A Fly in the Garden: Chapter 15
DISCLAIMER: None of these characters are mine, but they are memorable. Thank you, Mr. Marlowe.
Still Sunday Night, February 19, 2012 – 8:57 p.m. – At Eddie Baker's Home in the Marina area
Eddie Baker is not very happy. He stares out of the large bay window looking out at the cars zipping by, the waters of the bay just beyond the busy street. Life has been good for Eddie Baker. His business has been thriving, the police have learned to leave him alone. In Eddie's way of thinking, he is not hurting anyone. He's providing a service. He isn't killing anyone, he isn't stealing from anyone. People are choosing to pay for the services he provides. And he isn't forcing any of his girls into this trade. They, too, do so of their own free will. Everything is perfect, and no one is getting hurt. That's his mindset.
Until today, that is.
Being accosted early in the morning, rustled out of bed and taken – by force - to a dark warehouse in Chinatown is no way to start anyone's day. Then realizing all of that has been orchestrated by one whom Eddie considers the most dangerous man in Northern California? No, that wasn't a good morning. The news that Sam Carlos shared with him was even worse. What he thought was his thriving business truly has been losing some of his key clientele. Oh, they still come, they still visit his web occasionally. But for a few key people, their visits have become less frequent. Eddie just figured that life at the office or at the house was forcing them to curtail their little activities. It happens, and the business is cyclical. They always come back.
However, after his forced conversation with Carlos, Eddie has checked the ledger, and damn the arrogant bastard, he was right. Adams, the city councilman has – in fact – lessened his visits over the past three months. Adams used to be a regular, stopping by once a week. In the past three months, however, he has been by three times. That's a drop of approximately twelve visits a quarter to literally three. How in the hell did he miss that?
And Keller. That bastard had been a thorn in his side for almost a year, trying to pin him down before they had reached an accord of sorts, with Baker providing the man freebies – no charge, for crying out loud – twice a month just to stay off his case. And for the past eight months, it has worked. Until now. In the past three months, what should have been six visits to Eddie's lair had been reduced to two.
"I should have seen this!" Baker lashes out at himself, slamming his fist on the table. It's never good to have one who is considered a potential threat to be the one who points out little holes, little gaps in your business. Regardless, it is what it is. The real question right now is what to do about it.
Good for Dave for alerting him to the visitors they had earlier this evening. Even though it has turned out to be nothing, he is calmed somewhat just to know that his people are still vigilant, still always on the lookout.
Regarding his key clients who have fallen off – and given what Carlos shared with him – it is far more likely that they have found business elsewhere, rather than simply stopped altogether. The latter is highly unlikely. But this just doesn't make sense.
"These men know that women have been kidnapped," he thinks to himself. "Hell, Adams has his nose so far up Clooney's ass, there is no way he doesn't know. And Keller. He has far too much to lose for him to risk something like this, in his position."
Baker shakes his head, still trying to make sense of all of this. Of course, the easiest and most direct path is to confront the two men. That, however, would force him to use the leverage he has against them. Leverage they are completely unaware of at this time. None of his clients are aware of the video surveillance in the rooms. Baker installed the surveillance for both voyeuristic as well as practical reasons. The former has given him hours of entertainment. The latter – well, the latter is something he has never had to call into use. He hesitates even now, knowing full well that is a door that – once opened – cannot be closed. It's always best to avoid making enemies, especially powerful ones.
He downs the remaining gulp of scotch, gritting his teeth with a smile and a contented exhale of breath. The alcohol seems to crystalize his thinking, as he realizes what really is bothering him about this whole scenario. Warped as his logic may be, he feels that he takes care of the women who work for him. He has never hit any of them, and while he is admittedly draconian with them financially, he does make sure they are taken care of. When he started this business, he wanted to do this differently from how he perceived this market to operate. Any woman can leave the business if and when she chooses. That very few have tells him he is doing this the right way. Again, the 'right way' is subjective in his mind.
Giving them women their own place helped him – yes – gave him a solid cover. But it helped them as well. Each of the women had taken to decorating 'their' place. They came to consider their apartments their home-away-from-home.
