Alfred Battle arrived less than five minutes later in his Caddy, parked behind the black sedan, and hoisted his tall, thin body from the car with the help of a handle. I took a shot of him as well. He straightened, buttoned his brown suit coat over his shirt and tie. Strode to the door in well-shined wingtips. The door opened and Connor Donald was at his service. I took a shot of him, too.
Two hours went by. I didn’t take my eyes off that front door except to check my phone for Paradise activity. Quiet again out there. I wondered what Lark was planning. I knew it would be swift, thorough, and adequately powered—federal-style. I doubted I would be a part of it, though I surely wanted to be. It might be my best chance for a rematch with six men I’d come to despise.
Reggie Atlas came out alone and angry. He slammed the heavy door with both hands and plenty of muscle. I got a couple more good shots. He threw open the door of his Mercedes, stepped inside, and slammed it, too. I watched him head up Calle Marlena toward Avenida de las Palmeras and the exit.
Ten minutes later Battle emerged, unbuttoning his suit coat on the way to his car. He was flanked by Donald and Revell, who held open the door of Battle’s CTS. Three more shots with my shutter on silent. When the tall old man had retracted all of himself inside, Revell closed the door and gave a curt salute.
I waited awhile, pondering. Wondering if Daley Rideout really was inside that house. All they had to do was keep her on the grounds, away from phones and computers, and there wasn’t much she could do. Keep her from screaming out for help. If she even wanted to leave that badly. But did she? If not quite badly enough, they could always take her down to the beach when she got bored. Out for a good meal now and then. I wondered if they were drugging her. They could have strung her out by now. Locked behind the bars of a narcotic.
And every question led to another: Were Battle and his SNR men keeping her for Reggie? Or from him? Had Battle just allowed him a visit? If so, for what purpose?
I knew what Penelope’s answer would be. It was a terrible possibility, and I was in no position to refute it. Why would Battle let the preacher do such a thing? Were they charging him for her use?
But Reggie claimed he needed Daley Rideout to prove his innocence. Was that all bluff? What if he’d drugged, raped, and impregnated Penelope Rideout exactly as she’d described? Then threatened violence to keep her silent? In that case, if Battle turned Daley over to Atlas, she would be the living proof of his crimes. And when he was done with Daley, he would have to silence her.
* * *
—
EVENING. TRADESMEN, GARDENERS, and servicepeople leaving in their trucks and vans. Citizens returning in their premium rides. I half expected Ruthven to track me down, driven by boredom and suspicion. Maybe she’d gone home. Or maybe I’m easily forgotten.
Okay. I was hungry. Needed a bourbon.
I had just started up the Malibu when the big wood-and-iron door opened and Connor Donald stepped into the shade of the porte cochere.
Followed by Eric Glassen and Adam Revell, flanking Daley Rideout. She was dressed in shorts and flip-flops and her “I’m not as stupid as I look—Are you?” sweatshirt.
She wore her backpack, carried her little guitar in its gig bag with one hand and pulled a piece of rolling luggage behind her with the other. Her posture was good, her attitude calm.
Where are you going?
I got two shots before the silver SUV swallowed them up and shuddered to life. Traded my camera for my phone and called Sergeant Ionides. Gave him the actors and the make, model, and plates as the Expedition rolled onto Calle Marlena. Told him the three men were likely armed. Ordered my hands away from the steering wheel so I wouldn’t do something foolish like follow them. I couldn’t put Daley Rideout in that kind of danger. At least Ionides could light a fire under Dispatch and they’d get the Orange County sheriffs into action as fast as was departmentally possible.
Departmentally possible.
Which wouldn’t be fast enough. The SUV curved out of sight up Marlena. Seconds from now, the SNR men and Daley Rideout would be exiting Cotton Point Estates onto Palmera, just blocks from an interstate highway serving 28.3 million Southern Californians, armies of tourists, and legions of big rigs.
I saw a way to pry Daley away from SNR.
Thought I did.
