by K. T. Tomb
“Yeah, it’s brutal.”
They walked around the warehouse, rather than back through the crime scene and finally Storm’s nausea went away as Albert pulled open the door of the car. He reached into the glove box and pulled out a plastic folder. “Quinn Lang. Printed it out for you this morning.” He looked around for a moment and then added, “I didn’t give this to you, of course.”
“Of course.”
Storm did not look into the folder and he just walked back to his Jag, not saying goodbye to his former partner. Albert didn’t mind, he himself was distracted by the corpse in the warehouse.
The Jag’s engine flared to life and Storm drove off carefully. He turned back onto the main road and the E-type carried him back into the city. As he drove on the road back to the office, he realized the traffic was better and that he was supposed to do something else.
He turned off toward the north and headed back to the city through Brooklyn Heights. His own house stood close to the Manhattan Bridge, but in the quieter area; he preferred his home to be quiet. He drove past his exit. He was heading toward the celebrity-dense area of Williamsburg, which sat under the Williamsburg Bridge, but was quite different from what he had a taste for these days.
He drove past the Red Hook container port, a reminder that he was on the clock; the expanse of the container yard felt like at least a mile, but it wasn’t. He saw his exit come up and turned off into Williamsburg. He kept right and found himself in another world in less than 20 minutes; streets undergoing construction that would modernize and gentrify the old Brooklyn buildings. A left brought him into a narrow street not made for cars; at the end was his destination.
He stepped out of his Jag and found, finally, that his shock had gone. He felt like himself again and was able to put the horror of the morning out of his head. He walked past a white Audi RS6 he had parked behind. He admired it for a second. It was a good car and quite understated. He nodded approvingly and kept his eyes on it as he pushed the intercom button that was practically in the street. There were four buzzers labeled ‘Longy’ that covered the four penthouse apartments on the top two floors. They were converted especially for the ten-year lease the current occupant had signed last fall.
A few moments later he heard music blaring through the intercom and a girl’s voice. “Yo.” There was a very light hint of a French accent in the voice.
“Miss Lavoie? It’s Storm McCoy. Can you let me in?”
“Who?”
“Storm McCoy. Your attorney?”
“Sure, sure babe, I’ll let you in. You can come and help out the boys.”
Storm shook his head and pulled the common entrance door to the apartment building as the buzzer sounded to release the remote door lock. He went through and walked the eight flights of steps to Miss Lavoie’s front door. The door was open and loud music boomed out from the whole apartment. He entered the house and immediately wished he had not. There was evidence of an indulgent high life everywhere, even in the passage. It started with discarded clothes and a razor blade that lay on the mirror on the hall dresser. As he went further into the house, looking for his client, he found more unsettling objects. Male clothes as well now, several pairs of pants, a half-smoked joint, a red-stained cork, used condoms and an empty bottle of wine. He just followed the trail of debris up the stairs to find the source; he found the music and a lot of noise coming from a sitting room on the first floor.
The room door was open and he walked in without knocking. He blinked and swore softly. There was an orgy going on. Or a gang bang. Five men with bodies that looked like they were carved from marble were naked. They surrounded a very pretty blonde girl. The girl was barely twenty years old and she was moaning in ecstasy as the five men plowed her body everywhere they could, mauled her breasts, and kissed her. They were gentle, but it was so wrong. The girl was so young, barely more than a child, and she was not just letting these men use her, she was begging for it.
Storm stepped further into the room and tried to look past the scene. There were more empty bottles, traces of white on the surfaces of furniture, several spliffs in more than one ashtray. There were strips of pills scattered across a table. One of the men stepped away and the girl looked up, begging him to stay with a moan. She caught his eye then and smiled at him. “You, lawyer man, come and take his place.” Storm knew instantly she was drunk and high as a kite. He wanted to say something, but he was distracted by an angry voice to his right.
