by Glenn Rogers
She could see me struggling with it.
“I just want to observe, Jake. I won't get in the way.”
I looked at Alex. He shrugged and looked put out.
“Okay, you can ride along. But you do what you're told.”
She smiled radiantly, stood, and gave me a kiss in the cheek. “Thank you, Jake.”
I noticed that she had not agreed to do what she was told.
When we exited the FBI building, we were hit in the face with a blast of hot air. Technically, it wasn’t a Santa Ana wind, but it was close—hot air from the high desert blowing down into the L.A. basin. It was hot and going to get hotter. Even people who love the outdoors want to stay out of the hot dry wind.
Alex was driving. I was in the front with him. Susan was in the back. We decided to go to Norco first to see Gary Moller.
As Alex merged onto the freeway, Susan said, “So, how are you doing, Jake?”
“Holding it together,” I said.
She was silent for a moment. Then she said, “I've only interacted with Monica on a couple of occasions. But it seems clear to me that she's a very nice person. The thing is, there are a lot of nice women out there. It would take more than a nice person to attract you. Monica must be a very special woman … She's also a very lucky woman.”
I took a deep breath. I knew at some point I'd have to have this discussion with Susan. I just didn’t think it would be in the car with her brother driving. A few weeks ago I had to explain Susan to Monica, now I was having to explain Monica to Susan. It was like I’d done something wrong. But I hadn’t! At least, I didn’t think I had. A few months ago, Susan asked me if I would be interested in going out with her when I was ready to move on from Elaine. I'd told her yes. What was I suppose to say, no? I like Susan. She’s beautiful and smart and she’d made it clear that she’s interested in me. What's not to like in that scenario? But things had moved very fast after I'd discovered the truth about Elaine. Monica was right there. But it wasn't just proximity. It was that she was Monica. Susan was right. Monica’s a very special woman. There’s a connection between us that’s difficult to describe. But I feel it. Susan has a lot going for her. But Monica is the one for me. But how do I explain that to Susan? And how do I explain it in front of her brother and my best friend? Crap.
I said, “Monica and I have a lot in common. We share similar interests, we have similar backgrounds, we do the same kind of work. But it’s more than that. I have those same things in common with lots of people. I'm not sure that just having things in common with someone is enough to keep a relationship going. It takes more than that. Monica and I …” I struggled for the right word … “complement each other. We complete each other … at least, she completes me.”
“Like I said,” Susan said, “she’s a lucky woman. And you're a lucky man. It's not easy to find someone you can love and who loves you back.”
“Susan ...”
“It's okay, Jake. You don't need to say anything else. I'm happy for you. And for Monica, too.”
Alex sensed an opportunity and jumped in, changing the subject. God bless him.
“So, Jake,” he said, “what are we hoping to get from Gary Moller?”
“As I understand it,” I said, “Moller was in Chino Men's along with Kyle Dell when James was sent there. Dell and Moller were due to be released in a couple of weeks. James approached them about retaliating against Monica for shooting his brother. Dell said he wasn't interested. He says Moller wasn't interested, either. I want to talk to Moller about it. Hear from him what he said to James.”
“And Moller's in school to learn how to weld?” Alex asked.
“That's what Frank said.”
“How will you confirm what Moller tells you?” Susan asked from the back seat.
“That's a good question,” I said. “Corroborating witnesses are always nice ... if there are any. If there aren't, sometimes it comes down to whether or not you think the person is telling the truth.”
“And how do you decide that?” she asked.
“The eyes.”
“But some people are very good liars.”
“It's not an exact science,” I said.
Chapter 11
Wednesday Morning
Strong Steel in Norco was just barely in Norco, out on the edge of town in what, fifty years before, had been farm or pasture land, transformed, probably in the seventies, into a not so vibrant industrial complex that had failed and had been ignored for a dozen years or more. The school was housed in a quonset hut reminiscent of the nineteen forties. It was enclosed by a six-foot high chain-link fence. Within the compound, rusted cars sat abandoned, on the ground or up on blocks, in various states of assembly, or disassembly, depending on how you looked at it. A large double gate opened inwardly, granting access to the school.
As Alex parked, we could see through the large open double-doors of the quonset hut. Several welders worked at their craft, generating bright balls of white or blue or orange flame, depending on what they were welding and whether they used arc or acetylene.
Alex and I got out and so did Susan. Her eyes met mine. She must have recognized the unspoken warning in them, because she said, “I just want to observe. I won't get in the way.”
I nodded and turned to go find Gary Moller.
We walked into the quonset hut and saw an office off to the left. The top portion of the office wall was glass, so the people in the office could watch the workshop floor. There was one guy in the office. Alex went in first and flashed his badge and identified himself.
“We're looking for Gary Moller,” he said.
The guy behind the desk was fifty something, big, gnarled, and unimpressed by Alex's badge.
“Why?” he asked.
“What's your name?” Alex asked.
“Baxter Lamont.”
“Well, Mr. Lamont, this is official FBI business and none of your business. Now where is Gary Moller?”
