The Solomon Organization

by Andrew Neiderman

  “All right,” Scott remarked. “This is more like it. For a while back there I was worried you weren’t making a living as a lawyer.”

  “The house is old, but practically everything in it is a valuable antique,” she said caustically. “It belongs to my parents; the car’s mine,” she said, slipping in behind the wheel. He got in quickly and watched her put on her black leather driving gloves. She inserted the key into the ignition and the car growled into life. Then she paused and turned to him.

  “It’s not too late to change your mind,” she said.

  “Get going,” he ordered. “We don’t want to keep Mr. Fein waiting. A lawyer’s time is money.”

  She shifted quickly to back out with precision down the narrow driveway to the street.

  “Where does Michael Fein live?” he asked after she turned up Seventh and headed for San Vincente Boulevard.

  “Camden Drive, Beverly Hills.”

  “Why doesn’t that surprise me.”

  She glanced at him and sped up.

  “Tell me about this meeting you had with these people who call themselves the Solomon Organization. What did they tell you? What did they ask you?”

  He described how they had sent a limousine to pick him up, how he had been searched by Bernard Lyle first, and how he had been brought to the conference room. She listened quietly as he related the details of the inquiry.

  “So there was no question they had access to your court proceeding,” she concluded.

  “Michael Fein had apparently turned everything over to them. It just didn’t occur to me at the time. I was so confused and angry, I wasn’t thinking straight anyway. Dante had convinced me this was my last chance to hold onto Justine.”

  “And when you left, you had no idea what they were up to?” she asked, her voice dripping with incredulity.

  “I really thought…hoped, I suppose, that they had influence with the court. Violence simply wasn’t an option in my way of thinking. These men were described to me as being doctors, lawyers, judges, psychologists…not mobsters.” She smirked as if to say, tell me another one. “Look, I was given the distinct impression they were doing something about the inequities of the system when it came to divorces and custody hearings, that’s all.”

  “Inequities?”

  “Most of the considerations are weighted in favor of the woman. And the woman is not necessarily the better parent all the time.”

  She looked at him and shook her head.

  “So you’re telling me these people see themselves as a kind of privately operated child welfare agency?”

  “Sort of. In a distorted way, I suppose.”

  “From what you’re telling me of what you think’s happened, they apparently weren’t very impressed with you. In their eyes you weren’t a fit parent, either.”

  “Maybe I wasn’t, but they had no right to do what they’ve done.” After a beat he added, “Meg’s not a bad mother. I exaggerated in an effort to get them to help me. But they had no right to play God with our lives like this.”

  “Of course not. Look,” she said in a calmer tone of voice, “what you’re doing now is just making this all more complicated and getting yourself deeper and deeper into a situation from which you can’t hope to escape blame. If we take what you’ve learned to the police…”

  “No,” he said sharply. He glared at her. “And it doesn’t do you any good to keep suggesting that course of action. It keeps me questioning your innocence.”

  She shook her head and drove on in silence. When they reached Beverly Hills, she slowed down and told him the address to look for. The Porsche purred up the avenue, hovering to the side. Finally, they spotted the Spanish-style two-story house with a circular tile driveway in front. The front of the house was well lit up, but there were pockets of shadows in the entryway and atrium.

  “Slowly,” he commanded just before she started to turn in. “Very slowly.”

  She drove in and came to a stop.

  “The keys…quickly,” he said. She pulled them out of the ignition and gave them to him. He got out quickly and stepped back in the shadows. Then he nodded and she hit the horn twice. A few moments later, Michael Fein emerged from his house. He wore a sports jacket and a pair of jeans and new white sneakers. He looked very relaxed and casual and certainly not a man involved in some deadly conspiracy.

  “Hi,” he said approaching the car. “What’s Scott been telling you? What is this all about?”

  “It’s about my wife and child,” Scott said, coming up behind him. He shoved the pistol barrel into Michael’s ribs.

