Skydive

by Susan O’Brien

  A text from Sean, however, interrupted my not-so-professional thoughts. Going into 85 Mill Street. Apartments. Dog just took a dump, and he picked it up. He brought it in, so I assume he lives here or knows someone who does.

  True. Maybe poor Sean could track the smell.

  Elevator. 2nd floor. Steps, Sean texted, obviously in haste. Third door on right after getting off elevator. Your choice what to do.

  We could head to the second floor, or we could watch the building and see if Daddy B left. If he did, we could trail him and/or check out the apartment.

  Keep an eye on things for a few minutes, I texted. See if he’s making a delivery. We’ll stand by.

  Dean leaned against a brick building, pulled me close, and pretended we’d stopped for a quick cuddle. I wrapped my arms around him and rested my head on his chest. In the middle of a not-so-great neighborhood, I was more relaxed than I’d been all day.

  “You know what’s strange?” I murmured, looking up at him.

  “What?”

  “I haven’t seen one prostitute out here, and I paid attention on the drive in. Have you noticed any?”

  “Nope.”

  Not your typical cuddling conversation.

  “If this is Daddy B’s turf, maybe he’s running an online thing. That would make it much harder to track.”

  “Uh-huh. And those online ads are always in the news.”

  “I mapped out the local hotels,” I said. “There are a couple, so we should swing by with Kat’s picture and ask around.”

  “I hate to say it, but we should also stay ’til the bars close. I bet that’s prime time around here.”

  Our phones vibrated, and Dean checked his.

  “Daddy B’s making multiple stops in that building. He’s got to be dealing something. But Sean lost him, so let’s keep an eye on the door until one of them leaves.”

  I turned my head and rested it on Dean’s right bicep, giving me a great view of the apartment’s main entrance, which I hoped Daddy B would use. There had to be several exits.

  After ten minutes of blissful warmth, Daddy B came out the front door, and I spoke without looking up at Dean.

  “There he is. Let’s follow him. Have Sean go back to his car. We might need mobile backup.”

  Dean shifted, and I moved to his side, blocking Daddy B’s view of Dean’s phone and my face. As he passed, his dog sniffed around us, and Daddy B yanked the leash, jerking the dog harshly. I hurt for the dog and for anyone in Daddy B’s life.

  “Asshole,” Dean muttered when there was no risk of being overheard.

  As soon as Daddy B turned a corner, we followed on the other side of the street, and I pretended to window shop as we watched his reflection. He got into the passenger side of a two-door, red sports car, and then he pulled the dog in too.

  Dean furiously texted Sean while I squinted at the license plate, unable to make it out except for “Virginia” and the letters “B” and “H.”

  The car roared away with a driver I couldn’t see, and Sean passed a minute later, hopefully not too late.

  Unfortunately, it was too late in more ways than one. Sean couldn’t catch up with the car, and overnight surveillance was more exhausting than I expected. It was one thing to stay up at home, accompanied by dark chocolate and reality TV. It was another to walk around cold streets and hide in the van, covered in goosebumps on a chilly night.

  Once the bars had closed and we didn’t see much on the streets except taxis, customers leaning on each other, and bar staff heading home, we visited two local hotels and one motel, where I noticed a man knocking on an exterior door. That didn’t mean much, but when we emerged from questioning the front desk attendant, another guy was knocking on the same door, and I sensed something was up.

  “Don’t look now,” I said to Dean under my breath. “But I think something’s going on in that room. He’s the second guy to go in.”

  Dean squeezed my hand and led me to the van, which was further out of sight than his sedan. I hopped into the driver’s seat, and we closed the doors quietly and kept everything off. I reached for a blanket in the backseat and wrapped it around my shoulders, letting the slack fall over my legs. I knew from experience that Dean was always hot, no pun intended. I wouldn’t be surprised if he turned on the AC.

  “How long should we wait?” I asked, knowing the question was awkward and gross. “Like twenty minutes?” I had no idea how long a “trick” could take.

  “I don’t know,” he said. “We’ve pretty much covered everything else we can do at this time of day, and this could be a break. Let’s wait it out.”

  We watched room 107 intently, where a dim light shone through industrial-style curtains, and chipped, blue paint revealed a rusted door. After what felt like an hour but was only fifteen minutes, the man we’d seen left, and, as my camera recorded video, another arrived minutes later, driving a Porsche and wearing a business suit. He tapped twice on the door and then opened it himself. We couldn’t see anyone inside.

  “This is sickening,” I said to Dean. “I almost feel like we should call the police.”

  “Going in and out of a motel room isn’t a crime,” he said. “But we can let the police know what’s going on.”

  “That guy was dressed for work.” I shook my head in disgust.

  “Early morning workout,” Dean deadpanned. He looked at me. “Sorry. Bad joke. Listen, are you okay? We don’t have to stay.”

  He knew my history, which included recovering from my late husband Jason’s affair, during which he and his mistress had died in an accident.

  “I’m fine,” I said. “It’s just beyond sad, and I hope these guys aren’t married.”

