Black Orchid

by Vaughn C. Hardacker

  Deborah dashed through the house and vaulted into the front yard. She bent forward and vomited. Sweat dripped from her brow and she remained in place for several minutes, until the waves of nausea passed. Once she was under control, she turned back to the house and saw Engle standing in the door. “You okay?” the cop asked.

  “I-I think so.”

  “Stay there while I call 9-1-1.”

  Another wave of dizziness swept through Deborah. “Don’t w-worry, I’m not going anywhere.”

  “Get yourself together. I don’t know Celia Doerr from Eve. You’ll probably have to do a preliminary ID on the body.”

  Deborah bent over, resting her hands on her knees, and when she turned her head, Engle was no longer in the door. “ID the body,” she whispered, “now that’s a chore I’m really looking forward to.” Her stomach heaved again, but nothing came up.

  Deborah watched the EMTs slide the gurney into the back of the ambulance. She stood in the middle of the small patch of dry grass that passed for a lawn in Simi Valley, while Engle talked with two plainclothes cops. When the California State Police detectives got in their cars and drove away, she went to Deborah. The two women stood side by side, Engle looking professional and unbothered by what they had found. On the other hand, Deborah stood with her arms folded across her chest as if she were cold. “They found what they think is the murder weapon,” Engle said, “a butcher’s knife. Apparently, the killer tried to clean it up, but you can never get rid of all trace evidence.”

  “Where was it?”

  “He put it back in the wooden block with the rest of the knives in the set.”

  Deborah was fixated on the front of the house. “That was the most horrid thing I’ve ever seen,” she said.

  “It was bad,” Engle said.

  “How do you deal with these things?”

  “Fortunately, I don’t have to deal with this type of crime on a regular basis.”

  Deborah could not get the image of Doerr’s corpse out of her mind. “Why did the killer cut her so many times?”

  “That level of brutality usually indicates an extreme level of rage. The type one might feel if they thought the victim had betrayed them.”

  “You don’t think—”

  “That Larry Provost murdered her? Yes, I do. If he learned that she had agreed to work with us, he’d have more to lose than any of the other conspirators.”

  “But,” Deborah said, “I thought you guys felt she’d be a shaky witness at best. In fact, I had the impression that everyone thought the DA would discount her completely.”

  “Maybe we should have told that to Provost.”

  Deborah faced Engle. “I don’t think I’m up to this anymore.” She thought about the death of Skidgel’s security guard and realized that she had never before been exposed to violent death, but since she had come to the West Coast, this was the third brutalized body she had encountered.

  “We’re getting close to bringing your sister’s killers down,” Engle said. “It’s too late to stop now.”

  Deborah inhaled deeply. “I know.”

  When the ambulance took Celia Doerr’s remains to the morgue, Deborah and Engle followed the Simi Valley police to the station. They parked in the lot reserved for police officers and entered the building, stopping before the watch commander’s desk. One of the officers who had been at the crime scene guided them inside to a small conference room and left them alone.

  The women sat alone for no more than five minutes before an officer wearing a business suit walked in and introduced himself. “I’m Sergeant Arreola…. I run the Violent Crimes Division of the Detective Unit. How is it that a member of the LAPD finds a murder victim in Simi Valley?”

  “We knew Ms. Doerr,” Engle said, “from her involvement in a case we’ve been working.”

  Arreola turned to Deborah. “What is your involvement in this?”

  “The victim of the open case was my sister. I came out here to find out what happened to her.”

  Arreola sat back in his chair and said, “Maybe you should tell me everything you know.”

  Keep your friends close and your enemies closer.

  —Sun Tzu

  67

  Abigail Allen was waiting on the deck when McMahon arrived for the morning’s shoot. She handed him a steaming cup of coffee and he took it and leaned against the railing beside her. “Today should wrap it up,” she said.

  “I thought there were a couple of weeks to go.”

