by Mike Faricy
“Was this when he was deployed, your husband?”
She nodded. “We weren’t married then. Believe me, I get it, okay? I know it was so incredibly stupid. But Driscoll is so good at getting you to think you’re the one. That you are so special and the two of you are just made for one another.”
“Would there be some sort of trail? You must have traded emails and phone calls.”
“You’d think so, but no. There were never any emails, for exactly that reason. He didn’t allow it. Funny, but I think if I’d sent him some torchy email, he probably would have dropped me on the spot. Of course, looking back, now I understand why.”
I nodded. It sounded like Driscoll had a system in place and he just inserted a new victim whenever he tired of his current one.
“The phone calls I got from him came through from some phone number in Florida, Miami or some place. He said a friend owned the company down there and gave him a special rate. I remember it was a cute little red phone. He said it was a personal number just for me so I could reach him anywhere, anytime I wanted. Jesus, and I believed that bastard. I had a geek girlfriend who works for Verizon check it out for me after I’d been fired. As near as she could figure out, it was some pay-as-you-go sort of thing under a false name and no way to track it. She tried to contact the thing a number of times over a period of months and it was dead. He probably just tossed the phone in the river or something and got a new one, so his next sex-toy would be able to call him.”
I was about to say something, but she shook her head.
“I used to wait for his calls so I could run right over and prove to him how good I was. If we were traveling for business, we always had separate rooms, never even on the same floor. One time we went to a conference down in the Outer Banks of North Carolina. Just for laughs, he made me walk back to my room, two floors down without my clothes. He handed me this little towel, hardly bigger than a wash cloth to wrap around me. It didn’t even come close to covering me. I ran all the way to my room two floors away. I don’t think anyone ever saw me.”
“You’re kidding?”
She shook her head. “Nope, and the sad news is, I was thrilled to do it. It was just one more lovers’ adventure the two of us had. We got back to St. Paul and the next morning he walked into my office with one of those checks made out for five hundred dollars, if I remember correctly. Then he showed me about a thirty-second video from his phone of me walking down a hotel hallway at four in the morning with this little towel not covering anything. I remember he laughed and said next time he wasn’t even going to give me a towel.”
“You didn’t…I mean..,”
“Fact is, at the time, the brakes were going out on my car and I probably would have done it. No towel, I mean. Besides, I know this sounds insane, but I thought we were crazy in love. Turns out only I was, especially the crazy part,” she scoffed. “And he was just getting his rocks off whenever he wanted. Just another little test to see how low I’d go. I never found out, never reached the bottom. I just became his ‘personal whore on call’.” She looked up at me with watery eyes.
“No, you were, are, a very lovely woman. You’re a good mom and wife and you were taken advantage of by a real nut case. To tell you the truth, Daphne, based on what I think happened to some of these other women you just may have gotten off easy. You’re here to tell the story.”
“Long as he never shows anyone the DVD.”
“I’ll maybe see if we can’t do something about that.”
She looked at me, half snorted and shook her head like I wasn’t getting it.
“You mentioned a name a while back that I hadn’t heard before…Amanda Richards.”
“She was sometime after me, same sort of deal, though. I guess one day she was just escorted out the door. It’s always sort of hush, hush, you know? Of course, there’s that bunch of old bitties shaking their heads wondering what’s wrong with these girls? I sort of met Amanda at the U, although I never really knew her. I think if I recall, she may have been up here from Chicago. Not sure where she is now. She may have gone back down there, for all I know.
Chapter Twenty-Six
There were sixteen individuals named Amanda Richards in the online directory for Chicago. That didn’t count the suburban listings that popped up on pages two and three of my search. I started dialing a little after three in the afternoon.
I hit pay dirt on number eleven. Sort of.
“I’m trying to reach Amanda Richards.”
“Then this is your lucky day. What are you thinking about?” she said, followed by the unmistakable sound of ice cubes rattling in a glass.
“Is this Amanda?”