  “What the…” Michael Fein looked down and saw the gun in his side.

  “Get in the car,” Scott ordered. “Go on. Get around and get into the car.”

  “Scott, you’re crazy. You can’t…”

  “If you don’t think I’ll use this, you’re the one who’s crazy. At this moment I don’t have much to lose. I’m already suspected of attempting to kill my wife and now I’m surely going to be accused of killing Jerome Beezly. I don’t mind adding another death to the list, if I can really commit the murder myself this time.”

  Michael Fein moved around the car. Scott opened the door.

  “Get in the rear.”

  “What rear?” Michael Fein whined.

  “You’ll manage. Get in,” Scott snapped and poked Fein with the gun again, this time sharply enough under his ribs to bruise. He groaned but moved quickly to squeeze himself into the small rear seat. Then Scott got in.

  “Now what?” Faye asked when he handed her keys back to her.

  “Just drive. Head up to Sunset and go west toward the 405 Freeway,” he ordered.

  “What’s going on, Scott? Why are you doing this?” Fein asked.

  Scott turned, holding the pistol in clear view between the two front seats, the barrel pointed at Michael, who glanced at it fearfully.

  “Here’s what I know and I know you know I know,” Scott said. “You’re part of the Solomon Organization. You’ve been involved in a number of their, shall we say, ‘special cases.’ You even helped Mr. Beezly’s son with his divorce, which resulted in the death of his wife, a death that was made to look accidental.”

  “It was accidental.”

  “Save it. I know now that you gave the panel my case history and you’ve been actively involved in framing me for the attack on my wife and the kidnapping of my child.”

  “What…now look, Scott…”

  “There’s no sense in wasting time claiming you’re innocent or telling me I don’t know what I’m talking about…whatever bullshit you come up with will go in one ear and out the other. Before Dyce was killed, he and I broke into Beezly’s office and we saw the documents and your involvement. Now we’re heading toward the freeway. We have a long drive ahead of us, at the end of which we will find my daughter. Whether you live or die depends entirely on how cooperative you are. Am I making myself clear?”

  Fein didn’t respond.

  “Where do we find Doctor Goodfellow in Barstow?” Scott asked softly.

  “Faye,” Michael said, “are you listening to this and believing it?”

  “Frankly, Michael, I don’t know what to believe anymore. Why didn’t the police call me about Beezly’s murder? If they’re looking for Scott, why did they call you?”

  “I don’t know. What’s that have to do with anything?”

  “You knew Beezly was dead before the police did, if they do know now,” Scott said.

  “That’s ridiculous. Look…”

  Scott pulled back the hammer on the pistol.

  “It’s going to make a lot of noise, I know. If she hits a bump too hard…”

  “Faye,” Michael appealed. “He’s out of his mind. Don’t listen to him.”

  “There’s no sense trying to convince her, Michael. I’m prepared to shoot her, too, and she knows it. Look,” Scott added, raising his voice so that the note of hysteria began to ring clearly, “my daughter has been living in some horrible t
error for days and you, you son of a bitch, are part of the reason why. When I think of that act you put on in the police station just before they booked me…pretending to believe I had attacked Meg, pretending to be disgusted while all the while you were plotting and planning. Who the hell made you people into gods, huh? Who told you to decide people’s lives? You fucking…”

  Scott reached over and pommeled Michael Fein on the side of his head with his left fist. Fein howled with pain and Faye jerked the car to the right and then to the left, the tires squealing.

  “Stop!” she screamed. “Stop or I’ll deliberately drive off the road.”

  Scott stopped striking Fein, but rose in his seat and pointed the pistol at him, taking aim at his skull.

  “We’ll find her without your help,” he threatened in a throaty voice.

  “All right, all right, for Christ sakes,” Fein cried. “I’ll show you where Doctor Goodfellow lives.”

  “And you don’t deny being involved?”

  “No.”

  Scott lowered himself to his seat slowly and then gazed at Faye Elliot. Finally she wore an expression of utter terror. They turned into the entrance to the freeway.

