The Fugitive's Trail (3 page)

New York City

“From what we’ve been told, the guy suddenly appeared in the offices of P&G Global and started threatening everyone. No one saw him enter the building or get on the elevator. Did I mention there’s a guard in the building’s lobby at all times?” Brad Metzger paused and took a sip of water. As the Special Agent in Charge of the New York City FBI office, he was the one who had called Alan Seltzer. Metzger was a tall athletic man, with coal black hair, which he kept short and perfectly styled. His brown eyes, movie star looks, and a passion for expensive Brooks Brothers suits rounded out a look the FBI embraced. Today he looked frazzled. His suit coat was off and the sleeves of his wrinkled shirt were rolled up to his elbows.

He continued, “As the guy was being escorted out of the building, he took two guards down. Martial arts kick to the knee of the guard on the right, stole the gun of the guard on the left, and shot him point blank. One dead, the other needs complete knee reconstruction. We interviewed the EMTs; they said the knee was at a forty-five degree angle the wrong way.”             

Kruger grimaced. “Ouch.” He cocked his head to the left. “So how was he being threatening?”

“Good question, but the answers are confusing. Some witnesses said he was waving a gun, others said he was yelling, others said he was waving a knife. There are no corroborating stories.”

Kruger chuckled. “Figures.”

Metzger continued, “We were told the man had worked for a company purchased by P&G Global. They’re a private equity company, specializing in buying companies, making changes and then selling them for a profit.”

Kruger said, “Yeah, those changes usually include letting everyone go and shipping their jobs overseas.”

Metzger nodded. “Apparently that occurred in this situation, a disgruntled ex-employee.”

“So who is the guy? You ID him?”

“Yes, but we can’t find any trace of him.”

Kruger smiled, “Not that hard to do in New York.”

“No, I mean we can’t find any records of him. No driver’s license, no birth certificate, no credit cards, no social security number—poof, nothing. He’s a ghost.”

Kruger frowned. “Then how did you ID him?”

Metzger handed a file to Kruger. “Here’s his personnel file from the company P&G Global bought. Everything in that file does not exist in the real world. The guy worked there for ten years as a computer geek. He debugged software. We contacted the original owner of the company. He and the suspect met in college. He told me the guy helped start the company and was brilliant, best hacker he’d ever seen. When we called the bursar’s office at their college—”

“Let me guess,” Kruger interrupted. “No record he was ever there.”

Metzger nodded. “They went digital five years ago. Everything is computerized.”

Kruger stared at Metzger. “I was joking.”

“I’m not. There’s no record of him. Someone is erasing all the public records of his existence. We think he’s established a new identity somewhere, but we have no idea of where.”

Kruger stared out the window of the conference room. “That could make finding him problematic. Have you found any friends or relatives?”

Preston Alvarez sat across from Kruger at the conference table; he was now the lead NYPD detective on the case and an old friend of Kruger’s. He said, “Nope—seems our suspect was a loner.”

Kruger looked at Alvarez. “You’ve been quiet this morning. What do you think?”

“I think the whole story’s bullshit.”

Metzger smiled. “Preston feels P&G Global is being less than truthful.”

“Less than truthful? They’re lying their collective asses off and covering something up,” said Alvarez. “I was the first NYPD detective on the scene. I asked the guard at the front desk what happened. He told me those two guards brought the guy in a half-hour before the incident. Two hours later, he tells me he was mistaken.” He rolled his eyes toward the ceiling. “Give me a break.”

Kruger said, “What about security cameras in the lobby? They would have recorded the guards bringing the guy in.”

“They don’t.” Metzger shook his head. “There’s a fifteen-second gap about thirty minutes before the incident. It’s hard to detect, but our tech guys found it. There’s also no record of him entering the building alone.”

Alvarez said, “Like I said, the story’s bullshit.”

Kruger nodded. “Okay, their story’s bullshit. How do we prove it?”

Alvarez slid two file folders across the table to Kruger, tapped them with his index finger, and said, “These are NYPD files on the two guards. They’re both ex-military and left the service under less than ideal circumstances. Their first encounter with the NYPD was right after discharge about ten years ago. Both have numerous priors: aggravated assault, extortion, assault with a deadly weapon, etc. Each time, the charges were dropped after the victims refused to testify.”

