Loophole: The Orphan Killers:: The Orphan Killers

By J. D. Neill

When a series of terminally ill men are murdered, beautiful young orphans are convicted and incarcerated.

But what makes these girls into murderers? And why kill, if the men were about to die?

Insurance Investigator Matt Bennett, and his FBI buddy suspect Murder for Profit, and vow to help free the girls they

• Language: English
• Publisher: Lanni LV LLC
• Release date: Sep 11, 2020
• ISBN: 9781733973984

J. D. Neill

J D Neill hated the cold in England-the country of her birth. After a holiday in the sunshine, she spent two years in Italy and traveled on to teach English in the Middle East. The vibrant lifestyle gave no indication that the country was on the brink of civil war. Held hostage, her sense of normality and sanity came through keeping a diary. The written word would become her future. Fleeing civil war, like many before her, she discovered America, the land of her dreams. And, after a lengthy gestation, in 2019, her first novel Disintegration was born. Chameleon, Unraveling, and Loophole followed in 2020. The Shattering Effect, Downfall, The Captive and Thief of Memories in 2021. The Jailbird's Daughter-A Memoir, will both be released in January 2022.

Book preview

ONE

Instructions

YOU SAY THE LAST THING I will see is beauty. I like that. He tries to rise out of the armchair. Failing, he flops back. I have always been drawn to beauty, the invalid says. Beauty and, of course, money.

He is quiet for a moment, lost in the past. All those glorious days of health and wealth. Sunlight, yachts, trips to exotic locations. What a life he enjoyed.

He winces as pain slices through him, disturbing his reverie.

The visitor observes quietly, does not offer comfort, nor does he interrupt the man’s thoughts. He waits—he is good at that.

Even here, you see, I went for the aesthetics. The sick man slowly moves an arm in the air, indicating the space around him. Little is more, don’t they say? His laugh comes with difficulty—a frail, choking sound.

The room is Spartan: a couch, a bed with side tables, an overstuffed, forest-green velvet armchair, and a variety of neatly arranged books, chess and Scrabble sets, and a laptop computer.

Clad in a hand-tailored grey Burberry suit, it is apparent the man named Johnson also has a taste for the finer things. He looks around.

It is definitely an elegant, affluent space, and I like elegance, he says.

He cranes his neck and admires the ceilings that disappear twenty-five or thirty feet above. Pale gossamer drapes frame the extensive slabs of glass in the vast windows, and the lights of the city glimmer in the distance.

Along one wall, a tray with glasses, an ice bucket and crystal decanters are arranged atop an extremely long low Milan credenza.

Gregory Johnson recently saw one at an auction, he thought of buying it for himself. He likes the intricate beveled lines on the facade, and the Lucite and brass pulls and legs—an unexpected touch of modernity. It cost a pretty penny, and this poor ailing soul will soon have little use for it. He makes a mental note; perhaps a deal could be made?

He would like to leave, but this client is very important for his new venture.

The invalid’s voice brings him back.

Will I even have the strength?

Just follow the instructions precisely, and it will be fine. Everything has been arranged, Johnson says. Nothing to worry about; you won’t be alone.

Another end, and a new beginning. The invalid sighs.

Exactly. Just look at her as she walks toward you, maintain contact with her eyes. Pop in this pill, and I promise, you will not be disappointed.

Johnson removes a small gray pill from a bottle and holds it out.

I get so damned tired. He accepts the pill.

We’ve hand-picked her for you. I’m certain just seeing her will lift your spirits.

You guarantee this will work? No one will know? You’ve arranged this before?

It’s guaranteed. You and your family will be protected, don’t worry.

A piece of cotton wool has escaped from the pill bottle and settled on Johnson’s grey sleeve. Annoyed, he flicks it off. He cannot stand untidiness.

In a distant part of the building, a clock chimes ten. The rich, resonant sound hangs in the air. Johnson glances at his watch.

Just two more hours. I will return with her. It will be fine. I appreciate your trust, he says, and turns away.

No, stay. The invalid holds out a hand. Have a drink. My last, perhaps?

