Black Orchid

by Vaughn C. Hardacker

  Deborah sniffled again, and Moore handed her a handkerchief. It looked as if it had never been used; Traynor couldn’t stop from thinking that he probably carried it in case a damsel in distress needed something to blot her tears. Traynor thought it made him look like an ass-kisser and realized that he didn’t like the man. A short time in the presence of Mr. Byron Moore, attorney at law, would be more than Traynor wanted. He believed that Moore probably felt the same about him and that neither would make it to the invitation list for the other’s next backyard barbeque and beer bash.

  Deborah said, “I’ll get you something to write on.”

  Traynor didn’t know why, but he expected her to go after it. As if some telepathic order had been sent, a young woman in a maid’s uniform—a functional American maid’s uniform, not one of those sexy French ones popular in sexual fantasies—appeared with the required tools: a flat, rectangular tablet computer. Traynor wondered just how many people were employed to keep the Hollises living in the manner to which they were accustomed.

  Moore and Traynor sat in silence as she tapped the screen of the tablet. The silence finally got too loud. Traynor smiled at Moore. “How ’bout them Sox, huh?”

  Moore looked shocked. Traynor fought to keep from laughing; obviously the corporate lawyer didn’t do a lot of male bonding. “I’m sorry?”

  “The Red Sox, they’re a baseball team in Boston…. You might have heard of them?”

  “Oh, of course, those Sox. What about them?”

  Traynor was about to make some smartass remark, but Deborah stopped tapping the tablet and said, “There, that’s done.” She turned to the maid. “Anna would you go into my office and get the printout from the printer?”

  Anna nodded and said, “Of course, Miss Deborah.” It was the first time that Traynor had noticed any of the hired help address her in a formal matter. It brought out a different aspect of her personality … one he had heretofore not seen. In short time Anna returned, handing a sheet of paper to Deb.

  “Thank you, Anna,” Deborah said, and she then handed the sheet to Traynor. She turned to the maid and nodded, and the young woman left.

  Traynor took the sheet and saw five names printed on it. He folded the sheet of paper and slid it into his shirt pocket.

  “I’m sorry I don’t have more than that,” Hollis said.

  “Actually, Deb, I’ve had cases where we had a lot less than this at the onset.” He believed he’d gotten all he was going to get that day, so he stood. However before leaving, Traynor needed to get something out in the open. “I’ll get on this right away,” he said. “However, I feel it would be unethical if I didn’t tell you both I’m not licensed in California. If you hired someone out there, you might get faster results—not to mention that if I have to go out there, less expensive ones. A local investigator will know the turf better.”

  Nevertheless Deborah seemed sure of herself when she said, “I want you, Ed. I want someone from around here, someone I can trust.” Once again, she swept her hand around, encompassing the estate. “As you can see, expense is not an issue.”

  “I’ll do what I can.”

  As he walked around the house, Traynor couldn’t help but hope that Deborah Hollis’s trust in him wasn’t premature. But the fact that Buck had recommended him for the job was reassuring. It made him feel good that regardless of their personal situation, Buchanan still valued his abilities as a detective. Traynor hoped this case could help get things between Buck and him back to the way they were before they’d had their most serious disagreement.

  Traynor walked slowly, analyzing what he’d learned that afternoon. That the Hollises were richer than he’d ever imagined was a given. Although how they stayed that way, what with Cyril’s being smashed all the time, was at best a miracle. It was evident that despite her youthful appearance, Deborah Hollis was very likely an astute manager and businesswoman. Just how much influence Byron Moore had with the Hollises, Traynor had no clue. One thing was certain though: Moore was more than just hired help. As he turned the corner of the north wing and put the Atlantic Ocean at his back, Traynor began to think about the guy out front. Who was he? What was his function? Why did he have a nagging feeling that this guy probably knew more than anyone around this place?

  His car pulled up and Traynor picked up the pace. It was time to get some answers.

