4 comments/ 39670 views/ 7 favorites Irreconcilable Differences By: Talespin Characters: Lee Williams - 48 year old retired deputy sheriff, now a private Investigator in Fightin' Creek, Idaho Sherry Wilson - Lee's client, age 46; librarian at the Kellogg County Library Frank Wilson - Sherry Wilson's philandering husband, age 53; an attorney Lori Lee - Frank Wilson's attractive blonde secretary, age 28 Cassandra Donovan - Sharon Donovan's stepmother, age 39; neighbor; AKA: Connie Thompson, Cassie, Cass Sharon Donovan - Cassandra Donovan's stepdaughter, age 18; neighbor Robert Rowden - Stateline Motel manager; AKA: Robert the Rodent Lynne Davenport - Lee Williams' attorney, age 29; Justice Nancy Carpenter, age 43; Federal District Court Judge, District of Idaho Sheriff Stony Holmes; Sheriff of Kellogg County, Idaho ********** The librarians at the Kellogg County Library are used to seeing me come in at least twice a week. I know most of the full-time librarians by name. They've become accustomed to my rather unusual requests for all sorts of information. In fact, some of them may enjoy speculating among themselves about the reason behind some of the requests. Small-town, north Idaho gossip. My name is Lee Williams. I'm a private investigator. In this day and age, a PI is required to be an information manager and researcher. He (or she, there are many women PIs) needs to be more proficient with a laptop computer than with a gun. Thus, I spend a great deal of time at the library and online digging up information. I was a deputy sheriff and detective with the Kellogg County Sheriff's Office for over twenty years. That gave me the local knowledge and contacts to make the transition to private investigator after being injured on duty and medically retired in 1999. I was fortunate to have been involved in the technical side of investigations for the sheriff's office. As a result of numerous federal training grants, I attended a wide variety of obscenely expensive and exotic technical surveillance and countersurveillance courses sponsored by several government agencies. One agency even tried to persuade me to come to work as a technical agent after retirement. But, I am a "local" through and through. Don't get me wrong. I was more than happy to take the feds' money (okay, the taxpayers' money) and attend their training courses, but I knew only too well that going to work for them would stifle any and all creative thinking. Besides, they wanted me to move to northern Virginia and work far too close to what J. Edgar "Do you like my dress?" Hoover liked to call the "Seat of Government." Consequently, I elected to retire comfortably in Fightin' Creek, Idaho, and earn a modest living conducting private investigations. Fightin' Creek is in economically depressed northern Idaho. Methamphetamine production and residential burglaries have replaced logging and silver mining as the principal industries here. It is still a small town occupied primarily by home-growns. If you weren't raised here, then you've retired here from California. Many if not most of the under-25 crowd that has grown up here is still firmly anchored in the 1950's. Just like their parents. The kids' idea of success is graduating before being thrown out of high school and then getting a job at just above minimum wage for the next forty years. Far too many of the men aspire to little more than buying a pickup with a snow blade on the front in the winter and a boat trailer on the back during the summer. Many of the women are desperate to get married and pregnant, preferably but not necessarily in that order. Nearly all of them are one-pack-a-day cigarette smokers, a diversion made readily available by the low price of nearly untaxed cigarettes sold on the Indian reservation. Welcome to Fightin' Creek, Idaho, where the local time is still fifty years ago. [Monday, August 12] I was at the library digging up some financial information about a local company when Sherry Wilson, one of the librarians, approached me. She seemed to be a bit upset, certainly not her usual self. "Lee, could I have one of your business cards, please?" It was an odd request, particularly because she asked so seriously. "Sure. What's up?" "I'd like call and make an appointment to come talk with you about a personal matter. I think I need to hire you." It was clear from her tone of voice that she didn't want to go into any detail at work. I dug a card out and gave it to her. "How soon would you like to meet?" "Within the next day or two if you can. It's really important." "Sherry, you don't have to call and make an appointment. Would you like to stop by after you get off work today?" "If that would be convenient for you, I'd really appreciate it. I'm off at three this afternoon. Would half-past three be all right?" "That would be fine. I'll have a cup of coffee waiting for you." Sherry and I are both coffee drinkers. We run into each other at the Fightin' Creek Starbucks quite often where she buys a grande beverage with a name only a chemical engineer could understand. She forced a tight smile. "By the way, how much do you charge?" "Your visit this afternoon will be free. Once you get to the office, we'll discuss your matter. If we both decide that I can help, then we can talk about a retainer and my rates." She seemed relieved and thanked me profusely. Sherry Wilson is an interesting lady. She's about 46, brown hair cut a little too short for her height, 5'-08". I'd guess she weighs about 135 pounds, but the way she dresses, it's hard to see her shape to tell for sure. Her modest loose attire is comfortable and businesslike but certainly not fashionable. It projects the prim and proper librarian image well. She wears brown tortoise-shell glasses and very little makeup, so her already elongated and somewhat angular face seems rather severe. She has a smallish mouth with narrow lips that give her face an almost pinched appearance accentuated by the small lines surrounding her lips and eyes. Someone meeting her for the first time would describe her demeanor as professionally detached, not warm but not cold. She may seem a little standoffish at first. With a master's degree in library science from George Washington University in Washington, D.C., she's well educated. Obviously she had not been born and raised in Fightin' Creek. Sherry is actually very nice, but it's sad to say that many men would not give her a second glance. Well, that's not quite true. One did, about twenty years ago. She's married to Frank Wilson, one of the most expensive attorneys in the county. He has hired me occasionally to do some investigative work. Frank pays on time, but he's a real jerk. One gets the sense that he spends more in a week on himself than he does in a year on Sherry. He has political aspirations to be a state senator in the short term, but that is just a stepping-stone to his real objective, a federal judgeship. Frank Wilson was born and raised in Fightin' Creek. How he managed to graduate from high school and get a degree from the University of Idaho in Moscow has puzzled many people. Even more mystifying is that he managed to graduate from the U of I law school and pass the Idaho bar exam. He married Sherry while he was school and she was a librarian at the university. My personal opinion is that Frank got a better deal than she did when they married. Promptly at 3:30, Sherry walked into my