Black Orchid

by Vaughn C. Hardacker

  Traynor looked at Manuel, who returned his look. If Shoucar was correct, they would never get Toledo out of Mexico by plane or train. It looked as if they would have to abduct him. Easily said, but, given the level of security that Toledo had around him, not so easily done.

  Shoucar motioned for the server and picked up his bill. “I must be going. I have not seen my children for three days, and I don’t want them to start feeling fatherless.” He shook hands and exited the lounge.

  “So,” Traynor said to Manuel, “where does that leave us?”

  “As I see it, we only have one course of action left to us. We have to grab Toledo and run for the airport.”

  Traynor motioned for the server and ordered bourbon, neat, then turned back to Manuel. “Okay, given your vast experience in these matters, what do you think our chances of success are?”

  “Two … zilch and zilch point shit.”

  “Not very encouraging.”

  “I know. We can only hope that it comes up zilch and not …”

  “Power tends to corrupt, and absolute power corrupts absolutely. Great men are almost always bad men.”

  —Lord Acton, English historian and moralist, 1887

  29

  Angela Engle called McMahon while he and Deborah were eating dinner in the hotel restaurant. “Jack, where are you?”

  “Right now I’m eating dinner with Deborah. Why?”

  “I got the information you wanted on the driver of the Jag. However, I’m not comfortable relaying it over the phone.”

  If Engle was leery of passing the info over the phone, McMahon was certain that it was extremely sensitive. “Can you give me a hint at what we’re dealing with?”

  “A scandal that could go all the way to Sacramento.”

  “Okay, where can we meet?”

  “There’s this bar in Thousand Oaks that I go to occasionally. We could meet there in two hours.”

  “Give me the address.”

  Engle passed on the location and then said, “You know anything about a body that was dumped in Topanga Canyon?”

  “Why would I know anything about that?”

  “Because the guy was an independent security contractor.”

  “So?” McMahon knew where she was going and did not want to give her any fuel with which she could stoke the fire of her suspicions.

  “He was working for your buddy Skidgel. Now isn’t that a coincidence?”

  “It’s a strange world, isn’t it?”

  When he hung up, Deborah asked, “What was that all about?”

  Rather than scare her with the news that the body had been found, he replied, “That was Angela—she wants to meet with us in a couple of hours.”

  The bar was more of a restaurant than a watering hole and when McMahon and Deborah entered, they saw Engle wearing civilian clothes and sitting at a secluded booth near the back. Deborah slid into the seat across from her, leaving room for McMahon to sit beside his ex.

  They ordered drinks and Engle said, “Jack, you guys may have opened up a real can of worms.”

  “Everything about this affair is a can of worms,” he said.

  “Yes, but … this new can contains the campaign manager of Mark Alioto, the Governor of the State of California—who just happens to be running for reelection.”

  “Really?” McMahon leaned back and allowed the server to place their drinks on the table. Once the waitress was out of hearing range, he turned his attention back to Engle. “Who’s this campaign manager?”

  “Lawrence ‘Just call me Larry’ Provost …” Engle paused and then added, “MD.”

  McMahon felt a major piece of the puzzle fall into place. “He’s a doctor?”

  “Yup.”

  McMahon glanced at Deborah and saw that her brow was furrowed. It was obvious that she too had made the connection between this new information and the surgical precision with which Mindy had been butchered. He turned back to Engle. “And he is apparently acquainted with our friend Skidgel.”

  “I checked into that after you asked me to identify the owner of the estate. It seems that Skidgel is in charge of security at Provost’s estate.”

  McMahon held Engle’s eyes with his. “Are you on the same channel as we seem to be?”

  “If you’re wondering if he was the cutter in The Black Orchid, then I am.”

  “Why would a doctor do such a thing?” Deborah asked.

