by J. C. Fields
Sunday evening, Kruger finally managed to find a little time to start unpacking and arranging his condo. Around eight, his cell phone chirped. He glanced at the caller ID, shook his head, and answered, “Kruger.”
“Sean, it’s Alan.”
“What’s happened, Alan? You never call on Sunday.” Alan Seltzer was an assistant deputy director with the FBI and Kruger’s immediate supervisor. They had known each other since their academy days. In his current position, Kruger reported to Seltzer.
“I need you in New York City sometime tomorrow.”
“Again, what’s happened?”
“I got a call from the SAC in the New York City office this afternoon. They have a situation that doesn’t smell right. Apparently someone jumped a couple of security guards in the lobby of an office building on Wall Street. One of the guards was killed and the other crippled. Now the NYPD has called in the bureau because the security guards worked for a company co-owned by a former deputy attorney general.”
“Okay, he’s pulling in favors; I get that. What’s this have to do with me?”
“Well, apparently the two guards were ex-special forces, guys with a lot of experience and training. The guy they were escorting out of the building took them both down in less than five seconds according to witnesses.”
“Alan, this sounds like a local problem. Why do I need to get involved?”
“Because the director of our fine agency is an old college friend of the former deputy attorney general, that’s why.”
“Oh goodie,” he said sardonically. “Who is he?”
“Alton Crigler.”
Kruger remained silent long enough for Seltzer to say, “Are you still there?”
“Yeah, I should hang up. He and I don’t see eye to eye on anything. It doesn’t make any sense he would ask for me. Besides, he’s an asshole.”
“I agree he’s an asshole. But the fact of the matter is the director’s involved, and now so are you, whether you like it or not.”
“Great, just great.” He paused. “All right.”
“Good, when you have your itinerary, call me. I’ll have someone pick you up at the airport.”
Chapter 5
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 ro
le 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.
Chapter 6
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 th
reatened 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.
