Black Orchid

by Vaughn C. Hardacker

  Deborah ignored his play on words and said, “If we had any doubts about Jabłoński’s involvement, they’re gone.”

  He nodded. “Yup, seems we now have the producer, the casting agent, and the director.”

  “I need to look at that video again,” Deborah said.

  “Once wasn’t enough?”

  “Oh, it was more than enough to disgust and shock me. This time, however, we need to concentrate on Provost. I think he was the butcher. We need to determine whether or not there are any marks or features that will help us to positively identify him …”

  “… Or them. We still don’t know exactly what Doerr’s involvement is.”

  “We can’t stay here forever,” Deborah said. “Why don’t we get some dinner and then go to her house? I want a few minutes alone with that bitch.” Her face hardened, and McMahon was certain that if Doerr knew anything, Deborah would get it out of her.

  Provost dropped Celia Doerr at her home just past nine that evening. Rather than stay, he left. Once Celia was inside and Provost was out of sight, Deborah opened her door. “You coming with me?” she asked McMahon.

  He replied, “I’ll come in once you’re inside. If she sees me, she might be reluctant to let you in.”

  “Okay.”

  Deborah was standing beside the car when she heard McMahon call to her. She bent over, her head inside the door.

  “You may want this.” He offered her a pistol.

  “I don’t need a gun to deal with the likes of her.”

  “All right, it’s your call … just be careful.”

  “Always.”

  She walked to Doerr’s house and rang the doorbell. It took several moments for the door to open as far as the security chain would allow. Doerr peeked at her through the narrow opening. “Yes?”

  “Ms. Doerr, Celia Doerr?”

  “Yes, how can I help you?”

  “I’m Deborah Hollis … Mindy’s sister. I’ve come to LA to take her home. The men we hired to find her said that she had been living with you, and I’ve come for any of her things you may have.”

  “It’s quite late—”

  “I know and I apologize for that, but I’m flying home in the morning and this is the first chance I’ve had to come for her things.”

  “I suppose it will be all right.” The door closed and Deborah heard the security chain slide and the door open, letting her in.

  “Thank you.” Before she entered she glanced back and saw McMahon get out of the car.

  Inside, Doerr offered her a seat and said, “After your men were here, I realized that someone would be coming for her things, so I took the liberty of packing them up. If you’ll excuse me, I’ll only be a few moments.”

  “Of course.”

  Once she left the room, Deborah opened the door and let McMahon in. They both sat on the couch and waited for her to return.

  Doerr walked into the room carrying a cardboard box. She saw McMahon and stopped. “What is this?”

  “I believe that you and Mr. McMahon have met,” Deborah announced. “I think you’d better sit down and talk with us.”

  “About what? I already told him and the other man everything I know.”

  “How about,” Deborah said in a flat voice, “your relationship with Larry Provost and Vernon Skidgel?”

  “I have no idea who those people are.”

  McMahon saw the box Doerr held and asked, “What is that?”

  “Mindy’s things,” Deborah answered.

  “Really?” McMahon said. He turned on Doerr. “When we first met, you said that she tool all of her things when she moved out.”

  Doerr tried to cover her tracks. “I found these after you left …”

  Deborah’s eyes narrowed and her lips stiffened into a straight line. “Let’s not play games, Ms. Doerr. We’ve been following you. Larry Provost spent the night here and you and he abruptly ran out and drove to Kondrat Jabłoński’s home when I phoned you—”

  “That was you?”

  Deborah gave her a coquettish smile and said, “We also know that Provost is more than casually acquainted with Skidgel. We’ve seen them together.”

  Doerr’s face blanched and her eyes darted from side to side. Deborah thought she looked like a cornered rodent.

  “Vernon Skidgel, also known as Vincent Beneventi, entraps young women into making pornographic movies. Am I getting through to you Celia?” Deborah smiled and in a pleasant voice added, “It is all right if I call you Celia? You can call us Deborah and Jack.”

