A Slow Walk to Hell

by Patrick A. Davis

  Simon was hungry.

  That’s what he told us after he rapped on the window, signaling he was done with his call.

  Entering the limo, Amanda said to him, “You want to stop now?”

  “It could be some time until we get another chance.”

  “I thought you were in a hurry to get to the club.”

  “Another few minutes won’t matter.”

  Actually, it turned out to be almost forty minutes. We pulled into a Denny’s a few blocks away. Amanda and I ordered two breakfast specials and ate quickly. Simon and Enrique lingered over their meal, had a second cup of coffee. Suddenly, they didn’t seem in a rush to get to the club. When I asked Simon what was behind this sudden attitude change, he repeated he’d been hungry. He smiled as he replied, his tone sincere. He wanted Amanda and me to believe him.

  Not a chance.

  The drive to the club took a little over an hour. As beat as we all were, no one risked a nap because we knew we’d feel worse when we awoke. Following Highway 66, we cruised past Manassas, then turned north onto State Road 15. During the ride, I called General Hinkle and his disjointed voice indicated I’d woken him up. That’s probably the reason he really didn’t jump down my throat. He told me that the next time I went before the press, I’d better be wearing a fucking suit. I said I would.

  “You heading home now?” he asked.

  “Yeah.” It was easier than getting into another argument with Charlie about why I should continued to pursue the case.

  “Okay. Good work. The SECDEF and the president are happy this thing’s finished. Call me tomorrow, but not too early.”

  “Don’t worry.”

  Somewhere past Antioch, Enrique made a left onto a two-lane blacktop. After winding through several miles of forested countryside, he made another left onto another blacktop road. By now, the sky was beginning to lighten and we could make out signs affixed to trees.

  In big red letters, several said, PRIVATE DRIVE, KEEP OUT. Others: TRESPASSERS WILL BE PROSECUTED.

  We continued down the road for another half-mile. Rounding a bend, Enrique said, “The gate’s just ahead.”

  Moments later, we spotted it no more than fifty yards ahead. A seven-foot-high chain link gate, a brick guard shack beside it. The fence continued into the woods and was topped by barbed wire. Every few feet along it, we saw more red signs proclaiming this was private property.

  As we rolled up to the gate, a muscular young man in a guard’s uniform stepped from the shack, signaling us to stop.

  Lowering his window, Simon called out to him. The guard came over to his door and studied him for several seconds, trying to place him.

  When he drew a blank, he said, “This is private property, Mister. You’ll have to leave.”

  Simon showed him his badge. “I’m a homicide lieutenant. I’d like to speak to the person in charge.”

  The guard’s face registered surprise. “Mr. Crenshaw is asleep.”

  “Is he the manager or the owner?”

  “Mr. Crenshaw is asleep,” the guard repeated, his tone hardening. “Do you have a warrant?”

  “I’m afraid not.”

  “Then you’ll have to leave, Lieutenant. I’m sorry.”

  Simon smiled affably. “Contact Mr. Crenshaw. I know he’ll want to talk to me.”

  “Lieutenant,” the guard said, puffing up his muscles to make sure Simon noticed. “This is private property and you are trespass—What’s this for?”

  The guard squinted at a business card that Simon was holding out to him.

  “Mr. Olson,” Simon said, “is a reporter for The Washington Times. If Mr. Crenshaw doesn’t talk to me, Mr. Olson will release a story about this institution.”

  The guard stared at the card, his belligerence replaced by uncertainty. He glanced at Simon, but still seemed reluctantly to do as he asked.

  “Included in the story,” Simon went on, “will be an exposé on the blackmail this establishment was engaged in. Specifically, how club members were—”

  That did it. The guard snatched the card from him and hurried toward the guardhouse. He stepped inside and made a phone call. More than once, he anxiously glanced our way.

  Encouraging. He wouldn’t be reacting this way if he’d been tipped off we were coming.

  Amanda said, “Big Brother is watching.”

  She was peering up at a surveillance camera mounted over the guard shack. It was pointed directly at us. I resisted the urge to stick my hand out the window and wave.

