Stolen Lives : The Lives Trilogy Book 1 (9 page)

CHAPTER NINETEEN

Jeremy Evans lived in a modest, white, two-story with black shutters and a nice patio with a fire pit and barbeque in the backyard in a middle-class neighborhood on Waukesha’s north side, not too far from Waukesha North High School where he was a counselor.  His adopted son, Randy, lived with him as did Randy’s biological brother, Bill. 

Randy had come first.  He had run away from an abusive home and was placed into foster care.  Because Jeremy was on the foster list in hopes of eventually adopting a child, he ended up with Randy a little over two years ago.  Billy, Randy’s twin came along a little over a year later.  It was a confusing mess.

The twins were born to a school-aged mom and were given up for adoption.  Neither family had wanted a set of twins, so the agency agreed to separate them. Billy went to a couple in Milwaukee, while Randy went to a family in Marshfield in the north central part of the state. 

Years later, a picture and story on adoption featuring Jeremy and Randy appeared in the Milwaukee Sentinel, and Billy read it and confronted his parents.  While Randy had known he was adopted and knew about his twin brother, Billy had not.  It started a war in the Schroeder household and ended when Robert and Monica divorced.  Monica moved out of the house to live on the east side of Milwaukee.  Billy refused visitation weekends and eventually Monica gave up trying.

Robert died of a sudden heart attack a year or so ago and ever since the divorce, Billy wanted nothing to do with his mother.  Living with his mother was not an option, and deep down, Monica knew that.  Yet, she put up a fight, but when Billy threatened to run away every chance he got and threatened to move out as soon as he turned eighteen, she gave up and moved out of state never to be heard from again. 

Billy moved in with Jeremy and Randy but kept his last name after he, too, was adopted by Jeremy.  It was downright complicated for those who did not know the story.  The boys were as close as two brothers could be ever since Randy’s arrival.  They were best friends.  They shared the same friends and most of the same interests, except that Billy was more of an accomplished athlete while Randy was more cerebral and a writer and musician.  Both were very bright, as well as perceptive and instinctive.  They seemed to know what the other was thinking, and it seemed to Jeremy that a lot of communication between the two occurred with looks and gestures.

At first glance, they were identical, and anyone who was not a close friend could not tell the two apart.  Both had soft brown hair and big brown eyes.  They dressed the same, each wearing the other’s clothes.  They liked the same kinds of food, laughed the same, talked the same and used the same expressions.  If you spent time around them, one would notice that Billy had a bit of a crocked smile, a glint in the eye that warned of mischief, wisecracks and practical jokes.  Randy seemed a bit more serious; guarded.  Yet, Billy who was eight minutes older would defer to Randy when plans or decisions had to be made.  Randy was the leader and the quiet one, more reserved, and many times Jeremy had wondered if it was a result of the abuse he had endured or if it was just his personality to be so. 

“That’s how the twins ended up with me,” Jeremy said with a shrug.

He and Pete sat in the kitchen at a blond-wood table with six matching chairs.  A Diet Coke sat in front of both men.  Every now and then one of the boys would cat-call or tease the other while they played Wii in the family room.  The only voice that wasn’t heard was George’s, but that was understandable.  He had just lost his family.  His home was burnt to the ground.  He had no idea where he was or who he was with or what was going to happen to him.  So it was understandable if he was quiet.  Pete didn’t anticipate another boy in the house, but didn’t think that it mattered. 

“I can’t give you a lot of the details.  What I can tell you is that George witnessed a murder and saw the two perpetrators who committed it.  The murder took place on the Navajo Indian Reservation in Arizona . . . on his land while he was tending his family’s sheep.  Someone murdered George’s family and burned down their ranch.  We suspect that the perps think they killed George because his little brother was shot multiple times, and he looked remarkably like George.”

Jeremy glanced towards the next room and then back at Pete.

“No one knows George is here, and I need it kept that way . . . for his safety and yours.”

“What do you mean by his safety and ours?”

“We believe that whoever killed that boy and those two men up north is still in the state.  We believe he or they are tied to whoever killed George’s family.”

Jeremy glanced again towards the family room. 

Pete knew what Jeremy was thinking so he said, “No one knows George is here, and I believe you and your family are safe.  The problem is I don’t know how long George will be here.  Is that going to be a problem for you?”