  Doerr began to pace back and forth, wringing her hands as she did. “I had no idea what they had planned—”

  “What’s Jabłoński’s role in this?” McMahon asked.

  “He directed that disgusting film.”

  “Why,” Deborah interjected, “would he become involved in something like that?”

  “Kondrat Jabłoński is possibly the worst of all of them,” Doerr answered. “They have home video of him having sex with minors and he’s a cocaine addict and dealer. Nevertheless, I think he’d do it even if none of that were true. He’s scum.”

  Neither Deborah nor McMahon said anything, allowing Doerr to bare her soul. “When this gets out,” she said, “and I’m sure it’s about to, I wouldn’t be surprised if he isn’t on the next plane to some country where there’s no extradition treaty with the United States. He would have no problem leaving the rest of them to take the fall.”

  “Them? I think us would be more appropriate.” Deborah’s voice was fraught with contempt.

  “No, them is the correct word. I had nothing to do with that movie. Why would I be held accountable?”

  “Let me put this in words even you can understand,” McMahon said. “This is not going to be a morals charge. Mindy was murdered and everyone who knows anything about it will be arrested and charged as an accomplice. In your case as an accessory either before or after the fact, or possibly the lesser crime of aiding and abetting—either way, you’re looking at some serious jail time.”

  “But I did nothing—”

  “Exactly,” Deborah said. “You did nothing … nor did you do anything to stop it.”

  “What if I testify against all of them … Would that get me anything?”

  “The word of one person, who I might add is trying to save her own neck, against that of who knows how many people … at least one of whom is very influential,” McMahon said. “How much value do you think that will have in court? You’ll be lucky if the DA even considers you as a potential witness.”

  Doerr flopped into an easy chair. “What can I do? I’ll give you anything you need.”

  “The names of everyone involved,” Deborah said. “And I mean everyone, even the people who cleaned up the cabin after …”

  “You know where that is?”

  “Celia,” Deborah said, “you have no idea how much we know.”

  Government security forces are fighting the drug cartels in an attempt to reestablish law and order. Rival cartels are at war with each other in bitter territorial battles.

  —BBC News

  47

  The sun shining through the small window in the door woke Traynor. He heard the toilet flush and a few seconds later Manuel walked into the room, wiping his hands with a towel. “Good morning,” he said.

  Traynor nodded, too groggy to say anything. He looked around the room; he’d been in so many strange rooms the past week that it took him several seconds to remember where they were. Toledo lay on the floor, shackled to one of the legs of Manuel’s bed. Traynor stood and slid into his trousers. “It’s almost five in the morning. Why didn’t you wake me for my watch at three?”

  “You’ve been doing most of the driving and will continue to do so, so I figured I’d let you sleep. I’ll be able to nap in the truck.”

  Traynor nodded toward Toledo. “He give you any trouble?”

  “Nah.”

  Traynor smelled coffee and saw that Manuel had made some in the room’s small cof
fee service. He walked to it and poured a cup. “I’ve been thinking …”

  “I thought I could smell wood burning,” Manuel quipped.

  Traynor looked at the steaming cup of coffee for a second, and then asked, “Does heating the water for coffee make it safe to drink?”

  “No, you need to boil it for twenty minutes at least to kill all the micro-organisms. Don’t worry, I used bottled water, so you should be okay.”

  Traynor sipped the coffee. It wasn’t gourmet, but it was hot and full of caffeine, which was good enough. “As I was saying, I’ve been thinking. Are we on a fool’s errand?”

  “In what manner?”

  Traynor nudged Toledo with his foot. “Shithead here. If all he did was finance the movie and wasn’t even in the US when it was made, what can he be charged with?”

  Manuel checked how secure Toledo’s handcuffs were and motioned for Traynor to follow him outside. Once the door was closed behind them, he said, “For the movie, probably nothing. For trafficking in illegal drugs, he’ll do a long stretch. The DEA has been after him for years.”