Baker doesn't like kidnappings. He doesn't like the idea of forced servitude. If nothing else, the man can relate – historically – with those forced into slavery of any kind. And now, whoever has taken these women is impacting his business. That – he has decided – is unacceptable.
The ringing phone interrupts his thoughts, and he answers on the second ring after seeing the caller ID. After hanging up with Dave, he had sent a small crew to the building, just to sweep for bugs. Dave's a good man, but one can never take too many chances.
"Yeah Mike," Eddie answers.
"All clean," Mike replies curtly. The man is all business, all the time. Eddie likes that. "Whoever they were, they didn't leave anything behind."
"And I've checked surveillance. They didn't go to any of the rooms," Baker nods. "Thanks Mike."
"No problem," Mike tells him as he clicks off.
Okay, so no bugs found, and they weren't wandering around the building, they didn't enter any out-of-bounds areas. The two women appear to be what they claimed. He pushes the thoughts out of his mind, returning to his problem at hand: his missing clients, how to get them back, and how to expose whoever is abducting women and hurting his business.
Monday Morning, February 20, 2012 – 3:17 a.m. – At the Castle's Complex in Sausalito
Richard Castle sits with his third cup of coffee this morning, staring bleary-eyed at the large monitor atop his desk. His office here at the complex seems to shrink in size with each passing moment, as Castle is now feeling the effects of his first all-nighter in . . . well, forever.
He is still roughly three and a half hours from sunrise, and although very tired, Castle has to admit that the quiet, the peace and tranquility here at the complex at night and into the wee hours of the morning have been wonderful. He glances to the small sofa to the side and smiles at the sleeping form of Kate Beckett. Kate lasted until about an hour ago, while her old friend, Jennifer Blackard went to sleep on the sofa in the spare office next door maybe twenty minutes prior to that.
They had started returned to his Sausalito home after last night's successful endeavor, arriving around 9pm after fighting unexpected traffic leading up to the Golden Gate Bridge due to construction. Just before midnight, Alexis came prancing in proudly to the living room with the information they needed. Her friend, Randy, had provided her with three log-ins to the network – each log-in that would use the security guard's IP address as a mask. This would allow each of them – Castle, Beckett and Blackard – to each access the network separately. And therein is the challenge that they have discovered.
It only took fifteen minutes of scanning through the videos for Castle to realize that the only people coming through the front door were the women – the tenants – themselves. Evidently the clients enter through another door.
"Probably from the garage," Castle had postulated just after midnight. "Makes sense. Not the brightest move to have these people wander in through the front door, with all of the eyes that could see them."
"Knowing Eddie, he also tells his clients that the front lobby has cameras and they should stay away from them," Jennifer adds. "Gives them just a bit of added false security."
"And false trust," Kate nods, warming to the idea. "They have no idea how horribly misplaced that trust actually is," Kate adds as she watches a video of an older man entering room 403, the first room assigned to her to monitor. Castle's idea is that the bigger fish would opt for higher floors. Not as secure in the need for a quick escape, but the higher floor gives an excitement of sorts.
She notes his face, performing a screen shot. The process is simple for each of them. Get a good facial capture of each client who enters a room, and share that will Jennifer, to see if the woman knows who they are. Those who are unidentified will be put through facial recognition. The problem is that there are three of them and sixteen rooms.
This could take as close to forever as Castle would like to consider.
As it turns out, it is as painstakingly long a process as they had feared. They have decided to start back at August of 2011. This gives them six and a half months of data to sift through, at least initially. Worse, these women are busy, busy bees, as Castle calls them. Each room seems to entertain ten to twelve clients per day. That's a lot of . . . entertainment to browse.
Now three hours into his viewings, Castle has perused four months of data and has assigned each face a number. In the past ten minutes, he has noticed a pattern in room 401.
Face 8 – white male, mid-forties, short black hair, otherwise identity currently unknown – is a fairly regular visitor. In four months of data, Castle reviews the marks next to Face 8. Twelve marks, prior to this one. He checks, and double checks his numbers. Yeah, 8 had been in room 401 once a week for three months solid. This current month – November – Castle notes he is in the final week of the month and this is the first time this month that 8 has shown up.
