She went through the daunting task of reading each and every abstract listed for all four of the names. By the time she had gotten to the last name, it was nearly six o’clock in the evening and she wanted to pull out her hair. She had apparently just wasted the entire day in search of a red herring.
Then she suddenly got a break.
She was reading the fourth page of results for Clark Royer when an abstract from a newspaper article caught her interest:
Teen Pulled over for Impersonating a Police Officer. An Eggers, Ohio police officer pulled over a Central High School senior after noticing that the teen was driving what appeared to be one of the city’s police squad cars. When Patrolman Thomas Day questioned Clark Royer, 18, he noticed that the interior of the Ford Crown Victoria was not equipped for police use. Day asked the teen why the car was marked identically to a city squad car and he replied that it was part of a Halloween prank he had planned to pull on a friend. After being informed that impersonating a police officer was a serious offense, the teen explained he had painted the car “just for fun” and didn’t realize that it was against the law. Because the boy had not been in the act of impersonating an officer of the law at the time and had no prior record, Sgt. Day let him off with a stern warning and a direct order to remove the markings on the car within the next twenty-four hours.
Could this be the same Clark Royer that worked at Davidson? She checked the date of the article and estimated that the teen would be in his mid-twenties now.
She typed in Clark Royer’s name on Google and clicked on the “images” tab. The window became filled with thumbnail images of what had to be every Clark Royer in the country, if not the world. She needed to determine which photo belonged to the Clark Royer at Davidson and if possible which one was the Clark Royer mentioned in the newspaper article. Starting at the top, she began painstakingly clicking on each thumbnail and then visiting the webpage of origin for that image. She already knew that Clark Royer had no Facebook page, so the odds were not particularly in her favor. She saved some time by only clicking on the images of men who appeared to be in their late teens to early thirties, assuming that her hunch was right.
She had reached the bottom of the page when she found him. The page she had clicked on took her to a photo of a group of college grads posted on a website hosted by a University of Akron alumnus. The Ohio town of Eggers was near Akron. There in the middle of the last row stood Clark Royer. The caption read, Clark Royer, B.S. Computer Science.
That has to be him! she thought. Not only was computer science the likely major for a future database worker, the age of this guy was just right for him to have been a senior in high school the year the newspaper article had been published.
There was one more search she needed to do. She typed Clark Royer in the search field again and then clicked on the “find Clark Royer” prompt. She was then taken to a “View Clark Royer on Whitepages” button and clicked it. There were a total of ten Clark Royers listed in the U.S. with two in Ohio. She clicked on the Address link for the first one and saw that he lived in Cheviot, which was a Cincinnati suburb. Not him. She clicked on the next one, who she saw lived in a tiny town called Anston. She clicked on the map, enlarged the view and discovered that this tiny town was about fifteen miles from Cleveland.
Eureka!
Her heart racing, Amanda excitedly jotted down the address for Clark L. Royer.
CHAPTER 26
Night was beginning to fall as Alan opened the app and was taken to the log-in window. Before entering the new code into the username field, it suddenly dawned on him that he’d forgotten to call Doug Salyers back to inform him to make himself invisible for a while until things had a chance to cool down. Most of the day had been spent learning all he could about Brock Matthews and attempting to devise some sort of game plan to set him up. He made a mental note to phone Doug after he was finished here.
He was glad he’d called Fleming back to see if this idea would work because it could save him a lot of time and trouble. He certainly couldn’t log into the chat room again using the handle “Padwinkle” since his cover was already blown; but what about accessing the room anonymously—would that be possible? Fleming’s answer had been affirmative, but it would require a special code in order to work. The software designer told Alan that during his first attempts to hack the chat room he had devised a way to get in without the others being aware of his presence. This was in fact how he had been able to observe what was being said in the chat room prior to his inventing the fictitious Padwinkle character.
However, he added, it would not be possible to simply copy and paste the code into the log-in field. Alan would have to manually type in the long string of code Fleming had texted him in the username field, followed by an altogether different string for the password. He had been warned that if he didn’t type it all in quickly enough, he would be dropped from the log-in page and not be able to access it again for twenty-four hours.
This was unsettling news—Alan was not exactly the swiftest typist around—far from it. So he had practiced typing the code strings beforehand, hoping this would give him an edge.
Heaving a long sigh, he locked his fingers together, cracked his knuckles and outstretched his arms in preparation.
“Here goes,” he said aloud.
He placed the cursor inside the box, and while referring to the text, began typing in the first string of code. He promptly screwed up a couple of characters, hastily deleted them and re-typed as quickly as his fingers would allow. After finishing the first string, he hit the tab key and felt a bead of sweat run down his brow as he typed in the remaining code. He finished just as the page gave way to a black void followed by a rotating arrow indicating that the code was being interpreted and processed on the other end of God only knew where.
Suddenly the screen came to life with the chat room window. He’d done it!
