Love Kills

by Dianne Emley

  “And to one of my favorite songs.” Kissick scowled at the cabin.

  “Look, you two,” Getty began. “You don’t know what’s going on here.”

  Vining squared her shoulders. “No, you look King Getty, or whoever the hell you are. I have a fifteen-year-old daughter. Is this why you told me to stop asking questions about Georgia’s Girls?”

  Getty turned away and took a deep breath. “Those girls…Those women are of age and willing participants. You have to trust me.”

  Vining said, “We don’t trust you, and we’re not going to trust you. What we’re going to do is—” She stopped at the sound of a shotgun being racked.

  “Drop your weapons. Clasp your hands behind your heads.” The voice was female and unhesitant.

  The detectives tossed their guns on the ground and raised their hands. Asia, the stern young blonde who’d showed them into Georgia and Stefan’s office, walked from the woods, holding a Winchester shotgun between both hands.

  A woman’s panicked voice suddenly rang out from the house on top of the hill. “My baby!” It was followed by indistinct shouting and screaming.

  Asia was startled and distracted just long enough for Vining to deliver a roundhouse kick, knocking her to the ground. To subdue her, Vining pounced.

  Getty took off into the woods.

  Grabbing his gun from the ground, Kissick ran after him.

  The party in the cabin obliviously continued, the blaring music drowning out the drama outside. A girl shrieked and shouted, “Gig, you crack me up!”

  Vining wrestled in the dirt with Asia. Her backup Walther PPK was still in her ankle holster, but she couldn’t grab it. Seeing Asia reaching beneath her skirt, Vining clamped onto her hand just as Asia managed to seize the butt of a small pistol in a thigh holster. They struggled for the weapon. Vining got hold of Asia’s fingers and bent them back. Asia cried out and Vining pried the gun from her. She pressed the barrel against Asia’s thigh.

  “Get up,” Vining ordered.

  The drama in the big house on the hill continued. There was a bitter shriek. An infant started wailing. Vining thought she heard Georgia Berryhill scream, “Sinclair, stop!”

  Vining felt a surge of adrenaline. Her hands trembled as she patted Asia down while she looked around for Kissick. She didn’t find more weapons on Asia. She picked up the shotgun, cleared the shells from it, and picked up her Glock, returning it to her belt holster. She checked the bullets in Asia’s small pistol and put it into her slacks pocket.

  “Walk.” Vining gave her a shove out of the woods, away from the cabin.

  “That was not necessary.”

  “Shut up.” Reaching a wooden bench in the rose garden, Vining said, “Sit.”

  She flipped open the leather case on the back of her belt and took out her handcuffs. She snapped a handcuff on one of Asia’s wrists and locked the other end to an arm on the bench.

  “I’m no danger to you,” Asia said.

  “That’s why you were holding a shotgun on me.”

  The ruckus at the top of the hill was escalating. Vining heard Sinclair scream, “Stop! You’re hurting her!” Then Georgia yelled, “She has a gun! Help me. Somebody help!”

  The baby’s wailing continued unabated.

  Vining looked around for Kissick. “Jim!” She didn’t see him or Getty. “Dammit.”

  Leaving Asia secured to the bench, Vining ran up the hill toward the house.

  FORTY-SIX

  While Vining ran, she pulled out her phone and speed-dialed Kissick’s cell. No answer. She pressed the speed-dial numbers for the PPD Watch Commander’s office. She gave the lieutenant on duty a clipped update and requested backup.

  Gun in both hands, she ran up the steps and pressed behind the front door of Nirvana, which was ajar. She darted her head around it and saw a sliver of the interior. No one was in sight. She pushed the door, opening it a few inches. The women were still fighting and the baby was still crying.

  Sparkling lights from a crystal chandelier were reflected on a polished marble floor. The foyer was furnished with fussy chairs, parlor benches, and giant mirrors in ornate gold frames. There was a grand marble staircase that reminded Vining of the classic movies she loved where the female star made her entrance descending the steps wearing a satin ball gown. As she looked over the shiny, white, and frigid area, she thought that this wasn’t her idea of nirvana.

  She dashed across the foyer to the staircase and took the steps two at a time, following the screaming and crying. She ran down the hallway toward a room where the commotion was.