Castle closes his eyes – both to relax for a moment as well as for clarity of memory, mentally pulling up research from one of his older Derek Storm books. Many times, clients tend to find one call girl who they decide they enjoy. They end up staying with said woman time and time again. That's what he has seen with Face 8, and the blonde in 401. The blonde shares the room with a brunette, and Face 8 has never been seen with the brunette. He makes a note to share the face with both Kate and Blackard. First, he wants to see if Blackard recognizes the face. Second, he wants to see if the face shows up in any of their rooms.
He is startled to catch movement outside the window, on his left periphery. He squints to make sure he is seeing things right.
Veronica Mitchell, a resident here at the Castles for the past three weeks, is walking the grounds. There's nothing wrong with his, per se. The residents are free to come and go as they please. But Veronica, as Castle has learned, is a night owl. The woman is a pharmaceutical sales rep who has taken a leave of absence from her company. It turns out she is a highly successful rep, and her company has bent over backwards to accommodate her requests in the hopes that she will return shortly.
He minimizes the window on the computer, and stands, stretching his arms and legs. He quickly makes his way out of the door and jogs down the hallway into the foyer area where he makes a quick left turn and continues jogging to the back door leading to the residences, and the walkway to the woods that Mitchell currently traverses.
He picks up his pace to catch the woman who moves away at a casual rate.
"Veronica," he calls out in a loud whisper, not wanting to wake any of the sleeping families. "Veronica!"
She stops in her tracks, startled that anyone would be out here at this hour. Glancing back, her eyes grow large as she realizes who is chasing after her.
"Mr. Castle?" she exclaims. "What are you doing out here?"
"Uh, I kind of own the place," he laughs, and she joins him. He has a way of making each of the residents here feel at ease.
"I was wondering the same thing about you," he mentions. "I understand you are quite the night owl."
"Yeah, well . . . this little sabbatical I am taking is affording me time to do . . . different things," she smiles wistfully. "I find the night to be comforting somehow. It's so quiet out here, so beautiful. It's just so . . . safe."
"Glad you feel that way," he nods, as he falls in beside her, as they walk along the pathway. "That was absolutely the intent," he continues.
"Mission accomplished," she tells him. "I do my best thinking out here during these late night hours. Very reflective."
Castle doesn't say anything. He's learned – from Dr. Samantha Peraza and his own limited experiences with the women here – that listening is the best tool he can possibly have. These women – and their children – will tell them everything they need to know if they will just shut up and listen.
They walk for another fifty yards before Veronica continues.
"Thank you," she tells him.
"You're welcome," he replies, then adds with a smirk. "What am welcomed for?"
Veronica chuckles as she thrust her hands deeper into her pockets. It's cold out here this morning, but her jacket does its job well.
"Well first of all, thanks for not talking," she laughs. When I saw you coming my first thought was "Oh great, there goes my quiet time," she smiles. For his part, Castle simply smiles, allowing her to talk.
"But second – okay, first actually – thanks for this place. Thanks for thinking of us. Of women you don't know. Thanks for building this place. I honestly . . ."
Her voice cracks for a second, but her regains her composure so quickly, Castle has to admire her fortitude.
"Strong, strong woman," he thinks to himself. Unfortunately, Veronica's husband had a difficult time dealing with living with such a successful woman, a woman who brought home almost four times as much financially as he did.
"Idiot," he continues to think to himself. "He sees a blessing as a curse," he muses to himself as she continues.
"I honestly don't know what I would have done without this place," she finally gets out.
"You would have done fine, Veronica," he tells her softly. "If this were not an option, you would have found a Plan B just fine. But I'm glad we are here for you."
He slows and begins to walk away from the young woman, allowing her some time alone – which is why she is out here in the middle of the night in the first place.
"Don't go," she asks, reaching out to him. "Please."
