Mind Switch (21 page)

Ford watched Fred from the front window of his office. Ford had expected Fred to try the other door in his office complex, and was happy he did. Ford had nothing to hide in that part of the office; it reaffirmed the fact that he was simply a practicing hypnotist.

“Stupid damn cop,” Ford muttered under his breath.

Chapter 38

Fred continued to have a bad feeling about Ford. The meeting had been too pat; Fred wondered if somehow Ford had suspected him to be a cop.

When Fred got back to his office, he directed that 24 hour surveillance be put on Ford. If the chief found out about this, he would never understand that the reason for the questionable use of manpower was only because Fred had a bad feeling about Ford.
 

His secretary rang him and said a neighbor of his had called him twice and it seemed rather important. Fred called the number given him. It was Joseph Cohen, his next door neighbor. Fred said, “Hi, Joe, how can I help you?”

Cohen said, “Perhaps it’s me that can help you! I wanted you to know that a small Ford Focus had gone past your house about ten times last night. Bessie and I were sitting on the front porch but we couldn’t see who was in the car. After a while someone parked the same car next to your front curb and tried your front door. When you didn’t answer they left. But they came back about an hour later and again tried your door. I called your home but got no answer. Then I called the police station and they said you had left for the day.”

Fred said, “Joe, I was exhausted and spent the night in a motel. Maureen is out of town. Did you get the license plate number, or did you see who it was?”

“You know that at mine and Bessie’s age, we can’t see more than ten feet in front of us. But I did use my binoculars to try to read the plate; but in the darkness I could only get a part of it.” Joe read the partial number to Fred.

“Thanks, Joe, I appreciate the information.” He hung up. Fred had always considered Joe and Bessie nosey busybodies but at this moment he was very happy they were.

After he phoned the Tampa police and was informed they had no leads into Maureen’s disappearance, he immediately put a trace on the license plate number. With a complete plate number he would have detailed information back in a matter of minutes; but with a significant segment missing, it would take much longer and the number of hits might be extensive.

* * *

A large green car was parked on a dead end street near the Sarasota-Bradenton Airport. The area was a notorious make-out spot for college kids from nearby New College. It was also used by parsimonious patrons who didn’t want to pay the expense of parking their car at the airport. As a result, property owners had continuously called the police to complain about non-residents parking on their streets. In this case an irate citizen, Bryson Brown, had called and noted that a large green car had parked there overnight. The officer getting the call had been alerted to the all-points concerning Fred’s missing wife. He asked Brown the make of the car. Brown said, “Who cares! Just get the damn thing towed away!”

The officer went to the scene and called in the license plate number. The call resulted in an immediate match with Maureen’s license plate identified in the all points bulletin. At that point he called his discovery into the station.

Fred spoke directly to the officer at the scene. “Good news!” Patrolman Lamb exuberantly relayed, “Very good news, I have found your wife’s car!”

Fred could feel the exuberance in Lamb’s voice, But Fred had ambivalent feelings. The fact that Lamb had omitted any mention of a body at the scene was good news, but the fact that the car had been abandoned was not. Abandoned cars used in a kidnapping often meant there was no further need for the car or the hostage.

When Fred arrived at the scene, he noticed that all of the car doors were locked. He used his set of spare keys to open the driver’s door, being careful not to leave his prints on any part of the car. The interior was immaculate; Maureen was a neatness fanatic. Fred had hoped that the kidnapper was not, but no clues were visible to the naked eye. In fact they found nothing whatsoever inside the car. Fred told Lamb to get prints on all parts of the car and at the same time take the prints of the all of the mechanics at Al’s garage on Gulf Gate Drive.

Officer Lamb asked, in some confusion, “Do you think they have a responsibility in this?”

Fred gently responded, “Not at all. But that’s the only place that Maureen ever had her car serviced. So, if we eliminate the prints of all of the people we know that have legitimate access to the car, what’s left may well be our kidnapper.

“My prints,” Fred said, “are of course on file at the station. Any others should be those of Maureen. If any additional prints turn up, other than the mechanics, we will have our suspect.”

Fred went to the trunk. Fred was not a procrastinator but he dreaded opening the trunk for fear of what he might find. The car had been parked at the end of the dead end street beyond city street lights, directly under two large live oak trees that cast strong, dark shadows on all objects that lay beneath them.

Fred slowly opened the trunk. Fred felt his heart beating at twice its normal
pace. When she had bought the 1988 Ford Victoria, Maureen jokingly said the trunk was large enough to place three bodies in there, perhaps even four. Fred at this moment saw no humor in her jest.

When he opened the trunk, for some reason the light did not come on. As his eyes adjusted to the dark, he saw a large object pressed tightly against the back of the trunk. With great trepidation he put his hand in and felt a light plastic covering. Something soft and giving lay beneath it. “Oh, God, no!” he screamed into the night!

C
hapter 39

For Harry Ford it had been an extremely lucrative day. His office had been packed with customers all day long. He was busy answering the phone and dealing with varied therapy sessions.

He had no secretary for two reasons—it was an unnecessary expense—and Harry was cheap. Also, a secretary posed the potential threat of probing into his personal affairs. When he was in his consulting room, he had a sign in the outer office which said, “Mr. Ford is currently consulting—he will be with you momentarily; please take a number.”

He knew that due to the lack of a secretary, he sometimes lost customers. In fact the extra expense associated with help he could tolerate, but a curious secretary he could not, under any imaginable condition.

A permanent secretarial absence induced logistical problems but it never caused him to suffer financially. Because, in fact, it was not his daytime business that would make him rich.

