by Trace Conger
This case also rattled me like none before. I never brought my work home and always tried to separate my family from my paycheck, but the Josh Baker case reminded me that bad shit happens to good people all the time. Sometimes evil walks in and takes a piece of your life away for no reason whatsoever. Willie Baker seemed like a good guy, and his son was as innocent as they came. Vance and Turner had no motive for swiping that kid from the mall other than a morbid curiosity to see what would happen. What if that curiosity walked down my street someday and what if I wasn't there to stop it?
I knew I would have to deal with Brooke when I finished up with Vance and Turner, and I wasn't sure what I wanted to do. What I did know was I didn't need Brooke clouding my head when I should be sharp, so I pushed her out of my thoughts and returned to the case.
That's when the aluminum baseball bat shattered my passenger window, spraying glass across the inside of my Navigator. I instinctively lunged for the .45 tucked under my seat, but my seatbelt restrained me. I struggled to disengage the seatbelt, ready to kick open the driver door if I had to, when the bat slammed into my right shoulder. I turned to see Jacob Vance staring at me through the shattered window.
"Who the fuck are you?" He poked the tip of the bat into my shoulder like he was pushing me off a ledge. "You're the guy from this morning."
My brain aimlessly searched for a bat-proof response, something to rationalize why I was sitting across the street from his home.
"What were you doing at my business today? And what are you doing here? At my house?"
Before I could conjure a response Vance reached in and poached the two photographs from my passenger seat, shook the glass shards off and studied them.
"Where did you get these?" After I didn't answer he raised the bat as high as he could inside the vehicle and struck my shoulder again. There was a dull thud and a sharp pain that radiated across my collarbone and down my arm. He cocked his swing again, smacking the rearview mirror as he drew his arm back, and slammed into my shoulder a third time. Had it not been for the limited range of motion inside the vehicle, which lessened the blow, he would have easily dislocated my shoulder. He drew the bat back again.
"Okay," I said. "Stop with the bat!"
"Talk or the next one comes at your face. Why are you looking for me?"
"You're a smart guy, Jacob. Why do you think?"
"That was a long time ago. It doesn't mean shit now."
"It means something to some people."
As he looked at the photos again I reached out and seized the bat, pulling him forward into the passenger door. He dropped the photos on the passenger seat, snapped his arms back outside the vehicle and braced himself on the door.
"Why are you looking for me? You working for a magazine or newspaper or something? Want to show my picture to everyone? Out me as a killer? You can't write a goddamn thing. I'm still protected by the courts. You run a story and I'll sue the shit out of you and your paper."
"That's not true. You should brush up on the law, but it doesn't matter anyway, because I'm not writing anything Jacob. Just curious what happens to a guy like you when he grows up."
Vance leaned back inside the car. "Curiosity can get you killed, you know? I'd think twice about that before poking your nose into shit that doesn't concern you."
"I'll keep that in mind."
Vance pulled his head out of the passenger window and looked up and down the street before ducking back in. "You think I'm just going to sit here and let you spy on me? No way. If I see you again, anywhere, I'll cave your fucking head in." He reached for the bat but I jerked it away from him. "And you and I both know I'm capable of doing it."
Vance drove his foot into my side fender and then stormed across the street to his SUV. He sped past me as I waited for the feeling to return to my shoulder and arm. I used one of Willie's file folders to brush the glass shards from the passenger seat onto the floor.
That's when I noticed my printouts of Vance’s and Turner's age-progression photos were gone.
Twenty Two
OVER THE PAST TWO DAYS I’d suffered a car accident-induced headache and a nearly broken arm and shoulder thanks to a Louisville Slugger knockoff. I wasn't sure if my car or my body paid the greater price, but at this pace neither would survive the week. I decided to head to my hotel to nurse my wounds and see if my DMV search had found any records connected to Turner's image.
When I returned to my room the five worst words in the PI dictionary greeted me: your search found no matches. I’d hoped to get a hit on the DMV search using Turner's age-progression image, but something in the back of my head told me not to be optimistic.
Just because I didn't get a match didn't mean Turner wasn't in the system. My gut told me it was the photo. Just because Vance looked like his computer-generated alter ego didn't mean Turner did. He could look completely different. Maybe he had a beard or a mustache or wore glasses. Maybe Turner didn't have a driver's license and wasn't in the DMV system at all. Or maybe he dropped dead years ago and was kicked out of the system.
My arm throbbed like hell and felt like I had been lying on it for hours. I grabbed a plastic liner from the trashcan and filled it with ice at the icemaker down the hall. I tied off the bag, wrapped it with a towel, placed it on my right bicep and hoped the pain would die down.
A few minutes later my phone buzzed.
"You get the photos?" asked Cricket.
"I had them."
"What do you mean had?"
"Never mind. So far I haven't had any luck with 'em."
"What you try?"
"I already found Vance, but I took your image of Turner and ran it through the DMV. I hoped I'd get a hit on him with just his image."
"Doubt that would work."
"The image you gave me for Vance was dead-on. Figured if Turner's was as accurate something might pop."
