by P. K. Abbot
“He is a difficult man to like.”
“He is a dangerous man,” she said.
“Why do you say that?”
“After the First Gulf War,” she said, “Black spent a good deal of time in Kuwait as a psychiatrist. He was researching and treating DID in the armed forces — Dissociative Identity Disorder or multiple personalities. It was thought that DID was brought on solely by traumatic stress. After a few years in Iraq, Black was treating so many cases of DID that he was considered to be one of the foremost authorities on the disorder.”
Mueller said, “I will bet that he made a fortune from contracting with the Army to provide treatment for a traumatic stress disorder.”
“He did, and he made another fortune from writing and lecturing about the disorder, but, in time the Board of Medicine began receiving complaints about Black. When the Medical Board began to investigate, they found out that Black had discovered how to induce the disorder in his subjects artificially. For years, he had been manufacturing this disorder in his subjects — to pad his research and to profit from the disorder. The Board of Medicine revoked his medical license.”
“So he is no longer a practicing Doctor?” asked Mueller.
“Lucien Black has a medical degree, but he cannot practice medicine anywhere within the United States. No, Sergeant, Black is not a Doctor.”
“And yet he is Governor Jamieson’s top advisor.”
“There is no doubt that Black is a very clever man, but he has no moral compass. He is a very dangerous man. He can be a very clever and valuable advisor for Governor Jamieson, but I pray that the Governor is able to control him and that Black never gets the upper hand.”
“Let’s hope so,” Ryan responded.
Ryan and Mueller said their goodbyes to Dr. Ritter and started to leave her office.
As they were leaving, Ryan’s cell phone rang. It was the receptionist for the CSU.
“Sergeant Ryan, on our main phone line, I have a man who insists on speaking with you – and only with you. He says that he has critical information about your case.”
“Okay, can you transfer his call into my phone?”
“You know that I can,” she said.
Within a few moments, the man came on the line.
“Hello?” he said.
“This is Detective Sergeant William Ryan. How may I help you, Sir?”
“Sergeant Ryan, I understand that you are leading the investigation into Trey Jamieson’s murder. Is that correct?”
“Yes. I am. Who are you, Sir?”
“I cannot tell you my name on the phone, Sergeant Ryan, but I need to meet with you in person in New York tonight.”
“With the investigation just beginning, Sir, I will not have time to meet with you tonight. If your information seems crucial to the investigation, I can send someone else to meet with you, but I will not be able to do it myself.”
“No, I cannot trust anyone else, Sergeant Ryan. It must be you, and we must meet as soon as possible. We must meet tonight.”
Ryan could hear the man’s voice tremble.
“Why is that so important to you, Sir?”
“I know who killed Trey Jamieson.”
Chapter 8
Ryan’s anonymous phone caller insisted that they meet secretly at a private club in New York. He insisted that Ryan tell no one about their meeting beforehand, and he told Ryan to bring nothing which might suggest that he was a police officer: no uniform, no badge, no case file. He was terrified of someone.
Ryan drove his squad car to the West Side Sheraton in Manhattan and parked it there. The caller told Ryan that it would be best to take a cab from the hotel to the club. The club was located downtown on Houston Street, on the northern edge of Nolita. The caller said it could be difficult for an out-of-towner to find the club, but the cabbies all knew where it was.
Ryan and his anonymous caller had agreed to meet at midnight, but Ryan planned to arrive an hour earlier to acquaint himself with the meeting place. That left Ryan just enough time to shave, shower, and change out of his uniform and into a bluish grey suit.
Before leaving the room, Ryan took a final look at himself in the room’s full length mirror. The suit’s slim cut accentuated his powerful, athletic build, and its subtle color brought out his striking blue eyes. He thought he did not look like a cop. He was pleased with himself.
By 10:40 that night, Ryan had gone down to the hotel’s entrance and had hailed a cab for the club, La Femme Mystérieuse. At 11 PM, the cab stopped in front of a six-story, brick building on the south side of Houston Street. There was no signage on the building other than the building’s address. The cabbie pointed to a metal canopy that spanned the sidewalk from the curb to a double-wide, oaken door. “That’s your place. That’s La Femme,” the cabbie told Ryan.
