“Then you are requesting a hearing,” the judge said.
“We are,” Wells responded. He picked up a sheet of paper and held it out toward the bench. “Your Honor, I have a list of witnesses with a summary of what their testimony will be. I take this unusual step to support my contention that a preponderance of reasonable doubt exists in this matter and that this reasonable doubt fully supports my client’s claim of complete innocence to these charges. The defense does this so that our client, Lucy Santos, might be released without bail to help prepare her defense.”
Peters jumped to his feet, claiming that the seriousness of the charges required that the defendant be held without bail.
The judge called the attorneys up to the bench for a sidebar conference. When Peters returned he had a copy of the list Wells had prepared. He looked at Harry and then down at the paper, slowly shaking his head.
From the bench, Judge McCoy stated that a hearing on Ms. Santos’s arrest had been scheduled for two weeks hence and that bail for her release had been set at one hundred thousand dollars.
Wells rose to his feet, thanked the court, and said that bail would be posted within the hour.
Lucy Santos was led away, this time without handcuffs, followed by her attorney.
Harry followed Peters out into the hallway. “What the hell happened? And who are the witnesses he’s going to present?”
“Boy, he really blindsided us.” Peters handed Harry the list of witnesses.
Lucy Santos would testify that she received a call from a man who identified himself as her son, asking her to come to the marina the following day to discuss “family matters.”
There was a man who was a technical representative for AT&T who would testify that Lucy Santos received a call from a pay phone in the marina one day before she appeared there and was arrested.
Megan Avery, a.k.a. Meg Adams, who kept her sailboat in a slip across from Harry Doyle’s boat, would testify that she witnessed the entire confrontation between Harry and Lucy Santos and at no time did she see a knife in the woman’s hand.
Tyler Tully, the dockmaster at the marina, would testify that Harry Doyle made repeated requests for the police to be called if a woman named Lucy Santos was discovered on the marina docks.
And Harry himself would be asked to explain his repeated attempts to keep his mother imprisoned and, when that failed, why he invited his mother to the marina to discuss so-called “family matters” when he knew she was under a parole board and court order to remain one hundred yards away from him at all times.
“Do we know who is posting the bail?” Harry asked.
“Wells said the full amount would be posted in cash.”
“Who do we know who has that kind of money?” Harry asked, his words heavy with sarcasm.
“Who is this Meg Avery, a.k.a. Meg Adams?” Peters asked.
“I knew her as Meg Adams, and she did have a sailboat docked in the slip directly opposite mine. I promise you I’ll know more by the time of the hearing, but I fully expect to find that she was employed by the Church of Scientology.”
“Well, I hope you can find out something. I don’t like being sandbagged.”
“Don’t feel alone,” Harry said. “Wells sandbagged me too, and so did she.” He offered up a cold smile. “That doesn’t happen very often, and when it does, it’s something I don’t forget.”
* * *
When Harry left the courthouse he ran into Vicky in the parking lot.
“I was just coming to give you some moral support,” she said. Vicky was dressed in form-fitting jeans, jogging shoes, and a man-tailored blue shirt. Her Glock was on her right hip and her badge was on her belt.
“You look ready to wrestle with bad guys,” Harry said.
“Not glamorous enough for you, eh?”
“Believe me, I’ve seen all the glamour I ever want to see.” Harry filled her in on what Wells had pulled off in court, his belief that Regis Walsh was behind it, and how Walsh and the church had used Meg Adams against him and were now possibly financing his birth mother’s bail. He watched Vicky’s eyes darken and he could tell she was struggling to control her anger.
“Before this is all over, I’m going to find a way to knock that redheaded bitch on her ass.”
“Thanks, partner. And I’ll be right there so I can testify that you never touched her. I can play that game as well as Ms. Adams or Avery or whatever the hell her name is.”
“Look,” Vicky said, “you stay on Rolf’s ass. That’s what Walsh is trying to keep you from doing. I’ll find out who Adams/Avery is. Before I finish we’ll know everything about her, right down to the number of pimples on her ass.”
