Looking through the list of partners, which included six men and two women, I didn’t see any names I recognized. Well, hell. More digging was required.
I logged on to a subscription database that provides personal information on everyone in the country: date of birth, current and past addresses, criminal records, property ownership, marriages and divorces and so on. Pretty scary when you think about it, but a great boon to P.I.s.
I printed out the data on all the partners, then sat back, propped my feet on the desk, and went through the laborious task of reading it all. Nothing popped up that seemed to have any remote connections to the Ethics Committee or the killings, until I got to the record of one Eileen Stanfield of Bal Harbour, Florida. According to the information, Eileen had married Dennis Pearlman, the vitamin magnate, in Las Vegas about six months ago.
I sat up straight. Finally, something was starting to come together. And it was big. Since Pearlman was married to this woman, an investor in EternaLife, he obviously had a financial interest in the company. Yet he was on the very committee that was to make a recommendation on EternaLife to the city council. That was an obvious conflict of interest that should have led Pearlman to recuse himself. But he hadn’t. Furthermore, he’d recently made a large charitable contribution to the church of the Reverend Botay, another committee member. How coincidental was that?
I knew I was finally getting close to the truth. I had some hunches. I accessed the archives of the local newspaper to check them out.
First I searched for any mention of Pearlman’s marriage. There was none. Big-time Boca-ite and publicity hound that he was, this was certainly unusual. He clearly wanted to leave this liaison off the public radar.
Next I searched for articles about any other recent donations he may have made, besides the one to the Church of the Gender-Free God. As I expected, these were plentiful and prominent. Among them, three biggies stood out, each for a quarter million dollars. One was to the Temple Beth Boca, for a tutoring program teaming adolescent congregation members with disadvantaged youth from the community. Another was to Our Lady of the Fairways, for a food bank for the homeless. And the third was to the Church of the Serpentine Redeemer, for a seminar series on strengthening marriages.
I could imagine what that last one was all about. I could just see Pastor Hollings preaching, “Wives, submit to your husbands, as they submit to the church.” Yep, shut up the women. A great way to strengthen marriages. Why, it had worked for millennia, until those hairy-legged, bra-burning women’s libbers had come along and destroyed traditional values. Divine order needed to be restored.
Okay, my hunches were right. Pearlman had a financial interest in EternaLife that he didn’t want known. And his “donations” to the religious institutions of the other Ethics Committee members weren’t donations at all. They were bribes to get the members to make favorable recommendations for EternaLife.
But since Pearlman had bribed them, why would he then kill them? The killer had to be someone else. I didn’t know who yet, but I knew I was hot on the trail.
Chapter 21
IT WAS TIME to go to dinner at Mom’s. When I arrived, I saw that Chuck’s hog was already there. The would-be newlyweds were back from their would-be wedding trip to San Francisco.
I went in and greeted them with welcome-back hugs. The getaway had apparently done them good. They certainly looked better than the last time I’d seen them.
I said hi to Mom and Leonard. As usual, the two of them and Enrique looked chic in their chichi attire, while Chuck and I looked like outlaws in our riding gear. Just your typical family gathering.
We proceeded outside to the Florida room. For those of you unfortunate non-Floridians, that’s a huge screened area, including a screened ceiling, enclosing a pool and patio.
Leonard was grilling chicken in the built-in barbecue pit. Mom excused herself to go to the kitchen to get a salad, sweet potatoes, and corn on the cob. Chuck, Enrique and I sat down at the beautifully set table. Enrique immediately took advantage of Mom’s absence to grill me.
“So what’s the status of the investigation?” he asked.
I glanced meaningfully toward the kitchen.
“I’m getting very close to identifying the real killer,” I confided. “But I can’t tell you any more right now. Trust me, you don’t want to see my mom upset again. I’ll talk to you later.”
“Gotcha,” Chuck said, just as Mom returned.
When she sat down, Enrique produced a bottle of wine.