Ryan took the building’s elevator to the club on the third floor. He stepped off the elevator into the club’s opulent lobby: plush black carpets and black ceilings; gold leaf walls and doors. The entrance to the club was to the right of the elevator, through one of two sets of polished, swinging doors. The doors separated three immense, brightly lit, saltwater aquariums, which were filled with hundreds of brilliantly colored tropical fish.
Showy Ryan thought to himself.
The maître d’ stood behind his desk in front of the wall of aquariums. He wore a slim-cut Armani tuxedo, and he looked European with his long, steel grey hair brushed straight back.
“Good evening, Sir. Welcome to La Femme Mystérieuse. I am Eduard. May I have your name?”
“Good evening, Eduard. My name is Ryan...William Ryan.”
Eduard found Ryan’s name on the reservation list.
“Your host has not yet arrived, Mr. Ryan. If you will allow me, I shall escort you to his private room.”
“Thank you, Eduard.”
“Please follow me, Sir.”
Eduard walked through the door and held one side open for Ryan.
Ryan found himself inside a large, dimly lit room. The aquariums formed the back wall of the room and projected an undulating, seductive light into the space. The place seemed exotic, almost otherworldly to Ryan. Scores of people were laughing, drinking, and smoking at the tables scattered throughout the room.
A single, brilliant spotlight lit a stage at the far end of the room. In the center of the spotlight, a torch singer was perched on top of a black piano. She wore a black sequined gown with a black silk scarf around her neck. In the spotlight, her vivid blue eyes penetrated to the back of the room where Ryan was watching. She was singing a tender, sentimental love song in her husky, wistful voice. Ryan liked her singing. He liked her.
Eduard was taking Ryan to an elevator on the left side of the room.
“We will take the elevator to your host’s private room in the mezzanine.”
Ryan stopped walking when he saw the bar near the elevator.
“If you do not mind, Eduard, I would like to sit at the bar and enjoy the atmosphere of the club before my host arrives. Would that be alright?”
Eduard looked toward the bar and smiled to himself as he said, “Of course, Mr. Ryan.”
He then went back to his desk.
What caught Ryan’s eye was the woman who was sitting at the corner of the bar nearest the stage. She was a showgirl, one of the club’s dancers, an Afro-Brazilian with beautiful mocha colored skin. She wore her dark brown hair in a lush, thick Afro. She would have looked exotic on her own, but she was sitting at the bar, wearing her show costume: a sheer body stocking which was adorned with gold leaf over her throat and much of her torso but which left her breasts exposed. Sitting on the corner barstool, she had crossed her legs and was leaning back against the bar and enjoying a cigar. She held the cigar with her fingertips. She was slowly puffing smoke rings from her mouth and watching them rise to the ceiling.
Ryan sat two seats away from the showgirl. “I am not sure if I am overdressed or underdressed here,” he smiled. “My name is Billy.”
&nbs
p; She turned her eyes from her smoke rings to Ryan and checked him out closely before she laughed. “That all depends on what you have under that suit, handsome. I am very pleased to meet you, Billy. I am Gabriela.”
Ryan chatted with Gabriela while he ordered a club soda with a twist from the bartender.
The bar was all black mahogany and gold leaf. The wall behind the bar was mirrored from one end to the other, with veins of gold leaf running through the mirror.
The singer was finishing the last song of her set, an emotionally charged Broadway showstopper, when she belted out the final line to thunderous applause in the room.
The stage went dark. In a few seconds, she came through a door at the side of the stage and walked toward the bar. Ryan stood up and smiled at her.
“That was wonderful,” he said.
“Thank you.”
She spoke with an Eastern European accent and smiled back at him as she attempted to climb onto a seat near Ryan. Ryan held her arm and helped her onto her seat.
