The Fugitive's Trail

by J. C. Fields

  Alvarez stared at the man. “Tell me what happened.”

  “As I told these officers, when I got out of the elevator, there was a man waiting to get on. He had his head down and didn’t say a word. You know, just like everyone else in this city. I was halfway to my car and realized I had left my car keys in the apartment. So I went back up. Once I had my keys, I returned to the parking garage. My car is parked next to the Mercedes.” The man paused, took a deep breath, and slowly let it out.

  Alvarez frowned. “Go on, sir. You said your car was parked next to the Mercedes.

  The older man nodded and took another deep breath. “I noticed liquid running down the driver’s-side window. When I looked in…” He paused again. “Well, I kind of got sick to my stomach.”

  Nodding, Alvarez said, “I understand, sir. What did you do then?”

  “I called 911. I’ve been here ever since.”

  Alvarez looked at the elder man. “The man you saw getting on the elevator, was he your height? What is that, five foot eight or so?”

  Schwartz nodded. “Five foot seven and a half. I’ve shrunk over the past few years.”

  “How was he dressed?”

  “Very expensive suit, hand tailored. I used to be in the garment industry before I retired. The cut looked British.”

  “What else can you tell me about him?”

  “Well—let me see, I just saw him for a second.” The man stared out into the parking garage. After several moments he said, “He wore glasses, gold-rimmed ones. His hair, it was combed straight back, kind of thin on top. The hair was brown, I think. Yes—yes, his hair was dark brown.” He tapped his finger on his lips for a few seconds and frowned. “That’s really all I remember, sorry.”

  “No problem, sir, you did fine.” Alvarez turned to the watch sergeant. “Put a BOLO order out on Abel Plymel. There will be a current mug shot on file. I’ll head over to his apartment and see if he’s there. Give me two of your guys as backup.”

  He headed back to his ancient unmarked Ford Crown Vic, got behind the wheel, and closed the door. He pulled out his cell phone and dialed a number. It went straight to voicemail. He said, “Sean—it’s Preston. We just found Crigler and his driver dead. They were both shot at what looks like close range. Eyewitness described a man resembling Plymel leaving the scene. We’re trying to find him. Call me when you can.”

  He ended the call, started the car, drove out of the parking garage, and headed toward Plymel’s apartment. He turned on his emergency lights and followed a patrol car containing his two backup officers. They were also running with sirens and light bar rotating. Fifteen minutes later, another patrol car with two additional uniformed officers met them at Plymel’s apartment building.

  Alvarez decided to leave two officers in the front lobby and take the two he had followed from the parking garage up to Plymel’s apartment with him. The building manager, an overweight balding man, in his mid-fifties, escorted them to the apartment on the tenth floor and used his passkey to open the door. Before pushing the unlocked door open, Alvarez told the building manager to stand back. The two uniformed officers stood on the right side of the door; Alvarez stood on the left. All three men had their service weapon out and ready. “Okay guys, let’s see if Plymel’s here. Be ready for anything.”

  Alvarez pushed the door open and yelled, “Police. Let me see your hands Plymel.” There was no response.

  One of the uniformed officers took a quick look inside the open apartment and quickly shook his head. “I don’t see anyone.”

  Nodding, Alvarez said, “We’re coming in, Plymel. Don’t do anything stupid.” He turned to the other officers. “Let’s clear the rooms.” He rushed in with his gun ready. Five minutes later, Alvarez was in what appeared to be the master bedroom, staring at two cigar boxes and a flat envelope on the bed. He bent over and sniffed each box. One had a distinct odor. He stood up and frowned. “Hey Bob tell me what you smell in that box.” He pointed to the open box on the left.

  Officer Robert Torres walked over to the bed, bent over, and sniffed. “Hoppe’s number nine.”

  Alvarez nodded. “That’s what I thought, he had a gun hidden.”

  The other uniformed officer, Leland Page, said, “Lieutenant, you need to see this.” Page was standing just inside the bedroom closet. Alvarez walked over and stood next to the officer and glanced in the direction Page was pointing. The carpet was pulled back from one of the corners and Alvarez could see the open safe door.