“You have a warrant?”
“I don't need a warrant. Where's Moller?”
Lamont hesitated but finally responded, nodding with his head toward a smallish guy, arc welding about half way across the shop floor. Alex looked at him and turned and walked out onto the shop floor. Susan and I followed. As we approached Moller, Alex slowed and stepped aside. I took the lead and approached Moller. With his welding helmet on, he couldn't see us. I tapped him on the shoulder. He broke the arc and raised the helmet to see who was interrupting him. Alex held up his badge. Moller looked at it, at Alex and then at me. He took a deep breath, took the helmet off and stood up.
“Can I help you?”
“Is there someplace we can go to talk?”
“Sure,” he said, pointing. “There's a lunch room back over there.”
Moller was about five nine, one sixty, with brown hair and brown eyes, clean-shaven. He looked more like a schoolteacher than a welder. He led us to the lunchroom and we sat around the table. He looked at Susan for a moment, then at Alex, and finally at me, waiting for me to begin.
“I understand you were just recently released from Chino Men's.”
“Yeah.”
“I also understand that just before you were released, a man named James Benson approached you and Kyle Dell about a woman named Monica Nolan.”
“Yeah, he did.”
“What'd he say?”
“Said this Nolan woman killed his brother and that he wanted to get even. He was looking for someone to take her out. That's how he said it ... take her out. Been watching too many movies.”
“And what did you say?”
“I told him I wasn't interested.”
“Why? Wasn't he offering enough money?”
Moller gave a snort and shook his head. “I was in there for selling drugs. I'm not a killer.”
“A drug dealer, huh?”
He took a deep breath. “Not really. I was the manager of a Blockbuster store. A big one. We did a lot of business. I was in line to move over to corporate.
Then, thanks to Netflix and Amazon, the market for DVD and video rentals dried up. Stores closed. My store closed. I couldn't find work that paid enough to make my mortgage payments. One day, a guy approaches me and says I can make a bundle in a couple of hours by delivering a package for him. I did. And I made a lot of money. I told him I would be happy to do more of that kind of work. Eventually, he asked me about selling. More money in selling than in just delivering. I said, sure. Turns out I wasn't good at it. I got caught and went to prison. Now I'm out and learning a trade so I can support myself, legally, including making alimony and child support payments. When I was arrested for selling drugs, my wife divorced me.”
“That's a sad story, Mr. Moller. Was anyone with you when you told Benson no?”
“Sure. Kyle Dell.”
“This past Monday morning,” I said, “where were you between five and eight a.m.?”
“Home. Getting up. Getting ready to come to school.”
“Can anyone confirm that?”
“No. I live alone.”
I looked at him, studying his eyes.
“Why,” he asked. “What happened Monday morning?”
“Monica Nolan was abducted.”
He shook his head. “I was not involved.”
I continued to stare at him.
“Look,” Moller said, “I've got a good thing going on here. I got a scholarship and a loan to pay for school. When I graduate in a few weeks, I've got a job lined up. Starting salary of thirty-five thousand. Enough for me to live on. I'm not going jeopardize that for some loser in prison.”
“Loser in prison,” I said. “The same prison you were just released from?”
“Look, I made a mistake. I was punished for it. I'm not a career criminal like James Benson.”
I studied Moller's face some more, then asked, “When you and Dell said no, did Benson ask other guys?”
“Probably.”
“Any idea who?”
“None,” he said, shaking his head.
I studied his eyes some more.
“I didn't have anything to do with Ms. Nolan's disappearance,” he said. “And I have no idea who might have been involved.”
He was calm and looking me in the eye. I believed him.
“All right, Gary. Thank you for your time.”
Alex, Susan, and I got up and walked to the door.
Still seated, Moller said, “I hope you find her.”
I stopped and looked at him. “Thank you,” I said.
As Alex pulled out of the Strong Steel yard onto the street, Susan said, “The process is much more effective when you see it being used than it sounds when you hear it described.”
Alex said, “Depends a lot on who the interrogator is. Jake is one of the best. Got a very menacing stare.”
“I’m sure the physique has a lot to do with it, too. The shoulders, the chest, the neck.”
I didn’t respond, so Susan said, “So you believed what he said?”
“Yeah,” I answered.
“From his eyes?”
“Windows to the soul,” I said.
“What if he was a psychopath?” she asked.
“You interview many people with antisocial personality disorder?” I asked.
“Not really.”
“I have. Moller isn’t one.”
Susan was quiet for a moment, thinking and making mental notes. After Alex had merged onto the 15, she asked, “So who's next?”
“Guy named Albert Humphries,” Alex said. “A violent man who belongs to a violent motorcycle gang called the Marauders.”
Chapter 12
Wednesday Noon
The hot wind was still blowing. The further inland you went, the hotter it got. It was just over a hundred degrees on its way up to a hundred and five.
Fontana was one of the cities off Interstate 10 that comprised what is sometimes called the Inland Empire: communities at the foot of the San Bernardino mountains: San Bernardino, Redlands, Colton, Loma Linda, Realto, Fontana, and a few others. Some parts of Realto and Fontana were better than others. I suspected the Marauders’ clubs, Tops and Bottoms, and Pandora's Box, were in areas that were not considered the better areas.
