Dangerous Deception

Chapter One

Denise Cutler’s subject was already seated at the table when she entered the Interview Room, which was sparsely furnished with little more than a long table and a few plastic chairs. The walls were bare with no attempt at any kind of decoration. Open Venetian blinds covered the windows which looked out on the institution’s vast green lawn with its central duck pond. Initially, Dr. Bruce Harner, a psychiatrist and the officer head of the Center, had his interviewers, such as Denise, record their subjects’ responses directly into a computer, but when some of the subjects objected, he instructed the corps of young women to make hand-written notes as unobtrusively as possible and transfer them to their laptops when the subject had left after the conclusion of the interview.

Like many of Denise’s interview subjects, he was a man one might pass on the street and never notice. Most likely in his late fifties or early sixties, he had an atmosphere of grayness about him, not just his gray, thinning hair, but everything—his eyes, his skin, even his open-necked dress shirt was more gray than white and the dark Dacron trousers he wore seemed to be that same dull shade. On his application the man had identified himself as ‘Brian Mahoney’, but she doubted if that were his real name. Subjects frequently used pseudonyms in order to remain anonymous. Harner had no objection to that since he had their true identities in his own computer, insisting to those who were reluctant to identify themselves that it was mandatory if they expected to receive payment for their time and information.

Gray, gray, gray, gray, Denise said to herself as she sat down opposite the man and greeted him with a friendly smile as she laid the manila folder with blank paper she had brought into the room with her on the table. Mr. Mahoney?

The man seemed startled at hearing the name. Looking up at her with his watery gray eyes, he responded, Yes?

Good afternoon, she said, smiling.

Denise, a graduate student in psychology at UCLA, had jumped at the chance to work at the Center as a part time interviewer when Harner offered it to her. Not only did the job pay well and the flexible working schedule accommodate her classes, it also carried with it the possibility of a closer association with Harner himself, who was in charge of the research she in which she would be participating. Denise found him an extraordinarily attractive, charismatic man and hoped she would be able to balance their work and social interactions in a personally rewarding way. So far the tall, good-looking blond shrink with the most piercing blue eyes she had ever seen, had seemed somewhat interested in her. At least it seemed that way to Denise. At the same time, she was aware that all the Center’s interviewers were attractive young women in their twenties. Harner claimed that young women were the most successful in extracting intimate sexual information from the subjects, both male and female, who elected and were paid to take part in the Center’s research.

Brian Mahoney pointed to the manila folder on the table. Is that for a file on me? he asked suspiciously.

No. It’s for notes from our interview.

You’re going to take notes by hand?

I am, she answered. Let’s get started, shall we? How would you describe your current sex life?

Looking startled again, perhaps by the directness of her opening question, he seemed to consider his answer a few moments before responding. How would I describe my present sex life? he repeated with an ironic chuckle. I could tell you in one word: non-existent.

Then you would describe yourself as ‘abstinent’?

Yes, he nodded, seeming a little embarrassed, I guess by today’s standards that sounds weird.

Not necessarily, she assured him. ‘Weird’, as you implied, is a judgment—someone’s opinion. Here at the Center our goal is to gather information that will ultimately help those who are sexually dysfunctional, not to make judgments. I actually expected—perhaps I should say, hoped for—that answer from you since the newspaper and magazine ads we placed to solicit interview subjects for this present study of ours clearly stated that we were looking for people who were currently abstinent. They’re not that easy to find. That’s why, in case you’re wondering why, you’re being paid so well for this interview.

Initially Denise had wondered if paying the subjects might not skewer the statistics but figured that it was Harner’s problem, not hers. In the end, he was the one responsible for the Center’s statistics. She also wondered how much the subjects were paid. That, too, was a secret known only to Harner. Rumor had it that it could occasionally run into five figures if the psychiatrist head of the Center felt the subject’s information was sufficiently valuable.

I think I should tell you right off the bat that I don’t share a lot of the ideas Mr. Coombs puts forth in HONEYS Magazine, Mahoney warned her.

That’s fine, Denise assured him. Our research here at the Center is independent and not influenced in the least by any ideas or opinions that Mr. Coombs might express in his magazine. HONEYS is intended as entertainment. Our work here is serious scientific research.

Harold Coombs was head of the Honeys empire, the masthead of which was the wildly popular men’s magazine, HONEYS, but also included a string of nightclubs and casinos, a line of erotic clothing, a pop music recording and song publishing business and a string of tropical island resorts where clothing was optional. Not one to rest on his laurels, Coombs was now striving to give his enterprises a certainly air of respectability. This desire for dignity and acceptance manifested itself principally by his investing many millions of his dollars in establishing and maintaining the Center for Research of American Sexual Habits or C.R.A.S.H., as it was more commonly known from its acronym. The employees, such as Denise, referred to it simply as ‘the Center’.

