“I have a crime that I’m trying to solve without getting the police involved. Everything has to be done behind the scenes and kept quiet.”
He looked out at the park and nodded, as if he was only half listening.
“Kidnapping?”
“Why do you say that?”
He shrugged. “It’s about the only crime that the victims don’t want the police involved in. Or, more accurately, the perpetrators are insistent that the police aren’t involved in. But as an ex-cop my advice every time is go to the police, sure they make mistakes from time to time, but given their resources, they’re the best bet statistically. And I say that from experience, Jack.”
I didn’t respond.
After a few minutes of silence, it was clear Derrick couldn’t resist digging a bit further. Not that I could blame him, and he had enough experience to be potentially of use to me.
“Who are your suspects?”
“Mechanics, or possibly relatives of mechanics.”
“Interesting.” He rubbed his chin. “Want to know what I think?”
The real answer was ‘yes’ but I was reluctant to let Derrick know that I valued his opinion. If I did I’d never hear the end of it, so I answered with a non-committal sounding ‘maybe,’ as if, in actual fact, I preferred a bit of silence with my own thoughts so they could organize themselves, but that I would listen to the old guy anyway out of respect or simple social convention.
“Mechanics are a tight knit bunch, but they also have a group of people around the outside of them.” He raised his finger. “If you can’t find a connection to a mechanic, then I would say look to the people around the mechanics.”
I groaned inwardly; he was starting to sound like a vague mystic karate instructor.
“I’ve looked at their families,” I replied, more in an attempt to get him to furnish me with something concrete and specific than to encourage him.
“No, no.” He shook his head and his chin wobbled as well. “Not families. You need to look for someone like a truck driver.”
That got my attention.
“Truck driver?”
“Auto enthusiasts do most of their own work, so they don’t need mechanics. The closest people to mechanics are the people that need their vehicles for work. Truck drivers or delivery drivers. That’s who you need to be looking at.”
His statement hit me.
I hated to admit it, but he was right.
Chapter 12
Kyle Waters wasn’t hard to track down. In fact, it was downright easy to find him.
A few phone calls to his employers, under a fake name, of course, and I was told where he had parked his hauler for the night. Traveling from North Dakota to Tennessee, hauling a semi full of brand-new expensive furniture to satisfy the population’s ongoing urge to spend ever more money, Kyle regularly found himself a resident at the Iowa 80 Truck stop, sleeping there in the spacious cabin of his semi.
A Disneyland for truck lovers, the Iowa 80 was three hours outside of Chicago, and had the title of the World’s Largest Truck Stop. Quite a title, but as I drove into the complex, I saw that this wasn’t just a truck stop, this was more like a mini-city, complete with amenities, services, repair shops and even a trucker’s museum—not that I had the time or inclination to go in there. But more than the buildings, more than the shops, I found that this was also a community hub, a place for those traveling the lonely hours on the road to congregate and talk about their journey. Here they could find human comradery and contact after hours of solitary confinement on the open road. They could plug back into a community, of sorts, and find solace there after all that time alone where they only had the workings of their own mind, or the radio, for company.
With more than nine hundred parking spots for trucks, the food court was constantly busy, satisfying the urges of the hard-working truckers, who could then work off the excess in the gym only a few feet away—not that too many of them did, however, going by the abundance of oversized guts on display as I walked around, but I was reliably informed that my target never missed an opportunity to work out.
And so, that was where I found Kyle, pumping iron after another long and monotonous haul. He was aggressively grunting as I stepped into the small gym, located on the third floor of the main building in the truck stop. Dressed in a yellow tank top, shorts and sneakers, the muscles were clear to see.
I had done my research on Kyle, and it was clear that his years in the army had left their mark—down his right arm, that is, where a long battle-hardened scar was clear to see.
He grunted as I stepped in, and I did the same. He lifted, I lifted. He stretched, I stretched. I was mirroring his actions, important to create trust between us. I lifted weights, and although I could’ve, throughout the half-an-hour workout, I made a point of never lifting heavier weights than his.
I was lucky that I looked the part as well—I had stopped by a second hand shop on the drive to the truck stop, purchasing a complete outfit of ripped shorts, old sneakers, and a Metallica t-shirt, for under five dollars. I wondered what Casey would think, she was always on my case about my style, in fact, she was always on my case, period, but today’s outfit really did look like I was in dire need of an emergency fashion make-over.
“What are you hauling?” After thirty minutes, Kyle finally
