The Solomon Organization

By Andrew Neiderman

From the bestselling author of The Devil’s Advocate comes this “fast-moving thriller with an up-to-the-minute premise: a secret conspiracy of men” (Publishers Weekly).
 
Scott Lester’s bitter divorce includes accusations of adultery, alcoholism, and more—and they’re all true. To keep from losing his five-year-old daughter forever, he turns to the Solomon Organization, a secret society sympathetic to the plight of men in Scott’s situation. They are on his side. They will help him. And they don’t even want his money—they only want what is best for his little girl.
 
And what they decide is best is the worst thing Scott Lester can imagine . . .
 
“A taut tale of horror made more horrible by its very plausibility.” —Library Journal

• Language: English
• Publisher: Open Road Integrated Media
• Release date: May 24, 2015
• ISBN: 9781626817890

Andrew Neiderman

Andrew Neiderman is the author of numerous novels of suspense and terror, including Deficiency, The Baby Squad, Under Abduction, Dead Time, Curse, In Double Jeopardy, The Dark, Surrogate Child, and The Devil’s Advocate—which was made into a major motion picture starring Al Pacino, Keanu Reeves, and Charlize Theron. He lives in Palm Springs, California, with his wife, Diane. Visit his website at Neiderman.com.

Book preview

Prologue

Meg Lester hurried back to her car in the Kwik Stop parking lot, her long, shapely legs gliding with quick determination. She placed the grocery bag on the floor of the passenger’s side and eased into the glove-leather driver’s seat of what Scott called their gently used Mercedes 580 SL. Her part-time work, which she had assumed would take her well into the late afternoon, had been aborted because her employer, Jonathan Sanders, had had to fly up to San Francisco. She’d been on her way to pick up her daughter Justine, when the sight of the Kwik Stop reminded her they needed milk. It would be easier to stop here, drop off the milk at the house, and then go fetch Justine, she thought.

Because today was a day for teachers’ meetings and school was closed, Scott had agreed to take Justine with him to work. It was easy for him to have her at the car dealership. Old man Miller was crazy about Justine, and Scott had long periods of time between customers when he could amuse her.

So the instant Meg spotted Scott’s car in the driveway of their two-story home in Westwood, she suspected Justine had gotten sick. She turned into the drive quickly, grabbed the grocery bag, got out of the car, and practically sprinted to the front door. When she stepped into the house, the silence that greeted her convinced her she was right. Maybe Justine had come down with one of those stomach viruses again, she concluded. She hurried through the hallway to the kitchen to put away the milk. As soon as she had, she turned to go upstairs when she noticed the powdery remnants and straws on the kitchen table. Her heart suddenly felt hollow.

She approached the table slowly and then touched the powder with the tip of her finger. She brought it to her tongue even though she really didn’t need to substantiate what she had seen too many times before.

How could Scott do this? He’d promised he’d stop and he had Justine with him. Meg hurried to the stairway and marched up the steps, her heart pounding so hard, she could feel the thump reverberate in the back of her head. Just as she reached the top, she heard the laugh. It had the effect of an invisible wall, stopping her dead in her tracks. She listened and heard a moan. Her gaze went from the door to the bedroom she and Scott shared to Justine’s bedroom door, which was slightly open.

For a moment Meg feared she wouldn’t catch her breath again. She would literally asphyxiate here on the second-story landing of their home. Finally, she willed her legs to move her forward and she approached their bedroom door. She opened it in increments of no more than an inch at a time, until she could look in and see the back and buttocks of the naked woman straddling naked Scott. They were oblivious to any witness and continued. For a moment Meg was intrigued, more than shocked. It was as if her husband of nine years had been thrust into a porno movie.

The woman threw her head back and moaned. Scott’s hands jetted up to her breasts, cupping and squeezing, the fingers tapping out an unheard erotic melody. The woman moaned louder and louder until she opened her eyes and caught the reflection of Meg in the mirror over the vanity table to the right of the bed. She froze.

Oh shit, she cried.

Scott opened his eyes.

What? He looked at the woman’s face and then turned to see Meg standing there. His mouth fell open stupidly and then his lips began to move without his uttering a sound.

Justine! Meg screamed and slammed the door shut. She ran to her daughter’s room and found her on the floor by her bed doodling with a crayon and a coloring book. Justine looked up with surprise as Meg lunged at her. Her daughter was a tall five-year-old, but Meg didn’t hesitate. With what seemed incredible strength, she scooped Justine off the floor and into her arms. Then she spun around and flew out the door to the stairs.

Mommy!