“This is our own special creation,” he announced proudly. “We visited a winery in the Napa Valley where they let you make your own blend and put your own label on it. So allow me to present the Boca Bad Boys Estate Bottled Select Reserve. A late harvest blend of one-half each of pinot grigio and pinot noir, both aged in French oak barrels, producing a medium body with a delicate bouquet of vanilla and butter, a hint of fruity and spicy aroma, and an extended finish.”
He ceremoniously uncorked the bottle and poured us each a glass.
“Salute,” he said, raising his glass.
I stared at him. I wasn’t about to swallow this swill.
“Are you nuts?” I asked. “You’re in the Napa Valley, one of the world’s greatest wine regions with expertise going back 150 years. You’ve got people there that have been making wine for generations. And you think you can do better with some capricious concoction of your own? And who ever heard of mixing a red and a white, anyway?”
“Girlfriend, if I didn’t know better, I’d say you have a case of pinot envy,” Enrique said and calmly took a sip.
The others followed. I waited a minute. None of them keeled over, so I raised the glass to my lips and tasted a drop. Then I took a sip and finally a swallow.
“Not bad,” I grumbled, avoiding eye contact.
“Well, boys, tell us all about your trip,” Mom said.
“Okay,” Chuck said. “We started in Haight-Ashbury. I showed Ricky all the hot spots where I hung in the late sixties. I gotta tell y’all, though, the times they are achangin’. What used to be the bead shop is now an Abernathy & Finch clothes store, and the head shop is a Sunbucks coffee shop.”
“You’re shitting me,” I said.
Mom caught my sarcastic tone. “Harriet, what’s the matter with you?” she demanded. “Why are you being so antagonistic to the boys?”
“Sorry,” I said. “I guess I’m a little on edge today.” There’d only been an attempt on my life, that’s all. Not that I was going to bring that up and send Mom into drama-queen mode.
“It’s no problem, Miz Stella,” Chuck said. “We know Harriet is a crusty curmudgeon. We wouldn’t have her any other way.”
I opened my mouth to make a comeback but thought better of it.
“Anyway,” Enrique picked up the story, “then we spent a couple days in the Castro District.”
“Excuse me?” I asked, dumbfounded. “You mean to tell me Fidel Castro has an overseas base right here in the U.S.? Do the Miami Cubans know about this?”
Chuck and Enrique looked at each other.
“No, darling,” Mom said. “The Castro District is the historic center of gay life in San Francisco. The gay community has done a beautiful job of restoring the old homes to their original Victorian splendor.” She smiled proudly.
How did she know this stuff? I’d made a fool of myself again with my ex-Boca Babe ignorance. My lack of what seemed to be common knowledge was really starting to bug me. Maybe I needed to get a TV after all. No, scratch that. I’d left behind all those trappings of the Boca Babe life, including the big-screen TV in the media room. They didn’t call it the boob tube for nothing. In fact, they might as well call Boca Babes Boob Babes. For more reasons than one. If I wanted to continue my recovery from Babeness and Boobness, I’d better hit the public library instead.
“So as I was saying,” Enrique continued, “we went to the Castro. It was awesome to stand on the spot that was one of the major starting points of the gay rights movement back in the day. We’ve come a long way. But obviously the struggle is far from over.”
We sat in silence for a moment, acknowledging the sober truth of that statement.
Then I said, “So you two had a gay old time.”
They all groaned.
Leonard came to the table with the platter of chicken. As soon as he sat down and the food was passed around, he launched into his Cold War lore.
“Did I ever tell you all about the time I was involved in Star Wars?” he asked.
“Cool,” I said. “Did you get to meet Harrison Ford and Carrie Fisher?”
He blinked. “No, dear, I’m referring to Ronald Reagan’s Strategic Defense Initiative. Back in the early eighties? It was popularly called Star Wars.”
Oops, I did it again.
“Oh, yeah, sure, I’ve heard of that,” I said. None of them said a word.
