City Havoc Read online

  "Holly Baxter."

  When I looked at her without any apparent recognition of the name, Agnes stared at me in surprise.

  "The only child of Marshall Baxter," she said reprovingly. I always thought that Agnes must have been a schoolteacher in a former life, but I also realized that she had taken a liking to me as a sort of errant younger brother.

  Now the name shook my early morning fog. "The industrialist?"

  Agnes nodded. "And the great man is meeting right now with Wolcott and Mr. DeCosta."

  I digested this information slowly as Agnes went back to her papers. Marshall Baxter rang a bell. He was a captain of American industry and one of the wealthiest men in the country. If his daughter was being accused of murder, there would be a tremendous furor in the media. I wondered if the news had already been circulated. In today’s age the slightest mention on the Internet meant an immediate spread on a 24-7 basis. None of my assignments for the company had involved homicide, let alone murder. What, I pondered, might be expected of me now?

  "Holly Baxter has been accused of murdering Ashley Wells, our tour manager," Wolcott Harris said, his dour face marked by concern. He sat in a black leather chair with his customary stiff posture, reflecting his training at one of the Southern military schools whose names always eluded me. He managed to look both handsome and dignified, qualities I hoped to have when I reached his august age, though I doubted I would ever manage his class act. He had closely cropped white hair and a well-chiseled jaw; between these distinctive features, a creased face showed character more than age. Probing dark eyes shone with intelligence behind half-glasses that hung over his nose.

  His office displayed the same tastefully conservative features with a trio of small woodcuts with medieval themes framed in simple elegance. A striking and much larger Chagall painting hung on the opposing wall next to a Finnish takana tapestry.

  In lighter moods Wolcott enjoyed showing visitors how the tapestry had the same design on both sides. Now, however, his manner was ominous and somber.

  "Is she in custody?" I asked.

  "No, she’s disappeared." Wolcott added, "And you know whose daughter she is by now?"

  I nodded.

  "Well, her father is next door breathing fire and threatening to take legal action. Of course, he doesn't think she's guilty."

  "Naturally," I said unnecessarily. Wolcott shot me a look. I had a reputation for being flippant, and this was obviously the wrong time to show this dubious characteristic.

  "The police are still looking for her,” he went on. “Details are sketchy, but evidently Miss Baxter was sleeping with Wells. He was found shot in her bed at the hotel room. Apparently, her fingerprints are on the gun used, which the police have in their possession. The police are intimating some sort of lover’s argument that went lethal."

  "Messy," I said.

  "Very messy. Her father claims it was some sort of setup and that she would never kill anyone; nor does he think she was having an affair."

  "Daddy’s good girl,” I said, bringing another arch look from Wolcott. I was in good form this morning. “Any ransom?" I asked, eager to get back on track.

  Wolcott shrugged. He was wearing one of his expensive gray lined suits with a conservative but equally pricey solid blue-and-black silk tie. "No indication as yet. But why was Wells killed? And by whom, if it wasn't her?"

  "Blackmail? Double cross?"

  "Could be, but no signs of anything like that."

  "Any signs of a struggle?"

  "As I said," Wolcott closed out my questions with asperity, "we have no more details. Which is where you come in. We want you to fly to Los Angeles as soon as possible and see what you can find out and suggest, if possible, what our course of action should be. We have to avoid liability, you understand?”

  Wolcott gave me a meaningful look.

  “I understand,” I said. A great deal of money could be at stake, and I felt a growing amount of pressure on me. I had played detective before, but never in a murder case. This was new territory for me, and to be honest, I was concerned about how I would be able to handle this assignment. Meanwhile, I had to get organized. This would probably mean another red-eye flight, I thought. I hoped I could get home, pack quickly—something I had a lot of experience with—and possibly still catch a late afternoon flight.

  "Liaise with the police," Wolcott said. "Don't make any waves, but see what you can find out. Check with other tour members and anyone else."

  I nodded.

  “But first," Wolcott said, rising to his full, erect six feet, "we want you to see DeCosta and meet Mr. Baxter."