He checked to see who was currently logged in and saw that the entire gang was there plus another member whose handle was “Chevy.” Alan settled back and watched the screen as the conversation ensued:
“I’ve never done that,” Gumbo said.
“You should give it a try,” Zorro replied.
“She wouldn’t understand that sort of thing. I don’t want to confuse her.”
“You’re not going to confuse her. She probably knows a hell of lot more than you think. That one’s been around the block, right Bobbi?”
“Correct. She’s eight going on eighteen—one of the best!”
“Not my type, then. I like an honest to goodness princess, not some slut!” Gumbo said.
“You’re too sentimental, Gumbo. But I hear what you’re saying,” Bobbi said.
“What are your thoughts, Chevy?” Zorro asked.
“Tiny. The tinier the better,” Chevy replied.
“That sounds kinda scary. We aren’t talking ‘baby,’ are we?” Gumbo inquired.
“Oh, Lord no! Nothing like that! Just tiny in a relative way. You know.”
“Ya had me scared there for a second, Chev!”
“Hey, you gotta draw the line somewhere!”
“I once knew somebody that swung that way. Gotta say, it was disgusting just to think of it. I asked him what he got out of doing that and he said there’s nothing like it on earth. Can you imagine? Baby booming?”
“I agree. People like that should be hung up by their nuts and left out to dry,” Zorro said.
“Not to change the subject, but any of you ever held a whipped cream party?” Gumbo asked.
“What’s that?”
“You just tell ‘em that you’re going to play a game and the object is to squirt whipped cream somewhere on your body and then she—or he if that’s your pref—has to guess what the name is for that dessert. If they don’t answer right, they have to lick it off. Then you trade places and it’s their turn to do the squirting!”
“LOL. You mean like squirting it on yourself and calling it a banana split?”
“You got it!”
As he followed the chat, Alan felt nothing but disgust and contempt. How anybody could discuss these sorts of topics like they were in some kind of pissing match was far beyond him. And to think that the objects of their conquests were exploited children who had been snatched up from their homes and prepped for sex was beyond comprehension. What’s wrong with these men? And what were they like while going about their everyday lives? Is this the sort of thing they thought of while having breakfast with their families—or working their regular jobs? Going through the motions of a normal existence while secretly fantasizing about sex with kids?
He continued following the chat for another hour or so until there were only three men left in the room—Bobbi, Gumbo and Marco.
“How does Tuesday look? Say around ten PM?” Gumbo typed.
“Your little princess?” Bobbi replied.
“Of course.”
“She’s free then.”
“Awesome!”
“Call me to confirm—you know the rest.”
“Will do. Ciao.”
Gumbo signed out. Alan crossed his fingers, hoping that Marco, alias Brock Matthews, would be booking a child for himself before he signed off. Somebody began typing and Alan waited anxiously for the text to appear.
“Are we still good for tomorrow?” Marco said.
“Correct. Checked in earlier and they think she’s finally ready for her maiden voyage.”
“I can hardly wait! Tell me more about her!”
“Cool your jets, Marco! You know the rules. All I can say is she is still exactly as described earlier. A real sweetheart. The rest you’re just going to have to find out for yourself tomorrow night.”
“Excellent! I’ll confirm by the usual time.” Marco said.
“Good enough. I’m outa here.” Bobbi said.
Bobbi’s name disappeared from the screen as he signed off. Marco’s name disappeared a moment later and the session was over.
Alan couldn’t believe his good fortune. Not only had Matthews arranged for some time with one of the victims, who apparently was a newbie to this abominable racket, he knew that it would take place sometime tomorrow night. The bad news was that he had very little time to prepare. In fact, he had serious doubts he would be able to pull this off on such short notice. But he was going to give it a hell of a try.
He shut down his iMac and went upstairs. He changed into a pair of black jeans and long sleeved tee shirt, then slipped an old pair of black Chuck Taylors on. Pan had followed him up to his room and was now staring at him expectantly, hoping he would be taking her along this time.
“Sorry, girl. But I’m afraid you’re gonna have to sit this one out,” he said, patting her head.
She barked once, letting him know of her disappointment but continued wagging her tail as she followed him down the hall to his old office. He gathered up all of his equipment, double-checked the battery strength and placed all of it into a nylon duffle bag.
Back in his living room office, Alan collected the printouts he had made of Matthews neighborhood. He stapled them together, grabbed his iPhone and left the house. As he backed out of the driveway, the Pilot’s stereo picked up his bluetooth signal and Steely Dan’s Reelin’ in the Years kicked in and poured out of the speakers.
But the song only served as a backdrop to what was going on in his head. He had a basic idea of what he needed to do, but the problem would be the logistics. The Matthews home appeared to be fairly well secluded from the neighbors’ wandering eyes but what about his family inside? He had a wife, and two children who were in their early teens. How would he be able to get over the six-foot steel fence with its pointed posts as sharp as ice picks without being spotted? Or impaled? And there would no doubt be motion and heat detectors set up on the grounds at the very least, and for all he knew a couple of fricking Dobermans thrown in.
