by Dale Mayer
He had a sailboat himself that he hadn’t taken out in a few weeks, and that was something he needed to change. He needed less work, more downtime. He needed to remember why he was where he was, how he got here, and how stupid it would be to not ever enjoy it because of a heart attack or some stupid thing down the road.
He wished he knew where his foster father was right now but had no clue.
“Hope you’re rotting in hell,” he muttered. He had tried as a young boy and again as an angry young man to track him down, but Josh hadn’t been easy to track. Hopefully somebody in his own ring had killed him. But Simon knew that the man was a slippery slimeball and had likely just set up at a new location somewhere else in the world, where he was likely abusing another dozen little boys. And, even as his heart went out to them, finding his foster father was just something that he couldn’t do, even though he’d tried so hard before. He wondered if it was time to try again.
He’d successfully forgotten all about his abusive foster father for decades. Would he even be alive now? Simon thought his foster father very old at his tender age of six. Adjusting for that, maybe his foster father was only in his late sixties, seventies? Regardless, still able to cause havoc for any number of children.
At that age, many of the older generation lost their filters and didn’t give a shit anymore, doing whatever they wanted, regardless of who they hurt. His foster father already didn’t have much of a filter, so Simon highly doubted that anything was left now but evil in the old man. If Simon could, he’d stop him from hurting others. Maybe he’d let the cops do the work for him and then wait.
If they tracked down his foster father, that was something else again. Simon thought about the vague ghostly faces that he’d seen as a child. Other men, the occasional woman’s laughter. That had always taunted him because any woman who knew what was going on couldn’t have been much of a mother figure. How could anybody allow something like that to happen to a child?
But then some women had no maternal qualities, allowing their children to be abused, or even putting their own children up for sale for sexual purposes for others. Just a sad part of the world out there. Then there were ghostly children’s faces. But none clear enough to identity or to even understand what role they played in his history.
Weighed down heavily with a sense of disturbance and trauma, he walked slowly back to his place. As soon as he got inside his penthouse, even though it was only about ten or ten-thirty in the morning, he stripped off and walked into the shower. He might be clean on the outside but cleansing the stain in his soul? That would take a lifetime. Maybe even longer.
*
Tuesday Midmorning
He kept looking at the front door, expecting the police to come barging in. Yet, so far, they hadn’t even knocked. He knew that his quick call about the stolen vehicle had been a brilliant idea, and he knew they would still come to his door and check up on him. That he was more or less prepared for. He was stressed and had spent some time cleaning up as much as he could.
When the knock came on his door, he froze and swore inside his head. He knew exactly who it was. With a smile plastered on his face, he walked over and opened the door. He smiled at the officers in front of him. “What can I help you with, Officers?”
“You reported your vehicle stolen?”
He nodded. Then gave a gasp of surprise. “Don’t tell me. Did you find it?”
The cop nodded. “It was parked a couple blocks away,” he said.
“Oh my,” he said. “Can I get it back then?”
“Well, we need you to sign some paperwork on it and to check to see if there’s any damage.”
He stepped out on the front stoop, as if to look up and down the block. “Where is it?”
“It’s literally around the corner,” he said.
“Where? I wonder if they planned to return it and forgot where they got it.”
“Anything is possible,” the cop said, as if he didn’t really care. “We’ve seen all kinds of things happen for a lot less reason.”
“Well, I have my keys,” he said. “Give me a moment, and I’ll just grab my shoes and a jacket.” While they waited, he quickly tied his shoes, grabbed his jacket and his truck keys, and followed them down to where he’d left it parked. He looked at it, walked clear around, and said, “This is great. I’m so happy to have this back,” he said. “What do you want me to do?”
“I can send you the forms,” the officer said. “Then just sign and send them back. As long as you’re sure there’s no damage, we won’t have to involve insurance at all.”
“No, it looks fine. As long as it runs,” he said, with laughter. He waved at the officers, hopped into his truck, started it up, slowly pulled out and drove it back home again, where he parked it. That was one of the most brilliant ideas he’d had in a long time, and, so far, it looked like it worked. He knew the cops were still watching, as he pulled up into his parking spot. He hopped out, gave them a wave, and walked back inside, an obvious leap in his steps.
The fact that they were leaving was something to be joyous about. The fact that he had his wheels back was awesome. The fact that they didn’t know where he’d been and what he’d done was another huge plus. He’d been researching information on the little girl that they found. It just drove him crazy to think that he’d been so close but had failed.
Yet to think the cops had been that close to finding him trying to steal her, then he figured that it was all good and for the best. Now he would track down his friend Nico, who was still not responding to his messages. With the cops now safely out of his way, he sat back, his front door locked, and was back on his laptop and signed in to the chat. He talked to a couple of the other guys, just general conversation to see if anything was there from Nico, and there wasn’t. Hey, anybody seen Nico lately?
Not since your conversation with him, one of the other guys wrote.