  He reached out and touched my hand, but neither of us took our eyes off the motel room door. If anything, my past made me want to stay and make something right.

  Nine

  Whatever was going on in that room seemed to end around five a.m., at least in terms of visitors. Dean and I took turns napping, and I hoped I wouldn’t snore, drool, talk in my sleep, or “foozie” (my kids’ code word for “fart”). That was one thing for which I did not want an eyewitness account.

  My only consolation was that Dean was supposed to have his eyes elsewhere while I slept. Meanwhile, as much as I wanted to gaze at his remarkable slumbering profile, I couldn’t.

  I kind of wished we’d rented a room adjacent to 107, but then again, I didn’t. Surveillance from afar was more tolerable, and it gave us a better view of “customers.”

  When the clock hit six thirty and no one had entered or emerged from the room in hours, it was almost time to go. Dean had to get to work, and although Kenna could see the kids off to school again, I didn’t want to miss the ritual.

  “I have to knock on the door before we go,” I said. “What if Kat’s in there?”

  “You might wake her up, but go for it,” he said. “I’ll keep an eye on you. Call me now, though, and stay connected so I can hear what’s going on.”

  I dialed his number and watched his phone ring, pretending not to notice the cheerful ringtone and cute photo of us that popped up. Happy butterflies swarmed my stomach. Dean was sweet, but this was a sentimental side I hadn’t seen, one he probably wanted to keep secret, since he answered my call in record time.

  “Got it?” I asked, knowing he did.

  “Got it.” He nodded and put me on speaker.

  “Just remember not to make any noise.”

  I locked my screen so I wouldn’t accidentally put him on speaker.

  He wished me luck, and I got out of the car, legs stiff from sitting cold and cramped. I felt like I’d taken a road trip to nowhere, and I hoped I was wrong.

  My light knock went unanswered.

  I considered calling out, “Housekeeping!” but changed my mind. “Room service” wasn’t an option either. Definitel
y no restaurant at this motel.

  “Delivery,” I said instead, knocking more loudly. Pretexts were inherently dishonest, but I did want to deliver something: a message.

  I heard unidentifiable movement (hopefully not a gun cocking) and instinctively moved to the side of the door.

  “I didn’t order anything,” came a weary female voice from the room.

  “Free breakfast,” I said, half-truthful. I’d happily buy her a meal.

  The door opened a couple inches, and I could see the silhouette of a thin blond in sweats, a cropped shirt, and bare feet. A TV flickered in the background, and although I couldn’t see well, I was pretty sure this wasn’t Kat. She looked older, and her hair was heavily highlighted, but not platinum.

  “Hi,” I said kindly. “I’m sorry to bother you.”

  “What do you want? Is there free breakfast today or something?”

  “Yes. Actually, I’m doing a quick interview with motel guests, and my assistant is delivering orders from McDonald’s or Dunkin’ Donuts.” I hoped Dean was listening—and didn’t mind being called my assistant. “I only need a few minutes of your time. Can I come in?”

  “I guess,” she said, opening the door enough for me to walk in. To my relief, the room seemed otherwise empty.

  I rambled off breakfast options and pulled out my phone as if I was just calling Dean.

  The woman rubbed her eyes and said, “I’ll take a black coffee and a ham and egg sandwich.” She paused while I repeated the order to Dean. Then she squinted at me. “Are you with a church or something?”

  That would have been a convincing pretext, although I wasn’t sure how God would feel about it, not to mention my favorite aunt, who was a priest in Florida.

  “No. I’m looking for someone who might have stayed here, and I have some questions about the motel.”

  “Are you with the police or something?” She crossed her arms over her chest. “Or are you someone’s wife?”

  “No, no,” I said. “Nothing like that. I’m looking for a young woman who might stay here sometimes. Her name is Kat. I’m Nicki, by the way.”

  “I’m Farrah.” She sat on the bed and sighed. “I don’t know Kat. Do I still get breakfast?”

  “Of course.” Especially if it will keep you talking. I glanced around the room, prepared to see almost anything, including drugs. But everything was neat except an empty soda bottle resting on a nightstand. The brand was known for its high caffeine content, and I could have used some too. “Have you heard of anyone named Kat who might work in this area?”

  “Work? Like doing what?”

  “The same thing you do,” I said.

  “You know what I do?”

  “I think so,” I said, ninety-nine percent confident.

  “Okay, then. What does Kat look like? And why do you want to know?”

  “Some people are concerned about her, and they want to make sure she’s okay.”

  “Well, lucky her.” Ouch. Now I wished I was with a church outreach group.

  I described Kat and showed Farrah a picture, which made her squint again.

  “I don’t have my glasses,” she said. I hoped she had glasses somewhere, along with other life necessities. “I might’ve seen her,” she said. “But why should I tell you?”

  I racked my brain and couldn’t come up with anything other than a heartfelt plea. I didn’t want unnecessary word getting around that an investigator was looking for Kat, especially in Farrah’s world. I was afraid it would make pimps nervous, and that could lead to things I didn’t want to think about.

  “I promise I’m not a cop, and I want to help.”

