Flesh Gothic by Edward Lee (31 page)

Yeah, I guess it does, Westmore thought. "So where is she
now?"

"After her parents were murdered, she was still a minor,
so her aunt and uncle in Jacksonville became her legal
guardians. The aunt and uncle are clean as a whistle, too.
When I talked to 'em on the phone, they told me that Debbie's attending her second semester at Oxford University, in
England. They gave me all kinds of contact numbers, school
registration ID, her dorm, her classes and teachers-the
kitchen sink."

"You check the contacts?"

"Registration, sure. Everything else I didn't bother with,
but I'll give it a shot if you really want."

"I want. Please."

A sigh over the line. "Do you have any idea what a pain
in the ass that is? The time-difference alone-"

"I told you I'd pay your normal rate," Westmore interrupted. He knew his request was inconsiderate, but he
couldn't help it. "I really need this, Tom."

"All right, gimme a few days."

"Thanks," Westmore rushed. "And now fill me in on
Hildreth."

A light chuckle. "This billionaire businessman of yours
was no businessman."

"What do you mean?"

"He's only applied for one business license in his life.
One incorporation, some sleazy outfit called T&T Enterprises. You ready for a laugh? It's a-"

"A porn company, I know," Westmore said. "And I don't
even think it ever showed a profit."

"You got that right," Tom told him. "This Hildreth character bought it from some scumbag in California for a million when it was turning a slim profit, then he ran it right
into the ground. Barely released any movies, didn't maintain
distribution deals, stopped advertising. It's almost like he
didn't care that he wasn't showing any numbers in the black."

"He didn't care," Westmore confirmed. "He was an eccentric. What I heard is he bought the company because he
liked the girls who worked in it."

Tom laughed. "Yeah, I'd say that's eccentric. `Hey, baby, I
like your ass so much, I bought your company. You work
for me now."'

"Something like that, I think." Westmore lit a cigarette.
"What about his background?"

"No background. Born in Jersey in 1944, parents moved
to Florida in '46-a11 non-descript. High school education.
Haven't dug deep enough to get a work history, deed history, etc. Reginald Hildreth is off the map, like most of us
small-time regular people, until the early '80s."

"What happened then?"

"That's when he got rich. The only real trace of him financially are his federal tax records. This is the part that'll
knock you over."

"Start knocking."

"Between 1981 and 1983, your man grossed a hundred
million dollars. I thought he must be some financial whizkid or a Fortune 500 guy-boy, did I get that wrong."

"So how'd he do it?"

"Gambling."

Westmore frowned. "You can't make a hundred million
dollars gambling. That's crazy."

"I know, but tell that to your guy. For those two years he
walked into about a hundred different casinos, took each
place for about a million, and walked out. Paid his taxes on
each hit, and moved on."

"A guy wouldn't last two nights in Vegas like that.
They'd bar him."

"He didn't last two nights. He took Vegas for a million,
then went to Atlantic city, then hit the biggest Indian casino resorts in a dozen different states, then did it in Costa Rica,
Monte Carlo, and on and on, like that. Nothing anybody
could do about it 'cos it was all legit. And the fucker paid
his taxes, so Uncle Sam didn't raise a fuss."

Westmore shook his head at the absurdity. "Was he a
mathematical genius or something? Photographic memory?"

"Could have been, no real way to find out, though.
Maybe he was just lucky. The guy ran with a streak. Maybe
he did what most gamblers never do: walked when the pile
got high."

"I don't know. That's a lot of luck," Westmore said.

"The real luck comes later. But this gambling stuff? You
read about it all the time. Weird, sure. But it happens. Like
that lady in Ohio who won the two state lotteries in the
same year. As far as your man goes, the real luck came after
the gambling streak."

"I heard he was an investor."

"He was-with no educational training to back it up, and
no investment background. Any time Hildreth won a jackpot at a casino, he'd pay the taxes and invest in the stock
market."

"Blue Chip stuff?"

Another laugh. "This guy bought shares in every longshot garage company out there, but pretty much just the
ones that hit it big down the road. Microsoft, Apple, Bank
of America, the little pee-hole that AOL was before they became AOL-there's a long list. They all turned out to be
winners a few years later, thousand-percent share-profits
and multiple buy-outs and stock-splits. Right now, the guy's
worth one-point-four-billion."