Today he was extremely busy. His no-calls, a term he used to apply to those that were his walk in business, far exceeded his scheduled appointments. Ford was cunning and criminal but he was far from lazy; he continued to work with his clients as long as they came through the door and could make money for him. Often it kept him in the office long after normal business hours. Today had been one of those days.

The last rays of the sun were setting in the west as he exited his office door. His car was parked on a side street but it was only a two minute brisk walk. He started his car and pulled out of his parking space watching out of his rear view mirror as he exited. About a football field’s length away, he noticed a car turn on its headlights.

Ah, the cops, Ford said to himself. About two days ago he had observed the tail. Whoever was following him was clumsy. Ford had made a series of circuitous turns which eventually put him back on Tuttle Road about a half mile from where he started. The car behind him stayed about the same distance behind and had continued to make the same series of circular turns. The car trailing him yesterday had been a nondescript 1990’s Dodge. This evening, as the car behind him passed under halogen street lights, he noticed it was the same make and model.

He smiled. Well, they can follow me all they want and they will learn nothing except what I want them to learn, he thought. In fact, I really don’t care if they know where I live, but they will never find out that which I want to keep secret. He stopped at a convenience store to buy some coffee and watched the car behind him pull into a parking space a distance behind. Maybe I should buy him some coffee as well, since we have gained such a close relationship. He smiled as he thought of the irony of it. He allowed them to follow him to his trailer home. I want them to believe I have nothing to hide, he said to himself.

* * *

Fred pulled hard at the plastic sheet. As he pulled, he felt the soft material beneath the cover start to separate. “What the hell,” he muttered as he continued to pry out the object towards the front of the trunk opening. The limited illumination from the street light clearly identified what he had been struggling with. It was not one object, but
two
large bags of mulch held together loosely by the plastic cover. Maureen must have bought them for her flower garden. Fred removed the mulch and felt around the entire interior of the truck. Nothing else was there. Fred experienced momentary relief but then realized that Maureen was still missing and he had no idea where she could be. Sometimes love is reenergized when the health of a loved one is in question. Fred knew at this moment that he loved Maureen more than ever, and more than he had ever loved anyone else in his entire life.

“Please, God, wherever she is, let her be safe,” he prayed.

Chapter 40

While Fred was out, Jim received the report on the partial license plate matches on the Ford Focus that had been circling Fred’s house. Over fifty cars had matched on the first four numbers. The good news was that only two of them were linked to a Ford Focus. Paul was in the office at the time Jim received the report. Jim said, “One of these is assigned to a Moses Salvate. His address is in the southern part of Sarasota, and the other one is a rental car. Paul, how about you checking out the rental car, and I will visit Mr. Salvate?”

When Paul protested his assignment, Jim relented. Hell, Jim said to himself, had I suggested it the other way around he would have still protested.

Paul was the senior officer on duty at the station and he directed Jim to phone in the results of his investigation immediately. Both Jim and Paul took off to opposite sides of the city.

Paul arrived at a modest home on Floyd Street. The sparse St. Augustine grass looked as if it hadn’t been mowed in some time; sprawling weeds greatly outnumbered the few remaining strands of browning grass. A 1985 vintage Volvo was parked in the driveway. The dull black paint on the hood had long ago lost the fight against years of progressive rust and corrosion. There was no sign of a green Ford Focus on the street or in the driveway.

As Paul proceeded to the front door, he noticed that the wooden front steps were rotten in several places. Obviously, Paul thought, the steps were of a vintage long before the introduction of pressure treated lumber. He knocked on the door. No answer. He looked for a bell—none existed. He knocked louder a second time and heard a woman’s voice yell from the back of the house, “Keep your shirt on, I’m coming!”

A middle aged woman greeted him. She seemed somewhat surprised and fearful when she realized it was a police officer. With obvious trepidation she asked what she could do for him. A rare winter Florida shower had suddenly developed and water was starting to drip from the gutter-less tin roof directly onto the brim of Paul’s cap. “How about letting me inside to get out of this rainstorm?” he asked forcefully, allowing her little room to say no.

She hesitated briefly, and then realizing that she had no other option said, “Of course, officer,” and opened the door fully. The front door opened directly into a living room that still retained a well-worn 1970’s look. The ceiling was cracked in several places revealing that it had been constructed during an era long before the arrival of sheet rock. The drab green paint on the walls was starting to peel in several places. A sectional sofa which had seen better years was to his right. Directly in front of him was a door to the kitchen. He could smell the wafting scent of corned beef and cabbage cooking on the stove. He noted that two doors were to his right, both closed. Cautiously, he asked if she were alone in the house.

She said, “Yes,” not sure of the reason for his question. He then asked her about the Ford Focus registered to Moses Salvate. Her passivity turned quickly to anger and she asked, “Is he in trouble again?”

Paul responded in surprise, “You mean he has been in trouble in the past?”

She said, “Well, you’re from the police so you must know about his record; I’m sure that’s why you’re here. I told him if he kept it up he would be thrown in jail. But he never listens to me.”

At that point a late model Ford Focus pulled into the driveway. The original sleek design lines had been altered by a collection of scrapes and dents all over the body. Paul pushed her forcibly out of his way and moved to the side of the open door.

She started to say, “Wha—”

He shushed her by placing his firm hand across her lips.

A few seconds later a figure entered the front door. Taking no chances, Paul immediately spun him around, pushing him forcefully against the foyer’s wall. Simultaneously, he grabbed the man’s hands yelling out the command, “Don’t resist!” while locking handcuffs on the shocked family member.