Through his generous contributions to the campaigns of candidates of both major political parties, Coombs had managed to acquire a highly desirable piece of land in the prestigious western section of Los Angeles—no one was quite sure if the property was in Westwood, Holmby Hills, Brentwood or Bel Air. The site had once been occupied by a state psychiatric hospital which had been closed and phased out during Ronald Regan’s term as California’s governor and remained permanently so. On what had once been the hospital’s vast park-like grounds, Coombs had erected the modern, five story glass-and-steel Center.

Brian Mahoney shifted nervously in his plastic chair. This information I’m going to give you is kept confidential, right?

Absolutely, Denise assured him.

Mahoney sighed in relief. Hearing that makes me feel a little better.

Good.

I’m taking a big risk by doing this interview, Mahoney continued. For a person in my position, it could be disastrous if the information I reveal about myself should get out….

It won’t.

I hope not.

I assure you, it won’t, Denise repeated. She held her pen just above a sheet of blank paper in the folder, preparing to write. Outside the sun was setting, and she was anxious to complete the interview before dark. What form does your sexual release take? she asked, striving to sound as nonchalant as possible.

What are you talking about? he bristled. I told you I’m abstinent. Celibate. Chaste. What else do I need to say?

Denise stood her ground as Andrea Nordstrand, supervisor of the interviewers, and Harner had instructed her to do in the training sessions. You need to tell me what form your sexual release takes. Every man has some form of release. It’s physiologic. Now, in your case, is it masturbation? Nocturnal emission? Frottage? What? How do you achieve an abstinent orgasm?

Mahoney repeated, Orgasm?!

Yes. I’m asking you what you do to get off, Denise persisted, resorting to unaccustomed street language.

Well, I certainly don’t do any of those things you mentioned, he declared indignantly, curling his lip in disgust.

Then what do you do?

Mahoney sighed and lowered his head until his chin rested on his chest. Sheepishly, he admitted, Actually I haven’t been entirely truthful with you.

If you’re not straight with me, then the data we collect will be erroneous and undermine our study. It’s important that you understand the seriousness of our work at the Center and your role in it. As I told you before, ultimately the objective of the Center is to help those individuals who are sexually dysfunctional.

I’m sorry I lied. I really am. It’s just that I need the money. I really do, Mahoney confessed. You have to understand that it’s difficult for me to talk about my sex life. It’s not the way I was brought up. I’m a different generation from you.

I realize that.

There’s a lot at stake. I’m risking everything by coming here, he said, anxiety now creasing his smooth, pale forehead. Everything.

The Center’s credibility as a respectable scientific institution is also at stake, she reminded him. If you wish to withdraw from the study…

Mahoney decided to take another tack. What do you do with all the information you gather at these interviews?

As I’ve explained before, it becomes part of the Center’s database. Dr. Harner is the only person who has access to it once it’s in his computer.

Mahoney narrowed his eyes suspiciously. "The only person?" he repeated dubiously.

Yes, the only person, she replied emphatically. It’s completely deleted from all other computers.

Mahoney looked unconvinced. I still don’t know, he said, shaking his head and rising from the chair. I have to think about this more.

Denise gave a resigned shrug, laid her pen aside and said, As you wish…

She watched as he turned away and shuffled toward the door.

It was dark when Denise was finishing up the transfer of what few notes she had on the aborted interview with Brian Mahoney, mostly explaining why it was unsuccessful, to her laptop.

Outside, the last of the employee cars were pulling out of the parking lot. Soon there would be only very few, if any, co-workers left in the building. She had taken more time than usual with this report because she wanted to make it clear that Brian Mahoney had made his decision to terminate his interview because of his lack of trust in the Center’s confidentiality policy.

Moments later, Andrea Norstrand, a mature, rather severe looking but not unattractive woman in her late thirties or early forties, wandered into the Interview Room. Although it was the end of the work day, the supervisor of the interviewers looked as fresh and crisply professional as she had on her arrival that morning. Denise was forced to admit to herself that Andrea was still attractive enough to give the younger girls a run for their money when it came to looks. And she wasn’t stupid either. Many of those under the statuesque blonde’s supervision suspected that her relationship with Harner was more than just business, but the pair was so discreet in their behavior toward one another at the Center that no one knew for sure whether or not they were or had been personally involved with each other.

Despite the fact that the women who appeared on the pages of HONEYS magazine rarely wore any clothes at all, Andrea required the Center’s interviewers to wear demure, yet coyly sexy, dark blue Donna Karan suits, and Harner had apparently concurred.