  “If you know what I do, then you know time is money,” she said, tapping a long, red nail on her knee. I abandoned emotional pleas and pulled a twenty from my pocket.

  “That’s, like, twenty percent of what I make.”

  I did some quick math and understood why Kat was tempted into this life. “How much do you keep?” I couldn’t help asking.

  “Don’t ask,” she said quietly.

  I took a deep breath. “I appreciate anything you can tell me about Kat.”

  I handed her the twenty, and she accepted.

  “I don’t know much, but she works around here. She’s hot because she’s young and innocent. I’m sure she makes more than I do. We don’t run in the same circles.”

  “Do you know if she’s into drugs or anything else?”

  “No. I’ve only seen her around with Daddy B.”

  “So Daddy B is her…pimp?” I wasn’t sure if that was the right term to use.

  She laughed. “You didn’t hear that from me. He’s not someone you want to mess with.”

  “Why?”

  “He’s got a temper, and that’s saying something in this business.”

  “Where do you think I could find Kat without upsetting him?”

  “Honestly, I’d look online.” She named a website I’d never heard of, and I drilled it into my memory. “Look for her picture there and set up a date. But make sure you pay her, ’cuz Daddy B’s gonna ask where the cash is.”

  I noticed her red nails again and had an idea.

  “Where do most people get their nails and hair done around here? And their tans too?”

  “Nailed It,” she said. “And I hear some girls get their hair done at Bob’s. It’s next to XXXTC. You know where that is?”

  “I do.” I recalled seeing what I’d thought was a barbershop next door, and Bobby had definitely bragged about keeping his girls “primped.” Gag.

  I sat down across from her. There was one more question I couldn’t leave without asking.

  “Farrah, is there any way I can help you?”

  Farrah took breakfast (which I retrieved from Dean in my van) and my card, but she declined anything else. I told her I knew of a shelter where she could find safety and resources, and I’d help her get there, but she gave me little reason to hope, other than the fact that by helping me, she’d tried to help Kat. I hoped eventually she’d help herself too.

  After dropping Dean off at his car and touching base with Kenna, I let her see the kids off to school. Seeing me would disrupt and delay their morning, and truthfully, one more morning apart would be harder on me than on them. They loved Kenna, Andy, and Sky, and we exchanged “I love yous” by phone. Kenna’s biggest disappointment was that she couldn’t hit the nail and hair salons with me.

  “Andy’s asleep,” she said. “I’ll text you when he’s up. Are you actually considering getting your nails done?”

  I glanced at my nails—or lack of them. I was a nail biter, literally and figuratively. I never got manicures, mostly because it would be like calling a landscaper for an asphalt lot. There wasn’t anything to work with.

  “I hadn’t thought about it.”

  “It might be a good way to get people talking. And you’ll have lots of time to listen in. Maybe someone from XXXTC will be there.”

  “I don’t even know what to ask for. Are there tons of different manicures?” I couldn’t consider a pedicure. My toes/talons might scare everyone off and ruin the whole thing.

  “I think you should get acrylics. It’ll take a while—”

  “Like how long?”

  “An hour. Not including drying time.”

  “What?” It was a good thing I wasn’t into nails. I didn’t have time for them, and probably not the money either.

  “Just listen. Tell them you want acrylics and gel polish. Hopefully you’ll walk out with gorgeous hands and some good information.”

  The details were starting to feel a little overwhelming. What color should I get? How much would it cost? And how much should I tip?

  Kenna talked me down and recommended a short French manicure and tipping twenty percent or more, depending on how much intel I gained—and how I liked th
e nails.

  One more opportunity to step out of my comfort zone.

  “I can’t wait to see them. Text me a photo.”

  “Won’t that be hard with drying nails?”

  “Good point. Do what you can. While you’re there, what can I be doing?”

  “You can drive by Shawna’s and see what she’s up to. See if Andy will let you take his truck. Stick one of my car magnets on it, okay? They’re in my garage.”

  I’d ordered a few magnetized signs with fake company names and logos. They made surveillance so much easier.

  “Oooh, an assignment all by myself. Exciting.”

  And scary.

  The array of nail polish colors was staggering, and I was glad Kenna had suggested a simple French manicure, although even that came with options. I kept it simple and focused on the staff and customers around me. The whirring sounds, blue masks, and flying white dust were a turnoff, and I felt like I was at the dentist. I took a deep breath and tried to relax anyway.

  “How long have you worked here?” I asked the technician, who had an unfamiliar, strong accent.

  “Three months,” she said. “Is this your first time here?”

  “Yes,” I said. “It’s my first manicure too.”

  “First manicure? I can tell. Relax your hands.”

  I obeyed and asked generic questions about the salon, its customers, and the neighborhood. It was mostly idle chitchat, but I was intrigued by the variety of clients coming and going. There were women of various ethnicities who looked quite wealthy, others who didn’t, and a few men scattered here and there. No XXXTC employees I recognized. While eavesdropping on two young women getting pedicures, I perused the menu of spa treatments and tried not to let surprising options like “eyelash extensions” distract me.

  “How big was his entourage?” one of them asked.