Stolen Lives : The Lives Trilogy Book 1 (19 page)

CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

Summer, Chet and O’Brien arrived at the Sheraton at 4:37 AM, CST.  O’Brien and Chet stayed in the background while Summer went to the front desk.  She asked the young female desk clerk named Bethany for the night manager. 

A tall, skinny man in his early thirties wearing a green blazer with a white button-down shirt and green tie came to the front desk and asked, “How can I help you?”

Summer displayed colored pictures of three men, printed earlier that morning at the Waukesha Police station.

“Can you tell me if these three men are here at the hotel?”

“I’m sorry . . . I can’t give out that kind of information because we have to respect the privacy of . . .”

Summer took her FBI credentials out of her pocket and said, “
Now
, can you tell me if these three men are here at the hotel?”

The manager mumbled and then took hold of the three pictures, played a bit with his computer console and nodded, “Yes, well, two of them, I do believe, they’ve arrived.  They checked in separately.”  He separated one of the photos and tapped it with his index finger.  “Not this man.  Would you like me to ring them?”

“No.  I don’t want them to know I asked about them.”  Then Summer asked, “Do I make myself clear?”

“Yes, Ma’am, very clear.”

“Good.  Because if one or all of them find out I’ve asked about them, you’ll be arrested for obstruction, and the hotel will suffer needless embarrassment.  Do I make myself clear?”

“Absolutely, Ma’am.”

Summer and Chet went into the restaurant to get some coffee and to wait.  O’Brien grabbed a free USA Today and sat in a comfortable chair in the lobby facing the bank of elevators.  Chet set Summer up with a small, rather innocuous looking tube that resembled a pen that was in reality, a very powerful microphone.  Hooked wirelessly to his computer, he could record virtually any conversation that took place in the restaurant.  No one but Summer, Chet and one waiter were in the restaurant at that hour, however it would fill up quickly with patrons for the breakfast buffet. 

The waiter asked what he and Summer would like, and Summer ordered coffee for both of them and one to go for O’Brien.  The waiter nodded and disappeared through a doorway in the back. 

Chet called Morgan to let them know they had arrived and that he’d be hacking into the hotel security cameras to monitor several areas at once using split screen.

“I’ll be waiting,” he said with a yawn.

“Thanks.  I owe you.”

“I already told you, I want these perverts as bad as you do, so you don’t owe me anything.”

He clicked off and Chet nodded at Summer.

“We’re set.”

*                                                        *                                                        *

Jamie pushed the buzzer just as Rodemaker told him to.  Fitz, in the guise of a homeless wino, who had watched pervert after pervert push that same buzzer earlier that night and early morning confirmed that this was the procedure.

“Yeah?” was the response from the other end.

“Um . . . I have money and would like to spend it,” Jamie said, not sure what else to say.

Silence.  It seemed like a long time, and Jamie thought about giving up and walking away and rejoin the others to come up with a different plan.

“It’s fucking early,” the voice said.

“I wanted . . . you know . . . before I went to work.”

“Third floor.  Meet you there.”

Jamie resisted the urge to give a thumbs up to the others because he knew about the camera above the door, as well as the camera in the alley.  Fitz had begun ambling down the alley, listing and leaning against the far wall just as he had done all morning.  He even called out to Jamie asking for money as he had done with all of the other perverts entering and exiting the building.  Jamie, playing along, obligingly flipped him off without turning around.

Pete waited impatiently around the corner for Jamie to let him know all was clear.  Dahlke had circled the back of the building keeping his distance from Fitz until Fitz let him know when to come forward.

“Guys, stay sharp,” Pete said.  “Jamie’s in.”

“Born ready,” Fitz said, pumping a shell into the chamber beneath the green army jacket.

“Almost there,” Dahlke said breathlessly.

This wasn’t what he had in mind after graduating in Forensic Science.  In fact, he had never fired a weapon in his life, unless you count suction-cup darts from a toy pistol or bullets from a Nerf gun.  And now he was armed with an assault rifle with several extra clips of ammo and a .45mm Magnum.  To say he was nervous was an understatement.  Yet, he felt that he needed to be there.  He knew the importance of being there.  He just didn’t want to let anyone down, or worse, get himself or anyone else hurt or killed.

Perhaps reading his mind, Pete said, “Take it easy, Skip.  You’ll be fine.  Just listen to what’s going on, watch everyone and everything around you, and do what Fitz tells you to do.”

“Yeah,” was all the response Pete received.

Jamie took the stairs silently, smoothly but not too swiftly.  He lingered at the door to the second floor, tempted to take a peek, but resisted the urge, spotting the camera on the landing heading up to the third floor.  He moved up the steps, took a deep breath and stood outside the door on the landing.

*                                                        *                                                        *

Chet had moved to the outer lobby after receiving the two coffees.  He and O’Brien sat at different ends away from each other.  Chet was known by at least two of them, so he had to blend into the woodwork and remain as close to invisible as possible.  No one knew O’Brien, so he could hide in plain sight.

Chet had screens open to him on his laptop, which allowed him to monitor the action in the hotel.  He’d have to rely on cell calls to get updates from the three locations and relay info to and from them. 

Morgan had his ears tuned to what was being said on the three IPhones.  Currently, the IPhones were silent.  But if Morgan didn’t know what was happening in the three different cities, he could at least imagine, and perhaps it was the imagination that had him sitting on the edge of his seat waiting for updates from Chet on what was taking place.