  Her heart leaped into her throat when she heard a gunshot. She quietly prayed as she approached the room, “Keep crying, baby. Please keep crying.”

  The infant complied, wailing, stopping only to take a choking breath before beginning again.

  Vining flattened against the wall beside the door, holding up her gun. Georgia and Sinclair’s argument had deteriorated into grunts and cursing. A physical struggle was going on.

  Vining took a breath and spun inside a nursery, gun out in a two-handed grip. “Hands! Hands! Show me your hands! Drop it! Drop it!”

  Georgia and Sinclair were wrestling over a gun. Sinclair was holding the baby against her chest in her left arm. She was bleeding from a gash in her forehead, and her face and hands were scratched, presumably from crashing her car and escaping through the brush. She had both hands on the gun, as did Georgia. They grimaced and circled around, their bodies pressed together, squeezing the wailing baby.

  “Stop her!” Georgia yelled. “This lunatic is trying to take my baby.”

  Vining kept her aim steady, shifting between Georgia and Sinclair. “Drop the gun. Show me your hands. Drop the gun before somebody gets hurt.”

  Sinclair released her grip on the gun and raised her right arm, still clutching the baby with her left.

  Georgia didn’t drop the gun, but aimed it at Sinclair. She nervously slid a finger around the trigger, the gun shaking in her trembling hands.

  The three women were suddenly silent but for heavy breathing. The baby’s cries subsided to whimpering. Sinclair shifted the baby over her shoulder, out of Georgia’s direct line of fire.

  Vining aimed her gun at Georgia’s heart. “Ms. Berryhill, very slowly, set the gun on the floor.”

  Georgia’s eyes were wild as she continued to aim the gun at Sinclair. “She brought this instrument of destruction into my home. She threatened to kill me if I didn’t give her Simone.”

  Sinclair’s T-shirt beneath her open sweatshirt had wet patches over her breasts where her milk was seeping through. The baby began gnawing on the curled fingers of one of her own tiny hands.

  Vining could tell that Sinclair was afraid, yet the mania she’d shown on the road had disappeared.

  In a calm voice, Sinclair said, “She’s not your baby, Georgia. She’s mine, and her name is Liliana.”

  “She’s my baby and you can’t have her.” Georgia punctuated her words by moving the gun up and down. Her tone was hysterical. “Detective, make her give me Simone.”

  Vining spoke evenly. “Georgia, put the gun down and we’ll figure this out, okay?” She moved toward her.

  “You don’t understand.”

  Vining kept her gun on Georgia. “I want to understand, but I can’t talk to you while you’re holding a loaded weapon.” She was close enough to reach Georgia’s gun. Had she been wearing her Kevlar vest, she would have tried.

  Sinclair carried the baby to a rocking chair and sat.

  Georgia aimed the gun at Sinclair’s head. Her hand was still trembling, and she started to cry.

  “Just walk away, Georgia.” Sinclair pulled up her T-shirt and exposed a breast. “You’ll think of a way to spin it and you’ll be just fine.” The baby made grabbing motions with her hands as Sinclair moved her to her breast.

  As Georgia watched the baby latch on to Sinclair’s breast, she began crying harder. Vining grabbed the gun barrel and pushed it down. Georgia limply o
pened her hand and released it.

  The baby was nursing. Sinclair smiled down at the fuzzy dark head and rocked the chair. It was the first time Vining had seen Sinclair at peace.

  FORTY-SEVEN

  Good job, Detective Vining.”

  Vining bristled when she heard King Getty behind her. She wheeled around only to do a double take when she saw a shield around his neck on a thin chain. Peering more closely, her mouth gaping, she saw that it said FBI. She’d been so focused on the drama in the nursery, only then did she notice the commotion on the compound grounds and the crowd of law enforcement personnel in the hallway.

  Kissick entered the room and was visibly relieved to see that Vining had the situation under control.

  Georgia had recovered her composure and was again the diva in charge of her empire. She took the words from Vining’s mouth as she ran her fingers through her hair and straightened her dress. “What the hell’s going on, King?”

