The Solomon Organization

by Andrew Neiderman

  “Really?”

  “Yep. Just got drunk one night and wasn’t careful,” Dyce said. The secretary stared, wide-eyed. “Doesn’t Mr. Beezly have any sons workin’ here?”

  “Oh, yes, Thomas and Kirk, both architects.”

  “Ain’t that nice?” Dyce asked Scott. “A family business. What about Mr. Dante, is he still here?”

  “Dante? There’s no one named Dante working here.”

  “Philip’s not with this firm? Thought he was,” Dyce said, gazing at Scott with an impish glint in his eyes. “Maybe he was here before you started and left. How long you been with Beezly Enterprises?”

  “Two years this coming December. I started as a temp and just stayed on.”

  “Ain’t that nice,” Dyce said and eyed the name plate off to the right on her desk. “Maureen. Maureen Carter. You ain’t related to the ex-President, are you?”

  “Oh, no,” she said laughing.

  There was a buzz. Maureen listened and then said, “Yes, sir.” She lowered the receiver. “He’ll see you now,” she told them and got up to lead the way.

  “Thank you kindly, Maureen,” Dyce said when she opened the door for them. She smiled and stepped back so Dyce and Scott could enter.

  It was a plush office with a genuine black leather sofa and settee. Over some plaques and certificates on the right wall was hung what looked to be a Norman Rockwell illustration of a typical American family having a picnic in some lush green field under a perfect summer sky with milk-white puffs of clouds and soft blue background.

  Directly in front of them J. Beezly sat behind a very large dark mahogany desk. Everything on it was neatly arranged. On each side behind Beezly, there were two large windows that looked out over the city and provided a breathtaking view. To the left was an architect’s drawing table with some new project outlined on it.

  The receptionist was accurate: J. Beezly didn’t look his age. He had a full head of stark white thick hair with a well-tanned face, which was still rather smooth, the only lines being the ones in his forehead and at the corners of his eyes. But Scott had seen deeper wrinkles on men in their fifties. Beezly had a vigorous appearance, too. He was a firm-looking, broad-shouldered man who filled out his dark blue suit jacket, his sleeves tight around his biceps. He sat with his shoulders back, his large hands on the desk, palms down. Scott’s gaze went to the ring on his pinky. He recalled the triangular diamond, and his heart began to race.

  “What can I do for you, gentlemen?” Beezly asked without offering them a seat.

  Dyce saw he wasn’t going to get up and shake hands or go through any small talk. Everything about this man suggested a direct, no-nonsense demeanor. He was one of those businessmen who really believed time was money. Scott sensed it, too, but that only raised his ire. His own shoulders and back lifted like a cat confronting an antagonist.

  “I want my daughter returned,” Scott snapped.

  Dyce let the words settle. He was interested in the older man’s reaction. Beezly didn’t stir; he didn’t blink, his lips didn’t tremble and he didn’t move in his chair, but his right hand crossed his left and his fingers began stroking that triangular shaped diamond.

  “You want your daughter returned? What the hell is this?” Beezly said. Dyce forced a laugh.

  “Please excuse Mr. Lester, Mr. Beezly. He is understandably anxious,” Dyce said, stepping forward. “This is a very nice office. Love your view.”

  “Thanks, but what’s he talking about? What daughter?”

  Dyce looked at Scott as if he had forgotten he was there.

  “Oh. I’m Henry Dyce, a private investigator. I’ve been hired by Mr. Lester here to investigate an attack on his wife and the kidnapping of his daughter.”

  “So what the hell does that have to do with me?” Beezly demanded, his voice now testy.

  “Mr. Lester was brought here a few days ago to meet with a committee.”

  “What?” Beezly looked from Dyce to Scott. “What committee?”

  “The Solomon Organization,” Scott said. “I made an appeal to you and your friends and you decided to take things into your own hands.”

  Beezly stared for a moment and then smirked. He turned to Dyce.

  “What is this, some sort of joke?”

  “No, sir. It’s no joke. Mr. Lester’s wife is in the hospital in serious condition. She was attacked in her home, struck over the head with a statue.”

