The Fugitive's Trail (4 page)

***

Kruger’s cell phone vibrated as he got a cup of coffee in the hospital cafeteria. He said, “Kruger.”

“Sean, it’s Charlie. You’re not going to like what I’ve found.”

“What?”

“You need to see this. How quickly can you get back here?”

“One hour.”

When Kruger was back at the airport, minus Alvarez, he sat next to Charlie at a security monitor. Charlie pointed to a figure entering the airport. “Here’s the cab you told me about. See the license? It matches.” Kruger nodded and Charlie continued, “We see him enter the airport on this camera.” He pecked at a keyboard and another camera angle popped up. “Here we see him stop once he’s inside. He watches as the cab drives away. He looks around, finds what he’s looking for, and walks into a trinkets-and-trash store. At first, I didn’t see him come out. But after a closer look, I found him.” He pointed to a man with a ball cap, a dark windbreaker, and sunglasses. The man’s head was down as he walked. Charlie said, “Ten minutes after our suspect goes in, this guy comes out of the shop.”

Kruger said, “Same guy?”

Charlie nodded. “Same backpack. That’s how I identified him. Now, watch as he takes the escalator down to baggage claim and transportation.” More typing on the keyboard and the view changed again. “Here he’s coming down the escalator. He doesn’t pause and look around after he gets off, like most people. He goes straight outside to the taxi queue.” He typed on the keyboard again and pointed to the screen. “There he is, getting into a cab. He didn’t take another flight, he left the airport.”

Kruger stared at the video monitor and was silent for a few moments. Finally he said, “Damn. We may have lost him.”

Charlie nodded. “That’s a strong possibility.”

“Why would you pay two hundred dollars to a taxi driver to get you to the airport if you weren’t late for a flight?”

“Maybe hundreds were all he had.”

Kruger shook his head. “No, there’s something else.”

“The cabbie remembered him because of it.”

“Charlie, that’s why I like working with you. Exactly, he wanted the cabbie to remember him. See if you can identify this new taxi. If you can, we’ll go talk to the cab company.”

Charlie handed Kruger a piece of paper. “Already did. Let’s go.”

***

The cab company had records of where the taxi Charlie identified had dropped off the passenger. The Westminster Hotel in Livingston, New Jersey, a twenty-minute ride from Newark Liberty International Airport.

At the hotel, Kruger identified himself as an agent with the FBI and asked for the manager. She was a short, overweight lady in her late-fifties with unnaturally black hair. She looked at the picture and name Kruger gave her. She went to one of the computers at the front desk and typed. “No, no one by that name ever registered. We still have the security disk for that day. You’re more than welcome to review it.”

Fifteen minutes later, Charlie found what they needed. “There he is, Sean, getting out of the cab. Once again, he watches the cab drive away and starts walking west. He never even came in the door.”

“We’ve lost him, haven’t we?”

Charlie looked up at Kruger. “I’m afraid so. There no telling where he went.”

“Okay, it’s time to go back to basics. The NYPD searched his apartment, but you haven’t. Let’s get over there and see if you can find something they missed.”

Springfield, MO

JR Diminski handed Senior Vice President Brian Quest a three-page report. It had been a week since Diminski convinced Quest he needed a security audit of his banking systems. Quest gave it a quick glance, expecting to find a clean report. He stopped halfway down the second page and returned to the first page. This time, he read more carefully. He read the memo two more times. He laid it down on this desk, took his glasses off, and shut his eyes. Squeezing the bridge of his nose with his right thumb and forefinger, he said, “How hard was it to find?”

“Not very. I’m surprised you haven’t had a lot of complaints from your customers.”

Quest’s eyes were weary and it looked like he hadn’t slept in a couple of days. “My team can’t find it. We knew we had a problem, but knowing and correcting are two different issues. Can you fix it?”

“How much has the bank lost so far?”

“About a hundred thou…” He caught himself. “The amount is not for publication. The bank has covered all the losses, not one customer has lost a penny.”

Diminski nodded. “FDIC. Do they know about the security breach?”

“No, it would raise our rates. Can you fix it?”

He nodded. “Yes, I can.”

Quest stared at the report, then at his computer screen. “Draw up a contract. I’ll take it to the president for his signature. Can you start tonight after the bank closes?”

Diminski reached into his computer bag, withdrew a prepared contract spelling out his obligations to the bank and the bank’s obligation to him. Standing, he handed the contract to Quest. “I’ll be here at six.”

Three days later, a smiling Brian Quest handed Diminski a check. “I’ve been authorize by the board to offer you a long-term retainer.”

Diminski raised his eyebrows. “Why?”