40
////////////////////////
HIGH on the hill I saw houselights on in Alfred Battle’s slouching, ivy-coated home. The winding road through the orange trees was weakly lit. I kept an eye on it for a few minutes while sending three of my Olympus pictures to my phone—one of Battle, one of Reggie, one of Daley and her handlers.
I pressed the intercom and Marie answered.
“Mrs. Battle, this is Blake Hopper, with Fallbrook Family Values Coalition. I talked to you at the Power Hour on Sunday, and you offered to lease me one of your properties for our annual retreat. I was hoping you and Mr. Battle might be willing to discuss it.”
“You’re who?”
I repeated some of my pitch. Heard Battle’s stern voice in the background.
“Oh, of course!” said Marie. “Come up, Mr. Hooper.”
“Thank you, Marie. It’s Hopper.”
The gate squealed into action and I saw a porch light come on. Followed my headlights up the hill. Parked up near a detached garage in which Battle’s stealthy CTS waited in the dark.
Marie welcomed me in. She wore a powder-blue fifties house dress with white buttons and pocket trim, and a new pair of Jack Purcell sneakers. Hair up, eyes blue and joyful. She led me through a small foyer, then into a faintly lit living room. Mid-century and lots of it—a burnished walnut floor, pale turquoise walls, white acoustic ceiling. Trim chocolate fabric sofas, a glass coffee table, and bulbous avocado-green space-age lamps with abstract atomic-print shades. Bookshelves on three walls, an entertainment center with an enormous TV/stereo cabinet with sliding fabric panels. Marie offered me one end of a long brown sofa, and she took the other.
Alfred, draped in his bespoke brown suit, sat in a low-slung green orange-slice chair, his legs spread wide and his big bony hands on his thighs. The space-age lamplight caught one side of his face and left the other in shadow.
“Ford,” he said. “I thought that was you at the Hour.”
“You’ve got good eyes for an old man.”
A suggested smile. “All the better to read about you in the papers. Deputy Roland Ford, the indecisive triggerman in the death of Titus Miller. PI Ford, widowed by a whimsical God and a plane accident. Later, the slayer of a celebrity torturer. Most recently, the executioner of two very dangerous terrorists, saving countless innocent lives. Thank you for that, Mr. Ford. They were Muslim scum.”
“Glad to be of service,” I said.
“This is all very exciting,” said Marie.
“What did you think of the White Power Hour, Mr. Ford?”
“I thought it was interesting how the dinosaurs like you led the way for the new generation of haters like Odysseus,” I said.
“Spencer and Enoch have learned much from the post–Arab Spring Europeans,” said Battle. “We didn’t have that same perspective when I was young. We were still looking for the Soviets under every rock. We forgot about the mud people, who the Soviets turned against us so nimbly. We failed to react strongly enough, or there wouldn’t be any need for the alt-right today. If we could only have continued the lynchings, expanded them north to include browns and later Muslims, this would be a healthier and more prosperous republic. We softened.”
“You didn’t get soft, you got whupped,” I said. “By people who were better than you.”
Battle sighed and adjusted his long frame in the ridiculous-looking orange-slice chair. Smiled bitterly: “Frauds and adulterers. They all claim to have a dream. We don’t dream. We have a stated goal. We want to be free in the country that we founded. We want a country in
which the white child has opportunity again and is respected as the superior child that he is. If this sounds familiar, it should. It is the foundation of the United States Constitution.”
“I thought you were very odd from the beginning, Mr. Hooper,” said Marie. “But that’s okay. I collected six pounds of oranges that day.”
“They’re good ones, too, Marie,” said Battle. “Now, what can I do for you, Mr. Ford?”
“I want Daley Rideout.”
“Then explain who she is, and why you want her, and why I’m in a position to help you.”
“Daley is the younger sister and the legal charge of one Penelope Rideout. Daley might be her daughter—maybe—if you’re willing to expand your field of interest to your pal Reggie Atlas. Either way, I want to return Daley to Penelope. As you know, your SNR meatballs are holding her.”