  “I’m not Kingsley Getty. My name is David Scarbray, and I’m a special agent with the FBI. You’re under arrest for violating the Mann Act.” He took out handcuffs and grabbed Georgia’s right wrist. “A federal crime.”

  “The Mann Act? What’s the Mann Act?”

  “Transportation of a female across state lines for immoral purposes. Specifically a seventeen-year-old named Fallon Price.”

  “Fallon.” Georgia looked at Scarbray as if he was an idiot. “You don’t even know where she is. How can you accuse us of transporting her across state lines?” She tried to pull her arm away from him as he cuffed her.

  Vining looked at Sinclair, who was rocking the chair as she nursed the baby, lost in another world. Looking at the gash on Sinclair’s head, she said, “We need paramedics up here.”

  “I’ll take care of it.” Kissick slipped from the room.

  Georgia started walking toward Asia, who’d entered the room, also with a badge hanging around her neck. “Asia, call my attorney, Carmen Vidal.”

  “My name is Jeannie Brasfield. I’m a detective with the L.A. County Sheriff’s Department. You’re under arrest for the murder of Fallon Price.”

  “Fallon? She ran off years ago.”

  “We believe she’s buried on your property, Georgia. You knew about it, which makes you guilty of murder.”

  “I knew no such thing.”

  “And you’re under arrest for the sexual abuse of a minor.”

  “I didn’t sexually abuse any minors,” Georgia spat. “That’s ridiculous.”

  “You knew about it happening here,” Brasfield said. “We might be adding kidnapping to the charges.”

  They all stared at what Detective Brasfield was holding between her hands, taking a second to process what they were seeing. It was a pregnancy suit made of foam rubber covered with cotton, designed to imitate a woman’s torso and breasts in pregnancy. Brasfield was holding it by the Velcro straps that would attach it to one’s body.

  Georgia coiled her lip. “I’ve never seen that before. You brought that into my house. I’ll have all of you arrested.”

  Vining walked closer and fingered the bullet hole that went straight through the belly.

  Getty started to laugh. “I don’t believe it. You faked being pregnant?”

  Georgia pouted. “You can’t prove that.”

  “Maybe we can’t, but DNA can.” Vining pointed at the now-sleeping baby, whom Sinclair was cradling in her arms. “That hair color didn’t come from a bottle.”

  “Georgia, anything you say can and will be used against you…”

  As Scarbray Mirandized her, Georgia sniped, “King, how dare you do this to me? After everything I did for you.”

  Scarbray handed Georgia over to Brasfield. “Jeannie, get her out of here.”

  “With pleasure.”

  Georgia snapped at her. “Stop pulling on me. I’m injured. I think my wrist is sprained. These handcuffs are too tight.”

  Kissick returned with two teams of paramedics.

  Brasfield directed one team to Georgia.

  Georgia brushed them off. “No one touches me except my personal physician, Dr. Janus.” She continued barking orders as they removed her from the nursery.

  Vining went to the rocking chair. “Sinclair, you need medical attention. You were in a car accident. You’re bleeding.”

  Sinclair stood, cradling the sleeping baby. “I know, but I’m not letting go of her. Understand?”

  “I’ll take care of her.” Vining held out her arms. “Trust me. Your baby needs to be looked at too, okay?”

  Sinclair nodded and handed over the baby.

  Vining took the infant into her arms. “She looks just like you, Sinclair. What did you say her name is?”

  “Liliana.” Sinclair smoothed the baby’s hair and kissed her forehead. “Mommy will be back soon, sweetheart.” Tears welled in her eyes. “That’s the first time I’ve ever said that.” She let the paramedics lead her from the room.

  Kissick looked over Vining’s shoulder. “She’s beautiful.”

  Vining looked down at the perfect rosebud lips and the fringe of long dark eyelashes on Liliana’s closed eyes. She drew her fingers across the tiny velvety head covered with black hair. She inhaled a shuddering breath. “It was close. Too close.”

  Kissick put his arm around her and pulled her against him. “Everything turned out fine. No second-guessing yourself.”

  She sniffed and nodded. Raising her gaze from the baby, she saw Special Agent David Scarbray standing across the room, watching.

  FORTY-EIGHT

  Vining, Kissick, and David Scarbray wove through dozens of law enforcement and forensic personnel who had swarmed Nirvana.

