Clark was a traditionalist when it came to investigation, preferring well-worn shoe leather and telephoto lenses over computer analysis. But even he didn’t have any trouble learning that there were three people named Dorian Palmetto on Facebook—and one of them had graduated from Arlington Heights High School, also in West Fort Worth. It was a dangerous endeavor to see stereotypes in the world of intelligence gathering, yet looking at the smarmy mug of Palmetto’s profile picture, Clark couldn’t help thinking that he would have shot this guy had he ever approached one of his daughters. Shooting him certainly wasn’t outside the realm of possibility now.
According to his profile, Dorian was married with two children, both boys. His wife was a slender waif of a thing, with freckles and braids that, not incidentally, made her look like she was in junior high school. It made Clark sick to his stomach to contemplate her horrible life. It was all based on a lie and she went to sleep every night with no idea she was married to a monster—or it was a living hell. Either way, that was about to change.
Clark knew there was a way to get GPS locations from photos on Facebook. He’d heard Gavin talk about it. But again, he decided to watch and wait. He had the address of the Auto Sphere where Palmetto worked and of the Sleeptight Inn tucked in off Loop 820, where, according to Lupe, he took new girls to “break them in.”
The chain-smoking woman with peroxide-orange hair behind the front desk hadn’t given Clark a second look when he checked into the Sleeptight Inn the day before. She was evidently used to older single men in dark glasses who paid cash and kept to themselves. For a two-hundred-dollar deposit—a little over four nights’ rent—she didn’t make him show any ID.
Clark had stayed in worse places, though that had been many years ago—and Vietcong soldiers had been trying to kill him at the time. All the rooms in this single-floor motel faced the parking lot, and Clark’s room, the last one on the short leg of the L-shaped building, gave him a decent view of all the doors but the two adjacent to his. The walls were thin enough that he could hear if anyone came or went in the next room—but no one ever did.
Palmetto’s Facebook photos showed that he drove a blue Dodge Durango with damage to the right-front fender. Clark woke up to peek out the window and find the Durango parked across the lot. But by the time he got his pants on and slipped the 1911 into his holster, it was gone. It didn’t matter. He’d always been patient, and years of hunting men had endowed him with even more of that particular virtue.
Now that Lupe’s information was confirmed, Clark had no doubt that Palmetto would return.
Clark made it a habit to carry a couple Clif Bars in his bag, but when Palmetto still hadn’t shown by late evening, the chocolate chip and peanut butter washed down with Diet Pepsi from the motel vending machine was wearing thin. He reasoned that Palmetto was a predator, and as such, he would have a territory. When he wasn’t bringing in girls from South America, he’d surely be trolling for them somewhere within driving distance of home. The money in human trafficking was incredibly good. There was no doubt of that. But Palmetto’s Facebook didn’t show him spending money on his family or his vehicle—and he certainly wasn’t blowing it on fancy hotels. No, a man like Dorian Palmetto was in it for the hunt.
A quick computer search pulled up crime statistics for the local area, noting a higher-than-average number of prostitution arrests near a bus transfer station just a few blocks away. If Palmetto wasn’t at the Sleeptight Inn, he was either at home with his baby-faced wife or out trolling.
Clark stopped at a Whataburger to grab a sandwich and then ate in the rental car while he drove. The bus station turned up nothing, so he drove around the mall parking lot, thinking and looking for the Durango. He found nothing there, either, so he decided to cruise by the nearby seedy motels he’d found through the Internet. There were plenty of guys going in and out of various rooms. Hookers hardly ever worked the corners anymore. Sites like Craigslist and Backpage had taken the girls off the street—and when the adult-services ads on those sites had been taken down, more sprang up to take their place.
It was beginning to get dark when Clark finally saw a blue-gray Durango parked on the side of the road, half a block from the bus transfer station. He made a mental note of the license plate number and then slowed as he continued down the block. A tall Ken doll of a man with perfect black hair was busy chatting up a couple young girls. Clark couldn’t see his face at first, but knew in an instant that this was Dorian Palmetto. Surely fresh meat to him, both girls carried small backpacks and had probably just gotten off a bus. Palmetto paid no attention to Clark as he cruised past in one of a dozen dark sedans, focusing instead on his quarry.
Palmetto leaned in close, body-blocking both girls as they stood against the brick building next to the bus stop. The taller of the two wanted no part of it and waved him off. She went so far as to duck under his outstretched arm and walk away.
“Way to go, kid,” Clark said out loud. He fought the urge to drive up and slam the man’s face against the brick wall, but consoled himself in the knowledge that that would come later.
Sadly, a much smaller girl, likely a runaway and still hardly more than a child, appeared to be interested in Palmetto’s proposal. She had short purple hair and a nose ring big enough that Clark could see it from a distance. Palmetto did a lot of talking with his hands, pointing up the street, then opening both arms as if he were offering this girl the world—or, at the very least, a whole lot of money.
The driver of a dually pickup behind Clark lay on his horn, forcing him to drive on or risk drawing attention to himself. He flipped a quick U-turn as soon as he had an opening, but the Durango was already pulling away by the time he got back to the bus stop, and the girl with the purple hair was gone.
Clark hung back, sipping his Diet Pepsi and reaching into the Whataburger sack to grab the last of his french fries as he followed Palmetto and the girl back to the Sleeptight Inn. He got out of his rental car at the same time Dorian opened the door to his Durango. Clark did his best to rein in the hard look he knew he possessed, rounding his shoulders a little and even affecting a slight limp. He was just some random man who’d rented a room, too old to be any trouble. Palmetto paused anyway, giving him a quick once-over. His hand shifted nervously to his waistband, likely touching a handgun.
Nice of you to let me know where you keep it, Clark thought.
Palmetto pointed toward number 5. That figured. He’d want a room away from the office—or at least the office would want him far away so they’d have some deniability. The girl followed dutifully, cords to her earbuds trailing down the sides of her face, her head bobbing to whatever music was playing on her phone. She never even looked up at Clark, which made his next move much easier.
47
The doors at the Sleeptight Inn had seen plenty of wear from police boots, so it didn’t take much effort with the flathead screwdriver Clark carried in his pocket. He’d anticipated having to make such an entry and already practiced on his own door. The key would have been slower.