Poisoned Justice

by Jeffrey Alan Lockwood

  CHAPTER 37

  The bedroom walls were decorated with zebra skins and black-and-white photos of African landscapes. An enormous round bed, set atop a platform in the middle of the room, completed the decadent setting. Sarie turned back the covers and down the lights. In the soft glow, she wriggled out of her catsuit. She was left with a pair of red satin panties. As she slid into bed, her brown hair fell onto the pillow and framed the most seductive expression that it’s been my pleasure to encounter. I shed my clothes and stretched out on the cool silk sheets. After some preliminaries that started off gently and escalated to involve teeth and nails, she pulled a pair of black silk ropes from the nightstand drawer.

  “Not too tight,” she murmured, lifting her hands over her head. I tied a slipknot into each rope, then tied the other end to a rail above the headboard. She slid her hands into the loops and lay back with a quiver. However, my desires were less primal and more principled. I saw her as an object, not of desire but truth.

  “Sarie, it’s time for a bit of honesty,” I said, rolling off the bed and turning up the lights. I’d seen a man’s robe in her bathroom when I’d washed up earlier, so I took it off the hook and put it on. The thick white terry cloth felt warm and soft, in stark contrast to the final move of my gambit. When I came back into the bedroom, she looked more intrigued than worried.

  “Oweh!” There it was again. She dropped her voice to a sultry purr. “What have you planned for us?” She was still unaware that the tryst was over—at least in terms of what she’d hoped for.

  “A confession,” I answered, sitting on the edge of the bed. She turned her head to look at me.

  “Of what?” An edgy impatience began to replace the lust in her voice.

  “Let’s start with you and Paul Odum.”

  “Ag, I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

  “In Los Angeles. At the Hyatt Regency.”

  “You’re mal!”

  “I suppose that means I’m crazy. But my dear Sarie, I know that you seduced Odum’s student to gain access to his hotel room. And while there, you applied Vaseline laced with parathion to the crotch of his underwear. A rather effective approach to poisoning since, according to the London Times, your countrymen figured out that the organophosphates rapidly enter the body through hair follicles. I understand that the South African assassins were targeting anti-apartheid activists. But I can’t figure out why you wanted Odum dead. Help me out, sweetheart.”

  She laughed mockingly. “You can’t prove a thing. Untie me and get out, you bastard.”

  “Perhaps a bit of your own medicine might convince you to share more than your body with me. I’m afraid, however, that you’re much prettier than what’s coming.” I went out to the living room and returned with the contents of my coat pocket. Her face went from rage to dread when I dumped the supplies on the nightstand.

  “What are you doing?” Her voice had a slight tremble as she struggled against the silk ropes.

  “Nothing that you didn’t do yourself in LA. Are you up to a chat or should I proceed?”

  “If you kill me you won’t have any answers. Besides, you’re bluffing with the vials and props. You don’t scare me.” She was back to defiance, but her tone was rather less convincing.

  “Fine. Have it your way, doll.” I pulled on the latex gloves and uncapped the vial of tobacco extract. A cotton ball soaked up the liquid, which was a reasonable approximation of the amber that she might’ve recognized as parathion. Then I leaned over and pulled her panties off. I wanted her to think that her fate was the same as Odum’s if she didn’t cooperate. Applying the extract in this way had the added advantage of removing all doubt that Sarie Botha was Howard’s blond seductress. When she dyed her hair, she didn’t count on anyone checking more than her scalp.

  For a minute or so, nothing happened. Sarie gave a little mocking laugh and sneered at me. I was about to dab on some more of the extract, when she took a couple of deep breaths and swallowed hard. She started to roll her head back and forth.

  “You maniac, what are you doing?” she gasped, looking pale and panicked.

  “Ah, my dear Sarie, turnabout is fair play. I have some antidote here, which is more than you offered to Paul Odum. I can give you this or add some more parathion. It’s up to you.”

  “I’ll talk, just give me the antidote.”

