“Please! Don’t! You can have whatever you want,” William pleaded. This man cannot kill me, William thought. At least I hope not!
“So, you have lied to me, huh? I thought that you were smarter than that.” Sam said. He looked over at his administrator who confirmed his last statement as the truth. Sam reached under his chair and pulled out a thick strap. He began to strap William’s head down to the plywood.
William screamed. “I’ll tell you anything.”
“I know, buddy, I know,” Sam said, as he assured that William’s head was snuggly secured to the wood. He pulled out the Dremel. “But a promise is a promise, and I promised that any lies would be greeted caustically.” He stuck a needle into William’s upper lip. With William’s lips numb from the Novocain, Sam lifted the man’s upper lip and sadistically raised the drill before his victim’s eyes. He drilled a hole in William’s front tooth. The hole was so tiny that Sam could not see it.
He disappeared and then returned with an ice tray. Panic ran across William’s face. He knew what the ice would do to the exposed nerve. What William was not prepared for was what Sam pulled out next.
“See this?” Sam asked. The question was rhetorical and asked simply to taunt.
The steam from the hot water bellowed out the thermos and frightened William.
“No, no. I get it,” William pleaded, begging for mercy.
“Sure you do, buddy. I know,” Sam said, and poured a teaspoon of hot water on the previously iced tooth. The shock to the nerve in the tooth forced a nasty look to surface on William’s mug. “This is to convince you that even a tiny white lie will be punished draconically.”
William yelled bloody murder and wiggled beneath the straps. Sam used a camera to snap photos of the vision of pain. William passed out.
“Oh! Someone has lost their goddamn mind,” Sam said, calmly. He pulled out a vial of sniffing salt and waved it joyously beneath William’s nostrils. He confirmed, “No one sleeps on my fucking time!”
SIXTY-ONE
The man who had Lundin drove her to Robertson Boulevard and somehow knew that she had a key to Margarette’s apartment. The man parked on the corner and walked Lundin up to the bachelorette pad at gun point.
They entered the apartment and were met by Goldie, Margarette’s Manx cat. The living room had a sofa, cheap TV stand, a computer poised on the floor in the corner, and suit cases lined against a wall. Lundin walked to the window and looked up Robertson to her loft. She strongly desired to be there rather than at Margarette’s, who was in New York partying. Her kidnapper took a seat on a stool perched in a corner in the room. She looked at him irritatingly.
“What is it?” he asked her, dumbly.
She continued to stare at him blankly. She abhorred that he asked her such an asinine question. “What is it?” she mimicked him. “You kidnap me and ask me what is it? I am not here for your entertainment. You said that you know something about my husband. I’d like to hear it.”
“Lundin, please. Have a seat. You really have to be brought up to speed.”
“I do not want to have a seat. I want to know what the hell is going on.”
“Suit you,” he told her. “I am about to tell you some shocking truths about the husband you’ve grown to love. But, I do not want what I say to prejudice your love for him. Everything he has done has been to protect his interests in you.”
The man paused and Lundin told him, “Save the preamble and get on with it. My patience is wearing thin with all of this shit, and I need to clear things up now.” She tossed her hand on her hip and struck an I’m-tired-of-playing-games pose.
“Okay, if you insist. Your husband was born Justice Lorenzo,” the man claimed.
“As in the, Justice Lorenzo?”
The man ignored the question. “He has, better yet, had an extensive criminal background. One day he reported to his probation officer in Philadelphia and was re-arrested, but released on bail. Rather than go back to jail, he decided to commit as many forgeries as possible to get as much money and clothing as possible to put away before going away to jail. The idea was to let the money grow in accounts, so that he could have a nice bank account upon completing his new sentence. That changed when he went to a Walmart in New Jersey and was nearly arrested there.”
“Let me guess,” Lundin interrupted. “He fled on a bus to New York and committed a bunch of thefts from banks and hotels and stores on Fifth Avenue. And then, he started a new life in LA. Oh wait! After he faked his death.”
Lundin was too mad to shed a tear, but she was hurt. She was lied to and deceived by the man that she loved, probably more than her own mother. And to think, her mother had warned her.
“Lundin, you being upset is absolutely necessary, but please, there’s more.
“This I have to hear.”
He ignored her smart-aleckism. “During his last lick, he was leaving the bank and ironically the bank was robbed. Subsequently, he was kidnapped by the robbers. He was traded for $15,000 in cash and fake IDs for the robbers. Justice had the money in his attaché and was pissed that he had lost the money to the robbers. But he used the kidnapping as an opportunity to fake his death. He set his Escalade on fire--”
“Escalade! He told me that he hated trucks and advised me not to get one.”
“Justice didn’t,” the man replied. He couldn’t believe that she was concerned about something so small. “William probably did, though.”
“William also claimed that Justice was harassing him. How could that be possible if he’s both of them? Riddle me that,” she said with a sassy hand waving in the air.
“Lundin, William has suppressed Justice so far into the basement of his consciousness that he has developed a mental disorder called DID, dissociative identity disorder. He created William from his vision of what the perfect man was to him. He always knew that he could be a good man if he had the opportunity, so he created the opportunity for himself and then set out to become the man that you love.”