  The guard hung up the phone and walked back over to Simon. In contrast to his earlier confrontational manner, his tone was exceedingly polite. He even flashed a smile.

  “Mr. Crenshaw will be here in few minutes, Lieutenant.”

  “Thank you.”

  When the guard stepped away, Simon unlatched a seat back, revealing a storage compartment. From within it, he removed one of the tapes we’d recovered from Talbot’s bedroom, inserted it into the VCR player mounted above his head, then settled back in his seat to wait.

  Three minutes later, we saw the car drive up.

  43

  It was a pale blue Mercedes coupe that easily cost what I made in a year. The car stopped on the other side of the gate and a slender, silver-haired man with a lengthy ponytail got out, smoking a cigarette. He wore silk pajamas and a satin robe with Chinese lettering.

  The gate was already motoring open and the man slipped through it, pausing to converse with the guard, who passed him Eric Olson’s card.

  The man scowled at the card, fired the cigarette to the ground, and walked purposefully toward the limo.

  We were climbing out.

  “I’m David Crenshaw, the manager,” the man said, stopping before Simon. “You Lieutenant Santos?” He spoke with a British accent that didn’t sound quite legit.

  Simon nodded and started to introduce Amanda and me.

  Crenshaw interrupted him before he could finish. He demanded, “What’s all this about, making some threat to expose us with a story in the Times?”

  “It’s no threat, Mr. Crenshaw,” Simon answered smoothly. “It’s what will happen if you don’t allow us inside. Call Mr. Olson. His home number is on the card.”

  Crenshaw’s eyes went to the card and back to Simon. “And the blackmail comment?”

  Simon gave him a hard look. “I think you know.”

  Crenshaw bristled. “I don’t know what the hell you’re talking about. What I do know is that you are out of line, Lieutenant. Your strong-arm tactics aren’t going to work. Not with me. You’re making a baseless, unsubstantiated allegation. If you print one word of it, I’m going to slap you and the Times with so many lawsuits it will make your head spin. I’m also going to have your badge for this. Don’t think I can’t. Now get out of here before—”

  Simon cut him off. “Shall I show you, Mr. Crenshaw?”

  “I’m not interested in anything you have to say.” Ponytail flying, he turned in a dramatic fashion and strode toward the gate. “Pete,” he ordered the guard, “call Bruce and Vance. Have them escort the lieutenant and his party off the property.”

  “Mr. Crenshaw,” Simon said. “You’d better take a look.”

  Crenshaw kept on walking.

  “You’d better look,” Simon called out again. “Unless you want to spend the rest of your life in prison.”

  Crenshaw made it two more steps before he stopped. He slowly faced Simon and said icily. “Is that another threat?”

  “It’s the truth. You could be charged as an accessory to as many as five murders.”

  Crenshaw worked hard to keep his face blank, but you could see that Simon’s accusation had gotten to him. A tense line appeared around his jaw and he began nervously shifting his weight from one foot to the other. “I don’t know anything about murder.”

  “Or blackmail?”

  “I have nothing to say. Your charges are preposterous. Absolutely groundless.” The sudden twitching of his left eyelid suggested otherwis
e.

  “We’ll see. Please get in the car, Mr. Crenshaw.”

  He stiffened. “Why?”

  “In the car. It won’t take long.”

  “Are you going to arrest me?”

  “If necessary.” This was a bluff. While Simon had the ability to make arrests outside his jurisdiction—it was an authority he’d been granted because of several task forces he’d worked on—he had no evidence to do so.

  Still, Simon’s threat had the desired effect. It appeared Crenshaw was someone who could be intimidated. Whatever resistance remained in him fell away and what could only be described as panic swam across his face. His eyes darted to his car and for a moment, I thought he might drive away.

  “Don’t be a fool,” Simon said, moving forward to prevent his escape. “You will only make things more difficult for yourself. I know what crimes have been committed and I know who is responsible. I know everything, Mr. Crenshaw. I know.”

  Another bluff?