“Oh?” asked Marie.
“My reaction exactly,” said Alfred. He crossed his legs, then interlocked his finger over the top knee.
I showed the three pictures on my phone to Alfred and Marie and sat back down.
Marie frowned at her husband.
“I’m sure you’re aware that Daley is all over the Missing and Exploited Children websites,” I said.
“But we never appear in the same frame in your pictures,” he said. “I had no idea the girl was in my wife’s house. Mrs. Battle owns too many homes for me to keep track of.”
“You’re free to tell that to the fed, state, and local cops,” I said. “But these photos are still enough to get you one phone call to a lawyer.”
Battle slowly rose, turned his back on me, and walked to a south-facing window.
“If I could deliver the girl to you, you would destroy these photos and say nothing of my company’s involvement?”
“The pictures are already in the cloud, Mr. Battle. And my associates know what to do with them.”
“Have you been hired by Penelope to find Dolly and bring her back?”
“Good guess. Her name is Daley.”
“Pays well, I hope,” he said.
“Standard fee.”
“May I ask what your rates are?”
“You can ask all you want.”
A decisive silence.
“Why does Reggie Atlas want Daley?” I asked. “And why are you allowing him to see her?”
Battle turned, raising a bushy eyebrow, his hawk’s face half- illuminated. “If I tell you what I know, will you leave me and Marie and SNR out of your dealings with the police?”
“No,” I said. “Although it would dispose me in your favor.”
“To what end?”
“Probably none at all. Your ass is cooked, sir.”
“When your ass is cooked, make s’mores,” said Marie.
Alfred smiled at her, then looked at me. “I love my wife.”
“I see why.”
“You two,” said Marie.
“Ford,” said Battle, “exactly what Reggie wants with the girl was never clear to me.”
“You should have made it clear,” I said. “She’s fourteen.”
“She plays guitar in her room all day,” said Battle. “She hasn’t said one meaningful word to me. But, according to Reggie, that girl has been showing up at his church for about a year. Seeking time with him. Making herself . . . available. For what? Reggie fears sexual intent. This behavior is much like her sister, Penelope’s, years ago, Reggie says. But Penelope’s advances went much further. He rejected her, of course. But shortly thereafter, she suffered a psychotic break with reality—professing that Reggie had seduced and impregnated her. With a baby everybody knew was her own sister. There is some suspicion in Reggie’s mind of Penelope’s role in the death of her parents, also. There was insurance money at stake. At any rate, Penelope followed Atlas all around the country, wherever his ministry took him, hounding him, demanding money. He has paid her handsomely. Many times. Simple blackmail, effective because of the pastor’s public life and extraordinary success. Of course he’s offered a final arrangement, and a nondisclosure agreement, but it must include a confidential paternity test, which is exactly what she does not want. End of revenue stream for Penelope. Reggie is very aware that one tweet from her to #MeToo would damage his ministry immeasurably. He’s hoping Daley might be able to talk some sense to her sister. And that is what I know about Pastor Atlas’s motivations and the girl.”
Marie left the room. Alfred watched her go, his face silhouetted in the lamplight.
“Your men took Daley,” I said.
Battle looked out a darkened window and said nothing.
“Let me refresh your memory,” I said. “SNR Security men took her away from her boyfriend’s condo in Encinitas. They executed him in bed. I was the one who found him. Nick Moreno.”
“Mud,” said the old man. “Consorting with white. Abomination. I know from experience.”
Battle gave me a flat stare. I wondered if what Marie had said about a childhood rape was true. Or if she had only been on one of her flights of fancy, making s’mores.