office. My secretary escorted her in and then left, closing the door behind her. "Hi, Sherry. Please, sit down. Would you like that coffee I promised? It's mine, not Starbucks." "No, thank you." She was all business and got right to the point. "I am pretty sure Frank is cheating on me. I would like for you to find out if he is. And if he is, then with whom." Her tone of voice was surprisingly calm. She did not seem emotionally distraught. "What makes you think that?" "There have been times when I call his office get his voicemail. Usually his secretary answers the phone, but frequently it seems that both she and Frank are gone at the same time. It may just be coincidence, but my intuition tells me something is going on." "So you assume he's having an affair with his secretary? It seems to me that so far you really don't have much to go on. And Fightin' Creek is still a small town. It would be pretty hard for someone as prominent as Frank to carry on without someone noticing and probably gossiping. How long have you suspected that this has been going on?" "About six months this time." Again, no emotion. She was almost casual about it. Most PIs would have to drag that kind of statement out of many women. Sherry said it very matter-of-factly and without any prodding. "You said 'this time.' Have there been other times when you've suspected infidelity?" "Suspected?" she spat it out. "I walked in on him with a woman attorney about five years ago. Right on the desk in his office. Frank and I had it out then. He promised that he would never stray again. I don't think I really believed him, but I didn't want to leave him, either. It isn't that I love him any more, I don't. I haven't for a long time." She became a little more hesitant, almost sad. She spoke very softly. "He hasn't even touched me for a couple of years now." Since private investigators are not marriage counselors and since we also have to pay the rent, I decided to help Sherry by investigating rather than counseling. "All right. If I uncover anything, how much information do you want from me? Do you just want me to confirm or refute your suspicions, or do you want names, dates, times and places? And if I do confirm what you suspect, what do you intend to do?" She looked me straight in the eye and then spoke with an eerie coldness. I actually felt a shiver, the kind you feel when you sense that someone is waiting to commit murder in a dark alley. "If he's having an affair with someone again, I'll own him for the rest of his life." There was absolutely no doubt she meant exactly what she said. Cold. She went on, "I want every detail you can come up with, no matter how ugly or salacious it may seem. Frank's a very good attorney, and I'll have an uphill battle in divorce court even with irrefutable evidence. Frank graduated from the U of I law school, and as you probably know, most of the local lawyers and judges did, too. It's the quintessential old-boy network." She was right about that. I had some personal concerns as well. Regardless of the outcome, if the results of my investigation against a local attorney became public record, I could kiss good-bye any more work from the local lawyers. But when Sherry looked at me, those brown eyes stirred something. My first attraction for a woman comes through messages from her eyes, not the shape or age of her body, and believe me, I was getting a very strong sexual message from Sherry. I shook it off. It was probably just my unreasonably long and totally unintended excursion into celibacy that was sending conflicting biological signals. But, back to business. "To get the kind of evidence you will need means doing surveillance. Surveillances are very expensive because they consume so much time, and I have to tell you, more often than not their results are inconclusive. I will probably have to follow Frank for a couple weeks, maybe longer. To take your case, I would need a two thousand dollar retainer. I charge eighty dollars an hour for surveillance, credited against the retainer. I will give you an item-by-item surveillance report with dates and times along with photos. You can call me daily on my cell phone for updates." She didn't hesitate. She took out her checkbook and wrote out the retainer. We completed and signed a representational agreement, then had my secretary witness it. "Sherry, there are some things you can do to help the surveillance be more productive. I take it from what you are saying that Frank comes home at night and seldom goes out alone." She nodded and said, "That's right. And he's also home on weekends. If he's messing around, it's probably during the workday." "All right. Then what I'll do is pick him up when he leaves for work every day and put him to bed a night. Once he's in for the night, you can call me on my cell phone. That'll stop the clock and save you some money. But if he goes out, or if his habits change, please call me right away so I can get back on him. Also, does he have a planner? A Daytimer or Dayrunner? Something he keeps with him to record his appointments and billable hours?" "Sure. He carries a black leather Daytimer with him all the time." "Can you get a look at it? In fact, is there any way you can photocopy the pages for preceding months and up through today?" "Hmmm. I'm not sure about getting the current pages, but I know he stores previous months in a binder in a file cabinet at home. I should be able to make copies of those pages fairly easily during the day while he's at work." "Fine. That's a good start. Once you have the copies, look them over and see if anything appears unusual to you. Then call me and we'll arrange to meet so you can give the pages and your observations to me. Can you describe the car he drives?" "He has two. One is a light blue Mercedes sedan. The license number is 'LAW 1'. The other car is a red BMW. Its license is 'LAW 2'." Well, that makes it easy. Mercedes and Beemers stick out like sore thumbs in Fightin' Creek. I'd be able to follow Frank even if I needed a white cane and seeing eye dog. "Do you know what kind of car his secretary drives?" "I'm not sure. I think I've seen her in a white Subaru. I'm just not sure, though." Well, forget about following the secretary. North Idaho is the white Subaru capital of the world. They breed them up in Bonners Ferry and Sandpoint. "No matter. I have enough to get started unless you can think of anything else." "No, not right now. When will you start watching him?" "If he's at work now, I can pick him up this afternoon. Let's see. It's four o'clock now, so I should be able to be in place by 4:30. Now, here's a business card with my cell phone number on it. I keep the phone with me all the time and by my bedside at night, so call any time you need to pass along any information." She looked at the card with a puzzled expression. "This isn't your business card. This is a card from Henderson's Hardware." "The telephone number on that card is mine. I don't give retained clients my detective agency business card. You never know who might find it and start wondering why you have it. In fact, you should destroy the business card I gave you at the library. Incidentally, the email address on the Henderson card is also mine. I am the only person who reads that email. Even my secretary doesn't know about it, so if you want to email something to me, use that." Sherry looked and me and smiled for the first