  Holly looked at the 8-by-10, black-and-white photos with horror. The photos showed her in bed with Ashley. They were naked, and he was lying atop her. But then she remembered Ashley had been shot. Another photo placed her with a gun in her hand and blood splattered over her and the bed. Ashley lay on the pillow; he was surely dead, but his eyes seemed open in amazement. She recalled with a shudder two men breaking into her room and taking photos, but everything was hazy after that. Where was she now, sitting in a strange room with the same two men and a sour-looking woman staring at her like a specimen?

  "Remember anything?" Bender asked. He had a solicitous air, but it was make-believe. It had to be.

  Holly looked at Bender like she was giving flesh to a human-form apparition without responding. Who was this man with the sympathetic voice but harsh eyes? And who was the slender woman with a distrusting and disdainful look and the other burly man who lumbered around the room as if he were afraid to put his full weight down on the carpeted floor? He looked like the man who had taken the photos. Whose house was she in? What the hell was going on?

  "I hope you had a good night's rest," Bender said with the same air of concern. “I’m sure the drug has worn off now. It was necessary to be able to leave the hotel undetected. We took some of your toilet articles, but under the circumstances, we couldn’t pack everything. You just tell us what you need, and we’ll take care of it.”

  The other two just sat in armchairs, watching in silence. Glancing around, Holly noted that the living room also had a television set mounted on a small credenza, a small bookcase set against the same wall and a rectangular table between the chairs and the sofa. Two floor lamps shed some light, but a large window was shuttered, the curtains drawn, making the room gloomy and dark. A small cubicle led to the front door.

  "Why am I here?" Holly said, declining some of the coffee and doughnuts spread out on the table. She was just hungry for information.

  "Well, I can understand your curiosity," Bender said. "It's been a traumatic ordeal for you. But you're safe now."

  Safe? From what? For what?

  "Who are you?"

  Bender smiled, acknowledging Holly’s need to be direct in her questions.

  "My name is Bryce Bender, but everyone calls me BB. You're the newest member of the HAP, or the Help America Patriots organization. I'm sorry that your initiation was so violent, but you took the correct action in eliminating a traitor from our midst—even if you were getting even for his personal betrayal."

  "Someone you were intimate with," said the woman with a smirk and then the shadow of a smile. The woman looked to be in her early thirties, but she could have been older beneath the makeup.

  "Rona is right," Bender nodded. "It was a highly sacrificial act, one we're deeply grateful for. But I'd go easy on the alcohol in the future."

  Alcohol? She wasn't much of a drinker. Neither she nor Ashley had had anything to drink in her room or before, she remembered. Holly shook her head. This had to be a dream. But this odd trio was all too real. What were they talking about? She didn't believe a word any of them said.

  "Who took these pictures?" she demanded.

  "I did," the heavyset man said. He looked at her as if he had done nothing strange, unusual or criminal. The man, who looked to be the youngest of the trio, had shoulders like a lumberjack and an earnest look that came across as more credibl
e than that of the smooth-talking spokesman.

  "Where are my manners?" Bender scolded himself. "This is Rona Feswick and Luke Paxton, members, like you, of the HAP."

  Ignoring the introductions, Holly protested, "But I couldn't have shot Ashley, or anyone."

  "Evidently you did," Bender said as if correcting a student’s wrong answer. "The photos don't lie."

  But maybe you do, Holly thought. But it was better not to explode before she knew precisely what was going on and who this weird set of characters were. Regardless of the photos, she hadn’t shot Ashley, though he deserved a lesser punishment. That was a lie. And just what had Ashley’s role in this horror been? First he was her lover; then he was one of them; and then he was shot—but not by her. It was such a muddle.

  "Where am I?"

  "With friends, of course,” Bender said as if he were surprised by the question. “As I said, your fellow members of the HAP."

