Alan knelt down, unzipped the duffle bag and groped around in the darkness until he felt what he was looking for. He took the device out, switched it on and saw the dim red glow of an LED blink, turn green, then turn itself off. The unit was activated and ready for use.
He crept along the fence several feet and made a diagonal line toward the right rear side of the Lincoln. Staying low and out of sight from the north side of the house, he stuck his hand in under the wheel well and felt around for a good spot to place the homing device. He chose an area that was relatively flat and wouldn’t be noticeable unless the car was put on a lift. He attached the device, feeling the strong magnetic pull hold it firmly in place.
He returned to the fence line and fished inside the duffle bag for another piece of equipment. Taking out the portable GPS tracking device, he slid open the cover, turned it on and a moment later saw the blinking blue light indicating that the device was in service. He pressed a couple of buttons and a map of the area appeared on the screen. After a few adjustments he saw the blinking red light of the device that was attached to Brock Matthews’ car show up at its corresponding location on the map. Awesome.
He placed the monitor back in the bag and began backtracking his way to the other side of the yard. He reached the area he’d been when the dog had been let out and couldn’t believe it when he heard the door open yet again. He saw a teenage girl in a bathing suit come out and head across the deck toward the swimming pool. She stepped onto the patio and walked around the pool to the springboard. Draping her towel over a nearby chair, she hopped up onto the board, paused a moment like an Olympic diver then ran and executed a perfect dive into the water.
Alan watched her for a few moments as she swam laps around the pool. This would be Katie, Brock Matthews’ fourteen-year-old daughter. He felt a wave of sadness as he wondered how she would react if she ever found out that her father was molesting other people’s children on a regular basis. Children even younger than herself, being manhandled and manipulated by her very own father.
How could she react, beyond shock and revulsion?
Had Matthews ever molested her as well? That was a fair enough question. And how about her brother, Zack? Alan recalled reading that the reason some parents molest children was to avoid molesting their own.
Alan felt his anger build as he watched Brock Matthews’ daughter swimming laps, seemingly happy with life. How could her father be so selfish and self-serving to forsake his family for such a sick, demented lifestyle?
They didn’t deserve this. Not his kids, nor his wife nor the victims.
Alan resumed his trek. When he arrived back at the elm tree with the overhanging limb, he removed a coil of nylon rope from the duffle bag and unwound it. After attaching a small weight to one end he took aim and tossed the rope over the limb. Giving the rope some slack until he was able to hold onto the weighted end, he untied the weight, joined the two ends of rope together and tied several thick knots as far up the length of rope as he could reach.
He put on the special gloves he’d brought that were designed to provide excellent grip. Then he placed his right foot into the loop of rope he had created and began climbing the rope, using the knots as handholds. He wasn’t sure if it was adrenalin or sheer anger that was fueling his ascent but he made it all the way up to the limb effortlessly and in short time. He gathered up the rope and shimmied along the limb until he reached the trunk of the elm and climbed the rest of the way down.
The homing device was planted. As he headed back to the Pilot, he felt a little bit closer to putting Brock Matthews and the rest of this fucked-up outfit out of commission.
He realized that his knees, hips and ass were killing him during the drive back home. The first thing he would do was chase down a few Advils with an ice-cold beer and chill out for a while. The next day was going to be a long one so he planned on turning in early.
He pulled onto his street and thought he was hallucinating when he saw Amanda’s uncle’s Jeep parked in his driveway. The moment he pulled in behind it Amanda got out and walked over to him. She was a sight for sore eyes, her beauty matching her obvious excitement.
CHAPTER 27
Alan got out and gave her a hug. “This is sure a welcome surprise! Is everything alright?”
She kissed him on the cheek. “Everything’s fine. I was in the neighborhood and decided to drop by. Hope you don’t mind.”
“No problem. But I’m not buying your story—why aren’t you still in Milldale?”
“I’m driving to Cleveland and Columbus just so happens to be on the way there. I’ll tell you all about it after you fix me a drink.”
“You got it.”
Alan hastily grabbed the duffle bag before heading toward his house.
“So where have you been?” Amanda asked.
“Planting things,” he replied.
“Isn’t it a little late for a garden?”
“Not necessarily.”
The moment they entered, Pan was there to greet them.
“Hi ya, girl!” Amanda cried. “Haven’t seen you in forever!”
“No wonder, you’re hardly ever here,” Alan said dryly.
“Well I’m here now. Hope you don’t mind putting me up for the night.”
“You kidding? My pleasure.”
They entered the kitchen and Alan made a beeline for the fridge. “What would you like?”
“Actually, a beer would be perfect if you have one to spare.”
“Does a bear shit in the woods?” he quipped as he took out a pair of Yuenglings.
He removed the caps and handed a bottle to Amanda.
“Cheers.”
After a long slug, Alan took a bottle of Advil from the cupboard, poured a few in his hand and downed them.
“Must be one hell of a headache,” Amanda said.
“Joints. Just hang-dropped from a tree.”