Jeremy pushed his chair away from the table and leaned forward, elbows on his knees and looked intently at Pete.  He was thirty-six years old, a single guy who had contemplated the priesthood for a long time before deciding that celibacy was a bit too much to deal with.  Yet, he had never married and was far from promiscuous.  Eligible, yes.  A player, no. 

As a former high school and college basketball coach and especially now as a high school counselor, he was used to problem-solving on the fly.  He and Randy had traveled around the state and parts of the Midwest speaking to school assemblies, parent groups, and law enforcement agencies about the sexual exploitation of children and how to keep kids safe, especially in this day and age of the internet, social networks and cell phones.  Law enforcement in four states brought the two of them in to work with kids who had been molested, as well as their parents.  Jeremy knew the danger these men and groups posed.

“Let’s suppose . . . what . . . if something happens to you during this investigation?  What happens if somehow, some way . . . those people find out he’s here? I don’t care about me, but I have two sons to think about.  And how do I explain George to the boys’ friends or my family?”

Pete looked at him thoughtfully, fully appreciating the position he was placing him in, along with his family.

He shrugged and said, “He’s a friend of the family or a friend of your sons, I guess.  Try to keep it simple.  The simpler, the better.”

“And . . . if something happens to you or like I said if they find out he’s here?  Then what?’

Pete suspected the FBI had a leak.  He knew there was the possibility that George’s location might be found, but only if whoever killed George’s family found out that it was George’s brother who was shot on that hillside and not George.  He explained this to Jeremy.

“Right now, they have no need to look for him and no idea
where
to look for him.  I’m the only one who knows.”

“Again, if something happens to you, then what?”

Pete ran his hands over his face.

“I have to let my partner know where he is.  She and I will be the only two that know.  Not even the rest of our team will know.”

Jeremy looked down at his hands holding his Diet Coke.

Without looking up he said, “With your permission, I’d like to bring someone else into this . . . a friend who’s a detective on the police force.  Jamie Graff. We’re friends, and I trust him.  He knows my family.”

Pete didn’t want anyone else brought in, yet there was logic in the idea.  This detective could stay in the background and keep a quiet watch.  This could be good.

“I’ll need to meet him.”

Jeremy pulled out his cell and punched in Jamie’s number.

CHAPTER TWENTY

“Mom, it’s only three blocks away, and it isn’t real dark yet.  We won’t be gone that long,” Mike pleaded.

“I don’t think so. We have plenty of movies here you can watch.”

Silence.  That pleading look that killed her each and every time he wore it.  Then, the fake puppy-dog look meant to bring about a laugh, which it always did.

“Take your cell with you and keep it on.  You call me when you get there and when you start back home.  You go nowhere else, and you stay together.  You know the rules.”

“Awesome!  You’re the best!”

“Remember what I said, Mike.  Stephen, keep him in line,” Jennifer said playfully.

Yet, there was this vague feeling of worry in the pit of her stomach.  This wasn’t the only time Mike had been allowed out at night in the dark, but something chewed at her.  A mom’s antenna maybe.  Perhaps, nothing at all.  Still, Mike was getting older, and he was with Stephen, a nice, calming influence on her son, who tended to be a bit more carefree.

“Be careful you two.  And remember to call me!”

*                                                        *                                                        *

The team didn’t have a firm snatch plan.  They didn’t have a firm snatch date other than by the end of the week.  They couldn’t afford to hang around more than two, maybe three days because of the stolen van and two stolen cars and even that was pushing it.  They had decided to take the first available opportunity.

Down the block, Ace sat low in his car somewhat hidden by shrubs that ran in front of the house he sat in front of.  Hedges were on the other side of the street also, but no one seemed to be home.  He had pretended to alternately read a map and the newspaper and tried to blend in with the neighborhood.  There weren’t many people out and about.  Most of the jogging occurred in the early morning.  Every now and then someone walked a dog but pretty much ignored him or didn’t pay him any attention. 

That was what he had wanted.

He saw the two boys walk down the driveway and down the sidewalk away from him towards the van, which was on the other side of the street.

He punched speed dial and said, “Coming your way.  Both of them.”

“Got it,” was all that was said on the other end.  “Stay back and follow us when we have the package.”

“One or both?’

“We’ll see.”

