by Glenn Rogers
I thought about that for a moment and then asked, “Have you thought about how the kidnapper knows we've been looking in the wrong places?”
“He's been watching?” Alex said.
“How?” I asked. “How close is he? How does he know where we've been looking?”
“Good question.”
I called Mildred and asked if I could bring Wilson back by. She said I could. Then I called and booked a flight to Salt Lake City, Utah. From there I could rent a car and make the hour drive to Provost. I found a flight that left LAX at seven p.m. That would put me in Salt Lake City at nine. I called Alex and asked if he could get me a gun in Salt Lake City. He made a couple of calls and got back to me. He knew a place where I could pick up a .357 and some ammo. Since I had a Utah permit to carry, having the gun wouldn't be a problem. Then, on my way back, I could drop it off with the FBI in Salt Lake City and they could ship it to Alex. He and I had done that sort of thing before.
I put my Kevlar vest and my empty shoulder holster in my carry-on and once through security, went into the men's room, took off my sport coat and shirt, put on my vest and shirt, and slipped into my shoulder rig.
Once the small jet took off, I tried to read to distract myself. But thoughts of Monica kept intruding. I remembered the first time we’d worked together. She was working a case that involved the recovery of personal property. There had been a divorce and early on in the disintegration of the marriage the husband had made off with a number of expensive items: paintings, jewelry, an old manuscript, some antique pottery, a couple of antique German clocks. The kind of stuff you’d expect to find in a museum. He’d hidden the items and wouldn’t give them up. The wife had hired Monica to find them. She had tracked down the items. They were in a high priced storage unit in Beverly Hills. But in the process of finding them, she had encountered the angry ex-husband who had made threats in an attempt to warn her off. If she went near his property, he’d told her, she’d regret it. Monica wasn’t afraid, but she was prudent. She didn’t want to be opening a storage unit and be attacked from behind. So she had asked me to watch her back. PIs sometimes do those kinds of favors for each other. I was happy to do it.
Monica had rented a truck and we were loading the items in question into it when the ex-husband showed up. I was carrying a large Ming vase; Monica had an antique clock. He’d been waiting in an interior hallway, around the corner from his storage unit. We walked past the corner, lost in conversation, paying attention to each other instead of our surroundings, and he ended up behind us with a gun. It was the kind of mistake a couple of rookies would have made. But neither of us were rookies. We were distracted. At least, I had been distracted. I hadn’t been interested in women since Elaine had died. But Monica had distracted me. I’m not sure I realized it at the time, but now, looking back on it, I was very distracted.
The ex-husband had said we should continue to load the truck. Then he would drive off with his stuff. He’d stash it in a new location and then abandon the truck. If we cooperated, he wouldn’t shoot either of us.
We put the vase and the clock in the truck and as we went back toward the storage unit, we had to walk past the ex-husband. Having the gun made him overconfident. He let me pass by too close to him, within arms reach. As I walked past, I shot a quick jab into his nose. He staggered back into the wall. I stepped in and took the gun. Monica cuffed him and called the police.
Later, we went to a Marie Calendar’s for pie. We sat and talked and laughed for an hour and a half and became good friends. I enjoyed being with her.
The landing gear coming down brought me back to the present and I realized I was smiling.
It was nearly eleven before I found the Peek-A-Boo club. It was about ten miles outside of town on a lonely, dark road. The blinking neon sign on the old building was of a girl lifting her skirt and winking her eye. There were fourteen vehicles in the lot. Nine of them were pickups. I parked and went in with my new .357 snug under my left arm.
The Peek-A-Boo club was like a thousand other strip clubs across the country. A naked girl dancing on the stage, and nearly naked girls on the club floor, serving drinks and giving lap dances. I’d seen too much of it lately. It was getting boring, annoying even. It was just a distraction for men who had nothing important in their lives. The music was too loud. I wondered why that was. Was anyone there to listen to the music? Maybe the girls liked it loud. Maybe it helped distract them from the pointlessness of it all. But maybe it wasn’t pointless for them. Maybe it was how they put food on the table. I didn’t really know and I didn’t really care. All that mattered was finding Monica.
The bar was on the far right side of the club. You could walk around the edge of the club and get to the bar without negotiating the tables. Despite being tired, I managed to reach the bar without tripping over anything.
The bartender was a friendly looking woman in her late thirties. She had a pretty face and a firm body. Her brown hair was cut short. Could be Petersen. She wore a pair of tight shorts and a tank top.
She came over to me. “What can I get you?” she asked.
“Diet Coke.”
She nodded, went to get it and brought it back. I paid and tipped her. “You can also give me a piece of information if you have it.”
She waited for me to explain.
“I'm looking for Gretchen Petersen.”
“Why?”
I gave her my card.
She read it, and her eyes came up slowly to meet mine. “What are you investigating that has anything to do with Gretchen?”
“Someone she knew has disappeared. I just need to ask her some questions.”
“Who disappeared?” she asked.
“Who's asking?”
“Gretchen would want to know,” she said.
