Checking my email again, I found one from Jeremy. “Walker, I ran into someone who thought he knew where Pandora Childs might be. He said she liked to sneak away to Pigeon Forge and stay in a friend’s cabin. Childs recently texted him a selfie from there.”
Jeremy had attached the photo to the email.
His cell phone went straight to voicemail when I called him. I called his landline, and after convincing his mother that I wasn’t firing her son and to please let him come to the phone, Jeremy got on the line.
“Great job, Jeremy,” I said.
“Thought the photo might help,” he said. He was proud of himself.
“Any chance your friend would give you Childs’ new cell phone number? Her old one went dead when she disappeared.”
“No, he had saved the photo but deleted the text message,” said Jeremy. “He probably has it somewhere in his phone but wasn’t willing to share it.”
Within minutes of hanging up with Jeremy, my cell rang. Harden said, “I know this may be a little late, but I’ve got info on Cecil Rantz’s Happy Cumings Films.”
“No, the timing couldn’t be more perfect. Tell me what you have.”
“He shot the videos in public places and houses around Pensacola,” he said. “His team recruited waitresses, strippers, and college coeds to have sex on camera. He recorded the orgies, of course, and uploaded them to the website mentioned at the attorney general’s press conference. Men paid two hundred dollars a month VIP membership dues to participate in the orgies or just to watch the people live. Some of the girls may have been minors. The production made money from people paying to log onto the websites that played the videos for its VIP members.”
That explained a little more of how Amos Frost was pulled into the filming and matched what Tyndall had shared.
“Rantz sent text messages to guys, and sometimes couples, that gave away the place and time for the fun,” said Harden. “Investigators are convinced some of the girls were underage. They have tried to catch them in the act and find out who funded the enterprise. The few girls they questioned refused to cooperate.”
“Well, apparently it was much bigger than Rantz’s videos,” I said.
“Apparently. My sources only knew about the local sex scene.”
“And Amos Frost was one of the participants,” I added.
The other end of the phone went dead for a few seconds. “Holmes, I wasn’t supposed to tell you that.”
“You didn’t,” I said. “Don’t worry. I’m not writing about Amos Frost.”
“Good.” Harden sounded relieved.
“My arts reporter may have located the missing Arts Council executive director,” I said. “I’ll send you a photo she recently took in Pigeon Forge, Tennessee. Do you have someone who can track her down?”
He said, “I have a friend in Knoxville who could drive down. It will cost two hundred dollars, plus mileage.”
“What choice do I have?” I asked. “Okay, have your friend send me an invoice.”
Harden said, “There’s a lot of talk at the courthouse about you not cooperating with the state attorney and attorney general.”
“Yeah, they aren’t too happy with me.”
“No shit,” said Harden before he hung up.
I posted Harden’s information on the sex club on the blog:
LOCAL SEX CLUB TIED TO PORN BUST
Among those busted yesterday in Operation Cherry Bomb was pornographer Cecil Rantz.
Sources told the Insider Rantz recruited waitresses, strippers, and college coeds to perform sex acts on camera for his Happy Cumings videos.
Locals paid to perform with the girls on camera but wore masks. They were texted a code for when and where the orgies would take place.
Who paid? They could be revealed in the court documents soon.
Agents are looking for the financial backer or backers of the international child porn network.
Stay tuned.
Sheriff Frost wouldn’t be happy because he would think the post was about his brother. Tyndall’s boss would be upset because media would bombard his office with questions about the videos. The reporters would also be pissed because I wrote about it first. A trifecta.
Big Boy came upstairs. I heard Summer shout something as she slammed and locked the outside door to the office. The fortress was secure.
I grabbed a bottled water from the refrigerator and walked down to the offices on the second floor. The afternoon sun was coming through the windows. The new window matched the others perfectly. Sitting at my desk, I watched minions head home or to happy hour as they left their jobs for the day.
Summer had left several yellow Post-it notes on my computer. She wanted me to return calls to Clark Spencer, the television reporter who covered the protest, someone in the attorney general’s office, Sheriff Frost, and Monte Tatum.
“You sonnabitch, you set me up,” shouted Tatum when I reached him on the phone.
I didn’t take the bait. “What are you talking about, Monte?”
Sounding more than a little unhinged and high, he rattled off, “I read your blog. You came into my club to scope me out for the AG. I know you talked with that bitch Eva Johnson.”
The louder he got, the calmer I became. “Why were you taken into custody and let go? What kind of deal did you cut?”
“None of your goddamn business,” he said. “That bitch Johnson stole from me, I fired her, and she wants to ruin me. Don’t believe a goddamn thing she says.”
“I have no idea what you’re talking about, Monte,” I said, knowing that using his first name irritated him even more. “My sources are coming from elsewhere. People have been talking about your sleazy club for weeks. Rantz was a regular.”
“Who told you that? I’ll sue you for defamation and for trying to hurt my business.” He sounded a little less confident, a little more worried.
“Monte, you tried that before. I’m not your problem,” I said. “However, if there are any insights you can give into Rantz and Deb’s Playpen, we would love to interview you.”
“Fuck you,” Tatum said as he ended the call.
Gravy texted to see if I wanted a beer. I passed.