“Keep your fucking hands off me,” the familiar voice said, angrily but quietly. Then there was the sound of a slap and seconds later the man groaned and buckled over. Storm could see the woman now and smiled. “Ms. Walsh!” he greeted the woman with the olive glow enthusiastically. “Pleased to see you again! Though perhaps not the ideal setting.”
“No, indeed. A pleasure, Mister McCoy.”
Storm nodded to the man gasping for breath. He had now dropped to the deck and lay in the fetal position, clutching his groin. Storm looked at the man’s eyes and knew he was in the same sort of state as his client. “He’d remember you for a long time if he was actually capable of forming memories at the moment.”
Naomh Walsh smiled. “Indeed. What brings you here, Mister McCoy?”
“Just call me Storm. Everyone calls me Storm.”
“Okay, Storm. What brings you here? I somehow doubt you’re here to partake in the pleasure of my client as well.”
“Your client, Ms. Walsh?”
Ms. Walsh nodded to the blonde girl still being screwed by the four men and seemingly thoroughly enjoying herself. “I do her PR. Clean her mess up among other things. And it’s Naomh.”
“Then we’re in the same line of work, Naomh. I’m her attorney. Though looking at this mess, I might not be her attorney for much longer.”
Naomh sighed. “Tried to break this thing up since I got here, but it’s no use.” She inclined her head to the door. “She’s got a good espresso machine in the kitchen. Might as well enjoy a cup of coffee while we wait for her to be done with this.”
They went down to the kitchen where Naomh set about making them each a latté.
“You’ve done this before,” Storm remarked from his vantage point at the end of the big breakfast bar in the kitchen. He had sat himself down on a stool and just watched Naomh make the espressos and foam up the milk.
“I have to do something when mademoiselle is entertaining.”
“That’s what it’s called now, is it?”
“Afraid so. She entertains more men, and women, than a cheap whore on an aircraft carrier.”
Storm grinned. “Eloquently spoken.”
“Thanks,” Naomh said as she placed two mugs on the marble of the breakfast bar. She grabbed a pot of sugar from a shelf and sat down. She scooped a single spoon of sugar into her cup and stirred it gently. “So how long have you been her attorney?”
“Actually, I’m the attorney of her agent. My firm has represented her agency since she started. And since last year, we represent her record label as well. So we were the obvious choice to deal with this.”
“Who do you work for?”
“I founded the firm, so I guess I’m working for myself.” Storm took a sip of the coffee. “You really have done this before!”
Naomh smiled and then winced as she heard a scream from upstairs. “Fuck, yeah!” the voice of Justine Lavoie squealed. Naomh muttered, “And to think she was this innocent young kid from Québec five years ago.”
“Yeah, I remember.” Storm thought on it for a moment. “Strange how so many of them end up like this. Not that I often see it this up close and personal... but I do have my eyes and ears open.”
“It’s insane. It’s the industry—and the pressures of all these bastards around them—that does it. Including people like me telling them how to look and how to behave for the sake of their image.”
“Since when have you been her PR agent?”
“Since last year. Her previous PR reps walked out. She’s bee
n like this since I’ve known her. Apparently, this shit started when she turned eighteen. She was one of the first big clients we pulled in.”
“Out of curiosity, is it your company?”
Naomh smiled brightly. “Yup. Started it with a friend when we were just out of college. Took a while, but we managed to build up quite a business.”
“And you kept your maiden name?” Storm guessed, taking another sip of coffee to hide any possible betraying signs of ulterior motives.
“Yes. Well, we already had the business registered. Would only be confusing.”
“What’s your husband do?”
“He’s a producer. He just joined a film crew in South America; they’re doing some stupid film about El Dorado and aliens! So I’m here keeping myself busy by going out with friends and by working. Otherwise, I’d just be traipsing around a big empty house all by myself.”
Storm nodded. “I do hate an empty house. I tend to block that out with a good cigar, a drink and by playing some music.”
“That sounds like a great plan too.” Her smile was dazzling. “Perhaps I can join you for an evening of that sometime?”