"But you didn't get a hit, because you're looking in the wrong place. Too many variables for a DMV search. If his face is the slightest bit different, you won't find shit."
I could sense Cricket's smug expression through the phone. "All right Columbo, where should I look?"
"ATMs."
I didn't know where he was going with the ATM angle, and from my long silence Cricket must have realized that.
"Skimmers have been a big thing lately," he continued. "People sticking skimmers on ATMs to capture your account numbers as you withdraw cash. The banks have been using facial recognition for fraud prevention for a while, but it's been a closed network. If Bank A gets a call about fraudulent activity at one of its ATMs, the security guy can run through footage at a specific ATM. If he sees video evidence of someone placing a skimmer on the unit the bank can run the guy’s facial image through its own ATM image database and see if he's hitting any of their other machines."
"I didn't know that was a thing."
"Most people don't," he said. "It's one of those Big Brother-ish things you wish didn't exist. Until you need to use it."
"I didn't realize you were so tech-savvy."
"Got to stay up on trends, Finn. To keep people like you coming back."
"But if it's a closed network then the bank could only search its own ATMs and I've got no idea where this guy is banking. I don't even know what state he's in."
"That's where the government comes in. Uncle Sam has been working with banks to connect all the systems so they have a single database of images. All in the name of public safety. Imagine how pissed off people would be if the government started spying on people all over the country. Cameras on every street corner, that sort of thing. Now they don't have to. They can use a system that's already in place—ATMs. They're not on every street corner, but they're damn close."
"How accurate is it?"
"It's not like the DMV, if that's what you're asking. People can change their appearance, but this thing looks for the stuff you can't change. The distance between your pupils, how long your nose is or the length of your lips. Real James Bond shi
t."
"But that assumes my guy is using an ATM," I said. "What if he isn't?"
"When was the last time you were at an ATM, Finn?"
"Last week."
"I was at one this morning," said Cricket. "Everyone uses them. If your guy has been to an ATM in the last five years, he's in the database. And if we match his face, we can get his bank accounts, and more importantly, whatever name he's using."
"Why in the hell didn't you mention this earlier? You could have saved me some time."
"I didn't want to meddle in your shit. Plus, I thought you could find him using more conventional ways. But I guess not."
"How do I get into the system?" I said.
"You don't, but I can. It ain't cheap."
"Nothing with you ever is." I didn't have to think about it. "Run the search and let me know what you get. How long will it take?"
"I'll get back to you tomorrow morning."
I hung up the phone and relaxed on the bed with my icepack and a renewed optimism that I might have Turner's identity when the sun came up.
Twenty Three
THE NEXT MORNING I WOKE up at 5:45 to a dog barking in the hotel parking lot. It sounded like a small dog, one someone might shove into a purse. It took a moment to realize I had slept in a puddle of water from my melted icepack. I rolled out of bed, threw on my clothes and looked out the window, half tempted to go after the dog and search for a snooze button. What I saw was my Navigator with a busted passenger window frowning back at me. I didn't know how much longer I would be on the road, but I'd have to patch that up until I got home.
After grabbing breakfast I picked up a blue tarp to go with the roll of duct tape I already had and sealed the gaping window. I was on my way back to my hotel when I saw the blazing red and blue lights of a police cruiser behind me. No siren. I pulled to the side of the road and he stopped several car lengths behind me. I sat with my hands at ten and two watching the police officer in my rearview mirror. He sat in his cruiser longer that I thought he would.
My watch said I'd been idling on the side of the road for seven minutes, more than enough time for him to run my plates, and still no visit. Finally, he stepped from his car, put his right hand on his hip and approached the passenger side of my vehicle. He wore a white cowboy hat that seems large enough to hide an armadillo.
I rolled down the rear passenger window since the tarp covered the passenger front.
"Afternoon," he said from behind me. "Can you step out of the car please?"
"There a problem?"
"Not yet."
I learned a long time ago that it was fruitless to argue with a police officer at a traffic stop. He had already made up his mind that he wanted me out of the car and there wouldn't be anything I could say or do to keep that from happening. I disengaged my seatbelt, opened the driver's door and stepped out. I placed my hands on the roof and bent down so I could see him through the window.
"What seems to be the problem?" I said, trying to figure out what I had done to warrant a personal conversation.
He walked around the front of my Navigator and surveyed the damage. "What the hell happened here?"
"Some woman slammed into me the other day. It's still roadworthy."
"You figure on getting it fixed?"
"At some point. When I get back to," I stopped short of revealing my hometown. "When I get home."
"She really did a number on you. You hit a pothole the right way and your whole front end is liable to fall off."
"I'm hoping that doesn't happen, sir."
"What are you doing in Texas?"
"I'm a private investigator and I'm working a case down here."
"You have a weapon on you?"
"No." It wasn't a lie because my .45 was tucked inside my messenger bag back in my hotel room. I didn't like the fact he hadn't explained why he stopped me. "What's this about officer? My front end?"