  “Who knows? Maybe we’ll find out when we bring him down. There was a book written several years back—a former LAPD homicide detective made a strong case that it was his father, also a doctor, who killed Elizabeth Short …”

  Deborah looked at McMahon; her puzzled expression was all the encouragement that he needed to explain. “Elizabeth Short was from your part of the country, Medford, Mass. She was found in a vacant lot, butchered in a manner similar to Mindy—only it was never captured on film—at least not that I know of. They never solved the case, but this book pointed fingers at a lot of people—from prominent Hollywood celebrities to corrupt cops. The case is unsolved and still open.”

  “Do you think this Larry Provost killed her too?” Deborah asked.

  “No chance of that,” Engle answered, “The Black Dahlia murder was in the winter of 1947. To be Short’s killer, Provost would have to be in his eighties or even his nineties.”

  “The Black Dahlia?” Deborah said.

  “I know it’s similar. Maybe the title is the killer’s way of paying homage to the Dahlia,” McMahon added. “In his book the author links his father and a popular artist of the day to over thirty killings, spanning from Elizabeth Short to an up-and-coming actress. He even believes the mother of a well-known writer was one of their victims.”

  Deborah took a drink of her cocktail. “You know,” she commented, “I’m getting an entirely different view of southern California than that of the Mecca for surfers and aspiring celebrities.”

  “Yeah,” Engle said, “we also have celebrities like Caryl Chessman, the Zodiac Killer, and the Hillside Strangler.”

  “Don’t forget the local legend: Manson,” McMahon said.

  Deborah said, “So what do we do now?”

  “Find a way to lobotomize the good doctor …”

  Deborah looked at him to see if he was joking—the stern look on his face was her answer.

  When a number of investigators are involved, a tactical plan is developed …

  —FM 3-19.13, Law Enforcement Investigations

  30

  “I told Toledo to meet us tomorrow morning at the monument to the Mexican Revolution of 1910.”

  “I thought you wanted someplace less public,” Traynor replied, between bites of food.

  “This is Mexico and tomorrow is Sunday. If the good people don’t show up at mass, the priest will show up at their home later.”

  “With his hand out, no doubt.”

  “Most definitely. Rather than have the good padre visit, they’ll attend mass.”

  “How so?”

  “If you attend mass, you can leave in an hour and a half, at most … if the priest shows up on your doorstep, he’ll leave when he wants to—and that could be hours later and with your liquor supply severely depleted.”

  “Point well made,” Traynor said. “What’s your plan?”

  “Don’t have one.”

  “Now that’s as comforting as a one-way ticket to hell.”

  “Yup … and that is exactly what it may turn out to be.” Manuel grinned. “So we’d better follow the rules of a gunfight—”

  “Gotcha, rule number one: bring all your guns.”

  “Number two: bring all your friends and all of their guns.”

  By now Traynor was caught up in the spirit of the game. “Don’t forget the most important rule …”

  “Ahhh, yes. Don’t be the one idiot who brought nothing but a knife to the gunfight.”

  Traynor chuckled. “Okay, let’s assume that the gunfight is over and we’re still looking at the grass from the g
reen-side down. What then?”

  “We make a run for the airport and the corporate jet.”

  “Could be hairy.”

  “No doubt it will be. Once word spreads that we have him, three-quarters of the crooked cops in Mexico City will be after us. The reward for anybody who rescues Toledo will be substantial.”

  “So far, I’m with you. However, we both know the teachings of the great prophet Murphy. What do we do if we can’t catch our plane?”

  “Then we run north … try to cross the border somewhere between Tijuana and Matamoros.”

  “If I recall my junior-high geography correctly, that’s the entire border between Mexico and the US.”

  “I figured I’d leave us some room to improvise.”

  “You are a truly gifted strategist, Manuel.”

  “You think?”

  “No.” They were grinning like a couple of teenagers plotting to skip school.

  “But either way, you got to promise me something,” Traynor said.

  “Like what?”

  “You won’t get your ass killed. With my knowledge of Spanish, I wouldn’t make it to the nearest street corner.”