time during their visit. "You know," she said, "If I were cheating on my husband, I would not want you on my tail." She recognized the double entendre before I did, then blushed and stammered, "That didn't come out the way I intended it. What I meant was..." I dismissed her comment with a light laugh, though for a moment, I wondered if (and maybe subconsciously hoped) it had been a Freudian slip. "No need to explain. I know what you meant. And thank you for the compliment. Sherry, I'm very serious about calling me at anytime you need to pass along information or to find out where your case stands. I'd prefer not to call you at work. Do you feel comfortable having me call you at home when I know Frank's not there?" She thought for a while. "You know, calling me at home probably is not a good idea. If Frank became suspicious, I wouldn't put it past him to tap our phone line. You knew he had some gadgets to do that, didn't you?" Oh, I certainly did. In fact, I was the one who found them in the ceiling above his office during one of the debugging sweeps I had done for Wilson. Of course, since Frank was a former client, it would have been unethical to divulge that to her. "What kind of gadgets?" I asked with my best angelic innocence. "I don't know. He never showed them to me. He just said he had found them in his office one day. When I asked why he didn't turn them over to the police, he said it would cause too much trouble." She was right about that. The equipment, very expensive equipment, I had found was from a company in Florida that sells only to law enforcement and the government. I had told Frank that. At that point, we both concluded that some law enforcement agency was bugging Frank or his office. That's when it seemed prudent for me to distance himself from Frank Wilson. Contrary to popular fiction, real-world private investigators do not like to become involved in criminal investigations, especially when their client is an attorney not highly regarded by local law enforcement and may, in fact, be the subject of a criminal investigation. "Do you have a pager?" I asked Sherry. "Yes, Frank got it for me several years ago. I don't know why, though. He hardly ever pages me. Actually, the head librarian pages me more." I took the pager from her and copied the number. "Fine. If I need to have you call me, I'll page you with a string of nines. If it is urgent, it'll include a 9-1-1 page." She took her pager back, then looked at me. The coldness in her eyes was gone. "You know," she said, "This is almost like being a spy. I think I'm actually going to enjoy this. I'll call you as soon as I have his Daytimer information." With that comment, she stood up to leave. Before she left, she extended her hand. Always businesslike. But this time her grip was softer and warmer, and she held it a little longer than a business handshake. Again, eye contact. Then she turned and left. At 4:40 p.m. I pulled my Ford F-150 pickup (trailer hitch, no snow blade) into a parking spot in the shopping center lot across from the Law Offices of Wilson & Associates, LLC. Frank's Mercedes was in the parking lot. I parked where Wilson would be unlikely to see me and then sat back with a cup of coffee and my 35 millimeter camera. At 5:03 p.m. he came out, alone, got in his car and pulled out of the parking lot. I stayed at least two cars behind him, but even in heavy traffic, following the Mercedes was a snap. At 5:42 p.m. he pulled into his garage at home and closed the door behind him. About twenty minutes later, my cell phone rang. It was Sherry saying Frank was in for the night. She also said that he usually left for work at 8:00 a.m. [Tuesday, August 13] Tuesday morning the diligent if bleary-eyed investigator was back in the vicinity of the Wilson's house promptly at 6:00 a.m. Sure enough, at 8:06 a.m. the garage door went up and out came the Mercedes. It was easy to recognize Frank at the wheel. He drove through one of the closet-sized espresso stands that seem to have popped up all over Fightin' Creek, then he went to his office. Once again, I parked so I could watch Wilson's car and the door to his office without being seen. At 9:30 a.m. Sherry called on the cell phone. She was noticeably excited. "Frank got home last night and said he felt like he was coming down with a summer cold. He had a couple drinks, then took a dose of Nyquil, then went to bed. Between the bourbon and the Nyquil, he was out like a light. Anyway, I took his last twelve months of Daytimer sheets down to Kinko's and copied them. He was so wiped out that I figured it was safe to take his Daytimer with this month and the next two months and copied them." She was talking quite fast. I started to say something, but she kept on talking. "I stayed up almost all night going over his Daytimer, and there are some interesting things missing. His appointments and work record all look normal, however some of the work records show no billable hours." Irreconcilable Differences I jumped in before she could take a breath. "Could those no-bills be pro bono work?" "Frank? Pro bono work? You've got to be kidding. He bills his clients for an hour's work if he thinks about them over his morning coffee. No, it isn't pro bono work. More likely it's his bone working." I had been sipping coffee while she talked, and it practically sprayed through my nose when she said that. Sherry was not one to make crude remarks. "Okay, Sherry. Good work. What's the best way for me to get the stuff you've copied?" "Come pick it up from me at the library. You'll want to bring a briefcase. Go into the study room and leave your briefcase open on the chair, then go get a book. It'll be in your briefcase when you get back. That's called a dead-drop, isn't it?" She was really getting into the spy stuff, but her tradecraft was actually pretty good. "Sherry, you'd make one helluva detective," I said sincerely. "Watch for me at the library. I should be there within half an hour." I pulled off the surveillance, drove to the library, and followed her instructions to the letter. Sure enough, when I returned to the study room, there was a package inside my now-closed briefcase. After a quick stop in the library restroom to get rid of the coffee, I headed back to the surveillance, hoping that Frank had not split. His car was still parked where it had been, so I did what any good detective does. I sat. While waiting, I glanced at the copy of Frank's Daytimer sheet for that day. It showed appointments all afternoon until 5 p.m. It looked like it was going to be a long, boring surveillance. In other words, typical. However, at 2:03 p.m. Frank came out and got in his car. He didn't leave; he just sat there. Five minutes later, an attractive blonde woman came out and got in a white Subaru wagon. I recognized her as Frank's secretary, Lori Lee. Frank backed out of his parking spot and started to drive away. I started up and got into position to follow him, but something told me to wait. Sure enough, blondie in the Subaru pulled in behind Frank, and off they went. When Frank turned, she turned. About fifteen minutes later, both cars turned into the parking lot of the Stateline Motel, drove directly to the rear building, and parked. They got out, and Frank went to room 114. Interesting. He didn't register. He took the key out of his pocket and led the buxom and giggly Ms. Lee inside. I took up a position that would