by R. A. McGee
“Mr. Smith?” Candy Man said. “Mr. Smith, are you still with me?”
Porter cleared his throat. “I’m here and I’m tracking. You say the girl isn’t dead?”
“I certainly think not. The man to whom I sold her has very little capacity for violence. Once he is done with his purchase, he always calls me to arrange removal. He is more of a long-term renter, if you will. The children serve his purposes and when he tires of them, I facilitate the endgame.”
“I’m sure I don’t want to know the details,” Porter said.
“Likely not.”
“How about you tell me who you sold her to?”
“Why would I do that?”
“Call it a favor.”
Candy Man laughed an ugly, haughty laugh. It must have been a fake, put on for show, as it went on for almost a full minute. Porter barely stopped himself from reaching across the table. As the ugly laughter died down, Candy Man turned to Porter. “I am sorry, Mr. Smith, but I do no favors. Besides, it would be poor business practice to divulge the identity of my customers.”
“I’m sure you can make an exception,” Porter said.
“Well, I am a capitalist. If you had something to offer me, perhaps I could be persuaded.”
Porter was thinking of what he could offer the Candy Man. Nothing he had was valuable. Then he remembered the big knot he’d pulled off of Hector. He had hoped to keep that for himself, some compensation for his efforts in looking for Danny. A little payback to himself for being shot. Porter reached into his front pants pocket and pulled out the brick of money.
“Think this will persuade you?”
“Well, now, what is this?”
“Your lucky day. It’s just the amount of money it’ll take to buy the location of the girl, and keep me from ripping your head off,” Porter said.
“Lest we forget, Mr. Smith, there are cameras everywhere. Surely, said head-ripping would be a bit messy?”
Porter dropped the wad onto the table in front of Candy Man. “Get on with it.”
Candy Man peeled the rubber bands off the stack of cash. He made a show of it as he unfolded the wad, then faced and counted the bills. He had no regard for who might be looking at him.
Porter looked around; no one was paying attention to them. The café was mostly empty and the few patrons who were there were engrossed in their laptops or the books they were perusing.
Five minutes passed before Candy Man looked up from his task. “A bit more than twenty-three thousand dollars. Not a bad sum. You just happened to have this on your person?”
“Lucky coincidence. So about the info I need?” Porter said.
Candy Man folded the stack in half, rubber banded it together, and slipped it into his inner jacket pocket. “I am sorry, Mr. Smith, but I still cannot provide you with information.”
Porter leaned closer and lowered his voice. “What do you mean? I paid you, you son of a bitch, now out with it.”
“Temper, Mr. Smith, temper. Frankly, it isn’t enough money. I do not work so cheaply. I will, however, be retaining the money. Consider it payment for wasting my time this evening.” He raised his cup and sipped his tea.
Porter’s face flushed. He decided he’d drag Candy Man into the bathroom and make him talk. Make him spill his guts about everything. He didn’t care about the consequences; he just wanted to wipe the arrogant smirk off the child broker’s face.
Then he contained himself. He didn’t think Candy Man would talk—not from a beating. And if Candy Man didn’t talk, Rivera would never make a case. Not to mention the fact that the man was right that numerous cameras had no doubt seen the two of them walk in together, and were likely trained on him.
Porter sat still in his chair and weighed his options.
Candy Man wasn’t sitting still: He was leaving. He picked up his phone from the table and pulled the wad of money out from his coat, slipped off a bill, and dropped it on the table. “I detest bussing my own table. I find that, even in a place like this, the staff doesn’t mind doing it if you leave them something. In this case, you left them something.” He smiled his obnoxious smile at Porter. “Mr. Smith, I believe this concludes our conversation. I must let you go now.” He turned on his heel and walked away from Porter, out of the coffee shop and into the parking lot.
Porter watched him leave. He wanted to follow him out, and call Ross and Rivera, but he didn’t want to let Candy Man on to the fact that he had people with him. It would put him on edge. He had to give it space and trust that Rivera was up to the task of following him. Once Candy Man was no longer near any of the windows, he stood and hurried towards the exit, pulling his phone out as he went.
“Ross.”
“Hey, man, what happened? What the hell was that? Who did you go in there with? Was that Candy Man?”
“Too many questions. Come to the front and pick me up. We have to see if we can catch up to Rivera.”
Ross was in front of the bookstore in a matter of seconds. Porter hopped into the Honda and they took off.
“Which way did they go? Did you see her?”
“No, I was on the other side of the building. I saw Candy Man leave, but once he turned the corner he was gone. I didn’t know if I should go after him or not, so I waited for your call,” Ross said.
“You did the right thing,” Porter said as he punched in Rivera’s phone number. The phone rang but there was no answer. He didn’t leave a message. “Just drive out to the front, maybe we’ll get lucky and see them.”
They didn’t get lucky. Candy Man’s rental was nowhere in sight; likewise Rivera’s unmarked unit. Porter had Ross drive slowly and canvass the area, but there was no sign of either of the vehicles. It was as if they had vanished. Porter kept calling Rivera’s phone, but she never answered.