“Unbelievable,” Lundin said, as she read the Wikipedia description of DID. “Dissociative identity disorder is a psychiatric diagnosis that describes a condition in which a person displays multiple distinct identities or personalities (known as alter egos or alters), each with its own pattern of perceiving and interacting with the environment.” She digested that, and then said, “So, my husband is crazy? He had me believing that Justice was harassing him,” she said and looked at the window overlooking Robertson.
“Lundin, he also believed that! He has been having visions of his former self that never existed. He tried meds, but they didn’t work. He had to keep the effects away from you, and he had to always deal with an agent that he was paying off to keep him posted. Remember you two had an argument about shady bank withdrawals. They were being made to a woman to protect him.”
Lundin was beginning to feel foolish. She blurted, “I’m in love with an insane identity thief who has identity issues himself. Stole so many people’s identities and he didn’t even know his damn self. And he is a murderer.”
“I never said that!”
“Then whose body was in the charred truck?”
“Mine!”
“Holy…”
SIXTY-TWO
At precisely 1130 hours, the shoe salon owner and Fortune Family landlord opened the loft door and allowed the Secret Service to conduct their warranted search. As the door opened, two agents fluent in covert operations cleared the loft for the investigators to inspect the property. Twelve agents emerged into the L-shaped hallway and proceeded into the living room.
Jared was devastated by the many samples of expensive gadgetry. Like the eighty-inch Samsung television. He touched the skin on the sofa and knew that it was imported. Classe amp and CD player could be heard through b&W 704s. Haplessly, a Sony Qualia 016 lay on the end table indicating that it had been recently used. Jared could not wait to see what kind of photos a $4,000 camera had produced.
“We need photos of this shit,” Delia
said. She heard the jealousy in her own voice. “Send them to Arc Digest.”
Jared gave her a solemn nod. His envy also permeated and prepared to explode. They moved into the dining room and looked in the two niches where William’s original manuscripts were held and snapped photos before they were removed to be read. Jared and Delia left the forensic techs in the living room and proceeded to the kitchen.
Delia was upset about the remarkable stainless steel appliances that littered the fancy countertop. The state-of-the-art cooking set which hung in the corner also fascinated her. She used gloved hands and opened the drawers looking for utility bills, but that was far from what she found. She stumbled across stately gold plated utensils and some fancy pieces that she had never seen.
Delia left the kitchen and found Jared in the bathroom. Both of them gagged at the sight of the fish tank sink. The hatred was raised a notch when Jared saw the Musical Fidelity CD Player and amp pack. Delia stepped into the Jacuzzi and gestured for Jared to join her.
“Come on, Jared. Let’s relax a bit and have a spot of foreign teas, before we find something worth investigating.”
“I wouldn’t sit in a Bally’s Jacuzzi after that piece of shit.”
Jared and Delia pressed to the bedroom. Jared stepped over the last step and looked sickened. His heart ached and he had been defeated.
“Something you ate?” Delia asked as she checked out the extremely disgusting look on Jared’s face.
“This rogue thief,” he said.
“Are you going to share, or do I really have to investigate?”
“Look at the TV, Delia.”
“It’s a TV. Not as big as the one in the living room. I’ll be sure to add that in my notes to reflect the size difference,” she said sarcastically.
“Delia, here’s a lesson in Home Theater 401 for the rich folks only,” Jared said and walked over to the television. “This is a Samsung LTP468W, 46-inches,” he paused to spin the screen 360-degrees, “It’s LCD and costs $10,000. After spending ten-G on a bedroom TV, you can’t entertain with cheap speakers, so you add $3,500 B&W FPM4 speakers. And lastly, the mother of all electronics, a Kaleidoscope System.”
“And what is that, O’ adroit electronic one?” Delia joked.
“Basically, you rip up to 180 movies to the DVD hard drive and stream them all over the house like at a hotel. Only hotels will get their money’s worth by charging guests to watch the movies. This costs $27,000.”
“Hopefully, this is all stolen, so we can take it,” Delia said, slyly.
“I doubt it,” Agent Karin Wright said, and pulled out a folder from a desk drawer marked “Amex Black.” “Here’s an American Express Black Card statement showing the purchases were bought and paid for in 2006. And the card is in the name you have all been looking for, Justice Lorenzo.”
Puzzled, Jared look at Agent Wright and walked out of the office as Agent Quadir Gibson removed the computer. Jared had a seat at the desk. Agent Wright pulled out all of the well-kept financial records, which seemed to account for everything bought on Justice Lorenzo’s various credit cards over the past four years. Delia looked at a file that showed that all of William Fortune’s novels were registered with the Writer’s Guild of America, with the co-author listed as Justice Lorenzo. Justice Lorenzo was also registered as a fictitious name, which allowed William to move around as himself, but as a business.
There were files marked “Bank of America (JL),” and “Washington Mutual (JL).” The balances in the accounts marked “JL” had reached $10.6 million.
“Hey look at this,” Delia said to Jared. “No checking account or withdrawals, and yet the accounts were worth $10.6 million.”