Although he was no stranger to the potential risks involved, most of his surveillance was carried out in the day by choice whenever possible. People were surprisingly lax during the daylight hours and not nearly as cautious as they should be. What he had to do in order to make this work would have to be done under a cloak of darkness and Brock Matthews was a multi-millionaire, which meant that he had likely spared no expense to keep his precious possessions secure.
One thing at a time, he thought.
He reached New Albany twenty minutes later and headed toward the north side of town. Five minutes later he found Matthews’ street and pulled onto it, keeping his eyes peeled, searching the addresses. His GPS indicated that he was a couple of houses away and he spotted the driveway a moment later. He drove past the home slowly, attempting to put the image he’d printed out from Goggle into real perspective. The fence was set back from the sidewalk and the impressive three-story home was set back a hundred yards beyond the fence. He increased his speed and drove up to the first intersection he came to, turned right and parked the car.
Grabbing the duffle bag, he got out and began backtracking his way to the Matthews home. When he reached the next-door neighbor who lived to the east, he waited for an oncoming car to drive past and then sprinted up the neighbor’s driveway. There was a forty foot wooded area separating the neighbor’s residence from the Matthews and Alan quickly took refuge within it. He went over to the fence and walked beside it until he’d travelled thirty yards from the street and stopped when he spotted what he had been hoping for. There stood a tall elm tree with several of its limbs extending over the fence to the Matthews property.
Shouldering the duffle bag, he began scaling the tree. Halfway up, he walked out onto one of the branches far enough, he hoped, to hang drop from it without breaking a leg or two. He wasn’t in the best physical shape and he hoped he wasn’t being overly confident of his ability to perform this stunt. In a moment he reckoned he would find out.
The branch was bowing quite a bit as he crouched down and grasped the limb with both hands. He let himself drop awkwardly while still holding onto the limb with all his strength. His first reality check came as he realized what a fricking weakling he’d become since the last time he’d done something as crazy as this. His second reality check came when he looked down and estimated that the vertical drop to the ground would be around ten feet.
He had little time to think about it as his hands suddenly gave way and he fell like a rock to the ground. The shock of landing startled him and he fell backwards onto his ass the second he hit. The sound seemed so loud he thought for sure someone had probably heard him so he sat still for a full minute before attempting to stand up.
To his surprise and relief, nothing was broken as he got onto his feet. His joints and backside were sore but nothing that a half bottle of ibuprofen couldn’t cure.
He straightened out the bag on his shoulder and took cover at the first tree he saw on Matthews land. He could clearly see the house, which was lit up like a Christmas tree. He checked his watch and saw that it was almost ten o’clock. Still pretty early. The kids were on summer break and may not be home but that was anyone’s guess.
Alan found himself somewhere between the front and side yard. Most of the light was coming from the rear of the house where the in-ground pool and deck were. It was pretty chilly so he doubted that anybody was swimming but he couldn’t tell from this perspective. He felt confident that he could get closer to the house without being seen as long as he stayed away from the floodlights serving the backyard.
He slinked toward the house, half-expecting a dog to come tearing out toward him at any moment. There was absolutely nothing he could do but run if the Matthews had a watchdog and the whole operation would be dead in the water. He could only hope his luck would continue as he neared the house.
There was a pair of large windows facing the side yard so he hit the ground and crawled on his hands and knees the remainder of the distance. He stood up halfway between them before inching his way toward the window closest to the rear of the home and cautiously peeked inside. It appeared to
be the dining room. The only light came from a chandelier hanging over a large cherry wood table for ten.
He reached the end of the house and gazed cautiously around the corner. The pool was uninhibited and nobody was out on the deck. So far, so good. He spotted what looked like a sunroom beyond the deck with a sliding door that provided access. There was another door leading out to the deck from the house.
Recalling that the connected garage would be on the other side of the house, he considered the best way to get there. Lights shone from all of the rooms facing the back so there was a good chance of being seen if he were to cut across under the lights. He looked past the pool and noticed that the light fell off sharply toward the very rear of the grounds.
He cut back toward the side yard and headed toward the darkness beyond the pool. He had just reached the fence line when he heard a door open and the sound of a dog barking its head off. He looked toward the deck and saw a small white dog about the size of a large cat tear out into the side yard and stop dead in its tracks to take a piss. Alan froze and stared at the dog, hoping the thing wouldn’t pick up his scent. After relieving itself, it began sniffing around the yard with no particular destination in mind until somebody shouted from the door.
“C’mon, Putzy!” a girl’s voice called.
Putzy ignored the call until he was done patrolling the grounds then all of a sudden broke into a run and headed back to the deck. A moment later the door opened and Putzy went inside.
Heaving a sigh of relief, Alan resumed walking the fence until he reached the far side. There was a large driveway with a black Lincoln Town Car parked outside the three-car garage. He took a look at the license plate just to be sure it wasn’t the wife’s car and confirmed that it was indeed Brock’s ride.
Double Trouble Page 23