Kruger frowned. “Why?”

Alvarez shrugged. “Same old story, money, threats, who knows.”

“The bullshit gets deeper.”

Alvarez nodded.

Metzger said, “Five years ago, P&G Global bought a company specializing in security for business executives working overseas. These two worked for that company. They returned to the states a year ago and have been Abel Plymel’s personal security ever since.”

Kruger said, “Does the guy who took them out have a police record?”

Alvarez shook his head. “Not that I could find, but then we can’t find anything on him.”

Kruger turned to Metzger. “What about military records, did you find any?”

Metzger shook his head.

Kruger was silent and sipped his now-cold coffee. Finally he said, “What is Alton Crigler’s role at P&G Global?”

“He’s the managing partner,” said Metzger. “Plymel’s the president and CEO, from what the SEC told me. On paper they’re equal partners, but Plymel holds a little higher status within the company. He does the deals and Crigler handles the politicians in Washington. There’s a board of directors made up of their largest investors. Both men report to them.”

“Why did he want me involved?” Kruger said, almost to himself.

Metzger shook his head. “Don’t know, maybe you should ask him.”

***

With his hand extended, Alton Crigler stepped out from behind the massive oak desk. “Thank you for heading the investigation Agent Kruger.” The office was ornate, professionally decorated, and smelled of old leather and Lemon Pledge. At six foot two, Crigler was slender and dressed in a dark gray pinstripe Armani suit. A crisp white-on-white shirt accented with a maroon tie completed his wardrobe. He was in his mid-sixties and still had a full head of coal-black hair, although streaks of gray were visible at his temples. During his early career, he had held various positions in the Justice Department, following his graduation from Yale Law School. After being the deputy attorney general for ten years and getting passed over numerous times for the top spot, he left public service to become a principal in P&G Global.

Kruger shook the extended hand. “Right now I’m just a consultant.”

Crigler gestured to a leather wingback chair in front of his desk. He returned to his seat. “That’s disappointing. I was led to believe you would be the agent in charge.”

As Kruger sat down in the leather chair, Crigler picked up his desk phone and punched in a number. “Doris, I need to speak to Phil. Yes, that will be fine.” He replaced the handset. “This will only take a second.” The phone buzzed. He picked it up and said, “Yes. Thank you, I’ll hold.” He turned his chair around toward the floor-to-ceiling window behind his desk. After a few moments of silence, he continued, “Phil, thanks for taking my call. I understand Agent Kruger is only a consultant on this investigation.” He paused as he listened to the response. “Yes, he’s sitting in front of my desk.” Silence again. “Splendid, I’ll let you tell him.” Crigler turned his chair back around, stood, and reached over his desk with the phone handset in his hand. “The director would like to speak to you.”

Kruger smiled, knowing that Crigler had just called in a favor. He stood and took the offered handset. “This is Agent Kruger.”

“Director Wagner here, Agent Kruger. I know you were just called in as a consultant. But, I believe it would be in the best interest of the bureau for you to lead this investigation.”

“Special Agent Metzger is a very capable investigator. I’m not sure he needs my assistance.”

There was silence on the other end of the call for a few moments. Finally, the director said, “I do not believe this is a debate, agent. You are in charge. Is that clear?”

“Yes sir, but this is not my area of expertise, Agent Metzger…”

“Agent Kruger, this is not a request—it’s an order.”

“Yes sir.”

“Give the phone back to Alton. I will explain the mix-up.”

Kruger smiled again and handed the phone back to Crigler. As he sat back down in the leather chair, his curiosity about the just-witnessed power play grew. He watched as Crigler finished his conversation with FBI Director Phillip Wagner and returned the handset to its cradle.

“Now that we have that settled,” said Crigler, “when will you catch this person?”

Kruger almost laughed, but he kept his face neutral. “Why do you want me on this case so bad? This isn’t what I normally do.”

“Come now, Agent Kruger, you’re much too modest. Your reputation is stellar. You’ve tracked down some of the most dangerous criminals this country has ever seen.”

This time Kruger laughed. “Don’t believe all the urban legends coming out of the bureau.”

