Black Orchid Read online

  “The kid and her old man have been at odds for years. She walked on the wild side—a real party girl. The type you and I fantasized about when we were kids—sex, drugs, and rock and roll—that sort of shit. My people busted her a few times, although it never got to court. We know all too well what happens when big money gets involved with the legal system.”

  “Yeah,” Traynor commented, “same thing that happens when it gets involved with government. She have a record?”

  “I ain’t at liberty to say much—let’s just say that the courts have sealed her records. As for whatever it is that Deb hired you to do—all I know is the case ain’t in my county.”

  “Am I safe in assuming this is the same family that owned half the oceanfront real estate in Rye at one time?”

  “Same bunch.”

  Traynor studied his old friend for a moment, trying to pick up on any body language that might tell him more than Buck was able, or willing, to say.

  “How much resistance am I going to get from the family?”

  “Can’t rightly say. You’ll have to go over there and see.” Buchanan stood up. Suddenly, he smiled. “Knowin’ you, the Hollises may have met up with someone who isn’t impressed—or intimidated—by them.”

  “Are they intimidating?”

  “I’m not gonna say anything that will prejudice you—go find out for yourself.”

  Traynor stood and said, “Maybe when this is over we can get together and have a beer, sort of clear the air?” He held his hand out. “We friends again?”

  Buck grabbed Traynor’s hand and smiled, creating a wide, broad gap that filled his face. “We never stopped bein’ friends, Eddie. We just had a difference of opinion. It’s not like it was the first time we ever disagreed. What is it about your scurvy ass that makes me unable to stay pissed at you?”

  “Maybe it’s my wonderful smile, sparkling white teeth, and dynamic personality?”

  Some of the most expensive real estate in New Hampshire could be found on New Castle Island. It was a part of Portsmouth, but Traynor knew the residents would never admit to that; they believed that the island was an empire itself. He drove along Route 1B until he saw the new Wentworth Hotel perched on a bluff, which gave every room in the place a waterfront view. Built in 1874, the old Wentworth had been a posh hangout for the elite set for a good part of the late nineteenth and early twentieth centuries. In 1905, it had housed the delegates to the negotiations that ended the Russo–Japanese War. But by the 1970s, it was closed, abandoned, and in such a state of disrepair that it looked like the setting for an Edgar Allen Poe tale. Several years ago, Traynor mused, one of the major hotel chains bought the wasted building and restored it—though “completely rebuilt it” was probably a more apt statement. The hotel looked now as it did 130 years ago—only now with all the amenities modern society demands. As he drove past it, Traynor thought: Maybe I’ll use the money from this case to spend a night—even though I’m sure it will take most, if not all, of it.

  Traynor crossed the bridge onto the island and turned down a narrow lane, heading toward the yacht club. Before leaving Portsmouth, he had programmed the Hollis Estate into his GPS. It was a good thing he did so, or he’d never have found the way in. Traynor turned off the public road and followed a paved drive through a thicket so dense it reminded him of the hedgerows he’d seen in Normandy when he’d toured the coast of France the year previous. Like those in Europe, the bushes had woven themselves into an impenetrable wall. The thicket opened and he found himself traveling through landscaping so incredible he was tempted to stop and measure the grass, and he wouldn’t have been surprised to learn that every blade was cut to exactly the same height. In the center of the lawn was a gigantic flagpole, designed to look like a ship’s mast. At the top of the center-mast, the Stars and Stripes flew and on the arms, two other flags—one the New Hampshire state flag and the other, he learned later, was the Hollis family pennant. A brisk offshore breeze blew across the property, snapping and flapping the ensigns in the afternoon stillness.

  Traynor followed the curving drive until he was in front of the huge colonial house. It was white with black trim, and on the second story, a widow’s walk wrapped itself around the house. Traynor had no doubt that the original occupant had been a sea captain—no, make that the owner of a fleet, probably whalers—and the walk was built so his wife could watch for his return from years at sea.