“Thanks again,” she said.
When she crossed her legs, Ryan could see why she had struggled to climb onto her seat. She was very petite, but she was wearing sequined shoes with 6 inch platforms on the bottom of the soles.
“I love your singing, and I love your footwear as well,” Ryan said.
She smiled at him. “Well, a little girl like me must find a way to be noticed.”
“I noticed you as soon as you started to sing. My name is Billy, by the way.”
“Oksana,” she replied as the bartender set a drink in front of her.
“I have a business appointment here tonight, Oksana, but afterwards would you allow me to buy you dinner after you have finished your show?”
“You will not be eating with your business associate?” she asked.
“No. I am alone in the city tonight.”
She stared hard at him and smiled.
“Do you consider yourself adventurous, Billy?”
“I do”, he replied.
“Then why don’t you buy me breakfast as well?”
“I would be delighted,” he smiled and raised his glass to her.
Out of the corner of his eye, Ryan saw the reflection of a stunningly beautiful woman in the mirrored wall behind the bar. She was walking toward him. From the way that she walked, he could tell that she was very fit – slim but shapely. When she came closer, he could see that she was also young, only in her mid-twenties. When he turned, he noticed her full, pink lips — and her eyes, her expressive blue-green eyes, the color of the sea and just as changeable. She had Ryan’s full attention.
“Are you Mr. Ryan, our guest for this evening?” she asked.
“I am Mr. Ryan, but please call me Billy.”
“I am Alexis Alessandra, one of the managers here. If you prefer, you may call me Alex. Are you staying at our hotel tonight, Mr. Ryan…Billy?”
“Actually I am staying at the West Side Sheraton, and I have checked in already.”
“That is too bad. I am sorry that you are not staying with us tonight, but one of my good friends is the night manager of that Sheraton. If you should need or want anything tonight, be sure to ask for Rogelio and to mention me. He will take very good care of you. He will do anything for me.”
“That is very kind of you, Alex.”
Then she turned her attention to Oksana, who was sitting very close to Ryan. Alex was beautiful, but she had an unmistakable air of authority about her.
“Oksana, shouldn’t you be preparing for your next set?”
“No. I just finished my last set, Alexis.”
“I am not asking, Oksana. Mr. Ryan should have his privacy.”
For a moment, Oksana looked angry, but then she turned ashen. She looked down at the bar and replied, “Yes, ma’am.” Oksana abruptly slid down from her barstool. She and Gabriela walked back through the stage door, and left the two of them alone at the bar.
“I am sorry,” Ryan said. “I did not mean to make trouble for Oksana. I had approached her first.”
“Don’t apologize, Billy. Oksana made her own trouble. She knows better than to bother our guests.”
“She wasn’t bothering me at all. She was nice.”
“She is not your type anyway.”
Ryan was miffed by her comment. “And how would you know who is my type?” he asked.
“I am a very quick study when it comes to people.”
“Then tell me something about myself – other than that Oksana is not my type.”
She drew her lips into a hard, thin line. She had become annoyed with his questioning.
“Since you have asked, I shall tell you, Mr. Ryan. From your bearing I can tell that you are either military or law enforcement.”
Then she picked up his drink and sniffed it. “Club soda, no alcohol. That means that you are probably working. You are in law enforcement,” she said.
“And you seem brash,” she went on. “You like to bend the rules. That is why you were flirting with Oksana, even though you are working tonight. How am I doing, Mr. Ryan?”
Ryan did not answer her. He started to sweat as a feeling of anxiety drifted over him.
“Let’s go somewhere private,” she said. “Let’s go somewhere where we can speak more freely... where you can bend the rules and not be observed.”
She extended her hand to Ryan.
“Come,” she said.
“Come,” she insisted.
Ryan took her hand and let her lead him away from the bar.
Chapter 9
Three and a half miles away, in the Theater District, Brandon Rush checked his watch. It was already 11:40 PM. Arriving on time at his appointment would present a problem for him tonight, but it was a very small problem, and Brandon had become accustomed to solving many problems over the course of his career.
