by Glenn Rogers
“I can't believe you two think that sort of thing is okay.”
“I don't recall either one of us saying it was okay,” I said. “We're just responding to your allegation that the women are being exploited.”
“Well, I think it's disgusting,” Susan said.
“You want to wait for us in the car when we get to Tops and Bottoms?” Alex asked.
She frowned. “No. I'm here to observe.”
“That’s all we were doing when we were in there,” I said. “Observing.”
Alex chuckled.
“Ha, ha,” Susan said, sarcastically.
Chapter 13
Wednesday Afternoon
I gave Alex directions to Tops and Bottoms. The parking lot was full. Alex paid the ten-dollar cover charge for each of us and we went in. The layout of this club was different. Here, a long stage ran down the middle of the club with seating at the stage running the length of the stage on either side. Four girls danced, each displaying her wares to the side of the stage generating the most tips. Further away from the stage were small tables with two or three chairs at each table. Some of the men at the tables were eating burgers and fries as they watched the dancers. Throughout the club, waitresses were providing lap dances for those willing to pay extra for a more up close and personal performance.
As before, a waitress in a G-string offered to take us to a table. She was tall with an athletic build that had been impressively augmented. Her short hair was blond but the roots were darker. She had lively, intelligent eyes.
“Something back in one of the corners,” I said.
She led us to a table with three chairs and we sat. Alex sat next to me. Susan sat on the end. I ordered three Diet Cokes.
Susan leaned in and asked, “Do they all shave their … um?”
“Yes,” Alex said.
“Why?”
“So there is an unobstructed view,” he said.
“You’re enjoying this, aren’t you?” she said, obviously annoyed with her brother.
When the waitress returned with the Cokes, I paid and tipped her and asked about Al Humphries.
“I serve drinks to cops,” she said, “I don't talk to cops.”
“Do I look like a cop?” I asked.
“Maybe not you,” she said. Then nodding toward Susan and Alex, she said, “But these two certainly do.”
Susan said, “I'm not a cop.”
“No? What then? A grad student writing a thesis on the exploitation of women in the sex industry?”
“As a matter of fact,” Susan said, “I'm working on my Ph.D. in forensic psychology and ...”
I held my hand out toward Susan and said to the waitress, “Look, I’m not a cop and neither is she. We just need to talk to Al Humphries. Okay. There doesn't have to be a problem here. We just have some questions.”
She thought about it a moment. “I'll pass on your request. Whether or not he talks to you is up to him.”
“Thank you.”
In a few minutes, three big guys approached our table. I recognized Humphries from his mug shot photo.
The three of them pulled up chairs and sat down opposite us. Al was directly opposite me, with a friend on either side of him. Humphries was a rough-looking guy. A big head on a big body. Looked like he outweighed me by forty pounds. Long hair. Tattoos. But clean shaven. He smelled of Aramis cologne. Same stuff I wear. He wore Levis and a Levis vest over a black tee shirt. His buddies were also big. Dressed similarly.
“Who are you?” Al said.
I handed him my card. “Jake Badger,” I said.
He looked me, studied my card a moment and looked back at me.
“You look familiar. We meet somewhere?”
I shook my head.
“Your name is familiar, too.”
One of his buddies said, “There was a cage fighter a few years back named Jake Badger.”
“That's right,” Humphries said. “You that Jake Badger?”
I nodded. “Yeah.”
“Who are these two?
“Just friends.”
“Friends,” he said.
“Friends,” I said.
Humphries regarded me a moment and said, “You were good. You had what, forty fights?”
“Forty-two.”
“Won all of them.”
I nodded.
“Why'd you quit?”
“Gomez.”
“That the guy you messed up?”
I nodded.
“Rough sport. You won.”
“I lost my temper,” I said. “I didn't just win the fight. I hurt him. He was in a coma for six weeks.”
He studied me. “Lost your temper, huh? You got a bad temper?”
“Depends,” I said.
“On what?”
“On whether or not people piss me off.” In my peripheral vision I could see Susan watching the exchange. She appeared to be fascinated.
Humphries laughed and looked at his two buddies. “It depends on whether or not people piss him off.” He laughed again. “That's funny.”
He noticed I wasn't laughing. He looked me in the eye and said, “So, Mr. Badger, what do you want to talk about?”
“Monica Nolan.”
Albert's face hardened.
“That bitch killed my son,” he said, menacingly.
My eyes bore into his and I knew he could see the anger there. I sensed a slight adjustment in Alex's position. He was getting ready, just in case. He put his right hand inside his coat. The big guy sitting opposite him saw, stiffened and watched him closely. And while I couldn’t see Susan, I knew she would be getting scared. The contrast between her and Monica was stark. Monica would have been ready to throw down with these guys. Monica's a warrior. Fight, or pull her weapon and shoot, she'd have been ready to go either way. But Susan wasn't. She was vulnerable. I had to be careful or she could get hurt. But I also needed Humphries to understand what was going on here.
I leaned across the table toward him. “Monica Nolan,” I said, in a tone that matched the look in my eyes, “is not a bitch. And if you slander her again, I'm going to crush you windpipe and watch you die on the floor. And there won't be anything your friends can do to stop me. Do you understand that, Albert?”