“Well, this program was about developing technology to intercept intercontinental ballistic missiles in space. So, you know, if the Russkies launched a missile at us we’d destroy it before it hit ground.”
“Okay,” I said.
“The thing is, that technology never actually got off the ground. But we fed fake data to the Russkies to make them think the technology was much more advanced than it really was.”
“How’d you feed them the fake data?” Enrique asked, sitting on the edge of his seat. As a security specialist, he was the perfect audience for Leonard.
“We passed it to known KGB operatives who we knew would take it back to Moscow. So then the Kremlin was all up in arms, so to speak. In the meantime, what we were really doing was building up our nuclear warheads. So here we’ve got them thinking we’re putting our resources into defense, when it’s really offense. Um, preemptive offense, you understand. So they start spending all their budget on getting around our supposed defensive systems. Eventually, that was part of what led to the collapse of their economy.”
“Brilliant,” Enrique said. Leonard beamed at the praise.
“It’s an established strategy, really,” he said, trying for modesty. “Straight out of Spying 101. It’s called disinformation. You set the enemy on the wrong track to divert them from the truth. Works every time.”
“Oh, Leonard, what a clever man you are,” Mom gushed. Jeez, this guy really had it made in the admiration department.
Chuck and I silently chowed our chicken.
“And then there was the time I went to Odessa when the entire politburo was there for the winter holiday,” Leonard went on. And on.
At last the evening came to a close. We all helped with the dishes, then Chuck, Enrique, and I said our goodbyes to Mom and Leonard and went out to our hogs.
We stood out there in the dark for a while as I quickly filled them in on the investigation. They were not happy, to say the least, about the attempts on my life.
“What kind of whack-job would try to burn you and then freeze you?” Enrique asked.
“I don’t know yet. But like I said, I’m getting real close.”
“Well, darlin’, when you find this weird-ass, we’ll take care of him. Or her,” Chuck said.
Now, I could understand that sentiment, possessing a justice-obsessed inner vigilante myself. But in all good conscience I couldn’t encourage it in others.
“Not a good idea, Chuckles,” I said. “The law will take care of the perp.”
“Yeah, right,” Chuck replied. I guess neither of us was fooled.
“Look guys, it’s been real good to see you, but it’s been a long day,” I said, stifling a yawn. “I’m going to go home and crash, then get back on it tomorrow. As soon as I know more, you’ll know.”
They reluctantly departed. I put on my helmet and leathers, climbed onto my bike, fired it up, and took off toward home.
As I rode through the city streets, glistening under the streetlights from a brief rain, a gloom settled over me. Not only had three victims been brutally murdered, but I now had three suspects to spring, not just the one I’d been hired for. Honey du Mellon/Trey was out on bail, but still facing trial. Since I hadn’t heard from Lior, I figured he was still locked up, as was the Haitian maintenance man from Our Lady of the Fairways. Maybe the contessa could get S. Lee Dailey to represent them, but they could still be facing months in jail awaiting trial. I was their only hope. The responsibility weighed heavily on me.
But as I got out of the city and the suburbs and onto the open road, a bikers’ saying came to mind: “Wind in my face and my troubles behind, the more I throttle my bike, the more I unwind.” I shifted into high gear, opened up the throttle and started to fly. I entered that altered state of consciousness—lost in the moment, hearing the song of the wheels on the road, listening to the pipes talk to me. And when my mind emptied its anxieties, it made room for the truth to enter.
In a flash I knew who the killer was. And more importantly, I knew who the next victim was. And even though I loathed everything the target stood for, I loved justice more. I’d never save his soul. But I had to save his life.
Chapter 22
I PULLED OFF the road, pulled out my phone and called the Church of the Serpentine Redeemer. The answering machine came on. I hung up. I turned the bike around and hauled ass over there.
The building was dark. I ran to the door. It was unlocked. Inside, the cavernous meeting hall was unlit. I rushed to Hollings’s office. The lights were on, and I heard shouts within.