“You kidding?”
“Nope. I’ll tell you all about it. But first you have to tell me what you’re up to.”
“Let’s sit down—this could take a while.”
They sat down at the kitchen table and Amanda told Alan what Charlie Ling had found for her and about her subsequent research of the Davidson and Associates employees.
“When I found out that they had a database worker named Clark Royer and that there had once been a Clark Royer pulled over for impersonating a police officer, I got really excited. Then I confirmed that both Clark Royers were one and the same after doing some more digging. Can you believe it? I think I may have found our guy!”
“It sounds promising. And that’s why you’re going to Cleveland, I assume?”
“Yup. I’ve got Royer’s address so I’m going to go see what I can find out. And I really need your help.”
“Shoot.”
“Say I find this guy and manage to somehow confirm that he’s our perp. What do I do then?”
“Depends on how much evidence you have. You have to make damn sure he’s a good suspect before you can even consider involving the law. Just because you see something that makes you think, ‘he’s our guy,’ it’s probably not going to be enough to get any kind of rise out of the police. Your proof has to be rock solid. Then, and only then, do you get the local law involved. And that won’t be a cakewalk, either. You’ll be in an unfamiliar city without any connections with law enforcement so they’ll be hesitant to give you any support. Plus, you’re not even a licensed investigator. And even if you were, you’re gonna find yourself faced with every PI’s dilemma—you’ve solved a crime but are virtually powerless to do anything about it. It’s like being all dressed up with nowhere to go.
“But before I sound like I’m trying to discourage you, I’ll tell you what you need to do. Call me. Tell me what you have and all you can about the situation. Do not do anything risky or involve the authorities until you’ve called me first, okay?”
“Oh, don’t worry, I won’t. I just hope this isn’t a bum steer. Uncle Ken thinks there�
�s a good chance they’ll arrest Nick soon—maybe as soon as Monday. The latest word is that the prosecutor is ready to take some action.”
“That sucks. Any chance that word has gotten out about Nick’s jaunt to Richmond? Because if the prosecutor found that out, it could make him feel confident enough to order Nick’s arrest.”
“That’s what Uncle Ken thinks may have happened, and that the authorities think Nick secretly drove to Richmond to take care of something that could be incriminating. Then he slipped back into town before anybody found out he ever left. If necessary, I could of course testify what really happened, but Uncle Ken doesn’t want things to go that far. He’s starting to get really nervous about this. He’s trying hard not to show it but I know better. That’s exactly why I don’t want to waste another day.”
“Have you heard any more about the sheriff’s son?”
“Nothing. Uncle Ken wonders if Sheriff Foley is second-guessing Mark’s guilt if they have indeed found out about Nick leaving town.”
“Damn, what a mess! I wish I could go to Cleveland with you but my hands are tied. I have my own rather pressing situation brewing here.”
Alan proceeded to tell Amanda about his case, from the beginning to the present. When he was finished, she was shell-shocked.
“I can’t believe it! And these people are doing this sort of shit here in Columbus as we speak?”
“Yup. So now you see why I felt morally obliged to pick up this case. It’s fairly common knowledge that human trafficking is growing steadily in this country and that it involves victims of all ages and nationalities. But when you find out that there are children as young as toddlers involved, and that it’s happening right here in your own backyard, it’s more than a little disturbing. And I can’t begin to describe how sick the bastards renting these kids are—how they chat online to each other about their experiences and how goddamn exciting it is to manipulate and abuse these children! You’d think they were talking about first dates in high school! They have no hearts—no compassion whatsoever for these kids or what it’s doing to them. They are evil, absolutely evil.”
“My god—I can’t imagine. So this Mansky guy is basically the pimp? And he’s working for somebody else?”
“That’s what it looks like. Columbus is apparently just the tip of the iceberg. The rest of the operation has its roots in Miami. That’s where they keep the abducted children before they’re distributed elsewhere. Fleming thinks that the majority of them are sold or rented out in the South but a select few are transported to Columbus. It looks as though Mansky and his boss are looking for a certain type of victim for a select group of clients. From what we’ve seen, that type appears to be young girls and possibly boys in the age range of around six to eleven or so.”
“So what you’re saying is that this select group of johns, clients, or whatever you’d call them, have the financial means to indulge their particular tastes.”
“Oh yeah. We don’t know exactly how much these men are paying or what the fee includes time-wise, but there is no doubt that it’s at least in the four-figure range. Fleming says he’s known of rich clients like these assholes spending as much as a couple thousand dollars for a single night with a child. The fee is based on things like age, size, experience or lack thereof, body type—if you can believe it—shit like that. Isn’t that unreal?”
“I’ll say. I wonder where these kids are being kept?”
“That’s what I hope to find out—along with where the clients are taking them while they’re on the clock.”
“I hope you can do it. This is really sick.”
“For sure. Another beer?”
Amanda drained the remainder and handed him the bottle. “You read my mind.”
They spent the next hour or so talking about nothing in particular. Alan had just returned from another trip to the fridge when Amanda suddenly took hold of his hand.