“The holding company that owns the bank wants to be able to request your services and receive immediate attention.”

“Are there other banks with similar problems, Brian?”

Chuckling, Quest nodded. “The same company designed the systems for most of the banks within our network, JR.” He smiled, his eyes looked rested. “They want you to do a complete audit of our online security structure.”

Diminski smiled. “Sounds like something I would enjoy. Tell them I accept.”

After all the paperwork was signed, Quest said, “I’ve been meaning to ask you, what does JR stand for? Are you a junior?

Hesitating for just a moment. “It stands for J and R. My parents never told me why they named me that way; they died when I was young.”

His parents had died when he was young, but the name had really come from a gravestone he had found in a large cemetery in the northern part of town. The child had died within a month of its birth, but the birthdate was the same as his: same year, same day. The child’s name was John Robert Diminski. After several days of manipulating databases in New York and Missouri, Diminski had a new identity. There was now a credit history, New York driver’s license, Social Security card, and birth certificate for a person called JR Diminski. His former identity had been permanently erased; no public records remained, except behind a very secure firewall at the Pentagon. A firewall even he couldn’t get past.

Since arriving in Springfield, his residence had been a hotel on the south side of town. The contract with the banking group was going to increase his workload, creating a need for more space and something more permanent. It was time to find an apartment.

After several phone calls, he stood in a two-bedroom unit four blocks from his hotel. The building manager stood behind him and said, “How about this one?”

Diminski said, “I need at least twenty megabits-per-second internet speed.”             

The manager, a bald, short man with a round belly hanging over his belt, sighed. “We offer free cable, but you can get whatever service you want, you just have to pay extra.”

Diminski nodded. “How much?”

“The internet service?”

“No, the apartment.”

“Oh, seven-fifty a month, with a two-hundred-dollar, nonrefundable security deposit.”

Diminski smiled. His apartment rent in New York City was three times that amount and only had one bedroom. “I’ll take it.”

“I have to run a background check. Once I know you’re not a pervert, you can move in.”

Diminski turned around, removed his wallet from his left front pants’ pocket and extracted twenty one-hundred-dollar bills. “There’s two-thousand dollars, my first two months’ rent, security deposit, and a little extra for you, if you let me move in today.”

The man stared at the money and moistened his lips with his tongue. He looked up at Diminski and then back at the money. Finally, he said, “Follow me to the office; I need you to sign a lease agreement.”

The first real test of his new identity came next: applying for a Missouri driver’s license. An independent contractor operated the Missouri Department of Revenue offices, usually staffing them with low-wage clerks. Diminski picked a day when he knew the office would be busy and the staff would be trying to push as many people through the system as possible. After standing in line for forty minutes, he was motioned forward by a young, stocky woman with spiked purple hair. As he approached her desk, she stared at him with a blank expression.

After handing his paperwork to her, she glanced at it and started typing on her keyboard. She frowned at the computer screen, turned to him, and said, “I have to have a name. The computer won’t take initials.”

He smiled and said, “My name is JR.”

She stared at him without emotion. “But the system has to have a name. It’s not allowing J period, R period.”

“That’s not my name; it’s simply JR, no periods, just the letters.”

She once again stared at the computer, then back at him. Finally she shrugged and typed in the letters without the periods. “Huh, it took it.” As she continued typing, she said, “Weird. Who’d name their kid JR?”

Barely able to keep from laughing, Diminski said, “My parents.”

She stopped typing, stared at him with her blank expression, and shrugged again.

Fifteen minutes later, he walked out of the office with a brand-new driver’s license issued by the state of Missouri. His confidence in his new identity was growing stronger every day.

It had been three weeks since the incident in New York City. Diminski’s old identity had been erased. His new identity had passed government scrutiny, and he had a contract with a bank holding company for the next six months. With the signing of the lease for his apartment, a feeling of stability was returning to his life. If no one found him in the next few weeks, he felt he had a good chance of permanently disappearing. This thought made him smile.

New York City

Alton Crigler opened the door to Abel Plymel’s office and noticed he was on the phone. Plymel sat in his desk chair, his back to the door, facing the window. Crigler shut the door quietly, walked to the leather sofa against the wall, and sat down. He unbuttoned his dark-gray Brooks Brothers suit coat, crossed his legs, and cleared his throat loud enough for Plymel to hear.

Plymel looked over his shoulder and saw Alton sitting. He nodded ever so slightly and said into the phone, “I have to go. Something just came up.”

He turned around, faced Crigler, and placed the phone back in its cradle. “How long have you been sitting there?”