Chapter Sixteen
Meg Avery thought about Harry Doyle sitting in the criminal court building only now learning that his lover had been a wolf in Victoria’s Secret panties. Poor Harry, he actually deserved better, she thought. But the world was what it was, and as her late father had taught her long ago, there was only one bottom line—money in the bank.
She watched Abu LeBouf, a makeup artist she had used many times when disguises were required, spread body-tanning lotion on every part of Tony Rolf’s body not covered by underwear. It had been a battle at first. Abu was a flamboyant gay man and Tony had resisted the idea that the guy would be rubbing lotion all over his body. Meg had been forced to take Tony aside and lay down the law. The carrot that went along with the stick was that he would be able to safely go out in public—within limits—when his disguise was in place, and tanning was the first step.
She smiled thinking back on the battle. Abu LeBouf—and that completely made-up name did not help—had feigned exasperation, then outrage, then hurt feelings, until she thought Tony was about to grab him by the throat. Finally everyone surrendered to common sense and Tony disrobed down to his boxer shorts. An hour later he had tanned skin that looked completely natural.
Next, a hair stylist who Meg had used before arrived at the boat to dye Tony’s hair a natural blond and teach him how to touch it up when necessary. This time the stylist was an attractive female who Tony flirted with outrageously.
When the young woman was finished, Meg fitted him with dark blue contact lenses. Finished, she led Tony into one of the staterooms that had a full-length mirror. The transition was shocking.
“I’ll teach you how to use stage putty for your cheeks. You’ll do that each time before you go out. It will change your face so completely your own mother wouldn’t recognize you,” Meg told him.
“Yeah, it’s great even the way it is now,” he said. “When can I go out?”
“I’ll get in touch with Mr. Walsh. As soon as he sees you and gives you the thumbs-up, we’ll be good to go. I’ve never seen anyone so anxious to leave such luxurious accommodations,” she teased.
“Even luxurious accommodations can be a prison,” Tony said. “Once I know I can leave, I’m sure I’ll enjoy them much more.”
I doubt it, Meg thought. You are a person born to dislike everything.
* * *
Regis Walsh arrived at eight o’clock that evening. At Meg’s direction, Tony stripped down to his boxer shorts. She applied the stage putty, altering his facial features, and took him into the salon. Walsh appraised him for several minutes, at one point walking a full circle around him.
“Astonishing,” he said. “I would never suspect that he had any abnormal skin condition, and even his hair and eyes look completely normal.” He broke into a wide smile. “The only problem, Tony, is that Meg has made you too bloody handsome. People, especially women, won’t be able to take their eyes off you.”
“So I can go out?” Tony asked, remaining oblivious to the compliment.
“Yes, with Meg accompanying you.” He turned his eyes on Meg, appraising her now. “I suggest you wear a blond or brunette wig. Your red hair is too striking. After what happened in court today, I think the police may be keeping an eye out for gorgeous redheads.”
Meg inclined her head acknowledg
ing the compliment. “I have several wigs that I’ve used in the past. I’ll alternate them each time we go out.”
“Splendid,” Walsh said. “Now let me tell you both what happened in court today.”
* * *
Vicky started with the police computer. She typed in the name Meg Avery and immediately got a hit. The screen came up with several documents, each containing a photograph of the woman who had lived on a sailboat across from Harry’s boat.
Meg Avery was listed as president and CEO of Avery Security. The firm was licensed to provide investigative services, personal executive and celebrity security—armed or unarmed. The company offered trained security personnel to work in private industry, stores, shopping centers, banks, etc. It employed 208 people.
Vicky let out a low whistle. This woman was worth megabucks all by her little self. She read on: Avery Security had been founded by Meg’s father, William Avery, who had served as president and CEO until his death in 2007. Meg Avery was licensed to carry a weapon, held a license as a private detective—separate from the firm’s license—and was trained in martial arts. Harry’s lucky she didn’t kick his butt, Vicky thought.