Meg’s eyes were wide, her mouth pulled back in the corners. It was as if they were fleeing from a house on fire. In fact, Meg would not be able to recall how she had done it. Somehow, flying down those stairs with Justine in her arms, she didn’t lose her balance. She burst out the front door and charged across the lawn, never once thinking it would be more logical to get into her car.

Instead, she ran along the sidewalk. Drivers going by looked with curiosity, but none stopped to inquire why a woman was running with a five-year-old child in her arms. There didn’t appear to be anyone chasing her. Here in Los Angeles, just as in any major city, people rarely poked into each other’s business, first out of fear, and second because of a coat of insensitivity that formed protectively to shield them from the dozens and dozens of tragedies that visited their streets daily.

Mommy! Justine finally screamed. She was being bounced so hard, her pigtails flew up over her head.

The moment Meg came to her senses, exhaustion set in. The muscles in her legs and back ached. It felt like a switchblade had been jabbed in between her ribs. She stopped and lowered Justine to the walk.

The child was crying now, sobbing silently, her little shoulders rising and falling.

Oh, honey, Meg gasped. She knelt down and embraced her daughter. I’m sorry, sweetheart. Mommy didn’t mean to frighten you.

Justine wiped her eyes.

Why are we running, Mommy? Where are we going?

Going? Meg stood up and looked around. Where were they going? She thought for a moment and then seized Justine’s hand. Come along, she said.

She walked her to the corner and turned right. They went nearly another five blocks before stopping at Sharma Corman’s house. Of all her friends, Sharma was the most competent and dependable. Sharma was the sort who knew the best doctor for each ailment, the best beautician, the best person to do nails, the best masseuse. She even knew the best plumber. And what was equally impressive was the fact she always had all the relevant information—addresses, phone numbers—at her fingertips.

Meg pressed the doorbell and waited, her chest still heaving, the aches and pains unrelenting. Marta, Sharma’s Mexican maid, opened the door.

Mrs. Lester, buenos días.

I must see Mrs. Corman, Marta.

The maid saw the pain and tension in Meg’s face and the confusion and fear in Justine’s. For a moment she was frozen, unable to act.

Quickly, please, Marta.

Right away, Mrs. Lester. She rushed back to get her. Meg stepped into the house. She tried to catch her breath and then knelt down to brush the creases out of Justine’s dress. The child still looked quite terrified.

It’s all right, honey. It’s all right.

Meg! Sharma said, coming quickly from her den. Patricia and I were just talking on the telephone about you. We were…what’s wrong, Meg? she asked, now that she was close enough to take in Meg Lester’s demeanor.

Oh, Sharma, Meg said and immediately burst into tears.

Sharma Corman had been through it before. She knew.

The bastard, she said and took Meg into her arms, while Justine gaped up in shock and fear at the scene unfolding before her.

1

Scott Lester felt like he was burning up. Everything was closing in on him. The sweat trickled down his temples and his shirt collar had become a hangman’s noose, tightening more and more with every word spoken against him. He couldn’t believe this was happening, even though he was actually here in the courtroom.

We’re asking, Your Honor, Meg’s attorney had begun, that Mrs. Lester be granted sole custody of Justine and that Mr. Lester’s contact with the child be limited to supervised visits, at least for the remainder of these formative years.

The judge had nodded. Scott had felt his scowl and thought the expression on his face was as good as an agreement, even before all the evidence was revealed. Maybe he would have been better off with a female judge than a man who looked like everyone’s grandfather.

I thought we had become civilized when it came to divorces and children, Scott complained to his attorney, Michael Fein. And that kids didn’t have to be dragged through this garbage.

That’s true to a large extent with what we would call amicable divorces, but it doesn’t mean the state relinquishes its right and responsibility to look after the welfare of minors. The state won’t assign custody to a parent who is shown to be addicted to drugs and alcohol and irresponsible, one who can’t provide the child with a safe and moral environment. Which is what your wife and her attorney are out to prove, he added dryly.

That’s bullshit. She’s just out for revenge.

Maybe so, but these witnesses testifying to your cocaine habit, your failure to be where you are supposed to be; witnesses telling the court you brought a minor into a bar to sit in the corner and wait while you drank and flirted with other women…these bar bills, these bills from the liquor mart, his lawyer rattled on as he flipped through Meg’s attorney’s brief, won’t look like bullshit to the court. And that boss of yours didn’t do us any good either, admitting to your tardiness, your failure to show, your problem with tried-and-true customers lately.

I’m going to lose my job because of this, Scott whined. She’ll get me fired and then I won’t be able to come up with child support or house payments or…

That’s not her problem; it’s yours.

