“Yes.”
She nodded.
“If what you’re saying is true, I don’t blame you for having the suspicion, but I’m not part of it and what irks me even more is that if you’re telling the truth, they probably assigned you to me because of my inexperience. They thought I wouldn’t do much of a job defending you.”
“I’m sorry your ego’s been bruised,” Scott said. “But my daughter’s still missing.”
She looked at him as if she hadn’t heard.
“And they told me to hire Dyce because they thought he was a fuck-up. Is that it?”
“Probably. But he wasn’t. Unless you call getting killed fucking up.” Scott downed his Scotch. “What do you know about Doctor Goodfellow?”
She shook her head.
“I never heard the name mentioned. Look,” she said, “Michael Fein’s office called me and told me about you. They asked me to take over the case and I did. I’ve met Michael a few times at professional meetings, maybe at a cocktail party, too. I don’t remember. But he’s not a close acquaintance.”
“Didn’t you think it odd that he called you then?”
“No. It’s the way we work…we refer clients to each other when they need specialties. My firm’s directed some business toward his and vice versa.”
“I don’t want to go driving off in the night blindly. I’ve got to know where to go to get my daughter back,” he said firmly.
“I really don’t know where your daughter is.”
“But Michael Fein knows. He’s part of it. If you’re not part of it, will you help me get him to tell us?”
“Why don’t we just call the police?”
“And tell them what? I broke into Beezly’s office and got this information?”
“They’ll see that Dyce is dead and…”
“And they’ll probably blame it on me. First, I want to get my daughter home. Then I’ll go to the police. These people reach into every aspect of our world, it seems…doctors, lawyers, judges. Police too, I’m sure.” He pointed to the phone with the barrel of his pistol. “Get Michael Fein on the phone. Arrange some sort of meeting without telling him I’m involved.”
“This time of night?”
“You can do it. You’re better than they think you are,” he said. She smirked.
“I don’t need to be stroked.”
“Pity,” Scott said.
She stood up and started out of the room.
“Where are you going?”
“My den. You don’t think I have Michael Fein’s home number committed to memory, do you?” she retorted. He followed close on her heels. When she opened the den door, her poodle began a low growl.
“Quiet, Pebbles.”
“Pebbles…logical name for a dog that lives near the beach, I guess.” He kept an eye on the dog and an eye on her as she riffled through her desk and came up with a small address book. She found the number and looked up.
“What am I supposed to tell him?”
“Just tell him something very serious has come up with my case. Tell him you have reason to believe there is some validity to my story and you want him to know what I’m saying. Tell him you can’t talk on the phone. Sound scared and he’ll agree to meet you, I’m sure.”
“Sound scared?”
“I know it’s beyond you, but try. If you want, I’ll help you by putting this pistol against your temple and keeping my finger on the trigger.”
She smirked and dialed.
“Hello,” she said. “May I speak to Michael, please? Tell him it’s Faye Elliot, Scott Lester’s attorney.” She waited, staring at him.
“Michael, hi,” she said. “I’m sorry to bother you at this hour, but I’ve got to speak with you right away. No, something’s come up with Scott Lester’s case…something that leads me to believe his story about a secret organization being responsible for the attack on his wife and the whereabouts of his missing daughter.” She paused and focused on Scott as she listened. Her face turned a bit white as she continued to listen. Scott tilted his head and widened his eyes, curious.
“No, I don’t know where he is right now,” she finally said in a more subdued tone of voice. Scott flashed his pistol as a reminder of the call’s purpose. She nodded at him. “Well, can we meet for just a few minutes? Uh huh.” She listened. “I understand. Yes. All right.” She wrote something down quickly. “Thank you,” she said and cradled the phone slowly.
“What?”
“I’ve got to drive over to his house, but he doesn’t want me to come in. He’ll come out and meet me in my car.”
“See?” Scott said quickly. “Isn’t that weird?”
“No. He says his wife is very upset because they just heard a good friend of theirs has been murdered tonight.”