Now the business is over, and Johnson can relax. He would like nothing more than to be far from here, but perhaps a drink would help the man relax, too?

The paycheck for today will be huge, and although he has guaranteed the man success, he did not answer his question: You have arranged this before?

In fact, he had not. This will be a first, the essential test case.

If all goes well, business will prosper. He cannot believe no one has stumbled into this before. It is genius, and they will have the monopoly.

Sirs. A butler appears, as arranged.

European, English perhaps, the invalid supposes. His own butlers are trained to the highest level, but this man is unusual, idiosyncratic, with a certain flair as he serves. He must have worked with Johnson for many years. Now with white- gloved hands, he offers two drinks from a silver tray.

The two men toast. To success.

Johnson throws the drink back and follows the butler from the room.

The sick man watches them. Before the door closes, the butler pours himself a shot and downs it in one.

Clearly, not a connoisseur, the invalid whispers. That man is not a butler I would hire! The things we are forced to suffer…

But fifteen million dollars will be a lot for his family in these coming days, particularly since he is unable to continue providing the gravy train. Although his annual earnings topped two million, he is nevertheless an employee, not a share- holder. Once he became unable to work, the company agreed to pay the premiums for only a short while.

Now that time is up.

These funds will make an enormous difference. Even after the three-million-dollar bequest he had to make, as the fees to this man and his company, Painless Farewells, for arranging everything.

TWO

Sparkle and the Knife

WE ALL HAVE TO DIE, the man says. Sooner or later. Inevitably. But for some reason, old age is acceptable. We mourn and we recover, he adds.

He is motionless across the room from me. His cold eyes are ice-blue and calculating, and I shudder as he looks me over. He appraises me, assesses if I am absorbing what he has to say.

l take a sip of the drink he gave me.

My future depends on the success of tonight. He promises, if I do a great interview, I’ll get the job. So what if I have to listen to him for a while?

Illness. Accidents. Suicide. Murder. We fight against these. They are not so easy to handle.

Why is he telling me this? What does it have to do with why we are here?

This man has offered me an opportunity, so I need to be polite. But the lead up to the interview is like a circus act.

Well-dressed, he wears a hand-tailored suit, and his shoes look expensive, too. I imagine he is well-connected and could perhaps be useful in the future, so I bite my tongue and go along.

Sparkle, he says.

This is your chance. You are young, slim, beautiful. Just go in there, and sparkle for him.

He gives me a last look-over. You won’t need this. He removes my short jacket and tosses it aside.

I thought it would seem more business-like, more appropriate.

Hmm. He grabs oversized scissors and heads toward me.

What the… My heart races. Has he gone mad?

From the obsessed look in his eye, it appears he has. But like me, he avoids eye- contact as he lunges and grabs at me.

For a second, I flinch, fearing for my life. Then he takes a handful of my dress, and pulls me toward him.

I quiver.

I am at his mercy. No one knows I am here. What a stupid move. I should have told someone. Is he dangerous? Mad? Should I run?

If I pull away, the dress may tear, and I loved it from the moment I saw it. It shimmers, silvery-pink and ice-blue. I imagine scales glistening on a fish as it twists in sunlight in the ocean. I was hoping I could keep it, if all goes well. Out of my first paycheck, maybe?

I inhale, close my eyes, and hold my breath.

Clip, clip.

Six inches above my hem, I feel his hand on my leg as he makes a cut. After the initial incision, he tosses the scissors aside. They clatter across the floor, and he rips the fabric.

I do not move. He seems crazy. I hope it will be worth it. And how crazy can he be?

I want to cry, Stop, no. You’ll ruin it. But I do not.

The tearing sound ends, and the remaining dress falls back against my thigh. It barely covers my derrière.

Barely—ha! Appropriate. I must remember not to bend or cross my legs.

I step out of the ring of fabric now circling my feet, and I leave the material coiled on the ground.

My stiletto heels, the ones he has chosen, click across the marble floor.

Through the windows surrounding us, the sky is alight now; the fireworks have begun.

Another New Year.

One after another, explosions swallow the night.

