“There is a big picture and smaller pictures around it,” Ira said. “The evidence we’ll hand over to you will corroborate it all. I suggest you take all this down.”
“You mind if we record it?” Detective Molina asked.
“I would appreciate it,” Ira said.
Molina removed a small, digital recorder from her coat pocket. She pressed a button and put it on the coffee table.
“Okay,” she said.
Ira said, “We begin with the mountain community called Peniel. All cults need a magnetic personality at the center, and Tanya Camarasa fits the bill.”
“How do you spell that?” Detective Molina said.
“I’ll print it out for you anon,” Ira said.
“A what?” Baker said.
“Soon,” Ira said. “She gathered her minions, as cult leaders have done here in Southern California for over a century.”
“I can agree with that,” Baker said.
“They were ostensibly about loving the earth, expressing that love through Dionysian enthusiasms.”
“Excuse me?” Baker said.
“Referring to the pagan god Dionysus,” Ira said. “A pursuit of non-rational ecstasy.”
“Beating drums and dancing around,” I said.
“Ah,” Baker said.
“With chemical and cannabis enhancements,” I said.
“And further,” Ira said, “there is some high-end sex trafficking. You’ll have plenty to work with here. Tanya has a client list and Claude was apparently the go-between. Claude also worked security for Jon-Scott Morrow. But I believe it was because Tanya had something on Morrow, wanted leverage over him for something.”
“What might that be?” Baker said.
“I suspect Morrow would be useful to her among the Hollywood set. More clients, you see.”
I said, “And Morrow had been resistant. Which is where Brooklyn Christie comes in.”
“The missing woman you told us about,” Molina said.
“What I’m not sure about is her connection with Desiree Parks,” I said. “And why Ms. Parks was beaten.”
“She’s recovering,” Molina said. “We’ve only been able to talk to her once. She said the man who beat her up was named”—she consulted a small notebook in her left hand––“Kalolo?”
“That would be correct,” I said.
“And you know this how?” Molina said.
“I’ll get to that,” I said.
“We haven’t been able to find him,” Baker said. “If you know anything …”
“A strange tale will unfold,” I said.
Baker and Molina frowned in tandem. They were like two synchronized swimmers.
“Before that,” I said, “something about Brooklyn Christie. You’re going to want to question Jon-Scott Morrow.”
“The actor?” Molina said.
“He’s going to be a little nervous,” I said, “because he has a big movie coming up. But don’t let that stop you.”
Baker said, “We never have before.”
“From what I’ve seen,” I said, “my theory is this guy Claude poisoned Brooklyn at Morrow’s house, in the morning hours after a party there. The idea was to make it look like a suicide. This would make Mr. Morrow look very bad indeed. You’ll have to grill Morrow on what he knows, but he’ll fold like a lawn chair. Maybe he found her and got her to vomit, on purpose or accidentally. Maybe somehow she vomited on her own. Whatever, she ended up on the beach where I found her. Probably Morrow set her loose out there in the fog, so she wouldn’t be found in the house.”
“We should talk to Brooklyn Christie,” Molina said.
“When she feels up to it,” I said.
“Where is she now?” Molina said.
“Being taken care of,” I said.
“Why are you being vague?” Baker said.
“It’s his way,” Ira said. “But she is a client of ours, so I would ask your indulgence for a day. We will contact you tomorrow.”
“Why tomorrow?” Baker said.
“Because,” I said, “we have an appointment to keep today.”
TWO HOURS LATER we were inside Ray Christie’s room at the exquisite Motel 6 on Sepulveda. The décor was mid-century orange. Ray Christie’s face was middle-aged ashen.
I gave him the news that Brooklyn was in a doctor’s care.
“Thank God,” he said. “Please take me to her.”
“Better sit down first,” I said.
“What? Why? What’s happened?”
Ira, using his crutches, went to the chair by the window and sat.
“What is this?” Ray said. “I want to see Brooklyn.”
“Not just yet,” I said. “Sit down.”
He looked at Ira, back at me. “I don’t understand.”
I said, “A little matter to clear up concerning your relationship with Dr. Gary Pasfield.”
“Who?”
“You’d better sit down, Mr. Christie,” Ira said.
Ray Christie paused, then lowered himself onto the bed.
“You told me you didn’t know Pasfield,” I said. “But you and he were high school classmates in Indiana.”