let me get clear photos when they came out, which they did about two hours later. I fired off as many photos as I could and dictated times and other information into my Pearlcorder. They departed in their respective cars and went back to the office. It looked as if Frank would be conducting legal business for the rest of the day, so I took the film to a good friend to process and print. She's a professional photographer whom I pay well to discretely process my investigative photographs. The photos were exceptionally sharp. While I was getting the photos processed, my cell phone rang. It was Sherry. She said that Frank was home and in for the night. Great! I didn't tell her about the afternoon's work, wanting to look at the Daytimer sheets first. I asked her if she could get a look at his worksheet for today and give me a call that night. She agreed to try. That night at about 1:00 a.m., she called. The entry for Tuesday's appointments showed two and a half hour's work scheduled for a local company between 2:00 p.m. and 4:30 p.m. but there were no hours in the billing column. There were two letters, they looked like initials, after the company's name. Sherry's tip about the no-billed hours had proven to be right on the money. It looks like ol' Frank was not only sexually screwing blondie, he was also financially screwing a client. Tsk tsk. A dishonest attorney. Who'd a' thunk it! [Wednesday, August 14 and Thursday, August 15] I followed Frank on Wednesday, but as is the rule in most surveillances, nothing happened. It appeared that he was doing legitimate legal work, and that more-or-less corresponded with the Daytimer entries. But on the following day, Thursday, at 2 p.m. Frank once again came out and got in his car. I waited for Lori Lee to emerge, but she was a no-show. Her car remained in the parking lot. Panic time. I had waited about five minutes for her, and now Frank was in the wind. I thought about it and then remembered that Frank and his secretary had not registered at the Stateline Motel. Frank already had a key. I sped out to the Stateline and sure enough, there was Frank's car in the parking lot, right in front of room 114. Bingo! I snapped photos of the other two cars in the parking lot and read their tags into my recorder. One was a California plate, the other was from Idaho, Kellogg County. Again at 4 p.m., the door to room 114 opened and Frank peeked out. Seeing no one, he came out alone rolling a cart with what looked like electronic equipment cases on it. He loaded the cases and cart in his car, jumped in, and left quickly. Wanting to see whom else Frank Wilson might also be "associating" with, I waited. About ten minutes later, a young woman with short brown hair came out of the room. I fired off three photos of her before she got in her car, the one with the Idaho plates, and left. Apparently, ol' Frank isn't just popping his secretary, he's spreading his joy around. But what did the equipment cases contain? I waited another half hour and when no one else came out of the room, I headed to the sheriff's office to get a friend of mine to run the tags for DMV information. Then I visited my cooperative photographer to get the film processed. While I was driving, Sherry called to tell me Frank had arrived home. I told her we needed to meet and discuss the surveillance results to date. She may have been able to tell from my voice that I had something interesting. "I don't have to be at work until noon tomorrow," she said. "Where would be a good place to meet?" "Well, I don't think we should be seen together in Fightin' Creek. Why don't we meet at the Buffalo Burger at exit 241 off I-90 in Falls City at ten o'clock tomorrow morning? That'll give me time to get Frank to work." She agreed. [Friday, August 16] When Sherry arrived the next day, she seemed very energized. We made contact in the parking lot. "I drove around for an hour or so to make sure no one followed me," she said rather proudly. "Why? Do you think Frank is suspicious?" "Not really, but it just seemed like the thing to do." Though I thought she was probably getting into the spy-thing a little too much, it was hard to fault her for being cautious. "Let's go inside and sit down so we can talk." We took a booth near the restrooms so I could watch the parking lot. I went over my surveillance notes with her and explained about Frank's two visits to the Stateline Motel. Then I handed her the photos and was about to give her the cars' registered owner information when she exclaimed, "Holy mackerel!" Perceptive detective that I am, I deduced that she recognized someone in the photos. "See someone you know?" "Oh, yeah! You probably recognized his secretary, Lori, the one with the big boobs and blonde hair." Well, yes, as a matter of fact, I rather enjoyed looking at Ms. Lee. Would that it have been possible to see even more... She continued. "But you evidently didn't recognize the other one. Right?" Her tone of voice was also saying, "You should have." I clearly heard the telltale scream of an incoming bombshell. "The younger one lives two doors down from us." Yep, that was a bombshell. I looked at the DMV records and noticed the woman's street address. It finally registered. "Sherry, I'm sorry I didn't make the connection sooner. So, who's the woman in the picture?" "Woman?" she sniffed. "Just barely. That's Sharon Donovan. She just graduated from high school last May. I think she just turned eighteen last month." Scratch "bombshell." This was a thermonuclear explosion! Rather than being upset, Sherry began to smile. But it was a spooky, icy smile. "I think Frank is headed for big trouble in more ways than one," she said edgily. "All right. Now that we know Frank is carrying on with two women, let's see if we can correlate their meetings this week with anything in his past Daytimer sheets." For the next hour, we examined the past year's planner sheets. By the end of our examination, we had uncovered a very regular and suspicious pattern of behavior. Between the hours of two and four nearly every Tuesday and Thursday afternoon for the past two or three months, Frank had "appointments" but unbilled hours. His normal notation process for legitimate clients was to use their first initial and last name and a file number, but for the suspect hours, he simply used two initials. Looking over the past year's sheets at those specific days and hours, we concluded that Frank had been meeting with at least six different people, presumably women. Since Lori Lee's initials, LL, and Sharon Donovan's initials, SD, were used consistently, we assumed that the other initials represented first and last names of other dalliances as well. But the real zinger was that SD started appearing in Frank's Daytimer about nine months ago. If accurate, that would have been roughly eight months before Ms. Donovan turned eighteen, the legal age of consent in Idaho. I suggested to Sherry that we try and identify the other four people whose initials were in the Daytimer. Trying to save her some money, I suggested that we probably had enough information to nail Frank. Her answer was a surprise. "No, I don't want you to stop now. In fact, let me ask you this. You said that Frank already had the key to the motel room. And you've seen him use that same room twice. Doesn't that suggest to you that he may have booked the room well in advance of his sessions?" Supposedly