  Holly shook her head. Nothing made sense. She had never heard of this organization, and why had they kidnapped her? How had a gun gotten into her hand? She had never fired a gun in her life. She didn’t even like guns. This man spoke in a comforting tone, though nothing he said made sense; Rona stared at her with hostility. She glanced at the photos again and blushed. "Who dressed me?" she demanded.

  Bender gave her an apologetic look. "I'm sorry, but we had to under the circumstances. Believe me, we weren't prurient in the slightest."

  Great, Holly thought, afraid to show her anger as she felt her face redden. But she had to find out exactly what her situation was. Had she been kidnapped for ransom? Had her father already been contacted? It couldn't be blackmail, not of her and certainly not of Ashley. But why had Ashley been killed? And even more important, what was the story about the gun? Were they trying to make it seem she had shot Ashley? That was incredible! Her mind was clearing, but she still couldn't remember anything after the shooting.

  "Am I free to leave?"

  "Well, that wouldn't be very advisable," Bender said. Holly caught a glimpse of Rona and her smirk. "I wouldn't recommend it. Let me show you a TV clip that might be of interest."

  Bender signaled to Luke, the heavy man, who turned the VCR on. Whose home were they in? They acted as if they lived here as some sort of extended family. What was the organization Bender had mentioned? She was a member of what? And who had betrayed whom? Her mind was dizzy with questions.

  Moments later Holly look stunned at the television news segments as she listened to the announcer say, "The police are looking for Holly Baxter, suspected of murdering of a tour guide in a downtown hotel. She is the daughter of the well-known industrialist, Marshall Baxter.” And then, dear God, her face was plastered on the television screen!

  "The newspapers have a longer story about you," Bender said. "I'm sure you'll find it of great interest, all bearing out what I've told you."

  Holly felt dazed. None of this barrage of incriminating photos and assurances of her complicity rang true, yet there her image was on the television screen and probably in the newspapers as well.

  "The newspaper is in your room. You have your own room, of course, and we hope you'll be comfortable. As you'll see, we've had to take certain security measures. I trust that you'll cooperate and not do anything foolish."

  Holly stared at Bender; her face narrowed in disbelief. She felt beyond anger, gripped in a fantasy that was stretching its coils around her while she stood helpless and confused.

  "When you have a moment, please read this manifesto, which has been delivered to the media," Bender said, handing her a single sheet of computer paper. With a wicked smile, he added, "Please note it has your signature at the bottom."

  The conference room was dominated by a long and gleaming rectangular table seating sixteen people. The walls and rug had a subdued orange and black theme. A huge abstract painting hung on the far wall with several handsomely framed silkscreen prints featuring thematic meshes of office items and equipment placed on the other walls. A large window opened up to an unobstructed view of the city skyline.

  Marshall Baxter sat impatiently at the far end of the room. He was a thin, gray-haired man in his late fifties or early sixties with an angry grimace creasing his pale, pinched face.

  Rafael DeCosta sat next to Baxter at the head of the table with his usual magisterial aura of dispensing corporate justice. DeCosta had been a wrestler in college, and his short, stocky build was proof. Despite his sixty-odd years, the thick glasses sitting atop of his slightly bulbous nose and cheeks as puffed out as his stomach, he still looked intimidating and as if he could easily pin younger men to the ground.

  Not a man to waste time on pleasantries, DeCosta got quickly to the point. "Derry Greene, this is Marshall Baxter."

  I shook hands with Baxter. Dark, distrusting eyes were topped by heavy eyebrows. He looked at me as if I had some scam to broach.

  "I'm sorry to meet you under these circumstances," I said with the most sympathetic look I could muster.

  Baxter nodded. I sat at the other end of the table, facing Baxter. Wolcott sat by my side. A water jug, glasses, yellow pads and pencils covered the center of the table, still unused.

  "Derry is our special investigator,” Wolcott explained. “He's highly experienced, and he'll be flying to Los Angeles later today to see what we can do. . . ."

  Baxter gave me a baleful glance as if he didn't expect much. I had to admit he might be right. The case thus far, with no indication of ransom or blackmail, sounded like a lover's quarrel. The fact that his daughter had disappeared and was being sought by the police as a suspect and not as a missing person didn't help her cause—or that of Tramerica.

