by Edward Lee
Yeah, I guess it does, Westmore thought. "So where is she now?"
"After her parents were murdered, she was still a minor, so her aunt and uncle in Jacksonville became her legal guardians. The aunt and uncle are clean as a whistle, too. When I talked to 'em on the phone, they told me that Debbie's attending her second semester at Oxford University, in England. They gave me all kinds of contact numbers, school registration ID, her dorm, her classes and teachers-the kitchen sink."
"You check the contacts?"
"Registration, sure. Everything else I didn't bother with, but I'll give it a shot if you really want."
"I want. Please."
A sigh over the line. "Do you have any idea what a pain in the ass that is? The time-difference alone-"
"I told you I'd pay your normal rate," Westmore interrupted. He knew his request was inconsiderate, but he couldn't help it. "I really need this, Tom."
"All right, gimme a few days."
"Thanks," Westmore rushed. "And now fill me in on Hildreth."
A light chuckle. "This billionaire businessman of yours was no businessman."
"What do you mean?"
"He's only applied for one business license in his life. One incorporation, some sleazy outfit called T&T Enterprises. You ready for a laugh? It's a-"
"A porn company, I know," Westmore said. "And I don't even think it ever showed a profit."
"You got that right," Tom told him. "This Hildreth character bought it from some scumbag in California for a million when it was turning a slim profit, then he ran it right into the ground. Barely released any movies, didn't maintain distribution deals, stopped advertising. It's almost like he didn't care that he wasn't showing any numbers in the black."
"He didn't care," Westmore confirmed. "He was an eccentric. What I heard is he bought the company because he liked the girls who worked in it."
Tom laughed. "Yeah, I'd say that's eccentric. `Hey, baby, I like your ass so much, I bought your company. You work for me now."'
"Something like that, I think." Westmore lit a cigarette. "What about his background?"
"No background. Born in Jersey in 1944, parents moved to Florida in '46-a11 non-descript. High school education. Haven't dug deep enough to get a work history, deed history, etc. Reginald Hildreth is off the map, like most of us small-time regular people, until the early '80s."
"What happened then?"
"That's when he got rich. The only real trace of him financially are his federal tax records. This is the part that'll knock you over."
"Start knocking."
"Between 1981 and 1983, your man grossed a hundred million dollars. I thought he must be some financial whizkid or a Fortune 500 guy-boy, did I get that wrong."
"So how'd he do it?"
"Gambling."
Westmore frowned. "You can't make a hundred million dollars gambling. That's crazy."
"I know, but tell that to your guy. For those two years he walked into about a hundred different casinos, took each place for about a million, and walked out. Paid his taxes on each hit, and moved on."
"A guy wouldn't last two nights in Vegas like that. They'd bar him."
"He didn't last two nights. He took Vegas for a million, then went to Atlantic city, then hit the biggest Indian casino resorts in a dozen different states, then did it in Costa Rica, Monte Carlo, and on and on, like that. Nothing anybody could do about it 'cos it was all legit. And the fucker paid his taxes, so Uncle Sam didn't raise a fuss."
Westmore shook his head at the absurdity. "Was he a mathematical genius or something? Photographic memory?"
"Could have been, no real way to find out, though. Maybe he was just lucky. The guy ran with a streak. Maybe he did what most gamblers never do: walked when the pile got high."
"I don't know. That's a lot of luck," Westmore said.
"The real luck comes later. But this gambling stuff? You read about it all the time. Weird, sure. But it happens. Like that lady in Ohio who won the two state lotteries in the same year. As far as your man goes, the real luck came after the gambling streak."
"I heard he was an investor."
"He was-with no educational training to back it up, and no investment background. Any time Hildreth won a jackpot at a casino, he'd pay the taxes and invest in the stock market."
"Blue Chip stuff?"
Another laugh. "This guy bought shares in every longshot garage company out there, but pretty much just the ones that hit it big down the road. Microsoft, Apple, Bank of America, the little pee-hole that AOL was before they became AOL-there's a long list. They all turned out to be winners a few years later, thousand-percent share-profits and multiple buy-outs and stock-splits. Right now, the guy's worth one-point-four-billion."