professional private investigators really hate it when the client is thinking one step ahead of us. "That's certainly possible. Let me check into it and get back to you." "There's one other thing, Lee. Is there any way you can videotape Frank meeting with these women?" "Sure. I can use a camcorder from the car just as easily as a 35 millimeter camera." "No. You don't understand. I would like for you to tape them inside the room." "Ah. Well, that is a violation of both state and federal law. Even if we did it, you couldn't use anything in court. In fact, you couldn't even tell anyone we had done it without risking having us end up in the clink." "Oh, no, I understand that. I have no intention of showing the tapes to anyone except Frank, and then only if it's absolutely necessary. It's my bet that once he knows the tapes exist, he'll be more than happy to give me a very quiet divorce with a generous financial settlement. And if that doesn't do it, I'll let him know that I know and can prove that he was fucking a minor. He's not going to want to get anywhere near a contested divorce with the evidence we already have." I began to hear music in my mind. It sounded much like the opening music from "Jaws." "So your idea, Sherry, is to keep watching Frank and collect so much dirt that he will go quietly into the night and leave you financially secure." "Yep. That's exactly what I want to do." "Well, it will take some doing. The first thing I need to do is get a look at the room he uses and then the room on either side. Whichever adjacent room best fits our needs will have to be booked in advance for Tuesdays and Thursdays, the same as Frank seems to be doing. First I'll need to find out what kind of arrangement Frank has with the motel manager. I don't want the manager saying anything to Frank that might tip him off. Then I'll need to get the necessary equipment. That's no problem; I know where to get what I need. I'll let you know once that's done so we can go to the next step. But for the time being, I would suggest that I keep watching Frank but only on Tuesday and Thursday afternoons. That will help keep your cost down, and it will also help identify any other girlfriends he might have. Do you agree?" She nodded eagerly, then asked, "Is there anything else I can do to help." I felt like saying that if she did any more, I would have to get her licensed as a PI and pay her instead of billing her. Instead, I thought for a while. "We should try and identify the other four women whose initials are in the Daytimer. Does Frank have a Rolodex at home?" "Not that I know of." She paused, then, "But he uses ACT! contact management software on his notebook computer. I've seen him looking at it when he's home. It's password protected, though, and I don't know the password." "Well, if we can get a look at the database file for that program, we may be able to save a lot of time and even learn the names of any other women who he's contacted. How computer literate are you?" She looked at me with an expression that said, "I've probably forgotten more about computers than you'll ever know, buster." But when she spoke, all she said was, "Enough to do whatever we need to do." Somehow, I had no doubt that she was absolutely positively right. "Does his notebook computer have a CD or a disk drive?" "Both." "Okay. I'll come by the library today and give you a diskette. It won't have a label, so don't mix it with any other diskettes. If Frank goes out and leaves his computer behind, I want you to make sure the computer is off. Then slip the diskette in the drive and turn the computer on. You won't immediately see anything on the screen other than whatever normally comes up when the computer is turned on, but there is a program loading from the diskette. Once it's loaded, that will take about a minute, you'll see a little icon flash in the lower right corner of the screen. When the icon stops flashing and disappears, turn the computer off and take the diskette out. You will have loaded in a keystroke logging program. It will record every keystroke he makes and identify every program he opens in a small hidden and encrypted file. It will also date-time stamp each activity. That's not going to give us the database directly, but it is going to give us the password to the database. Once we have that, I'll have you copy his ACT! database. Are you with me so far?" "Of course." "To retrieve the information that the keystroke logger captures, you'll need to re-insert the diskette some time after the next time he logs onto ACT! With this diskette inserted, turn on the computer. Again, look for a small icon to appear in the lower right corner of the screen. It will be a different icon than the first one. When this second icon disappears, the information the logger grabbed has been transferred to the diskette. Any trace of our keystroke-logging program has also been securely deleted. Frank's data won't have been affected in any way. Once you get the diskette to me, I'll go over the keystrokes and give you Frank's password. Then you'll just have to find some way to copy his database. Got it?" She merely nodded. "All right. I'll drop the diskette off this afternoon at the library. I've got a book to turn in, so I'll put the diskette inside. Watch for me around 3:30. Catch me before I get to the book bin and take the book from me as if you are going to check it in. Now, is there anything else we need to cover?" She thought for a moment, then shook her head. We got up to leave, but before I could walk away, she put her arms around me and gave me a hug and a kiss on the cheek. I was surprised, pleasantly, and looked at her. Her eyes were soft brown, and I felt more pangs of sexual attraction stirring as we parted. Damn! I hated involuntary celibacy. I went back to the office, made a copy of my keystroke logging program on the diskette, and had lunch. I kept thinking about Sherry and puzzled over how I could be attracted to her, but the growing hardness in my pants left no doubt that I was indeed attracted. Her eyes...and their powerful message. Promptly at 3:30 p.m. I walked through the library doors. I didn't immediately see Sherry, but she saw me and intercepted me as I was headed slowly for the book bin. "Are you checking that in?" she asked rather loudly. When I nodded, she said, "I'll be glad to take it from you." I handed her the book and thanked her, then more quietly reminded her to call me on the cell phone if necessary. The whole exchange took fewer than ten seconds. [Saturday, August 17] The next day, Saturday, I had planned on doing some home repairs. About 11:00 a.m. my cell phone rang. "Frank went golfing this morning. I've loaded the program in his computer." I had a moment of fear, hoping Frank had not gone to sink another kind of hole in one. "Are you sure he went golfing? Or should I take a drive by the motel?" "No, a couple of his buddies picked him up. This is something he does pretty often, so don't worry. By the way, I'm calling from a pay phone, not from home." Then she started to laugh. "I loved the icon you told me about. Very appropriate considering what we're going to do to Frank." The icon is a middle finger extended upward. "I thought you might enjoy that. Be sure to call me when I need to retrieve the diskette from you. Unless I hear otherwise, I'll start watching Frank again on Tuesday. Is that okay?" "That's fine. Have a