Ray said, “I don’t know what you’re talking about. I want to see—”
“I was doing some background on Pasfield,” Ira said. “I like to find visuals whenever I can. Did you know your high school yearbook is online, photos and all?”
Ray Christie’s Adam’s apple bobbed.
“You didn’t have a very large class,” Ira said. “Imagine my surprise to find your name there.”
With a chest starting to heave, Ray Christie looked back at forth at Ira and me.
Ira said, “So I looked through Pasfield’s laptop. He wasn’t very good at encrypting emails. Is there another RayCDrywall at AOL?”
Ray Christie said nothing. There was nothing he could say.
“Five years ago your business was in trouble,” I said. “There was even an item about that in the Arizona Republic. One of your employees sued you for workplace harassment. His name was Fisher. Morton Fisher. He accused you of anti-Semitism.”
“That was never proved!” Ray Christie said.
“You settled,” I said.
“Because it didn’t happen,” Ray said.
“After the bad publicity, you needed money. And you got it. From your old classmate Gary Pasfield.”
Ray Christie was starting to breathe hard.
I said, “You asked Pasfield for a loan, and he asked you for Brooklyn. To be his assistant in some environmental work. How’m I doing so far?”
He stared at the floor.
“It wasn’t long before Pasfield introduced Brooklyn to Tanya,” I said. “And they went to work on her. Drugs were part of it. They broke her down, filled her head with that neo-pagan gibberish about angels. And got her involved in a sex racket. A business partnership between Tanya and Pasfield, with Jon-Scott Morrow as one of their best customers. We’ll get more when Brooklyn can talk to us.”
Ray Christie started to weep.
“When did you find out what they’d done to her?” I said.
Barely above a whisper, Ray Christie said, “A year ago.”
“Did you use a private detective to find out?”
He nodded.
“And Pasfield found out, told you to back off. Threatened you. And Brooklyn.”
Another nod.
“So Brooklyn called you and begged you to help her. She mentioned my name. You decided I was the right guy to try to find her and take the heat, even if it meant death.”
“I didn’t …” Ray sobbed “… mean for it …”
“Brooklyn wanted to get away from Pasfield. Pasfield made her his own personal—”
“Please don’t,” Ray Christie said.
“He even went so far as to fake her murder. He must have paid Claude and the big bartender a nice sum to do that.”
Ira looked at me from across the room, gesturing at me to go easy.
“Th
en there were the explosions,” I said. “You knew who was behind them. Pasfield and his son. They really thought they were saving the earth, too.”
Ray Christie was silent.
“You knew because Brooklyn told you,” I said. “She found out that Pasfield was involved, but not Tanya. Brooklyn trusted her. That’s why she went back to her after she was poisoned.”
“I don’t know anything about this,” Ray Christie said.
“You do,” I said, “because of that crazy screed that was published, implicating the Tanya angel cult. Remember we talked about that?”
Ray’s eyes were like a guy in front of a firing squad.
“You wrote that yourself. You wanted the cops to have a long look at Tanya and Pasfield. But you couldn’t help slipping in something about the Jewish state. Your little marker.”
Ray Christie shook his head slowly, several times. Then he put his head in his hands and said, “What am I gonna do?”
Ira got out of his chair, crossed the room on his crutches. He sat on the bed next to Ray Christie.
“Let me tell you something about my religion,” Ira said. “Something that may get you to cut us a break. Can I tell you?”
Head still in hands, Ray Christie nodded.
“We teach three things that lead to forgiveness. The first is repentance, the acknowledgement of one’s wrong. I think you’re there. Next, one must go to the person wronged and ask to be forgiven. The third thing is to undo as much of the damage as one can. Do those three things and you’ll find healing walking right alongside you.”
For a long moment, no one said anything.
Ira said, “Maybe we Hebrews have learned a few things over the last five thousand years.”
Ray Christie looked up from his hands.
TWO DAYS LATER the story of the Tanya Camarasa sex ring operation broke wide. Based in large part on Ira’s evidence from the laptop, and a breakdown by Jeffery Pasfield that resulted in what the law calls a spontaneous inculpatory statement, the whole scheme was to raise money for the operation of Peniel and contributions by the inmates there to the campaign of Allison Ursula Serret.
The Los Angeles Times refused to mention that last part. Instead they referred to “unsubstantiated rumors” potentially planted by “political enemies” of the “development crowd.”
Jon-Scott Morrow’s name got mentioned. I wondered, this being Hollywood and America today, whether the news of his sex romps might actually revive his career. When I finished reading the story, I took a shower.