  “Not so fast. You’re not going to die in the next few minutes, and I think a bit of suffering might help you focus. And maybe you’ll even build some character, which you could use nearly as much as I could use some answers. Now, start talking.” Not only did I want answers, but I wasn’t sure what course the chemical brew of alcohol, cocaine, and nicotine would take—and exactly how the atropine would work in her jangled nervous system.

  Over the next hour, she sweated and struggled against bouts of nausea. In between, her story came out in fragmented bursts that I managed to piece together along with what I already knew. At least for a while, her growing discomfort seemed to provide the motivation she needed to come clean. It turned out that Sarie had been working with Morley on more than anthropology.

  The professor was running one of the largest drug rings in the Bay Area, with a network of dealers providing high-grade ‘dagga’—marijuana, or so I surmised—throughout Berkeley, parts of Oakland, and the east side of San Francisco. Which would’ve included Potrero. When Sarie found out about his venture, she blackmailed him into letting her into the business.

  But the power play backfired. She proved quite useful to him in terms of his lust for both sex and power, not that the two are necessarily that far apart. The professor soon had her under his control. From what I could tell, when his capacity for rage and violence weren’t sufficient to force her obedience, he could ensure that his beautiful assistant would follow his orders by threatening to destroy her career and have her deported. She had no doubt that Morley was both influential and vicious enough to do so.

  She arranged shipments of marijuana to his warehouse of archaeological relics, thoughtfully provided by the university. Field trips to the Mayan sites offered opportunities for him to consummate his business deals, and between his reputation and Sarie’s impeccable paperwork, customs inspectors never bothered with the crates of artifacts. It seemed that everything was going smoothly until the paraquat scare, after which sales of Mexican dope nosedived, as dealers and users wanted no part of poisoned pot. It was entirely possible, even likely, that Morley had supplied the pot that poisoned Tommy—and from what I knew of Morley, he wouldn’t have cared. After the bottom fell out, some small-time producers, such as Paul Odum, began to fill the gap. However, Morley found a reliable source of “clean” dope in Guatemala. In the last year, he was well on his way to building back his dominance of the Bay Area drug market.

  Reading between the lines, it seemed that Morley would have ignored Odum as a minor annoyance had he stuck to growing his local supply. But when he began importing first-rate pot from Thailand to bankroll his sabotage of AmeriChem, the ecology professor became a problem that needed to be solved. Morley ordered Sarie to take Odum out of the picture, and made it clear that dithering or failure would mean the end of her career and life in the States—or perhaps altogether. She’d learned not to ask too many questions or defy him, having found that rebuffing his sexual advances got her “donnered”—beaten to within an inch of her life.

  Sarie Botha was in way over her head and could either drown or pull Odum under. She might’ve figured a way to return to South Africa on her own—even rats and roaches find a crack to escape when things get too hot. And her family had the money and connections to help her. They’d clung desperately to the privileges of apartheid and provided financing to right-wing organizations. These associations explained how she’d learned about the use of parathion-laced ointment for assassination. She hadn’t planned on it killing Odum so quickly. There was supposed to have been much more distance between them before he succumbed to a set of mysterious symptoms. But she di
dn’t know about his chemical hypersensitivity. So the trail—and poison—were still fresh when I arrived at his hotel room.

  She also didn’t plan on her caper leading to anyone else’s death. When I told her about having killed a little girl, she became more alert and clear-eyed than any time the entire evening. She shook her head as I described Marissa’s poisoning. Tears came, and then deep sobs, which triggered a series of tremors building toward a full-blown seizure. When her breathing started to come in labored gasps, I knew it was time to decide if she would suffer the same fate as Odum. I had the antidote with me to ensure that the nicotine intoxication could be reversed if she became unable to keep talking, but now I had her whole story.