Was worth, Westmore corrected in thought. Now he's dead. Or was that even true? He was trying to keep professional. He'd taken a job. He had a client, Vivica Hildreth, yet the harder he tried to remain focused on the responsibilities he was being paid preposterously well for, he had to wonder. What exactly am I doing now? It almost seemed he was on his own investigation, for his own curiosity. "That's great work, Tom. Thanks. But I also want you to run another name for me too."
"Oh, no problem, buddy. I'm not busy here, I've got nothing better to do than-"
"I hear you. Bill me double, anything. But when you're following up on Debbie Rodenbaugh, I want you to run a check on the wife-Vivica Hildreth."
A long sigh. "You got it."
Westmore's thoughts strayed-back to Hildreth.
"You there?" Tom asked.
"Oh, yeah. I was just thinking. All that money Hildreth made? Gambling? You really think any guy can be that lucky?"
"Some guys got it, some guys don't," Tom said. He laughed dryly. "Who knows? Maybe the guy sold his soul to the devil."
Westmore was staring into space. "Thanks for the help. I'll let you go now, and give you a call in a few days."
"Sure thing."
Westmore hung up. He spewed cigarette smoke, watched it twist into strange shapes and dissipate. Jesus. What am I thinking? He picked up his glass of scotch, sniffed it, then put it down, and swigged some ice water.
Someone tapped his shoulder. "This who you're looking for?" and then a photograph was thrust in front of his face. "I heard you mention her name on the phone a minute ago.. *" Before Westmore could look at the man who'd said it, the photo hooked his vision.
It was Debbie Rodenbaugh.
Who the- He jerked around in his seat, glaring up.
And was stunned by the face that looked back at him.
"I guess I better call the police," Westmore said, infuriated. The guy who sat next to him he'd seen before. Older guy, buzz-cut with a bald spot, dark mustache.
"You made me that fast?"
It was "Mike," from Bayside Pest Control. Here he wore jeans, beat-up loafers, and a t-shirt with Jane Fonda in rifle cross-hairs.
Westmore was at a loss. "I just saw you on a security video tape, changing discs in your illegal bugging equipment while masquerading as a pest-control employee."
"Don't that beat all . . ." He looked at Westmore's scotch. "I thought you didn't drink."
Westmore slumped, groaning. "I don't, long story, none of your business. Two questions. Why shouldn't I call the police right now, and why do you have a picture of Deborah Rodenbaugh?"
"Wait on calling the cops. I'd beat the rap anyway. My brother-in-law is the state attorney, and some of my best friends are in the county prosecutor's office. I'm an ex-cop, I did twenty-years with the county sheriff's department. When I retired, I was the commander of the narcotics unit, and I got more commendations than any cop in the history of the department."
"Correction," Westmore said. "Three questions. Who the fuck are you?"
"Bart Clements." He passed Westmore his wallet, which contained a retired police ID. Looks legit, Westmore thought. But what do I know?
"Gimme a minute, and I'll answer all your questions," Clements said. "I came here for a reason-
to talk to you. I know this is your hangout. Christ, I've been coming here every night for the last week. It's about time you finally showed." He ordered a draft beer, a Coke, and a basket of onion rings from the barkeep, then took the Coke to a girl who sat by herself out at a dark table overlooking the water.
When he came back, Westmore asked, "Who's that?"
"A friend."
Westmore frowned, looked at the girl again. She looked skinny, trashy, cut-off jeans, flip-flops, tube-top. Stringy dark hair. "What are you, about sixty?"
"Fifty-seven."
"No offense, man, but she looks like a twenty-five-yearold streetwalker."
"She is."
"That's great. Decorated ex-cop ... picking up hookers."
"I've got a problem with hookers, always have." Clements looked at him. "Everybody's got something, right? Nyvysk quit the priesthood 'cos he was fuckin' falling in love with other priests. Adrianne Saundlund is a drug-addict, and Cathleen Godwin is a sex-addict. Patrick Willis is a porn-addict. Each one of us has our thing. Mine's hookers. Can't help it."