  “So we continue risking our lives to bring him north? Manuel, don’t tell me you have a hidden agenda here.”

  “Such as?”

  “I don’t know—maybe balancing the books from your stretch undercover?”

  “No, I’m not. But taking a major player out of the picture is fulfilling.”

  “That doesn’t seem like much of a consolation to me. You and I would be facing kidnapping charges down here.”

  “Murder charges.”

  “Murder? Anyone we killed was trying to kill us. In any court, that’s self-defense.”

  “Remember, this is not the US, so get your bribes in early … and often.”

  Traynor sipped his coffee, letting the brilliant sun warm him. “This is nuts. We race across half of Mexico and if we do get him across the border, he can afford to hire some high-priced mouthpiece who’ll probably fix it so he walks to the nearest airport and buys a first-class ticket home. Am I right?”

  “No.” Manuel turned and put his hand on the doorknob. “If he goes home, it will be in either an urn or a coffin.”

  Traynor let that one ride and followed him back into the room.

  An hour later, they were back on the road. Toledo was once again securely chained to the handgrip near the top of the passenger-side door. “I’m hungry,” he announced.

  Traynor held his hand out. “Glad to meet you, Hungry. I’m Ed.”

  Toledo turned his head and stared out the window.

  Manuel threw a chocolate bar into Toledo’s lap. “Put that in your mouth and shut up.”

  Toledo looked over his shoulder and scowled at Manuel. He picked the candy up with his free left hand and said, “I can’t open it with one hand.”

  “Use your fuckin’ teeth,” Manuel growled.

  Traynor switched on the radio. “Let’s see what Fredericka is doing.”

  All they picked up was static.

  They stopped on the outskirts of a small city named Janos, population about two bricks shy of a full load. Manuel exited the truck, placed his hands on the small of his back, and stretched. Traynor too got out and circled the vehicle.

  “You want me to drive for a while?” Manuel asked.

  “Naw, I just need a short break. How far is it to the border?”

  “Two and a half, maybe three hours.” Manuel inhaled deeply. “From now on, we’re deep in cartel country.”

  “I gather you’re telling me to keep a weapon handy.”

  “And have it loaded and cocked. If they don’t already have us pinpointed, I’ll be surprised.”

  Traynor stared at the morning sun and arched his back, feeling his vertebrae shift, and his road-weary muscles stretch. “Well,” he said, “I guess this is why we make the medium bucks.”

  “We need to watch closely from here on. There isn’t a town big enough to have a welcome sign between here and Agua Prieta.”

  “That where we’re headed?”

  “No, they’ll be watching the border crossing between there and Douglas, Arizona. Not far from there is an old mining road that ends close to the border. We’ll ditch the truck at the mine and walk about a mile, give or take, to the border.”

  Traynor remained silent, processing what Manuel had said. It made sense not to try and cross at any established crossing; even a Cub Scout would know enough to report them.

  “What do you think our chances are of making it across without being found?”

  “About the same as Charles Manson’s chances of getting into heaven.”

  “That good, huh.”

  “Maybe even less …”

  “Well, if I’m going to hell, at least this trip has got me acclimated to the heat.”

  Manuel grinned and gave him a tap on his right biceps. “C’mon, let’s get this over with.”

  Before heading through town, they took care of nature’s business and made sure that Toledo did the same. He was even more surly than usual. Traynor didn’t know if it was from proximity to the border or the fact that if they did run into anyone, they would most likely not be concerned with his health and well-being.

  Traynor studied the landscape and found it to be more hills and scrub brush. He hadn’t seen a real tree in so long that he vowed to stop at the first one they encountered and sacrifice a goat. A flash of light attracted his eye, and he said to Manuel, “Try to be as nonchalant as you can and look at that bluff to the east.”

  Manuel shifted, trying not to look directly at the location. “What do you see?”

  “I caught a flash of light on the top of the smaller of the ridges over there.”

  As if on cue, the flash showed itself again. “I think they’ve found us,” Manuel said.