It’s going to be hers, too, damn it. I can’t believe she actually put a detective on me and sent him around interviewing my boss and practically everyone I know. She’s not capable of doing all these things, Scott declared.

She did it.

She didn’t do it…her pack of female sharks did it, he muttered and gestured at the women who sat right behind Meg.

They’d been at Meg’s side through the whole ordeal: Patricia Longstreet, who even before this latest catastrophe, never missed an opportunity to put him down; Brooke Thomas, the prettiest of Meg’s confidantes who had been a model in New York before marrying a record producer and moving out to Los Angeles. Scott had made the mistake of hitting on her a few times. Now, she was one of Meg’s witnesses, eager to describe that afternoon he showed up at her home to offer her a hit and a matinee.

I literally had to push him out the door, she claimed in the prehearing testimony. He was already high and he was driving!

And then there was Sharma, the worst shark of all, who he believed hated men in general and him particularly. If she could have castrated her first husband, she would have. She was the one who had told Meg all men are cavemen at heart. Don’t ever trust your husband. How self-satisfied she looked sitting there listening to the testimony against him and watching Meg’s lawyer construct the picture of him as an unfit father. Every time Sharma looked his way, she smiled triumphantly.

He sighed and sank deeper and deeper into his seat as the proceeding continued. Soon he would be under this table, he thought.

Scott had already consented to the division of assets, including the house. But the problem with the house was neither of them had the means to buy the other out. They had to wait for a buyer to come along, which might take awhile given the current slump in the real estate market. In the meantime, he had to move out, still keeping up his share of the mortgage and house payments. And, in addition, he now had to carry the rent for his new crummy apartment. After child support, he’d be lucky to have enough left over for a decent pair of new shoes.

But that wasn’t enough to satisfy Meg. She was going to pound him into the ground and use Justine as the hammer. Despite his extramarital activities, he believed he loved Justine as much as Meg did. One thing should have nothing to do with the other. But Meg was determined to win sole custody. She would deny him all visitation rights if she could.

Hours later, Scott lowered his head like a flag of defeat and then suddenly turned to focus on the man sitting in the rear of the courtroom. It was as though he had felt the man’s eyes on his neck. Aside from the courtroom officials, his attorney, Meg’s attorney, Meg’s friends, and the few witnesses Meg’s attorney had brought, there was no one else present, no one but this man. None of Scott’s so-called buddies had the time.

Scott couldn’t account for the man’s presence. He looked too old to be a law student observing. He could be another attorney, Scott thought. Someone who’d arrived early and was just sitting in to pass time.

But the man smiled at him and nodded as if they were friends. Did he know him?

Scott welcomed this distraction. Things weren’t going his way. His attorney had never been optimistic from the start and even appeared reluctant to take his case.

I would like to adjourn at this point, the judge declared, and resume ten o’clock Monday morning.

No one offered any opposition. When the proceeding ended, Scott gazed at Meg, but she wouldn’t look his way. The night before he had had a nightmare in which Meg was pushing him into a freshly dug grave. He was struggling to pull himself up, and she stomped on his hands and swung a shovel at his head. The first spoonful of dirt in his face woke him and he sat up sweating and gasping for breath. His heart was pounding so hard he had to put on the light and inspect his hands to see if he had any bruises. It was that vivid a dream.

How difficult it was now even to imagine being head over heels in love with her. She had become so hateful, so distasteful to him, that simply conjuring her image riled him, churned his stomach, and drove his blood pressure sky-high.

He and Meg had met at his business college in Albany, New York. At the time, Meg was working in the secretarial pool. She was from Jamestown, a small city located in the western part of the state. A more innocent and unassuming girl, he couldn’t have found. To her, Albany was a major city. She had never been to New York or to Boston or Philadelphia, and California…that was like another planet.

But he loved her that way. He used to tell her she was like a drink of fresh water. She had an honesty, a simplicity that made it easy for him to relax when they were together. There was no subterfuge, no conniving, nothing more beguiling than her soft blue eyes and light brown hair; nothing more tantalizing than the patches of freckles on the crowns of each of her cheeks, than her naturally ruby lips and the dimple in her chin; and there was nothing more sexually enticing than her long legs hidden under those full-length skirts and her surprisingly full bosom, a wonderful discovery the first time they made love. She had no need for Fredericks-of-Hollywood lingerie to titillate him when they slept together; she wore no heavy makeup when they went out. She was a natural girl, delightfully naive about her own gifts. It was like stumbling on an uncut diamond.