  “Damn. Okay, seal the place and I’ll get the crime lab headed this way.”

  He walked back out to the spacious living area and used his cell phone to call the precinct house. The call was answered and he asked to be connected to his boss, Bill Mathews, chief of detectives. When Mathews answered, Alvarez said, “Alton Crigler and his driver were just murdered.”

  “Yeah, I just heard. What’ve you got?”

  “We’re at Plymel’s apartment. We found a hidden safe and two empty cigar boxes. One smells like gun-cleaning solvent. No Plymel and no gun.”

  “Great. What now?”

  “I’m calling in the crime lab. Get his picture out to the TSA offices at all the major airports. He’s got a two hour head start, he may already be in the wind.

  “Got it. Keep me posted.”

  The call ended and Alvarez dialed Kruger’s phone. Again, it went immediately to voicemail. He said, “Sean, it’s Preston. We’ve got an urgent situation here. You need to call me immediately.” Ending the call, he looked around the room. His instincts told him he was missing something, but what, he didn’t know.

  ***

  Kozlov sat in first class, sipping a glass of Cabernet, waiting for the plane door to close. His flight would take him to Los Angles and then to Dallas on an overnight flight. He was booked on a regional jet that would get him into Springfield by midmorning. He doubted anyone would be looking for him yet. Connecting Abel Plymel and Alexei Kozlov would be problematic at best. Nowhere in his apartment or office was any reference to his former identity. As far as he knew, the only known reference might be in a filing cabinet deep in the bowels of some obscure building in Moscow. Suddenly, he frowned and closed his eyes. He had made a mistake and forgotten something in his apartment.

  He glanced at his watch; three hours had passed since he’d followed Crigler into the Mercedes. As the plane lifted off the runway, he eased his seat back. After a few minutes of mulling over his mistake, he shrugged and closed his eyes to get some sleep.

  Chapter 32

  Stone County, MO

  Whether you call it luck, fate, chance, a fluke, or being in the right place at the right time, it doesn’t matter. Adam Weber’s position and the girth of a thirty-year-old white oak tree saved his life. He was standing slightly crouched, with his Sig Saur pointed in the direction of Sean Kruger’s voice, when the onslaught of two MP5s, on full automatic, shattered the quiet of the afternoon.

  His pistol was ripped from his grip, as a bullet struck its barrel. Another ripped through his jacket sleeve halfway to his elbow, leaving exposed flesh and a bleeding gash in his arm. The next three bullets would have punctured his right lung, severed his aorta, and shattered his left shoulder if he had not been standing behind the large oak tree.

  Immediately falling to the ground saved further injury as bullets tore through foliage and tree limbs around him. He stayed motionless until the MP5s grew silent. Then as quietly as possible, he crawled east through the underbrush and rotting leaves of the woodland floor.

  Fifty yards from his previous position, he stopped crawling and listened. Voices from behind could be heard, as men started a careful but noisy search for him. With the realization he was outnumbered and outgunned, different escape scenarios ran through his mind. After several minutes, he smiled and started making his way east through the underbrush.

  ***

  Although it seemed longer, the automatic gunfire lasted less than ten seconds. But the amount of ordinance thrown out by the two MP
5s was incredible. The giant pin oak tree Kruger was sitting under was at least fifty years old and provided a perfect shelter from the onslaught. His radio crackled and he heard Knoll say, “We’re spreading out, Sean. What’s your twenty?”

  Standing, Kruger replied, “Behind a very large oak tree thirty feet east of the entrance.”

  Knoll chuckled, “Circle back to the entrance road. We’re heading your way.”

  Less than a minute later, Kruger watched as Knoll and his two team members headed into the trees and brush to search for Weber. JR was standing next to him and said, “Do you think they got him?”

  Kruger shook his head. “I doubt it. Too many trees to hide behind. But, they probably pushed him toward the east.”

  JR stared in the direction Knoll and his men had headed. “Will she be okay, Sean?”