  Still grinning, Manuel said, “I’ll try my best. What will you do if my unfortunate demise becomes imminent?”

  “Then like women in the old west used to tell their men—save your last bullet for me.”

  “Hmmm, sounds tempting, but there’s only one problem.”

  “Which is?”

  “I’m told you never hear the one that gets you. I might be dead before I can fulfill my promise. Then what?”

  “You got a point. Fortunately, I have until tomorrow morning to figure something out. Maybe even become fluent in Spanish.”

  Manuel burst out laughing. “Become fluent in Spanish overnight? That I would love to see, amigo.”

  “Well, you know what they say.”

  “They say a lot of things.”

  “I’m thinking of Plato, who said: Necessity is the mother of invention.”

  Each member of the … team should know the scope and extent of the crimes and activities in which the suspects are involved.

  —FM 3-19.13, Law Enforcement Investigations

  31

  The morning broke crisp and sunny. Nevertheless, humidity and haze hung over the mountains surrounding the city and promised extreme heat for later in the day. The streets of Ciudad de México were for the most part empty; it was still too early for the market places and businesses to be open. The plaza and parking area around the monument to the Mexican Revolution of 1910 were vacant and Manuel and Traynor had the place to themselves. While Manuel roamed around—probably checking fields of fire and escape routes—Traynor strolled over to the old steam railroad locomotive that sat across from the monument and pondered what role it had played in the revolution that had taken place just over a century ago.

  After several minutes, he lost interest in the old train and walked into the arch, once again reading the plaque dedicated to Pancho Villa. He contemplated how many North Americans knew Villa had been much more than the border bandit depicted in the movies. In reality, Villa was a revolutionary who advocated for the poor and wanted agrarian reform.

  Traynor’s reverie was interrupted when Manuel called to him, pointing to the street that led into the parking lot. Their guests had arrived … and it was time to get down to the business at hand.

  Traynor’s first impression was that they were up to their asses in snapping alligators. Toledo’s men came in two stretch limos—it would be an exercise in futility to try to estimate how many them there were. He turned to Manuel. “Got any ideas?”

  “Yup.”

  “Such as?”

  “Shoot first … and shoot often.”

  “Sounds like the best plan you’ve had yet.”

  Five goons, dressed in their Sunday-morning finery, exited the second limo and immediately set up a perimeter around the plaza. Each bore a small automatic weapon; several appeared to be Uzis. “That’s one hell of a lot of firepower,” Traynor muttered.

  “I saw. We need to even the odds a bit.”

  “How do we do that?”

  “We have to lure Toledo inside the arch, where we’ll have some cover.”

  Toledo and two more of his security guards appeared from the other limo. The bodyguards also carried automatic weapons, but Traynor didn’t have time to care what type of weapons these were … He was too busy trying to come up with a way to cover his ass.

  “So much for trusting those with whom you do business,” Manuel muttered. He raised his arm in greeting. “¡Buen día! Señor Toledo.”

  Toledo approached but said nothing. He stopped before them and seemed wary. “I see no portfolio.”

  Traynor was bewildered. Was Toledo expecting drawings or architectural plans? Manuel did not miss a beat and said, “The briefcase is inside the arch.”

  “You left that much dinero unattended?”

  Manuel was as cool as an ice mine in Antarctica. “Of course not. There isn’t anyone else here this early on a Sunday.” He made a point of removing a handkerchief and wiping his brow and the back of his neck. “Madre de ¡Dios, it is hot. Shall we continue our business in the shade of the arch?”

  Toledo glanced at the monument and then nodded to one of his goons, who turned toward it. Traynor followed and before he had gone two steps, Toledo said, “Still there is no trust …”

  “Of course there is,” Traynor replied, “as much as you have for us.” He pointed at Toledo’s guards. “Honestly, Señor, seven men, all armed with automatic weapons. Is that your idea of trust?”