It had been his idea to live in Los Angeles. He had been there only once before, but he had been smitten by the glitter of sunlight on the hoods and trunks of Mercedes convertibles, the tall palm trees, the bright foliage, the rhythm of the city, the beaches and the music. Everywhere else people ate to live and worked to eat; here they lived to eat and worked to play, at least on the Westside where beautiful women dressed in expensive fashions and young hunks in tight jeans paraded down the clean sidewalks and streets as if they were already cast in a movie and were simply rehearsing their moves and lines.

The magic of L.A. seemed to be that everyone was in the movie business, no matter how simple their work. Beauticians strove to cut the hair of celebrities; store clerks packed groceries for Linda Hamilton, John Candy, or Steve Martin; real estate agents sold the former homes of Bette Davis, Clark Gable, or Tom Selleck. You didn’t have to be a successful lawyer or doctor to exchange a few words with last year’s Academy Award nominees; you just had to be here, waiting. Sooner or later, it would happen; they would come.

He had a list of celebrity clients himself and was on first-name basis with two of the biggest producers in Hollywood. He had sold each of them a couple of cars, as well as a few to their wives and girlfriends.

At first Meg was afraid of Los Angeles. It was too spread out; it made Albany look like a village. The weather was warm but the people were cool, she would say. She cried; she missed her family; she complained about the traffic, the smog, and the crime. But he didn’t give in and soon she accommodated herself to their lifestyle in ways he never imagined she would.

If he hadn’t brought her here, she wouldn’t have changed, he thought. She might still be that uncut diamond and not a sophisticate who had discovered the need to be her own person. How you going to keep them down on the farm once they’ve seen Rodeo Drive?

Now he regretted introducing her to the women who he believed had poisoned her against him, even before she discovered his extracurricular activities. He wanted her to have friends who lived in Beverly Hills, Westwood, and Brentwood. But they had convinced her he was treating her as his slave, his alter ego. In the end they had convinced her to compete with him. He should have kept her locked up in some hick upstate New York town just as she’d once wanted.

Spilled milk, but he would cry over it now. She had the better lawyer; it looked like she was going to win custody of Justine; she lived in the house, and he had to provide support. And all because he had been caught with his pants down.

What do we do now? he asked his attorney.

Nothing, he said.

Maybe we should go back over some things.

You can’t change facts, Scott, he said. We’ll present our side the best we can under the circumstances.

What does that mean?

Just what I said, Michael Fein replied dryly. See you ten o’clock on Monday.

Even his own attorney wanted to get away from him as quickly as he could, Scott thought, watching the man hurry up the aisle.

As Scott started up the aisle, he saw that the gentleman in the rear of the courtroom had remained.

Philip Dante, he said. Scott took his small but long-fingered hand tentatively into his and shook it. Philip Dante smiled. He was only about an inch or so shorter than Scott, who stood nearly six feet tall. Dante’s dark blue pin-striped suit was custom fitted to his slim torso. He had a narrow waist and full, firm shoulders. He looked athletic and robust because of his crimson cheeks and lively gray eyes.

I was passing through the courthouse and just had to stop in to see another poor fish get gutted, Philip Dante told him. It’s reassuring to know you haven’t been randomly selected to suffer a singular fate.

You’re here for a divorce, too?

I was, and like you, I was crucified on a cross of exaggerations, accusations constructed by my wife’s skillful and, I must confess, very talented attorney.

Yeah, Scott said. Despite what I was told, my wife’s got a better lawyer. I think mine feels worse for her than he does for me.

There’s a bizarre attitude about children and mothers in this society—the courts are heavily weighted in the woman’s favor. The truth is more children are ruined by their mothers than by their fathers.

Absolutely right, Scott agreed. He liked this guy, liked the way he put feelings concretely into words.

And a sharp lawyer can make Cinderella’s stepmother look like Mother Teresa, Dante said.

Tell me about it.

You look like you could use a drink, Dante said. There’s a little pub I’ve discovered nearby, a retreat I went to during the recesses. Care to join me?

Sure, Scott said. Why not? I don’t think she has her detective on my tail anymore, not that it matters.

Dante laughed, a short, thin laugh through clenched teeth. He started out, Scott alongside.

It resembled a Dublin pub: small and cozy with what looked to be a regular bar crowd. No one there took much more than perfunctory interest in Philip Dante and Scott when they entered. They sat at a booth and talked, Scott more loquacious than usual because he found this stranger receptive and understanding, smiling and sneering at the right times. Also, feeling deserted by his friends, Scott had a great need to open up to someone sympathetic. He had no family here and Steve, his older brother back in New York, was like a stranger to him. They were so dissimilar, Steve always more settled, more