We had no way of knowing where we'd find Albert Humphries. We decided to go by his home address. Maybe we'd get lucky. If not, we'd go to each of the clubs. Frank had faxed a mug shot of Albert, so we knew what he looked like. If we were lucky, someone would point him out to us. If not, we’d work from the photo and hope he hadn’t changed much from when the photo was taken.
Alex drove by his house. It was normal looking enough. The yard needing mowing; the trim on the house needing painting. The garage door was down. Alex turned around at the end of the street and came back, parking in front. We all got out and went up to the door. Alex knocked. No answer. He knocked again. Nothing. He called out, identifying himself. No response. Alex knocked again.
While we were waiting, a young woman came out of the house next door. She was short, overweight, wearing flip-flops, stretchy pink shorts, a baggy blue tee shirt, and had a baby on her hip. “Al ain't home,” she said. “Never home during the day.”
“Any idea where we might find him?” Alex asked.
“Most likely at Pandora's Box or Tops and Bottoms.”
She seemed to think that we would know what those names referred to. We did, but it struck me that she would simply assume that we would.
“Okay, thanks,” Alex said.
We went back to our car. I used my iPhone to look up the addresses of the clubs and told Alex where Pandora's Box was.
“So, we're going to a strip club,” Susan said.
“You go where the job takes you,” Alex said.
“Hu-huh,” Susan said. “How are you going to interview people with your eyes closed?”
I turned in the seat to look at her. “Have you ever been to a strip club?”
“I certainly have not.”
“Well, then, this trip is going to be quite a learning experience for you, isn't it? That is what you wanted out of this ride along, right, to learn something? This is going to be an eye-opener.”
She narrowed her eyes at me. “I expect both of you to maintain strict professional detachment,” she said, “and not enjoy yourselves at all.”
Alex said, “Who are you, the Grinch who stole carnal pleasure?”
“Just as I always suspected,” Susan said, “my brother, the pig.”
“Why don't you reserve judgment until after we've left the club,” I said, “and then decide?”
Alex found Pandora's Box. It was lunchtime and the parking lot was nearly full—motorcycles, new cars, old cars, expensive cars, cheap cars, pickups and SUVs. Alex found a spot next to a Mercedes S class. As we got out of the car, I noticed Susan shaking her head.
“What?” I asked.
“I can't believe this many guys are spending their lunch hour doing this sort of thing.”
I smiled.
We could hear the music as we approached the door. There was a ten-dollar cover charge. Alex paid for all three of us. The club floor was dimly lit and we stood just inside the entrance while our eyes adjusted. In the front of the club, there were two stages, one on either side of the room. A naked girl writhed rhythmically and seductively on each of the stages, sometimes swinging around the poll in the center of the stage. Men sat around the edge of the stages putting dollar bills on the stage for the girls to collect. Further away from the stages and throughout the middle of the club, sat small round tables with one or two men at each table. Waitresses wearing a G-string and high heels circulated among the tables taking drink and food orders. Several were giving lap dances. Susan gaped at the scene in stunned amazement.
A very well endowed waitress came and asked us if she could show us to a table.
“The bar will be fine,” I said.
She led us around the edge of the club to the bar where there were a few open stools. I thanked her. She smiled and moved off into the maze of tabl
es. Alex and I scanned the club patrons. As we did, our eyes inadvertently strayed to the girls on the stages. I glanced at Susan. It was clear that she was not prepared for the gynecological display on the stages or the ten sets of bare breasts circulating among the tables.
An attractive female bartender wearing the same uniform as the waitresses came down to us.
“What can I get you?”
“Got Coke Zero?”
“Just Diet Coke.”
“Three,” I said.
When she sat them on the bar. I gave her enough for the drinks and a tip and said, “We need to talk to a guy, Al Humphries. Is he here?”
Without hesitation, she shook her head and said, “Not here today. He's over at Tops and Bottoms.”
“Thanks,” I said. I looked at Alex. He nodded, took a sip of his Coke and smiled at me. We each took our drink, turned toward the stages, and began watching the girls on the stages. Susan looked from me to Alex and back to me. She shook her head, said, “I'll wait in the car.” Alex and I laughed and followed her out.
As we got in the car, Susan said, “That was a disgusting display.”
“What was disgusting,” I said, “was how much they charged for a Coke.”
“That's what you thought was disgusting,” she said, “the price of the Cokes?”
“Yeah.”
Exasperated, she shook her head.
“Are you under the impression,” I asked her, “that men find female nudity to be a disgusting thing?”
“Do you approve of that sort of thing?”
“Do you disapprove of it?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“Those women are being exploited. Put on display for the depraved pleasure of those men.”
“Those women,” Alex said, joining in, “are making more money than you will make as a forensic psychologist working for the FBI. No one is making them do what they're doing. I'm not sure the charge of exploitation is valid.”