“A good friend? Who?”
“Jerome Beezly,” she said. “He was shot with a nine-millimeter pistol. Do you own a nine-millimeter pistol?”
“Christ.”
“You do, don’t you?”
“It wasn’t in my house when I went to look for it. This is Dyce’s pistol,” he said.
“Did you kill Beezly?”
“Hell no. I wanted to, but I didn’t.”
“Did you threaten him earlier in his office, you and Dyce?” she cross-examined.
“Shit.”
“You did, didn’t you?”
“We didn’t threaten him, but he made a formal complaint and the police came to see me. Now they’ll think I killed him for sure. Christ, I’m sinking like a lead balloon. Why did they kill Beezly?”
“Yes, why would they kill their leader?” she asked, folding her arms under her breasts and glaring at him.
“I don’t know, but it’s obvious they’re trying to frame me for this, too. We have to talk to Michael. Get up,” he demanded. “If we drive up in your car, he’ll come out. Get up!”
“Scott, listen to me. You’ve got to turn yourself in.”
“That’s exactly what they want me to do, I’m sure. Move,” he said. She started around the desk. “Wait a minute,” he said. She hesitated. “If the police know Beezly’s been shot and they know he was shot with a gun like mine and they know I had a confrontation with him earlier, why haven’t they called you to see if you know my whereabouts? Why would they call Michael Fein? They know you’re my attorney now, not him.”
She stared at him.
“Well?” he demanded.
“I don’t know.”
“I do. The police don’t know Beezly’s dead yet. Fein does because they killed him. I’m not lying, Faye. Honest to God, I’m not lying.”
She nodded and led him out of the room.
Bernard Lyle shoved a couple of pieces of sugarless gum into his mouth and turned up the Carl Sacks Talk Show. Sacks, an outspoken radical right commentator was berating a caller who had tried to defend Affirmative Action.
“I didn’t own slaves; I didn’t whip and rape and oppress black people. Why the hell are you punishing me?”
“Social responsibility,” the caller began.
“That’s a pile of buffalo chips, and a convenient buzz word for the bleeding heart liberal establishment. What about my responsibility to my wife and children? I, who am just as qualified, even more qualified than the minority applicant, should step aside out of social responsibility? Thanks, but no thanks.”
“Right on, brother,” Lyle muttered. He turned off the San Bernardino Freeway and headed toward Barstow, accelerating up to eighty miles an hour. He could risk a speeding ticket. There was always someone who would take care of it as long as he got it while on the job.
It felt good having that sort of clout behind him all the time. Ever since he had begun with the organization, he had felt more important, more significant. He hadn’t gone to college as did most of the members of the board, nor was he born with any sort of silver spoon in his mouth, but here he was hobnobbing with blue bloods. He had plenty of money, a beautiful apartment in Brentwood, an expensive car, and an impressive wardr
obe. The maitre d’s at the best restaurants knew him and kowtowed to him. He impressed any and all women he escorted. Life was good and he felt comfortable and justified about everything he did. It was, after all, for a higher cause—the stability of society, a return to the well-adjusted family.
The liberals had brought this all about—this ease with which people entered into and dissolved their sacred marital relationships. They might as well skip the marriage ceremonies, civil or religious. Neither had much significance once the two parties became bored with each other or their lifestyle. Forget the children. The children were expendable, easily sacrificed to the gods and goddesses of hedonism. Well not as far as the Solomon Organization was concerned. No, sir. They were doing something to put a stop to it and he, Bernard Lyle, had a major responsibility toward that end. He loved his job, his responsibilities, his contributions to the cause.
Nothing was more important than the organization now. It must be protected at all costs and those who were in it, who had volunteered their services and benefited in some way from their work, had to accept all the consequences and be willing to make the sacrifices, if indeed sacrifices were required. He would. The organization demanded that kind of devotion if it were to succeed and continue.
