Picked(13)

“You going to be around here for a while? I’ve got to meet a client at Bino’s.”

“Not too much longer. I can lock up.” And there it was again, that adrenaline surge. I think I was such a straight-laced kid my entire life it affected my ability to be bad. Chasing a food truck with no seatbelt on was my idea of being rebellious, and even then, I was afraid of getting busted and usually pulled it on.

Yes! I silently screamed. It was a beautiful day out and my dad left his jacket hanging by the door. Although I watched him pull the keys from his pants and lock his office. I knew he had an office key hidden in the inside pocket. He’d learned his lesson after having to break in when we’d take a cab to work, which he did on occasion. If there was something big going on in the city, we took a cab. It was the quickest way to the office, yet it felt dreadfully slow, hence why we didn’t need to be right downtown.

Watching my dad hail a cab from the window, I turned, making sure I was truly alone. I got an eerie feeling once I realized I was. Shaking it off, I hurriedly continued with my mission. I unlocked the office door, took the key with a big red M on it, sure it was for Marti, sprinted to her locked cabinet, ran back to replace the key, locked my dad’s office, and put his key back. Out of breath, I panted as the adrenaline rushed through my veins. Taking the thicker-than-I-thought folder, I closed the cabinet. Shit. I needed to lock it back up. I placed the file in my bag and ran the race again, tracing my steps until all was the way it should be and I was again, out of breath.

I may have been better at this stuff than I thought. I could be sneaky, I proudly showed off to myself and headed toward my destination. Hoping I could put fat, bald guy behind me, I followed the slow moving traffic out of town. My mind wasn’t on him, of course. It was on Becker Cole and his three wives. I just couldn’t fathom sharing a man with two other women. I knew it went on. I’d even started watching one of the reality shows about it after learning about Becker.

Parking my car across the street, I looked to the quiet house. The blinds were closed and it appeared to be empty. I really couldn’t tell whether or not anyone was home. There was a one car garage, and it was closed. Someone could have been home, I presumed, taking my awaiting case from my bag.

I spent twenty minutes reading about the girls. They were all very pretty and young, maybe eighteen, nineteen years old, all blondes, maybe early twenties. You couldn’t tell nowadays. Twelve-year-old girls looked like they were twenty. I bet he picked them that way. He probably wanted them young so he could brainwash them with his religion. Tell them how they needed to submit to him in order to get into Heaven. I watched a few documentaries on YouTube where the wives were conditioned into believing that they needed their keeper. The keeper held the keys to the pearly gates of Heaven.

All three girls had pretty much the same backgrounds as well. Only one of the three had graduated high school. They were somewhat troubled girls, and they all looked a little rough around the edges, from the pictures anyway. I was sure the photos weren’t recent, and wondered what the girls looked like now.

Becker had money. Did his wives have makeovers? Did he make them dress in fancy duds and wear six-inch heels? Did they have wedding ceremonies? Which one was first? I continued to read, figuring out that Christina Mays was first, but only by a few months. She’d been with him the longest, not quite two years. Alana Ward was next by nine months, and last was Britney Thomas. She’d only been there since February. That was only seven months.

Those girls had to have been there against their will. He was holding them there with something, I was sure of it. I was going to have to do this on my own. Marti had basic information, probably because she wasn’t into the case the way I was. I expected a lot more from her than what I’d gotten.

Thinking about what my next move should be, I looked up just in time to see Mr. Zimmer walk out of his house. Armed and ready, I moved the camera, focusing in as he walked down the three concrete steps. He held the railing, grimacing as he descended each step. He was really hurt, he wasn’t faking it at all. Mr. Zimmer waddled to the end of the sidewalk and pulled the lid for his mailbox. He stood, leaned against a post while he caught his breath and then started his journey back.

I was convinced that Wayne Zimmer was not faking his injury at all and felt a little pissed off they were giving him a hard time over it. It wasn’t fair. People that were using the system were off playing golf or something, and I was spying on a man that actually needed it. What a screwed up system.

“I’m done here. This guy really is hurt,” I said, dialing my dad.