Westmore was astounded. "I'd be impressed by how much you know about the people at the mansion, but I guess when you've got bugs in the joint, it's easy to pick up personal information. But you don't know me from Adam. Why the hell would you tell a perfect stranger some very personal shit about yourself? Picking up hookers is nothing to be proud of, and for an ex-cop it's an outright disgrace. Why tell me?"
"I want to earn your trust," Clements said, sipping his beer and lighting a cigarette. "I've got a better bug in Vivica's penthouse at the Strauss Building downtown, by the way. A wireless mike. I don't have to go into the place to change discs like the mansion. I've learned more from that bug than the other. And I'm telling you that for the same reason I told you the shit about me. So you'll trust me. You could call Vivica right now, tell her about me, about the bug, and that's a federal charge. I'd really be screwed on a bust like that."
Yeah, he would, Westmore realized.
"Oh, and the girl?" Clements looked over at the ratty young woman he'd taken the Coke to. "Yeah, she's a street hooker, but I never picked her up for that. Her name's Connie; she's ... a friend. She's helping me, and I'm helping her. I'm gonna get her in rehab."
"And how's she going to help you?"
Clements shot Westmore a dry smile. "She's one of the last people to see Hildreth or any of those porn nuts alive. She's also one of the last people to see Debbie Rodenbaugh."
Westmore chewed on the information, then it clicked. "She's one of the parlor prostitutes ... "
"That's right. She got busted the night before the slaughter, otherwise she would've been there too and got her head cut off with the rest of them. She knows more about that house than you and me combined."
Westmore was waylaid. This is out of the blue, all right. "And the reason you want me to trust you is ... why?"
"Because I need your help. And you never know, you might need mine. We're both on the same trek, buddy. We're both trying to find out what happened to Debbie Rodenbaugh. We can help each other."
"What's your interest in Debbie Rodenbaugh?" Westmore asked next.
"She was my last case. I don't like failure, and I sure as shit failed her. It's more than peace of mind. I never met the girl but I feel like I owe her something. Her parents were murdered because I took the case."
"What case;' Westmore was aggravated now more than intrigued. "What's she got to do with you? Her parents were murdered in a freak crime, by drug-addicts who broke into their house."
Clements' lips pursed at some distant disgust. "Her parents were murdered by Hildreth's order. Hildreth and that bitch wife of his. They'd already sucked her in, sp the parents started asking questions. Where is she? What's she doing at this new job' of hers. Hildreth needed her for something. Little more than a year ago, I retired from the sheriff's department so I started my own PI firm. The Rodenbaughs hired me to keep tabs on Debbie, find out why she was spending so much time at the Hildreth mansion. Next thing I know, the parents are dead, and I'm in the county detention center full of scumbags I put there. An ex-cop in the joint is not a good thing to be."
Westmore didn't get it. "What were you in jail for?"
"Possession with intent to distribute crack cocaine. The cops got an anonymous tip and found a pound of the shit in a plastic bag stashed in my house. The bag had my prints all over it. It was lock solid."
Westmore shook his head in complete confusion.
"It was a set-up," Clements said. "Don't you get it? Hildreth hired people to do the job. They got the bag out of my garbage-of course it's gonna have my prints on it. They put it in my house, simple. It was the city cops who made the bust; they didn't give a shit that I used to be a county narc-to them it looked like I was an ex-cop turned bad. No jury would believe me so I pleaded guilty in a swap. My brother-in-law believed me, and so did my pals at the prosecutor's office hit, those guys have known me for decades. And the judge believed me, too-so I got a sus pended sentence, lost my PI license, and got five years of fuckin' parole. The only reason I didn't lose my police pension is 'cos my cousin is an attorney for the LEAA, found a loophole. But the bottom line? I was a pain in Hildreth's ass, so he got me out of the picture. The parents were a pain in Hildreth's ass, so he had them killed. Problem solved, all nice and neat."