  “This was a multiagency operation that’s been in the works for more than two years,” Scarbray said. “FBI agents and L.A. County Sheriff’s investigators infiltrated the Berryhill organization at different levels. Some posed as clients. Some were hired as employees. I penetrated the client inner circle. Kingsley Getty was Georgia and Stefan’s kind of guy—well-connected, rich, and possibly dangerous.”

  They went down the marble staircase, walking outside onto the mansion steps. From their hilltop view, it looked as if the entire compound had been turned into a crime scene. It was organized chaos.

  “Thanks to both of you,” Scarbray said, “we were finally able to bust this place wide open.” He surveyed the goings-on with pride. “Detective Vining, when you called Beverly Hills PD and ID’d Cheyenne as a suspect in the Beverly Hills Hotel shooting, we’d already asked them to keep us apprised of any developments. They put out a BOLO, and Santa Monica PD found Cheyenne at the edge of the pier, just looking out at the ocean. She didn’t resist and was ready to talk. We cut a deal. In exchange for leniency on the shooting charge, she told us everything that went on at the Berryhill compound. Cheyenne said the intense grilling in Carmen Vidal’s office got her really thinking. Kudos to you, Detective.”

  Vining tipped her head, acknowledging the praise.

  Kissick grinned.

  “Further,” Scarbray began, “Cheyenne shooting at Georgia gave me the chance to show my loyalty and value to the Berryhills in a tangible way. Tonight, we closed the deal.”

  They watched as the young women who’d been cavorting with Towne and Pavel in the cabin, now dressed in street clothes, were led into an SUV by a man wearing an FBI Windbreaker.

  “Two of the participants in the orgy you saw, Detective Vining, are informants,” Scarbray explained. “All those women are of age. They just look young. We expect that more victims—more of ‘Georgia’s Girls’—will likely come forward.”

  Kissick watched as the SUV drove off. “So Georgia’s finishing school for lost girls was a means to supply sexy underage girls to her husband and his friends?”

  “Procuring women for orgies with his good buddy Gig Towne was certainly one of its purposes,” Scarbray said.

  Vining cringed at the thought that Towne was as creepy as she’d thought.

  Scarbray went on. �
��Georgia’s Girls was also a source of free labor to help run the compound. They cherry-picked girls who were vulnerable to being emotionally and sexually manipulated. Built them up with promises of show-business careers if they cooperated.”

  “But it was also a PR vehicle for Georgia,” Vining said. “Gave her an opportunity to throw big fund-raising parties with lots of celebrities.”

  “We’re looking into the finances now,” Scarbray said. “Millions of dollars are unaccounted for. This whole compound is built on BS. The Berryhills performed carnival-style fortune-telling rip-offs. The rooms where the MBS Tune-Ups are conducted have hidden video cameras to record clients’ most private secrets. Pavel hired Vince Madrigal to build dossiers on the Berryhills’ richest clients. Pavel also had Cheyenne and the other Georgia’s Girls who’d moved on report on their employers. Once he had the information, he and Georgia could satisfy clients’ every desire, no matter how ridiculous or depraved. They have rooms for fake séances with projectors to make spirits appear. Madrigal supplied them with materials, like cremated remains, for the witchcraft Georgia dabbled in and apparently believed in. He also kept Pavel supplied with Cuban cigars.”

  A burly man with an FBI badge embroidered on his polo shirt came over to Scarbray. “Excuse me, sir. You’ll be happy to see these.” He handed him a pair of men’s loafers inside a plastic bag.

  Scarbray took it and smiled. He looked at the label inside the shoes. “Pavel’s Brooks Brothers loafers. Thanks.” He sent the agent on his way. “I’m confident those will match footprints left in the cremated remains that were spilled at the Madrigal and Talbot homicides.”

  “Stefan Pavel was involved in that?” Kissick asked.

  Scarbray made a noise as if that wasn’t the half of it. “Madrigal found out about the underage girls. He was blackmailing Pavel for ten million dollars and thought he was collecting the night he was murdered. Near as we can figure, Pavel loaded Trendi up on LSD, stabbed her in the belly, and used her as a distraction.”