“Seriously, your reputation for never giving up is why you’re perfect for this case. My company needs to have this man caught and brought to trial.” He leaned forward in his chair, put his elbows on the desk and stared at Kruger. With a sober voice, he said, “P&G Global’s position in the financial community is based on appearances. This little incident threatens our prestige in the world of Wall Street. I’m sure you can understand our position here. Can’t you Agent Kruger?”

Kruger was silent for a few moments. He suddenly realized there was more going on than someone attacking two security guards. “I’m going to need access to the security camera tapes and any witnesses who saw this man.”

“By all means, you have full access.”

Kruger stared at Crigler, paused briefly, and said, “How much money is missing?”

Crigler stiffened and his eyes narrowed, but he recovered quickly. “There is no money missing. Why do you ask?”

“The man is a computer genius. He might have gained access to some of your bank accounts and illegally transferred funds.”

“I can assure you, none of the company’s funds are missing.”

Kruger smiled, stayed silent for a few moments, and realized how the question was answered. None of the company’s money was missing. He wondered how much personal money had been taken. But he kept that question to himself. He stood. “I’ll schedule appointments with your associates and start the interviews this afternoon. Do you have a conference room I can use?”

Crigler nodded.

New York City

As the elevator descended to the first floor, Detective Alvarez stared at the floor indicator lights and said, “Well, that was a cluster fuck.”

Kruger nodded. “You’re right, their story is bullshit. Everyone’s version was too rehearsed and too much alike for my taste. There wasn’t one degree of deviation in any of their stories.”

The elevator door opened and they both walked toward the front door in silence. Once they were on the street outside the building, Kruger turned to Alvarez and said, “I want to talk to the driver. By himself, without the firm’s lawyer sitting at the end of the conference table staring at him. He acted like he wanted to say something, but wasn’t sure if he could.”

Alvarez nodded. “I’ll find him. Where do you want to do it?”

“Let’s keep it friendly, say a corner bar close to his residence.”

“Got it. I’ll call you when it’s arranged.”

***

The call came at 7:30 p.m. The driver would be at McGuire’s Bar and Grill in an hour. Arriving thirty minutes early, Kruger found a secluded table in a back corner. When he asked for a Boulevard Pale Ale, he was mildly surprised when he was told the bar served the Kansas City brewed beer. At 8:35 p.m., the driver, Ron Lekas, entered the pub followed by Alvarez. Lekas hesitated when he saw Kruger. He looked back at Alvarez, who pointed toward a chair at Kruger’s table.

After the waitress took his drink order, Lekas said, “Didn’t know you’d be here.”

Kruger said, “Thank you for coming.”

Lekas looked at Alvarez. “I wouldn’t have come if I knew the Feds would be here.”

Alvarez said, “Shut up and listen to him.”

Lekas was five foot seven, dark haired, and a descendant of immigrants from the Mediterranean. He wore his leather jacket over a light-blue silk shirt and black dress slacks. Running his left hand through his black hair and smoothing it back, he said, “I need to go. You guys are going to get me fired.”

Kruger smiled and said in a low voice, “That’s not my intent, Ron. No one is going to tell them you spoke to us. I felt like you wanted to tell us something when we interviewed you this afternoon. But, you didn’t feel comfortable talking in front of the firm’s lawyer. Am I right?”

The waitress sat a draft down in front of Lekas; he grabbed it and took a long pull of the amber liquid. He shook his head. “Ahhh—man. I need this job. They threatened to fire me if I didn’t tell you what they wanted me to.”

“Who threatened you, Ron?” Kruger had leaned forward.

Lekas took another long drink. “Mr. Plymel.”

Kruger looked at Alvarez, who smiled. He returned his attention to Lekas. “What did you see, Ron?”

Lekas took another long pull on his beer, but remained silent.

Alvarez said, “We find you lied to us in that room this afternoon, you could be in big trouble. You could lose your job anyway. I looked at your jacket this afternoon, Ron. You’ve got a felony bust for distributing. You ever carry a weapon on the job Ron?”

Lekas jerked up straight and shouted, “No—hell no. Those other guys did, but I never have.”

Kruger leaned across the table again. “What’s going on, Ron? Tell us.”

Silence was Kruger’s answer. Finally, Ron Lekas looked between Alvarez and Kruger and said, “They brought him to the meeting. He didn’t just break into the office like they claim. We picked him up at his apartment earlier that morning. From what I heard, he broke into Mr. Plymel’s apartment, messed with his computer, and stole some money. Not sure how much, but Mr. Plymel went crazy.”

