Stolen Lives : The Lives Trilogy Book 1 (15 page)

“Do I know this person?” Logan asked.

“No you don’t.  He’s not FBI.  Hell, I’m not sure what he is other than he is the best computer guy I know.  He could be CIA or NSA.  He might not be anything at all.  I’m not sure, Logan, but I trust him, and I need his help.”

Logan knew this request didn’t come lightly.  Chet was one of the best computer guys in the FBI.  Still, there was a risk.  Logan knew that if he asked, Chet wasn’t going to give him his name.  There was already one leak, and he had come to the same conclusion Summer and Chet came to: a ring this big had serious protection.  The question was, was this guy Chet was about to reach out to part of that protection, especially if this guy worked for some government agency?

“How much do you need to share with this guy?” Logan asked.

“Not sure, really.  I’ll play it by ear. I’ll start shallow, nothing in depth.  Only so much that he can get the job done and not tip off anyone that we’re on to this.  We need to find those boys.  If there are two, there might be twenty,” Chet reasoned.

There was silence on the line, but Chet knew Logan was going to give him the go ahead.

“Chet, I’m going to trust you, but I want to be in the loop each step of the way.”

“Got it.”

“I don’t have to tell you how sensitive this is.  If any of this leaks . . .
any
of it . . . we’ll lose everything, including those boys.”

CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

It had been a while since Chet had dialed the number, and he worried that it might have changed and that the guy had dropped off the grid.  He needn’t have worried.

“Yeah.”

“I need help.  It’s urgent.  Two boys depend on it,” Chet said.

“What do you need?”

*                                                        *                                                        *

Summer listened to the conversation, not understanding more than a sentence or two.  As far as she was concerned, it was Geek-Speak.

“There were alerts sent to our pervert’s IPhone.  Someone at the top or near the top sent them to this fuckhead and others like him.  I don’t believe they’re coming from a computer, but an IPhone like our pervert’s.”

“So, give me the MAC and the cell provider, and I’ll set my computer at five minute intervals searching for the dynamic DNS . . .” the voice on the other end of the line said.

After Chet had hung up, Summer said, “Can you explain in very simple English what you and this guy are doing?” 

Chet chewed on the inside of his cheek and tried to explain in Non-Geek what was happening.

“Each IPhone has its own unique MAC, which stands for media access control.  Each service has a unique set of IP addresses.  IP stands for Internet Protocol and in many cases are written as part of the TCP/IP.  That stands for Transmission Control Protocol/Internet Protocol.  A DNS enables people to type in a name like CNN or NBC instead of an IP address.  Usually, the IP address is a static number that does not change. There are dynamic DNS servers where you register a server’s name, and they keep track of what the IP address changes to. 

“The network firewall, router or server an individual has will send updates to the dynamic DNS server to let the dynamic DNS server know it’s been changed.  A dynamic DNS allows you to type in a server name that goes to a server that has a changing Internet address.

An interesting twist has occurred with the development of the IPhone.  Someone’s IPhone could actually be the web server.”

Summer was very bright.  Top Ten in the Law School at Louisville indicated just how smart she was.  Yet, she stared at Chet as if he were talking a foreign language or something. 

Chet sighed, but continued on.

“So, there’s an ordinary web page on any site, just like Desert Ranch Ponies.  You click on a picture or a word, and it links to the IPhone.  The IPhone web server uses dynamic DNS so the link works whenever the guy turns on the app on the IPhone.  Whenever this guy feels it isn’t safe, he just turns off the app and/or the IPhone.

My guy, and he is the God of Geeks, is going to do two things.  First, he’s going to try to find the owner of the IPhone by backtracking off Rodemaker’s phone.  The second thing he’s going to do is locate where this guy is in real time.”

“Jesus, Chet.  I have absolutely no idea what the hell you just told me.”

Chet shrugged.

“Best non-geek explanation I can give.”

“Okay, so what are we going to do?”

Chet smiled and sat down at his computer.

“We’re going to find who might be the owner of Desert Ranch Ponies.”

*                                                        *                                                        *

“You said you’d cooperate with us,” Pete said as he came back into the room with Jamie.  “And I told you what I was going to do if you didn’t.”