Red and blue lights fill the air. Sparkles cascade to earth as each explosion ends. He pushes me toward the door.

My last thought before I enter: Why is he wearing gloves?

Now go.

A butler opens the door to the inner sanctum; my heart hammers. Lights and fireworks continue outside, around the property, and into the town beyond.

Seconds slow into minutes, and minutes take on a timeless quality, as I pass into the adjoining room.

Was there something in the cocktail he gave me?

I am out of body, floating and happy, a little slower than usual. I take in the elegant, affluent space, the incredibly high ceilings. They float from view, way above, cathedral-like.

I imagine birds nesting in the rafters, and I smile. Where did that idea come from? There is no doubt, I am woozy. For sure, there was something in the drink.

In the new space, everything is white except the credenza and an armchair, upholstered in a rich, dark green—the regal color of hunting tartans.

Floor to ceiling windows frame the lights of the city in the distance beyond. Fireworks and explosions peep in through translucent drapes.

It’s like heaven. I can imagine angelic music playing. Everything is staged, a set in a theatre or a movie.

I put one foot in front of the other. It takes effort.

Again, I ask myself, What have I gotten into?

This is not the setting for me to do an interview, not at all.

Then I see him—the man.

He is perhaps fifty-five, grey-haired but still very good-looking. He has not changed much from the photos I found in old articles about him.

They told me he too was eccentric. He is wearing navy satin pajamas trimmed in gold. The top floats open to the waist. A handful of gold chains hang over his tanned chest, but I notice he is hooked up to something.

Slender plastic cables run across his body, to an until-now-hidden mobile ventilator.

He must be sick.

There is an ink mark on his heart in the shape of a cross. Come in, he says. Don’t be shy. You are perfect. It won’t take long.

His feet are bare, and his toenails are polished navy blue. They match his jammies.

Very odd.

I am increasingly disconcerted, and for a moment, I consider calling it off.

Will they let me? Why not? This is supposed to be my choice.

This man once enjoyed a high-life dripping in cash, until he completely dropped from sight. A victim, along with many other investors. I read he and his family were financially wiped out during the Madoff scandal.

After that tragedy, he lost his social contacts and his affluent lifestyle, but worse than the others, it appears he also lost his health.

Unlike many women whose husbands lose their assets, this man’s wife remained devoted, at his side through all of their difficulties.

She must love him, I suppose.

Now I have been offered the chance of an exclusive. But this is the most unusual way to conduct an interview.

I hope it will be worth it. Given his relaxed attire, I hope he has no unspecified requirements. With such a loyal and loving wife, that would certainly not result in a favorable piece.

Anyway, I reassure myself, I am a Karate brown belt. I can probably take care of myself if necessary.

As I get closer, I relax a little. I see this guy is even more unhealthy than I imagined.

He smiles.

If it is intended to reassure me, it fails. I do not like his smile; it is not inclusive. More of a cat-got-the-cream simper, and for sure, I do not plan to be the cream.

He pops a small gray pill into his mouth, and as he does, I am distracted by the glimmer of fireworks as they reflect on steel.

In his hand he holds a knife.

He steps toward me, and I hesitate, but a strong, invisible hand, the butler I imagine, propels me forward.

No-o-o, my brain yells, and I open my mouth to scream.

But the man reaches for me. Grabbing my hands, he peers into my eyes, simultaneously turning the knife toward himself. They said you wanted a scoop? he says.

I shake, revolted at the squish of the knife entering up and into his heart. And all the while he holds onto me.

How can such a weak and dying man have such a strong grip?

My fuzzy brain attempts to run through what is happening.

Blood spreads across my short sparkling dress. Droplets fall to the ground, mixed with my tears.

In a moment of clarity, I realize the mark on his chest was designed for the knife to enter the heart, well-planned to sever a major blood vessel.

And I know from past research on a story, death will come in a minute or less.

These men are professionals. I imagine his knife has been treated, to speed the end.

As the scream leaves my throat, the man loses consciousness, and we fall together.

What happened? This was not what was promised.

I continue to scream until my voice disappears, and I too lose consciousness. Illness? Accident? Suicide? Murder?