“It sure is, Sweetheart. What did you have in mind?”
“Actually, I just want to make sure I had the right Amanda.”
“Oh, I’m the one darling.”
I’m looking for a woman who lived up in Minnesota for a while, attended the University of Minnesota, and worked at Touchier and Touchier architectural firm.”
“You looking for money? Because if you are, I can’t help you,” she said then followed up with more ice cubes rattling.
“No, actually, I wanted to chat for a moment. Did you work at Touchier?”
“I don’t know that I should answer that. Hold on here, Honey, I just need to get another coffee. Back in a minute,” she said and I heard her set the phone down.
I could hear her rummaging around in the background. I thought I heard more ice cubes thrown into a glass, maybe the sound of something being poured. She picked up the phone about five minutes later, but who was counting?
“Hello?”
“Hello, is this Amanda?”
“Who’s this? I didn’t even hear the damn thing ring? What are you looking to do, Sweetheart?” she said, then gulped loudly a couple of times.
“Amanda, were you employed by Touchier and Touchier at one time up in Minnesota?”
“Maybe, maybe not. I haven’t mentioned them in years and I don’t intend to now.”
I took that as a ‘yes’.
“I’m a private investigator. My name is Dev Haskell. My client was employed by Touchier and Touchier about ten years ago. Her name…”
“I wouldn’t know anything about that. That was way before my time, and like I said I have no intention of talking about them now.” More ice cubes clinked and then there was a sort of gasp as if she’d emptied the glass, but she remained on the line.
“Amanda, I understand you not wanting to chat. Could I explain a little bit about what I’m involved in, and maybe at the end of that you might feel like talking? I’d be very interested in anything you have to say.”
“What did you say your name was?”
“Haskell. Dev Haskell. I’m a private investigator.”
“Really? Well isn’t that nice? How about this, Mr. Hascar, the private investigator. I’m going to go mix myself another little drink, but before I do that I’m going to hang up so you can call some other fool and stop wasting my time talking to you.”
“If you could just give me a minute to explain. I’m representing a woman by the name…”
“I’m going to go mix another drink now. Good-bye. Can’t thank you enough for your time,” she said and hung up.
It was the middle of the afternoon in the middle of the work week. I didn’t get the sense I’d caught Amanda on her day off, nor on her first drink. I’d have to put her down as just one more inconclusive chapter to the Gaston Driscoll story. I felt like I kept circling, but I wasn’t getting any closer.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
My phone rang a little before ten that evening. Actually, I couldn’t really tell if it rang because the juke box in The Spot was playing so damn loud I couldn’t hear my phone. I did feel the thing vibrate and I was pulling it out of my pocket as I waded through a crowd of softball players and made my way to the door. I could almost read Marsha’s name on the screen.
“Hi, Marsha, hang on I’m headed outside so I can h
ear you.”
“Dev, Dev?” She sounded impatient, probably off stage between numbers.
“Yeah, Marsha. Sorry, I had to step outside…”
“Dev, some asshole is following me.”
“What? Where are you?”
“I’m on I-94 heading back into St. Paul. This guy has been on my ass ever since I pulled out of the restaurant parking lot in Minneapolis.”
“Where were you?” I asked. Not too far in the back of my mind I had that sense Marsha hadn’t bothered to listen to me earlier and had taken the initiative.
“Oh, I just had some dinner, is all. Hey, he’s two cars back. I’m putting my blinker on to switch lanes and see if he does the same thing.”
I waited for a couple of moments, expecting her to say something.
“Is he switching lanes?” I finally asked.
“No, he doesn’t seem to be doing a thing. Sorry, looks like it was a false alarm. Just a little paranoid, I guess.”
“Where are you?”
“I told you, I-94.”
“Where exactly on I-94, Marsha?”
“Will you relax? I’m just coming up to the Dale Street exit. I’m going to take that and...”
“Marsha, do not take that exit.”
“Come on, now who’s being paranoid?”