Jared perused the statements and continued to search the remaining contents of the desk. The guy was meticulous as he went through the neat desk. To Jared’s surprise everything was in appropriate folders and filed expertly. Jared had learned that William frequented the Grauman’s Chinese Theater so often that he should have stock in it. Another folder had cut up expired credit cards.
Delia had learned that their man had not made any deposits other than large amounts from his publisher and then two monthly payments: one from money earned in royalties and the other showed as electronic deposits. “Looks like he is earning money in a foreign country,” Delia shouted to Jared.
Jared was about to respond when Delia’s cell phone rang.
SIXTY-THREE
“Holy what?” the man asked Lundin, as he raced to the window. “Tell me that your friend is not coming home.”
“No, it’s a bunch of agents barging into my home.”
“What a beautiful sight,” the man told her. He stared at the five unmarked vehicles and the two Los Angeles Sheriff West Hollywood Station vehicles. They obstructed traffic on one side considering they planned to not obstruct traffic. The local sheriffs assured that that went smoothly.
“They’re taking William’s computer!” Lundin yelled.
“And his pride. And respect. And--”
“Enough already,” Lundin snapped. “Something needs to be done about this.”
“I know. And guess what? I’m going to,” the man promised. “See that cop right there?” the man asked, pointing at Delia. “She’s the agent that arrested Justice.”
“Could you for the sake of--I don’t know--call him William, for crying out loud.”
“I can do that. But that’s Delia Williams.”
“And her partner is, let me guess, Jared Williams,” Lundin said, knowingly.
“Right! And they just punted. The ball is on Team Justice’s 40-yard line. The quarterback is injured. What are we going to do?”
“All I really wanna do is get ahold of William.”
“He has been kidnapped.”
All of the breath in Lundin had been sucked out. She was deflated. Her anger toward him for his deception had suddenly disintegrated. She imagined him bound and being tortured.
“Kidnapped! How do you know that? Who the fuck is you?”
“I watched him get snatched out of his car, hit over the head, and dragged to a pick-up in broad daylight. That speaks volumes for his captors. I tried to pursue the pick-up, but traffic was horrific. So, I parked my vehicle and hopped into his. I found his cell phone and that was how I rescued you from the agents, who were following you, no doubt to take you into custody.
“Who the hell are you?” She asked again, perplexed. “I know all of William’s friends.”
“That’s nice,” he replied, sarcastically. “So do I. But do you know all of Justice’s friends? That’s the question.”
“No, no. You cannot be who I think you are.”
“Yes. Amir. Mr. Harry Dijonette himself.”
“Wait a minute,” Lundin was confused. “Then who did the newscasters say was charred in that Escalade. I swore they said you.”
“Sit back down,” Amir advised her. “We both wanted to disappear and start fresh. The dead body belonged to the biology lab at Villanova University. The night of the bank kidnapping we drove back to Philly and broke into the lab, narrowly missing campus security, and stole a body that had been dissected for his forensics class. The body was already unidentifiable, so it worked perfectly.”
“You are both sick,” Lundin said, her anger building up again.
“Lundin, you have no idea how hard it was for us back then. And right now we need to focus on getting Just, I mean William back!”
Lundin let everything that Amir said coat her mind. Out of curiosity, she asked, “So, what do we do? Because despite how pissed and fucked up I am, I want my husband back.”
Before he could reply, Lundin received a text message. She checked it and immediately dropped her phone. The sight of William crippled her.
SIXTY-FOUR
Lundin shivered with her arm wrapped around herself, as she listened to Amir’s non-fiction plot to comply with the kidnappers’ demands. He had her laboring under the illusion that she was completely innocent in William’s debauc
hed reality tournament. Her teeth chattered and she had been injected with debility. He told her his marvelous idea. It was so impractical that she could not stomach the thought. Her disgust with William sweltered and inchoate murderous visions were so great that she could divorce him and forget about it easily No matter how beautiful William had treated her, she was pissed at him to the nth degree. Nevertheless she promised to love him unconditionally. She suppressed her anger and gathered a mindset to do what had to be done.
Amir participated in her staring contest and did not blink. She looked at his thoughts through the layer of epidermis. He knew that she did not want to detect uncertainty, fear or question. None of which he had. Despite the distance between him and William, the sagacious Harry Dijonette had come up with a plan to slap the keen Secret Service and the kidnappers in the face.
“Lundin, I’ve mentally worked out the plan repeatedly and smelled it with the sharp nose of a hound. Just trust me.”
“Amir, that is not easy. I asked would I have to commit a crime and you said no. Now you suggest that I follow the kidnapper’s instructions.”
“Precisely, if you want to see your husband again.”
SIXTY-FIVE
“We’ve lost him,” Delia reported to the Special Agent in Charge via cell phone. “Agent Williams and I have assembled a team. Some are conducting stakeouts at Justice’s office and his wife’s job. We are in the middle of searching Justice’s home now. We seem to have everything under control.” Delia was morbidly miffed that she had all negatives to report to her superior.
“To my estimation you’ve lost control, Agent Williams,” SAC, Jean Lemieux said. He was a direct man normally, and that day was no different. “It seems that Justice has the leading score. Probably, he is already celebrating a repeat.”