“Where’s my phone?”
“In my pocket.”
“Which one.”
“Back.”
She went around and removed her phone from his pocket.
“You might as well just relax until the recruits get here,” she said before making her first call.
CHAPTER 29
Night was beginning to fall and there was a full moon rising on the eastern horizon. Alan pulled into the first parking space he could find, took another look at the glowing icon on the tracking screen and turned off the engine.
For the third time today, Brock Matthews had made another pit stop at his home in New Albany. If he didn’t know better, Alan would assume Matthews was in for the night. But he knew Mr. Matthews had a date with a child a bit later on that he wasn’t about to miss. He’d made his payment earlier—or at least Alan suspected that’s what Matthews had been doing when he’d stopped by the dry cleaners earlier—and he sure as hell hadn’t paid all that money for nothing.
Alan had promptly texted Fleming the name and address of the dry cleaners, hopeful that his client might be able to tie the place to the trafficking operation. He hadn’t heard back yet.
Moments after the dry cleaners incident, Alan had gotten a call from Amanda. He had been stunned when she announced that she had Clark Royer tied up to a chair with duct tape in his kitchen and was wondering what she should do next. He’d wanted to laugh out loud at her blunt delivery, but was too shell-shocked to follow through with it.
Amanda had actually caught the bad guy!
While continuing to tail Matthews, Alan had listened to Amanda’s account of what had happened from the moment she drove into Anston all the way up to her catching Royer off guard and nearly poking his eyes out. Alan had immediately flashed back to the Chloe McPherson case when Amanda had escaped another life-or-death situation by unarming the bad guy and kicking him in the nuts. His new partner definitely possessed impressive self-preservation tactics.
She had gone on to express her relief that Royer had not deleted the images she’d taken of the sheriff’s cruiser with her iPhone. She explained to Alan how crushed she’d been when Royer had told her he’d re-painted the car and thereby destroyed the evidence—she’d thought that surely he would have taken the time to look through and delete any incriminating photos she might have taken earlier while he’d had her phone.
“Must have had a brain fart, eh, buddy?” Alan heard her say over the phone to her captive.
“You’re sure Royer can’t get out of that chair, right?” he’d said. “Because taunting him like that might really piss him off.”
“Oh, he’s not going anywhere—trust me. So what should I do now, Alan?” she’d inquired.
“First, call 911. Tell the operator you’re a private investigator detaining a suspected felon who’s very dangerous and to send backup immediately. While you’re waiting for somebody to show up, call the Cleveland PD and ask to speak to a Detective Oberlin. I worked with him on the McPherson case. If you reach him, tell him that you’re my partner and that I would appreciate his seeing what he can do about getting Royer in custody. Give him your uncle’s phone number for verification. If you can’t reach Oberlin and have to leave a message, tell the dispatcher to ask him to call your cell ASAP.
“Also, call your uncle if you haven’t already and let him know what’s happening. Maybe he can speak with the local law enforcement once they get there. Got it?”
“Got it. I haven’t called Uncle Ken yet since you told me to call you first.”
“And I appreciate that. I wish I could drive up there but you know that’s impossible. You need to call 911 right away, Amanda. I’ll call you back the first chance I get. Great work, by the way!”
“Okay. Thanks. I—”
“Yes?”
“I love you.”
“I love you, too. Make that call now—gotta go.”
Alan smiled. If only she knew how much he loved her! And how much he wanted to be with her right now.
But he had his own case to work and he was feeling added pressure he’d not felt before. Silly as it was, he was envious of his new partner. Amanda had taken the bull by the horns from the moment he’d left her alone in Milldale, and in less than twenty-four hours she had solved the case.
And what had he done so far? Besides nearly blowing his case from the get-go by allowing Doug Salyers to get tailed by Mansky, he had done little more than follow Brock Matthews all over town while the man ran his errands. That was pretty much the sum total of his efforts.
He hoped that would change in a very short time.
At least he hadn’t been spotted by anybody, which had been one of his major concerns. He had relied on the tracking device generously and only made visual contact with Matthews after he was certain that Mansky’s men weren’t also following behind. He would have to be even more cautious from this point on, for if Mansky had any intention of keeping an eye on Matthews it would be now since Matthews’ next destination would most likely be the site for his much anticipated tryst with a minor.
The mere thought of this offense still made Alan’s blood boil. He was trying as hard as he could to keep his cool and remain rational but it wasn’t easy. Deep down inside he wanted to nail this demented asshole and vent his own pent-up rage by smashing his face in. But he knew that wouldn’t be possible. The best he could hope for was to get him busted and pray that the whole operation would go down in flames along with him.
Suddenly the glowing icon of Matthews’ Town Car was moving. Game on.
Alan stared at the screen as the blinking blue dot left Matthews’ driveway heading south. Alan didn’t dare try to follow him now; he would have to keep him on the screen until the time was right.
He fired up the Pilot, pulled out onto the street and deliberately headed in the opposite direction Matthews was travelling. He took his time driving several blocks before taking a right and then eventually heading south. In the meantime, the Lincoln was continuing south heading toward Route 161.