“Fancy drinking these somewhere more comfortable?”
“Like?”
“Up there?” she gestured, smiling coyly.
“I would definitely fancy that.”
Still holding onto her hand, Alan stood up and led the way upstairs to the bedroom. Along the way his head was filled with a plethora of emotions, all of them positive. And for the first time in over a week, solving cases was the last thing on his mind.
CHAPTER 28
Before sunrise the next morning, Amanda was heading north on I-71. As she sipped steaming hot coffee from the travel mug Alan had loaned her, her focus was divided between the night before and the day that lay ahead.
She and Alan had made love last night. It wasn’t their first time and it wouldn’t be their last. But this time had been different. Before last night, she had always caught herself thinking of Julie, Alan’s deceased wife and her former friend, and felt guilty. She suspected that Alan felt the same way.
When he had shown up that fateful day at Amanda’s workplace last year, Alan had still been struggling with the pain and despair of losing the woman he had loved so much. He and Julie had been happily married for years before Julie was suddenly diagnosed with brain cancer and passed away.
Like the proverbial fly in the ointment, Amanda had resurfaced in Alan’s life that day to complicate matters and as time went by had forced him into a compromised position. Should he spend the rest of his life pining for his beloved deceased wife or move forward? The answer hung in the air like a dark cloud whenever they made love, neither of them wishing to forsake Julie’s memory.
Last night, she felt as though that cloud had finally disappeared, freeing them of the underlying guilt and self doubt that had prevailed before. For the first time ever, Alan had told her he loved her, and she had replied that she loved him. At last they could focus on the future together as a couple.
She smiled to herself. What crazy timing! There they were, both immersed in their respective cases, both stressed out to the max, and what happens? They confess their love for each other!
Who’da thunk?
So now they were both business partners and partners in love. Could the two coexist, she wondered? Only time would tell.
As she noticed the first rays of sunlight emerge over the eastern horizon, Amanda fumbled with the Jeep’s radio until she found her favorite rock station. She was feeling more than a little apprehensive about what she was going to do once she arrived in Anston. Locating Clark Royer’s home was going to be a challenge since she’d had no luck finding it on Google Maps. His mailing address was a rural route—RR2, Box 43—which meant absolutely nothing to her and had been of no use in her search.
So, if and when she did find where he lived, what was she going to do? It was Sunday, for one thing. Would he be at home on the weekend? And if he so, what did she expect to accomplish? To somehow force Royer into giving her a full confession? Right.
She would just have to cross that bridge when she got there.
Glancing at the clock, she wondered what Alan was doing this very moment. He had told her he was going to drive out to the pedophile’s home and monitor his actions throughout the day. He mentioned that since he didn’t know exactly when the man was going to hook up with his “child victim for the day,” as he’d put it, he’d have to get an early start. He intended to head out after showering and taking Pan for a short walk.
Amanda knew one thing about Alan Swansea: he was very good at what he did. If anybody could nail this trafficking operation, it was Alan. He not only had experience in human sex trafficking as a result of another case, he was one of the most stubborn, determined people she had ever known. His laid back appearance was just a facade covering what went on inside. The man had a genuine passion for others and would do anything in his power to get the job done.
She also shared Alan’s stubbornness and determination. But when it came to experience in this line of work, she had zilch. She could tell that Alan was nervous about what she was doing and she sensed it was going against his better judgment to let her go through wi
th it. She felt grateful to him for giving her this opportunity and she wanted nothing more than to prove that she could do this. Prove it to Alan, prove it to Nick.
If only she had more faith in herself.
She pulled into a convenience store north of Mansfield to refill her coffee and use the bathroom. When she got back on the road, she tried to relax and let the music soothe her, but it did little good. By the time she neared the outskirts of Cleveland she was pretty much a bundle of nerves.
She pulled off onto an exit ramp and within fifteen minutes saw a sign that told her she had just entered the village of Anston, Ohio. She already knew from her research that it was a one-horse town, consisting of one minuscule main road with a couple of gas stations, a diner, a MacDonald’s and few small businesses. Literally a town that you could miss in the blink of an eye.
She pulled into the BP, parked and entered the convenience store. She waited until a customer paid for his gas before approaching the clerk.
“Excuse me, but do you by any chance know a Clark Royer?”
The employee, a young man in his twenties, replied, “No, afraid not.”
“Okay, thanks.”
She got back into the Jeep and decided to try the diner. The place was small with a half dozen tables and a booth. The only customer was an older gentleman reading a newspaper. She decided to try the waitress first.
“Good morning. I’m trying to find out where Clark Royer lives. Do you know him by any chance?”
The woman was in her forties, plump and friendly looking. “I sure don’t—sorry. Hey Ralph, you know a Clark Royer?”
The man looked over and cocked his head. “What’s that?”
“Do you know a Clark Royer? This young lady is trying to find him.”
The old man stood up and came over to the counter.
“Royer, you say?”
Double Trouble Page 24