PART III RETURN TO VICTORVILLE #2
Dubois Street ran perpendicular to Main Street, one block behind it.
It had about ten houses on it, one of which was the Kingman estate, which stretched away to the south, the last piece of residential property before one hit Dead Man’s Creek, the bayou and the petrochemical plants by the Gulf.
I pulled up in front of the estate.
A gorgeous tree-shaded drive stretched away from us.
It was known as an allée and it was a classic feature of Southern plantations: ten oak trees lined the perfectly straight driveway on both sides, leaning inwards, creating a tunnel-like effect.
At the far end of this beautiful tunnel of branches was a striking mansion.
It was pristine white. Eight sturdy columns upheld its enormous roof.
The Kingman mansion.
A pickup truck filled with pink flowers bounced past us and zoomed down the tree-lined drive.
Then a bigger truck filled with white fold-out chairs rumbled by, also heading down the driveway.
‘Preparations,’ Audrey said. ‘For their big society wedding.’
‘Let’s go talk to the Kingmans about Dead Man’s Creek,’ I said.
At the end of the long drive, off to the right, a wood-fenced -cattle paddock had been converted into a temporary parking area: it was dotted with the trucks and vans of wedding contractors working at the property.
I parked my Minnie Winnie in amongst their vehicles.
Audrey and I got out to see a woman of perhaps seventy directing all the contractors.
She wore faded blue Levi’s and cowgirl boots but her pressed white shirt was designer.
She had short platinum hair styled in a perfect bob, clearly by a professional.
I recognised her from the photo that had accompanied the article in The Advocate about the Southern Christian Ladies Garden and Historical Society and its fight to keep the Confederate statue in Renton.
This was Mrs Clara Kingman.
Mother of the groom.
Matriarch of the Kingman clan.
Conversing with her was an objectively very attractive younger woman of maybe 25: she was blonde, blue-eyed and slim.
‘Misty, darling,’ Clara Kingman said to her, ‘I just love those azaleas you chose. Wherever did you find them?’
‘Augusta, ma’am,’ the younger woman replied. ‘At a -nursery near the golf club. I’ve created a whole crown of them for the cakewalk. I’m gonna win the cakewalk this time, you hear, ma’am!’
‘Not if I can help it!’ Mrs Kingman smiled.
Audrey and I approached them.
Only for a third woman in mirrored sunglasses to suddenly materialise between us, blocking our way.
‘Afternoon,’ she said brusquely. ‘Can I help you?’
She wore cargo pants and a black t-shirt with a logo on the chest that read: ‘sss – southern security systems’.
It was clear who she was: Mrs Kingman’s personal bodyguard.
(This made sense, the wives of billionaires are kidnap risks and insurance companies demand they have round-the-clock bodyguards.
Indeed, after the murder of the CEO of UnitedHealthcare on a New York street in 2024, most top-end corporate leaders and their families have beefed up their personal security.)
This female bodyguard was about 40, lean and muscular. I noticed that her knuckles were bruised pink: the indication of someone who did martial arts or some form of bare-knuckle fighting. She had military tattoos on her forearms and wore five earrings in each ear.
‘Yeah, hi,’ I said, ‘my name’s Sam Speedman, I’m a private detective from Houston and this is Special Agent Audrey Mills from the FBI. We’d like to speak with one of the owners of this property, please? It’s about the dead baby that was found a short way south of here.’
Mrs Clara Kingman was watching our interaction with interest.
Her younger companion—I guessed it was the bride, Misty Dearborn—was looking Audrey up and down, and didn’t seem impressed.
The bodyguard stared at me impassively from behind her mirrored lenses. ‘You’ll have to make an appointment and come back another day—’
‘It’s okay, Mary Beth,’ Mrs Kingman said, stepping up beside her bodyguard and smiling at us. ‘Did you say you were from the FBI?’
‘I am, ma’am,’ Audrey said. ‘If we could just have a moment of your time, it’d be greatly appreciated.’
‘My husband is the one to talk to,’ Clara Kingman said. ‘You can wait inside while I go find him. Mary Beth, can you take them to Tad’s office, please?’
Mrs Kingman and Misty Dearborn strode away while the -bodyguard guided us inside.
‘This way,’ she said curtly.
Audrey and I followed her into the mansion.
If the Kingman mansion’s exterior was remarkable, then its interior was something else.
It was truly splendid.
Sweeping staircases. Soaring pillars. All painted white. Expensive artwork lined the walls. Busts of esteemed ancestors sat on pedestals.
Mary Beth the bodyguard led us through the high-ceilinged vestibule.
As we walked, I asked her, ‘If you don’t mind my asking, miss, but do you fight? Your knuckles—’
‘Did some MMA stuff after I left the Marine Corps. Was gonna give UFC a shot but I blew out my knee. Went into personal security instead.’
