Bobby Callous walked out of the Richards Boulevard police station wearing jeans, boots, and an open shirt; clothes that were strikingly similar to those worn by Jan’s x-husband that day. Callous went bounding down the half dozen steps and along the sidewalk toward his car in the adjacent parking area.
Wes Russell sat in his truck across the street in an empty parking lot, looking through binoculars. When he saw Callous he started the engine. Moments later he saw Callous driving onto the boulevard in an SUV. Russell began following him, first along the boulevard westbound, then onto highway 5 going north, over the Sacramento river, past the Garden highway, until he merged onto highway 80 headed East. Russell stayed two cars behind him, but kept the SUV within view. Callous took the Truxel Rd exit, drove North over the freeway and into the Natomas suburb past a row of shopping centers. Traffic was heavy in the area, and Russell had to maneuver back and forth between lanes to stay within view of the SUV. When he saw Callous turn off the main road into a large apartment complex Russell quickly swerved over into the same lane, nearly missing another car, and followed the SUV into the complex. Callous drove past the rental office, around to the side, and parked in a visitor’s space opposite one of the multi-unit buildings. Russell slowly motored into the same area, and parked in a vacant space opposite the adjacent building.
Through binoculars he watched Callous walk away from his vehicle and over to one of the apartments. He rang the bell and moments later an attractive young woman appeared, wearing a white bathrobe. Her hair was blond, long, and tangled. She let Callous in and closed the door.
Immediately Wes put away his binoculars and opened an attaché case on the passenger seat. He extracted a bushy gray handle-bar mustache, a full-length well-trimmed gray beard, a gray wig, and a pair of bushy gray eyebrows. After fitting them on his face and head, Wes checked himself out in the rear view mirror. “Old enough to be your grandpa,” he said, smiling at the old man in the mirror.
Wes picked up a three-ring binder and a folding black cane and got out of the car. He unfolded the cane, locked the car, and hobbled over to the woman’s apartment carrying the binder under his arm. He knocked three times on the door. When no one answered he knocked again, louder. A few moments later the door opened. The woman stood in the doorway, closing the top of her bathrobe to hide her cleavage.
“Good afternoon ma’am.” Wes spoke in a feeble old-man’s voice; he was hunched over a bit as he leaned on his cane.
“Yes?” The woman put impatience in her voice.
“Sorry to disturb you. My name is Travis Yoseman. I’m representing the local chapter of the Homeless Veterans. We’re hoping you might consider a modest donation to help those who sacrificed for their country and find themselves in unfortunate circumstances.”
He opened the binder displaying a solicitor’s license and a small money pouch. “This is our license and information about our organization.”
She glanced at the document. He closed the binder and continued. “Do you have anyone in your family that served?”
“Well, I did have an uncle who went to Vietnam, but no one in the more recent wars.”
“I see. Well, whatever you can afford we would be most grateful.”
Callous appeared behind her, naked from the waist up. She quickly turned and looked at him and then back to Wes. He saw Callous quickly vanish. “Just a second,” she said, and walked away and into the bedroom.
You might be reading a stolen copy. Visit Royal Road for the authentic version.
Wes stood in the doorway and glanced at the apartment. There was a small living room that featured a love seat, a couple of plane end tables, and a flat-screen TV. On the opposite side was a small, enclosed kitchen and a dinette. The faint jangling sound of rock music came from the bedroom. A wave of mint permeated the air - Callous’s after-shave lotion or under-arm deodorant, concluded Russell.
“Here you are.” The woman reappeared and handed Wes a five dollar bill.
“Thank you kindly, miss…?”
“Hampton,” she replied, smiling.
“Ahh…miss Hampton. Your first name isn’t Margaret is it? I believe one of our members has a niece named Margaret Hampton.”
“No, sorry. My name’s Susie.”
“Oh, well thank you Susie. It was good meeting you. God bless you.”
As she closed the door Wes put the five dollar bill in the money pouch and hobbled past some other apartments, then back to his car. He made a note of the woman’s name and address, returned his disguise to the attaché case, took his cell phone from the glove compartment, and started texting.
When the message came through Jan and Carter were in the diner having coffee. A small tape recorder sat on the table between them.
“You want my entire life story?” he asked her.
“Yes, everything you can think of. It may help if you go to trial.”
“If there is a trial I won’t be there.”
“Carter, be positive.” She turned on the tape recorder.
“All right, here’s my life story. I grew up in South San Francisco, spent four years in jail, twelve years playing clarinet, my father’s dead, my mother’s crazy, and my only close relative is my sister Ann Marie Carter in Daly City.”
“Did you go to college?”
“Conservatory of Music in San Francisco.”
“The conservatory? You’re talented Carter.”
“Yeah, that’s what they told me in prison. They’ll be happy to see me again.”
Jan’s phone lit up. “Hang on.” She read the text message and her face turned red.
Carter saw the look of fright and anguish on Jan’s face. “What’s goin’ on?”
“I’ll be back in five minutes.” Jan turned off the tape recorder and hurried out of the diner. On the sidewalk she phoned Wes Russell.
“Hey…I read your text message. The girl’s name is Hampton?”
“Yes, Susie Hampton,” he replied as Callous came out of the apartment buttoning the top of his shirt. He reached back to give Susie a kiss in the doorway, then trotted over to his truck.
“Wait, he’s leaving the apartment,” said Wes. “Yes, I’ll follow him. Which disguise did I use? A cross between Mark Twain and Teddy Roosevelt, two of my personal heroes. He’s in his truck, I have to go.”
Jan closed her cell phone and shook her head in disbelief as she went back into the diner.
Wes followed Callous along Truxel Road and onto freeway 80 going East. The traffic was thick, as commuters poured onto the freeway from Interstate 5, heading home to their quiet, conservative lives in the suburbs. Callous took the fast lane to avoid the congestion, and went tooling along at seventy miles per hour. Wes followed suit and hung back a few cars, but kept Callous in his sights. The winter sun was setting in the West behind them, and the sunlight glared off the long line of hot metal roofs and trunks in front of them.
Callous veered over into the right hand lane and took the Antelope Road exit into a sprawling suburban area. Wes maneuvered quickly through the heavy traffic and barely made it over in time to catch the exit. Callous turned left at the end of the off ramp and drove over the freeway on Antelope Road. He’d driven about three miles when he made a sharp right turn onto Don Julio and into a quiet residential area. He slowed down as he past an elementary school where kids were shooting baskets on the playground. Wes stayed back a full two blocks to avoid detection, and stayed on Don Julio as Callous made a final turn into a quiet cul-de-sac and parked his truck in the driveway of an attractive single story home.
There was a small bicycle and assorted toys scattered across the front lawn. The modest house featured a two car garage, a gray stucco façade, a red tile roof, and near the door a small front porch where a young girl, about five years old, sat rocking back and forth in a two-seater swing. Callous hopped out of his truck, walked quickly over to the girl, picked her up and gave her a kiss. They sat down together, side by side in the swing, and rocked back and forth. Moments later a young woman appeared at the front door. She had short brown hair, wore an apron, and was obviously pregnant. She came out onto the porch and put her arm around Callous. He smiled at her, and gave her a peck on the cheek as she bent over to greet him.
From the main road, Wes observed the family through binoculars. “Oh Jesus,” he said, shaking his head, “a pregnant wife and a mistress. What a sweetheart.”