“Stay on 94 and take 35E heading north, see if he follows. How much gas you got?”
“What?”
“Your tank…is it full, empty, what?”
“More than half full.”
“Get on 35E, heading north. You know where it meets Highway 36?”
“Yeah.”
“Take the exit for Highway 36 West, stay on the clover leaf, get back onto 35E going south and head back into town.”
“Dev, I just want to get home. Tonight’s my one night off this week and oh, shit, he’s pulled out. He’s following me again, Dev.”
I started running to my car, talking to her as I went.
“Okay, look, he’s just following. We’re going to deal with it. I’m coming to get you. Keep your speed at fifty-five, take that turn onto 36 and then head back into town. Okay?”
“Yeah…” She didn’t sound all that sure.
“I’ll be picking you up along 35E, okay?” I waited a long five seconds. “Marsha, damn it, answer me.”
“This is creepy, Dev, I’m scared.”
“Just stay the speed limit, don’t speed up. Right now there’s a good chance he doesn’t think you picked up on him back there.”
“Maybe I can lose him?”
“Just do what I’m telling you. Okay?”
“God, okay, but hurry up.”
I headed for the freeway. Six blocks later I barely slowed at the stop sign, then shot onto the entrance ramp and raced up 35 toward the Maryland Avenue exit, talking to Marsha all the way. Her words sounded like she was in control, but I could sense the fear in her voice.
“God, he’s right on my ass now. I’m on the cloverleaf, heading back into town,” she said.
“Perfect, I’m just going across the Maryland Avenue Bridge. I’m going to get back on the freeway and pull onto the shoulder then I’ll back up until I’m under the bridge. I want you to drive past me and just keep going. Give a little honk as you pass me. I’ll pull out and catch up until I’m right behind you. Okay?”
“Yeah, okay, I’m just passing the sign that says two and a quarter miles to the Maryland exit,” she said a moment later.
“I’m heading down the ramp now. I’ll be under the bridge in a minute. You just stay in that right lane and keep it at fifty-five.”
“God, how many times are you going to tell me that? I’m doing it, I’m doing it.”
“Good girl, can you describe the car following you?” I asked.
“No, not really. It’s just a pair of headlights, really close headlights.”
Fortunately the traffic was light. I backed up and stopped under the bridge. I reached under my seat and took out the Ruger I had stashed there, an LC9. I set the pistol on the passenger seat.
“One-and-a-quarter miles,” she said.
“Anyone in front of you, Marsha?”
“No, least not for a good way.”
“Flash your brights,” I said.
I saw them flash in my rear view mirror she was still a way’s back.
“Hey, Dev, I’m flashing you. Like it?”
“Yeah, loving it, Marsha. I got you. I’m going to let you pass, then ease into traffic and come up behind. You just stay on 35 through the interchange. Okay?”
“Maybe I should pull over on the shoulder and he’d stop behind me?”
“Maybe you should just stay on 35. Okay?”
“That’s a drag,” she said, but didn’t argue. Her horn beeped as she drove past. I waited for three more cars to pass before I pulled into traffic.
“I saw you back there. Did you hear me honk when I drove past?”
“Yeah, I’m coming up behind you now. Stay on 35, Marsha.”
“God, Mr. Broken Record, come on, let’s get this guy.”
“We’re going to. You’ll have the St. Clair exit coming up in about four minutes. If no one else is taking it put your signal on and exit. Okay?”
“Yeah, I’m just passing the sign for it,” she said a moment later. “Looks like no one’s taking it, Dev. Do you want me to?”
“Yeah, take it. There’s a stop sign when you get to St. Clair. Stop, but do not get out of your car, Marsha. Do you hear me?”
“Yes, for God’s sake, I heard you. Will you just…oh my God he’s coming right up behind me.”
“Was his blinker on?”
“Who the fuck cares, Dev? Jesus, he’s getting close. Right on my ass, right on it.”