  He parked his car, and the door opened before he could even get his hand on the handle. It startled him. He hadn’t seen the guy. Not wanting to look stupid, he stepped out, doing his best impression of Prince Charles. Trying to sound like British nobility—an accent he’d always thought sounded as if the speaker had a tangerine stuck up his or her ass—he said, “Sir Edward Traynor, to see the lord of the house.”

  The guy looked as if he were in danger of rupturing his spleen, trying to keep from laughing. He pointed to Traynor’s bruised and battered Durango and said, “As soon as I saw those wheels, I knew someone of great wealth and taste was about to descend upon us.”

  A wide grin spread across Traynor’s face. He could take a joke as well as the next fellow. He studied the man for a second. He had a muscular build and appeared to be about ten years Traynor’s junior, which put him in his early to mid-thirties. It didn’t take Traynor long to decide that this guy was someone who could probably handle himself well in a fracas.

  Still playing the game, the man said, “You’ll find his lordship in the back, on the deck, sire.”

  Traynor was shocked and more than a little let down. A house like this shouldn’t have a deck—it should have a veranda. He decided that his bonny Prince Charles routine needed more work. He said, “Around to the left?”

  “Yeah, it’s the side opposite to your right. Even a personage of such in-grown bloodlines can’t miss it—just follow the walk. They’re expecting you. Leave the keys in the ignition and I’ll park it.”

  Traynor followed the path he had indicated, admiring the roses and flowers that lined the paved lane. When he turned the corner of the house, Traynor was treated to a gorgeous view of Seavey Island—or more accurately, the old Portsmouth Naval Prison. The island was home to the Naval Shipyard and the prison, which closed in 1974. The past few years had seen increased activity at the old military slammer; developers were considering remodeling it into expensive condos. It beat the hell out of Traynor why anyone would spend a fortune on a condominium in which the master bedroom was once a jail cell. They could fix and paint it up all they wanted, but to him, it would always be one big, beige eyesore. He liked the view from his office better.

  When Traynor turned the next corner, he saw the house was shaped like a U. Sometime in its history, someone must have added wings to the main house. When he could see inside the U, he saw a stone veranda and patio combination that led to an Olympic-size swimming pool, with a retractable enclosure that allowed year-round use. The Hollises were sitting on patio furniture that Traynor was sure cost more than the apartment building in which he lived. But Traynor decided he wouldn’t hold their wealth against them. Being rich had to be a nasty job, but someone had to do it. Traynor figured that if someone had to save him from the burden of being affluent, it might as well be the Hollises.

  Traynor stopped short of stepping onto the deck. For some strange reason, he felt like a junior naval officer reporting to the admiral’s flagship. It only seemed appropriate to wait until he was given permission to come aboard by the officer of the deck. The problem was that he wasn’t exactly sure who was in charge. There were four people seated around a huge table, the top of which sparkled in the sun like it was made of polished marble—possibly because it was.

  Of the four people, he knew only one by sight: Deborah Hollis. She sat next to a svelte woman, probably in her mid- to late fifties. He assumed it was her mother, the Mrs. Hollis. The other two occupants were male. One appeared to be about sixty, the other much younger—at most forty. The older man was speaking in a voice much
too loud for the environment, and Traynor immediately knew he was an alcoholic.

  Deborah was the first to see him, and she got up and walked to the edge of the veranda, beckoning for him to enter—which he interpreted as being granted permission to come aboard. If there had been ensigns flying, Traynor would have saluted the colors.

  Deborah had changed clothes since she had been in his office. She was in a less businesslike pair of tangerine-colored pants with a matching striped top and an obviously expensive pair of white sandals. She took him by the hand, and the older woman, who was dressed for lunch at Tiffany’s, glared at him like he was her daughter’s date from the wrong side of the tracks. Her look was so scathing it made Traynor feel as if he were from the wrong side of the universe. He caught himself wanting to salute the old woman and the house, but refrained.

  Traynor didn’t know whether it was money or the people that had it that brought out the smartass in him. He did, however, believe that whatever it was, it went back to his parents. They had nothing but disdain for anyone better off than they were. He’d often thought that God had known what he was doing when he made his father a working-class stiff; if he the old man had money he would have been a real pain in the keester. Even without money he’d been a bit much.

