Double Trouble

by Scott Wittenburg

  Maybe she could make a deal . . .

  “Can I just ask you one more thing?”

  “Make it snappy—I don’t have all day.”

  “Are you going to kill me?”

  He chuckled. It gave her goose bumps. “Of course not, Jodi! Why in the hell would I want to go and do that? After all, you’ve been nothing but the perfect hostess, serving me fresh coffee, stripping down to your gorgeous nakedness and giving me one helluva great blowjob. I wouldn’t be a gracious guest if I were to kill you after all this generosity! So I can assure you that once you’ve handed over the loot, I’ll simply bid you good morning and be on my merry way.”

  And pigs fly, she thought.

  “I wish I could believe you, but I can’t. All I want is some assurance that you won’t kill me, so maybe we could make a little deal?”

  The contorted expression that suddenly appeared on his face scared Jodi out of her wits. His face had become beet red, his mouth hideously agape and his eyes bore into her like a hot poker.

  “No fucking deals, you stupid bitch! I’m the boss here! And for that little stunt I am most certainly going to kill you—tear you apart limb by fucking limb. You have ten seconds to show me the goods!”

  Angry at herself for her stupidity and sobbing hysterically, she walked over to the far end of the utility room and moved a laundry basket, an ironing board and a small table away from the wall. The deputy stood close-by, curious about her actions as she pulled a chair over, stood on top of it and began running her hand along the upstairs floor joists overhead. Suddenly he heard a loud metal clank and a thud from something he couldn’t see that had apparently dropped from behind the wall.

  Jodi stepped over, grabbed a water valve handle with both hands and pulled it out from the wall. Suddenly the entire wall started to move and glided outward as she continued pulling on the valve. Deputy Canter had to step out of her way until the section of wall came to rest.

  He walked around the open wall and stared in disbelief at a tiny room hidden behind it. Smack dab in the middle of the floor sat a solid steel safe.

  “Wow, this is sure worth the price of admission! Very impressive!”

  Officer Canter walked over to the safe and stood beside it. “Now open this baby up.”

  Jodi went over and knelt down before the safe. With trembling hands, she turned the knob clockwise a few times then worked the combination. After several turns she grasped the steel handle and cranked it clockwise until it stopped with a resolute click. She paused a moment before opening the door.

  The deputy glanced inside the safe and removed his sweatshirt, zipped it all the way up, and tied the arms together. He held open the makeshift bag and prodded Jodi in the back of her head with his gun.

  “Put everything in here.”

  Jodi Wilburn did as she was told.

  CHAPTER 21

  “You did great, Doug.”

  “Thanks, Alan. I have to say that I was nervous as hell. Those guys gave me the creeps.”

  “That’s because they are creeps. Pedophiles and a pimp—how much creepier can you get? But no one could tell you were nervous, and that’s the important thing. You spoke your lines like a pro.”

  “Must be all the improv I’ve done. So what do we do next?”

  “Just what Bobbi said to do—you keep that phone within earshot until you hear back from him. Assuming that everything moves forward, you’ll do as he says, make the payment and then show up for your appointment. In the process of all of this, we’ll hopefully be able to get a bead on where these kids are being kept and eventually rescue them as well as shut down this whole operation.”

  “What about the money? He made it sound like this could cost a king’s ransom. And cash on the barrel, no less. How we going to come up with that?”

  “I’ve got it covered. And trust me, it won’t be coming from my account!”

  “Sorta figured that. Anything else I need to know?”

  “No, that’s it. Just give me a call the second after you’ve heard from Bobbi. And thanks a million, Doug. I owe you big-time.”

  “No you don’t—I’m just returning a favor.”

  “And I appreciate that. Later, dude.”

  As he disconnected, Alan was impressed with how well Doug Salyers had handled his role as the new perv in town, Padwinkle. The meeting had gone flawlessly and Doug had managed to convince Bobbi and the others that we was a well-to-do man on the up and up in search of a very young virgin to spend some time with. Who could ask for more?

  He had known Doug for several years—since the time Doug had hired him to investigate his live-in girlfriend, Maria. Doug had been madly in love with Maria but started suspecting her of being less than faithful to him after she’d suddenly begun spending too many late nights out with “the girls.” Alan discovered that Maria had been having a steamy affair with Doug’s best friend for months.

  When Alan had shown Doug the photos he’d taken of a couple of their trysts, Doug had been absolutely devastated. Doug then promptly vowed to murder Maria first and his best friend second. Alan advised him to just suck it up, write it off as a learning experience and move on with life in lieu of writing himself a one-way ticket to prison. Doug wisely relented and despite his pain, was grateful to Alan for having exposed the “lecherous couple.” As he paid Alan for his services, Doug mentioned that if there ever came a time he could help him on a case in some way, to let him know. Alan had decided to do just that when the chat room meeting had come up.

  Alan opened the text message app on his burner and clicked on the icon for Ron Fleming. He typed the following message:

  “Had a meeting with the chat gang tonight. A very reliable person stood in for me and stated his special request to one of them who is in fact a pimp. Stand-in was given a burner to be used for future contact. No problems. May need $$$ very soon.

