The Solomon Organization

by Andrew Neiderman

  Meg smiled, but even that hurt.

  “Where are you staying?”

  “With Sharma. She’s been great.”

  “Yes, Sharma’s the one to go to when you have a crisis or any sort of an emergency. Abby, they think Scott did this to me.”

  “I know.”

  “They think he’s taken Justine.”

  Abby dropped her gaze.

  “Have you seen him?” Meg asked.

  “Yes, he was here to see you.”

  “He was?”

  “Yes. He claims he’s innocent, but he looks like a madman to me. He babbles about proving his innocence, chasing after some limousine. I think he’s crazy, Meg. I think he’s gone off the deep end.”

  “I want to see him, Abby. Tell him to come to see me. I’ll know if he’s lying.”

  Abby nodded.

  “I guess everyone back home is convinced California is Sodom and Gomorrah now for sure, huh, Abby?”

  She shrugged.

  “People are attacked, raped, murdered, kidnapped everywhere these days. California has no monopoly on that,” Abby said. Meg was surprised at her sister’s tolerant attitude. She assumed it was because she didn’t want to add anything more that would upset her.

  “Something here ruined him,” Meg insisted.

  “Only because it was in him to be ruined,” Abby replied. “If he’s innocent,” she added, “he’s paying for his other sins dearly.”

  “If he’s innocent,” Meg said, her face crumbling, “then where is my baby?”

  Abby bit down on her lower lip and shook her head.

  “Where is my baby?” Meg cried.

  The phone was ringing as Scott opened his apartment door. He practically lunged at the receiver.

  “Meg is conscious,” Abby said after he said hello. She sounded drugged. “She wants to see you.”

  “Thank God,” Scott said.

  “She knows about Justine and it’s tearing her apart,” Abby added, her voice venomous. “I swear Scott. If you’ve done this; if you have Justine…”

  “I didn’t do it, Abby. I’m on my way to the hospital,” he said and cradled the phone. Without pausing, he headed out again, but when he opened the door, he was greeted by Lt. Parker and Det. Fotowski. It was as if they had crystallized out of thin air.

  “Where you going, Mr. Lester?” Lt. Parker asked.

  “To see my wife. She’s regained consciousness. What do you want?” he demanded. They wouldn’t intimidate him.

  “We were sent to see you about a complaint just registered by a Mr. Beezly.” He looked at his note pad. “A Jerome Beezly of Beezly Enterprises.”

  “You and Dyce are accused of harassment,” Fotowski said. He walked past him and into the apartment. Lt. Parker followed, backing Scott up and closing the door.

  “We didn’t harass him. We just asked him some questions.”

  Fotowski smiled.

  “What’s your scam, Mr. Lester?”

  “I’ve got no scam.”

  Fotowski looked at Lt. Parker.

  “Oh what a tangled web we weave…”

  “I’m not lying.”

  “What’s Jerome Beezly have to do with what happened to your wife and your daughter’s disappearance?” Fotowski demanded.

  “You wouldn’t believe me.”

  “Probably not, but try us.”

  Scott thought a moment.

  “I don’t have anything concrete yet,” he said. “But after Mr. Dyce and I…”

  “You’ll only dig yourself a deeper grave, hiring a screwball like Henry Dyce and running around making wild accusations.”

  “Beezly has friends, important friends in the right places,” Fotowski added.

  “If you have anything to say, you’d better say it to us.”

  “How do I know you’re not his friends in high places, too?” Scott said.

  Fotowski shook his head.

  “You know, Mr. Lester, you might be one of those people who’s had his brains scrambled doing all that coke.”

  “Look, if you’re not here to arrest me, then get the hell out of my apartment before I call my attorney and we are the ones who charge harassment,” Scott threatened.

  Fotowski didn’t change expression. Lt. Parker shook his head.

  “Bring your daughter back, Mr. Lester, and end this thing while you still can,” he said. “Come on, Foto.”

  Fotowski’s smile metamorphosed into a smirk. Then he gazed around the small apartment.