  Interviewers observe verbal and nonverbal responses to recognize whether an individual is being truthful or deceptive.

  —FM 3-19, Law Enforcement Investigations, January 2005, Department of the Army

  3

  The same fellow who had greeted him stood beside Traynor’s car. The chauffer, if that’s what he was, gave off an aura that immediately warned anyone not to screw with him. He was over six feet tall, with well-developed arms and pectoral muscles. There were several scars on his face that served as an additional testament to the violence he had no doubt seen and been a part of. Traynor couldn’t help but wonder what this guy’s position in the Hollis pecking order was. There was something about his demeanor that said he was more than a driver. Traynor held out his hand. “Ed Traynor.”

  The man gripped Traynor’s hand firmly, but not with enough strength to make it an obvious test of wills. “Jack McMahon.”

  Traynor studied him for a second. There was a cop-like aspect to his stance. “My pleasure.” Traynor glanced around for a second and asked, “What’s your function around here?”

  “I’m the would-yuh.”

  “What in hell does a would-yuh do?”

  “At least one hundred times a day someone asks, Jack, would yuh do this for me?” He grinned.

  “Gotcha. Must make for long days.”

  “Officially, my job is security. Truth is, I’m mostly a chauffeur, a bodyguard, and the babysitter for the old man when he gets in his cups—and of late, that seems to be my main malfunction, if you get my drift. Manuel is the real security around here … He’s the old man’s primary babysitter.”

  “Babysitting the old souse must be a full-time job.”

  “There are worse jobs around this place. If nothing else, it pays well.”

  Traynor thought that McMahon had a point there—he could be cleaning bird shit off the walks. The thought made him glance at the sky, at the seagulls flying above. When he saw McMahon staring at him, he felt his face redden and said, “Nice day, huh?”

  Jack chuckled. “I know you’re not just passing the time of day. Before I moved here, I was a cop on the LAPD. Ask me what you want to know.”

  A man after Traynor’s own heart—and it had been said that he was as subtle as a kick to the groin. “If you do a lot of their driving, you must know the family well.”

  “I can see that I’m not gonna put anything past you.”

  “Sometimes I amaze even myself.” Traynor raised his arm and pumped his thumb toward the house. “They’re quite the menagerie, aren’t they?”

  McMahon must have thought one or more of the Hollises could read lips, because he turned his back to the mansion before speaking. “Between you and me … the old man belongs in a nuthouse.”

  “It’s easy to see that he’s an alcoholic—not necessarily crazy,” Traynor said. “I mean if he belongs in an institution, why isn’t he in one?”

  “Wouldn’t do a damn bit of good. He’d get up one morning, buy the place, and turn it over to the patients.”

  “What about the wife?”

  “That one’s all bitch. She wears the Hollis money well.” Even had he not said anything, the way his smile fled and his flinty eyes narrowed let Traynor know that the Mrs. Hollis was not one of McMahon’s favorite people. He said, “Always treats me like I’m something she found on her shoe after walking across a barnyard.”

  “The girls?”

  “Deb is the brains of the family, but she’s okay. Not as personable as Mindy, but still treats everyone with … what’s the word I’m looking for? Dignity, she treats everyone with dignity.”

  “So I gather th
at you find Mindy the most likable?”

  McMahon didn’t have to think about his answer. “Yeah. The way I see it, she only has one flaw.”

  “Which is?”

  “Trust. She’s too damned trusting. She’d give Willie Sutton a million bucks and ask him to deposit it in the bank for her.”

  Something didn’t make sense to Traynor. If Mindy was so likeable and trusting, why was she the one who had problems with her father? He would need to delve deeper into that. “Seems to me that things are a little backward,” he said.

  “Right about now, if I was you, I’d be asking myself: why did she and the old man have problems?” Evidently, McMahon thought like Traynor—who quickly decided that McMahon had to be a genius.

  He said, “It crossed my mind.”

  “Like I said, Mindy was trusting, but not stupid. If you let her down enough, she’d walk away and never look back.”

