Authors: M. D. Grayson
The office phone rang. Kenny was nearest, so he answered. He turned to me. “It’s Lieutenant Stewart,” he said.
“Good. I needed to bring her up to date. Put her on speaker, will you?
“Good morning, Nancy,” I said. “We were just about to call you and fill you in on what we found over the weekend.”
“Good morning,” she said. “Before you get started, you might be interested to hear that Annie Hooper was able to find a spot for Paola. They’ve just opened up a new house, and they were able to get her in. Annie made it a priority given the background of Paola’s case.”
“That’s great news,” I said. “That girl’s been through a lot. Maybe now she can start to get her life turned around.”
“We can only hope,” Nancy said. “At least she seems like she’s willing to take the step. I think it’s possible that she will continue to open up over time—although that might not happen fast enough to be of much value to you in your case. Anyway,” she added, “what’s going on? How’s the case progressing?”
“You remember I told you we were going to hunt for Donnie Martin’s house—the one Paola mentioned was across from the park?”
“Yeah, sure.”
“Well, we found it. I don’t know if it was extraordinary detective skills, or complete dumb luck, but we matched up the name on a power bill to an address that matched the description that Reverend Jenkins provided. We checked it out and lo and behold, Donnie Martin’s BMW was parked right out front. The house is located across the street from a park up on Fortieth Avenue North.”
“Just above the U-District,” she said. “Just like Paola said it was.”
“Right. And just like Reverend Jenkins said. Anyway, we staked out the house over the weekend.”
“And?”
“We saw Martin, or at least a guy we think was Martin—he was driving Martin’s car anyway—and a girl—older girl—we presume it’s his bottom girl, Crystal. By the way, we think her real name is Patricia Denise Wallace. I’ll send you her info. Anyway, we saw them come and go together maybe half a dozen times. Also saw a guy we presume to be DeMichael Hollins. He drives a maroon Expedition. We were able to trace the registration back to Hollins. We’ll send you that, too.”
“Power bills and DMV info?” Nancy said, a touch of suspicion in her voice. “I don’t even want to know how you guys are getting this stuff.”
“Better that way,” I said. “But my real point is, we never saw any other girls at the house. And since we were stationary, we don’t know where these guys were going or where they were coming from. Based on that, we’ve decided to do a vehicle surveillance this afternoon. We want to tail him and see if he’ll lead us to the other houses—including, we hope, the one where the girls live.”
“That sounds logical,” she said. “ I know you guys know what you’re doing, but I have to say this—be careful.”
“Definitely,” I said.
“Oh, by the way, I got a message from our gang unit—they’ve assigned us the guy they say is most plugged into the north side. They asked me to set something up with you guys. He’s free to meet with you tomorrow.”
“Great,” I said. “We can make any time tomorrow work. Just let us know.”
“I’ll send you a text,” she said.
“Good. Thanks for setting things up for us.”
* * * *
By 11:45 a.m., all four vehicles were in position. I was parked in the Bryant Playground parking lot—the same lot where the Winnebago had been parked over the weekend. Only I wasn’t driving the Winnebago. I wasn’t driving my red Jeep, either—the consensus of the Logan PI staff being that it stood out too much (an opinion that was hard to dispute). I didn’t set out to make the Jeep conspicuous—I just wanted it to be a pretty decent off-road vehicle, but by the time I’d lifted the body a couple of inches to accommodate the tall wheels and thirty-one-inch tires, well, I have to admit, it wasn’t easy to hide anymore. So I drove the dark green van with
Lake Union Appliance Repair
vinyl stickers slapped on the side.
When properly executed, the rolling box method of vehicle surveillance doesn’t give the subject an opportunity to ID a tail, because the tail is constantly changing. One of the vehicles—usually the closest, is the “prime” vehicle and has command. That vehicle directs all the others. The prime vehicle might not be behind the subject, it might actually be in front with additional vehicles staged on parallel side roads in case the subject turns off. The command changes constantly as the team members take turns rotating into the prime position, never staying long enough to arouse suspicion. Good communication between all vehicles is essential, as is proper staging and placement of vehicles around the subject.