I took a sip of my Coke and studied her a brief moment. “I suspect I'm talking to Gretchen now.”
Her eyes held mine, giving nothing away. She'd be a good poker player.
Without admitting that she was Gretchen, she asked again, “Who disappeared?”
“Monica Nolan.”
Now her eyes hardened.
“I'll tell Gretchen. Though I doubt she'll have anything to say to you.”
“Oh? Why not?”
“I know her well. She's never mentioned any Monica Nolan. I don't think she knows her.”
“We both know you know who Captain Monica Nolan is, Gretchen. And we need to talk.”
“I have nothing to say to you. Go away.”
Her eyes flicked past me for a moment and then came back. In a moment a rather large man walked up beside me.
“There a problem here, mister?” he asked.
There were two other guys at a nearby table watching closely.
I took a deep breath. There was no point in tearing up the bar and hurting people. I turned on the barstool and looked up and him and said, “No problem. Just a case of mistaken identity.” I stood, looked him in the eye, and said, “I'll be going.”
Chapter 18
Wednesday Evening
I went out to my rental car and drove away, just in case they were watching. I drove back into town and found a cheap motel. It was midnight. I did some stretching exercises to loosen up and then did some pushups to work my chest and shoulders. I was making progress with my physical conditioning but wasn’t back to my pre-shooting condition. The speed and power weren’t coming back as fast as I thought they would. I did some shadow boxing, working on several different combinations. I didn't know what was going to happen later. What ever it was, I needed to be loose. I also needed to work off some excess nervous energy.
I looked up the Peek-A-Boo club online. It closed at two. At one thirty, I drove back out to the club and parked off the road far enough away that I wouldn’t be noticed, but close enough so I could see the parking lot and watch as people left the club after it closed.
At two, several men came out, got in their vehicles and drove away. In a few minutes, five girls came out. None
of them was Gretchen. They, too, got in their vehicles and left. There were only three vehicles left: a Ford F150, a Yukon, and a Toyota Rav4.
In twenty minutes, Gretchen came out, accompanied by two men. One of them was the big bouncer who challenged me earlier; the other was a smaller man.
We were out in the country and there was no one else around. I needed to get to them before they reached their vehicles. I started my car and drove into the dirt parking lot. They were standing near the back of the pickup. I got out of my car and took a couple of steps toward them. The big guy was on the left, closest to me.
“Excuse me,” I said, “I'm wondering if you can help me.”
Just as the big guy recognized me, I landed a right hook on his jaw and he went down. Pain shot through the right side of my chest. The smaller guy reached behind him. He was going for a gun. Because he was twisting to his right to reach behind him, he was off balance. I kicked him in the groin. He doubled over and I threw a hard left at his jaw that put him down. The big guy was trying to get up and I hit him again with my left. He went down and was out. Gretchen had frozen for the couple of seconds it took to put the two men down, but then she tried to run. She was fast, but I was faster. I caught her by her left arm and hauled her back to me.
“I have no desire to hurt,” I said, holding tightly to her arm. “But one way or the other, you're going to talk to me.”
I hauled her around to the passenger side of my car and put her in. I pulled my .357 and pointed it at her. “Don't move.” I closed the door and hurried around to the driver’s side, got in, closed the door. I holstered my gun, started the car, and drove out of the lot.
“Where are you taking me?” Gretchen asked.
“Not far. Just down the road a ways so we can talk.”
There was a dirt road to the right. I turned. There was a stand of trees. I pulled in among them. The road was deserted. But if anyone did happen to drive by, they wouldn’t be able to see us.
I turned in the seat and looked at Gretchen. There was only a little moonlight, so I could not see here eyes as clearly as I would have liked.
“Monday morning,” I said, “Monica was taken from her apartment. Did you have anything to do with it?”
“No.”
“Convince me.”
“I was here.”
“You could have hired someone to do it.”
“I just got out of prison a couple of months ago,” she said. “I'm a bartender at a strip club. I don't have the money to hire anyone to do something like that.”
“You're driving a nice little Toyota,” I said.
“It's used. Got a hundred thousand miles on it. My parents gave me five hundred dollars for the down payment. I have no credit, so the interest on the loan is almost fifteen percent. I live paycheck to paycheck. My food budget is the tips I make.”
“But if you had the money ...?”
“I didn't say that.”
“You claimed that Captain Nolan manufactured evidence and ruined your life.”
“I was innocent. I wasn't selling drugs. I was raped. She went out and found evidence that got me convicted for something I didn't do.”
“If Monica found evidence of something, the evidence was there to find. She didn't manufacture it.”
“I know,” she said forcefully, angrily.
I looked at her.
“I know,” she repeated, her voice softening and trailing off. “I had ten years to go over it. And I did. I went over it again and again. It was Hanks.”
“Captain Cody Hanks. The man you say raped you.”
“He did rape me. And then he planted evidence and paid witnesses. What Captain Nolan did was find the evidence Hanks planted.”
“But there was no evidence that the evidence had been planted,” I said.
“No.”
“And when did you experience this epiphany?” I asked.
She shook her head and shrugged. “Couple of years ago.”