Was worth, Westmore corrected in thought. Now he's
dead. Or was that even true? He was trying to keep professional. He'd taken a job. He had a client, Vivica Hildreth, yet the harder he tried to remain focused on the responsibilities
he was being paid preposterously well for, he had to wonder. What exactly am I doing now? It almost seemed he was
on his own investigation, for his own curiosity. "That's
great work, Tom. Thanks. But I also want you to run another name for me too."

"Oh, no problem, buddy. I'm not busy here, I've got
nothing better to do than-"

"I hear you. Bill me double, anything. But when you're
following up on Debbie Rodenbaugh, I want you to run a
check on the wife-Vivica Hildreth."

A long sigh. "You got it."

Westmore's thoughts strayed-back to Hildreth.

"You there?" Tom asked.

"Oh, yeah. I was just thinking. All that money Hildreth
made? Gambling? You really think any guy can be that lucky?"

"Some guys got it, some guys don't," Tom said. He
laughed dryly. "Who knows? Maybe the guy sold his soul
to the devil."

Westmore was staring into space. "Thanks for the help.
I'll let you go now, and give you a call in a few days."

"Sure thing."

Westmore hung up. He spewed cigarette smoke, watched
it twist into strange shapes and dissipate. Jesus. What am I
thinking? He picked up his glass of scotch, sniffed it, then
put it down, and swigged some ice water.

Someone tapped his shoulder. "This who you're looking
for?" and then a photograph was thrust in front of his face.
"I heard you mention her name on the phone a minute
ago.. *" Before Westmore could look at the man who'd
said it, the photo hooked his vision.

It was Debbie Rodenbaugh.

Who the- He jerked around in his seat, glaring up.

And was stunned by the face that looked back at him.

"I guess I better call the police," Westmore said, infuriated. The guy who sat next to him he'd seen before. Older
guy, buzz-cut with a bald spot, dark mustache.

"You made me that fast?"

It was "Mike," from Bayside Pest Control. Here he wore
jeans, beat-up loafers, and a t-shirt with Jane Fonda in rifle
cross-hairs.

Westmore was at a loss. "I just saw you on a security
video tape, changing discs in your illegal bugging equipment while masquerading as a pest-control employee."

"Don't that beat all . . ." He looked at Westmore's scotch.
"I thought you didn't drink."

Westmore slumped, groaning. "I don't, long story, none
of your business. Two questions. Why shouldn't I call the
police right now, and why do you have a picture of Deborah Rodenbaugh?"

"Wait on calling the cops. I'd beat the rap anyway. My
brother-in-law is the state attorney, and some of my best
friends are in the county prosecutor's office. I'm an ex-cop,
I did twenty-years with the county sheriff's department.
When I retired, I was the commander of the narcotics unit,
and I got more commendations than any cop in the history
of the department."

"Correction," Westmore said. "Three questions. Who the
fuck are you?"

"Bart Clements." He passed Westmore his wallet, which
contained a retired police ID. Looks legit, Westmore
thought. But what do I know?

"Gimme a minute, and I'll answer all your questions,"
Clements said. "I came here for a reason-to talk to you. I
know this is your hangout. Christ, I've been coming here
every night for the last week. It's about time you finally showed." He ordered a draft beer, a Coke, and a basket of
onion rings from the barkeep, then took the Coke to a girl
who sat by herself out at a dark table overlooking the water.

When he came back, Westmore asked, "Who's that?"

"A friend."

Westmore frowned, looked at the girl again. She looked
skinny, trashy, cut-off jeans, flip-flops, tube-top. Stringy dark
hair. "What are you, about sixty?"

"Fifty-seven."

"No offense, man, but she looks like a twenty-five-yearold streetwalker."

"She is."

"That's great. Decorated ex-cop ... picking up hookers."

"I've got a problem with hookers, always have."
Clements looked at him. "Everybody's got something,
right? Nyvysk quit the priesthood 'cos he was fuckin'
falling in love with other priests. Adrianne Saundlund is a
drug-addict, and Cathleen Godwin is a sex-addict. Patrick
Willis is a porn-addict. Each one of us has our thing. Mine's
hookers. Can't help it."