He watched the van start up and move down the street up ahead of the boys.  It took a left, and Ace figured it would come back around the block and park at the corner where the boys would actually walk right to it.  Rick drove while Shawn and Clay were the handlers.  This was an experienced team, but not as experienced as Frank and Ron had been. 

That was the A team while this was the B team.  Ace didn’t like working with this group, who tended to be a bit rough and who tended to take more liberties with the boys.  But it was what he had since Frank and Ron had been disposed of.

Ace stayed a comfortable half-block behind the boys who were laughing and bumping into one another, taking their time without a care in the world.  The way it should be, and the way Ace and the team needed it to be.  The cell beeped.

“Yeah.”             

“At the corner.”

Ace didn’t respond, but clicked off and slowly drifted up the street, now past the Erickson house.  A soft glow of light behind the sheer drapes.  Quiet. Fifteen yards from the corner.  The boys laughed at something.  The van pulled into view at the corner.  Shawn and Clay had crossed a yard behind the boys and quickly closed the distance. 

Five yards, four.  Each had a rag filled with chloroform in hand.  Shawn came up behind the Erickson kid, Clay behind the Bailey kid.  Arm around chest, rag covering the face, and the boys lifted off their feet and into the van.  Door slammed shut as it pulled from the curb. 

Total time: maybe a minute, probably less.  Result: one new pony for the stable and one pony for the guards to use for a couple of days before he was disposed of.

Less than a block away, Jennifer Erickson finished with the dishes and sat down to read the newspaper, unaware that her son and his best friend were handcuffed to a wall in the van heading east on Blue Mound that would eventually take them to Interstate 895 south towards Chicago.

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

The flight back to D.C. was quiet, at least from Chet’s point of view.  He sat by himself towards the front of the coach deep into his laptop after taking a call on his cell.  Doug Rawson had taken over a table in the back and worked his phone and scratched notes on a yellow legal pad. 

On the flight to New Mexico, Summer had called Thatcher Davis to inform him of the possibility of a leak within her unit or just simply the guy wearing the baseball cap and sunglasses tying up loose ends, and to get a legal opinion and guidance, but demanding that he not share this information with anyone else.  He had tried to question her first about Pete and the possibility that he played both sides of the street. 

“What better way for him to maintain control on one hand and to keep tabs on you and your team, while taking care of his dark side on the other
?
’ 

Summer had dismissed that out of hand.

“Doug started on him before he and Chet left for D.C. and has just about ruled him out.  No way it’s Pete.”

“Who’s doing the background work?”

“Doug has a team of four; two on computers and two doing the files and phone work.”

Thatcher had questions about Chet, the computer geek.  Sort of a loaner, quiet and more into gadgets than people.  The youngest member of the team, and therefore, not much in common with the other team members.

“Easy for him to cover his tracks and cover any trail that was left out in the open.”

“I don’t see it.  Not him,” Summer said shaking her head.

“Then you’re telling me you have no leak, because you’ve covered everyone except for Logan, which I would personally rule out because he’s a suit.”

“Except for the fact that all information runs through him.  He has access to everything and everyone.”

This was Doug’s theory actually.  Summer tried it on for size, but it didn’t fit.

When Summer told Davis that Pete was still in Wisconsin, but didn’t know where, he asked, “Isn’t that a bit irregular?  Why the secrecy?”

Summer told him about George, the murder of his family in Arizona, and that fact that Pete had George flown to Wisconsin to help ID the perps and canvass the crime scene.

“Let me get this straight.  You have a leak.  One of the team members you suspect . . .”

“
Did
suspect.  We don’t anymore . . .”

“You
have
a leak, and one of the team members you
had
suspected flies in a fourteen year old kid to do forensic work, who is now in the hands of the same team member who you
had
suspected of being a leak, and
no one
knows where this kid or team member is.  Do I have it about right?”  There was a brief pause and then Davis said, “
Jesus
, Summer!  What the hell are you thinking?”

Summer rubbed her forehead, nineteen different kinds of a headache grinding away behind her eyes.

“Or it’s the guy wearing the baseball cap and sunglasses tying up loose ends.  We can’t rule it out, and it’s looking more like that’s the case.”

“Oh come on, Summer!” Thatch yelled.

“You make it sound a lot worse than it is.  As I said, we did suspect Pete, but we ruled him out.”

“In what, an hour or two of digging?  I’m thinking you have the world’s best on this, or you’ve just not done a thorough job.  It’s sloppy and either you’re slipping, or Barney Fife is rubbing off on you.”