  "What can he do?" Baxter asked, not unreasonably. His voice was both raspish and crotchety; I imagined he had bawled out more than his share of employees. Baxter and DeCosta, two titans of industry, were each intimidating in their own way.

  "We'll see," Wolcott said with his inimitable brand of stiff cordiality.

  Baxter sighed, shaking his head. Unmollified, he said, "I don't care what waivers Holly signed. Your company is still responsible for her safety, and your employee . . . well, you know very well that she wouldn’t be in this situation if it weren’t for Tramerica and your man, who seduced her. My lawyers are checking into this matter right now, and you’ll hear from them."

  Showing no fear, DeCosta replied, "Again, Mr. Baxter, please satisfy yourself on the legal end. You'll find things just as I explained. We want you to realize we're doing all we can to cooperate, which is why we've brought Derry in. We just don’t have a clear picture of what took place, and I recommend you hold back with the legalities until we see what really happened."

  That's right, put the pressure on me, I thought as Baxter looked at me dubiously again. I had the distinct impression he was evaluating a product and not a man. Just as he seemed ready to continue his criticism of Tramerica, Baxter's lips suddenly pressed together as if some internal valve had just meshed. Clasping his hands together with a look of genuine anguish, he apologized. "I'm sorry, Mr. Greene, but this situation has really gotten to me,” he said. “My daughter . . . Holly . . . has always been a headstrong girl. I was afraid of an earthquake in California, and now this. . . . My wife is being treated by our doctor. It's just all so unbelievable."

  Baxter, the picture of a dejected and perplexed parent, shook his head. I joined DeCosta and Wolcott in a sympathetic silence.

  “Mr. Baxter,” DeCosta said at last, “we’ve looked into the background of Ashley Wells, and we haven’t found anything to explain what happened. Please understand that I have to ask you about your daughter. Is there anything you can add that might shed light on the situation?”

  Baxter’s face billowed and turned crimson. “I’m not sure what you’re looking for,” he said as if he knew quite well what DeCosta was getting at. “Holly’s a perfectly normal young lady, and certainly not promiscuous. If you’re trying to deflect your company’s complicity, you’ll find that it won’t work.
”

  DeCosta shook his head. “I wasn’t casting any aspersions on your daughter; we’re just trying to clarify matters.”

  Suddenly, Agnes opened the door. She gave DeCosta a note, which he read intently. Glancing up with a worried look, DeCosta then read the note aloud. "The Los Angeles police have received photos of Holly shooting Ashley Wells, and all the media in Los Angeles have received a manifesto stating that Holly is a member of an organization called the Help America Patriots. She signed it."

  Holly studied the manifesto as if she might be tested over its contents. She tried to concentrate on what she was reading, but the presence of her captors, all of whom were staring at her as if she were in a glass cage, was disconcerting. The still unread front page of the newspaper with her name in a headline lay on a nearby chair.

  The Help America Patriots (HAP) is an organization dedicated to restoring the values that made the United States a great nation and a shining beacon to the rest of the world. We do not seek the overthrow of the existing government, whose jurisdiction we accept. We are a broadly based organization that accepts patriotic-minded members from every denomination, ethnic background, age, and gender. But the HAP believes that changes need to be made in how we are governed—and quickly.

  Los Angeles has been chosen as the first city to undergo this much needed transformation. Here are changes that must be made:

  A roundup of illegals should be comprehensively conducted, and these people should be deported immediately regardless of any economic or familial consequences. Any company found complicit in hiring illegals should be fined one hundred thousand dollars per illegal found for the first offence and put out of business for the second offence.

  A people’s court with full legal standing should be created, comprised of nine citizens of the city. No lawyers may be used, and cases should be heard as soon as possible. Their decisions, subject to appeal, should have the same legal standing as any other court in the judicial system. This rival court will help end ‘justice’ tainted by who can pay for the most skilled lawyers.