I swapped a look with Audrey as we walked. Mary Beth wasn’t any old bodyguard. Ex-military, ex–mixed martial arts, she was practically a weapon.
She ushered us into an office off the vestibule.
It was empty.
‘Mr Kingman will be with you when he’s ready,’ she said and left.
I took in Tad Kingman’s office.
It was very masculine.
Dark brown mahogany walls. Thick maroon carpet. Massive desk.
On the sideboards, the usual photos that powerful men kept in their offices: Tad Kingman with a sheik from the Middle East; Tad Kingman with some golf buddies; Tad Kingman with his sons standing over a dead elephant somewhere in Africa.
In one of the photos, Tad Kingman stood with President Obama beside the storm cellar of a flattened house after a hurricane.
‘That’s John the Baptist Parish near New Orleans,’ I said. ‘Musta been 2012. Obama visited after Hurricane Isaac. Interesting that Mr Kingman has a photo with him, given Kingman is a big Republican donor.’
Dominating one wall was a beautiful hand-drawn family tree titled ‘The Kingmans: An Unbroken Line’.
And there it was: a line of male heirs running for 175 years, from 1850 to the present day. Unbroken indeed.
I glanced at some of the dates on the tree to see if any of them matched the years of the missing women, but none did.
I pulled out my iPhone and snapped a quick photo of it. You never knew.
Audrey was standing at a broad window behind the desk, looking out over the mansion’s vast rear lawn.
I joined her.
The lawn outside was the size of a football field and beautifully manicured.
In the middle of it an absolutely colossal white tent was being erected: a marquee. Even though it was a temporary structure, it was huge, bigger than a regular house.
It was only half-finished, so I could see inside it: tables and chairs were being arranged around a dancefloor.
‘For the wedding festivities,’ Audrey said. ‘Dinner and -dancing. This is how the other half gets married.’
It certainly was opulent.
And it was temporary.
I could see workmen building two liquor bars inside the massive tent.
Another team of contractors was attaching air-conditioning units to each end.
This thing would have air-conditioning. I’d never seen such luxury.
On the lawn on the near side of the marquee, I saw more contractors attaching several hundred fairy lights to overhead cables. When it was all done, it would really look magical.
I went to the door to look for our host.
No-one was coming.
A contractor strode by.
‘Excuse me, sir, when’s the wedding?’ I asked.
‘The actual ceremony is two weeks from tomorrow, Saturday the 18th, but they got a whole week’s worth of events leadin’ up to it.
Pre-rehearsal dinner on the Thursday night, rehearsal dinner on the Friday night, then the actual wedding on the Saturday.
Back when I got hitched, we just had, like, one big day, but then I ain’t richer than God, am I?
Christ, they got the Governor himself coming to the pre-rehearsal dinner, plus both senators, one Supreme Court justice and a bunch of state judges. ’
He went on his way.
‘A week of events, gosh,’ I said.
‘Uh-huh,’ Audrey said.
‘Was your wedding big?’
‘Unfortunately, yes. My ex-husband’s family was—’
‘Hello.’ A deep voice made us spin.
A tall silver-haired gentleman strode into the office, flanked by two equally tall younger men.
Theodore ‘Tad’ Kingman.
And his sons, Tad Jr and Beau the groom.
Tad Jr looked just like his father—elegant and handsome—while Beau was stockier with a rougher, rounder face.
Tad Kingman Sr smiled at us.
The two sons glared.
Tad Kingman Sr shook our hands. ‘Mr Speedman and Special Agent Mills, I understand. How can I help you?’
I let Audrey do the talking, given that she was a federal agent.
‘As you’ll be aware, sir, the body of a baby girl was found in the Acheron River a few miles south of here. We have reason to believe that it came from Dead Man’s Creek, which flows out of your property. We were hoping we could take a look at the source of the creek.’
Tad Kingman’s eyes never flinched as he listened.
‘This is very troubling,’ he said. ‘I was informed that the local sheriff was looking into the matter.’
‘He is, sir, and we don’t want to step on his toes, but we think this dead baby might be part of a larger federal matter that crosses state borders.’
‘I see. Well, then, you go on right ahead. In fact, let me get my head of security to take you there right now. Mr Hammonds?’
It was only then that I realised that another man had slipped, wraith-like, into the office behind us.
It was the same man who had been lurking in the background on one of the sheriff’s airboats when I’d kayaked down to Dead Man’s Creek.
The same man who had followed us to Angola.
Mr Deek Hammonds.
The Hammer.
He wore the same tan cargo pants he’d worn the previous day and the same black t-shirt which I now saw bore the logo that had been on Mary Beth’s t-shirt: ‘sss – southern security systems’.