  “Where’s Philip Dante?” Scott demanded.

  “Who?”

  “Whatever his real name is. Where is he and where is my daughter?”

  “I don’t know what the hell you two are talking about. This is an engineering firm. Someone must have sent you to the wrong place or you have addresses mixed up.”

  “No one’s mixed up. A meeting was held here at night, in the conference room next door,” Scott said firmly. “This is definitely the place.”

  “Conference room…meeting…what the hell. Look,” Beezly said finally moving, “I don’t know what the hell you two are talking about, but there are no meetings of…what you call it…the Solomon Organization…held here at night, and I don’t know anything about anyone’s wife being attacked. If you’re not out of here in thirty seconds, I’ll call the police.”

  “I want my daughter back,” Scott said firmly. He took a few steps toward the desk.

  “Hold it,” Beezly said, hand up in stop-traffic fashion. With his other hand, he drew a pistol out of a side drawer. “If you threaten me, I’ll blow your head off.”

  “Why would an engineer have a pistol in his desk drawer?” Dyce asked aloud.

  “For just such a contingency as this…two lunatics coming in off the street. Now turn yourselves around and march right out of here.”

  “Mr. Lester is positive the meeting was held here,” Dyce said, coming up beside Scott. “Besides, Mr. Dante used your limousine to pick him up. I have a witness who will so testify.”

  “Look,” Beezly said, “the only meetings we hold here are meetings about our engineering projects. We don’t have anything to do with divorces. Now turn yourselves around and march out of here right now.” He pulled the hammer back on his pistol. “I’ve used this before,” he warned. “And I wouldn’t hesitate to do it again if I have to.”

  Dyce held up his hands.

  “Okay, okay.” He took Scott’s arm. “We’re leaving, but we’re going to go to the police.”

  “Do that. In fact, I’ll do it for you,” Beezly said and lifted his receiver. “Get me the police, Maureen. I want to report some sort of insane harassment.”

  “Let’s go,” Dyce said.

  “He’s lying. I remember him,” Scott said. “I remember that head of hair and the ring.” He turned back to Beezly. “Why are you doing this? Why did you decide to hurt Meg and steal Justine? Where is she? How can you put a child through such torture?”

  “Let’s go,” Dyce repeated more firmly and pulled Scott back.

  “You won’t get away with this. I’ll find my daughter and you’ll pay for this. All of you will,” Scott pledged.

  “I have the police on line one, sir,” the receptionist announced. Beezly pushed the button.

  “Come on,” Dyce said and tugged Scott hard enough to reel him in. They left the office as Beezly began explaining to the police why he had called.

  The receptionist looked up with fear as they came out to the lobby.

  “You were right, Maureen,” Dyce said. “He doesn’t look his age.”

  “Why are we leaving? Why don’t we stay there and make him tell the truth?” Scott asked.

  Dyce didn’t reply. He continued to escort him out until they stood before the elevator.

  “You don’t believe me now, do you? Now you think I’m lying or crazy. That guy put on a great performance; he didn’t crack; he didn’t make a mistake. But…”

  “Relax,” Dyce said as the doors opened. He pulled Scott in. “I believe you. He did make a mistake.”

  “What?”
<
br />   “We never said anything about any divorce,” Dyce said.

  “Huh?”

  “The man…don’t you remember…he said we don’t have anything to do with divorces.”

  Scott relaxed.

  “Yeah,” he said. “That’s right. He did say that, didn’t he?”

  Dyce smiled and hit the button marked G. The elevator took them to the parking garage. They stepped out and quickly found the Mercedes limousine.

  “Look familiar?” Dyce asked.

  “That’s it,” Scott said. “Can we go to my attorney? Can we go to the police?”

  “Naw, we don’t have anything really,” Dyce said. “I’ll have to dig into this deeper, find out all I can about Beezly and his company.”

  “I’ll kill that son of a bitch,” Scott vowed.

  “Maybe, but that won’t get your daughter back. And that makes you like them if you do, right?”

  “What?”

  “Just another vigilante, someone else makin’ a decision outside the system.”