Summer caught Skip Dahlke’s eye and the frown on his face.

“I’ve got to run.  I’ll be in touch.”

“Keep me in the loop from now on if for no other reason than for you to have an outside, objective view.”  He softened and then said, “Sorry I was rough on you, but Summer, I’m worried.  There’s something really weird about this, and you have to take another, deeper look at Pete.  Promise me you’ll do that?  Please?”

Summer sighed.

“I’ll be in touch.”

*                                                        *                                                        *

Pete got to the Holiday Inn Express on Blue Mound, about fifteen minutes from the Evan’s house.  He sat down on the uncomfortable chair at the cheap desk, pulled out his little notebook that he kept in his sport coat pocket, turned on the desk lamp and began writing.  He had stopped at an Office Max a block from the hotel and purchased a pad of paper and two cheap Bic pens; one blue and one red.  He began developing a timeline of what had occurred since he and Summer had flown out to Arizona, making a list of approximate times, dates, and the people who had access to the information.  The times and dates he wrote in red, names and information in blue.  The only thing he didn’t have was a cork board to pin things on.

When he thought he had written down everything, he read it over and then read it over again.  If there was a leak, he couldn’t identify who it was or when it had occurred.  Something didn’t make sense.  If it wasn’t a team member, then it had to be someone close to the team, perhaps someone who was privy to the information or on the periphery of the investigation, or the guy in the baseball cap and sunglasses tying up loose ends.  Which was it?  He pulled out his cell and punched in Summer’s number.

“You and Skip find anything yet?”

“Still looking.  We landed almost three hours ago.  It’s a mess, and it looks like a massacre.  It looks like the grandfather, women and children were marched out of the house.  The women and children were huddled together, but the grandfather stood away from the group.  Skip can’t tell who was killed first.  He thinks it was more bang-bang, not a lot of thought into it.  I agree.  The fires were an afterthought.  Wood structures, dry country.  They went fast.  Large weapons, military-issue.  They were meant to get the job done. 

“George’s brother could have been his twin, but a bit smaller, thinner.  From a distance, they looked the same.  We think the shots came from the helicopter.  Same weapon.  Almost cut him in half.  Really ugly, Pete.  Meant to send a message.”

“What are you going to do now?”

“Leonard and a deputy will wrap this up with one man from Albuquerque.  Doug’s already had him checked out, and he was told to keep this off the books for the time being.  Skip is heading back to Wisconsin, and I’m taking a flight to D.C., should get there tomorrow morning.”  She paused and then said, “I thought you were going to call me when you had George placed.  Where are you, and what have you been doing?”

Pete took the phone away from his ear, looked at it curiously, then replaced it and spoke slowly, annoyed and wondering why the quick change in her voice.

“I’m calling now.  I needed to be certain George was safe.  I think he is.” 

He told her about Jeremy, the twins, and Jeremy’s friend, the detective.

“I think he’s in good hands.  I like the detective . . . he and Jeremy have been friends for years, so I think George is safe.  But Summer, this information goes nowhere, only you and me, no one else on the team or outside the team until we figure this thing out.”

“That’s just it, Pete.  Doug doesn’t know where the leak is.  He started digging before we boarded the plane in Green Bay and has been at it ever since; a team of four, good, young, aggressive.  They’ve come up with no one.  Nada.  The only one left is Logan, but come on . . . you and I both know he’s clean for chrissake . . .”

“He might have just scratched the surface, Summer.  A couple of hours won’t tell him much at all.”

He told her about his timeline and his list of people who had access to the information, asking her to develop a similar timeline and a similar list. 

“I’ve come to the same conclusion as Doug, but if that’s the case, then it’s out of Albuquerque, or . . .”

“Doug’s already started to look at Albuquerque, but I’m not holding out a lot of hope.  Something is right in front of us, and we’re missing it.  What is it?”

“If it’s not a leak, it’s the guy in the baseball cap and sunglasses.  But someone might have something buried pretty deep that a couple of hours won’t find.  How soon can we clear Chet?”

“Doug’s already ruled him out.”

“Then bring him in the loop and have him do some magic with his computer.  I’ll catch a flight out of Milwaukee early and be in D.C. by ten.  Meet me at the office and the three of us will put our heads together.”