked me. You’re thinking of your pious friend Tom, the Doctor of Divinity. Show him the latest on Tom, Owsley.”

  I could hear my heart pounding in my ears as Sangfroid absorbed what he saw in the tableau of Beck’s crucifixion.

  “You’re mad,” he sputtered.

  “Perhaps you’re wondering why you haven’t heard from Harry, Dick. He’s in jail. On morals charges. Seems he was performing with his own daughter when his porn studio was raided.”