good weekend. And Lee, thank you very much for all you're doing. I really appreciate your work." [Monday, August 19] The following Monday I checked out the Stateline Motel and its manager. I was not surprised to learn that the motel still offers hourly rates and that it is still not rated in any automobile association hotel and motel guide. Probably just an administrative oversight. Sure. However, I was surprised to learn that I knew the manager from my days on the sheriff's office. The manager was a greasy, rat-faced little twirp named Robert Rowden. Of course, the deputies had all nicknamed him Robert the Rodent. That Robert the Rodent was managing the Stateline Motel was actually very good news. He owed me a very large favor from when I had been on the sheriff's department. Robert had gotten into a bit of a scrape, though not of his doing. He was a convicted felon and riding in a pickup with one of our local yokels who always carries a gun. I had stopped the pickup and rousted both of them. The local boy had a concealed carry permit, but I could have violated Robert's parole for having been with the local gun-toter. Instead, I had sent the driver on his way and took Robert home. One sometimes cuts some slack in exchange for information or other assistance down the road. I walked into the lobby (such as it is) of the Stateline Motel and there behind the counter, looking greasy as ever, was Robert the Rodent. He recognized me right away but was a bit wary. Ex-con's usually are wary. "Well, if it isn't my favorite Kellogg County mountie." Well, well. Clearly Robert the Rodent was not aware that I was no longer with the sheriff's office. And right then, I couldn't think of one good reason to tell him. "Robert, how're ya doin'?" Robert's eyes narrowed. The boy must be a mind reader. At least he can read something. "What're you after?" Such dazzling repartee. "Nice to see you, too, Robert. I need to ask you some questions, and I'd really appreciate truthful answers." Blank stare. But then again, a blank stare was normal for Robert. "Robert, do you have anyone who is regularly renting a room here?" "Nah, all our guests are here today and gone tomorrow. We don't get many return customers." "Now, see, Robert, you really need to think before you answer. Now think hard, Robert." Robert's pained expression told me that he was either thinking hard or having a bowel movement. Hopefully it was the former. From the smell of the lobby, though, I wasn't sure. Irreconcilable Differences "Nope, can't think of anyone." "Okay, Robert. I just thought you might want to tell me a little about the fellow who's in room 114 nearly every Tuesday and Thursday afternoon. And I thought you might want to tell me that you don't retrieve the key from him, that he's renting the room long-term. And I was absolutely sure you would fall all over yourself showing me the registration card he's required to fill out for each visit. You know the card Robert, the one that state law requires you to keep and that causes your state business license to go away if you don't keep it. By the way, Robert, isn't having steady work a condition of your parole?" Robert began to look very, very ill. As Nixon's resident SOB Chuck Colson once said, "When you've got 'em by the balls, their hearts and minds will follow." Robert seemed to be getting into a "following" mode. "You know, Robert, I think the sheriff's office needs to start paying a little more attention to what's going on in this area. You'll probably feel a lot safer with a sheriff's car driving through your parking lot every hour or so, won't you. I know your guests will, because every now and then a deputy will have a talk with some of them just to make sure they know they're staying at a safe motel." "All right. What do you want?" Wonderful. Another cooperative citizen. "What I want, Robert, is for you tell me everything you know about the fellow that rents room 114. Then I want to see your records for room 114. Then I want you to show me that room and the rooms on either side of it. Then we're going to come back here and talk some more." Between Robert and his somewhat less than meticulous records, I learned that "John Smith" (how original) had reserved room 114 for every Tuesday and Thursday afternoon for the previous six months. He paid for the room every month in advance, so Robert let him keep the key. Mr. Smith was paying Robert $300 per month for the use of room 114 two days each week. The Stateline Motel is not exactly a four-star establishment. It's hardly ever thirty percent booked, so Robert never needed to rent the room to anyone else. That's why he let Frank Wilson, AKA: John Smith, keep the key and come and go more or less as he pleased. Robert checked periodically to make sure that Mr. Smith wasn't using the room any other times, and he wasn't. Since room 114 was an "around the back" room, Robert rarely saw Mr. Smith arrive or depart. Fortunately, Robert cared only about Mr. Smith's money. He didn't know or care who Smith really was or why he wanted the room. Well, Robert probably had a pretty good idea of why. Rooms by the hour are his bread and butter, after all. We walked back and looked at room 114. Its décor was North Idaho seedy. Queen-size bed, one nightstand with telephone, no table or chairs, TV complete with local channels only, no cable, X-rated movies (available at an additional charge, of course), one cheap Formica-covered bureau with drawers for the TV to sit on, a small closet, a toilet next to a basin vanity replete with cigarette burns, and old worn carpet. There was tacky wallpaper that looked like someone wanted it to be velvet but didn't quite make it. Of course, there was a window-mounted air conditioner that sounded like an 18-wheeler at full throttle. It probably didn't get used much. The walls between rooms appeared to be the ever-popular gypsum board with little except fiberglass insulation in between. There was a full-length mirror screwed solidly to the wall opposite the bed. The whole room smelled like mildew, disinfectant, and tobacco. I was sure that had I looked under the bed, I would have found a year's supply of used condoms in addition to enough dust bunnies to grow a wheat crop. Lovely romantic ambiance. Rooms 112 and 116 were mirror images of room 114. I decided that room 112 would serve my electronic surveillance needs best. We walked back to the motel office. "Robert, I am investigating the person you are calling John Smith. (Had he looked at Robert's other records, there would no doubt have been an amazing number of John Smiths.) I'm sure the sheriff's office would look very kindly on your renting room 112 to me for a fair price, say $200 per month. And you, being a public-spirited citizen, albeit one on parole, would probably be more than willing to do that, wouldn't you?" Robert looked shocked but pleased. Almost certainly he hadn't been expecting me to pay any money at all. Local cops generally prefer that parolees like Robert demonstrate their rehabilitation by offering freebies to the cops. "That payment is to ensure that you will keep our conversation and arrangement between you and me. You do understand that, don't you? If anyone, especially Mr. Smith, were to find out about it, well, your parole officer would probably alter your living arrangements in a New York second. NICI is really nice during the winter, isn't it?" NICI is the