Rumor had it that Harold Coombs’ wife, Brittany Baines, who had been proclaimed the Honey Magazine Queen Bee of the Century and retired from competition upon her marriage to the much older Coombs, had originally come up with the idea of the Donna Karan suits. It was said that she was inspired by Coombs’ fascination in his youth with Jackie Kennedy, whom he had tried unsuccessfully to date before she became America’s First Lady. It seemed to Denise that Brittany Baines Coombs had two goals in life: pleasing her husband and insinuating herself into the management of his enterprises. She and the others on the staff of the Center were grateful that this demanding trophy wife seldom left the Coombs Malibu estate known as "The Hive’ and did nearly all of her micro-managing from home.

My goodness, Denise, what are you still doing here? Andrea asked, glancing at her Piaget wristwatch. It’s late. Don’t you have a class this evening at UCLA?

The last interview was a difficult one, she said, snapping her laptop shut, gathering up her papers and sticking them back in the folder. I wanted to make it clear in my report for Dr. Harner exactly why it was unsuccessful.

Andrea laid a sympathetic hand on the younger woman’s shoulder. Don’t fret about it. It happens to the best of us. Dr. Harner will understand.

The subject just didn’t trust our confidentiality policy.

Lots of subjects don’t trust us, Andrea said with an indifferent shrug. I just stopped by to tell you that Dr. Harner is giving a special seminar on Saturday about how junior interviewers like yourself can improve their technique. He’s also going to talk about plans for the big fund-raiser that’s coming up soon. Naturally, you’ll be expected to attend since you will be participating in that as well as your regular assignments. I hope you don’t have anything exciting planned.

I’ll be there.

Good. Dr. Harner will be pleased, Andrea said as she turned and started for the door. He has his eye on you, you know.

No. I didn’t know, Denise said with a smile, fearing she might blush. Such news pleased her, but she hoped it wasn’t too obvious to Andrea.

Well, you do now, Andrea said, her hand on the knob. I’ll tell Alberto Contreras that you’re still in the building on my way out. He’s Security for tonight.

Shortly after Andrea had gone, Denise went to the ladies’ room which was next to the enclosed stairwell. As she was rinsing her hands at the marble sink, she studied her reflection in the ornate antique mirror above it and, although her slender but well-toned body was not nearly as voluptuous as the sculpted naked Greek nymphs with their loose flowing long hair, great swelling breasts and rounded bottoms that formed the gilded frame around the looking glass, she was pleased by her reflection and hoped that Harner was as well.

When she returned to the Interview Room to pick up her things and turn out the lights, she thought she heard someone open the door and enter the room in the darkness while her back was turned.

Alberto, is that you? she called out, assuming it was the night security guard.

When no one responded, she called out again, Alberto…?, her voice now quavering slightly with apprehension.

By the light from the hall, she could see a dark silhouette moving rapidly in her direction.

Alberto…?! she cried.

Seconds later the door closed, and the dark figure sprang at her with the lightning speed of a panther, wrapped a leather cord with a string of attached wooden beads around her neck and jerked it tight. Fearing strangulation, Denise struggled fiercely, kicking, squirming and striking out as best she could, toppling chairs, shoving the table against the wall and knocking the Venetian blinds askew in the process. But she was no match for her assailant who pulled the cord ever tighter.

In the darkness she strained to discern some clue which might help her identify her attacker, but the only thing she could make out was the bizarre Mexican luchador mask he was wearing, which covered his entire head, and his loose black sweatsuit. These colorful masks were often worn by professional wrestlers in Mexico’s wrestling matches.

Despite her fierce struggle, her attacker managed to relentlessly tighten the beaded cord around her neck. She could feel the hard wooden balls pressing into her flesh harder and harder until she finally lost consciousness, and her limp body slipped to the carpeted floor.

Bending over her, the assailant slit the Donna Karan suit with a razor sharp scalpel, the sort doctors used in surgery, and exposed her tight torso. Then with the same scalpel, he slashed a deep incision into her flat abdomen.

Suddenly Alberto Contreras, the short, plump and middle aged uniformed security guard, flung open the door. Ms Cutler, are you all right? he called out as he swept his flashlight around the room while feeling along the wall for the light switch. Why are all the lights off in here? I heard a lot of strange noise from out in the hall—like maybe a fight. What’s going on?

When the beam of his flashlight landed on the masked assailant who was standing over Denise’s body, the scalpel in his black leather gloved hand dripping with blood, the girl’s moist, bloody and glistening internal organs, dislodged from her mutilated body and spilling out of her slit abdominal cavity, Contreras cried out in anguish, Holy mother of God!

The words had hardly issued from his mouth when the intruder sprang at him, just as he had at Denise, and plunged the scalpel into him before he could reach for the weapon on his belt.

Over and over again with lightning speed the dark figure stabbed him. So fast and hard and vicious were the blows that Contreras had no chance to defend himself. The many stab wounds quickly drenched his uniform with blood and he, too, fell to the floor across Denise’s body as the masked killer in black fled the gory scene.