  Kruger placed his hand on JR’s shoulder. “Yeah, she’ll be fine JR. They found her in time.” He wasn’t sure if he believed his own words, but saying otherwise just wasn’t productive.

  Knoll and his men were communicating over the com-system, and from what Kruger could tell, not finding anyone. As he was listening, his cell phone vibrated. Glancing at the caller ID, he quickly accepted the call. “Kruger.”

  “Sean, where the hell’ve you been?” asked Preston Alvarez.

  “I’ve been a little busy. What’s going on?”

  “Crigler was found shot to death in the parking garage of his apartment building tonight.”

  Kruger was silent. He glanced at his watch. It was seven and the sun was low in the sky. Finally after several moments he said, “Where’s Plymel?”

  “He’s in the wind. I’m at his apartment right now. Clothes are missing and he had a hidden safe.”

  “Wonderful. Any idea of what was in it?”

  “Not at the moment, but there’s evidence of a gun.

  Kruger lowered the phone from his ear and stared toward the east. A few seconds later, he raised the phone and said, “I need to bring you up to speed on developments here, but I’m a little tied up right now. Where will you be in two hours?”

  “I’ll probably still be here. This case is killing my sex life.”

  Kruger chuckled and said, “Amen. I’ll call you around ten your time.” He ended the call and looked at JR.

  “I take something’s happened in New York,” said JR, his voice flat as he stared out at the wooded land east of their location.

  “Crigler was shot and killed earlier today.”

  JR slowly turned toward Kruger and half smiled. “Plymel?”

  Kruger nodded. “Probably. They found a hidden safe in his apartment. Not sure what was in it, but Alvarez said there was evidence of a gun.”

  JR nodded and returned his attention back toward the east. “A nine-millimeter Makarov. It’s referenced in some old files I found on his computer.”

  Kruger stared at JR. “Were you going to share that information? Or just keep it to yourself?” His tone was sharp and louder than normal.

  JR shrugged. “At the time, I didn’t think it was relevant. Have them check the ballistics on the bullet that killed Crigler. Makarovs use a larger-diameter bullet than standard NATO nine-millimeter ammunition.”

  Despite his irritation, Kruger nodded and called Alvarez. His call was answered on the first ring. “Preston, have they done any ballistic work on Crigler yet?”

  Alvarez said, “I doubt it. Too early. Why?”

  “We have information Plymel owned a Makarov. The bullet will be slightly larger than a standard nine-millimeter.”

  “Shit, okay. I’ll have them get right on it.”

  The call ended and Kruger took a deep breath. “Anything else I need to know at this point you haven’t told me?”

  JR turned and stared at Kruger, his eyes cold and his face flush. He said through clinched teeth, “I found a lot of shit on his computer—the important stuff, you know. I didn’t think the Makarov was a big deal or even remotely important. Besides, it was just a reference, nothing more. Okay?”

  Kruger nodded. “Yeah, sorry.”

  JR turned his attention back to the woods. “We’re all on edge. Don’t worry about it.”

  Neither man spoke as they watched Knoll and his men returning to their location. Before they arrived, Kruger’s phone vibrated again. He accepted the call. “Yeah, Preston. Did they find something?”

  “An ejected shell casing in the Mercedes front floorboard. It was a Makarov. I called the ballistics expert on the scene and he asked how I knew. I chuckled and said, ‘Superior police work.’ I won’t tell you what he said in return.”

  Kruger was silent. After a few seconds he said, “It’s circumstantial, but points toward Plymel as the shooter.”

  “Yes, it does.”

  “Okay, Preston. I’ll call you later.” The call ended and Kruger turned to JR. “You were right.”

  JR nodded, but said nothing.

  ***

  The small clearing was empty, except for Mia’s Ford Fusion. Weber could still hear voices west of his location, but they were farther away now. He stood in the shadows of the trees for several minutes. As far as he could tell, no one was guarding the car. Crouching low, he duck-walked to the driver’s side, peered into the car, and checked for the keys. They were still in the ignition. The rear passenger door was open, its window missing, and shattered glass was on the rear seat. Staying low and keeping the bulk of the car between him and the direction of the search team, he quickly went around and closed the open door.