  “And she did …”

  “Ole Cyril let her down one time too many. I’m told he went from idol to shit-bum in about two years,” he said.

  “Care to divulge your source?” Traynor asked.

  “Nope, but you might ask Manuel—Manuel Vegas, the old man’s right hand.”

  “I think that I saw him, but didn’t have a chance to speak with him. What is his relationship with the girls?”

  “Manuel’s been here longer than I have. Sometimes I feel that he had a lot to do with raising those girls, possibly more than either Her Majesty or Cyril.”

  “How’s he taking her disappearance?”

  “That’s hard to say. Manuel is one of those people who wouldn’t say shit if he had a mouthful. Still, it wouldn’t surprise me if he’s concerned about her, but is keeping his mouth shut.”

  “The ideal employee.”

  “You got it. Just keeps quiet and does anything the family tells him.”

  “Like cleaning up after the old man?”

  McMahon gave Traynor another of his lopsided grins. “Noticed that, did you?”

  “How could I not?” Traynor recalled the way Manuel handled the drunken Hollis. “Seems to me, he has to deal with all the affluent drunks on the grounds. Does Manuel have an address?”

  McMahon pointed at the mansion. “He has an apartment in the castle’s basement. Not a bad deal: rent, food, and utilities are all included.”

  “I’d like to talk with him. I doubt I’ll be able to do it here, though. Does he ever leave the estate—you know, hang out anywhere?”

  “Well, nobody’s perfect, right? Manuel likes the girls, though not the way you’d usually think of it. He’s a voyeur, not a user. He gets Wednesday nights free and can usually be found down at the Golden Coconut.”

  Traynor knew the place—a strip joint across the border in Massachusetts. It was Friday, and if he was going to make any headway on this case, he couldn’t wait five days to get Manuel alone. “That’s the only time he leaves here?”

  “On Saturday mornings, he usually runs into Portsmouth to do a few personal errands.”

  “Why didn’t you tell me that?”

  “You asked where he hung out. That’s a lot different from where he goes.” A true cop … Traynor was beginning to like this Jack McMahon.

  “If I wanted to accidentally bump into Manuel, what time and where should I be tomorrow?”

  “Around ten in the morning, I’d be in front of the post office. The first Saturday of each month, he sends a care package to his relatives on the island.”

  “The island?”

  “I think he’s Puerto Rican or maybe Dominican—one of those islands down there.” He glanced at his watch. “Look, as much as I’d like to stand around chatting all day, I got things to do.” He nodded toward the manse. “After all, they do pay my salary.”

  “I understand. I may want to talk with you again. In the meantime, if you come across anything that will help me find Mindy, call.” Traynor gave him one of his cards, climbed into his Durango, and left.

  Instead of old-fashioned legwork and long, patient research, the PI simply visits an old friend, the computer hacker.

  —Private Eyes: A Writer’s Guide To Private Investigators

  4

  Traynor drove along Route 1B, following the twisting, narrow road through New Castle. Driving through the village was like driving through colonial New England. The settlement was as old as New Hampshire itself, and at one time, the main street had most likely been a narrow cart path. Expanding the thoroughfare to accommodate modern vehicles took away many of the front lawns, leaving nothing but a narrow gravel shoulder between the houses and the street. Through the narrow drives, the Piscataqua River was visible, revealing commercial fishing boats lined against piers. He wondered what the original occupants would think if they learned how much their once-humble property was now currently valued. He wound down out of the village and crossed over the causeway into Old Portsmouth. The street branched right, and Traynor drove through the city to I-95. Forty-five minutes later, he was in Charley and Max’s auto repair shop north of Manchester, in Hooksett.

  Charley was in the office, and as usual, he was bent over a computer, oblivious to anything that responded to anything other than zeroes and ones. When Traynor entered, he intentionally slammed the door.