  This woman was a deadly pest. She’d chosen to get rich by teaming up with Morley. To protect herself, she’d murdered Paul Odum—and she’d killed a child out of thoughtless disregard for whoever else might contact her poison. It all unfolded because she wanted what most people desire. Fine clothes, a sports car, and a luxurious condo. But she’d picked the wrong partner and the wrong approach in running drugs. In some ways Sarie Botha—a rich, educated, voluptuous white woman—was much like Jamal Watson, a poor, dumb, scrawny black man. Both of them bought into an ugly game, chose the wrong partners, got dealt bad hands, and decided how to play their cards.

  But I had no reason to kill Jamal. That was just an unfortunate consequence of his decision to try bluffing. And I had no reason to see Sarie die. Backed into a corner, she’d struck out. There was nothing inherent in her or rats that made extermination necessary. In the right context, either could live peacefully. She’d retained a core of human compassion, as I’d seen with her sobs for Marissa. I’ve seen my share of faked tears during questioning, but Sarie’s were genuine. And anyone under Morley’s thumb had to evoke at least a shred of sympathy.

  So I untied her hands and she stared wildly at me, unsure of what was coming. Just as Beth had instructed—and made me practice with saline, much to my displeasure—I drew a syringe of the atropine, tied a ligature, found a vein in her forearm, and injected the drug. I left the supplies within easy reach in case her condition didn’t improve. I stroked her hair, which had become tangled and damp with sweat. She began to relax. After fifteen minutes, her breathing grew regular and she closed her eyes.

  I got up and pulled the sheet over her. She rolled onto her side and curled into a fetal position. I turned out the lights and went into the living room, leaving the bedroom door open to listen for her. After pouring a nightcap, I stretched out on her leather couch and mulled over my next move.

  CHAPTER 38

  The light pouring through the sheer drapes in the living room woke me up at sunrise. Piercing light to match my searing headache. I went into the bedroom, where Sarie was breathing deeply in a sound sleep. I grabbed some aspirin in the medicine cabinet and headed to the kitchen to rustle up some breakfast. I got the coffee started, found some eggs, bacon, and bread, and set to work.

  I’d been up half the night weighing my options. At first, I figured I’d just wipe the place for my prints, head home for a good night’s sleep, and report my findings a few days early to the grieving widow. Case closed, payment made, everyone happy.

  Except I knew that Laurie Odum wouldn’t be satisfied, let alone happy. She’d want to go after Sarie and Morley. If she went to the cops, it’d be just about impossible for me to remain behind the scenes—and unlicensed investigators are highly unappreciated. Even if Laurie didn’t give them my name, the detectives would haul Howard in for questioning. And I had no doubt he’d spill his guts. Or maybe Laurie would try to handle things privately, but given the usual bumbling of most PIs, there’d be a good chance that a trail of crumbs would lead to my door.

  My next plan was to just go to the cops myself with the whole story—or most of it. But the evidence was pretty thin. The underwear and an autopsy would show that Odum had been poisoned, but the link to Sarie and Morley was circumstantial at best. She’d been in his hotel room, but without her confession they’d have nothing. A detective wouldn’t have silk ropes and nicotine tea during questioning. If Sarie just kept quiet, there’d be no way to link her to the murder. And Morley would be even tougher to nail.

  Around three in the morning, I’d come to the conclusion that this was my mess to clean up. I wasn’t done with Sarie Botha. In one sense, I’d found Paul Odum’s killers—Sarie and Morley were both guilty the way I figured it—which was all his wife had wanted. Sarie had been a means to my ends, and I could discard her if she was nothing more than an object to satisfy my need for information.

  But I wanted more—for her and myself. Morley had used Sarie for his purposes, both financial and physical. I couldn’t lower myself to his level. I believed that Sarie might salvage a worthwhile future if she could be protected from Morley—and take responsibility for her past.

  My concern turned to the question of who would warn the next Tommy about Morley. Sure, we all have to live with our decisions, but there’s no reason that scum like Morley should be allowed to make the consequences horrific. Justice requires a sense of proportionality. We don’t shoot people for double-parking. I could picture a confused kid from Potrero buying into Morley’s next shipment of contaminated dope. Stepping away from this case without dealing with him was like Isaac spraying for flies and leaving the rotting dog in the dumpster.