“I’m coming up behind him, Marsha. I see your tail lights going around the bend. Stop at the stop sign and don’t get out of the car. Make sure your doors are locked.”
“Gee, really? I never would have thought of that one. Just hurry up and get here.”
As we drove up the exit ramp I gained on whoever had been following her, pulling up close enough behind the car that I could read the make on the trunk. It was a Buick LeSabre, a later model, maybe a four door. At first I thought it was light blue, but as I got closer it turned out to be a light metallic green. The car looked very clean. The tail lights were working, but the left tail light cover had been damaged and was patched over with what looked like red tape. I made a note of the Minnesota license plate number. It hung below the rear bumper in a frame with the words Girls! Girls! Girls! running around all four sides. I repeated the license number out loud to myself a couple of times.
I couldn’t actually see the driver, but I could make out a silhouette of the top of his head moving just above the head rest on the driver’s seat. He couldn’t have been too tall, and his silhouette suggested he was wearing some sort of strange hat. He appeared to be alone in the car and if I had to guess I would say he was checking his rear view mirror as my lights pulled up behind him.
“Okay, I’m stopping at the sign,” Marsha said.
“Stay in your car, make sure your doors are locked. This guy comes toward you on foot you take off. If he tries to pull along side, I want you to duck.”
“Oh, shit, Dev,” she said.
“I’m right behind him, Marsha. Put your right blinker on.”
“Okay, it’s on, Dev,” she said, suddenly sounding a lot more like a little girl as I saw her taillight flashing.
Although the freeway we just exited cut through the center of the city, the immediate area up around the exit was rather isolated. Trees and bushes on either side hid the freeway to the left while the right side was a heavily wooded ridge with houses sitting maybe fifty yards up on top. I’d actually seen a deer grazing just inside the tree line a year or two ago. You could see slivers of orange light shining out through the trees from the large homes up there, overlooking the city. The ridge was cut in half by a curving one-way street that drained traffic from the neighborh
ood down into the lower area. There were four highway lights illuminating the exit, but they were a good distance behind us and down a hill. For all practical purposes we were pretty much in the dark with trees and undergrowth surrounding us on both sides.
Around a bend and a little before the stop sign the exit widened into two lanes. The exit was actually a fork in the road, so you had to turn either left or right. Driving straight ahead wasn’t an option. Marsha’s car was stopped with her right turn signal on. The guy following her pulled up behind. I put my signal on to indicate a left turn and began to pull along side the LeSabre.
“Marsha, take off around the corner and keep going. I’m going to cut this jerk off.”
She didn’t need any encouragement, and suddenly squealed around the corner. Just as her pursuer began to move forward I pulled in front of him, thrusting my car across the road to cut him off. I grabbed the Ruger off my front seat and jumped out of the car. I flicked on the center fire laser and took aim at him over the roof of my car.
The red dot wiggled back and forth on his windshield. For just a nano-second I had a sense of vague recognition as his face, lit by the dashboard lights, flashed in panic. Just as quickly that recognition disappeared.
He was already backing up, accelerating in reverse to get away from me and swerving as he went. I was tempted to put a round into his windshield. I moved the red dot toward the passenger side, but then thought better of it.
Suddenly there was a set of headlights coming up the exit ramp behind him. A van swerved sharply to the left, honking, leaning on the horn just as the LeSabre clipped the rear quarter panel on the van and screeched to a stop. It made a sharp right turn and took off racing the wrong way up the curving one way hill, accelerating as it disappeared around the curve.
I was tempted to jump back in my car and follow him, but then what? I would suddenly be confronting some clown who was going to insist he was just on his way to the grocery store or some other innocuous place. Technically, he hadn’t done anything wrong. Well, other than the hit and run. But that wasn’t worth the potential trouble. Besides, I had his license number and a sort-of-willing accomplice down at the DMV. I stuffed the Ruger into the back of my belt and pulled my shirt out. I walked back to make sure everyone was all right in the van that had just been side swiped.