Chapter Two

Fresh from the Los Angeles Police Department Academy, rookie officer Fatima Fati Rafferty was on routine street duty with her slightly more experienced partner, Jim Wu, who was at the wheel of their patrol car. As they were about to respond to a domestic violence call, another call came in from their division commander himself, Captain Frank Fregoso, ordering them, instead, to the scene of a double homicide on the fashionable west side of Los Angeles.

When they arrived at the address, Fati was surprised to learn that the homicides had occurred at the Center for Research of American Sexual Habits, commonly known by its acronym, C.R.A.S.H.

A lot of the guys make jokes and raunchy remarks about this place, Wu informed her. I never guessed it would be the scene of a crime like murder—lewd conduct, maybe, or even attempted rape, but not homicide.

Their patrol car was not the first to arrive. In fact, the entire building was already surrounded by police department vehicles. Their flashing colored lights created a garish, almost carnival-like atmosphere. In addition to the massive police presence, a conglomeration of news vans representing the city’s major media encircled the five-story structure. Curious on-lookers hovered around the edges of the scene in droves.

Moments after their arrival, Fregoso, accompanied by a young man in civilian clothes, whom Wu identified for Fati as Bill Mobley from Homicide, approached their patrol car. The division commander directed his attention at Fati. She would have liked to believe that this because she was a new recruit with whom he was eager to share his knowledge and experience, but his reputation as as womanizer had already reached her and made her think otherwise.

In the division, Fregoso’s pursuit of the opposite sex was legendary. Some would have even said notorious. Fati attributed this to his rugged good looks as well as the tough, virile confidence he exuded. It was obvious that Fregoso had no doubts about himself or his capabilities. In spite of herself, Fati found him somewhat appealing, but the fact that the tall, seasoned cop with dark, hooded, but piercing, eyes and sleek black hair had an equally attractive wife and four kids at home was enough to squelch any romantic inclinations she might have felt.

Fati, was living alone in a cozy guest cottage behind an aging mansion in Los Angeles’ Los Feliz district inhabited solely by an elderly widow who liked the comforting presence of a police officer on the grounds of her estate. On her days off, Fati frequently drove out to Camarillo to visit with her father, Gabriel ‘Raff’ Rafferty, himself an ex-lawman, who was studying for the priesthood at St. John’s Seminary. During a recent conversation, as they strolled through the well-tended orange groves on the seminary grounds, he had sensed her attraction to Fregoso.

Look, honey, don’t get hung up on this guy, he warned. There are plenty of available single men out there. Stick to them. Don’t get mixed up with a married man—especially one who’s close to my age and has a wife and family.

Both of them avoided mentioning her long distance boyfriend, rookie cop Greg Gustafson, in Milwaukee who was a source of grief for Fati. Greg had been shot and killed by a perp while answering a robbery call at a convenience store. He was the closest thing to a serious boyfriend she had experienced so far in her life. The two had visited back and forth—Los Angeles to Milwaukee and vice-versa—a couple of times. His death was a big blow to Fati. Her way of dealing with it seemed to be immersing herself completely in her new career, resulting in some degree of social isolation except for these visits with her father.

Captain Fregoso is forty-eight, Fati remarked. It seems like he pays more attention to me than to any of the other female officers.

He likes you because you’re pretty. Glancing proudly at his daughter, Raff added, You get your looks from your mother, not me.

I’ve got red hair like you. And the same green eyes.

Yeah, but everything else is from your mother. He stopped and plucked an orange from one of the trees and began peeling it with his hands. Fati noticed that the orange was much lighter in color than their hair. Speaking of your mom, how are she and that jerk she married getting along?

Fati shrugged. They seemed okay the last time I visited them in Monterey.

Aw, that’s just a front, Raff scoffed. How could anybody be happy married to an asshole like Mark Howard? Pausing thoughtfully a moment, he grinned and reproached himself. That’s no way for a future priest to talk, is it?

I suppose a priest can be honest about his feelings, Fati mused. Mom brought Mark to my graduation from the Academy.

Indignant, Raff said, "You’re my daughter, not Mark Howard’s. What right did he have to be there?"

Mom probably didn’t want to come to L.A. alone.

Raff tore the orange in two and offered half to her. Listen, if Fregoso gives you any trouble, you just tell me. Okay? I’ll straighten him out. Cops don’t scare me no matter what their rank happens to be.

I can handle the situation myself, she assured him. I’m a big girl now.

Yeah, sure you are at twenty-one, he said, his voice full of skepticism.

Talking about men inevitably made Fati think about Greg and that made her sad. Eager to change the subject, she said, "Where shall we have lunch? Want to go to the Whale’s Tail in Oxnard