I burst through the door. Hollings and Howard Levine were engaged in a full-on battle. They were both locked in a choke hold, each trying to get the upper hand and throw the other off balance. Along the back wall, the serpents watched from their glass cages.
I pulled my Magnum out of my boot, aimed it at them, and said, “The BITCH is in the house. You know what BITCH stands for, don’t you? Boys, I’m Taking Charge Here. You two get back from each other right now, nice and easy, or you both go down. And trust me, this ain’t no girlie gun. You don’t want to be on the receiving end of a .44.”
“He lets go first,” Howard choked out.
“No, he goes first,” Hollings replied.
Unbelievable. We were back in kindergarten.
“Boys, I’m going to count to three, and then you both let go together. Are we ready? One . . . two . . . three.”
They both shoved each other. Hollings caught his balance, but Howard stumbled backward. Right into Monty’s aquarium.
The glass shattered as Howard fell on top, and Monty slithered out. The snake went right for Howard’s feet, coiling itself around his legs and moving higher. Howard screamed. I aimed and cocked my gun at the beast.
“No!” Hollings yelled. “Don’t shoot Monty! I’ll take care of this.” He grabbed Monty’s head and began talking to him soothingly.
“It’s okay, munchkin. You don’t need to suffocate this evildoer. He will face his judgment day before our Lord. So let go, sweetie. Daddy’s got a nice dinner waiting for you. A couple of big ol’ rats. How does that sound?”
Incredibly, Monty began to loosen his grip on Howard’s legs.
I kept my gun aimed at all three creatures—Monty, Howard, and Hollings.
“Hold it!” I said. I suddenly saw this as a prime opportunity to unravel the murders before Monty unraveled himself. “I want some answers,” I said.
Hollings looked from me to Monty to Howard. “Yeah, me, too,” he said. “If you don’t give it up,” he told Howard, “I’ll let Monty carry out the Lord’s will for you, you heathen.”
Amazing. Hollings, the Lord, and I were on the same side.
Howard’s eyes widened, and he swallowed hard. “Okay,” he rasped. “Just keep that vip
er from squeezing me!”
“Start at the beginning, Howard,” I said. “This is all about EternaLife, isn’t it? You knew if they set up shop in town, it would seriously cut into your mortuary business, since most Boca residents crave immortality and have the bucks to buy it. So you had to stop them.”
“Of course. And frankly, Harriet, you should be grateful to me for preserving Mort’s legacy. You know Mort loved you as if you were his own daughter.”
The man was mad. But I decided to play along to keep him talking.
“Yes, Howard, I am grateful. Mort was a good father and a good man, and I’m touched by your loyalty to his memory. Go on.”
“Thank you. As I suppose you know, EternaLife was seeking approval from the city council to do business in Boca. The council required a recommendation from its Ethics Advisory Committee before voting on the proposal. So I looked up the Ethics Committee’s membership and track record on the Web. I saw that it was a very influential committee, I figured if I could influence the Ethics Committee, they would then sway the council to reject EternaLife. I went to the Reverend Botay first and pitched my proposal—$50,000 in exchange for her recommendation against EternaLife.”
Aah. The time-honored tradition of bribery.
“But she declined your offer,” I said.
“Not only that, she actually called me crass for offering the money to her personally. Said that personal wealth meant nothing to her. That her life was dedicated to good works. Give me a break.”
Howard had made a strategic mistake. If he had offered the money to the church instead of to the reverend personally, that would have made it much more justifiable, in her view, for her to accept the bribe.
“But,” Howard continued, “then she added that she’d already received a $250,000 donation to her church, and that out of gratitude to the donor she was going to recommend in favor of EternaLife.”
“And you didn’t have the finances to make a counteroffer?” I asked.
“No!” Howard yelled, startling Monty, who began to coil tighter around Howard’s legs.
Dirty Harriet Rides Again Page 13