“I bet she lost him,” Ross said, “and now she’s pissed. No wonder she won’t answer the phone.”
“There’s nothing else we can do right now.”
“What do you mean, ‘nothing we can do’? We had him, now he’s gone. You lost him,” Ross said.
“Don’t you think I know that?” Porter said, louder than he needed to. “Huh? I know that.”
There was silence in the car as Ross made ever-expanding circles looking for a sign of either of the cars.
“Where are we going?” Ross said.
“Swing me by my place. I need to get some things.”
“It’s over? That fast?”
“Just drive the car. I’ll tell you about that creep on the way.”
Ross drove while Porter spoke, recounting the conversation with Candy Man. Ross chimed in and asked appropriate questions, but nothing extra. Porter was upset about the way he had handled the meeting and Ross didn’t want to stir him up any further.
When they arrived at Porter’s house, they found it in the same condition Porter had left it in. There was still crime scene tape on the inside and large pools of blood in his bathroom. It looked like someone had been kind enough to screw some plywood over the shot-out sliding glass door. Porter went to his gun safe, opened it, and grabbed the twin of the Glock that had been confiscated by the police. He’d felt naked without it.
Not that it would have done him any good against Candy Man.
“Just get what you need and let’s go back to my place. I don’t want to stay in here any longer than I have to. It’s disgusting,” Ross said.
“Next time a bunch of thugs break into my place to kill me, I’ll ask them to wipe their feet first.”
“I’ll be in the car,” Ross said.
Porter grabbed an old backpack from his closet and tossed in some essentials, as well as some extra ammunition and magazines. Slinging his backpack onto his shoulder, he turned his back on his house and its state of disarray.
Forty-Eight
The ride to Ross’s house was silent, a rarity for the two of them. Porter and Ross always had plenty to say to, and often about, each other. This was different. A feeling of frustration hung in the air.
When they got to Ross’s house, Porter dragged his backpack off to the guest bathroom, where he stayed for nearly a half hour. Ross didn’t interrupt him, and took the time to clean himself up and order pizza. They’d both feel better with food in their stomachs.
Porter came out with fresh clothes on and a new bandage on his arm. He was flexing and rotating it around like it hurt him. He walked to the kitchen island and grabbed several slices of the pie, as well as both of his pill bottles, and sat down on the couch. Ross was watching a football highlight show.
They ate in silence for a few minutes. “Do you think he was telling the truth about Danny being alive?” Ross said.
Porter slammed his plate on the table. He leaned back on the couch and spoke slowly. “I don’t know if he’s telling the truth, Ross. I have no reason to believe he would lie about it. He knew he was walking out of there, and he wasn’t the least bit scared of what would happen after our conversation. That usually makes a person bold. He was so cocky, too. Makes me sick. I should have done something about it.”
“What could you do?”
“Something. Anything. I should have dragged Candy Man’s ass out of there and beat it out of him.”
“You said that wouldn’t have worked,” Ross said.
“Well, I’m a moron.”
Ross said nothing, because there was nothing to say.
“The damn money, too,” Porter said under his breath.
“Huh?”
“I said ‘the damn money.’ I gave Candy Man that money.”
“What you took from Hector?”
“Twenty-three grand.”
“I didn’t know you gave him that. Why?”
“He made it seem like I could pay for info about Danny. I didn’t see what other choice I had. Maybe he was lying, you know? Get me to pay up. Just more money in his pocket.”
“Honestly? I’m impressed that you gave him the money. I know how excited you were to get it from Hector.”
“It’s way more important to find the kid. And I’m going to.”
Ross didn’t say anything.
“No matter what it takes. Candy Man talked about the deep web; maybe I can find him there. I’ll go up to New York and beat the bushes if I have to. This isn’t over.”
Porter’s phone rang. He pulled it from his pocket and checked the caller ID. “Nice of you to call me back.”
“I’ve been busy. Ask me why.”
“Why what?”
“Ask me why I’ve been busy,” Rivera said.
“Rivera, I’m not—”
“Just ask me why I have been busy, Porter.”
“Fine. Why have you been busy?”
“Because I got Candy Man. He’s sitting in an interview room right now.”
Forty-Nine
Porter and Ross arrived at Rivera’s office in record time. She was outside waiting for them. “Let’s talk out here.”
“What happened? Where did you go?” Ross said.
“When Porter went into the coffee shop with Candy Man, I drove past the rental and took down the plates. I ran the information and called the rental company to find out who rented the car. The company told me it was rented to a man named Bartholomew James.”
“So?” Porter said.
“I ran Mr. James through the NCIC and found no major crimes, and a minor history of DUI,” Rivera said.
“DUI? You’re killing me,” Porter said.
“Shut up and let me finish. He had a minor criminal record, but that wasn’t the interesting part.”
“What’s the interesting part?” Ross said.
“The interesting part was Mr. Bartholomew’s date of birth. It was 1939.”
“1939?” Porter said.
“Yeah, you know, after 1938, before 1940?”