A couple new guys were in the group, which always made him go quiet for a while, as they figured out just who they were. He sent Nico a couple messages and got no response. Finally realizing that it was fruitless, he logged off. He sat back in his mostly clean apartment and smiled.
“Looks like I’m the man,” he said, and he rubbed his hands together. “Just means I need to find another friend.” He got up, found his list, and drew a line through Nico because there was absolutely no point in returning to his place, if the child had already been collected.
He did want to find out where Nico was though. He had a vague recollection of seeing him somewhere else but couldn’t place where it was. When he heard a ding from his computer, he walked over to see a message from Nico.
On the run.
Why?
Cops onto me. Was coming home, saw them at my place.
Shit.
Got a couch to sleep on?
He thought about it for a quick second and typed, You can’t come here. I’ve had the cops here because my truck was stolen.
I’m going underground.
I can meet you somewhere.
What good will that do? Nico typed.
I’ve got a bit of money I can give you. I could pull out some traveling money.
Money would be good. I really appreciate that.
Have they frozen your accounts?
Jesus, I hope not, Nico typed. I’ve got several.
Maybe pack and I’ll meet you on your way out of the city or something.
How about a coffee shop? Nico suggested.
Okay, so I’ll meet you at the Starbucks on the way out of town.
And, now that he had his truck back, he could do this. He waited until he heard back from Nico that it was a go. He got up, slipped on his shoes, and grabbed his keys again, his mind buzzing to identify his options. One of the things that he really wanted to know was whether Nico had accessed his bank accounts and how much he’d taken out.
He wondered what it would take to get that same information, so somebody else could take money out of that account on another
day. Maybe he should suggest that Nico make it look like he was still in town. As Nico’s good buddy, he could wander all around town and take out a little bit here and a bit there. It could be a hell of a pot. Something he desperately needed for himself.
He hopped into his truck and slowly started down the street that led out of the city. His mind churned with possibilities.
Chapter 24
As Kate stepped out of the observation room, Owen looked at her and said, with a shrug, “I don’t know what to say about him.”
“The question is whether there was anything to find or not,” she said briskly. “Personally I believe him.”
“That’s a turnaround for you, isn’t it?” Lilliana asked. “Though I have to agree that nothing here suggests he was part of the ring.”
“But we’ve been wrong before,” Rodney said. “So let’s make sure we do our due diligence and see if any connection exists between him and any of these cases.”
“And he is right about the DNA,” Lilliana said. “His DNA should have been collected when he was rescued.”
“I’m looking into that too,” Rodney said.
When he walked out of the office, Kate sat down and asked Owen, “Would they have actually collected the forensics evidence from that?”
“Well, they should have,” Owen said. “Was standard procedure even back then. Although there might not have been any to find. Interesting that his foster father just disappeared.”
“I wonder what happened to him,” she mused out loud. Rodney walked in just then, headed for the coffee then returned to go to his desk, listening to the conversation going on around him.
“I wouldn’t be surprised if your Simon didn’t take him out and deep-six him in the ocean, when he got old enough,” Owen said. She looked at him in surprise, but he just shrugged. “Hey, it’s what I’d do.”
“Maybe, but I think the formative years would have shaped him, yet the years that came afterward would have done an awful lot too because of who he was and who he is now today. I’m thinking the years with his grandmother should have helped,” Kate said, not sure that same destroyed little boy had the same anger as a young man and even now. “Besides, to kill his foster father, he had to find his foster father, and that might not have been quite so easy.”
Lilliana said, “I’m still not sure I believe him about the foster mother. Surely to be approved to foster kids you needed a married couple, right?”
“Who aren’t pedophiles preferably,” Owen quipped.
“Do we have anything on her?” Kate asked Lilliana, ignoring Owen.
Lilliana clicked away on the keys of her computer. “Josh Cameron was married. Seems she’s in an old folks home with mental decline. So that’s a dead end.” She typed again. “He was born to a woman named Meggie Smith—if that’s really her last name,” she said. “The father isn’t listed on the birth certificate.”
“So how did Simon end up in foster care? Did he go from Meggie to live with his biological father or what?” Rodney asked.
“Or Simon was given away,” Owen said, looking at Kate. “It could be that he was kidnapped as a child, or this Meggie person sold him into the pedophile ring.”
“And is this Meggie person alive or deceased?” Kate asked.
“I’m not finding a death certificate on file for her,” Lilliana said. “So she could possibly be alive. We have no surname though.”
“Interesting. Is there anything on her in a missing persons file?” Kate asked.
Lilliana looked at Kate over her monitor. “Why would you think she’s a missing person?”
“It just occurs to me that the birth father or the foster father probably didn’t want any baggage,” Kate said, thinking about it. “It’s one thing to take a child who you want to abuse, but to have the blood mother there, who could whine and try to defend the child, would get tedious very quickly. Maybe Josh Cameron took Meggie out for a walk and left her in a ditch someplace.”