“So you no longer blame Monica Nolan.”
“No. I realized she was simply doing her job. She was gathering data and interviewing people and reporting the results. It was Hanks who ruined my career and my life.”
I couldn't see her eyes as clearly as I would have liked, but I believed her.
“So why wouldn't you talk to me earlier?”
“Because I didn't want to. Okay? I had nothing to do with her disappearance. I’m sorry if something bad has happened to her, but I didn’t have anything to do with it. I'm trying to put the past behind me and start over. I didn't want to think about being raped or about spending ten years in prison for something I didn't do. I didn't want to talk about it.”
“Well, when your friends back there come to, you can explain that to them. If you had talked to me earlier, I wouldn't have had to hurt them. I don’t like having to hurt people.”
I started the car and drove Gretchen back to the club, pulling in next to her car.
“This is a joint investigation between the FBI and the LAPD. I'm working with both agencies. Calling the local police on me for roughing up your friends, even if the local guys can find me, will be a waste of time.”
She shook her head. “There won't be any cops,” she said, as she got out.
As I pulled out of the parking lot, Gretchen knelt to check each of the men lying in the dirt.
Chapter 19
Thursday Morning
It was seven thirty a.m. I had landed in L.A. and was just climbing into my Jeep when Frank called.
“Not disturbing your beauty sleep am I?” he said.
“Hardly,” I said. “I just had a wonderful two hour nap on a flight back from Provost.”
“Get anything worthwhile?”
“No.”
“Well, try this on for size. The driver of the Escalade. Name was Jorge Betancourt. Used to work for Security Specialists.”
“Pipestone,” I said.
“Uh-huh. I had Branch look into the company. See what was going on with it since Pipestone's death.”
“And?” I said as I started the Wrangler.
“Mrs. Pipestone inherited the company and is reorganizing it.”
“Really?”
“Branch interviewed her. She says she didn't know her husband was selling drugs. But says the security aspect of the company is a much needed and legitimate service that she can continue to provide.”
“And about the driver?” I asked, as I backed out of my parking space.
“Says she didn't know him and has no idea why he would do what he did.”
“Of course.”
“Not much else Branch can do. You might want to take a closer look.”
“Thanks, Frank.”
I went home and cleaned up, stopped for breakfast, and got to the office just after Mildred. Wilson was exuberant in his greeting. Mildred wanted to know what I had discovered in Utah. It didn't take long to tell her that part. The part about getting the note from whoever took Monica took more time.
“You think there will be more notes?” Mildred asked.
“There might be. Watch for them. If another comes and I'm not here, call me.”
She said she would. Then she said, “Jake, I know you know this, but if whoever took Monica is trying to pull you in, his ultimate goal is to get you.”
I nodded. “I know.”
“I've just gotten you broken in,” she said. “I don't want to have to train a new boss. Be careful.”
I couldn’t help smiling. “Careful is my middle name,” I said.
“I heard your middle name was Cupcake.”
“That's my other middle name, and you shouldn't be talking to the people who know about that. They're a bad influence on little old ladies.”
“Who you calling a lady, buster?”
I checked my email and did just enough office work to be able to claim that I do actually run a business. Wilson knew that I was getting ready to leave and was anxious to go with me. I had to remind him that it was too hot f
or him to wait in the car, so he'd have to stay with Mildred. I told him I'd see him later. He woofed softly at me, gave me a lick on the side of my face, and went to his pillow. I was thankful he was a patient friend. I gave him a cookie.
I walked into Alex's office a little after ten.
“Learn anything in Provost?” he asked.
“Two things. One, that Gretchen Petersen didn't have anything to do with Monica's disappearance, and two, that my chest is still a long way from being back to normal.”
“You have to hit somebody?”
“I don't know if I had to or not, but I did. It hurt.”
“More time at the gym,” Alex said.
“Sure. With all the spare time I have. Get any forensics back on the note?”
“Yeah. Only fingerprints on it were yours and postal employees. Paper and envelope could have been bought anywhere.”
“Anything on our three friends in the Escalade?”
“Two of the guys were not in the system. Probably recent immigrants. The driver was in the system. Guy named Jorge Betancourt. We're looking into him.”
“Really? That's all you've got so far?”
He looked at me with anticipation. “Yeah. Why? What have you got?”
“Betancourt used to work for Security Specialists.”
“Pipestone.”
“Uh-huh.”
“Frank's people find that?” Alex asked.
“LAPD's making the FBI look bad.”
“Oh, shut up.”
“There's more.”
“What?”
I told him about Mrs. Pipestone's plan to restructure and reopen Security Specialists and her claim that she did not know Jorge Betancourt and had no knowledge of the shooting.
Alex said, “So, I take it we're going to pay a visit to the recently widowed Mrs. Pipestone.”
“Mrs. Rachel Pipestone, to be exact. On Patton Drive in North Hills.”
“Isn't that near where you shot Pipestone?”
“About five miles.”
“He liked to keep things close to home, huh?”
“Apparently,” I said.
“Frank give you anything on her background?”