“Are you saying Candy Man was born during the Great Depression?” Porter said.
“Don’t be stupid, he obviously wasn’t. You can tell by looking at him it’s not even close. So I figure he must be using a stolen credit card or something for the rental. He wouldn’t use his real name, right?”
“Right,” Porter said, starting to see where Rivera was going.
Rivera paced the blacktop, shoes scuffing along. “I needed to figure out who Candy Man is, and this was my chance. All I had to do was stop his car and check his ID. If he gave me a different ID, then I’m busting him for not having the rental car in his name. If he gave the Bartholomew James ID, I know he’s full of shit, because he isn’t in his eighties. It didn’t matter what he did, I’d have probable cause to arrest him. I just needed to stop him.”
Porter broke out into a gigantic smile.
“Why did you stop his car?” Ross said.
“He had a taillight out.”
“No shit?” Porter said.
“It can be a rough neighborhood. At some point between when he went into the coffee shop and when he came out, someone kicked his taillight out.”
“Did you see it?” Ross said.
“Technically speaking, I may have ‘watched’ it happen,” Rivera said using air quotes.
“Wait a minute, are you saying you—”
“Shut up, Ross,” Porter said.
“Yeah, shut up, Ross.”
“Shutting up now,” Ross said with a sheepish look on his face, like he had just figured out what happened.
“What happened when you stopped him?” Porter said.
“I pulled him over and asked for his license. He gave me the Bartholomew James ID. It has Candy Man’s picture and an appropriate date of birth, but I knew it was fake. I sat in the car pretending like I was running his information, but I was just waiting for backup. Backup shows up, and we arrest the guy. He was weird and calm about the whole thing. Now I have a reason to take him back to the office and put him on the glass.”
‘The glass’ was slang for an electronic fingerprint machine. Before computers became common, a person’s fingerprints were recorded with ink and paper, and the fingerprints were sent off to the FBI to classify. It could take weeks to come back and let you know if the prints matched someone in the FBI database.
Now, all you had to do was inklessly roll and capture images of someone’s fingerprints into a computer program, then electronically submit them for review to the FBI’s West Virginia NCIC server. A reply usually came back in minutes and then you knew exactly who you had in custody, if they had ever been encountered by law enforcement before.
“If he didn’t come up in the NCIC query, you still wouldn’t know who he was,” Porter said.
“Worst case scenario, nothing came back when we ran his prints. I’d still hold him and charge him with giving a law enforcement officer fictitious information.”
“That’s a pretty weak charge,” Porter said.
“It is, but when it went to court, there would have to be an initial appearance before a judge…”
“And either Candy Man or his lawyer would have to cough up a real name, or be held in contempt,” Porter said. “Smart.”
“I figured if we could get his real name, we could build a better case. A real case. But I didn’t have to do that.”
“Why?” Ross said
“Because when I sent his prints, I instantly got a hit back.”
“What database?” Porter said.
“NCIC. Our man has a nice criminal history. Candy Man is actually Clive Michelson.”
Ross and Porter looked at each other.
“Clive?” Ross said. “Much less spooky as a Clive.”
“You sure? ’Cause that’s a pretty creepy name,” Rivera said.
“What did he get convicted of?” Porter said.
“Hacking. Can you believe that? He’s a computer nerd.”
Porter rubbed his face, absorbing everything Rivera told him.
“It gets better. Clive is still on federal probation. He isn’t supposed to leave the state of New Jersey. You know what else he isn’t supposed to do?”
“Access technology?” Porter said
.
“That’s right. He’s violated that condition of his probation, since he has a smartphone.”
“Is probation going to lock him up?” Porter said.
“I haven’t been able to get a hold of anyone up there. I’m sure they will, though,” Rivera said.
“As happy as I am about that, I’m not sure how this helps us right now,” Porter said.
“What do you mean? This is our foot in the door. Who knows what this could lead to?”
Porter told Rivera about his conversation with Clive Michelson and the man’s claim that Danisha Hill was still alive somewhere. She looked deflated. “I had no idea she was alive. We have to get him to tell us. Any ideas?”
“I have one, but it’s out there.” Everyone looked at Ross. “Let Porter talk to him.”
“Why? Last time it didn’t work so well, remember? I don’t want to step on my dick again.”
“Things were different last time. Michelson had all the power. He thought he was untouchable, but he knows he’s in trouble now. Maybe he’s willing to make something happen to save his own skin.”
“I don’t mind if you take a crack at him. The fact is, our case with him is non-existent. Other than the fictitious info to a cop, we aren’t going to be able to charge him with much. The feds are going to go after him. They won’t care if you talk to him, since you aren’t a cop anymore.”
“You like to rub that in, don’t you?” Porter said.
“I mean, you aren’t a cop anymore. It is what it is. I won’t be able to make a case with anything you find out, but that’s okay. If that little girl is alive, finding her is the most important thing,” Rivera said.
Porter thought for a few moments. The scenario was different now. He needed leverage to get Michelson to talk, and he thought he might have some that would work.
“If you’re okay with it, I can give it another shot.”