  Crenshaw clearly didn’t believe so. He deflated under the intensity of Simon’s gaze. The guard started to walk toward his boss. Amanda placed her hand on her gun and eyed him coldly. The guard froze, then wisely retreated.

  There was a long silence. In the distance, we could hear birds chirping. Crenshaw appraised Simon bleakly. “It seems I have no alternative.”

  “Cooperation.”

  “I’m only an employee. I wasn’t aware of anything illegal.”

  Simon nodded sympathetically. “I understand. If you’ll come with me…”

  As Simon escorted Crenshaw to the limo, Amanda and I hurried around to the other door. Once we had a quorum, I pointed the remote. When the video came on, Crenshaw put his head in his hands.

  “I’m only an employee,” he said again.

  The video continued to run. Major Coller and Talbot were locked in a passionate kiss. Coller broke away with a seductive smile. Talbot excitedly pulled Coller to him and—

  “Turn it off,” Crenshaw said.

  I clicked the remote and the image disappeared.

  Crenshaw was staring dejectedly at the floor, one hand fingering his ponytail. The fingering stopped and he looked up with dull eyes.

  “You know both men were murdered yesterday,” Simon said quietly.

  A blink of surprise. “I knew about Talbot…from the news. I didn’t know about the second man.”

  “His name is Coller. You’re not familiar with him?”

  “He wasn’t a member. I vaguely recall he came here once or twice with Talbot. The last time about five, six months ago.” His eye twitched. He rubbed it, focusing on Simon. “I’m not sure what you’re after, Lieutenant. I had nothing to do with their deaths.”

  “Do you know who did?”

  “I told you I don’t know anything.”

  “Don’t lie to me.”

  Crenshaw’s eyelid twitched faster. He ignored it. “I’m not lying. I don’t know anything about their deaths. For God’s sake, I’m no killer.” His gaze shifted to Amanda and me, as if trying to convince us.

  I asked how long he had worked at the club.

  “Six years. Since it was built. I was hired to—”

  “You’ve been the manager that entire time?”

  “Yes.”

  “You must have been aware that guests were being videotaped and blackmailed?”

  He hesitated.

  “Mr. Crenshaw,” I said. “You’re the guy in charge. You had to know.”

  “I…I…” Crenshaw gave up on a denial, realizing it would be pointless.

  “Who is the owner?” This question came from Amanda. She was impatient and wanted to know.

  Crenshaw licked his lips, looking frightened. “If I tell you, he’ll kill me. You don’t know him. I tried to leave him once. Quit. He said he’d kill me if I did. He meant it.” His voice cracked and I noticed he’d lost his English accent.

  “We’ll find his name eventually,” Amanda said.

  “Not from me.”

  “We’ll protect you,” Simon said.

  “You can’t. He’s too powerful. He has contacts everywhere. Important contacts. People who will do what he asks, no questions.”

  “People he’s been blackmailing?”

  “Mostly. They can’t afford to be…compromised.”

  “When the story breaks,” Simon said, “his influence won’t matter. The word will be out and he will be finished.”

  Enrique showed no reaction to this statement. Obviously, Simon had told him something to alleviate his concerns that this could all become public.

  “The name,” Amanda said to Crenshaw. “Give us the owner’s name.”

  Crenshaw’s mouth worked soundlessly. He still couldn’t bring himself tell us.

  “You said you wanted to leave,” Amanda pressed. “This is your chance. Give us his name.”

  “What about prison? I couldn’t handle prison.”

  Simon said, “If you had nothing to do with the murders—”

  “I didn’t. I swear to you.”

  “Then you won’t serve any time. I give you my word.”

  My eyebrows inched up at this remark. So did Amanda’s. Last we checked, blackmail was still a crime and Simon wasn’t a judge or DA.

  Crenshaw said, “I also want my cooperation kept confidential. I won’t testify against him or sign affidavits.”

  A condition Simon couldn’t possibly agree to. But he did without hesitation, nodding his acceptance.

  “Okay,” Crenshaw said.