Assuming that Matthews would be driving west to Columbus, Alan planned on getting on the same highway but from a more eastern access point. He kept his present course but increased his speed a bit after seeing that Matthews had pulled onto the freeway.
It took Alan another couple of minutes to enter Route 161 and head toward the city. His guess was that Matthews was at least three or four miles ahead of him and evidently travelling at a pretty good clip. There was little chance Alan could lose him unless he let himself get so far out of range that the tracking device failed to transmit a readable signal.
Alan maintained his distance for the fifteen-minute drive into Columbus and kept his eye on the screen. Matthews drove past Cleveland Avenue and continued west until he reached the I-71 interchange and pulled onto it. He headed south on the interstate.
Alan knew that Mansky’s men could join the party at any time if they hadn’t already, so he was content to keep a decent distance between them until he felt safe enough to make visual contact. Matthews was now passing by the Weber Road exit and proceeding through Clintonville, Alan’s digs. He continued along the interstate past the campus area, the Short North and into downtown. Alan was wondering how much further he would go when the blue dot all of a sudden left I-71 and followed the Broad Street exit. Moments later he pulled onto Third Street heading south.
A little later the dot ceased moving on Wilhelm Street in German Village. Not expecting such an abrupt stop, Alan gunned the engine and pulled onto Broad Street. If he didn’t get moving, he wouldn’t arrive in time to see where Matthews was going.
Cursing himself for not tailing Matthews more aggressively, Alan decided to risk taking a shortcut to Wilhelm Street through one of the alleys. When he was within ten feet of the Wilhelm intersection he slammed on his brakes and came to a complete stop. He jumped out and ran around the corner toward the area where he thought Matthew’s Lincoln would be parked.
He froze in his tracks. The Lincoln was nowhere
in sight.
Fuck it, had he lost him?
Surely the Lincoln couldn’t be far from where he now stood—unless there had been some kind of technical glitch in the GPS. Alan cautiously jogged up the street, well aware that one of Mansky’s men could be parked nearby watching him this very moment. He was torn between a soft jog and an out-and-out sprint, realizing that if he didn’t see something in the next few seconds, he was shit-out-of-luck.
Suddenly he saw a car pull away from one of the houses up ahead. It could be one of Mansky’s men but it was too soon to tell. He stopped dead in his tracks to make sure he wasn’t spotted by the fleeing car and waited until it was out of sight before continuing.
When he reached the house the car had pulled away from, he spotted Matthews’ Lincoln. He had pulled all the way to the end of the driveway of a brick townhouse. So Mansky had indeed put a tail on Matthews after all. Alan walked past the house and continued circling the block until he arrived back at the Pilot.
It had been too dark to see the street number on the house. He would get that first thing when he went back and text it to Fleming immediately. Right now he needed to find a way to approach the house without being noticed by anybody, including the neighbors.
He hopped into the Pilot, turned on the engine and threw it into reverse. He backed all the way up the alley to the next street over and quickly found a place to park. The last thing he needed was to get towed for parking illegally.
He checked the tracking screen to confirm Matthews’ location, spotted the dot and breathed a sigh of relief. Matthews had apparently arrived at his final destination.
All systems go.
German Village is one of Columbus’s older, more eclectic neighborhoods and the neighbors are known to look out for one another. Whatever he did from this point on would have to be done cautiously.
His greatest concern was the possible return of Mansky’s goons. It was also possible that another one them were still parked in the area, keeping an eye out. He glanced at his watch and saw that it was almost ten p.m.. Alan could think of three possible scenarios that were now playing out: Matthews had a key to the townhouse and had already let himself in, he had no key but somebody was already there and had let him inside, or he was waiting for somebody to show up to let him in.
Another consideration was where the girl was right now. Had she already been transported to the townhouse and was inside, or would somebody be bringing her by? Whatever the case, he had to figure out how to get within sight of the rear of the place without being seen. And he had to do it pronto.
He got out and walked briskly down the alley until he reached the street. This time he crossed Wilhelm and walked along the other side toward the townhouse at a casual gait. There had been no traffic on the street so far and he hadn’t noticed any occupied cars. When he was a couple of houses from the town house, he crossed over and cut through the side yard of the next-door neighbor. If there was any sort of security system or a dog, he was toast. He made it to the backyard where he spotted a six-foot high privacy fence dividing the two residences.
He had started to sweat and his heart was hammering away in his chest as he traversed the backyard to the driveway and walked back up to the street. He glanced at the other neighbor’s house and saw that it too had an inaccessible fence running along the property line. He knew then that he was just going to have to go for broke.
He walked directly down the townhouse driveway like he owned the place, hoping like hell that Matthews couldn’t see him if he was indeed inside the car. He spotted three ceramic tiled numbers marked six-seven-three on the porch wall and made a mental note of it.
The driveway was fairly wide so he was able to stay off to the side in case Matthews was looking at his rear view mirror. A moment later he was relieved to find that the Lincoln was uninhabited. So far, so good.