“Just walked in. The FBI has assigned one of their top agents to this incident. I tried to stop it, but I have little control over the internal politics of the FBI.”

“Bullshit. You’re still tight with the director.”

Crigler shook his head. “Not anymore. He won’t even take my calls.”

“Then what do you want me to do?”

“I personally don’t care what you do. But the board is unhappy with this.” He hesitated for a second. “Embarrassment in the front lobby. They are concerned because we do not need any negative publicity right now. The current administration is looking for reasons to put their thumb down on private equity companies, and this incident will only help fuel their obsession.”

“You’re the goddamn liaison with Congress. Talk to your contacts. Take them to lunch and spread more money around. Every single one of them has a PAC you can pour money into.” He paused and sat back in his chair. “Hell, our activities increase the goddamn GNP.”

Crigler chuckled. “You’re talking like a true Wall Street insider. You have no idea of how Main Street views our industry. Do you?” Crigler shook his head. “It takes enormous amounts of cash from this company and our fellow private equity brethren to keep Congress, the Justice Department, and the SEC out of our little sandbox. So like I said, get this episode behind you. Get it resolved before the FBI finds out exactly what happened.”

Plymel’s face grew red. He jumped out of his chair and leaned across the desk. Pointing a finger at Crigler, he said, “Keep those moronic senators and the FBI off my back. That’s why you’re here enjoying the twilight of your career. You’re the one who’s supposed to take care of problems like this. I will not be lectured to by a semi-literate Senate Finance Committee chairman from Tennessee ever again…”

Crigler raised his left hand with the palm toward Plymel. “Spare me your platitudes. Say a mantra and shut up, Abel. Your temper will cause you to have a heart attack or a stroke, probably both.”

Plymel’s jaw clinched tight. He took a deep breath. His temper was flaring more lately and not dissipating as fast as it had in the past. Secretly, he was worried. His blood pressure was high, and he wasn’t sleeping well. Not that he had ever slept more than five or six hours a night. But now it was down to three hours or less. The presence of a headache reached his awareness. He walked to an armoire on the opposite wall from Crigler. He opened the doors, revealing a fully stocked bar. Grabbing a glass, he poured two fingers of twelve-year-old Glenfiddich. He turned to Crigler. “Want one?”

Crigler shook his head with disgust. He glanced at his watch. “For god sakes Abel, it’s only eleven o’clock in the morning. No I don’t want one. Get a grip, man. You’re on the edge. The board is already asking questions about your stability, and quite frankly so am I. You haven’t produced a high-profit takeover in twelve months. In fact, they think we’ve been out-bid on several recent deals. Deals we should have won. Instead, we’re looking at them from the sidelines.”

Plymel shrugged. “Tell them not to worry. We’ll make it up on the one I’m going to close in a few days.”

Crigler stood and headed toward the door. Before he opened it to leave, he turned back toward Plymel. “I’m just the messenger. The board’s lost confidence in you. They said for me to tell you to get this mess straightened up or resign. In my opinion, it’s going to be hard for you to regain their trust.” He turned back to the door, opened it, hesitated, and looked back at Plymel. “It took a lot of arm-twisting to keep them from asking for your resignation this morning. I’m done sticking my neck out for you. The next messenger won’t be so congenial.” With that comment, Crigler walked out of the room, closing the door behind him.

Plymel stared at the door and started to tremble. He closed his eyes and took several deep breaths. He poured another scotch. Staring at it for a few seconds, he downed it in one gulp.

***

When Kruger and Charlie arrived at the fugitive’s apartment, Alvarez was already there. He said, “Not sure what you’re trying to find. All our people found was a lot of DNA.”

Kruger smiled. “Nothing against your team. Charlie just wanted to get a feel for the guy. If he finds anything, you will be the first to know.”

Ten minutes into his search, Charlie said to Alvarez, “Is this how you found the apartment?”

Nodding, Alvarez said, “Guy lived like a monk, if you ask me.”

Charlie had just finished looking through a desk in one of the two bedrooms. He now stood in the living room looking around. Kruger was sitting on a worn sofa, he frowned, stood and said, “Did you find something?”

“No, I didn’t. That’s what’s wrong with this apartment.” He turned to Kruger. “Remember Paul Bishop’s house in St. Louis?”

Kruger nodded and looked around. “Yeah I do. You’re right, this place is similar. There’s nothing personal here.”

Alvarez looked at Kruger and then Charlie. “Who’s Paul Bishop?”

Kruger said, “It was the first time I meet Charlie. Paul Bishop killed himself and left a suicide note confessing to four unsolved murders. The guy lived in a house for twenty years and it looked like this.”