  “It just amazes me how much rent they get for these rat holes,” he said and turned to follow Lt. Parker out.

  Scott stood there a moment, his heart pounding. He took a deep breath and then started for the hospital again.

  The doctor was leaving Meg’s bedside just as Scott entered the I.C.U. At the door, Scott introduced himself and asked about Meg.

  “She’s doing well,” he told him. “But she’s very concerned about her daughter,” he added pointedly.

  “So am I concerned. She’s my daughter, too,” Scott replied. “You know what, Doc,” he continued, “this principle of justice we have: innocent until proven guilty? Don’t believe it.”

  “I’m not looking to get involved in anyone’s marital problems, Mr. Lester, but I am worried about my patient’s recovery. I don’t want her disturbed right now.”

  “She asked to see me,” Scott said.

  The doctor nodded, but his eyes were full of warning and reprimand.

  Scott left him and approached Meg’s bedside slowly. Her eyes were closed, so he just stood there for a long moment, gazing down at her. All the anger and indignation he had felt in the courtroom was buried in an avalanche of guilt as flashes of the beautiful young woman he had met and romanced contrasted with the battered woman who lay before him.

  Meg’s eyes fluttered open as if she finally sensed his presence.

  “Hi,” he said when she turned slightly and saw him. “How are you doing?”

  She bit down on her lower lip and nodded.

  “I’m so sorry, Meg. God, I’m so sorry this happened to you.”

  “Justine,” she said.

  “I know. I’m working on it. I’m going to get her back, Meg. She’ll be returned to you.”

  “Where is she? What’s happening?”

  “It’s a complicated mess. You’ll get confused and just like everyone else, you’ll think I’m crazy if I start to explain…”

  “Did you have something to do with this, Scott?”

  “Not deliberately. I was…very angry and very desperate. Someone took advantage of me.”

  “What someone?”

  “People who think they have the right to make life and death decisions…fanatics, but I had no idea they would go this far. I…”

  “I don’t understand what you’re saying, Scott. I’m afraid for Justine. Please…get her home.”

  “I’m going to, Meg. Trust me. I know you have no reason to have any faith in me now, but I swear, I’m devoting every waking moment, every ounce of energy…”

  “She must be terrified, so frightened.”

  Scott felt the tears streaming down his face. He nodded, his throat closing. Then he took a deep breath and wiped his cheeks with his closed fists.

  “Get stronger, get better, Meg. She’s going to need you when I bring her back.”

  He turned to go.

  “Scott!”

  “Yes?”

  “She’ll need you, too,” Meg said and then closed her eyes.

  The rage and the sorrow married inside him and sent him rushing out, determined and capable.

  They had gone to the Old Testament to get their name: Solomon. He would go to the ancient pages for his purpose, too: an Eye for an Eye.

  9

  Through the gauze-like haze of the Los Angeles late afternoon sky, the sun appeared more like a full moon. Whenever its rays did thread themselves in and out of the layers of thin mist, they brought a stunning sparkle to the otherwise dull gray street in front of Bee
zly Enterprises. As if at the disposal of Doctor Seuss’s Grinch, a darker, heavier pocket of fog rushed to shut off the light and return Scott’s world to the dismal one it had become.

  He waited, eyes fixed on the front entrance. He wasn’t sure what he was going to do when he saw Beezly’s secretary; he had no strategy. He was here simply because Dyce had suggested it, and in what was increasingly looking like a losing battle, it provided him with an active and hopeful possibility of a reversal. Up until now he was mostly on the receiving end, reacting. He had to do something and soon or he really would go mad.