Albert's rate of respiration increased. His pupils began to constrict.
“You realize where you are?” he asked. His voice sound strained.
“Doesn't matter,” I said. “First one to die is you. Then your two friends here. Then five or six more before they even have a chance of getting one of us. That how you want it to go down?”
His eyes continued to hold mine. He couldn't back down. I knew that. But he could take a different tack. Fortunately, he decided to give it a try.
“Monica Nolan killed my son,” he said, with as hard an edge as he could manage.
“Your son was drunk,” I said. “He resisted arrest. He took a swing at Captain Nolan. She slipped his punch and countered. Her punch landed and he went down. When he did, his head hit the floor, hard. He died of traumatic brain injury. He died because he resisted arrest. Captain Nolan didn't kill him.”
“I've heard that fairy tale before,” Albert said.
“Court of military justice says that's what happened.”
“It's a lie. A cover up.”
“Monday was the fifth anniversary of your son's death.”
“So?”
“Might be a good time to even the score.”
His eyes changed. Now there were questions.
“What happened?” he asked.
“Where were you Monday morning between five and eight a.m.?”
“Home. Asleep.”
“Can anyone corroborate that?”
“My girlfriend.”
“Who's your girlfriend?”
He looked over his shoulder and then back to me. “Amber. The blond on the stage.”
I kept my eyes locked onto his.
“What's happened, Badger?” Al asked again. “Why are y
ou here?”
“Ms. Nolan was abducted Monday morning.”
“And you think I had something to do with it?”
“I think it's possible.”
“Well, I didn't.”
“Convince me.”
“You're just a private detective. I don't have to convince you of anything.”
“Convince me, then,” Alex said.
“Who are you?”
“FBI.”
Humphries leaned back a little, put his hands flat on the small table between us, took in a deep breath through his nose, and said, “I've been inside. I didn't like it. I’m not going back. I loved my son. I miss him. But nothing I do at this point is going to bring him back. I did everything I could legally do to hold the army and Captain Nolan accountable. Didn't do any good. Going after her and ending up back in prison or dead would not be productive.”
“Nice speech,” I said.
He didn't say anything.
“You're a Marauder,” Alex said. “You got a whole brotherhood who would avenge your son’s death for you.”
He was still for a moment. Then he began to nod his head slowly. “Could have gone down that way,” he said. “But it didn't.”
“He shifted his eyes from Alex back to me. “I didn't have anything to do with Ms. Nolan’s disappearance.”
His breathing had slowed. He was calm. His eyes held mine.
After a moment, he shook his head and said, almost softly, “I didn't do it.”
The music was ending. The girls on stage picked up the tips that had been put on the stage. They would be off the stage in a moment.
“Call Amber over,” I said.
Albert glanced to the guy on his left and jerked his head toward the stage. His large friend got up and left. We sat quietly until his friend returned with Amber.
Amber had put her red G-string back on. She looked to be in her early twenties. Her body was firm from working out. She walked up and stood beside Albert. “Tell these gentlemen where I was Monday morning between five and eight a.m.”
“He was home, in bed, with me.”
There wasn't anything else to be done at the moment, so I said, “Okay, Albert. That's all for now. Thank you for your cooperation.”
Alex and I stood. I looked at Susan. She was visibly shaken and having to make a concerted effort to stand. She finally got to her feet. Her hands trembled. Alex took her arm to steady her and led her out of the club. I followed.
Chapter 14
Wednesday Afternoon
As we stepped out into the hot sun, Susan didn't look good. As we got to the car, Alex let go of her and went around to the driver's side door. I was coming up behind her when she bent over and threw up on the ground near the back tire. Alex looked at her and shook his head. As she straightened up, I offered her my handkerchief. She wiped her mouth, being careful not to look at me. I gave her a mint.
When she finally looked at me, she said, “I don't know you at all, do I?” She was still shaky.
I shook my head.
“Does Monica?”
I nodded. “Yeah.”
She got in the back seat without another word. Alex and I looked at each other across the roof of the car. Alex shook his head again.
We were on the 10 Freeway headed back toward L.A. when a black Escalade pulled alongside us. I just happened to look up as the window behind the driver was coming down.
“Shooter!” I yelled.
Alex hit the breaks just as the gunman opened up with an Uzi. I pitched over toward Alex as a dozen slugs tore through the top of the passenger window, the windshield, and the roof of the car as the big black SUV went roaring past. Susan was screaming. The driver of the Escalade hit the accelerator and so did Alex, pulling into the lane directly behind the Escalade, in hot pursuit. I sat back up and used my iPhone to call 911. I told them we had a drive-by shooting with an FBI vehicle in pursuit. I was able to give them the plate number on the Escalade.
The Escalade was trying to outrun us making lane changes right and left. Alex had a lot of extra power under the hood and was able to keep up. I let down the passenger side window, took out my .357, leaned out the window and put five rounds in the back of the Escalade. When the fifth round hit, the Escalade lurched to the left, cut across two lanes, crashed into the center guardrail and scraped along for a few yards, spraying a shower of sparks into the air. Alex was able to stop on the inside shoulder, about twenty feet behind it. We opened our doors and crouched behind them, guns trained on the Escalade.