  Alan would have preferred speaking to Fleming instead of texting but he’d been instructed by the eccentric software whiz not to call until he was told to. Alan still had trouble dealing with Fleming’s paranoia of being hacked but since he was the man calling the shots, he had to comply.

  The phone suddenly chimed as Fleming’s reply appeared on the screen.

  “Good work. Which one of the chatters is the pimp? Did you get a photo?”

  Alan texted, “It’s the one who goes by Bobbi. I got a shot of the whole group minus Gumbo.”

  “Send it to me.”

  “Hold on.”

  The shot he had taken of the chat room members was still on his iPhone. He went into the kitchen, took the phone from his jacket and clicked on the photo app. After selecting the shot, he transferred the image to the burner through the special uploading app Fleming had provided him.

  He attached the image to his next text message to Fleming and typed:

  “Left to right: Bobbi, Marco and Zorro.”

  He hit send and awaited notification it had been received.

  “Got it. Any idea when your stand-in will hear back?”

  “No, but it could be very soon,” Alan typed.

  “Go to ARL Investments, Inc. in Dublin tomorrow at noon. Ask for Chuck Parnel—he will be expecting you. He will give you cash whenever needed.”

  “OK.”

  “Let me know of any new developments ASAP. Good Night.”

  “Bye.”

  Alan closed out, wondering how much cash Fleming would authorize for this venture. It was anyone’s guess what the charges would be for this sort of “service.” The only thing certain was that it would be a bundle. He’d just have to wait and see.

  This was the part he hated most about cases like this: waiting around indefinitely until something happened. He also didn’t like the idea of potentially putting Doug Salyers in harm’s way. The man was a former client and an amateur actor, not Dirty Harry. Alan would never be able to forgive himself it this scheme somehow went south and Doug got hurt. He would have much rather attended the meeting himself but that would have bee
n out of the question. And on such short notice, Doug had been the only person Alan could think to play the part of Padwinkle the Perv.

  Alan went back into the kitchen and got himself a beer. It had been a long, stressful day. Taking his beer into the den, he plopped down on the recliner, and tuned in the television to a rerun of the Late Show. David Letterman was just beginning the Top Ten List as Pan jumped up on his lap and snuggled in between his legs.

  He was awakened the next morning by the hideous sound of his burner vibrating on the nightstand. He turned on his side, checked the screen and saw that it was Doug Salyers. He groggily pressed the answer button.

  “What’s up?”

  “Got some bad news. The deal is off.”

  Alan’s heart sped up like a machine gun. “What do you mean?”

  “Just got a call from Bobbi. He told me in so many words that I had lied to him and therefore cannot be trusted. Any future dealings are hereby terminated. He added that if he had the time to spare, he would find out who I was working for and liquidate all of us—those were his exact words. Then he said that this was my lucky day because he was too busy now to fuck with it but added that if he ever sees my face again he won’t hesitate to mess it up.”

  “Shit, what did he say you lied about? What did he find out?”

  “Well, I’m pretty sure someone tailed me last night after I left the bar because Bobbi knew exactly where I live. He said that I’m not living in the sort of neighborhood where anyone would expect the wealthy owner of a string of restaurants to live. I tried to give him some lame excuse why my digs were so modest but he wasn’t interested. Guess we should have thought of that, eh?”

  “Jesus, I really screwed this up. I’m so fucking stupid!” Alan lamented.

  “It’s not your fault. I should have realized I was being tailed last night but it never crossed my mind to check my rear view mirror.”

  “No, this is all on me, Doug. I fucked up and I can’t believe my incompetence. I had checked the bar for anybody who might be watching the proceedings and saw nothing suspicious. I never even thought to keep an eye out for somebody who might be parked outside the place that could follow you. Fuck!”

  “Don’t be so hard on yourself. You can’t think of everything. Plus you didn’t exactly have a lot of time to think all of this through from what you told me.”

  He had known all along this had seemed too easy. First the quickly set-up meeting at Buster’s and then the deceptively promising results of the meeting. He was going to have to call Fleming right away and tell him. His client was not going to be pleased at all. In fact, Alan wouldn’t be surprised if he fired his ass on the spot. He wouldn’t blame him for a second if he did, either.

  Fuck!

  “Did he say anything else, Doug?”

  “Nothing other than I am to destroy this phone right away. It was a very brief conversation.”

  “Go ahead and do as he says. Turn the thing off, pull out the battery and throw everything into the Olentangy River. Do it as soon as we get off. And if you ever hear back from Bobbi or feel that you’re being followed, let me know right away. These guys can play hardball, Doug, and the last thing I want is for you to get in any more shit over this. Okay?”

  “Got it. And if you need me for anything else, don’t hesitate to call. I mean it, Alan. Last night was not only exciting as hell but I would love to be a part of the team that puts these sick bastards behind bars.”

  “Thanks for the offer—I appreciate it. Don’t forget what I said and take care.”

  “You, too.”

  As he disconnected Alan wanted to hurl the phone at the wall. He had made mistakes before but this was a fucking lulu. How could he screw this up so soon?