  “There are, but we won’t need to shoot them on location. We’ll finish filming on the sound stage in LA.”

  McMahon sipped his coffee and pondered his next course of action.

  Jabłoński appeared in the sliding-glass door and motioned for McMahon.

  “The master beckons,” he said. He handed his mug back to Allen, opened the door, and walked onto the set.

  McMahon tossed his suitcase into the trunk of his rental car. He grabbed the lid, preparing to slam it down, but stopped when Allen came up from behind and said, “Can I catch a lift to the airport with you?”

  He turned and said, “Why not?” She was dressed in a white blouse, tight jeans, and the whitest sneakers he had seen outside of a shoe store. He looked over her shoulder and saw two stagehands struggling to keep pace as they each carried two gigantic suitcases. “What you got in them? Bodies?”

  “Hardly. It’s easy for you guys to make jokes,” she countered, “but it takes a lot to keep us girls looking good.”

  He stepped aside while her “porters” placed her luggage in the trunk and then walked to the right side door and opened it for her. “Your coach awaits, Your Majesty.”

  “Very funny.” She got in and fastened her seat belt.

  When McMahon sat behind the wheel, buckled his seat belt, and started the motor, she said theatrically, “To the airport, James.”

  He chuckled and drove out of the parking lot.

  They rode in silence until they were on Route 99, headed toward Vancouver. Out of nowhere, Allen asked, “Who are you anyway?”

  “Peter Puller. You know that.”

  “Don’t get cute. You know what I mean.”

  He resisted the urge to look at her, keeping his eyes on the twisting road ahead. “I’m a disgraced LA cop, who thought he’d take a vacation to British Columbia. I heard about the movie and thought I’d drop by and watch the goings-on.”

  “There’s only one word to describe that story: bullshit,” she said. “You aren’t telling me everything.”

  “That’s all you need to know.”

  “Humor me.”

  “Why, so you can tell your lord and master?”

  She picked up the emphasis and distaste in his voice. “It’s Kondrat you’re after, isn’t it?”

  “How many of his movies have you seen?”

  “All of them.”

  “The pornos too? What about a disgusting piece of shit called The Black Orchid?”

  “I’m not a prude, you should know that. But no, I’ve never seen that one.”

  “Maybe once we’re back in LA, I’ll arrange a screening for you.”

  They rode in silence for several minutes.

  “My turn to ask you a question,” he said.

  “Okay, I won’t promise you an answer though.”

  “Your refusal to answer could be an answer.”

  The road curved and he saw snow on the peaks that surrounded Howe Sound. The white shone brilliant between the light blue sky and the deep blue water. The landscape reminded him of the White Mountains, only with seashore. It was breathtaking.

  “Okay,” he said, “what does Jabłoński want? I’m not buying that he thinks he found a heretofore undiscovered talent in me—everything happened too easily to be happenstance.”

  “I have no idea.”

  That, he thought, is the biggest line of bullshit I have heard from you.

  “Do you mind if I smoke?” Allen asked.

  “Crack a window.”

  Mc
Mahon and Abigail Allen retrieved their checked baggage and exited the terminal. They stood on the sidewalk as McMahon flagged a cab. “You need a lift?” he asked.

  “No, here’s my ride.”

  McMahon watched a familiar Porche 9-11 pull alongside the curb and Vernon Skidgel stepped out of the car. He smiled at McMahon and said, “Well, if it ain’t my favorite ex-cop.”

  McMahon’s jaw clenched and it took all of his will power to refrain from punching Skidgel. Instead he said, “Yeah, ain’t it funny how we keep running into each other.”

  Skidgel kissed Allen on her cheek and picked up her bags. He walked around the car, opened the trunk, and put the suitcases inside. He then opened the passenger door for Allen and closed it once she was seated. He turned back to McMahon and with a cocky smirk said, “I’d offer you a lift, but as you can see there’s no room. Be seeing you.”

  “You bet your ass we will,” McMahon muttered in reply.