The company had offices in downtown Tampa in a high-rise building that held several large law firms. Meg’s personal residence was not listed but Vicky knew several ways to uncover that as well. I’m on your tail, Meg. It’s only a matter of time before your sweet little ass is mine. And then, martial arts or not, I’m going to knock you on your butt.
Next Vicky pulled up Meg’s original application for a concealed weapons license. As a professional, she and every licensed member of her staff had to list all the places where their weapons would be secured when not being carried. And there it was, Meg’s private residence: The Ultimar Beachfront Condominium, 1560 Gulf Boulevard, Sand Key, Clearwater, Florida.
Vicky had been there once on another case. The complex comprised three high-rise buildings, all with balconies offering views of the Gulf of Mexico, two pools, a spa, three professional-quality tennis courts, and a private beach. The individual units varied in size but all were luxurious by anyone’s standards. The person she had interviewed on that old case lived in one of the two-story penthouses. The level of luxury was sinful, she had decided then. She also knew that she wanted one all for herself.
So now you’re hunting down someone who may very well have one, she thought. One more reason to hate the bitch.
* * *
Vicky met Harry for a drink at six o’clock. They chose the original Crabby Bill’s at Indian Rocks Beach. Harry was already there when she arrived, seated at the bar with a tall draft and a dozen raw oysters set out before him. He looked haggard and she suddenly realized how hurt he was at being so completely taken in by that sultry redhead.
She slipped a copy of the notes she had compiled on Meg Avery in front of him. “This includes her home address, her business address, and a very brief history of her life so far. I say so far because I hope we’re going to lay some hurt on her that will dramatically alter her résumé.”
“I think I’ll pay her a little visit,” Harry said.
“Not alone, you won’t. I wouldn’t put it past her to take one look at you and start screaming rape, and have a dozen witnesses to confirm it. You’ve got to be careful dealing with this bitch, partner. She and her friend Walsh are out to destroy you. By now I’m sure they’re pressing the sheriff to start an internal affairs investigation on the whole thing. It’s time to play cover-your-ass on everything we do.”
“Maybe you should step away from it. I don’t want you risking your career. I can afford to lose my job. The sale of my house made that possible. You’re not in the same financial position.”
“I’m not going anywhere, Harry Doyle, so let’s put that BS to bed right now.”
* * *
Harry slept fitfully and awoke a half hour before dawn. It was cloudy and overcast, killing any chance of the beautiful sunrise he had been looking forward to—something that might drive away or at least obscure the insanity that had taken place in court the previous day.
This woman, his birth mother, had killed both of her children. He had been brought back to life after his heart had stopped beating. His six-year-old brother Jimmy had not been so lucky. He was now six feet underground, decayed in his small coffin. And his mother, the woman who had killed them both, was playing the victim with the help of a well-heeled lawyer and a corrupt executive for a church that Harry felt was little more than a money-making scam created by a demented science-fiction writer who supposedly once told an interviewer that if someone wanted to become rich, they just had to start their own religion.
Harry shook his head. Stop it, he told himself. No matter how you looked at it, he was feeling sorry for himself—pure and simple—and that would get him nowhere.
* * *
Meg took Tony to dinner at Mystic Fish in Palm Harbor, a restaurant she loved. She was dressed in a pale blue Armani cocktail dress, a white silk Gucci scarf, and light blue St. Laurent studded leather sandals, topped off with a blond wig. Tony wore a summer-weight Todd Snyder sports jacket that Meg had bought for him over a white linen shirt and jeans. They drove to the restaurant in Meg’s red Mercedes Cabriolet with the top up. “No sense pushing our luck,” she told Tony.
“Right now I feel invincible,” he said.
“Better to feel invisible,” she told him. “We don’t want to take a chance that Harry Doyle might get lucky.”