He doesn't say a word, but continues walking with her. For the next fifteen or so minutes they walk, a full circle around the residential area of the complex. They walk in silence. Castle is not sure what Veronica is thinking, and decides it doesn't matter. She needs the company, but quiet company. He is happy to provide that. It gives him time to think, himself.
They reach her building and she stops on the walkway.
"Thank you Mr. Castle. For walking with me. For letting me talk, letting me think. For not searching for cute things to say."
He simply smiles as he leans in and gives her a quick hug. He releases her and steps back, beginning to walk away again.
"Anytime, Veronica." He turns to leave when she stops him again.
"What's got you so deep in thought, Mr. Castle?" she asks. She sees his confusion, and presses on, taking a couple of steps toward him.
"You just spent fifteen or twenty minutes walking with me, not saying a word. Most people I know – men or women – can't do that very easily. Not unless they are just as preoccupied as I am right now."
"Very observant," he muses aloud. He considers for a moment exactly how much he should say to this woman – if anything at all. Something – perhaps that sixth sense that he has always wished that he had – urges him to open up a bit.
"You've heard about the recent kidnappings of women in the city?" he asks.
"Who hasn't," she says, the disgust in her voice showing.
"One of our more recent residents here . . . her daughter was kidnapped."
"Oh my God!" she exclaims. "That's . . . that's horrible. Oh God, what . . . how –"
"I really can't go into it any more than that, but we have been looking into it – that and the other kidnappings. That's what I was doing in my office when I saw you walking by earlier," he tells her, nodding his head back toward the administrative building he came out of roughly twenty five minutes earlier.
"What do you mean?" she asks. "I mean, what you are doing here is wonderful and all, but solving crimes, kidnappings . . . I don't mean to –"
"We have some talented people on staff here, Veronica," he smiles. "Ex-cops, ex-military, even an ex-writer," he finishes which brings a small laugh to her the woman next to him.
"And we all have our connections, as you might say," he tells her. "Trust me, we have solved worse. I'm just lost on this one right now. We find a clue, we come up with theories . . ."
He stops for a second, rubbing his chin.
"It's early though. We haven't been at it for more than a few days," he says confidently. "We will figure it out."
"Well," she says as she steps back, beginning to walk to her door, "in my line of business, past success often leads to new victories. You will figure it –"
"What did you say?" he says quickly, stopping her in her tracks.
"What did you say?" he repeats.
"I don't know, what do you –"
"Just now, a second ago," he interrupts. "Say that again!"
"I . . . uh . . . I said that past success leads to new victories . . . ?"
"What do you mean by that?" he asks, a tingling in the back of his head telling him this is important. It's that writer's tingle that he gets when stumbling across something critical that he would use in a book.
"Well," she begins, "in sales, you win a deal, and you look at a number of things. What was their criteria? What gaps did they have? How did you solve that gap? Who helped you? Can they help you again? Can they be a reference for you? Will you –"
"Whoa!" he stops her, shaking his head from side to side, trying to get his thoughts around this. "You were saying something about references – but about people helping you again . . ."
"Sure," she continues, not sure of where he is going with this. "You win one deal, and you learn from it. You solve one problem, often you will win again by solving that same problem for someone else. You learn which partners you can trust. You learn which partners you cannot trust – which partners may lean more to your competitors. You realize that every sales is a building block, and that often people you have met in one sale come back to impact another sale, either as a partner or a competitor, and you learn to deal with them as –"
"Veronica!" he exclaims, cutting her off. He rushes toward her, taking two quick steps and grabs the woman by the shoulders, pulling her into a tight embrace.
"Veronica! My God, my God," he tells her as he releases her and turns and jogs away. His jog turns into a sprint along the walkway back to the administrative building, leaving a clueless Veronica Mitchell in his wake.
"Damn, could it be this simple?" he asks himself as he sprints to the building.
"You're welcome!" she whispers loudly at his retreating form, then smiles as she opens her door and enters her home.
A/N: I hope everyone had a safe and cavity-free Halloween this evening. Also please note that I discovered that I was two days off on my 2012 calendar. I have fixed that for this chapter. The days of the week remain the same, this story began on a Thursday and we are now in the wee hours of that following Monday morning.