  Scott nodded.

  “I’ve got to get her back,” he whispered. “It’s all my fault.”

  “We’ll get her back,” Dyce said. He stepped back into the elevator. “Sooner or later, we’ll get her back.”

  Scott looked at the limousine again. Just parked there, the luxurious vehicle still seemed intimidating. It was as if it had evil power, as if it were the ferry boat that took souls from one world and delivered them to an evil, nether world. It was clean, shiny, waiting for its next assignment.

  “It all makes me feel so damn helpless,” Scott said, getting into the elevator. “I wish there was something else I could think of doing.”

  “There is somethin’,” Dyce said as the doors closed. “You got your ass into trouble bein’ a lady’s man; now use the same shit to get yourself out of it.”

  “What’dya mean?” The doors opened and they stepped out and into the lobby.

  “Maureen,” Dyce said, pausing. “I know women. She liked what she saw when she saw you. Maybe you can charm her into tellin’ you somethin’.”

  “I don’t know,” Scott said.

  “It’s worth a try, ain’t it?”

  “I guess so.”

  “Good. You come back here the end of the day and wait for her to come out.”

  “Then what?”

  “Jesus, man, you’re the lover boy. Follow her home, whatever, look for an opportunity to strike up a conversation. Turn on that charm.”

  They started out again and stopped. Through the double glass doors, they could see a meter maid placing a ticket on Dyce’s windshield.

  • • •

  “Mrs. Lester.”

  She heard her name spoken, but whoever was speaking seemed so far away. It was as if she was on one end of a tunnel and the speaker was on the other.

  “Mrs. Lester, I’d like you to try to remain awake a while longer,” the voice said.

  She felt her eyelids flutter. They wanted to stick together and keep her in darkness, but the speaker protested more vigorously, urging her to fight the fatigue. Gradually, she began to win the battle. Her eyes remained open longer and longer and more light invaded the dark space, pushing the heavy shadows back, cleaning out the corners of her mind the way she would clean away cobwebs in the basement.

  She had the peculiar feeling that she was separated from her body: her thoughts were one place, her limbs and torso another. The longer she remained conscious, the closer the parts of her came to rejoining each other. Her body was mending, the parts seizing onto each other until she was Meg Lester again.

  Something beeped repeatedly beside her. She saw the machinery, the I.V. tubes and heard the muffled sounds of people moving and talking around her.

  “Mrs. Lester.”

  She turned her head slowly and looked at the doctor, who smiled and nodded.

  “Where am I?”

  “In Intensive Care, Mrs. Lester. Welcome back,” he said.

  “Back?”

  The doctor looked like he might say, “from the dead,” but instead, widened his smile. Although he had soft blue eyes and very light brown hair, there was a firm authoritarian air about him.

  “You’ve been unconscious; you’ve had an operation on your head to remove pressure, but you’re doing fine now.”

  “Pressure?” She tried to remember.

  “Mrs. Lester, I want you to answer some very simple questions, okay? What’s your full name?”

  “My name? Meg Lester.”

  “Good. How old are you, Meg?”

  “I’m thirty.”

  He continued, asking her the simplest things. As she formed the answers, her memory began to rush back and wave after wave of recollections cascaded over the empty and dark areas—the troubles with Scott, the courtroom, Justine’s subsequent depression and illnesses…

  “My daughter,” she cried.

  “Yes. What’s your daughter’s name?” the doctor asked.

  “Justine. But where is she? What happened to her? Is she all right?”

  “Do you remember what happened to you, Meg?” the doctor asked instead of answering. She struggled. The most recent memories seemed the hardest to regain. “You were in your house,” the doctor prompted. “In the evening…”

  “I…yes.” It was coming back quickly. “I went upstairs to look in on Justine. She was asleep. Then I heard something downstairs.” She turned toward the doctor again, only this time, there were two other men standing beside him and neither looked like doctors.

  “This is Lieutenant Parker and Detective Fotowski, Mrs. Lester. They’re Los Angeles police detectives investigating what happened to you.”

  “Police detectives! Where’s my daughter?” she cried.

