The Fugitive's Trail (5 page)

New York City

Crigler returned to his office and immediately went to the coffee service in the corner. He poured a cup and absent-mindedly added a packet of Equal to the strong black liquid. The view out his floor-to-ceiling window included Midtown, Central Park and the upper East Side; he saw none of it as he stood sipping his coffee and staring into the distance. Plymel downing a scotch at eleven in the morning played into his plan. He had seen this type of conduct during his years at the Justice Department in Washington. Perfectly stable men, when confronted with a crisis they couldn’t resolve, resorted to self-destructive behavior. Plymel was now heading down that slippery path.

Plymel was skimming funds from the company—of that, he was sure. He also suspected the incident in the lobby involved those funds. But, the board would not act on suspicions. He needed proof the man was diverting funds into personal accounts. How to get this proof was the current dilemma. After several minutes of staring out the window, he smiled.

Turning back to his desk, he opened the top left-hand drawer and retrieved his personal cell phone. After finding the number he needed, he pressed the call icon. It was answered on the fourth ring.

“You are either in trouble or need a favor Alton, which is it?” The voice was gruff, without a hint of humor. If Crigler had not known the man for over thirty years, he would have ended the call.

“I have a job for you, Adam. Are you interested?”

“Not sure yet. How much does it pay?”

“Going rate.”

“Don’t be insulted if I hang up.”

“I need you to find out something about someone.”

Adam Weber chuckled on the other end of the call. “That has to be the vaguest job description I’ve ever heard. Meet me at O’Hara’s Pub in an hour. You’re buying lunch.”

***

O’Hara’s Pub was crowded, as usual. It was a popular hangout for Wall Street workers. Executives didn’t go there very often because lunch was inexpensive for New York City standards. Plus, it was hard to conduct business in the loud atmosphere. But it was a good place to meet for discussions concerning illicit matters. Not that all discussions at O’Hara’s were illicit. But a fair portion did lean that direction. Adam Weber was sitting at the bar nursing a Guinness when Crigler arrived.

Weber was a large man in his late-fifties. His thinning brown hair was kept short, not quite a buzz cut. With a face to match his gravelly voice, Weber was a master at intimidation. His line of work demanded good physical strength and agility, so he worked out regularly. An ex-U.S. Marshal, he now owned a private company specializing in finding and recovering white-collar embezzlers and the funds they had liberated. Crigler had used Weber several times over the years, both for legitimate reasons and for a few illegitimate endeavors. Weber preferred the illegitimate ones; they paid better.

Crigler joined Weber at the bar. “Why do you like this place? It’s loud and crowded.”

Weber raised his beer to his lips and before taking a swig said, “Exactly. No one will hear what you have to say. Let’s go to our table. There’s one in the back reserved for us. We can talk there.”

The waiter was an older man who appeared to have been present when the restaurant opened back in the late forties. But he was efficient, took their order, and kept the crowd away. After the waiter left with their order, Weber said in his gruff voice, “Okay, what’s the job?”

Crigler took a sip of his Guinness and sat back in his chair. “What’s your specialty, Adam? What do you do best?”

Weber frowned. “I’m not here to play games. What’s the job?”

Crigler didn’t deviate from his question. “What you do best is find individuals who have stolen money from a company and return both to the proper authorities. It’s your calling, and you do it better than anyone I have ever seen.”

“Yeah, yeah. What’s the job?”

“It seems my partner Abel Plymel had some funds stolen recently. Funds he may have stolen himself. The FBI is trying to find the man who stole the money. But he has vanished into thin air. I need to know how much was stolen and where it is located.”

“What about the guy who stole it?”

Crigler shrugged. “Don’t care. He’s inconsequential, just find the money. Once you find it, I can take the information to the board and Plymel is history.”

“I need a starting place. Who took the money?”

Crigler handed Weber a security camera photo of the two guards and the suspect as they exited the elevator.

Weber looked at the picture then back at Crigler. “What’s his name?”

Crigler told him and added, “The security guard on his left was killed during his escape, and the other one had his knee shattered. The man disappeared into the crowd and hasn’t been seen since. The FBI has a seasoned agent looking for him—even he can’t find him.”

“Impressive,” Weber said, taking a long pull on the Guinness. “Sounds like the guy had some military training. I’ll start looking there.” He paused and stared at Crigler. “By the way, my fee just went up.”

Smiling, Crigler said, “I’ll give you a hundred to start, plus expenses.”

Weber laughed as he stared at the photo. “Five hundred up front, and another after I find him.”

It was Crigler’s turn to laugh. “Obviously you see the challenge of finding this man, don’t you? All right—I’ll give you five hundred thousand up front. Then you’ll get another five when you bring me a picture of his corpse and the location of the money. ”

Placing the photo in the inside pocket of his sport jacket, Weber raised his Guinness. “Plus expenses.”