  “Terrific.”

  “They know that we only have two options once we arrive in Janos. We can go east to Juárez or west to Agua Prieta. They’ll be waiting for us on Route 2, which is the only road of any substance between the two.” He turned toward the truck. “Like I said, keep your guns handy … and loaded.”

  Investigators often believe they can “pretend” to care about the suspect’s situation in order to gain his trust.

  —FM 3-19.13, Law Enforcement Investigations

  48

  McMahon decided that it was time for him to poke a stick into the varmint’s den and see what scurried out. The tracking device on Skidgel’s car indicated that he was back at the estate. Rather than breeching the walls a second time, he drove through the gate to the front door.

  When he rang, Skidgel answered. He gave McMahon a hard look and said, “What you doin’ here?”

  Without waiting for an invitation, McMahon walked into the house. “Nice place. Helluvalot better than that apartment you keep as a front, that’s for sure.”

  Skidgel closed the door and scowled at his uninvited guest. “You got brass balls, buddy. This ain’t my place. I’m the head of security here. All I got to do is call my people and you’re dead.”

  “I’ve already met your security people, and they didn’t impress me much. Now how about you knock off the bogus tough guy routine and sit down before I knock you down.”

  Skidgel deflated, and he turned and trudged deeper into the house. Following close behind, McMahon studied the décor; it was impressive to say the least. The furnishings were expensive: two of the gilded chairs that lined the foyer’s walls probably cost as much as his car. An ornate crystal chandelier was suspended from the ceiling, but he couldn’t even estimate its worth. They walked through a long hallway adorned with artwork, mostly landscapes and several seascapes. The passage led them to a colossal living room in which an enormous leather couch, with matching chairs, faced a marble fireplace that was so large McMahon thought it was ostentatious. Without waiting to be offered a seat, McMahon dropped into one of the chairs.

  Skidgel tried to keep as much distance between them as possible and sat in a chair on the opposite end of the couch. “One of my
guards was found dead in Topanga Canyon,” he said. “You know anything about that?”

  McMahon leaned back and said, “As I said, your security team isn’t very good.”

  “Okay, you got the floor. You still haven’t told me why you’re here.”

  “After living in a place like this”—McMahon looked around the room—“sharing a nine-by-twelve cell with some gangbanger named Bubba is going to be a rough transition.”

  Skidgel shrugged as if he was unconcerned at the thought of prison—but the sudden drop of his jowls said otherwise. “That ain’t been determined yet. I got friends,” he replied. McMahon knew that he was speaking with more bravado than he felt.

  “Oh, I think a lot more has been determined than you think. As much money as this place cost, it’s just a shack compared to where Jabłoński and Toledo live. You do know that we have Toledo?”

  Skidgel paled. “I don’t know any of those names.”

  “Bullshit. I saw you enter Jabłoński’s estate yesterday. I also saw you meet with Provost. You’re all up to your armpits in quicksand … and there ain’t nobody around to throw you a rope.”

  Skidgel sat back, looking the same way he had in the apartment the day they found his video library and the copy of The Black Orchid. Even though his swagger had left, he still tried to sound tough. “Ain’t no big deal. I’m sure a lot of people know those guys, it don’t mean nothin’.”

  “We also got somebody—I won’t give you the name—who is willing to turn state’s evidence. Now, think about this. If some heavyweights like Jabłoński and Provost are faced with doing time, who you think they’re gonna roll over on? Hell, I wouldn’t be surprised if Jabłoński isn’t on his way back to Poland as we speak.”

  “You still ain’t told me what you want.”

  “Nothin’, I just like to watch assholes like you shit razor blades.” McMahon stood. “It’s been a pleasure visiting with you, Vern … or do you prefer Vince? Don’t bother gettin’ up—I know the way out.”

  As he walked through the hall to the foyer, McMahon finally allowed himself to grin. Now, he thought, let’s see who rolls over on whom …