  “Easy, Meg,” the doctor said. “You’ve got to recuperate if you want to help your daughter and yourself.”

  “Where is she?” she asked more calmly. “Tell me,” she demanded of the taller policeman.

  “We think she’s with your husband,” Lt. Parker said. “Or at least your husband knows where she is,” he added.

  “My husband?” She looked from one face to another. “What do you mean, you think?”

  “We’re here to find out what you know, what you can tell us about what happened,” Lt. Parker said. The other detective just stared. Meg didn’t like his eyes; they were too intent, too frightening. “Go on with what you were telling the doctor. You heard a noise…”

  “I heard a noise downstairs…in the den…the metal louvers over the patio doors…”

  “Uh huh. Go on,” Lt. Parker coaxed.

  Meg closed her eyes and then opened them fast, afraid that sleep would seize hold before she had a chance to continue.

  “I went downstairs, but the noise was gone.”

  “What did you do then?”

  “I started for the kitchen. Yes. I wanted some warm milk and then…”

  “Then what, Mrs. Lester? Think hard and tell us everything, even the smallest details.”

  “I went down the corridor, but when I reached the den…a dark shadow…” She grimaced. “Someone hit me; someone hit me and something glittered,” she said and started to raise her arm to touch her head, but the I.V. tube tethered her arm to the bed.

  “Did you see him?” the other detective demanded. “Did you see the man who hit you?”

  She shook her head and then added, “I don’t even know if it was a man who hit me.”

  Lt. Parker almost smiled. He looked at Fotowski, who appeared annoyed with her doubt and the suggestion of an alternate possibility.

  “What about a hand, an arm, a sleeve, anything before you went unconscious,” he continued more forcefully.

  Meg thought.

  “No, I don’t remember,” she said, grimacing. She started to cry. “I don’t remember.”

  “You said something glittered, Mrs. Lester? What glittered?”

  “I don’t know.” She cried softly, but it felt horrible, like her eyes were melting and
streaming down her cheeks. “I don’t remember.” She choked out the words once more. “I don’t remember.”

  “All right, Mrs. Lester,” the doctor said. “Take it easy.”

  “What about my daughter? What happened to my daughter?” she asked Lt. Parker.

  “Mrs. Lester, it appears that your husband might have done this to you and kidnapped Justine. Have you any idea where he might have taken her?”

  “Scott? Did this?”

  “We think so, ma’am,” Fotowski said firmly. “We were hoping you could make a positive I.D. on the attack and clinch it. If he knows he’s finished, he might turn your daughter over faster.”

  “I can’t believe…”

  “You knew he was doin’ coke,” Lt. Parker said. “We’ve read the court transcript containing the accusations you’ve made against him in the custody hearing.”

  “You know he’s capable of doing something like this,” Fotowski said quickly.

  “He called us from your house and we found him at your side quite distraught,” Lt. Parker said.

  “His fingerprints are all over the statue,” Fotowski added.

  “Statue?”

  “Of cupid.”

  “Oh, God.” She squeezed her eyes shut and shook her head hard, as if the action could throw the words out of her ears.

  “I think we’d better stop for now,” the doctor said. “She’s done more than I wanted her to do already. Give her a chance to rest and come back,” he added.

  “Sure. Don’t you worry, Mrs. Lester,” Lt. Parker said. “We’re going to straighten all this out and bring your daughter back to you.”

  She nodded, holding back her sobs. She couldn’t keep her eyes from closing now and now she didn’t want to. It was better to be unconscious, better not to hear and know these terrible things.

  “Oh, Scott,” she whispered, “how could you do such a thing to us?”

  Hours later, she woke again, this time to find Abby seated at her side.

  “Hi, honey,” she said, standing and taking Meg’s hand into hers. “How are you doing?”

  “Oh, Abby. You came all the way…”

  “Of course, I did. You didn’t think I wouldn’t, did you?”

  “How’s Mom?”

  “I’m calling her practically every two hours, and, of course, whatever I tell her, she tells me is a lie. You know Mom. She’s convinced I’m keeping the truth from her.”