Crigler nodded.

***

It was a dingy hole-in-the-wall bar not far from Fort Bragg. Adam Weber was waiting for an old friend who still called the army home. It was five minutes before six in the evening, and his friend was due at the top of the hour. At exactly six, a man in his late forties, dressed in desert BDUs, walked into the bar. His gray hair was cut in a style reminiscent of the early sixties: a flattop. With a barrel chest and a narrow waist, his physique resembled a Y. To round out the cliché, he had an unlit cigar in the corner of his mouth and sergeant major stripes. He smiled when he saw Weber and headed to the table at the back of the pub.

“I’ll be damned. If it ain’t Major Adam Weber. Visitin’ from New York City. How ya doin’, sir?”

They shook hands. “Good. But I’m not a major anymore. I work for a living.”

They both enjoyed the laugh. Before sitting down at the table, the sergeant gestured toward the bar by pretending to lift a mug to his lips. He watched as the bartender poured a beer and handed it to a waitress. He started pulling one of the chairs out from the table, but before he could sit down, a middle-aged woman set a tall mug in front of him. She smiled, kissed him on the cheek, and left.

“I take it this is not your first time in this particular establishment,” Weber said in his gravelly voice.

“Yeah, the ladies in this town just love me. What’s going on, sir?”

“Well, I need some help, sergeant major. I need to find someone who was in the military at one time.”

“Where’d he do his training?’

“Not sure.” Weber pulled a picture out of his sport coat pocket and handed it to the sergeant. He continued, “This is the only picture I have of him. He’s a ghost.” Weber told his friend a name, which the sergeant wrote on the back of the picture. Weber then said, “I’ve checked DMV. No such person, no records in the IRS—he doesn’t exist. But, he’s a computer guy and has the moves of someone trained by the military.”

“Huh.” The sergeant looked at the picture, then at Crigler. “How so?”

“See the gorilla in front of him?”

The sergeant nodded. “Yeah, looks like hired muscle. What about him?”

“Our friend here grabbed the big guy’s gun, shot him, then crippled the man behind him with one kick to the knee—and from eye witness accounts, all in one move.”

Nodding again, the sergeant said, “Huh.” He continued to stare at the picture. “Sounds like someone I might have trained. You said he’s a computer guy.”

“Some kind of computer expert. He’s been erasing all of the public records of his real name. That’s why I can’t find any traces of him. My bet is, there’s probably a military file on this guy somewhere.” Weber pushed an envelope across the table, which the sergeant palmed and quickly slid into one of the side pockets on his pants.

“You want me to find out if he was in the military?”

Weber nodded.

“When was he in? Do you know?”

Weber shook his head. “No, but I would guess at least within the past fifteen years.”

The sergeant continued to stare at the picture. He looked up at Weber. “Give me a few days. I have a few ideas how to find him. But, it will take some time.”

Weber nodded. “I’m aware of your ability. That’s why I like doing business with you, sergeant major.”

New York City

Two weeks after the fugitive walked out of sight at the Westminster Hotel, Kruger called his boss, Alan Seltzer. When the call was answered, Kruger said, “We lost him.”

There was silence on the other end. Then Seltzer said, “The director isn’t going to accept that, Sean.”

“Then the director can take over the case.” Kruger paused, waiting for Seltzer to respond. After several moments of silence, Kruger said, “The guy disappeared into thin air, Alan. We can’t find a money trail. My guess is, he’s planned this disappearing act for a long time and so far hasn’t made a mistake. You can put more agents on it if you want to, but they’ll get the same results.”

“Have you told Alton Crigler yet?”

“No. I thought I’d deliver that tidbit of news on my way to the airport.”

“Okay, I’ll let the director know. Don’t be surprised if you get a call. He’s had an unusual degree of interest in this case. I have to give him a daily update.”

Kruger’s frowned. “Why?”

“Crigler and the director went to college together, so be careful of what you say. It will get back to the director.”

“I’m going to tell him the truth. If the director doesn’t like it, too bad, he can take me off the case.”

“Just be careful what you say, Sean.”

***

Kruger was shown into Alton Crigler’s office immediately. The tall man smiled, walked around the desk, and shook hands. He said, “I take it the fugitive is in custody.”

Kruger shook his head. “No. But I wanted to give you an update.”

Crigler frowned, his broad smile gone. He sat on the corner of his desk. “Tell me.”

“We lost his trail in New Jersey. He was last seen by a security camera at a hotel in Livingston. The videotape shows him getting out of a cab and watching it drive away. Once it was out of sight, he walked out of the camera’s field of view and disappeared.”

Crigler was silent. He stood, walked back to his chair, and sat down, “Have you given up?”