  The small plastic hose used to pass exhaust fumes into the car was lying on the ground next to the car. He smiled grimly and returned to the driver’s side of the car. As quickly as possible, he opened the front door and slid in behind the wheel. The interior still smelled of exhaust fumes, so he kept the door open. He turned the key to check on the fuel level. Quarter of a tank; it was enough to get him out of here.

  He unconsciously took a deep breath as he turned the key farther. The car started without hesitation. He closed the door and placed the transmission into reverse. The smell of exhaust fumes was overpowering. After all the remaining windows were powered down, he breathed easier.

  The dirt path leading to the clearing was rutted and rarely used. When he originally drove the car to this spot, he gave little thought to backing it out again. The path was narrow and severely overgrown. But because the slope of the land was not severe, the car managed the climb with only slight difficulty. Halfway to the main service road was a wide section of open land. The clearing allowed him to do a K turn. Now driving forward, he headed toward Molly Avenue. At the intersection, Weber turned the car right toward the center of the compound and the northern exit.

  As soon as he was on Molly Avenue, he glanced in the rearview mirror and to his surprise saw two men running toward him. As they raised their MP5s to fire, he sped north through the main center of the compound. He ducked down just as the rear window of the car was blown out. Weber accelerated the Ford, as the road curved to the left and out of their field of vision.

  Diminski’s gray Camry was still parked at the north end of the compound. As Weber passed the car, he double-checked to make sure no one had returned to ambush his exit. Driving east, the car moved down the gravel road until it intersected with Stoops Lane Road. Weber briefly stopped the car as he determined the best route to take. Turning right would take him back toward the south. Without knowing exactly how many men were at the compound trying to catch him, turning left was his only option.

  ***

  Knoll emerged from the woods first. “We didn’t find him. Too much brush and too many places to hide. Joseph’s heading this way with the Stone County sheriff, six deputies, and a search dog.”

  Kruger shook his head. “He’s pretty resourceful and it’s going to be dark soon. If we don’t find him in the next fifteen minutes, he’ll be gone.”

  Just as Kruger finished his statement, they heard the faint sound of a car starting. With all the trees in the surrounding area, t
he direction of the sound was hard to pinpoint. Knoll said, “Shit, he’s using Mia’s car.” He turned to his men, pointed to the north. “The path the car’s on will intersects this road about a quarter of a mile north of here. See if you can cut him off.”

  Both men nodded and started running toward the top of Molly Avenue.

  Kruger looked to the east and shook his head. “Damn, we’ve lost him.”

  ***

  The road was paved but crooked. As the miles clicked by, Weber started breathing easier. It was dusk and so far no headlights appeared in his rearview mirror. With no idea of where he was or where the road would take him, he kept driving. Fifteen minutes after leaving the compound, Weber stopped when the road intersected Highway 60. Checking the rearview mirror one more time, he confirmed no one was following him. Turning north would take him back to Springfield. South would take him toward the Branson, Missouri, area. The area was thick with cheap hotels off the beaten path and lots of tourists. He smiled; it would be the perfect place to hide until he could contact Crigler. Turning the steering wheel to the right, he accelerated the car southward.

  ***

  The drive back to Springfield in JR’s Camry was quiet and uneventful. Kruger drove and JR sat in the passenger seat, staring out into the dark of night. Neither man had spoken since leaving the compound. As they passed a Springfield city limits sign, JR said, “It’s not over yet, is it?”

  Kruger shook his head. “No.”

  JR nodded and returned to staring out the passenger-door window. He remained quiet until they pulled into the Mercy Hospital parking lot. Kruger parked the car in a lot next to the emergency room. JR stepped out and said, more to himself than anyone, “God, please let her be alive.”

  Kruger showed his FBI credentials at the admittance desk, and they were quickly told where Mia was located. When they arrived, Stan was standing outside the curtain.