End of Days (Pike Logan #16)(39)
At night, the streetwalkers were all over the EUR neighborhood, the majority clinging to the alleys that surrounded the park around the lake, but, as he’d learned, most had no place to go, with some wanting to offer their services in the darkness of the park itself, and others simply using the patron’s car. Earlier, when he was genuinely searching for sexual gratification, he hadn’t liked either choice, forcing him to solicit multiple women before he’d found one who had a place to stay. He wasn’t going to do that tonight. He couldn’t take a chance on another trailer encounter. He needed to prepare the location prior to arrival, and so he’d rented a VRBO apartment on the east side of the neighborhood, away from the lake.
That in itself had been a chore, because he had very specific requirements. The biggest hurdle was finding a host who didn’t require verified identification to rent. That cut his choices in half, as Airbnb not only required an official government ID, they also did a background check on the identification submitted before giving the renter “verified” status.
VRBO recommended verification, as some hosts wouldn’t rent without it, but didn’t actually require it, allowing him to use a fake driver’s license from the United States. The license had been bought off the internet just like any underage college student had the capability of doing, but he figured unlike a bouncer in a college town bar in the United States, nobody in Italy would know what to look for to prove it false. That, coupled with the complete collapse of rentals from COVID, made Garrett sure the host wouldn’t even attempt to verify. He or she would just want the money.
Beyond the identification problem, he had other needs. The rental couldn’t require him to meet the owner or agent of the apartment to gain access. That eliminated “apartments” that were really just makeshift rooms at the back of a house where the owner still lived or apartments that insisted on an in-person meeting with a rental agent to receive the key.
Finally, the location was key. He needed a place that allowed him to get within a hundred meters of the apartment without being seen, and not just by driving up like he had before. He wasn’t going to risk being discovered in his car again, and he would need to remain for possibly hours, which required a site that would allow such a stay.
It seemed to be an exhaustive list, and he’d actually considered renting a trailer himself, parking it somewhere in a dark alley to use, but assumed there was no way a whore would follow him into a sketchy back-alley trailer that she didn’t own.
After six hours of research, he’d stumbled upon a perfect location. It was a VRBO in four-story apartment complex right next to a park called Parco Mattia Preti, on the east side of the EUR neighborhood. With a school across the road—which would be closed at night, ensuring no coincidental eyewitnesses—a myriad of alleys surrounding it, and keypad entry that didn’t require him to meet anyone, he submitted his application. Four hours later, it was approved, and he paid for four days.
He’d driven to the location, carefully looking for surveillance cameras and seeing two mounted on the walls to the front entrance, one focused on the parking lot, the other focused on all who entered. He’d avoided them, entering through a side door and walking up two flights of stairs. He checked numbers, reached his door, and held his breath. He punched in the code he’d been given, and the lock clicked open. He exhaled and entered, taking stock of the surroundings.
It was small, a one-bedroom with a kitchenette and a bathroom, the tiny den barely big enough to hold the two chairs and a coffee table the host had provided, which was perfect for him. He opened his backpack and went to work.
He began installing Wi-Fi cameras and small, covert microphones throughout the apartment, using the cheap artwork on the walls, smoke alarms in each room, lamps on tables, and air vents along the baseboards. When he was done, he connected the system to the apartment Wi-Fi and checked the feed on a tablet. It appeared to work inside the apartment, but the real test would be outside.
He turned on the television, raising the volume to conversation level, then went back to his vehicle and drove to the park entrance a scant hundred meters away. He entered it, walking with a backpack until he reached a bench, ignoring the people out enjoying the sunshine. He opened the pack, pulled out the tablet, and attempted to connect to the apartment complex Wi-Fi. The signal was too weak. He stood up and began walking back toward the complex, looking at his tablet. He entered a wooded section, the fence to the park only twenty meters away, and feared his plan wouldn’t work. He found another bench and sat down again, waiting.
The tablet found the signal and connected. He dialed up his network of surveillance devices and smiled. The system worked perfectly. He had a clear view of both the bedroom and the den and could hear the television even inside the bedroom. He tapped the tablet, shifting cameras, pleased. Sometimes it paid to have specialized training and equipment.
He’d started to put away his tablet when a dog ran up to him with a ball, a young boy of about thirteen scampering behind. The boy approached and said, “What’s that?”
Before Garrett could answer, the boy saw the camera feeds and said, “Are you flying a drone? Can I see?”
Flustered, Garrett stood and said, “No, no. It’s pictures of my apartment.”
He walked rapidly away, regretting the contact and his reaction to it. The boy would remember Garrett. If he lived around here, he might be contacted in a canvas of the neighborhood.