“No.” Kruger paused and stared at Crigler. “There’s a possibility the man was defending himself.”

Feigning surprise, Crigler shook his head. “Not from what I was told.”

“It’s one of the theories we’re investigating. I’m not convinced everyone on your staff was truthful with me. Maybe I should interview all of them again.”

“That’s unacceptable.”

“Why?”

“They’ve told you all they know. You don’t need to bother them again.”

Kruger shrugged. “That may be your opinion, but I’m not going to waste any additional resources on this case until I have better cooperation and people start telling me the truth.”

“I’ve always suspected you were lazy, Agent Kruger, and a bit of a prima donna.”

Kruger stared at the man. Inside he wanted to reach out and strangle him, but he kept his expression neutral. Remembering Seltzer’s warnings, he paused before saying anything. Finally he said, “You’re entitled to your opinion, Mr. Crigler, but the fact remains, the fugitive disappeared. He’s out there; I just can’t find him right now.”

“Maybe I should call the director and have you replaced.”

Kruger reached over the desk, lifted the handset of Crigler’s desk phone. He offered it to him. “Go ahead.”

His bluff called, Crigler stood up. He walked around the desk, took the handset from Kruger, and placed it back in its cradle.”

“You’re not easily intimidated, are you?”

Kruger shrugged.

Crigler walked over to the coffee service table and poured himself a cup. He lifted the cup to Kruger. “Do you want coffee?”

Kruger shook his head. “No, thank you.”

“I like you, agent, but you have an independent streak I find irritating. You’re not a team player. Sometimes that can be dangerous in an organization like the FBI—career-wise, that is.”

Kruger remained quiet and stared at Crigler.

“The director and I were fraternity brothers in college. I can help your career or I can hurt your career.” He paused, took a sip of his coffee, and walked back to his desk. “Find this man, Agent Kruger.”

The implied threat lingered in the room like fog on a crisp fall morning. Kruger smiled. “I’ll find him. But, it may not be on your timeline. It could happen tomorrow, a year from now, or maybe never. In the meantime, I have other pressing matters that need attention. Call the director if you feel the need.” He stood, walked to the office door, and opened it. Just before leaving, he turned. “If I find proof anyone here at P&G Global lied to me—and I mean anyone—my next visit will not be as cordial.” He walked out and closed the door before Crigler could respond.             

***

Kruger opened the door to his condo and went straight to his bedroom. The constant traveling and lack of a home life were starting to catch up with him. He threw his overnight bag onto the bed with the intentions of unpacking and taking the contents to the laundry room. As he headed to the bathroom, he heard a knock on his front door. He glanced at the digital clock on his nightstand: 10:12 p.m. Who would be knocking this late?

He opened the door and found Stephanie standing there with two open bottles of Boulevard Pale Ale. “I heard you come home and thought you might be thirsty.”

Kruger smiled. He grabbed her and drew her into a bear hug. “Damn it’s good to see you.” Her hair smelled of coconut and papayas, with a hint of vanilla.

“I’d hug back, but the beer might spill.”

He released her. Took one of the beers and they kissed. The kiss lasted for almost a minute. Afterwards, they stood in the living room holding each other. Finally, Stephanie said, “This is nice.”

They laughed. He took her hand and led her out to his balcony overlooking the Plaza. A small bistro table and four chairs had been purchased before he had left for New York City. Stephanie chose a chair facing the Plaza, and Kruger scooted one of the chairs closer to her. He sat down, propped his feet up on an adjacent chair, and placed the beer on the table. “I could get used to this real easy.”

She smiled and took a sip of beer. “Thank you for the phone calls. You’ll never know how much I enjoyed them.”

Kruger looked at her. He shrugged. “You’re welcome, but there’s no need to thank me. I wanted to talk to you.”

“I know. I wanted to talk to you too. It’s just that in the past when I was seeing someone, the calls weren’t…uh, enjoyable. They would whine and complain about me being out of town. Our calls are different.” She paused for a brief moment and gave him a slight smile. “I look forward to them.”

He smiled but didn’t say anything. They sat in the cool night air and stared at the lights on the Plaza. The silence lasted for several minutes as they held hands. Finally, Kruger said, “I may be losing my touch. I lost a fugitive and can’t find him.”

She looked at him. He was staring off into the distance, deep in thought. “You’re not going to catch everybody, Sean.”

“I have up till now.” He frowned after he said it.

“Maybe you really don’t want to find him.”

“That’s the problem, I desperately need to find him. Two very powerful men are lying to me about this case. I need to know why. I think the fugitive can answer that question.”

She squeezed his hand tighter. “Why are they lying to you, Sean?”

“I think the guy was brought there against his will and threatened.”

“What do you mean, threatened?”