Tony laughed. It was a strange high-pitched sound that set Meg’s teeth on edge.
“According to what I’ve heard, he only gets lucky when dead people talk to him. So I just won’t leave any corpses around for him to yak it up with,” he said.
He is one scary character, she thought. But it explained why Walsh had used him with difficult church members. One visit from Tony Rolf would scare you right back on the path of church righteousness. Either that or it might get you killed.
Dinner was excellent, as always. Meg had started with a mojito followed by a Caesar salad and a selection of small plates—escargot, seared scallops, and grilled octopus—and a glass of Maso Canali pinot grigio. Tony’s choices were more pedestrian: rum and tonic, then a New York strip steak, rare, and a large draft of domestic beer.
Equally as satisfying to each of them was the fact that no one gave Tony a second look.
Throughout dinner Meg noticed Tony’s attention drawn to one particular waitress. She was tall, tan, young, and lovely, as the song goes, with pouty lips and a blond ponytail that swung back and forth like a pendulum. The final time he ogled her, Meg leaned across the table and whispered, “If this was a real date I’d be insulted.”
“Why?” he asked, all innocence.
At that moment the blond waitress walked by and Meg looked at her then back at Tony. “Need I say more?” she asked.
He smiled sheepishly. “Are you jealous?”
“I would be if you were my lover.”
“I’d like that—being your lover.” He grinned at her and it sent another shiver down her spine.
“I’m afraid that’s not possible,” she said, forcing another smile. She regretted the slightly flirtatious tone she had been assuming. She was dressed up as if on a date, but now she recognized the confusion her disguise had inadvertently spawned in Tony’s feeble mind.
“Why?” There was a sudden demanding note in his voice.
“I never mix business with pleasure.”
“What about the cop?”
“He wasn’t a client, he was an adversary. I was playing him.”
“He must know that now and I bet he’s really pissed.”
This guy takes real pleasure in other people’s pain, whether it’s real or simply perceived, Meg told herself. Her next thought hit with a sudden and unexpected certainty: Tony Rolf is a sociopath and a rotten son of a bitch. And that’s who you’re working to help—a rotten, sociopathic son of a bitch who is unquestionably a killer as well.
Meg paid the
bill with a corporate credit card and shepherded Tony out to her car. As soon as they started north, Tony began suggesting places they could stop for a nightcap.
“Not tonight,” Meg said, trying to soften the rejection with a smile. “I’m exhausted and we have a busy day scheduled for tomorrow.”
“What’s up for tomorrow?”
“Mr. Walsh is coming to the boat at eight, and the three of us will go over places you might be sent.”
“Walsh told me I’d have a voice in that.” His voice was filled with suspicion.
“And this is it,” Meg said. “This will be your chance to reject any of our ideas . . . within reason, of course.”
“Why do you say that? What does within reason mean?”
“It means we have to get you out of here, at least for a period of time. The police are trying to tie you to at least two murders and two counts of attempted murder of a retired cop, who also is Detective Doyle’s father, by the way. A great many things are stacked against you right now and the best solution is to get you out of here until things cool down. Then we can change your name again, and within a year you can be back working for the church. I doubt it will be here in Florida, but it will be someplace where you’ll be safe and secure. Mr. Walsh wants that very much,” she concluded, not knowing if that were true or not.
Tony stared out through the windshield and she could see the muscles dancing along his jaw. Walsh would have to do some solid selling, she told herself. If Tony went off on his own he’d be a danger to everyone. She wondered if Walsh would order him put down if it came to that. She knew one thing: she would refuse that assignment if it were offered.
Meg dropped him off without difficulty—no demands that she come inside; no wrestling matches in the front seat of her car. Tony was consumed now with the prospect of a move to a new place far away from Florida. He can only handle one problem at a time, she told herself. He would undoubtedly spend the night working himself up to the meeting with Walsh. If she were asked, she would recommend someplace very far away.
The Scientology Murders Page 15