  “Welcome to our home, Mr. Traynor,” Deborah said. “Would you join us for tea or coffee?”

  “Coffee, please. It’s always been my opinion that the best thing that ever happened to tea took place in Boston over two hundred years ago.” Over her shoulder, Traynor could see her parents looking uneasy; he thought, They must have an aversion to dining with the hired help. Traynor let Deborah guide him to her parents.

  “Mother, Father, I’d like you to meet Mr. Ed Traynor. He’s the security consultant I told you about. He’s assured me he’ll find Mindy.”

  Traynor’s mouth fell open; he didn’t recall making any guarantees. If anything, he had tried to impress upon her that there were two chances of finding her sister: slim and none. And if Mindy did not want to be found, slim had already left town. Deborah ignored his surprised expression and kept right on with the introductions. “Ed, this is my mother, Marsha, and my father, Cyril Hollis. This gentleman”—she indicated the younger man—“is Byron Moore, our family attorney and financial advisor.”

  Unsure what to say, Traynor offered his hand to Mrs. Hollis. She lightly grasped it, looking as if one of the thousands of ever-present seagulls had shit in her palm. He had no doubt she would sterilize her hand at the first opportunity. For a woman with a 1960s beehive hairdo, she definitely had an attitude. As soon as she dropped his loathsome appendage, Traynor offered it to Cyril, who ignored it completely. Then his ancestral dislike of rich snobs made an appearance. He reached for his wallet, intending to hand Deborah’s check back to her. Traynor was fully prepared to tell her not to use it for toilet paper—the ink might come off on her ass. But he didn’t get the chance. Deborah’s face was red with embarrassment as she led him to a stuffed chair, which at least looked inviting.

  Not to be put out, he offered his hand to Moore. If he copped an attitude, Traynor was out of there. To his surprise, Moore grasped his hand and said, “Please, have some coffee. We’re in dire straits.”

  Dire straits? Traynor took in his impeccable business suit and then glanced at Cyril, who was dressed in what one would expect a wealthy wino to wear—even though the remnants of breakfast and/or lunch were evident on the front of his ruffled white shirt.

  He studied the elder Hollises; contrary to Moore’s comment, they didn’t strike him as being in dire anything. But, he thought, what do I know about obnoxious, rich assholes? However, being the consummate professional, Traynor assumed he might be mistaken and decided to hear them out. “Just how grim is the situation?” he asked, directing the question to Moore. Two could play at their little game.

  “My daughter is missing.” Cyril must have been at least three drinks beyond sober, and his booming voice was inappropriately loud.

  Traynor turned his attention to him. There was nothing about Cyril Hollis that would assuage his preconceived bias against rich assholes. Hollis’s eyes seemed to have no whites and were so bloodshot they looked pink. His nose was bulbous, swollen, and tiny red veins formed a fine net along the surface. The pores were so stretched they looked like manholes. Traynor thought if he were to sneeze, he’d hemorrhage for at least an hour. His red face ended abruptly at a receding hairline of snow-white hair.

  He used both hands to guide the martini glass to his lips and made a slurping sound as he downed the liquor in a single gulp. No sooner did he finish the booze than a butler built like a linebacker for the Patriots magically appeared and refilled the glass. He wore a tux, like that guy Jeeves in the movies that played on the classic movie channel at two in the morning. The phrase “gentleman’s gentleman” came to his mind, but then Traynor looked at Cyril Hollis again and decided that valet was more appropriate. There was not much evidence that Hollis was a gentleman. Once his employer’s glass was full, the servant quickly retreated and Traynor returned his attention to Cyril Hollis. He wondered what it must be like to spend your golden years in an alcoholic haze, being catered to in a mansion filled with paid codependents. Traynor opted to ignore the slovenly behavior of his host. “I understand that, sir. Can you tell me when you last heard from her?”