Shaking his head, “I’m not sure, he may have stolen some money. They were going to take him somewhere, probably to kill him, when he attached the two guards.”

“He was defending himself.”

Kruger nodded. “I think he was. But it bugs me. I can’t find a trail to follow. The man just vanished. We have absolutely no idea where he might be. Charlie found an article in a Jacksonville, Florida, newspaper about someone with this guy’s name walking into the ocean. He supposedly left a suicide note.”

“Maybe he’s dead, that’s why you can’t find him.”

Kruger shook his head. “I’m not buying it. The guy did a thorough job of erasing his identity. No birth certificate, no driver’s license, no credit cards, no social security number—nothing. The man goes to all that trouble and commits suicide.” He shook his head. “No. He did it to throw us off the trail. He’s still out there somewhere, I can feel it.”

“You never know. People get depressed and do stupid things.”

Kruger shook his head. “No, the story was planted. We had an agent in Florida check out the hotel. No such person was ever registered. There would be all kinds of police reports on a suspected suicide. The local police never received a report of a suicide.” Kruger shook his head again. “He’s still out there.”

They were silent again.

A minute later, Kruger said, “I didn’t eat. Are you hungry?”

She nodded. “Even though it’s Friday night, it’s too late. Most of the restaurants are closed.”

“We could order pizza?”

She nodded. “As long as it has veggies.”

“I’ll order it. Want another beer?”

She shook her head. “No, I’ve got a bottle of Merlot at my place. I’ll go get it.”

It was after midnight when they finished the pizza. The conversation had turned from work to more personal topics. Suddenly, Kruger stopped talking and was quiet.

Stephanie looked at him for several moments. He was staring out over the Plaza. “What’s the matter?”

“Not sure I want to do this anymore.”

Her eye’s widened and her hand covered her mouth. “You don’t want to see me anymore?”

“No. No, no, no, that’s not what I meant. I was talking about the job.”

She relaxed, but didn’t respond. She just kept looking at him.

“I’m tired of fighting the bureaucracy and the good ole boy network. Plus I’m starting to resent the traveling.”

She nodded. “I can relate to those feelings. Planes are not comfortable anymore.”

“There’s that, but…” He hesitated for a second. “It’s more than the uncomfortable plane rides; it’s resentment. I’m not even sure what I resent. But if I know I have to travel the next Monday, I start dreading it on Saturday.”

She watched him and nodded slightly. “Yes, I feel that way sometimes. It depends on the trip and what I have to do.”

Shaking his head, he said, “It’s every trip for me. There was a time, not too many years ago, I relished being on the road working a case. Now…” He stared at the lights of the Plaza and just shook his head.

Grinning, Stephanie said, “What’s different? A certain neighbor?”

Kruger grinned and turned to look at her. “Yes, I suppose that’s part of it. I do enjoy our time together. But there’s more. I’ve been trying to figure it out.” He shook his head. “Haven’t been able to diagnosis myself yet. If it gets to the point these feelings affect my work, I’ll have to retire.”

“What would you do?”

He shrugged. “Not sure. Teach. Go back to school. Be a Walmart greeter. Hell, I don’t know.”

She chuckled. “You’d look funny standing there saying, ‘Welcome to Walmart,’ wouldn’t you?”

He didn’t say anything; he just stared at the Plaza.

“Something happened, didn’t it, Sean?” She reached for his hand and squeezed it lightly. In a soft voice she whispered, “Tell me.”

“The director called just before I got on the plane. He normally doesn’t get involved with the day-to-day workings of a case. But he’s got his nose out of joint on this one. One of his old college buddies is a part owner of P&G Global. He’s accusing me of not working the case hard enough.”

“Are you?”

Kruger was quiet. 

“Follow your instincts. Prove the man was defending himself.”

Kruger turned and looked at her. He smiled and nodded. “I knew there was a reason I was falling in love with you.”

She smiled back and squeezed his hand harder.

***

Kruger awoke the next morning with Stephanie curled up next to him. The warmth of her bare back against his, comforting. He looked at the digital clock on his nightstand and smiled; he hadn’t slept this late in a long time. He pushed the covers aside and sat on the edge of the bed and yawned. Stephanie rolled over and put her hand on his back. “That was a pleasant way to welcome you home.”

Kruger lay back down and embraced her. “I could definitely get used to this.”

An hour later, they sat at the breakfast bar drinking coffee—Stephanie in one of Kruger’s gray long-sleeved OU Sooner t-shirts with the sleeves pushed up past her elbows. He could still smell the coconut and papaya with the hint of vanilla from her hair. She got up to get more coffee. “How long before you have to leave again?”

“Probably not for awhile. I’m behind on paperwork. I normally just work out of the local bureau office when that happens. A friend of mine from the academy is the special agent in charge here in Kansas City. What about you?”