  “What have you heard from Ed and Manuel?” McMahon asked.

  “Nothing in the last four or five days,” Deborah answered.

  “Well, let’s hope that no news is good news. Now, bring me up to date on the Celia Doerr murder.”

  “There isn’t much to fill you in on. The Simi Valley police have jurisdiction and due to Angela’s involvement in the case, they haven’t been forthcoming with much information. I have my own theory though.”

  “Which is?” McMahon took a drink of coffee and, over the rim of the cup, stared intently into Deborah’s eyes.

  “I have no doubt that Provost did it,” she said.

  “Not that I don’t agree with you, but elaborate as to why you think that, please.”

  “Because I also believe he was my sister’s butcher. He is, after all, a medical doctor—a surgeon. He has definite political aspirations, which would take a kick in the pants if his participation in a murder was to ever be discovered.”

  “If that’s the case, why risk filming it?” McMahon asked.

  “Well, I think his risk is minimal. I haven’t had the stomach to watch the entire movie, but what I did see only showed the killer’s hands. Angela has her own theory about why he would do it.”

  McMahon was certain he knew what Engle’s theory was, but opted to hear it from somebody else. “Which is?”

  “She feels that similar to a serial killer taking souvenirs, he wants to revisit the crime scene. What better way than to watch it whenever he gets an urge?”

  “I’m inclined to believe you,” McMahon said. “Now, if we can connect him to Jabłoński and Abigail Allen, we could probably tie this thing up.”

  “We already know that Provost is involved with Skidgel, and Allen is too. I’m hoping that Skidgel will help us there.”

  “But we still can’t connect him directly to Jabłoński.”

  “I think Angela may have done that too.”

  McMahon leaned forward. “Oh?”

  “She has learned that Jabłoński and Provost worked together on television ads during the governor’s last election campaign.”

  “Wow, if we could only inform the governor that Provost is a person of interest in Celia Doerr’s murder.”

  “That,” Deborah said with a conspiratorial smile, “may be easier than you think. Hollis International was a major contributor to the governor’s campaign.”

  Poor Mexico, so far from God and so close to the United States.

  —Attributed to Porfirio Díaz (1830–1915)

  68

  After a three-hour hike, Traynor and McMahon came to a paved road and saw a sign that announced that Agua Pietra was ten kilometers away. Traynor wondered how much credibility anyone give to them. They were filthy. Their clothes were stained with mud and marked by rings of sweat; exposure to rain, mud, and swirling dust had made them formless and loose. He could not see Manuel’s face but knew it was streaked with furrows where sweat had cut through the dirt and dust; his hair looked dull and was matted with clumps of desert soil. Traynor figured that he probably looked even worse.

  Ten kilometers was about six miles and it took them almost another three hours to reach the outskirts of Agua Pietra. Several times they encountered vehicles going in their direction, but one look at the pair of them and the drivers kept on driving. One old man in a flatbed truck slowed, but when he spotted their guns, he too, thought better of stopping.

  “I wish Fitz had returned my cell phone,” Traynor said.

  “What would you do?” Manuel asked. “Call us a cab?”

  “I don’t need a phone for that.”

  “You don’t?”

  “Nope. We’re a cab.”

  Manuel shook his head. “As a comedian you make a good cop … don’t quit your day job.”

  Manuel and Traynor looked at each other and began snickering. Then Traynor bent over and laughed like a maniac.

  It was midafternoon when they reached the border crossing. They stood a couple of hundred yards away and waited for traffic to die down. As they walked across the border to US Customs, Traynor said, “I never thought it was possible to look worse than the picture on my driver’s license. I hope they’ll be able to match us with the pictures in our passports.”

  Manuel and Traynor checked into a local hotel where the clerk gave them dubious looks. Traynor knew that if their positions had been reversed, he would have been hesitant to accept a credit card from two men who looked as if the best accommodations they had seen of late was the inside of a gila monster den. Once they checked in, their next stop was a department store for new clothes and toiletries. Their purchases complete, they returned to the hotel where Traynor spent twenty minutes in a hot shower, trying to remove several pounds of Mexican dirt from his body.