  “Okay,” Scott said in a much calmer tone of voice, “let’s see if the Porsche can live up to its reputation.”

  She shifted down and entered the freeway, quickly pulling away from nearby vehicles. In the rear, Michael Fein sunk down, his head still throbbing. Scott glared at him for a moment and then made himself comfortable. Faye relaxed, too.

  “How many people have such things been done to?” she asked after a while.

  “Michael?” Scott said. “You’ve been asked a question and the court directs you to reply.”

  “A dozen or so in Los Angeles,” he muttered.

  “You mean, this is going on in other cities?” she asked.

  “Michael?”

  “Yes,” he said. “And what you’re doing now is not going to stop it. There are people in very high places committed to our purposes,” he added proudly.

  “Which is what?” Faye asked.

  “To stabilize the American family, to ensure our children grow up in an emotionally and psychologically well-balanced environment.”

  “Well balanced…by killing people?”

  “We do what has to be done. Sometimes, sacrifices are made,” he said coldly.

  “Yeah, well if this doesn’t go well,” Scott said, “you can be sure you’ll be the next one to be sacrificed.”

  “Scott,” Faye said. “It’s not too late. Let’s take him to the police and present his testimony.”

  “For what? You heard him. They have friends in high places. No,” Scott said, settling back again. “I put myself and my family into this mess. I’ve got to get us out. With or without your help,” he added.

  Faye glanced at him and saw the cold determination in his eyes.

  “Do you understand?” he asked.

  “Yes,” she said softly and pressed down on the accelerator, one part of her numb and the other part terrified.

  Bernard Lyle took the next exit off the freeway to look for a place to have a cup of coffee and make a phone call. Although there was a definite sense of urgency to everything that he had to do, Bernard believed one should always have a clear mind and as much of a rested body as possible before taking action. Those who acted abruptly, who pushed the envelope, usually made mistakes. He wanted to remain calm, clear thinking, totally in charge of events.

  He spotted an all-night diner and drove into the parking lot. He could see there were only a few other customers. The one waitress and the counterman were talking casually. It was a good place to stop—the fewer people to remember him, the better. The waitress smiled when he entered. She was a stout woman with bad teeth, but warm, friendly eyes.

  “Sit anywhere you want,” she said.

  He took the first booth. He hadn’t intended on having anything to eat, but the pies looked great in the pie case and all this activity had indeed stimulated his appetite.

  “Give me a cup of coffee and…which is the freshest pie?”

  “The apple,” she said, shifting her eyes conspiratorially, as if she was supposed to push the least fresh one first.

  “I know fresh apple pie when I taste it,” he warned. She laughed. Only someone who knew him well would realize he was making a serious threat. He was quite capable of seriously harming someone for less.

  “It’s fresh. A la mode?”

  “No. Got to watch the figure,” he said. The waitress laughed.

  “Tell me about it,” she said, running her hand over her wide hip. Bernard nodded in full agreement, which was something she didn’t expect. Her eyebrows went up and she turned away quickly.

  Bernard sat back and gazed out the window. At this moment he felt very powerful, very successful. The organization had been protected. There were higher-ups who were going to appreciate him and surely reward him. He had seen the possibility of a bad hemorrhage and he had stopped the bleeding before it had had any real chance to start.

  Of course, the question remained how much had Scott Lester learned and how far would he go before he was stopped. Bernard felt he had done his part, more than his part. Now it was up to them to contribute, to use their influence with the police, the judges, whoever to get this man off their trail.

  The waitress served the coffee and pie without comment this time. Bernard ate and drank quietly, pleased that the pie was fresh. When the waitress returned to give him a refill, he asked her how much farther it was to Ludlow.

  “Less than a half hour,” she said.

  “I’m that close? Great. Thanks.”

  She returned to her conversation with the counterman. After Bernard had sipped half of his second cup, he got up and went to the pay phone in the rear. It was time to check in. He used his calling card and waited.