  Charley heard the door bang shut and looked up, his eyes narrowed at the unwanted interruption. He was the antithesis of good health. He was anything but the image of computer hackers most people had. Now upward of fifty, Charley had jumped onboard the virtual express almost at the very beginning. He was about forty pounds north of where he should have been, and his thinning, long hair was unkempt, as usual. If Traynor didn’t know that he was as ambivalent to women as he was about everything else nontechnical, he’d have thought Charley had that “morning after” look people joke about. The only way a woman would ever get his attention, though, would be to have a couple of gigabytes of RAM and a super hard drive.

  Charley’s scowl disappeared when he recognized Traynor. “Hey, Ed.”

  “It talks!”

  Charley shook his head. “You know, Eddie, sometimes you’re like my first wife.”

  “Really? How’s that?”

  “Like her, you’re seldom photographed with your mouth closed.”

  “I used to wonder why every time I came in here there were no customers.” Traynor aimed a thumb over his right shoulder. “After that, I’m not wondering about it anymore.”

  “So what brings you into my world?”

  “This morning, as you might recall, I used an antiquated electronic instrument to call you.” Traynor made a point of looking around as if seeking something. “You might have one. What was that thing that guy named Bell invented a few years back?”

  Charley leaned back and chuckled. “I know you’re technically challenged, Ed. It’s called a telephone.”

  Traynor snapped his fingers. “That’s it. One of these days, I’ll get caught up on all this newfangled stuff.”

  “As computer and technology illiterate as you are, how in the hell do you expect to make it as a detective in an electronic world?”

  “That’s why I have you, old buddy.” Trading barbs was an integral part of their relationship; if Traynor didn’t do it, Charley was sure to think something was seriously wrong. Their ritual observed, Traynor got down to business. “Okay, enough BS. You find anything?”

  Charley handed him several printed sheets of paper. “I got what I could on short notice—her social was a big help. There’s her address, place of employment, driver’s license, and anything else I could find.”

  Traynor scanned the sheets, looking for anything new. There wasn’t much he didn’t already know. “This is it?”

  “Pretty much.”

  “Define ‘pretty much.’”

  “I Googled …”

  “Be careful with that stuff, googling at people could get you arrested.” Traynor’s joke didn’t register. “Google … it’s like ogle—you know, staring or peeping?”

 
“Funny. Pathetic, but funny. Anyhow, I Googled her name, found nothing new. Then I got hold of a friend of mine who lives out in Silicon Valley. She …”

  “She? All right, Charley! You have actually gotten to the point where you’ve learned there are two genders.”

  “Screw you, Ed. May I continue?”

  “Go ahead. I’ll try to control myself.”

  “Sarah, my friend, gave me what I needed to hack into the LAPD computers …”

  “Really? What did you find?”

  Charley picked up his ever-present bottle of soda and sipped from it. “I came across an interesting tidbit in the LA papers. They got a Jane Doe out there.” He paused.

  “And?”

  “It’s pretty brutal.”

  “Charley, tell me what you know for crying out loud.”

  “What really caught my attention were the similarities to Elizabeth Short, who was mutilated and murdered in 1947. They dubbed her the Black Dahlia.”

  “Okay.”

  “I just found it very interesting. You got a missing New England girl who went out to LA to live and fell out of sight. Short was from Medford, MA and went out there to make it. She was found in a vacant lot. I won’t go into detail, but she was cut up pretty bad. The case was a real sensation back in its day. This Jane Doe was found in an undeveloped area where the Reagan Freeway runs through Santa Susana Pass—the entrance to Simi Valley.”

  Suddenly Traynor became interested. Deborah had told him that Mindy was living in Simi Valley. “When did they find her?”

  Charley took the papers from Traynor’s hand and leafed through them. When he found the sheet he was looking for, he passed it back. The date was just under a week ago. Traynor’s heart sank.

  “You find out where they buried her?”

  “To the best of my knowledge, they haven’t yet. Most likely they got her on ice someplace. Refrigeration, Ed. It’s another modern day invention you may have heard of.”