“It’s possible,” Rodney said.
“I’ll have to hunt through the missing persons data,” Kate said, frowning.
“We can’t just contact that department?” Owen asked. “Or better yet, get Reese to check it. That’s why we have an analyst in the first place.”
With a smile, Lilliana said, “You know what? That’s exactly what I’ll do.” And she reached for her phone.
Kate added, “Plus, what about any possible Jane Doe IDs in the Vancouver morgue? Just keep our search here locally in Vancouver for the moment.”
Owen nodded. “I’ll take a stab at that.”
Kate got up, grabbed her purse, and said, “I’ll check out the address for the truck I saw last night, fleeing Nico’s place. Apparently the vehicle was reported as stolen. I need to talk to the owner,” she said.
“Do you want somebody to go along?” Rodney asked.
She thought about it and shook her head. “No, we’re spread too thin as it is,” she said. “I’ll just be an hour, as I’ll head over there and come right back.”
“Maybe,” Rodney said, “but we’ve seen things turn sideways very quickly.”
“In that case,” she said, “I have you on speed dial.” She turned and walked out. The last thing she ever expected was to get support. Chances were the offers to help were something other than the goodwill she thought they were—probably more about confirming Simon was an active pedophile, involved in these current cases of dead abused children—but, hey, she appreciated the assistance. The problem was, she had been working alone all her life, and she wasn’t too keen to have a partner now.
Her good intentions to talk to the truck owner went out the window when she stood in front of the small apartment and realized nobody was home. And neither was the truck. She’d gotten a follow-up that the truck had been found and returned to the owner earlier. Apparently he had subsequently left. She frowned and wished she’d had a chance to see him and the truck. It would help revive her memory of the man she’d seen Monday evening escaping out a window at Nico’s place.
She should go to the hospital now and check on the little drugged girl found in Nico’s basement. After the initial check at Richmond General, she’d been transferred to Vancouver General. That little girl and also the little toddler she had scooped up just in time in that alleyway. She hated to face these children again, but she had to. So she got into her vehicle and headed to the hospital. When she walked in, she flashed her ID and asked for the location of the little girl. She was given the room number, and, as she approached, she saw some family members, kept outside of the girl’s room by a burly unhappy orderly. At least Kate hoped they were family members. Only when she approached, everybody went silent. She frowned.
“Who are you all, and what’s your relationship to this little girl?” she asked, her tone especially authoritative. She found that, when she used that tone, most people jumped up and answered her.
But one man, larger than the others and on the belligerent side, spoke up. “Why should we tell you?”
She pulled out her badge and said, “Because I’m the one who found this little girl,” she said, “and I want to know who you all are and what your roles are in this little girl’s life.” With that, she pulled out a notebook and her phone. What she really wanted was photos of each and every one of them. One person in the background was inching away. She immediately put her phone on Camera mode and snapped a picture of him. “You,” she said, pointing at him. “Let’s start with you, since you’re trying to sneak off.”
He glared at her. “I just came because I’m with him,” he said, pointing at the belligerent guy.
“Good,” she said. “Name, address, phone number. Let’s have it.”
“Like hell,” he said. “You don’t have anything on me.”
“I didn’t,” she said, “but I will in about two minutes, if I don’t get some cooperation,” she said, her tone flat and hard.
The belligerent guy said, “Come on, Jackson. Shut the fuck up with the whining and g
ive her what she wants.”
He gave her the name of Buddy Malone—she figured Buddy was a nickname for Jackson—and said he lived downtown on Houston Street. He gave her a cell phone number that she knew would be completely bogus.
“What do you do for a living, … Buddy?”
“I don’t work,” he said. “I don’t have to.” She looked at him, studied his clothing, made a mental note that he definitely had a trust fund look, and wrote down unemployed.
Then she turned to the belligerent man. “Name, address, cell phone number, and occupation.” He gave her the information. His name was Benjy. She mentally cracked up at that. Some of the names that people gave their kids, jeez. Would they still do it when they realized how they turned out as adults? “And what do you do for a living?”
“Construction,” he said briefly.
That stopped her pen on the paper because this guy couldn’t bend over and swing a hammer. He was too big, too fat, and too out of shape. “You own your own company?”
“I manage a bunch of contractors,” he said, with a nod.
She wrote that down. “What is your relationship to this little girl?”
“That’s what we’re trying to figure out,” he said, with a sour tone. “We all lost a niece a couple years back, and we’re trying to figure out if this is her.”
“Do you show up in every hospital when a little girl is found?” Kate asked, studying the faces of those around her. A couple looked guilty.
One, a woman, her arms across her very ample bosom, nodded. “That’s right,” she said. “That’s exactly what I do.”
“Name, address, and cell phone number,” she asked. And she quickly took down that woman’s information. “So, Susan, what makes you think this could be your niece?”
“I don’t know,” she said. “But I saw the picture on the TV, and she just looked like my sister’s little girl.”