Westmore kept mulling it over. When the keep brought the onion rings to the bar, Clements waved the girl over. She came to the bar timidly, all hundred pounds of her. "Connie," Clements said, "This is Westmore. He's the guy who's gonna help us."
Westmore winced. "Hey, I haven't agreed to help you with anything. I'm still not even sure I'm not going to call the police and turn you in, or I still might talk to Vivica about this."
"Don't you get it? Vivica's the one running the show now, while Hildreth is in hiding," Clements insisted. "She's a manipulator, and she's manipulating the shit out of you. But you're starting to see through the stink--you're no moron. If you're not on to her by now, you really do have shit for brains."
Westmore thought about that, hard. Something was wrong, and he'd always been mildly suspicious of Vivica. Clements is right, I DON'T trust her. If I did, why would I ask Tom to run a check on her?
"Something's about to go down at that house," Clements continued. "I don't know what, and I don't know how, but I'm gonna find out. And I know this: it's all got something to do with the disappearance of Debbie Rodenbaugh."
"She didn't disappear," Westmore said without much confidence. "She's attending Oxford University right now."
"Bullshit. Connie saw her in the house less than a month ago. Sure, she's registered at Oxford, but she never showed up."
"I think it's pretty clear that Connie might be mistaken," Westmore put it as politely as he could. The girl was obviously a drug-addict-not exactly a reliable source. "And Debbie Rodenbaugh's legal guardians-"
Clements cut him off with a snide laugh. "What? The aunt and uncle in Jacksonville? People will say anything if you pay them enough and Vivica Hildreth has a lot to pay."
Now Westmore wondered ... about himself. Blinded by money that he definitely needed? The most effective loyalty. "All right, I'm still listening. You said you want me to do something for you. But what will you do for me?"
Clements chuckled. "In that freakshow house? Something's gonna happen there. It was Hildreth. He planned something and it's still in the works."
Vivica had implied the same thing, hadn't she? That's why she claims to have hired me, Westmore remembered. To find out whatever it was Hildreth had set into motion before he killed himself ... IF he killed himse f
"When the shit hits the fan," Clements went on, "you're gonna need some back-up. You're a fuckin' writer." The ex-cop lifted his shirt, showing two guns in clip-on holsters. "I can pick cherries at a hundred feet with these."
"You're expecting a shoot-out?" Westmore asked, incredulous.
"You keep forgetting where you're at. A slaughterhouse. You know that H
ildreth isn't dead-"
Westmore's eyes widened. "I don't know anything of the sort. He committed suicide on April 3rd."
"Don't jive me, man. Vivica told you she didn't think he was dead. I heard her tell you."
Then it dawned on him. "You heard it on the bug you've got planted in her penthouse ..."
"That's right, brain-child. You don't believe he's dead anymore than I do. That non-disclosure thing you signed with Vivica doesn't mean much now, does it? I know, too. If Hildreth really is still alive and in that house somewhere, that might be what he's planning for the future. Another slaughter. If he and more of his psychos conic at you with meat cleavers 'cos they want to cut your head off and drain your blood into a fuckin' bucket, what are you gonna do? Use big words? Throw your laptop at 'em?" Clements patted the guns under his shirt. "Me? I'll kill the motherfuckers."
Suddenly it was a sound consideration. "What do you want me to help you with?" Westmore finally conceded.
Clements smiled. "I knew you weren't a moron." He turned to the girl, who was crunching onion rings. "Connie, tell him what you told me. About the door."
She looked at him with bottomless eyes. "On the side of the house. They used it all the time, to bring us in and out-and other people too, anyone, after dark. Hildreth didn't want anyone coming or going through the front door, I guess because he was afraid someone might be watching, police, whoever."
"I'm not following you," Westmore said, but what he didn't say was that now, for some reason, Connie was beginning to look familiar.
"There's a side road through the woods that comes up the hill. Not the main road, but a dirt road-"
"I know where you mean," Westmore said. "I found it the other day. Would never have known it was there if I hadn't stumbled onto it."