We started by staging Toni across the street in a supermarket parking lot. If Martin turned to go south on Sixty-Fifth, I’d follow him as command vehicle, and Toni would follow me as backup. Doc was further west on Sixty-Fifth. He’d take off as I approached. When we got in range, I’d pull off and allow him to become the command vehicle while he was still in front of Martin. Toni would continue to stay well behind as backup. Meanwhile, Kenny was about a half mile south on Fortieth in case Martin decided to head off in that direction.
At 12:15 p.m., pretty much right on schedule, I saw the door to the house open, and Crystal stepped out, followed a moment later by Martin.
“Showtime, guys,” I said into the headset. I watched as they got into the car and pulled north. As soon as he put his left turn blinker on, indicating he was turning west on Sixty-Fifth, I was immediately relieved—Martin was following his pattern. I said, “He’s turning westbound on Sixty-Fifth. Kenny—start making your way westbound.”
I followed him westbound on Sixty-Fifth for a mile, with Toni behind me by about one hundred yards. Kenny was about five blocks south of us, paralleling our direction of travel. When we approached Doc, I pulled off, and Doc became the command vehicle. Toni continued to trail.
Martin continued westbound for another mile, and then Doc said, “He’s turning south. Looks like he’s turning on Brooklyn. I’m already past.”
I was just about to reach Brooklyn.
“Kenny,” Doc called. “Are you at Brooklyn yet?”
“Negative.”
“Then just pull up on Fifty-Fifth and stop short of Brooklyn,” Doc said. “Don’t cross. Cover us in case he keeps heading south.”
“Roger,” Kenny said.
“Toni, are you going to follow him down Brooklyn?”
“Yeah. It’s a tight street, though—I’m going to hang back a bit.”
“Okay,” I said. “Toni, you’ve got command.” I was looking at the portable Garmin GPS suction-cupped to the dash.
A few seconds later, Toni said, “He’s slowing down. He’s parking along the curb at a house across from the park. I’m going to slow down and then turn east here on Sixty-Second before I get there.”
“Okay, they’re getting out,” she said a second later.
“Kenny,” she called out. “Turn north on Brooklyn. Come up slow and do a drive-by and grab the address. The beemer is parked right in front of the house they went in.”
“Roger,” Kenny said.
“I’m making my turn onto Sixty-Second eastbound,” Toni said. “Kenny, you have the command.”
“Roger.” Kenny loves the military lingo.
“Do it slow but not stupid,” I said.
“Got it,” he said. “I’m just going to call it out. One of you guys can write it down.”
“Good.”
A few seconds later, Kenny started counting the numbers. “6131 . . . 6135 . . . 6139 . . . 6143 . . . it’s 6147! 6147 Brooklyn.”
“See anyone outside?” I asked.
“Nobody,” he said.
“Good. Keep driving. Toni, can you make a U-turn and sneak back up to keep an eye on the house?”
“Yeah. I’m already on it. I’ll call you when I’m in position.”
* * * *
Was this the boys’ house or the girls’? I didn’t know, but at least we now had an address. We could stake it out later and try to decide who actually lived there. Meanwhile, I redeployed all the vehicles in preparation for when Martin moved out again. Toni reported from her vantage point that four cars had arrived over the next twenty minutes. Each car was driven by a young black male. Using her binoculars, Toni was able to report that all of the drivers appeared to be in their early twenties. She took license numbers for all of them. Two of the drivers were accompanied by young white girls, neither of whom looked anything like Isabel. We waited. Forty-five minutes later, Toni said, “Here comes Martin and Crystal,” followed a minute later by, “They’re getting in. Doc—you ready?”
“I’m rolling,” he said. Doc was going to take over as command vehicle, this time from behind. We figured that since Martin hadn’t seen Doc’s vehicle in a trail position, it might be our best bet. Toni was going to be backup again, and Kenny was back down on Fifty-Fifth—this time, pointed east.
“They’re heading south,” Toni said.
“I got ’em,” Doc said. “I’ve got command. Just driving past the house. No other apparent activity.”
