into her mouth, she said, “That doesn’t sound like the Hirsch brothers.”
“Not the good Samaritan types?”
“They were bad back then. I can’t imagine they’ve changed.”
Chapter 26
Special Agents Fuller and Romero had hit a wall.
Their investigation was going nowhere. Not a single hooker on the island had responded to their fliers, nor had they gotten any concrete leads from the autopsy done of the latest victim, who the Dresser had dumped in their motel room.
Out of frustration, they had decided to change their approach, and focus on males between the ages of eighteen and forty-five living in Atlantic City who’d committed sexual offenses against women. It was scattershot, but their investigation was going nowhere, and they needed to try something different.
Sergeant Banko had supplied them with the arrest records of thirty-eight men in Atlantic City who fit their profile. In order to save time, the agents had divided the records in half, with Romero taking suspects on the south end of the island, Fuller the north. Grabbing his coat off the bed, Romero went to the door of their new motel room.
“I’ll meet you at six o’clock at the pancake house. We can trade notes, and see what we’ve found,” the Mexican agent said.
“Sounds like a plan,” Fuller replied.
“Sure you don’t mind cabbing it?”
They had drawn straws, and Romero had gotten the rental.
“Not at all,” Fuller said.
Romero left. Fuller counted to ten, then went to the window, and parted the blinds. He watched his partner pull out of the parking lot in their rental. Romero had been getting on his nerves, and he was happy to have him out of his hair.
Taking a phone book off the night table, Fuller opened it to the yellow pages section for escort services. There were pages and pages of salacious ads of women willing to go the extra mile. He found a service called Discreet & Willing, and dialed it on the rotary phone. A woman with a husky voice answered.
“Hold on,” the woman said.
“Make it fast,” Fuller replied.
The woman put him on hold. Fuller was hungry. It had been a week since he’d satisfied his cravings. He’d be thirty-four in the spring, and had assumed that as he’d grown older, his cravings would diminish. It wasn’t working out that way. She came back on the line.
“I’d like to arrange a date,” he said.
“In call or out call,” the woman asked.
“Out call.”
“Rate’s a hundred an hour, two hour minimum, plus fifty for the room. Pay before you play.”
“Deal. I’m looking for a girl named Amber.”
“Have you used our service before?”
“Yes.”
“What’s your name?”
Fuller thought back to the name he’d used the week before. “Harold.”
“Oh. I remember you. Amber said you were rough.”
“Should I call someone else?”
“No. You’re on.” She gave him the name of a motel not far from where he was staying. She gave him a time, then said, “Make sure you identify yourself to the manager.”
Fuller acknowledged her instructions before he hung up the phone.
An hour later, Fuller left his motel, walked a block to Atlantic Avenue and headed south. Out in the ocean, black storm clouds were forming, and he turned up his collar to the bitter wind. Four blocks away, he spotted the blinking sign of his rendezvous point, and felt himself get aroused. No matter how many times he arranged to meet a call girl, it was always exciting. Call girls understood that men had different needs. More importantly, they understood
“What’s up?” the manager asked.
“I’m here to see Amber,” Fuller said.
“You must be Prince Charming. Room costs fifty bucks. No credit cards.”
Fuller paid up. Picking up the phone, the manager dialed a number and said, “A gentleman requests the presence of your company. Will do. I’ll send him right up.” The manager hung up. “She’s in room 9F. As in fuck.”
“Much obliged,” Fuller said.
“I’m sure you are.”