“Here’s what I think,” I said. “You’ve known Atlas for years. Like-minded individuals. So you knew his story about crazed Penelope and her sister. Which started ringing false when he took a personal interest in Daley, not the other way around. He offered donations to the White Power Hour if SNR could bring Daley to him. Not a tough assignment, really, for your boys. She even went along for the ride, at first. Literally. A rebellious girl, coming into her own. Eager to get away from her controlling sister. Then your fund-raiser’s light went on—why give Reggie what he wants until you’ve made him pay even more? Keep Daley and raise her price. So Atlas remains your revenue stream, but you have to let him see her once in a while. Proof of life. Like today at Cotton Point.”
Battle beheld me in the half-light. “We always need funding. And note, the girl has never been in danger. She has always been free to go. My men are upright, moral, and trustworthy.”
“Nick Moreno might disagree. And every time Daley slips her leash, your men grab her again.”
“They are protecting her from herself.”
Marie came back with three glasses of milk on a round tray. Three coasters and three cloth napkins. I set mine on the glass coffee table before me. Alfred sat again, pushed the napkin between his buttoned collar and his wattled neck, then took his glass with an appreciative nod. Marie returned to the far end of the sofa.
“What happened today when Atlas came to Cotton Point?” I asked.
“Happened?”
“As in, what did you do?”
“We socialized as adults. Sat in the living room and talked about current events. Sports, too, of course. Exchanged ideas. One of my SNR employees, Adam, is an excellent cook. Today was broiled ahi, asparagus, and Tater Tots.”
“Was Atlas alone with Daley?”
“I don’t allow it,” said Battle. “I’m not sure I trust him.”
“You all talked and had lunch?” I asked.
“And Pastor Atlas led us in prayer. That is the absolute truth.”
“How did he behave toward Daley?” I asked.
“He was formal. Per usual. He told her once again that he only needs to satisfy some final obligations, and she’ll be free to go with him. They sat well apart from each other. But often, he looked at her with an affection—an adoration, I’d say—that was downright embarrassing to everyone in the room but him. Not the first time.”
I weighed what I knew about spirited Daley Rideout against this strange account. “How did she react?”
“She seems both repelled by and drawn to him,” said Battle. “A girl, then not a girl. They are very similar, psychologically. Like magnets. With their polarities opposed, they attract. But when aligned, they repel.”
“As men and women always do,” said Marie. She smiled, drank some milk, dabbe
d her lips.
This alleged afternoon at Cotton Point was hard for me to picture. The hatemonger, the preacher, the gunmen, and the girl. A storm of crosscurrents, most of them vile.
“Have you ever talked to Penelope?” I asked.
Battle shook his head, sipped his milk, and waited.
“I have,” I said. “Let me give you something to think about. Penelope told me something. It was difficult for her, and I have no good reason to disbelieve her. She’s known Reggie Atlas since she was eight. With her family, she attended his services and guest appearances. He was building his congregation. Six years. During which time he developed a faith-based relationship with her mom and dad, and especially with Penelope herself. It included one-on-one conversations, phone calls, emails, and an occasional postcard from Reggie’s itinerant preaching. Over the years he convinced her that their relationship was special in the eyes of Jesus. Sacred. She wholeheartedly agreed. When she was fourteen and a virgin, he invited her into his travel bus, where he baptized, seduced, drugged, and raped her. The morning-after pills failed. Daley was born nine months later. Atlas has been keeping track of her and his daughter ever since. Penelope hasn’t been shaking him down for money. She’s been trying to keep his daughter away from him. Fearing that he will repeat himself with her.”
“True monsters always do,” said Marie. “I think I read that story in a book once. Some tragic Greek? The Bible, maybe?”
“Interesting,” said Battle.
“It’s a helluva lot more than just interesting,” I said.
Shadow and light on Battle’s hate-carved face. Something like pain. “Do you think that’s true? Penelope’s story?”
“I think it is.”
“Oh.”
Again, pain on the Old Hawk’s face. Penelope’s story must have gotten to him. Alfred Battle: moral hater.
Marie collected the glasses and napkins, left the coasters. She winked at me as she made for the kitchen. I heard her set the glasses on the counter.
“Where are they taking Daley?” I asked. “She had her things when they left.”
The Last Good Guy Page 25