Glancing to his right he saw lights in both of the first floor windows, suggesting that the proceedings may have already begun. That seemed unlikely for some reason. We’re talking about a very young child being rented out for an hour or so here. Would her pimp really take the risk of letting a client have complete run of the show? Or was there somebody inside besides Matthews and the girl, keeping an eye on things?
He planned on finding out. But first things first.
Alan skirted the Lincoln and immediately cut into the modest backyard of the place. There was no garage, and in the dim light he saw a small patio and what looked like the remnants of a small vegetable garden. He crossed over to the other side of the house and slipped around the corner.
He pulled out his burner and texted Fleming the address. He added that he had the place under surveillance and that all he knew for certain was that Matthews was inside the house. He hit the send button and stuck the phone back in his pocket.
There were a few windows on this side of the house and one was at eye level. Alan tried to peer through the closed mini blind but couldn’t see a thing. He gently pressed his ear against the window and strained to listen. He heard nothing.
Suddenly he saw headlights pierce the darkness behind the house. Somebody was pulling into the driveway. Alan pulled out his modified Nikon Coolpix, inched toward the corner of the house and listened. A moment later he heard a car door open while the car remained idling. He heard voices as a door shut. The sound of footsteps echoed dully off the neighboring house.
Footsteps thudded on the wood planks of the back porch, followed by the squeaking sound of the back door opening. Holding his breath, Alan peered cautiously around the corner of the house.
A tall man was just entering the house, accompanied by a young girl who looked to be around seven or eight years old. She was holding onto the man’s hand—reluctantly. Alan aimed the camera and took three quick shots. In that brief moment, he could feel the child’s terror all the way over to where he was standing. It was palpable—he could cut it with a knife.
Jesus Christ.
His pulse raced, his fists clenched and for a moment he thought he might actually throw up. There was something so unfathomable, so unholy about what he had just seen and what he couldn’t imagine would soon happen that it had thrown him off guard. He felt absolutely powerless right now, wanting nothing more than to run in there, grab the little girl and whisk her as far away from this place as he possibly could. Wanting it so bad it hurt.
But he couldn’t do it. It would be heroic and morally correct, but also foolhardy.
The law simply wouldn’t allow it. Even if he were to storm in and try to catch Matthews in the actual act of committing child rape it would be utterly fruitless in the eyes of the law. There was a thing called probable cause that meant that without sufficient suspicion of a crime being committed, one cannot trespass onto private property without probable cause or an arrest warrant. Not the cops, and certainly not a private investigator. Attempting to do so would put the entire case into jeopardy.
Alan had no choice but to let it all play out.
The plan was to confront Matthews afterwards as he came outside, snap a couple of shots and ask him what he’d been up to in there. Mr. Matthews would of course play dumb, say that it’s none of his business, and Alan would in turn tell him he knew of his lust for young children and how his chat room chum/pimp Bobbi, aka Isaac Mansky, had been supplying him with young girls, just as he had tonight. Then he would warn Matthews that if he didn’t want to tarnish his sparkling reputation with allegations of child rape and face a lot of time in prison he had better consider cooperating with the authorities to help bring down Mansky and his trafficking ring.
The man might promise to comply at that point. And maybe not.
After confronting Matthews, Alan’s next task was to stand by until somebody came back to pick up the girl. He would then tail her captors and attempt to find out where they were keeping the victims. The odds of success in this endeavor were slim to none with a pro like Mansky calling all the shots.
None of this seemed like it would be enough to
make a case and it concerned Alan. He and Fleming may very well have gone through this entire investigation for naught if everything didn’t fall into place. And even then it was a crapshoot. This was just one of the many reasons why human sex trafficking cases were so hard to prosecute. There weren’t enough laws in place to empower the police, the victims were almost always too fearful to give up their pimps, and then there were people like Brock Matthews who cared about nothing but satisfying their own perverted desires, no matter what the price. Nor the damage it could do to a young person’s life—
He heard a noise—somebody had just opened the backdoor. He peered around the corner to see the tall man emerge from the house and disappear around the corner. A car door opened and shut. The car backed out of the driveway and sped away into the night. He would have liked to taken a shot of the car but it was too risky—he would get it when they returned for the girl.
Alan was fairly confident that there were only two persons in the house right now: Brock Matthews and the little girl. Apparently Mansky trusted his clients enough to leave them on their own while they were on the clock.
Alan felt the burner vibrate. He pulled it from his pocket and read Fleming’s text message:
“Dry cleaners definitely a front—your hunch was correct. Still working on the house address. Let me know how it goes there.”
As he replaced the phone, Alan wondered what exactly Fleming had found about the dry cleaners. Did Mansky or his boss own the business? And did one of them also own or rent this house?
He wished he could see inside. Standing here and waiting for however long it would take was nearly impossible. He wanted to see what was going on.
The windows on the second floor were in darkness so it was likely that Matthews and the girl were on the first floor. He wondered if he could see anything through the back door window. Only one way to find out.
He crept over to the back porch and saw that the small door window was also covered with mini blinds that were shut tight. This made sense, since this property was most likely used exclusively for Mansky’s victims and their johns. They weren’t about to let anybody happening to drop by see what went on inside.
Double Trouble Page 27