  I heard Sarie stirring at about the time the eggs were scrambled and the bacon was crispy. She came into the kitchen looking remarkably lovely for last night’s ordeal. Her black full-length silk robe draped sumptuously in all the right spots.

  “Hungry?” I asked, pulling toast from the toaster.

  “Ag! You torture a confession from a girl and then offer her breakfast? You’re a piece of work, Riley.”

  “No reason for a rough night to mess up a sunny morning. Cream or sugar?” I asked, setting a couple of mugs on the table beside a bay window with a panoramic view of the city.

  “I don’t know whether to try to kill you or kiss you, but I don’t have the strength for either at the moment. I’m famished, you bastard.” She sat, alternately rubbing her temples and sipping her coffee.

  “Feeling better?” I asked after she’d wolfed down half of her breakfast.

  “Thanks, the graze is tops. My stomach is recovering, but the rest of me is kussed out.” I gathered that she felt awful. “What you did was terrible, but at least now somebody else knows. It’s a relief that I’m not alone. But the whole thing is worse than I thought.”

  “Worse? I thought you said that telling the truth helped.”

  “It did, except the truth is more dreadful than I’d imagined. Now I know what it was like for Paul Odum.” She paused and drew a deep breath that caught in her chest. “And I know about the little girl.” She fell silent again and ran her fingers through her hair, letting the strands fall on her face. “Riley, what was she like?”

  “Her name was Marissa. I just met her once for a few minutes. She was a spunky Mexican girl with satiny hair. She was very polite, but not timid. You could see a fire behind those jet-black eyes.”

  “Shit,” she said, her own eyes filling with tears. “Shit, shit, shit. I’m trapped in a nightmare that keeps getting worse.” She wiped her cheeks angrily. “I don’t know how to get out. I thought I was glad to have survived your interrogation last night. Now, I’m not so sure.”

  “Slow down. I can help you escape.”

  “Why would you?”

  “I have my reasons,” I said, wiping my plate with a slice of toast. “But I’d like to know something about you before we get any further.”

  “Didn’t I tell you everything last night? I can’t actually remember most of what I said,” she sighed.

  “I know you hooked up with Morley’s dope ring, but what I don’t understand is why.”

  Sarie launched into a halting explanation of how she’d learned that her mother was seriously ill with a rare blood disorder, and that the family’s best bet was to
get her under the care of American specialists. Her father had a lucrative art export business, specializing in selling African artifacts to European collectors without anyone asking too many questions. Sarie had helped fund her American education by smuggling smaller pieces from the archaeological sites in Mexico back home to the family business. Things had been very comfortable in Johannesburg, but her mother’s medical treatments couldn’t be covered with the sale of a few Mayan pots and jade figurines.

  “I rationalized that the drug money would be going to save my mum. She was a good and gentle woman.” She drew a deep breath. “But she died before the necessary visas, financial confirmations, and medical arrangements could be obtained.”

  “Let me guess, you’d filled your bank account in the meantime and it didn’t make sense to throw away all that money.”

  “You can be so harsh. Yes, I enjoyed being rich,” she said defiantly. Then she looked into her empty cup and slumped into the chair. “I liked the things that money provided.”

  I got up and refilled the coffee mugs. She took hers from me, brushing her fingers across the back of my hand.

  “So now you know what I’m about. But who are you? Why are you willing to help me?

  “Like I told you last night, I’m an ex-cop. When my father died, I took over the family business to support my mother and my brother, who has medical problems. I run an extermination company across the Bay.” The caffeine was working along with the aspirin, and I almost felt human for the first time since going into the Savoy.

  “Okay, but how’d you get involved with Paul Odum?”

  “I do a little unconventional but discreet pest management on the side. Odum’s wife hired me to find his killer.”

  “So you’re done. You found me . . .”

  “And Morley,” I added.

  “Yes, he’s evil. I suppose I am too, but not down deep. Not really. Do you believe me?” She looked desperate, lost.