Martin drove south until he reached Fifty-Fifth, where he turned eastbound. We followed him for another two miles as he worked his way south and east, deeper into the U-District.
“He’s stopped on Nineteenth,” Doc said. “They’re getting out.”
“Can you break off?” I asked.
“Yeah. I’ll just keep going straight here.”
“Okay,” I said. “Don’t go down Nineteenth. I’m fifteen seconds away,” I said. “He hasn’t seen me in profile yet. I’m going to make the turn on Nineteenth and check it out.” We were running out of vehicles that hadn’t already been in prime position.
I turned south onto Nineteenth off of Fifty-Fifth. Immediately, I could see the white BMW parked alongside the curb, four houses down from Fifty-Fifth. The car looked empty.
“He’s parked at a house down the street. Looks like they’ve gone inside,” I reported.
The street was heavily tree-lined, making it hard to see the address. I slowed down before the house—I didn’t want to change speeds in front of it. As I approached, I looked for the address on the mailbox. Finally, just as I reached the house, I saw the box. The address was pasted to the side in inexpensive foil letters. “5387 Nineteenth,” I said. “5-3-8-7.”
“Got it,” Toni said.
“Nobody visible. House looks like a frat house. Big brick sucker—big porch. I’m going on past.”
I drove to the end of the block and stopped. I could see Doc parked around the corner.
“Think the other house was the boys’ house and this one is the girls’ house?” Doc asked over the radio.
“Maybe. Is there a place for me to pull in and park on the curb north of the house, someplace where I could still get a view?”
“I don’t know,” Doc said.
“Hey, guys,” Kenny said. “I’m up here at the top of the street. How about if I make a U-turn and come back and just park up here. I can eyeball them when they come out before they even get in the car.”
“That works. Doc—you’re good where you are. I’d just as soon he didn’t see this green van again. I’m going to go down a half mile or so here and park. Toni? Where are you?”
“On Twentieth between Ravenna and Fifty-Eighth.”
“Perfect,” I said. “Just wait.”
Less than five minutes later, Kenny said. “Here they come. Just the two of them,” followed shortly afterward by, “They’re headed south again.”
“I got ’em,” Doc said a minute later. “They just passed me. They turned east on Fiftieth. They’re leaving our area.”
I thought about this. We were out of vehicles that hadn’t already been in the prime position. We had what we needed. I didn’t think we’d been spotted. A good afternoon.
“Everybody—let’s call it a day,” I said. “Break off, and we’ll debrief back at the office.”
A FEW MINUTES before ten the next morning, Toni and I waited in the lobby of Nancy Stewart’s office for our meeting with the SPD gang unit. I was reading a
Sports Illustrated
article about Texas Ranger left fielder Josh Hamilton. Hamilton’s my kind of hero—a guy with superhuman powers yet still a man—a fallible human being. Part of the package with Josh Hamilton includes a fair share of goofs, screwups, and mistakes—just like the ones we all make every day. Yet—and this is the really inspirational part in my book—he still manages to find his way back—humble, contrite, no excuses, no attempts at blame shifting. His faith in God and the love and strong support of his family and friends serve as his bedrock, and—at least so far—it appears to be an unshakable foundation. I’m a fan.
“Morning, guys,” Nancy said. She’d poked her head out the “Restricted Access” door, and I hadn’t even noticed.
“Hey there,” I said, standing. “You ready for us?”
“C’mon back.”
She held the door for us and then led us back to a conference room. We walked into the room and noticed two men already seated. Both men were dressed casually—even more so than I was (I wore jeans and a short-sleeved Hawaiian shirt). One of the men looked up when we entered. He was Hispanic, probably late twenties. His dark hair was cut very short except for a slightly longer Mohawk strip down the middle. In a thousand years, I’d never have guessed him to be a cop—except for the badge pinned to his shirt and the Glock on his belt. The other guy was on his cell phone, his back turned to us. He had medium-length blond hair and even from the side, I could see he wore a short, scruffy beard. When we entered, he finished up his call and spun around in his chair.