  His heart began to beat harder as the flow of people out of the tall building swelled. He studied every female, afraid she would somehow slip by, and indeed he nearly missed her. Fortunately, he gazed to the right just as a late model, red Honda Civic rose out of the underground garage. Maureen Carter was driving and she was alone. She looked in his direction before pulling out, but he was confident she didn’t notice him. As soon as there was an opening in the traffic, she turned right and headed toward the intersection. He started his car and followed, remaining two vehicles behind. It occurred to him, almost amusingly, that while he was following J. Beezly’s secretary, he could very well be followed by Parker and Fotowski. Consequently, his gaze went from Maureen’s red Civic to his rear-view mirror periodically, but he saw no sign of them.

  After fifteen minutes of flowing along with the bumper-to-bumper rush hour traffic, Maureen Carter suddenly turned into a supermarket parking lot. Scott followed. He watched her pull into a space and then he hurriedly parked in the nearest one himself. Instinctively, he knew that if he approached her directly, he would frighten her. He let her enter the supermarket and get herself a cart before he pursued. Then he went into the market and worked it out that he would come around an aisle just as she approached it from the other side. He pretended interest in a jar of tomato sauce, and, as nonchalantly as possible, confronted her.

  “Hi,” he said. “We meet again.”

  She looked up from her cart. She had been pushing it along mechanically, her eyes down almost as if she had memorized where everything was on the basis of where she was on the floor. Scott thought Dyce had been right: she did have a pretty face, especially pretty sapphire eyes; but her narrow shoulders, small bosom and wide hips worked against her.

  “Oh,” she said. It was apparent to Scott that she recognized and remembered him immediately. Her right hand fluttered up to the base of her throat where she pressed her fingers against her collarbone.

  “You’re Maureen Carter, right? Mr. Beezly’s secretary?” he said, pointing at her as if he indeed were making an on-the-spot identification. “Am I right?” he added when she didn’t respond.

  “Yes,” she said.

  “You live near here?” he asked. She nodded, but quickly shifted her gaze from his face to the racks and then back to him. Shy, he thought, and vulnerable. His confidence began to grow. He smiled.

  “Are you…following me?” she asked timidly.

  “Following?” He laughed. “No.” He recalled an apartment complex he had seen nearby. “I live in the Colonnades and shop here often. But it’s always the case…you never notice someone who you’ve probably seen a hundred times before until you’ve seen them in some other setting. I bet you and I passed each other a dozen times in this very supermarket.”

  She nodded, a vague look on her face. She wasn’t really listening to his words.

  “I’ve got to hurry,” she said. She flashed a smile and started by.

  “Hold on,” Scott said seizing her cart. “What’s the big rush?”

  “I have to make dinner and it’s already after five.”

  “Oh, you’re married,” he said, releasing the cart as if it were electrified.

  “No.”

  “Live with someone?” She shook her head vehemently.

  “So? You’re starving, is that it?” He laughed. His easy, relaxed manner put her at some ease.

  “Matter of fact, I am,” she replied with a definite note of annoyance. “I skipped lunch today.”

  Scott nodded as if he didn’t have to have it explained. She fit the pattern of so many overweight young men and women, flitting from one guaranteed diet to another, experimenting with skipping meals, drinking supplements, exploring the entire gambit of options when, in truth, only one worked: watching your calories and exercise. He wisely pretended not to understand her motive and chose instead to get closer to the point.

  “Mr. Beezly’s that much a slave driver, is he?” he asked, lowering his voice and pursing his lips in grave disapproval.

  “No. I’ve been trying to shed a few pounds.”

  “Oh. Who isn’t?” he said and then leaned toward her to add, “especially in this town. Well, to tell you the truth, I’m tired of it,” he said, pulling back indignantly, “tired of all the emphasis on youth and beauty, tired of worrying about being a few pounds overweight. They ought to call this place Neurotic Land instead of La La Land. Maybe it means the same thing,” he said and she smiled. Then her smile faded and she narrowed her eyes.

  “You and your friend threatened Mr. Beezly today, didn’t you?”

  “Naw, not really. We tried to get him to answer some questions and he pretended he didn’t know anything. It’s all just business posturing. Comes with the territory. Happens every day.”

  “But the police came to see him.”