“Why did he go crazy?” asked Alvarez.

Lekas shrugged. “Don’t know. Franklin, the guy that was killed, said it wasn’t the company’s money. It was Mr. Plymel’s personal money.”

Kruger sat up straight. “What’s your position with the company, Ron?”

“I’m one of two personal drivers for Mr. Plymel.”

“Two. Why two?”

“We’re on call—twelve on, twelve off. I was on call the night Mr. Plymel first ran into the guy you’re looking for.”

Kruger’s eyebrows went up. “What do you mean, first ran into?”

“I had just escorted a couple of Mr. Plymel’s lady friends to his apartment. I was getting ready to go back to the car when the doorbell rang and Mr. Plymel answered it. The guy you’re looking for delivered some pizzas. Mr. Plymel recognized him, gave him a hard time, and then handed him a two-cent tip.”

“How’d he recognize a pizza delivery guy?” said Alvarez.

“He used to work for a company Mr. Plymel bought. He was let go. At least that’s what Mr. Plymel told his guests. I left right after that. I didn’t hear any more of the conversation.”

“Where did you pick him up at?”

“Right outside his apartment. Franklin escorted him to the Suburban. I was the driver. They called when they were done with the meeting. I had the Suburban parked at the curb waiting for them. I saw Franklin push him out of the elevator toward the front door. Just as they got to the door, the guy shot Franklin and messed up Harvey’s knee.”

“What was the plan when they got him back into the Suburban?”

Lekas shrugged. He hesitated for a few moments then said, “Not sure. I wasn’t told.”

“You can guess, Ron. What was the plan?”

The driver remained silent.

“Were your orders to kill him and get rid of the body?”

Lekas shrugged. “I wasn’t told.”

Kruger sat back in his chair. “So, he might have been defending himself, is that possible?”

Lekas nodded. “Yeah, I’d say so.”

Alvarez said, “Has anything like this happened before with Plymel?”

Shrugging, Lekas said, “Not that I’ve seen, but I’m usually the day driver. I’ve heard stories. You know, from the other driver. He talks about picking up investors and women.” Lekas stared at his now-empty beer. “These rich guys get all the pussy.”

Kruger stared at Lekas. This opened up the investigation into something entirely different. They needed to find the fugitive and talk to him.

Alvarez’s cell phone chirped. He stood, walked toward the back of the bar, and answered it. Kruger looked at Lekas and said, “Thank you for talking to us. We’ll remember your cooperation.”

Lekas put his head in his hands and said, “Ahh, jeez man. Don’t get me involved.”

“We’ll try not to.”

Alvarez hurried back to the table and said, “One of our guys found a cabbie who says he recognized the guy. You wanta meet him?”

Kruger stood and threw a twenty-dollar bill on the table. “Have another beer or two on us.” Then he walked out of the bar, following Alvarez.

***

Two uniformed cops were talking to the taxi driver when Kruger and Alvarez arrived at the cab company. Having just finished his day shift, he was not pleased about the delay in going home. He was a short man, five foot seven or less, with a full black beard, dark complexion, and dark brown eyes. He was sitting at a table in the break room, drinking a bottle of water and smelled of curry and sweat. Alvarez spoke to the officers; they nodded and stood back a few steps. Kruger showed him a picture. “Tell me about this man.”

The cab driver looked at the picture and in broken English said, “I dropped him off at Newark International. He gave me a hundred-dollar bill, told me he would give me another one if I got him there by one o’clock. I did. He gave me another hundred. He ran into the airport. I drove off. End of story. Can I go home now?”

Kruger looked at Alvarez, who said, “I’m on it. I’ll have someone get the security tapes.”

Returning his attention to the cab driver, Kruger said, “Where did you pick him up?”

“Library at Thirty-Fourth and Madison.”

“What did he say to you during the ride?”

Shaking his head, the cab driver said, “Nothing. He only spoke about the money.”

“Did he have any luggage?”

“No. Just backpack.”

Kruger smiled and said, “Thank you, sir. I appreciate your cooperation.” He walked away toward where Alvarez was talking on his cell phone and waited for him to finish. After the call ended, Kruger said, “What?”