All of the above. It is a scoop, and a set-up.

A stab wound, organ failure, and blood loss equal death. I am in trouble.

THREE

New Opportunities

GREGORY JOHNSON WALKS INTO THE meeting room. Actually, they have co-opted his enormous recently repurposed dining room.

Why his wife Charlotte needed such a table, one that seated fourteen, he never understood. But since they began their new venture, it has proved useful.

Gregory is not sure he should have included Charlotte in this new enterprise, but by holding meetings at home, it is hard to exclude her.

Out of the corner of his eye, he glances at her. She is as immaculate as ever: slender, not a hair out of place, with perfectly manicured fingernails. She catches his glance and smiles. He cannot turn away, and as always, there’s the familiar stirring in his pants.

Christ, not now. He crosses his legs. How does the sexy bitch do it? After a decade of marriage, he should be over it and lusting after other women, like the rest of the guys he knows, who love to boast of their conquests. But Charlotte has him trussed up by the short and curlies.

She was born with two gifts: the ability to spend his earnings almost faster than he can make them, and a sex-on-tap approach to being a wife. The latter being the one which binds him to her and the reason he tolerates the former.

All marital problems are solved with a quickie, or when time permits, long languorous afternoons, evenings, or nights locked together in hot steamy sex.

Gregory has no idea how or where she developed such a skill-set, but Charlotte has myriad ways to entice him, and make him lose his common sense. She has an inexhaustible variety of places—in bed, on the floor, the kitchen counter, the car or the closet. And the positions she adopts. She could have been a consultant on a revised edition of the Kama Sutra.

How she performs all those things without mussing herself up is a continued source of wonder to Gregory. But in no time flat, Charlotte can have him begging to give her anything she wants.

To top it off, his wife is always elegant.—the ultimate lady of the manor.

This new wing of his organization is not her style—a grubby business. Altruistic he likes to say, and that is how he has presented it to her. But the actual killing, well, he has no plans to involve her in those details, if he can avoid it. One thing he is sure of, she will not complain about the money.

Gregory does a quick count as he moves to his seat at the head of the table. Two empty chairs. He glances around.

Six? Who is missing?

You knew John has exams this week. His finals. We agreed it was too important for him to leave college at the moment, Eleanore, says.

Ah, yes. Of course. Gregory nods.

Older than Gregory by two minutes, his twin sister, Eleanore, resembles him, sounds like him, and thinks like him. She is a proud mother of three. Although she would not admit it, John, her middle child, the one missing today, is her favorite.

I hear he’s doing well all around. Academia must run in the genes, Gregory says, glancing at Eleanore’s husband William, a brilliant, life-long academic, and a bit of a bore.

Gregory trusts his sister above all others, and he puts up with William, who is a good husband to Ellie, and a doting father to the three kids, Maria, John, and Fitz.

The man’s tendency to mind his own business, speak when spoken to, plus a ready acquiescence to whatever they propose, are the best qualities a person can possess, in Gregory’s view.

John’s a bright boy, Fitz, too. William laughs. Both are better scholars than I ever was.

Recently retired from university life, William is happy in the warm California sunshine, infinitely preferable to his birthplace on the cold and misty Scottish borders. Now he spends his days pottering in his garden, walking his dog, or lost among his books.

Or that is what he did, until Gregory needed him.

William often fancied himself a bit of a thespian, he trod the boards in college years ago. So, in the beginning, when press-ganged into playing the role of a butler for a couple of Gregory’s little scenarios, William decided to treat each as amateur theatrics, make-believe. It was the only way he could perform as required.

It was not quite William’s cup of tea, but like the rest of them, he loves the significant extra cash they have had lately. Still, no matter how hard he tried to convince himself to the contrary, this was different. In the moment, this was undeniably earth-shatteringly real.

Gregory noticed, of course. And as they expanded the business, he seemed to find less need of William’s services, thank the Lord. Recently Markham, Greg’s own butler, and general factotum had stepped up nicely.

William smiles across the table at his youngest, and in some ways the most ambitious, of his sons. Fitz is a carbon-copy of William, and perhaps because of their similarity, is his father’s favorite.