  Traynor followed the armed hood into the arch. Toledo’s man looked around the interior for several moments and then gave him a menacing glare before returning to his jefe. He spoke softly into Toledo’s ear and the drug boss’s face grew hard.

  “Esteban tells me there is no portfolio there.”

  “Of course there isn’t,” Manuel said. “As you yourself pointed out, it would be estúpido to leave so much money in a public place.”

  Toledo looked as if he were about to bolt but stayed in place when Manuel said, “It is in our truck.” He turned to his partner and said, “Señor Traynor, if you would bring the case.”

  Traynor walked across the plaza and down the tree-lined street to where their SUV was parked in the shade. He was surprised that Toledo had not sent one of his henchmen to accompany him—in his place, he would have.

  Traynor unlocked the truck and at the last second, decided to change the plan. Rather than bring the briefcase—with the million dollars of play money—he was going to bring the truck. They might have to make a quick getaway.

  He gets campaign contributions from the rich and votes from the poor on the pretense that he’s protecting each from the other.

  —English adage

  32

  Engle had once again gone out on a limb for McMahon and obtained the home phone and address of “Just Call Me Larry” Provost. Over breakfast, Deborah had come up with a tactic that surprised McMahon, while at the same time impressing him with her deviousness—if not her capacity for treachery. “Let’s spook him out,” she had said.

  “Sounds good. What you got in mind?”

  “A couple of phone calls.”

  “One will be to Provost, no doubt. Who will the other go to?”

  “To that deceitful bitch I think set up my sister—Celia Doerr.”

  McMahon heard the venom in her voice and saw the hardness in her eyes. He knew Deborah had always been a tough woman—she had to be if she was to successfully run an international conglomerate—but this level of vindictiveness was something new. She had undergone a metamorphosis since she had arrived in Los Angeles. He felt sorry for anyone who crossed her in the future.

  “What do we say?” he asked.

  “Not much. Only: We know what happened to Mindy. Let the murdering bastards figure things out for themselves.”

  “It might work,” he said. “
If nothing else it may spook them enough to run to Skidgel. Hell, they may get scared enough to call a meeting with the entire crew. When do we make these calls?”

  “Most people are at home on Sunday morning …”

  “And it’s Sunday morning … How about we do it while sitting outside one of their homes?”

  Deborah gave him a knowing smile. “I vote on her place.”

  “Any particular reason?”

  “I want to be there to observe her reaction. Also, Provost is heavily involved in the governor’s reelection campaign. The last thing he or the governor wants is a scandal.”

  “Deborah, the more I get to know you, the more I’m glad you’re on my side.”

  Traffic was light and in less than an hour, McMahon and Deborah were parked down the street from Celia Doerr’s house in Simi Valley. Deborah took a cell phone out of her purse.

  “She’s probably got caller ID,” McMahon said.

  “No doubt. That’s why I bought this disposable phone last night.”

  He chuckled. “So this is not something that you came up with this morning.”

  “Hardly. By the way, when we drove by, did you notice what’s parked behind her house?”

  “Yep, a shiny new Jag. This guy thinks he’s smart. Unfortunately for him, and fortunately for us, he’s dumber than a cow pie.”

  Deborah called information and asked for Celia Doerr’s number. When she was prompted to hit a key to dial the number, she did so. She waited for a few minutes, listening to the ringing of the phone. “Either they’re sleeping in … or giving each other some early-morning delight.”

  Not wanting to be heard should the phone be answered, McMahon swallowed his laughter.

  After several tense moments, someone answered.

  Deborah lowered the tone of her voice and mumbled, “We know what you did to Mindy.” Then she broke the connection. “Now,” she said, “I guess we wait.”

  “We wait,” McMahon said softly. “Early-morning delight. Woman, you amaze me.” He laughed.

  “Stick around, big boy,” Deborah said, doing a passable Mae West. “You ain’t seen nothin’ yet.”