Westmore was astounded. "I'd be impressed by how
much you know about the people at the mansion, but I
guess when you've got bugs in the joint, it's easy to pick up
personal information. But you don't know me from Adam.
Why the hell would you tell a perfect stranger some very
personal shit about yourself? Picking up hookers is nothing
to be proud of, and for an ex-cop it's an outright disgrace.
Why tell me?"

"I want to earn your trust," Clements said, sipping his
beer and lighting a cigarette. "I've got a better bug in
Vivica's penthouse at the Strauss Building downtown, by
the way. A wireless mike. I don't have to go into the place to
change discs like the mansion. I've learned more from that bug than the other. And I'm telling you that for the same
reason I told you the shit about me. So you'll trust me. You
could call Vivica right now, tell her about me, about the
bug, and that's a federal charge. I'd really be screwed on a
bust like that."

Yeah, he would, Westmore realized.

"Oh, and the girl?" Clements looked over at the ratty
young woman he'd taken the Coke to. "Yeah, she's a street
hooker, but I never picked her up for that. Her name's Connie; she's ... a friend. She's helping me, and I'm helping
her. I'm gonna get her in rehab."

"And how's she going to help you?"

Clements shot Westmore a dry smile. "She's one of the last
people to see Hildreth or any of those porn nuts alive. She's
also one of the last people to see Debbie Rodenbaugh."

Westmore chewed on the information, then it clicked.
"She's one of the parlor prostitutes ... "

"That's right. She got busted the night before the slaughter, otherwise she would've been there too and got her head
cut off with the rest of them. She knows more about that
house than you and me combined."

Westmore was waylaid. This is out of the blue, all right.
"And the reason you want me to trust you is ... why?"

"Because I need your help. And you never know, you
might need mine. We're both on the same trek, buddy.
We're both trying to find out what happened to Debbie
Rodenbaugh. We can help each other."

"What's your interest in Debbie Rodenbaugh?" Westmore asked next.

"She was my last case. I don't like failure, and I sure as
shit failed her. It's more than peace of mind. I never met the
girl but I feel like I owe her something. Her parents were
murdered because I took the case."

"What case;' Westmore was aggravated now more than
intrigued. "What's she got to do with you? Her parents
were murdered in a freak crime, by drug-addicts who broke
into their house."

Clements' lips pursed at some distant disgust. "Her parents were murdered by Hildreth's order. Hildreth and that
bitch wife of his. They'd already sucked her in, sp the parents started asking questions. Where is she? What's she doing at this new job' of hers. Hildreth needed her for
something. Little more than a year ago, I retired from the
sheriff's department so I started my own PI firm. The Rodenbaughs hired me to keep tabs on Debbie, find out why
she was spending so much time at the Hildreth mansion.
Next thing I know, the parents are dead, and I'm in the
county detention center full of scumbags I put there. An
ex-cop in the joint is not a good thing to be."

Westmore didn't get it. "What were you in jail for?"

"Possession with intent to distribute crack cocaine. The
cops got an anonymous tip and found a pound of the shit in
a plastic bag stashed in my house. The bag had my prints all
over it. It was lock solid."

Westmore shook his head in complete confusion.

"It was a set-up," Clements said. "Don't you get it? Hildreth hired people to do the job. They got the bag out of
my garbage-of course it's gonna have my prints on it.
They put it in my house, simple. It was the city cops who
made the bust; they didn't give a shit that I used to be a
county narc-to them it looked like I was an ex-cop turned
bad. No jury would believe me so I pleaded guilty in a
swap. My brother-in-law believed me, and so did my pals at
the prosecutor's office hit, those guys have known me for
decades. And the judge believed me, too-so I got a sus pended sentence, lost my PI license, and got five years of
fuckin' parole. The only reason I didn't lose my police pension is 'cos my cousin is an attorney for the LEAA, found a
loophole. But the bottom line? I was a pain in Hildreth's
ass, so he got me out of the picture. The parents were a pain
in Hildreth's ass, so he had them killed. Problem solved, all
nice and neat."

Westmore kept mulling it over. When the keep brought
the onion rings to the bar, Clements waved the girl over.
She came to the bar timidly, all hundred pounds of her.
"Connie," Clements said, "This is Westmore. He's the guy
who's gonna help us."