North Idaho Correction Institution in Cottonwood. Cops call it Frostbite University for Career Criminals. Get someone sent there, you've really FUCC'd them. Of course Robert understood. That was going to be $200 per month that the IRS and state tax board would never know existed. He actually smiled. It occurred to me in passing that Robert might better spend the money on dental work than locally-produced meth. "One more thing, Robert. Should Mr. Smith ever make or receive any phone calls in the room or have any extra requests, I'm sure you'll let me know, won't you?" Robert agreed. I paid Robert the $200 for the coming four weeks, collected the key, and then left, wishing I could decontaminate myself before getting in my pickup. I returned to my office and dug out the contact information for a friend in Sacramento. His specialty is electronic surveillance equipment. We had been friends for years since his career with the California Department of Justice. We had sort of an unofficial mutual aid society. No money ever changed hands between us, but we both came out ahead in the long run. I gave him a call. We talked for twenty minutes, and Sacramento Flash agreed to FedEx the necessary equipment. [Tuesday, August 20] Tuesday morning the equipment arrived. There would not be time to install and test it by that afternoon, so I spent the morning checking it out in the office. It was both audio and video equipment. Smile, Frank, you're about to become a star. That afternoon I again sat outside Frank's office, this time in a borrowed sedan. No point in letting him see the pickup too often. Surprisingly, or maybe not, Frank practiced law all afternoon and then headed for home. I thought Frank probably needed to recharge his batteries. If only I had known then just how close to the truth I was. [Wednesday, August 21] I spent most of Wednesday at the Stateline Motel installing microphones and video cameras in Frank's room. Everything was well hidden so even the maid wouldn't find it. I ran the cables into his room through concealed holes in the wall hidden behind the cove molding baseboards. No, as a matter of fact I didn't trust Robert the Rodent to not snoop around. On the other hand, today's small surveillance electronics make concealment relatively easy. It takes some time, but once it's in, it's very hard to detect. I paged Sherry Wilson. Within fifteen minutes she called back. She sounded a little disappointed when I told her that Frank had been a good boy Tuesday, but she brightened up when she learned the room had been wired. Lights, camera, action! [Thursday, August 22] On Thursday I figured it was worth a shot to go directly to the motel and get the equipment set up. Frank's pattern suggested strongly that the infamous room 114 was where he met all of his sexual liaisons. After unloading the equipment in room 112, I moved my pickup to a spot on other side of the motel, walked through the connecting hallway, and went back into my room. It took about an hour to hook up all the cables and test the equipment. The results were impressive. The three small color video cameras, each with a remotely controlled digital pan-tilt-zoom lens, performed spectacularly even in the almost no-light condition of the room. Only the bathroom and the closet didn't have video coverage. I had planted six small fiber-optic microphones as well. I had earlier decided to impression a key for Frank's room rather than tip my hand any more to Robert the Rodent by asking him for a key. Making the duplicate key to room 114 took about half an hour. A good entry man can impression a key in less than ten minutes, but my skills were rusty. Back in the listening post, I had set up three nine-inch video monitors and one twenty-three-inch color monitor. There was a digital video recorder set up to record whatever was being seen on the larger monitor. The microphones were mixed through a small mixer, equalizer, and noise filter. The final audio mix was fed into the audio input on the video recorder and to a small power amplifier for headset and speaker listening in the room. As an afterthought, I let himself back into Frank's room and installed a small radio-frequency transmitter in his telephone. No point in relying on Robert the Rodent to be honest about any phone calls Frank might make or receive. Since it was only noon, I went out and grabbed a bite to eat at the fast-food joint just across the parking lot. While munching on a rubbery mystery meat burger, I noticed that the restaurant's back parking lot had a perfect view of the spaces in front of room 114. I hurried back to the motel and repositioned my pickup to the restaurant's back parking lot so I could see the room' entrance from inside the cab. Then I locked it up and walked back to room 112, fired up the equipment, and waited. I fervently hoped that Frank would not decide to practice celibacy. He didn't. At about 2:10 p.m. a car pulled up outside and stop. I peeked out through the drapes and saw that it was Frank. Alone. Wilson went inside and immediately went to the phone. He dialed a local number, the Fightin' Creek Resort judging by the operator that answered. Wilson asked for room 245. The operator rang him through, and a woman answered. All he said was, "I'm here." Clearly recognizing Frank's voice, the woman replied, "Just remember what I want and how I want it." Then they both hung up. The transmitter in Frank's phone worked beautifully. Frank Wilson had not called his office, so I ruled out any hope of seeing luscious Ms. Lee's attributes. At 2:30 p.m. a Chevrolet Tahoe pulled up and parked right in front of room 112. That made it easy to get the tag by looking out through the curtain slit. Odd, it was an Ada County tag. Boise. The state's capital. I didn't recognize the woman who got out of the Tahoe. She was in her early forties, attractive but not gorgeous, probably about five-feet-four but looking much taller because of the four-inch heels she wore. Her expensive full-length coat covered what I presumed to be equally expensive attire. Odd to be wearing such a coat on a hot day like this. When she knocked on Frank's door, I turned to his electronic equipment and began watching the video from inside Frank's room. The video monitor clearly showed Frank walking to the door. He opened it and the woman walked in, unbuttoning her coat as she moved. Frank closed the door behind him and immediately grabbed the shoulders of the coat. With one quick jerk he pulled it from her body. She screamed as she spun around. It was an odd scream, more an expression of surprise than fear. She smiled at him. The woman wore only a very sheer black fishnet body stocking. There was nothing beneath it. Her full breasts and extremely prominent nipples were visible beneath the sheer material. Even on video, I could clearly see the dark triangle of hair between her legs. I could almost feel her body heat jumping out of the video monitor at me. She hardly had time to react before Frank moved to her and pushed her onto the bed. She started to get up, but he forced her back down. "No, please, not this way!" she pleaded. Yet, she had a strange look on her face. In contradiction to her verbal plea, there was no real fear or look of terror even though she was breathing heavily and continuing to struggle. The weight and position of Frank's body overcame her resistance and she collapsed back onto the bed. Uh-oh. This