  Lowering his voice as if afraid someone would overhear, he revealed the owner’s name. None of us displayed surprise upon hearing it. While he hadn’t been one of our prime suspects, he’d been on the list. Beside, Amanda had the guy pegged.

  Slater was a scumbag campaign manager.

  44

  “It’s absolutely beautiful,” Amanda said.

  We were following Crenshaw’s Mercedes. A quarter mile from the gate, the thick forest transformed into a pastoral setting reminiscent of a Greek postcard. Before us were colorful gardens and picturesque water fountains. Past them towered a Mediterranean villa that easily approximated the size of a small hotel. Paths led off in various directions, several ending at iron gates, vine-covered bungalows visible behind them. Over to the left I saw tennis courts and beyond them, a building that looked like a stable.

  To carve this Garden of Eden out of the forest must have cost millions and I asked no one in particular how Slater had footed the bill.

  “He was a blackmailer,” Amanda responded, as if that said it all.

  “Before he built this place?”

  She saw my logic and didn’t reply.

  “Slater could have funded the construction on his own,” Simon said. “He’s wealthy in his own right. He was a television producer, prior to becoming a political consultant.”

  Explained his expertise with videos.

  The Mercedes stopped in front of the villa and we parked beside it. Climbing out, I took a look around. I didn’t see anyone, but I didn’t expect to. It was 6:30 A.M. After a hard night of partying or whatever, the guests would still be asleep, probably for several more hours.

  Simon asked Crenshaw, “Were all your rooms set up with video cameras?”

  “Only the bungalows. Those we assigned to the more…exclusive guests.”

  I said, “Those who were worth the trouble of blackmailing?”

  A wan smile.

  “Where are the videotapes?” Simon asked.

  “In my office.”

  Crenshaw led us up the stone steps into the hotel.

  The interior of the villa was as dramatic as the grounds. Ornate chandeliers dangled from vaulted ceilings that had to be twenty feet high. The floor was polished Italian marble, the walls a soft coral stucco, accented by rich mahogany trim. Gilt framed paintings and brightly colored frescos adorned the lobby area, enhancing a feeling of wealth and elegance, which, of course, was the intention.

  Roland Slater wanted to attract people
who could afford to pay.

  Stopping by the reception desk, Crenshaw spoke briefly to a young woman. He must’ve told her we were cops, because she looked startled.

  “This way,” Crenshaw said, walking past us.

  He led us down a long corridor, past a glassed-in bar and lounge, complete with a dance floor and a metallic disco bulb. At the end of the hall, he made a left into a narrower passageway and pushed through a door marked “Administration.”

  We entered a cramped anteroom with a secretary’s desk and a modest sitting area. Crenshaw continued to another door affixed with a gold nameplate inscribed with his name.

  We followed him into a roomy office dominated by a large desk, several leather armchairs, and a cherry television cabinet. Stepping around the desk, Crenshaw knelt at a chest-high steel safe tucked in the corner and dialed the combination. At a click, he opened the door and reached inside.

  “Step away,” Simon said.

  Crenshaw moved back.

  Squatting down, Simon removed videotapes and passed them to Amanda and me. Before we placed the tapes on the desk, we read the labels. A majority of the names were repeats, indicating they’d visited more than once. Several were celebrities and high-ranking government officials. Five were prominent members of Congress, the most notable being Senator Tobias Hansen, the conservative senator who’d bucked his party by endorsing Congressman Harris for the presidency.

  Seeing Hansen’s name suggested that Slater hadn’t blackmailed individuals solely for monetary gain. This suspicion was validated when we saw another tape with the name of the retired general and recent Gulf War hero, who was now the commandant of cadets at Virginia Tech.

  “Now we know why General Murdock is supporting Harris,” Amanda said.

  I still couldn’t believe it. I thrust the tape out to Crenshaw. “General Murdock is gay?”

  “His daughter.”

  He said it with a little smile, as if he found the irony that a general would have a lesbian daughter somehow funny.

  I saw red. He was a scum-sucking blackmailer who destroyed reputations and lives. It was all I could do not to jerk him by his ponytail and slap the smile from his—