The back end of the big SUV ended up sticking a few feet out into the far inside lane, far enough away from the guardrail so that the back door could be opened. The windows of the SUV were tinted. We couldn't see inside the vehicle. We waited. In a moment, the left rear door opened and a wiry young Latino jumped out, gun in hand and fired in our direction. He missed. I didn't have a good shot. Alex did. He put three rounds in the young man's chest.
We didn't know who else was in the car, so we waited a few more seconds. Everything was still and calm.
“Let's approach,” Alex said.
Traffic had stopped behind us. Four lanes of traffic on one of the busiest freeways in the country sat still, watching the scene unfold, as Alex and I, guns in hand, approached the Escalade.
We stopped at the back of the black beast. The back door on Alex's side was open. He approached cautiously, stepping over the body of the young man he'd shot, and peered inside the vehicle. “Clear,” he said.
I went up to the front passenger door and opened it. A dead body occupied the front passenger seat. The driver's door was against the guardrail and wouldn't open. The man behind the wheel was also dead. I'd gotten lucky with two of my five shots.
In a moment, we heard the sirens. The California Highway Patrol approached the scene from both directions. Alex took out his badge and held it high in the air so the officers would know we were the good guys.
While he did that, I called Frank. I explained what happened, gave him the Escalade's license plate number.
“Okay,” he said. “I'll run it. You need anything else?”
“I think we’re good. Alex can get some more agents out here if we need anything.”
“All right. I'll get back to you in a few minutes.”
I went back to see how Susan was.
She was sitting in the backseat, trembling, crying. I got in and sat down next to her. She folded herself into my arms, buried her face in my chest and sobbed uncontrollably. Alex was at the back of the Escalade talking with the CHPs. He looked back in our direction. Our eyes met. I nodded. He could see that I was attending to Susan. He nodded and went back to his conversation.
After a few minutes, Susan regained herself and pulled away. She shook her head. “I had no idea,” she said.
“I know. Actually, it's not this exciting all the time. You just happened to catch us on a good day. Most of the time, investigative work is kind of boring.”
“Joking?” she said. “After what just happened, you're making a joke?”
“Fear can be paralyzing,” I said, serious now. “In the end, anger is self-destructive. Taking things in stride is the only way to survive. Sometimes reality is so absurd that you have to laugh to keep from crying.”
She took a deep breath. “I just watched my brother kill a man.”
“Would you rather have watched that man kill your brother?”
She looked at me for a moment and then looked away. Staring into the distance, she asked, “Why does anyone have to kill anyone?” She brought her eyes back to mine.
“They don't have to,” I said. “But they do. It's a feature of the human condition, an aspect of reality that exists, whether we like it or not. We are a violent species. Some of us have jobs that bring us in contact with it. If you want to be a forensic psychologist for the FBI, you're going to have to get used to it.”
Her eyes held mine for a moment before she pulled them away and stared off into nothing.
The
CHPs secured the scene, closing down the two inside lanes of the 10 westbound and got traffic moving in the other three westbound lanes. They closed only the inside lane of the eastbound side. The whole thing caused quite a traffic snarl.
Chapter 15
Wednesday Afternoon
Alex had a couple of his agents bring us another vehicle and had the one we had been driving towed to the FBI forensics facility so they could go over it. All they'd find would be bullet holes from an Uzi, probably a nine millimeter, but protocol required that it be examined.
Once we were under way, Alex said, “How about lunch? We'll feel better after we sit and relax a bit and eat.”
“Sounds good,” I said.
We waited. Susan didn't respond.
“Susan,” Alex said, looking at her in the rearview mirror. “That okay with you?”
“I'm not hungry.”
“You'll feel better if you have something. Maybe a glass of wine.”
I had turned in my seat to look at her. She gave an almost imperceptible nod and said, “Sure. Whatever you say.” It was almost a whisper. The far away look in her eye could have been despair or defeat.
There was a Chili's in Montclair, just off the freeway. We stopped there. By the time we got out of the car, Susan, surprisingly, had regained her composure. When we were seated, she ordered a salad and a glass of wine. Alex and I each had a burger and a Diet Coke.
After our waiter brought our drinks, Susan asked, “What you guys are doing today, is this the kind of work that Monica does?”
“Sometimes,” I said. “She was an MP in the army. She's handled some very tough people in some very dangerous situations.”
“She's killed people?”
“Yes. She killed several people a little over a month ago. Some very bad people, one of whom had just shot me.”
She looked at Alex. “I've lived a pretty sheltered life, haven't I?”
“Most people have,” he said. “Before I went to work for the FBI, I had as well. Most people have no idea about what really goes on in the world.”
She looked at me.
“Doctors and nurses deal with sick people,” I said. “If you want to work in health care, you have to get used to being around sick people. Cops work with criminals. If you want a career associated with law enforcement, you have to get used to being around criminals and the kinds of things criminals do.”