Storm was slightly taken aback by the proposal. “Sure.” He silenced the conversation by focusing on finishing his latté; buying himself more time to think. He paused, “How about tonight?”
“Sounds great. I have nothing else to do.”
Storm looked at his Audemars watch and stood up. “Well, Ms. Walsh, I think I will have to get going. I have another appointment as well and that one I do not wish to be late for. I certainly can’t wait until mademoiselle is done entertaining.”
“Can’t blame you for that.”
“Tell her she can drop by my office up until six this evening, if she wants our help to sort out this little spat with the law.” He pulled his jacket straight and made a light bow. “And thank you for the coffee. I’ll see you tonight?”
“No worries. And I’ll be there... as long as you tell me where.”
Storm grinned. He could be an idiot sometimes, but that, it seemed, was part of the charm that made him so attractive. Never be too smooth. He took a pen and a business card out of his pocket and wrote down his address. “See you tonight.”
Chapter Four
Gregoris Sedakis himself greeted Storm when he got back to his office in Midtown East.
“I’m desperate for your services!”
Sedakis still spoke with a thick Greek accent, even after thirty years in the US. Storm reckoned it was something of a badge to the man. A mark of pride in his heritage and in the way he had come up in society in the US. He had left Greece when he was just twenty and had found a job at American Maritime Trucking as a dock worker. Through slow and careful investment and planning, he eventually rose from a dock worker and a welder to an owner of ships and harbors. He was the embodiment of the American Dream: rags to riches. Storm liked him for that very reason. There had always been two ways to be someone in America. You had to be born to it, or you had to make yourself into someone.
Storm had been born to it. Even if all the money he now had came from his own hard work, he had been born into money and privilege. He could only admire the man he now shook hands with and who pulled him into a big bear hug. He felt the man kiss him on the cheek. Another Greek thing, he knew. Himself, he slapped Sedakis on the back as heartily as he could.
“How are you, Gregoris?” He smiled brightly. “Hoping it’s nothing serious you require my help with?”
“Not at all, not at all. There’s just someone who claims some of the land the Red Hook container port stands on is his. Didn’t challenge it previously, but since I have taken over, it’s become a nuisance.”
“Who would be idiotic enough to make a fuss over land you own?” Storm laughed. He was saying it with a bravado that he knew suited the man he was talking to.
“I know! This Denny Lang is just a louse!”
“Denny Lang?” Storm froze. He was stunned. “You did not hear?”
“Hear what?”
“Denny Lang was found dead this morning.”
They went into his office and sat down. Sedakis gave him a curious look. “What the fuck happened?”
Storm repressed a shudder as he recalled the impressions of this morning. “He was found in a warehouse on the docks north of the container port. Seems someone tortured him to death.”
Sedakis’ face suddenly went blank. “What warehouse?”
Storm had to think. “Pier 9B? Right off the northern ramp.”
He saw Sedakis swear. “That’s on the land he’s filed a lawsuit over?”
Sedakis nodded. “Since it’s the harbor, I take it the FBI is taking this case?”
“Yeah.”
“You have a buddy there, right? Can you make sure he doesn’t come after me over this? I was not involved.”
“I believe you. After all, why would you ask my legal advice on that if the problem was already taken care of?”
“Exactly.”
“Can’t get Albert, my old partner, to stop investigating you though. But I’ll tell him I reckon you’re innocent in this.”
“Thanks.” Sedakis sat silent for a few moments, looking at his fingernails. “Well, I suppose the problem is indeed taken care of though. If he’s dead, that lawsuit is goneburger.”
Storm made a mental note of the slang term that had somehow made it into Sedakis’ vocabulary and nodded. “His brother is out of jail, and they had a sister as well, at least last I knew of it. They will probably inherit and they might pursue the same course.”
Sedakis just nodded.
“Might be prudent to let me look over the paperwork.”
Sedakis took papers from his briefcase and handed them to Storm. Storm began to quickly look them over. There was a summary of the case on the first page and he read that in full before beginning to peruse the rest of the papers. It looked pretty plausible.