Alvarez shook his head. “It’s New Jersey, for gawd sake. We have to get a freaking warrant.”

Kruger smiled. “Let me handle it.”

***

Charlie Craft was a twenty-seven-year-old, pencil-thin forensic technician with the FBI. Years of slouching over a computer screen had given him a slightly stooped posture. He wore black square glasses, his only fashion statement. Clothes were a necessity, but not a priority. He owned a half-dozen khaki Dockers, which made it easy to decide which pair to wear with one of a dozen black or navy polo shirts. A pair of black Converse tennis shoes complemented the Dockers on a daily basis. Meeting Charlie on the street would be a non-event and quickly forgotten. But he was an expert forensic technician and wizard with digital media, including computers. Sean Kruger liked him; therefore, Charlie had prospered within the FBI.

The next day, Charlie took an early-morning flight from Washington DC to Newark Liberty International, where Kruger and Detective Alvarez met him. As he walked up to Kruger, Charlie handed him an envelope. “I believe this is what you wanted, Sean.”

Kruger smiled, looked at the federal search warrant, and said, “Perfect. Charlie Craft, meet NYPD Detective Preston Alvarez. He’s our local contact on this little endeavor.”

Craft and Alvarez shook hands and they all started walking toward the airport security office. Charlie said, “What are we looking for, Sean? You were a little cryptic when you called.”

“We’re looking for a fugitive. We need you to search the security tapes. Hopefully, you can determine which flight he took. Once we know where he went, we can start the manhunt in earnest.”

“Huh…” He paused, blinked a couple of times and said, “That’s going to take a while.”

***

Harvey Ramirez was still in the recovery room after his second operation to repair his badly injured knee when Kruger and Alvarez arrived at the hospital. While Alvarez checked in with the two uniforms guarding the man, Kruger asked a nurse at the nurse’s station if he could speak to the attending surgeon. Ten minutes later, the doctor was shaking Kruger’s hand.

“How bad was the injury, Doctor?”

Doctor Kendra Rivera, was as tall as Kruger, slender, dark brown hair pulled back in a tight ponytail, rimless glasses sitting in front of hazel eyes on a slightly up-turned nose. She was attractive, but her demeanor distracted from her appearance. “In my judgment, it’s permanent. He’ll likely have a stiff leg the rest of his life. Why do you care Agent Kruger?”

Kruger smiled slightly. “I really don’t, but I need to talk to him. How long before that’s possible.”

She stared at him for a few moments. “Not today, maybe not tomorrow.”

“I really don’t have that kind of time, Doctor. Can you give him something to wake him up?”

She frowned. “Absolutely not.”

“The man has information I need…”

“Not at the expense of his well-being, Agent.”

Kruger leaned in closer to the Doctor, who did not give up any space. “Doctor, there is a fugitive out there who has already killed one man and severely injured your patient. My concern is for the public well-being. I need Ramirez awake.”

She glared at him for a long time. Finally her face relaxed. “Very well, follow me.”

Kruger and Alvarez stood next to the bed containing the groggy Harvey Ramirez. Doctor Rivera stood on the other side, arms crossed over her chest. Ramirez was larger than Kruger realized. He was at least six foot six and weighed close to two seventy five, all muscle.

The wounded man was blinking his eyes and struggling to gain consciousness. Kruger looked at the doctor, who nodded. Kruger said, “Harvey, tell me about the man who did this to you.”

Ramirez focused on Kruger and shook his head.

“Harvey, I’m an agent with the FBI, I’m trying to find this guy. Can you help me?”

In a voice barely above a whisper, Ramirez said, “Not a chance. Go away.”

Kruger looked at Alvarez, “See what you can get out of him. I’m going to check with Charlie.” He walked out of the room and was followed by the doctor.

As Kruger walked down the hall the doctor caught up and said, “I tried to warn you, it will probably be a few days before he’s cognizant enough to really answer your questions.”

Kruger stopped and looked at her. “I had to try. In a few more days, the fugitive will be long gone and my chances of finding him will be nil.”

She nodded. “You don’t sound like you’re from this part of the country.”

Kruger shook his head. “I’m based out of Kansas City.”

“Do you spend much time in New York City?”

He shook his head.

She smiled, turned to walk back to Ramirez’s room and said, “Shame.”