  As soon as he was assured that he no longer smelled like a dead dinosaur, he called Deborah and updated her on their status. She was not pleased to learn of Toledo’s fate. When he explained that they had nothing on him in regard to the making of The Black Orchid, she said she understood, thankful that he and Manuel had survived the ordeal.

  She, in turn, apprised him of the events that had occurred since they had last spoken. It was obvious to Traynor that the situation in California had escalated. She said, “Ed, we need you and Manuel here as soon as you can get back.” She informed him that she would make arrangements for the corporate jet to pick them up at the nearest airport with a runway capable of handling the Gulfstream. She told him that she would call back as soon as she had arranged things.

  Manuel and Traynor were eating their first decent meal in days when the desk clerk walked into the small café and handed Traynor a message. The Gulfstream would pick them up in Tucson at three that afternoon. “Well,” Manuel said, “it seems that our vacation is over.”

  “Apparently,” Traynor replied, “I wonder if there’s a rental car office close by … I’ve done enough walking for one day and it’s four or five miles to the airport.”

  “I ain’t gonna say it,” Manuel answered.

  “I know, call us a cab …”

  Talk low, talk slow, and don’t say too much.

  —John Wayne, on acting

  69

  McMahon got to the set early and was greeted by Abigail Allen. At the back of the sound stage, he saw Jabłoński in what seemed to be a serious conversation with a man that McMahon could not see.

  “I want to apologize,” Allen said.

  “For what?”

  “Leaving you at the airport like I did.”

  McMahon glanced at Jabłoński and saw that the conversation appeared to be at an end. He almost left Allen when he saw Vernon Skidgel walking rapidly to the nearest exit. Maybe, he thought, the rats are about to depart the sinking ship. Jabłoński cast a worried look in McMahon’s direction and turned away.

  Allen was saying something. McMahon turned his attention away from the obviously worried director and said, “I’m sorry, I didn’t hear all of your last comment.”

  “I said the man who picked me up was an old friend.”
>
  “Abby, I wasn’t upset. Who you see is none of my business. Now, what’s the shooting schedule?”

  She consulted her notebook and said, “We’re shooting the final scene today.”

  She walked toward the cameras and he followed. As he neared Jabłoński, the director gave him a look that McMahon thought was filled with suspicion and caution. McMahon had no delusions about whether or not Jabłoński knew who he was—the director’s recent discussion with Skidgel had removed any possibility of anonymity. He knew that the final scene was an action scene involving a shootout between McMahon’s character—the protagonist—and the antagonist. He thought about the possibility of someone changing the blanks in the villain’s gun for live ammunition and decided to be even more vigilant than usual.

  Engle and Deborah were in a rental car and had spent the morning watching Provost. Deborah had to admire the audacity of his actions; he went about his business as if nothing out of the ordinary had happened of late. “You have to hand it to him,” she commented, “he’s very calm and collected. If my lover had been murdered, and I thought that I was the prime suspect, I’d be a nervous wreck.”

  “Political connections and clout will do that.”

  “You know what amazes me?”

  “That the governor isn’t running from him as if he had the plague?”

  “That too, but what truly amazes me is his arrogance. He obviously believes that he’s untouchable.”

  Provost’s car turned into the parking lot of an upscale restaurant and Deborah followed, passing their quarry and turning into a row several behind him. They parked in the first spot they found and watched as he exited his car and walked across the lot, disappearing through the door. “I think,” Engle said, “it’s about time we put the fear of God into him.”

  “How do you intend to do that?” Deborah asked.

  “Wait here. I’ll let you know if it works.”

  Engle followed Provost into the restaurant and immediately spotted him sitting alone at the back of the dining area. “May I help you?”