Alvarez nodded. “The landlord said he moved in a couple of months ago. It’s a furnished apartment. Apparently, all of this was here when he moved in.”

“Is it possible he was planning his disappearing act for awhile? Maybe that’s why you couldn’t find any records of him.” Kruger stopped. “By the way, how did you find out where he lived?”

Alvarez was quiet. He shook his head. “The receptionist at P&G Global gave it to one of the first responders.” He looked at Kruger. “Before they got their stories straight.”

Kruger smiled. “How did they know his address? I thought he just appeared out of the elevator.”

“Fucker’s keep lying to us, don’t they?”

Kruger nodded. “Yes they do. I bet no one knew she’d given it to one of your officers.”

Charlie interrupted, “Where’s the laptop you found?”

Alvarez said, “Lab.”

“What did you find on it?”

“Damn thing would make a great door stop. The hard drive’s been crashed. Our computer guys think it was sabotaged.”

Charlie nodded. “If this guy’s as good as we’ve heard, he might have had a booby trap on it. I’d like to see it, if possible.”

“Soon as we’re done here, we can go to the lab.”

“I’m uncomfortable with the timeline.” Charlie pointed to the bedroom and continued, “His clothes and luggage are still in the closet. We know the cabbie dropped him off at Newark at twelve fifty-five p.m. So he had to get in the cab somewhere around noon, with only a backpack. If he came back to the apartment and cleaned it out, what did he do with his personal effects? Why didn’t he take clothes? Nothing fits.”

Kruger said, “How long was it before your team searched this apartment?”

Alvarez pulled out a notebook, flipped a few pages, read for a few moments, and said, “We got the call at nine-thirty a.m. I showed up at ten-oh-three. Let’s see—here it is. We had someone here by three-thirty p.m., why?”

Kruger was silent for a few moments. He looked at Alvarez. “He didn’t come back here. The cabbie said he picked him up outside the library at Thirty-Fourth and Madison. That’s on the other side of town, closer to P&G Global than here.”

Charlie grinned. “What’s at a library?”

Kruger looked at him, thought for few moments, and said, “Books?”

“Yes, but they also have public computers.” Charlie’s smiled widened. “He didn’t have to come back here to erase his computer. He did it remotely. Bet he had backup off site and was more interested in getting it than the computer. Computers can be replaced—the data and programs, not so much.”

Alvarez frowned. “Where would he keep back up?”

Kruger snapped his fingers. “A safe deposit box. A bank.”

Alvarez took his cell phone out and made a call. When the call was answered, he said, “How many banks are within a half-mile of the library at Thirty-Fourth and Madison?” He paused for a few moments listening and said, “That many? Really? I would never have guessed. Well, start calling them and find out if our fugitive had an account or lockbox. We’ll be back there in about an hour.” He ended the call. “They might have a location for us by the time we get back. Damn, I didn’t realize how many banks are in this city.”

***

Charlie was looking at the computer back at the precinct house, while Kruger and Alvarez discussed the timeline. A young detective handed Alvarez a piece of paper. Alvarez thanked the man. “He has an account at Bank of America. There’s a safe deposit box in his name at a location eleven blocks from the library at Thirty-Fourth and Madison.”

Kruger said, “We’ll need a search warrant for the lockbox.” Alvarez nodded and left the room.

Charlie said, “This guy is good. There’s nothing on this hard drive. It’s completely wiped clean.” And more to himself than Kruger, he said, “How the heck did he do that without leaving residual data…”

Alvarez came back into the room. “We’ll have the search warrant as soon as we can get it signed by a judge, probably thirty minutes.”

***

With the proper paperwork in hand, the bank’s branch manager opened the lockbox and left. Using latex gloves, Kruger opened the now empty box. He handed it to another detective, who started dusting it for prints.

Alvarez walked up to Kruger. “Just got his balance. He has over twelve-hundred dollars in a checking account.”

Kruger was silent. Finally he said, “The guy comes in, empties his lockbox, and doesn’t withdraw twelve hundred bucks. What’s wrong with that statement, Preston?”

Alvarez shook his head. “Didn’t need the money?”

Kruger nodded. “Yeah, he didn’t need the money. He had cash in the lockbox. Plymel’s driver said our fugitive stole money from Plymel. This guy’s been planning to disappear for a long time. If he’s paying cash, we’re screwed. He won’t leave a money trail we can follow.”

Charlie sighed. “The only way we’re going to find him is if he makes a mistake or we get lucky.”

Kruger nodded. “This guy is smart, real smart. I doubt he’s going to makes any mistakes. I have a feeling we aren’t going to get lucky anytime soon.”