Rodemaker didn’t say anything but looked from Pete to Jamie.

“You haven’t been all that honest with us, so I think we’re going to add Obstruction to the list of charges, along with accessory to kidnapping and accessory to murder.  We have established that absolutely.”  Without taking his eyes off Rodemaker, he said to Jamie, “We’re no longer dealing with this piece of shit!”

Rodemaker started to get up from the chair, but Pete pushed him back down and said, “Don’t you move a fuckin’ inch!”

“We warned you,” Jamie said gathering up his files, pictures and papers.  “We had a deal, and you blew it.”

“I
was
honest with you,” Rodemaker cried.  “I
told
you
everything
!”

“The hell you did you perverted motherfucker!”  Pete said through clenched teeth.  “Not by a long shot!”

Pete opened a file filled with pictures and began showing them to Rodemaker; one by one without commentary.  Pete held up a picture of two boys handcuffed to the interior wall of a panel van, showing it first to Jamie, then to Rodemaker.

“The boy on the left is Stephen Bailey.  The boy on the right is Mike Erickson.  These boys were abducted earlier this evening from Waukesha.  And within a couple of hours, you have their picture on your cell phone.  With all the
honesty
and
cooperation
you’ve given us, it’s amazing how we found this website on your laptop.”

Pete placed a color photo of Desert Ranch Ponies website in front of him and then the pictures of the three boys from the same website as they appeared in order on the computer screen.

“You didn’t think my guy would find this?” Pete asked.  “You didn’t think he’d find the auto erase program on your laptop if he were to type in that bogus username and password?  You didn’t think he’d find the hundreds of pictures on your hard drive in a folder titled, ‘
boys
’?  You thought you were going to fool us and get away with it, you stupid mother fucking pervert?”

Rodemaker hung his head, buried his face in both hands and began to cry.

“I warned you my computer guy is the best.  I warned you what he was going to do to your computer and cell phone.  I warned you, didn’t I?” he asked rhetorically.

“Sorry, Rodemaker,” Jamie said quietly.  “I wanted to deal with you, but you blew it.  The deal is off, and I can’t help you.”

Sobbing, head still in his hands, Rodemaker said, “Please, you don’t understand.  They told me they’d kill me if I ever said anything.  We were all told that.”

He looked at Jamie, then at Pete.

“They will
kill
me.”

“I don’t give a fuck, Rodemaker.  Sincerely, I couldn’t give a shit.  Hell, if you don’t tell me now who
they
are, I’ll kill you my
self
.”

“You don’t understand,” Rodemaker cried.  “They got cops and FBI.  They’re gonna fuckin’
kill me
!”

Jamie and Pete exchanged a quick glance that Rodemaker didn’t catch because he had his head buried in his hands.

“Look,” Jamie said patiently like he was explaining it to a four year old.  “You have one shot left.  You tell us what we need to know, and we’ll deal.  We’ll even protect you.  If you don’t, we’ll advertise you to the guys behind this whole thing.  We’ll get out of the way and let them have you.”

Rodemaker dropped his head back into his hands and sobbed, then looked up and nodded.

“I’ll help you, but you gotta protect me.  You gotta protect me.”

*                                                        *                                                        *

Chet’s fingers flew over the keyboard.  He stopped only long enough to swallow some Diet Coke, to check his notes, or simply to frown at the screen.

“Okay . . . from the picture of the website, the ranch is in the southwest, right?”  Without waiting for an answer, Chet said, “And we also know there is no Desert Ranch anywhere, right?”

Summer frowned at him and said, “What are you getting at?”

“A pedophile is generally a male between the ages of twenty and fifty-five, right?” Chet asked.

“Generally single . . . never married,” Summer added.

“So, we look in the southwest for any ranches owned by a single male between the ages of twenty and fifty-five and see what we get,” Chet said as his fingers typed away.

“Do I want to know how you’re going to get that information?”

“Most of it will be legal . . . you know, public record.”

“You said most of it,” Summer said.

“Yeah most of it, so you don’t really want to know,” Chet said without looking at her. 

CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

Chet rubbed his eyes.  He’d been at this for six hours, and it was after midnight.  Despite the Snickers and Diet Cokes and adrenalin, he was crashing.  Summer was pretty far gone too.  To keep awake, Summer would alternate between looking over Chet’s shoulder and watching Pete and Jamie tag team Rodemaker, who suddenly couldn’t shut himself up.  Anything and everything about Desert Ranch Ponies and the website, the prostitution, the entire human trafficking details utilizing boys, the Chicago and Los Angeles operations and the traveling component all came out.  Summer had watched through the glass, fascinated at the extent and sophistication of the operation, yet sickened beyond belief that so many men seemed to be involved.  Not to mention the obvious money, power and protection this organization had.

“Summer, I think I have something,” Chet called.

Yawning and stretching with both arms over her head, she walked back into the little office where she and Chet had holed up.

“I’ve checked this over four times, making sure the parameters are correct.  We have sixteen ranches owned by single men.  There’s several in southern Colorado, but these guys are either divorced or widowed, so I guess they’re candidates, but long shots.  There’s several in both Arizona and New Mexico but with the same results.  The guys are either divorced or widowed.  But there are two in Arizona, and both are prospects because they’re both single.  Neither are married . . . neither are divorced, and neither are widowers.”

Summer looked over his shoulder at the results on the screen. 

“Where are the two ranches?”

“One is near Chandler, a burb of Phoenix.  The other is closer to the Four Corners area.  Near the Navajo Reservation.”

“Logic would tell us to go with the one near the reservation, but that almost seems too easy,” Summer said.  “Something about it doesn’t feel right.  So, how do we know for sure?”

“We wait until my guy calls,” Chet said, folding his arms on his chest.  “If we dig anymore than we’ve done so far, we might tip the pervert off or maybe the protection.  We can’t afford that because we’ll never find those two boys or the rest of the missing kids.”

“Then let’s hope your guy calls soon.  The longer those boys are missing . . .”

“I know, Summer, I know.”

*                                                        *                                                        *

It took almost forty-five minutes for Rodemaker to spill his guts.  He rolled on two or three other local men who shared his perversion, though he didn’t see his desires as perversion.

“You have to understand . . . I loved those boys,” Rodemaker pleaded.

Jamie almost flew over the table at him.  Pete had to
decide
whether or not to let him, but in reality, only took a second or two before he restrained him.

“Don’t you even fucking think we’ll understand you, you mother fucking son of a bitch!” Jamie yelled, shrugging off Pete’s hold on him.

He reached for the folder of pictures and pulled out the one of the two kidnapped boys, handcuffed to the interior wall of the van.

“Explain to me you fucking pervert, how this is love?” Jamie held that up for Rodemaker to examine.  “Explain to me just how this love of yours allows kids to be taken from their families and raped by fucking sons of bitches like you.”

Jamie reached for one of the photographs of Ryan Wynn taken earlier that day in Pembine and held it up to Rodemaker so closely that Rodemaker had to pull his head away in order to focus on it.

“Look closely, Asshole.  This boy was found with two bullet holes in the back of his head.  Explain to me, Shithead, how this is love.”

Rodemaker turned his head away and began to cry again.

“That’s right . . . you can’t.  You can’t because you don’t know what the fuck love is, Mother Fucker.  You have no fucking clue, so don’t you
dare
try to explain all of this shit as love,
Mother Fucker
!  I’m not buying it and neither is anyone else.” 

Jamie gathered up the photos, and without looking at Pete, went to the door, opened it and looked back at Rodemaker and said, “You fucking piece of shit!”

It was then Pete noticed the tears in Jamie’s eyes.

*                                                        *                                                        *

Morgan Billias was a mild-mannered, easy-going, middle-aged guy with a wife, two daughters and a son.  He had an easy laugh, a ready wise crack, and could find humor in most anything.  He didn’t work for the CIA or the NSA or any of the other alphabet groupings that belonged to the government.  Chet never asked Morgan what he did or where he lived or whether or not he was married and had two or six children.  And Morgan never told him.