  “Yeah, I know. It’s all been straightened out. I’m going to call him tomorrow and apologize.” She relaxed again and he looked into her cart. “Chicken breast. How do you make it?”

  “In a wok with some vegetables: low fat, low calories.”

  “I know the greatest Chinese restaurant right near here,” he said. “And they have a selection for lite diets. Tell you what…” He put back the jar of tomato sauce he had taken off the shelf. “Why don’t we just say the hell with it and forget buying and making dinner. Let’s just go have some Chinese.”

  Her eyes widened. Astounded by his invitation, she was speechless.

  “I…”

  “I know. You don’t know me and I don’t know you, but hell,” he said, lifting his arms, “we shop in the same supermarket. That practically makes us relatives.”

  Her smile widened.

  “And it’s not as if I’m asking you to come up to my apartment to see my paintings or anything. We’ll be in a public place. You will be in no danger except what danger comes from eating Chinese.”

  “Oh, I don’t…”

  “I insist. You got a very bad impression of me today and that bothers me. Really, what danger is there in my buying you some dinner?”

  She shook her head.

  “I hate eating alone,” he added. “Don’t you?” It was evident in her face that she despised it. “This restaurant is walking distance. Just a block west. We can leave our cars right where they are.”

  “I don’t even remember your name,” she said.

  “Oh, I thought you did. I’m Scott Lester.” He extended his hand. She took it gingerly and shook. “Well, we practically know each other’s life story now,” he said and she laughed again. “What’dya say?”

  She shrugged, still hesitant.

  “Haven’t you ever done anything impulsive, Maureen, just for the hell of it?”

  She shook her head, but from the light in her eyes, he saw it was something she regretted.

  “You’ve got to; it’s good for you. Doing the same thing day in and day out can make you feel…insignificant. Shall we do it?”

  She thought a moment and then nodded.

  “Great.” He laughed and took her chicken breast out of the cart. “Let’s put this back then.”

  On the way out, he rattled on and on, moving from one subject to another as if he were afraid a moment of silence would send her fleeing back into the supermarket. He talked about Los Angeles, the people, the traffic, the movies, and the shows. He talked about the beach and about the mountains. She listened and nodded as they strolled up
the sidewalk. He only hoped the Chinese restaurant he had seen on the way had a lite section on its menu. Most of the Chinese places in Los Angeles did, so he felt safe assuming so.

  “Ever been here before?” he asked as he opened the door for her. She shook her head. No, he thought to himself, you haven’t been around much at all.

  After they were seated and given menus, he breathed with relief. It did have a lite section; he could claim he knew many of the dishes.

  “So,” he said sitting back after they ordered, “where are you from? The Midwest?”

  “How did you know?”

  “Easy,” he said, “everyone here is either from the East or the Midwest. I can count on my fingers the people I know who were born and bred here.”

  “Mr. Beezly was,” she said.

  “That’s right, he was,” Scott said.

  “Are you an engineer?” she asked.

  “Engineer? No, I’m in…transportation. But tell me about yourself. What made you come here? How do you like it?”

  He let her go on and on, barely listening to her tale, a tale similar to so many he had heard before: television and movies had made California seem like a place where dreams came true and where even if they didn’t, you were better off being near people whose dreams had.

  Their food was served and after her second Scotch and soda, she droned on. She ate quickly, attacking her food with a voraciousness that was quite unfeminine, he thought. He smiled at her though and continued to pretend he was enjoying himself. Get her to relax, he kept chanting, get her to relax.

  Relax she did. He talked her into a third drink, but before she sipped it, she focused on him and began to demand more specific answers.

  “What do you mean, you’re in transportation? What is it you do exactly? Why did you come to see Mr. Beezly with a private detective? Is it something to do with his new project in Encino? Mr. Beezly says there’s a lot of industrial and commercial espionage these days,” she added.

  “Maureen,” he said, folding his hands together on the table and looking down at them, “what I came to see Mr. Beezly about today has nothing to do with Beezly Enterprises as such, nothing to do with building bridges.”