Both Summer and O’Brien were wired for picture and sound.  It was Chet’s job to monitor and record.  Hoping that the three targets would meet and eat before heading to the building in Chicago, Summer sent a text to one of the IPhones letting the person on the other end know that
he
was in Chicago and would wait for him in the hotel restaurant.  There wasn’t a response yet, but when the phone was turned on, it would let the person know a message was waiting to be opened. 

Every now and then, Summer would ask O’Brien if he had seen anything.  He held the newspaper and pretended to read it, but couldn’t tell you anything about any of the articles other than a headline or two.

Cop work was often sitting, waiting and writing reports.  The glamorous stuff you see on TV was fiction.  Seldom, if ever, were cops pulling triggers or dodging bullets.  So, the three of them waited impatiently, worrying about the three teams trying to free the kids.

*                                                        *                                                        *

Tommy Albrecht went to the motel office, pushed it open, looked over his shoulder, and then shut the door quietly behind him.  There were cobwebs in the corner near the window and dead flies lying on the window sill.  Dusty tan curtains hung limply from a bent curtain rod.  A window air conditioner ran but didn’t produce much cool air.  A small, skinny, sweaty man in a button down dirty blue shirt, open to reveal a wife-beater t-shirt stood behind the counter.

“Um . . .” Albrecht said.

“You need a room?” the skinny man said with a smirk.

“Well . . . yeah . . . I guess,” he answered uncertainly.

“How about the
special
?”

Albrecht didn’t answer right away because he wasn’t sure exactly what to say.

So after a bit, he simply said, “Um . . . yeah.”

The small man just looked at him, not moving, not saying anything.

So Albrecht asked, “Can I have a choice?”

“Just a minute,” the man answered with a sly grin.

He reached down and using a key, opened a drawer and took out a thin notebook.  He opened it to reveal pictures of four boys, each nude.

“Look through this and you can pick out the one you want.  Each kid is available at the moment.”

“How much?”

“Depends on how long you want one.  The prices are at the bottom of each picture, and there’s a price sheet on the back page.”

Albrecht browsed through the notebook, sickened at the pictures he saw.  In none of the pictures was the boy smiling.  Each boy looked scared, maybe angry. 

“I think I’ll take Cory Rowell for an hour,” Albrecht said, sickened at the thought.

“Good choice,” the manager said with a smile.  “That’s $300.”

Albrecht counted out three one hundred dollar bills, and as he did so, the manager went to a corner and selected a key from the many that hung there.

While the man was busy getting the key, Albrecht said, “Got it?”

Evidently, the manager didn’t hear Albrecht’s question, because he said, “Here’s the key.  You have one hour from now.  It’ll be $75 for every five minutes you’re late, so you want to make sure you get back here on time.”

Desotel came into the lobby and shut the door behind him.  Seeing Desotel, the manager quickly closed the notebook and dropped it into the drawer behind the counter in the event Desotel wasn’t looking for the
special
.

“Can I help you?” the manager asked Desotel.

“Not really, you fuck.  You’re under arrest.”

The manager backed away from the counter, but Desotel hopped over it with ease and threw the man into the wall knocking him down.  While he Mirandized him, he pulled plastic ties from the pocket of his light-weight jacket and used them like handcuffs, binding the man’s hands behind his back and then used them on his feet.  The man complained they were too tight, so Desotel obliged him by taping his mouth shut, dragged him to a back room by the back of the dirty blue shirt and shut the door, and gave him the warning that if there was any noise, he’d make up an excuse to shoot him.  The man knew he wasn’t kidding.  Desotel knew he wasn’t kidding either.

The key Albrecht held had a red oblong tag that gave the name of the motel and the room number, which was 110.  That meant the room was the second last in the group of four, which put it in the middle of the rooms, two away from the room holding the guards.  Desotel handed him the keys for each of the other rooms holding the boys, as well as the keys for the rooms holding the guards.  Albrecht walked out of the office, while Ronnie Desotel took the manager’s place behind the counter, posing as the manager.

As Albrecht neared the group of four rooms, he said quietly into his shirt collar, “So far, so good.  No perverts but me.  I have the keys.  Meet me half-way, and I’ll give them to you.  Wait until I enter and shut the door.  Earl, take the first room, and Paul, take the sixth, but wait until Nathan and I secure the kids.  Nathan, take the second and third rooms.  I’ll secure the fourth and fifth.”

As he put the key into the door lock, Albrecht added, “Good luck guys.  Everybody goes home safe.”

*                                                        *                                                        *

Jamie stood just inside the third floor doorway in a kind of outer lobby with nothing in it except a computer on a wooden table.  He presumed the voice on the other end of the call box belonged to the fat man with long, greasy black hair and a three or four day old beard leaning against the door.  He wore a dark green t-shirt that seemed two sizes too small, revealing a fat roll falling over the belt of his jeans.  Six pounds of sausage in a two pound casing, Jamie thought.  The man’s body odor assaulted Jamie about as much as the pictures on the computer console. 

Jamie viewed the pictures of eleven boys, but none of whom were of Stephen Bailey or Mike Erickson, the boys taken the evening before.  Disheartened, Jamie started over again.

“What type you lookin’ for?” the fat man asked.

“Um . . . I don’t know,” Jamie answered.

“Blond, black- or brown-haired?”

“Brown, I guess.”

The fat man tapped the computer screen and pictures of all the blond- and black-haired boys disappeared, showing only five boys, each with brown hair.

The fat man pointed to one of the boys and said, “Try this one. Athletic.  Aggressive.”

Jamie almost gagged at the man’s breath.  He looked at the photo and saw a tough, strong boy, eyes shouting hatred and defiance.  His name was Brett.