Buoyed by his purpose, he rushed through the night and arrived in Barstow in record time. The lateness of the hour made the surroundings seem ethereal. He was like a man traveling through a dream, passing images, floating through the imagination. He shut off his radio, spit his gum out the window, and turned off the main drag to head north for two miles. As he approached the quaint old house, he saw the porch light had been left on. Goodfellow’s car was in the driveway, but the house itself was dark.
Pity, he thought as he slowed down to turn in. He had been right about this place: it had been a perfect location, a wonderful hub from which deliveries could be easily made, their activities barely noticeable. But if Lester had gotten here first, or had somehow convinced the authorities to investigate, the entire network could fall and with it all the good work they had done not only in California but throughout the country. Everyone would be in jeopardy.
He turned off the lights, shut off the engine, and got out of the car. He had to stretch a bit. He hated the long ride, even in the BMW 750. He was far too muscular to remain in one position for so many hours. A man like me’s got to move, turn, stretch, lift, he thought and felt his biceps flex and the muscles in his thighs jump as he strolled up to the front door.
He pushed the buzzer and waited. After a moment, he heard the sounds of someone moving about within. He pressed his forehead against the panel window on the door and peered through the dark entryway. Toward the rear a light had gone on and a moment later, the old lady appeared. She looked enormous in her housecoat, her heavy bosom lifting the garment. She had her gray hair down and when she drew closer, he could see she wore a very annoyed expression.
She peered through the window and saw it was he. Then she put on the hall light.
“Where’s Goodfellow?” Lyle demanded the moment she opened the door.
“Asleep, of course. What’s going on?”
“We need to evacuate,” he muttered and walked into the house.
“Evacuate?” She closed the door. “What do you mean, evacuate?”
“Evacuate means evacuate. Leave the premises,” he responded sharply.
“Leave…the house?”
“Now you’re getting it, Grandma. Wake up Goodfellow,” he added and went to Goodfellow’s office. Grandma hesitated, her hand at the base of her throat, her heart pounding. Grandmothers don’t evacuate their homes, she thought. And what about the children who were coming? Who would be here to welcome them?
Instead of going to wake Doctor Goodfellow, she followed Bernard Lyle. He was already riffling through the files, taking them out, and throwing them into the garbage can beside the desk.
“What are you doing? Doctor Goodfellow needs those papers.”
“Didn’t I tell you to go wake him up?” Lyle snapped. “How the hell can he stay asleep anyway?” he wondered aloud.
Grandma straightened up and folded her arms over her bulging bosom. She grimaced. She had handled naughty boys before.
“You stop that immediately. Put those papers back in those drawers this instant.”
Lyle paused and looked at her. She was scowling at him so intensely, he couldn’t help but smile.
“Who do you think you are? My grandma?” he asked and laughed.
“Yes,” she said firmly. “I am Grandma. I’m Grandma to all those children and I won’t let you destroy their records and disturb the good work. Now you put those papers back this instant, Bernard. Go on.”
“Bernard, eh? Okay, Grandma,” he said. “I’ll be a good little boy. And Grandma will give me cookies and milk?”
“We’ll see,” Grandma said, her arms still folded over her bosom. Bernard smiled.
“Yes, Grandma,” he said and reached into the garbage can to pick up a file. At the same time, he slipped his pistol out of his jacket so that when he stood up he held the file in one hand and the pistol in the other. Grandma didn’t seem to notice or care.
“Oh,” Bernard said. “I’ve changed my mind, Grandma. I don’t want cookies and milk,” he said and he shot her, the bullet entering the base of her throat.
Grandma gasped, brought her hands to her wound, and then folded quickly to the floor, sprawling out as she descended, her housecoat spreading and spreading so that she looked like she had been turned into Grandma jelly.
Bernard went back to the files and continued to empty them. A few moments later, Doctor Goodfellow came charging into the office. He wore his bathrobe and wool-lined black leather slippers.
“What the hell…” He gazed down at Grandma. “What happened?”
“Grandma was ready for the funny farm,” Bernard said. He knelt down and pulled out his cigarette lighter.