is not good. All I need now is for Frank to rape this woman and for the cops' investigation to find my video equipment. I started thinking about how I would strip out my equipment and leave before they arrived. Hopefully, I wouldn't have to work around a woman's corpse to do it. Now Frank tried to straddle her, but she brought her knee up toward his groin. He put his hand on her thigh and pushed it back down. He was sitting on top of her. Her legs and arms were flailing, but she was tiring fast. Frank grabbed first one of her wrists, then the other, and held them together in one of his hands. With his other hand he grabbed the body stocking's neckline and pulled fiercely on it. The entire upper portion of the body stocking ripped away. The woman screamed as her breasts were exposed. With his free hand, Frank began to knead her breasts, first one and then the other. His fingers left red marks behind on her breasts' whiteness. He pulled on each nipple until it became even more hard and erect. She moaned with each pinch on her nipples. Her hips were writhing under his weight as he straddled her. Using his left hand to hold both her wrists captive, Frank changed position from on top to her side. Her energy gone, she offered only token resistance as he began to take each of her nipples into his mouth. As he bit down on one, she screamed again. He pulled, and again she screamed. But the scream still lacked the terror I would have expected. In all my years with the sheriff's office and having separated a lot of fighting men and women, I thought he had seen every possible response from a terrified woman. Yet, there was something not quite square in this woman's responses. It was as if... Frank Wilson continued to kiss and lick her breasts and the area between them. Suddenly, with his right hand, he grabbed at the body stocking and began to rip it, pulling it downward as the material tore. "No! Please stop!" she cried. Again, that odd cry. He quieted her cry by bringing his lips to hers in a forceful kiss. Her muffled screams were still audible through the kiss, but they were becoming less fearful and more yielding. Frank moved his right hand over her belly, then downward to her womanhood. His large hand covered it completely, the palm resting on her clitoral hood, fingers each side of her pussy lips. He began to apply pressure, moving in circles, not abrasively but not too firmly. Her screams subsided and were replaced by more guttural sounds, deep from within her. She still struggled against his force however it was evolving into movement to try and get closer to him. Without any warning she gave a quick swing of her left leg. Frank was thrown off balance and rolled toward the edge of the bed. The woman jumped up and started toward the door, but Frank recovered and caught her by both arms. Her continued struggle was futile against his strength, and he drove her back toward the bed. As he pushed her down, both his hands grabbed the remainder of the fishnet body stocking and pulled it off. She was completely exposed to him. She looked at him. Her eyes were fiery. This time there was no fear in them. The fear had been replaced with pure unadulterated lust. Frank saw it. As she lay on the bed, her breasts rising and falling with her heavy breathing, Frank removed his shirt, then his shoes and trousers, then his underwear. His erection was full and throbbing. Her eyes locked on it. "You want it, don't you, baby?" "Oh, yeah!" She was practically salivating at the sight of him. In an instant Frank was on top of her, wrapping his arms around her, kissing her mouth, her neck, her shoulders. She wrapped her legs around his and began moving them up and down his. No longer was she trying to escape. "Come on, lover," she moaned. "Come on, Frank. Put it in me. You know how bad I want it. C'mon. Do it! Fuck me now! Please! Please!" The little cartoon light bulb of realization came on over my head: The woman was into rape fantasy. Her resistance was all an act. Frank Wilson was fulfilling her exact wishes, something I should have caught earlier from the woman's abbreviated comment during the telephone call. Well, good. That keeps the cops out of the room unless she screams too loudly. "Not yet, baby, not yet." "You sonofabitch," she said with a leering grin. "I'll make you want me worse than anyone you've ever wanted in your life." And with that, she released her legs from around him. With one leg on the bed, she gave a push that rolled him to one side. In the same motion, she rolled on top of him, her pussy against his penis, her breasts against his chest. She began to grind her pussy against his growing manhood that was sandwiched between their bodies. Her face was only inches from his as she continued to gyrate her hips. "Nancy, stop! You're going to make me cum! I want to be inside you!" He was genuinely begging. "How bad, lover? How bad do you want me now?" She had clearly seized control. If she continued her sensual grind, he would finish. She was leering at him now. But the friction of his erect cock against her clit was having an effect on her as well. The expression on her face showed her pleasure. It was going to be a duel to see who could hold out the longest. "Oh, God, it feels so big. So good. Are you ready Frank? I'm almost there, lover. Are you ready? Oh, my God!!! Now, baby!! Fuck me now!!" They rolled together as one with Frank on top. Sweat was glistening on their bodies. Once on top again, Frank raised his hips to position his cockhead over her red enlarged pussy lips showing through her black matted hair. Begging him. He paused. "Now, Frank!! Now!! Hard!!" He thrust his hips and pushed deeply into her. She reveled in his hard fullness pushing deeper and deeper inside her as if he would go on forever. Her body's entire energy was focused on holding him tight, climaxing with him. As he pushed all the way into her, the hair at the base of his penis brushed across her clit. He moved his hips side to side, slowly, seductively, holding the pressure on her clit. "Oh, shit!" she screamed as the intense pleasure of his movement brought her nearer and nearer. "Hard, baby! I want it hard! Fuck me hard! Now! Now!" It was clear that Frank had been trying to hold back, but he could no longer resist her words of passion and the warm wet friction as her vagina gripped his cock. He began to stroke, out, in, out, in, with increasing speed and energy. His grunts with each stroke aroused her even more. She timed her thrusts with his so that each thrust brought him into intense contact with her. She was bucking up and down against him. Her arms were around his back, pulling her down toward him. Her fingernails scratched frantically at the flesh on his back inflicting passionate pain on him. Harder and harder they drove together. Their eyes were closed tightly, their faces distorted in the pleasure of orgasm. The muscles on their bodies were rigid. As she came, her eyes snapped open, seeing only the colors of climax. She roared out her sexual release through her clenched teeth. With each thrust through his climax he cried out in the sounds of sexual fulfillment, sounds unmistakable, sounds primal. Spent, they collapsed together and lay gasping for breath. Finally, she spoke. "God, Frank, that was the best ever. I thought I was going to cum as soon as you ripped the body stocking off me. I don't think you'll ever top that."