He lowered his chin to his chest and peered at me over his sunglasses. I couldn't see his hands, but I assumed one of them rested on his weapon. "I'm going to need you to come with me."
"How's that?"
"Just need to talk to you and I'd rather not do it on the side of the street with traffic tearing by."
I was curious whether he planned on taking me for a drive. I knew the law and could refuse to get out of my car if I wanted to. I had the right to remain inside my vehicle unless he planned on arresting me, but while that was my legal right, I could tell by the no-shit-taking grin in his face that I would be getting out of the vehicle one way or another.
"Do I need to lock up my vehicle?"
"Nope."
As I walked toward his cruiser he circled around behind me but stayed several feet back.
"It's open," he said.
I pulled on the rear door handle, opened the door and climbed into the back seat. He checked his watch, but didn't get into the cruiser. That didn't surprise me because he hadn't frisked me, and no cop in his right mind would sit in front of me without knowing he was unarmed.
A moment later a familiar blue Fusion pulled up behind the cruiser and Deputy Marshal Valerie Cheatham stepped out of the car, patted the officer on the shoulder and opened the door I'd just crawled through minutes earlier.
"Got room for one more?" she said, climbing in and ushering me to the other side of the seat.
"This a welcome-to-Texas thing?" I said.
"We already had that conversation at the coffee shop. This is a why-didn't-you-fucking-listen-to-me thing."
"Right."
"I hoped our chat yesterday might make you reconsider your vacation down here, but then I hear you went to Vance's place of business. That right?"
"That's right."
"What you'd say to him?"
"Nothing really. Just wanted to meet him face-to-face."
"He's not some carnival sideshow freak or a tourist attraction." She shook her head. "How'd you find him?"
"Trade secret."
"You tell anyone about what you found?"
That was the type of question someone gets asked right before they take a bullet in the head. But I was confident Valerie wasn't going to off me in the back of a police cruiser on a Texas highway.
"Not yet," I said.
She nodded. "You must be pretty good at your job. Shame about the license and all."
"Shit happens," I said
"Want it back?"
"What?"
Valerie pulled a white envelope from behind her and handed it to me. I opened it. Inside was an official letter recommending the reinstatement of my PI license in thanks for my dedicated service to the US Marshals. It had a fancy seal and was signed by the US Marshal's Director for the Northern District of Texas.
"What the hell is this?"
"Consider it a buyout. Just turn that letter in to the Ohio Department of Public Safety and you get your PI license back. No questions asked. All you have to do is walk away from all this and forget what you know. Just walk away and you get your old life back."
"Who says I want it back?"
"Come on. My guess is since getting finger fucked by the state and losing your license you've been reduced to taking shit jobs to make ends meet."
"I do pretty well for myself."
"Yeah, but at what expense? Your client list is probably full of stupid fucks who think they're above the law. The kind of people who don't last too long and can drag you down with them. You pick the wrong case or work for the wrong guy and someone puts two in the back of your head and leaves you in an abandoned basement somewhere. It's not a solid long-term strategy. And what would your daughter think about what you do? She's what, eight now? Shouldn't you be a better role model?"
"Looked into me, huh?"
"It's what we do."
I placed the letter back into the white envelope and folded it in half. "I'll have to think about your proposal."
"Think about it long and hard. I can't sit back and let you undermine the WITSEC program. This is your last chance to w
alk away with your dick intact." She tapped the envelope with a perfectly painted fingernail. "This is all I can give you, Finn. The next time we meet, I'll start taking things away."
"The next time? Who says you'll be able to find me again?"
"Jesus Christ. You're driving a piece of shit SUV with a blue tarp for a window. It won't take Scotland Yard to find you."
She rapped her knuckle on the window and the police officer opened the door. She climbed out and I followed.
"And Finn."
"Yeah?"
"Remember when we were in the coffee shop and you mentioned something about a silver SUV?"
"And you said it wasn't yours."
"It's not ours. But I've seen it a few times since our chat. Ran the plate too."
"You going to tell me who it is?"
She shook her head. "Trade secret."
I cracked a smile and started toward my SUV. I was halfway there when she called out to me.
"Remember Finn, this was a friendly meeting. The next one won't be."
I pretended not to hear her over the passing highway traffic and opened my car door. Once inside, I stuck the envelope under my sun visor, fired the engine and pulled into traffic.
I WASN'T A QUARTER MILE away from the still-parked police cruiser when my cell buzzed. It was Cricket.
"You're up early," I said. "I took you for the type of person who slept in."
"No one accomplished anything by sleeping in. I've got good news for you."
"I could use some good news. And a new window. And a fender."
"What?"
"Never mind."
"Listen," he said. "My friend ran the photo through the bank surveillance system and we got a match. His name is Ray Asher and his last ATM transaction was a week and a half ago at a bank in Dallas."
"Well that's convenient as shit," I said.
"How's that?"
"I'm about forty minutes away. It can't be a coincidence that he's in the same area as Vance. How sure are you this is Ray Turner, the kid in the original photo?"
"You got any better leads?"