“What are you doing?” Doctor Goodfellow asked.
“Closing holes, plugging gaps, erasing traceable lines, covering ass,” Bernard said as he lit the edges of the papers. A small fire began quickly. He stood up and watched the files burn.
“Those are…our files. Are you crazy?” Doctor Goodfellow cried and charged forward. As soon as he drew close enough, Bernard spun around and punched him sharply and smoothly in the mouth. The blow lifted Doctor Goodfellow off his feet and he fell smack on his back, his head slapping the floor. For a moment he was in a daze and could only groan. Bernard continued to feed files to the fire. The smoke was building. He worked faster and faster.
Goodfellow turned and sat up, feeling his mouth and looking at his fingers, which were bright red with his blood.
“I don’t understand,” he said, gazing up at Bernard.
“We’ve got to evacuate this location. As Mr. Beezly said before retiring, we’ve been compromised. You understand, don’t you?”
“No,” Goodfellow replied. He got to his feet. “I like to keep track of my wards, check on their welfare from time to time. That was understood. That was the agreement I made. This is a professional operation. It requires follow-up.”
“We can’t take that chance; it’s not worth it. They’ve all been placed in proper homes. No need for any traces.”
Goodfellow began to cough from the smoke.
“You’re going to have the fire department out here. Open that window,” he commanded.
“The fire department,” Bernard thought aloud. “Good idea. Why didn’t I think of it? I’m getting too soft, too complacent. Thanks, Doc.”
Bernard walked over to the window, but instead of opening it, he set fire to the curtains. The flames shot up to the ceiling. Goodfellow screamed and charged at the windows to pull the curtains down. As he did so, Bernard struck him in the back of his head with the pistol. Doctor Goodfellow fell forward against the wall and slid down into a sitting position, unconscious. Bernard shook his head and laughed. He watched the flames spread for a moment. Doctor Goodfell
ow groaned, but he didn’t open his eyes. Bernard considered putting a bullet in his forehead, but decided the good doctor should go down with his ship instead. In moments the smoke would asphyxiate him. Bernard already had to cover his own mouth with his handkerchief. Shortly, the old house would explode like a firecracker.
Satisfied he had done what had to be done, Bernard casually strolled out, even taking the time to close the door behind him. Inside, the flames had reached the bookcases and had begun to crawl over the volumes. The old walls accepted the fire willingly, surrendering their surfaces, crackling, exposing their beams. Electric wires snapped.
Bernard got into his car and sat there for a moment watching the flames brighten until every room in the house looked lit. It appeared psychedelic to him because of the way the fire licked at the ceilings and made colors dance over the windowpanes.
“Beautiful,” Bernard muttered and sighed with appreciation. He started his engine and backed out of the driveway. Then he turned down the highway, his tires squealing.
He wasn’t sure about Scott Lester’s daughter, but in his gut he thought he had better give it serious consideration. He would go to her new location and he would make a decision on the spot. He trusted his impulses and his instinct. He had been the one, and not Beezly, to suggest following Dyce, even though Beezly had tried to take the credit. And hadn’t he thought Beezly had outlived his use to the organization? The phone conversation simply confirmed what he already knew had to be done. Now this fire…wasn’t it a great idea? he thought. Funny, how the doctor had inadvertently suggested it. Must have been Providence speaking. After all, the Solomon Organization had its roots in the Bible, didn’t it?
He laughed to himself, shoved some fresh gum into his mouth, and accelerated, cutting through the darkness, unstoppable, moving like Destiny. And very proud of it.
11
Faye Elliot’s narrow driveway ran alongside the house to an unattached garage in the rear, the structure of which looked to be the same vintage as the house. She took Scott through a side entrance off the cozy, immaculate kitchen, pausing to scoop up a chocolate-brown leather pilot’s jacket hanging on a hook next to the door. When they stepped outside, Faye produced a transmitter from her jacket pocket and pressed it to open the garage door. It went up to reveal a late model, pearl black Porsche 928.
The Solomon Organization Page 19