Fitz gives a soft cough and addresses his uncle. First, thank you for including me today. I may not make many meetings, except when school is out, but it is a privilege to be included.

He nods and smiles at Gregory, hoping he has conveyed his appreciation. There has been a suggestion, from his mother, that if he indicates this willingness to participate in the future, he will find a sizable increase in his allowance. And that would be helpful.

Uncle Edward is absent, too, and his son, Nicholas, will not be here. They send apologies, sir.

Sir. Gregory likes that. Ellie and William have brought the kids up well.

Fitz continues, I spoke to Nic earlier. He said there are serious issues at home; they couldn’t leave. Another terrorist attack in London.

I was not aware. Gregory only half listens. When his other sister died, his English brother-in-law went back to the UK, taking his nephew Nicholas with him. After a four-year absence, the family in California acknowledges there is truth in the proverb out of sight, out of mind.

In a last attempt to engage his uncle Greg, who appears pre-occupied today, Fitz says, A man-made explosive device detonated on a packed Tube train during rush hour. On any other day, Nicholas would have been on that train, but he had a business meeting and travelled in a different direction.

Eleanore pours coffee and stirs in three spoons of sugar. I saw the news earlier. They say it is one of Britain’s worst in a series of attacks.

Blood and mayhem apparently, Nic is the same age as me, too young to die! Fitz adds.

Gregory observes his sister. If she keeps consuming sugar and chocolate the way she has lately, Eleanore will lose her figure. She has added a few pounds recently. The good life, he supposes.

Aah. I will call them and offer our regards, he says. In light of this, perhaps we should postpone until next month. A pity, since our first case has been resolved. Sounding like he just swallowed a dish of cream, he adds, With great success.

And? Eleanore drops the spoon with a clatter. Go on.

Gregory waves a document. A three-million-dollar transfer. I think we will all agree this should be a green light for us to continue.

Charlotte’s eyes light, and she applauds her husband. The group joins in the approval.

Cause for celebration, she says. We could lunch early. Let’s go through for drinks in the drawing-room. I’ll get Markham to set up for us; he has prepared something special. Charlotte unravels her endless legs and heads to the kitchen, where their longtime butler/housekeeper has set out an array of North African dishes.

Alright, we are in agreement; shall we adjourn? Gregory glances at the departing figure of his wife. All legs and elbows, she reminds him of a newborn colt. But, unlike a colt, Charlotte controls her limbs, and every other part of her torso, with uncanny precision.

His thoughts drift, he imagines later this evening when they are all gone, he will shower her naked body with twenty dollar bills. No, maybe one hundreds! He envisions her gratitude and he smiles.

His smile is an unusual enough occurrence that Maria nudges Fitz.

Did you see that? she says. He smiled! She links an arm through her brother’s.

Shh. Fitz chuckles. He likes it when Maria hugs him; he has always admired his big sister. She is beautiful, with her short, shining black hair swinging as she walks, and those clever, all-observing hazel eyes, magnified by decidedly trendy glasses.

Beyond that, she is sweet. He has always appreciated Maria’s loving touch. She watched out for him from childhood, acting more like a mother than their actual mother. Now she is thirty; why has she not thought about a family of her own? She has all it takes to make a fantastic mom.

Aware his uncle is distracted, probably caught up in some idea, there is always something lacking in their interactions. Uncle Gregory has never been anything but pleasant and kind to Fitz, but he always seems to be calculating and assessing how he can turn any and every event to his advantage.

Fitz squeezes Maria’s arm tighter to his side. He should stop these mean thoughts. As the baby of the family, he is happy to have a seat at the table. After all, if it were not for his uncle and this latest idea, whatever the heck it is, they would all be so much worse off. His mother said as much to his dad on his last trip down from uni.

Today was to have been his first board meeting, and he is a little disappointed at the postponement. He hoped to be brought into the loop. Fitz understands very little of what is involved, and now it will be a few more weeks, perhaps months, till he learns. Although happy to have the extra cash in his coffers, he has a hard