Brooklyn Christie talked to the police. I was with her when she did. She wanted me there, and as Ira’s investigator I could claim attorney-client status. She corroborated some of the key evidence. She broke down a couple of times when she spoke about the drugs and the life she’d been roped into.
I HELD HER hand.
When we were through, I walked her outside where Ray Christie was waiting. Brooklyn’s hand tensed in mine. She looked at me, as if to ask if it was all right to let go. I nodded.
She kissed me on the cheek.
And then, without a word, she turned to her father.
He had tears in his eyes.
Brooklyn put her arm around his shoulder. Ray Christie wept into her chest.
I took my leave.
THE NEXT MORNING I was sitting on the beach at Paradise Cove, waiting for the sun to come up and break through the dark clouds, looking out at the ocean and not feeling much of anything. The events of the past couple of weeks had carved an ice sculpture out of my chest. I couldn’t quite make out what the sculpture was supposed to be.
I wondered if it looked like Jason Pratt, the guy who was trying to out me in L.A.
Or maybe it was me, frozen in time.
Then I remembered it was Thursday. Sophie would be at the bookstore later that day.
But if it was her, that sculpture was melting away.
“What’s up?” Carter “C Dog” Weeks landed with a plop in the sand next to me.
My fists were balled and one was raised. “Don’t ever do that to me, C. I almost dented your face.”
“Easy, dude. I only came out to tell you I’m clean a week.”
“Truly?”
“I got all this energy all of a sudden.”
“Like a puppy dog,” I said. “Maybe that should be your new name.”
“No, please!”
“A week you say?”
“I went to two meetings,” he said.
“Then I’ve got a present for you.”
“My guitar?”
“The very same.”
He threw his arms around my neck and dove into a hug.
“Thank you, man!” he said.
I gave him a man pat then peeled him off.
C Dog let out a whoop, picked up a handful of sand and threw it toward the water.
“Now I’ll do you a favor,” he said.
“What’s that?” I said.
“You looked sort of down, out here all alone. Like you got troubles. Why don’t you tell your buddy C Dog about it?”
“That’s real nice, C, but—”
“Woman trouble?” he said.
“Now why would you think that?” I said.
“Because I’m the love doctor,” he said.
I started laughing. It was too much. A wiry sometime musician, former pothead—at least for the moment—wanting to counsel me on the ways of romance. It was so fresh and naive I just couldn’t let him down. So I told him all about it, about Sophie, about giving a beating to her boyfriend, about how that was what probably turned her off. Heck, it helped a little just to say it.
“Then you got to go back to her, man,” C Dog said. “And win her over.”
“Yeah?”
“She sounds worth it. You’re not the kind of guy who gives up without a fight, are you?”
I laughed again.
I said, “Did you know I can catch a Frisbee with my teeth?”
“Like a dog?”
“Better than a dog.”
“Cool!” he said.
“Want to play some?” I said.
“I’ll go get my disc,” C Dog said, standing and shaking sand off him.
“Awesome sauce,” I said.
He smiled big and ran off.
I laced my hands behind my head and lay back on the sand, looking at the dismal cloud cover over the beach. There was a little bit of a silver glow to it. The sun was back there somewhere, pumping fire.
Author’s Note
Thank you for reading Romeo’s Hammer.
The first book in the series is Romeo’s Rules.
The second book is Romeo’s Way.
I’d greatly appreciate it if you’d leave a review of the book online when you get the chance.
There’s more to come. And if you’d like to be on my email list and be among the first to know when the next one’s coming, please subscribe on my website (you may win a free book, too). I won’t share your email address with anyone, nor will I stuff your mailbox with spam. It’s just a short and to-the-point email from time to time.
Meanwhile, I have another suspense series featuring lawyer Ty Buchanan. The books are:
Try Dying (Ty Buchanan Legal Thriller #1)
Try Darkness (Ty Buchanan Legal Thriller #2)
Try Fear (Ty Buchanan Legal Thriller #3)
For all my books, for both readers and writers, see www.jamesscottbell.com.
Thanks!
Romeo’s Hammer is a work of fiction. Though real locations are used or mentioned, events that take place are made up for the purpose of the story. All of the characters are fictional, and any resemblance to any person, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
Copyright © 2017 by James Scott Bell
All Rights Reserved
Published by
Compendium Press
Woodland Hills, CA
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