“So the claim is that the Port Authorities of New York and New Jersey gave American Maritime permission to build on land that was owned by his grandfather. The Port made the problem go away by paying him rent, but then upon his death, that stopped. Their father, who inherited, was a drunk and did not bother to take it anywhere and now they are pressing the issue, right after you bought the port?”
“Seems to be the gist of it.”
“I’ll have one of the guys here take a look at the land registry archives. Check on whether their claim is valid. Can’t trust their copy of the papers, of course. And I’ll contact their attorney. I need to see the grandfather’s Last Will and Testament and see if their father prepared any documents. Once we have that in, we’ll see where we can take this. There are a few options legally. One would be to force the claim onto American Stevedore, who sold you the port, including land that wasn’t theirs to sell.”
Sedakis got up. “I’ll leave this in your capable hands then. Your old partner was investigating the death of this Denny Lang?” Storm nodded.
“Well, I will probably hear from him real soon then.”
“I’ll send you word about this lawsuit as soon as I know more,” Storm assured him again. He offered his hand. “Always a pleasure, Gregoris. Even if the circumstances could have been better.”
Sedakis had looked worried and distracted the past few minutes, but now he broke out into his genial smile again. “And you, Storm. You know, the wife would like to have you over for dinner sometime soon. She’s American so I had my mother teach her how to cook, and plus she’d enjoy your company. Come, come tomorrow!”
Storm laughed. “I’d be delighted.” He wondered which wife this was. He remembered his divorce specialist had worked for the big Greek not long ago, so if there was a wife, she must be a new one.
Just as Storm was about to finish the last sips of his coffee and gather his things to head down to the Jag, there was a buzz from his office phone. He looked out and saw his secretary fawning over someone who looked like a tramp in a fur coat. As the tramp and her entourage c
ame closer, he recognized the unkempt blond hair. It was Justine Lavoie. He stood, walked to the door and greeted her as graciously as he could muster. It was only this morning that he bore witness to their pornographic display. He looked over the faces of the people following her, but there was no Naomh Walsh. “Miss Lavoie.”
“Storm,” she said, barely giving him a look as she sat down in the chair behind his desk. His own chair. She swung her legs onto the desk. She was wearing shoes that would befit a porn star and a skirt that matched it perfectly. No underwear, Storm noticed. He was quietly disgusted by the way the young woman conducted herself.
“This drunk driving thing. Make it go away.” she said as she pulled a spliff from her pocket and lit it. Her agent came into the office as well, but he dared not protest her behavior, knowing how tetchy she could be.
Storm forced a smile. “C’est pas ça facile. C’est pas le premiér fois vous avez eu des problems avec le loi.”
“En Français, Monsieur McCoy? Trés bien!” the girl exclaimed in a delighted voice. There was a delight in her face as well. The agent stepped in before Storm could reply. “In English, please. I’ve got to deal with this too.”
“Putain,” the girl snapped at him. “Fucking spoilsport. I hate you. Go away.”
Storm suppressed a sigh. “Well, Miss Lavoie has had problems with the law before. This drunk driving thing might not go away as easily as we might wish. And it might be wise to clean up your act for a while. At least until the police have been around to talk to you. If they encounter a scene like the one I found this morning, they might not be as forgiving as we want.”
“Ugh, fucking police. They never let anyone have any fun.”
“That’s the way it is, Miss Lavoie, and I’m afraid it won’t change anytime soon, either.”
“So what do we do?” sighed the agent. The man was clearly at the end of his tether. Storm knew he really worked for the Disney Corporation and would probably be under pressure from them as well. Though he could not be sure whether the pressure was to make Justine Lavoie appear as insane as possible or to save what was left of her image. He could never predict that when it came to the entertainment industry; everything was about publicity, sales and ratings. Personally, he suspected that the agent was as responsible for her deranged behavior as she was herself. After all, child stars who completely lose their way generally received too much attention in the media.