  “Yes,” Dante said after only one ring.

  “The Barstow problem has been solved…completely solved,” he said.

  “Good. Where are you?”

  “Half hour out of Ludlow. I thought I would head in this direction in case more had to be done. Ready and prepared, that’s my motto,” he said pedantically.

  “Good thinking. As it turns out, we do have a new problem. Michael Fein stepped out of his house to meet with Faye Elliot, Mr. Lester’s attorney. She had called, claiming there was reason to believe in the validity of his tale. Michael was supposed to call in as soon as he discovered what she knew.”

  “He hasn’t phoned in?”

  “No and it’s been some time. His wife doesn’t know what happened to him. His car is still in his garage and he had no other appointments. She’s on the verge of calling the police.”

  “I don’t like it.”

  “Me neither. They could be on their way to Barstow.”

  “They won’t find anything.”

  “Nevertheless, you had better complete the mop up. Everyone agrees it’s not worth the risk.”

  “Understood,” Bernard said.

  “Do it cleanly,” Dante warned.

  “Have I ever been sloppy? You’re going to appreciate the way I handled Barstow.”

  “Bernard,” Dante said. “We already appreciate you. I assure you, we will make that clear when this is over.”

  “Thank you,” Bernard said. “I’m off to see the Wizard…”

  “The wonderful Wizard of Oz.”

  Bernard cradled the phone and returned to his booth. He left a very good tip. He was feeling generous; his heart was full. He could be nice to almost anyone, and no one would annoy him while he was in this state of mind. All the way to Ludlow, he sang along with the radio and beat out rhythms on the dashboard. When he pulled into the sleepy town, he checked the address he had and drove directly to the pretty little house with the picket fence, the immaculate lawn, and well-pruned hedges. He parked across the street and turned off his lights.

  The occupants of the house were long asleep. There was just a small night light on abo
ve the front door. Bernard thought about waking them, but then reconsidered. That might cause suspicion and commotion at such a late hour. No, this had to be done right, done smoothly. Everyone was depending on him to be perfect. Besides, they weren’t going anywhere.

  Despite the coffee and the pie, he was drowsy. After all, he had had a big day. In fact, it only just occurred to him that he had killed four people today: Dyce, Beezly, Grandma, and Doctor Goodfellow. That’s more than a day’s work for any good mechanic, he thought and chuckled. Boy, they sure got their money’s worth out of me today.

  If he lowered the seat and relaxed, he could catch a few hours of sleep before morning. Parked in front of the house like this and cloaked in the dark shadows of this side street that had no street lights, he could watch over the house as well and be alert should Scott Lester somehow appear before the work was done. Confident that wouldn’t happen anyway, and comfy, he closed his eyes and leaned back. In moments, he was asleep. He never had trouble falling asleep, no pangs of conscience, no stress to keep him tossing and turning. He was a well-adjusted man and his loud snoring quickly confirmed it. Fortunately, there was no one around to hear him, nothing but a few hungry bats who had circled the front of the house and then soared off for better pickings.

  The moon sunk behind some clouds and the glow of warm illumination that had washed over Bernard Lyle’s car slipped away. The expression, It’s always darkest before the dawn, seemed to be reaffirmed.

  Inside the house Justine moaned and turned. She was having another nightmare, but unlike the others, she wasn’t waking up to scream. Instead, she was trapped in her own unrelentingly morbid imagination. Mommy was being pulled upwards toward Heaven, but Mommy didn’t want to go and Mommy was crying for her, but all Justine could do was look up and watch her disappear into the dark clouds until she was nothing but a point of darkness herself. Then Daddy went by in his car, the windows all rolled up. She screamed and screamed for him, but he didn’t hear her nor did he look at her. In moments he was gone, too, and she was all alone until Grandma emerged from the shadows with Little Bit in her arms. Only when she drew closer did Justine see that the puppy was dead.