They met at a computer expo a couple of years back in San Francisco, got to talking about computers, had a couple of beers together and basically, hit it off.  They kept in contact off and on over the months, with Chet reaching out to him whenever a “puzzle” needed to be solved.  Nothing great or grandiose, just puzzles.

The puzzle of the IPhone being a server was much bigger than anything Chet had reached out to him for, and it was the only time Chet had actually sought permission for.

The phone beeped, and Chet answered it with his customary, “Walker.”

“You’re right about it being a mobile phone.”

Chet smiled and nodded at the news.

“I kept asking myself why the IP address was AT&T one minute, then Panera Bread the next, only to be Starbucks the next.”

“Has to be an IPhone,” Chet said.  “You did an nslookup?”

“Yeah . . . and he’s mobile,” Morgan answered.

“So, do you have a name?” Chet asked hopefully, but knowing the answer.

“Yup.  I called a guy at AT&T, and he looked up the MAC . . . Gary Sears, but both of us know it’s fake.”

“How much . . .”

“-nothing.  He knows not to ask, and I didn’t volunteer anything,” Morgan answered.

Chet didn’t realize it, but he was holding his breath waiting for Morgan’s answer because he had remembered Logan Musgrave’s caution about leaks.  He sighed audibly.

“Which Panera Bread and which Starbucks?” Chet asked, grabbing a piece of paper, jotting down notes.

“Panera Bread in Chandler, Arizona and then Starbucks at the airport in Phoenix.”

“So, we could contact the IT guy at either and see if we can get him on tape,” Chet said more to himself then to Morgan.

“And then you’d have to compare the two tapes against the times the MAC was in use to determine who the guy is,” Morgan answered.

“We’ll have to get the tapes,” Chet said.

“Um . . . check your computer.  There will be an e-mail from me with two video files attached with my notes.  I think you’ll find the guy in them.”

Chet was stunned.  He opened his mouth to speak, but never said a word.

“Morgan, I owe you big on this, but how . . .”

“Don’t ask because you don’t want to know, right?  And, you don’t owe me anything,” Morgan continued.  “I hate perverts.  If I had my way, they’d all get gang-raped by six hundred pound gorillas so their assholes would end up looking like Mammoth Cave.”

*                                                        *                                                        *

Jamie leaned against the window staring out at the Waukesha night.  It was misty and quiet.  Traffic was light after midnight.  Bars and restaurants were closed.  No one was on the street.  A lone street sweeper drove down the street weaving in and around parked cars cleaning up sand, dirt, McDonald’s wrappers and other debris from the city streets.  He had composed himself and was back in control.

He met Jeremy Evans the first day of new teacher orientation at Waukesha North High School six years ago.  Jeremy was a social studies teacher and head boys’ basketball coach back then, while Jamie was the newly appointed school liaison officer.  They were two of the J’s as they were called.  The third J was Jeff Limbach, a new English teacher.  The three of them developed a fast and lasting friendship that survived Jeff’s divorce, Jeremy’s transition to counseling and eventually Jamie’s move out of the school system to the rank of detective.  Barbeques at the pool at Jeff’s house, golf at one of the local courses, movie nights, all of it continued.  Jeremy was Godfather to Jeff’s son, Danny, who lived half of the time in Omaha with his mother after the divorce.  Jeff was Godfather to Randy and acted like one to Billy.  The three J’s shared an unspoken loyalty, a bond that few friends ever shared.

Pete cleared his throat to let him know he was in the room and then asked, “You okay?”

“Yeah.” 

Jamie pushed off the wall and walked over to the table and opened up the file with all the pictures.  He flipped through them until he came to the two he wanted, the ones he noticed earlier that evening and pushed them across to Pete.

The first picture was of a crying brown-haired boy whose face was contorted in obvious pain.  The second was of the same boy, obviously embarrassed and scared, posing nude for the camera.  Jamie watched Pete’s face, looking for any sign of recognition.

When he didn’t see it, Jamie said, “Look closely at the boy.”

Pete held the picture closer, frowning in concentration.  He shook his head and looked back at Jamie and shrugged.

“You met him earlier this evening.  He’s two years younger in the photos.”

Pete looked at the photos again, recognition dawning over him.

“Sweet Jesus!”

“Yeah,” Jamie answered.