  Cyril looked at him as if he’d said something inane. Maybe he had—either way, it had gone over Hollis’s head. Traynor knew that the old man had one, at most two, drinks left before he’d suffer a major crash and burn. His estimate was off by two. Cyril took a big gulp of his martini and missed the table when he tried to place the glass down. It hit the deck and shattered into hundreds of pieces. Cyril stared at the broken glass, as if he had no idea how it had gotten there. When he raised his head, he looked as bewildered as a lion cub meeting its first snake. More servants appeared from the ether and flocked around, cleaning up the spill. The butler reappeared, and he delicately placed a towel in the old man’s soaking lap, fussing over him. Hollis might have been loaded, but he was still sentient enough to know he had screwed up and he excused himself. As soon as the butler stepped away, one of the staff—a dark-complexioned man dressed in black slacks and a tight T-shirt that emphasized his bulging biceps—effortlessly lifted Hollis and carried him inside the mansion. Seemingly concerned for his welfare, Mrs. Hollis said, “Take him to his chambers, Manuel.” She then darted off after her husband and his entourage.

  Traynor was left alone with Deborah and Byron Moore. Which didn’t bother him in the least; it didn’t take an Ivy League degree to know that they were the real decision-makers around the Hollis Manse. It was suddenly quiet on the veranda. The only sounds were those of the sea, wind, and the calls of gulls.

  Traynor slid his chair farther under the shade of the parasol and turned his attention to his companions. He directed his first comment to Deborah. “I’m not sure you need a detective as much as you need an addiction counselor.”

  Moore clearly took umbrage at this, and Traynor held up a hand, stopping him before he could speak. “I’ve got half a mind to hand back your check and leave you two to this circus. Are you sure your sister is missing, not hiding out?”

  “She’s missing, Ed. I know what you must think about my parents, but I can explain.”

  Moore butted in, voicing his opinion. “Deb, it’s not your problem—it’s theirs. They, not you, should be apologizing for their actions.” He elevated himself several notches in Traynor’s book.

  She sat in silence for several seconds, her eyes lowered, staring at her hands, which were busy smoothing her skirt. Finally, she looked at Traynor and said, “Mindy had her disagreements with Mother and Daddy, but in spite of everything else, she and I were close. She’d call me weekly. I did warn you that you should talk with my parents only if it was absolutely necessary.”

  Traynor had no comeback—she was right. He turned to Byron Moore. “Where do you enter into this?”

  “Al
ong with being the family’s attorney, I’m also a CPA and the CFO of Hollis International. In a nutshell, I manage the people who are responsible for the Hollis estate’s finances.”

  “I see.”

  Moore continued, “I, too, want to know that Mindy is all right. I couldn’t have stronger feelings for these girls if they were my own.”

  That statement could be taken many ways, and Traynor sure as hell didn’t want to delve into that any deeper.

  “Please forward all your future monetary requirements to me.” He slid a business card across the table.

  Traynor picked it up and tucked it away in his shirt pocket. “Fine. Let’s get down to business.” He turned so that he could see both of them without having to look back and forth. “Quite frankly, Deb, I believe someone has been lying—whether it was your sister or someone else is irrelevant. But, if an attractive young woman is looking to make it as an actress, I doubt she’d head for the San Fernando Valley. The type of films they make there usually come out solely on DVD. In fact, the valley’s the Hollywood of the porn industry.”

  Deborah looked uncomfortable. “I know. But that’s what she told me and Vincent backed her up.”

  “Who is Vincent?”

  “Some guy she was dating out there …” Her face reddened.

  “Just a boyfriend? The look on your face says there’s more to it.”

  “I think she was sleeping with him. He’s supposed to be some sort of movie producer.”

  Traynor noted her ruddy hue and thought her embarrassment over a sister sleeping with a man was a bit odd, when she herself carried a condom in her purse.

  “Does it bother you that she’s been sleeping with someone?”

  “Heavens no. But to lower herself to sleeping with some so-called producer—that pisses me off more than it embarrasses me.”

  Traynor was starting to like Deborah, and her candidness made him all the more determined to help her. “Fair enough. That gives me a place to start looking. I need a list of all of her friends, both local and any you know of in LA or Simi Valley—as well as any addresses and phone numbers you have.”