The first problem that he had to solve in his career was how to overcome his rural Louisiana roots and break into Broadway. It was the bright, cobalt blue shirt which he wore to his first audition that got him noticed that day, but it was his raw talent and charm that got him hired. After that first successful audition, he considered cobalt blue to be his lucky color. In time, he would make that color his trademark as well.
Brandon realized right away that his first successful audition did not represent success, but only the opportunity for him to work harder, learn more, and do everything better than anyone else. He made the most of his opportunity. Over the past ten years, he worked and flourished as a dancer, a choreographer, a director, and in the past three years as a writer-producer.
Brandon had a genius for connecting to ordinary people with the stories that he wrote. And he told those stories in his shows with a flair that the public could not resist. He had just produced his third successive blockbuster on Broadway, and he recently sold the film rights to his last show.
He made more money than he had ever dreamt possible in Louisiana, but he did not keep much for himself. Whatever he did not need to produce his shows, he gave back to his communities in New York and in rural Louisiana. He sponsored food banks, police athletic leagues, and free theater programs for the young and for the disadvantaged.
Every week on television and in the newspapers, Brandon could be seen at a number of charitable functions. In his cobalt blue, alligator leather jacket, Brandon was easily recognized anywhere in the city. He liked being noticed. Being noticed is what had built his success in the first place. Being noticed was the first rule of show business. It was the first rule of his business.
As he walked toward the stage door, Brandon paused to check his hair in the mirror and to put on his jacket.
“Heading out, Mr. Rush?” the doorman asked Brandon.
“Yes, Freddie,” Brandon smiled. Brandon made a point of knowing everyone’s first name and of always being pleasant. He found that people would try to move the world for him when he showed them a little interest and respect.
“If you don’t mind me saying, Mr. Rush, you look bet
ter tonight. Since Christmas, you had seemed worried. But now, you seem better, as if a weight has been lifted off you.”
“You are right, Freddie. I have been troubled, but I feel that everything is about to change tonight. I feel better now. Thank you.”
“Let me get this for you, Mr. Rush,” Freddie said.
Freddie carried Brandon’s brightly colored, cobalt blue Vespa through the stage door and set it down on the sidewalk. The Vespa was the answer to Brandon’s little problem tonight. On the scooter, Brandon could weave through the snarl of limousines and taxicabs in Midtown and still arrive at Houston Street before midnight.
Brandon climbed onto the Vespa and smiled broadly at a small group of fans who were approaching him. He spent a couple of minutes chatting with these people, taking selfies, and scribbling an autograph for them. He looked at his watch again and thought that he would just have to drive a little faster through the traffic.
Brandon started the Vespa, let it roll into the alley, and turned onto 52nd St. He started to pick up speed when he beeped his horn and looped around the front end of a Mercedes which had inched its nose into the street. As he passed it, the Mercedes followed him quickly into the street.
Brandon turned south onto Broadway. As Brandon wove in and out of the traffic, the Mercedes fell farther behind him. At this time of night, Broadway would have too much traffic from the theaters and restaurants near Times Square. Brandon quickly realized that staying on Broadway would take him longer to get to Houston Street. He took 50th Street over to Fifth Avenue where the traffic was much lighter than on Broadway.
By the time Brandon turned right onto Fifth Avenue, the Mercedes was still two blocks behind him on 50th Street. Brandon glided by St. Patrick’s Cathedral on his left and Rockefeller Center and Saks on his right. Someone shouted “BRAN-DON” from the sidewalk. Brandon beeped his horn and waved as he sped down Fifth Avenue. With less traffic, he moved faster now toward downtown.
After 42nd Street, he passed the New York Public Library and its two sentinels — the massive stone lions that guarded the stairway to the Library. Legend has it that the lions winked whenever a New York virgin walked by them. Brandon had not yet seen them wink, but, there is always hope, he thought. He chuckled to himself as he opened the Vespa’s throttle and left the lions behind him.