  Hell if he knew. All he was certain of was that he would beg Fleming to keep him on if he had to. He was fighting mad now and wanted these fuckers to fry.

  He wasn’t looking forward to telling Fleming the news at all.

  CHAPTER 22

  Clark Royer hated his job. All he did was stare at a computer screen all day inputting data into his company’s database. The accounting company he worked for specialized in estate planning. Their job was to enable folks—particularly wealthy folks—to keep the federal government from robbing their assets before their family ever got a dime after they passed.

  How boring.

  But there was one thing Clark liked about his job—one major perk that helped him keep his sanity while juggling names and numbers all day: the ability to control.

  He had zero control here, to be sure—hell, he was nothing but a lackey at this place. A lowly peon. He was expected to do his thing, keep everything he heard and read strictly confidential and not give anybody any shit. Do this fucking hackwork for a salary that was about the equivalent of minimum wage while the rest of the staff earned major bucks with copious benefits.

  Clark’s ability to control was elsewhere, far removed from this place, out there in the real world. He had found a comfortable niche for himself where he was the one calling the shots—the chief, the big cheese, the main fucking honcho. When he spoke, people listened and did what they were told, period. Or else.

  Now that’s control.

  Control had its benefits. It wasn’t just about getting his way and seeing folks beg for mercy at his feet. There were the pecuniary awards as well, as in a sizable, non-taxable income. If the assholes working at Davidson and Associates Accounting knew of his personal wealth, they would be impressed. He would be respected around this place instead of being at everybody’s beck and call all the time. They would call him Sir, not Clarky Boy.

  But no one could ever know of his assets or what he did on his own time when he wasn’t working at this place. It wasn’t any of their business and frankly, they might not particularly appreciate the other side of Clark Royer.

  One of the listings suddenly caught his eye. Mabel Louise Stokes, aged 94. Net worth: 2.7 million dollars. One heir: a daughter, Martha Goode, aged 62. Abstract: Mrs. Stokes has terminal cancer and is expected to expire before the end of the year. With the exception of her bank account and a few certificates of deposit, the bulk of her worth is based upon a collection of jewelry and precious stones she has acquired through the years. . .

  Clark smiled as he read the remainder of the listing. He casually leaned back in his chair and glanced around the office to see if anybody was looking in his direction. Carrie’s face was glued to her screen as usual and Martin was on the phone talking to a client. In a single fluid motion he picked up his cellphone, accessed the camera and took a quick shot of the screen. Replacing the phone, he continued scrolling down the page and resumed the tedious work he was being paid to do.

  Later that day he sat at his kitchen table, opened the screen image he had taken and zoomed in on it. The enlarged text revealed that Mabel Stokes lived in a very expensive nursing home, having been forced to vacate her home on Rose Hollow Lane in Fulway, West Virginia. Gabe Dorsey, Mrs. Stokes accountant, noted that Mabel’s sister, Ruth, aged 84, was still living in her elder sister’s home.

  Clark opened up Chrome and did a Google search of the address. He switched over to satellite view and scanned the nearby area. Just as he had hoped, the closest residence to the old woman’s home was nearly a quarter mile away. Her home was a huge three-story brick structure and looked to be at least seventy or eighty years old. It sat on three acres of land surrounded by the West Virginia foothills.

  And laughably accessible. Clark had learned from experience that super-elderly, well-to-do women like Mabel Stokes rarely invested any of their precious millions in security measures that might actually deter burglars from robbing them blind. These old hens were incredibly tight with their money and never seemed to embrace the expression “you can’t take it with you.” They held onto their wealth for one single reason: to leave it to their loving family upon death.

  There was one other important tidbit Clark had learned from his on-the-job experience. These old women weren’t p
articularly keen on storing their valuables in safety deposit boxes, either. Instead, they simply hoarded everything away in some place they felt was secure but in reality was anything but.

  That’s where Clark entered the picture. Unlike most burglars, he liked to do things in his own special, unique way. Most burglars would simply knock on the door, point a gun at an old lady and enter her home by force. Clark thought this was unimaginative and much too simple. He liked a challenge.

  Clark had dreamed of being a cop since he was a young boy. He not only admired what cops did to serve and protect, he appreciated the respect they demanded and more often than not received from the public. When a cop motioned you to pull your car over, you by God pulled over. And when he demanded to see your driver’s license, registration and proof of insurance, you gave it to him. He was running the show. He was the boss, the big cheese at that moment in time. And you obeyed him without question, or there would be hell to pay.

  Clark could think of no greater authority figure in the world than a cop. Cops had the power and the legal right to basically tell people, rich or poor, male or female, sober or wasted to do as they ordered at any given moment. What other job afforded that kind of control?

  As a child, Clark had been painfully shy, reserved and introverted. A lot of the kids at school made fun of him because of his social shortcomings and inability to make friends. He was a loner, and it wasn’t until he became a teen that the tiny chip on his shoulder had become a massive boulder. He was suddenly sick and tired of being bullied and pushed around all the time, feeling like a worm at the end of everybody’s fishing line. Even his parents bossed him around incessantly because he never challenged or back-talked them, no matter how unfair their demands might be.