The Tracker

by Chad Zunker

  Maverick: Glad to see you’re still alive.

  TheDuke: Glad to confirm it. What do you got?

  Maverick: Found your license plate on the Escalade. Rental car. Hertz dealership, San Antonio International Airport. Jill Renee Becker. 124 DeKalb Avenue, Brooklyn, New York. Shooting over a copy of the signed contract to you now.

  The Escalade from the motel parking lot with the blonde woman driver. I opened the new message in my mailbox, found the relevant information on a signed and scanned document. There was also a copy of Jill Becker’s driver’s license. I studied the photo. It was definitely the same woman from the motel. I would never forget that face.

  Maverick: I also believe I found your mystery server. This look familiar?

  A logo showed up beneath his message. It was a cartoon pig skull and crossbones. I recognized it immediately. It was definitely the same logo that I saw on Rick’s laptop screen the other night in my motel room.

  TheDuke: Bingo!

  Maverick: It’s a server called AZA Golden Pig. Very small, very obscure. Out of Sweden.

  TheDuke: Do you know if Rick Jackson had an account?

  Maverick: Not yet. Too hard to tell with aliases and whatnot, but I was able to hack all messages that were sent through this server exchange at the exact time stamp you gave me. And I found this one that looked interesting to me: Download this immediately, hide it, don’t view it. Wait to hear from me. - RJ

  RJ. Rick Jackson? It had to be him. Rick had sent the video to someone specific. Who?

  Maverick: Best I can do without more time. They’ve got some serious security walls up at that place. Some of the best I’ve ever seen. Rivals anything the government or military has thrown up. It’s Fort Knox. Don’t get me wrong, I think I can get around it, but it might take me several more days. Might have to pull in some help. I’ll keep at it and let you know.

  TheDuke: Thank you.

  Maverick: Adios, amigo.

  I waited until Natalie was off the phone.

  “Tommy found the blonde. And more. Check it out.”

  She sat on the sofa with me, her elbow touching mine, and stared at the tablet and read my exchange with Tommy Kucher. She jotted all of the information down on her notepad. I did a quick search for the woman online. I found a few random mentions of Jill Becker in some fashion productions in and around New York City over the past few years. There was a picture on one fashion designer’s website for a show a year ago, where Jill Becker was an assistant director, and it definitely looked like the same woman. There was absolutely no mention of the death of Jill Becker on any news website anywhere. They had simply made her disappear.

  Natalie was back on the phone, calling a contact in New York City. She was a machine. I did more research, she worked the phone, made notes, and we both spun our investigative wheels for the next twenty minutes. Being in the same room with her was a comfort, just like old times. I needed the comfort right now. She dropped her phone on the coffee table, sat down next to me again on the sofa. We were shoulder to shoulder. I said it without even thinking.

  “I miss you, Natalie.”

  She closed her eyes, sighed. “Sam, please. Now is definitely not the time.”

  But I couldn’t stop. “Are you still with the doctor?”

  During our last encounter at the coffee shop, she made it a point to say that she was happy in her new relationship with some ER doctor at Sibley Memorial.

  She shook her head. “Don’t ask. There was a big hole in his story.” She paused. “A wife.”

  “Ouch. Sorry.” I wasn’t really sorry, of course. Inside, I was doing a happy dance.

  “No, you’re not, jerk, so don’t even pretend.”

  I smiled. I wouldn’t push it any further. For now. Staring down at her notepad, I said, “Do you think Congressman Mitchell or someone from his team could really be behind Jill Becker, that it was all a set up to get McCallister?”

  “Absolutely. It’s a tight race. They are down five points with only a few days to go. They needed a game changer. McCallister has all the momentum. It would take something dramatic to tilt the election back into their favor. You were in a perfect position as a legitimate tracker. And someone wanted you there.”

  “But why would McCallister take the bait so close to victory?”

  “I’m thinking there is more to this Jill Becker. Maybe she was not a random choice.”

  “Maybe. The question I keep asking myself is who would actually kill to cover this up? Who would hire trained professionals to kill Rick and Ted? And me?”

  “I don’t know. Desperate people do desperate things. I’ve worked in this city long enough to have seen some really bad stuff. Dark and despicable things. One thing I do know for sure: nothing, absolutely nothing, is beyond some people when they are seeking positions of true power or wealth. Or if they are trying to keep from losing them. There’s more to the story, clearly, and we have to go find it.”

  “Well, I hope we can do it quickly. I don’t think I can keep running and hiding for too much longer. I’m almost out of hair colors.”

  She took a peek over, smiled. “Yeah, the blonde has got to go. It’s not doing it for me.”

  “That makes two of us.”

  Natalie’s phone buzzed on the coffee table. She reached over, read a message, cursed out loud, which startled me.

  “What is it?” I asked.

  “It’s not good.”

  She flipped on the TV. It was already tuned to CNN. A live FBI press conference in Austin. An FBI special agent was reporting that one Samuel Callahan, 25, of Washington, DC, was also now the main suspect in a second death, that of Ted Bowerson. They had secured incriminating security video footage of Callahan inside Bowerson’s home, where they found Bowerson shot and killed. The screen cut away to news footage outside Bowerson’s home in Austin. FBI agents were moving about in the background. Callahan should be considered very dangerous, the agent explained. Several photos of me at various law school functions flashed on the screen, along with an FBI hotline for tips and information. The FBI agent urged the public to be on the lookout and to take precaution.

  The screen cut back to the news anchor. Natalie and I exchanged a heavy look.

  I closed my eyes, dropped my head back into the cushions.

  The hits just kept on coming. I needed an attorney.

  SAM CALLAHAN

  Age Twenty-Four

  Washington, DC

  David Benoltz taught my Federal Courts class. He was an acclaimed criminal defense attorney with his own firm in the heart of the nation’s capital. David had earned a hard-nosed reputation defending clients against serious criminal charges. He’d been a regular legal analyst on CNN and had tried some very public cases against the federal government. David was an engaging teacher with a lot of energy and passion. He’d taken a serious liking to me because I refused to kiss ass like the rest of my classmates. I asked real questions that were open and honest and often made me look stupid. He appreciated that. Everyone else was too busy posturing and trying to appear like they knew it all. I was there for the right reason: to learn how to be a damn good lawyer.

  David invited me out for a drink after a month of sitting in on his lectures. We sat in a wooden booth in the back of a bar. Four empty bottles of Guinness were already in front of us. David was in his early fifties with a dark goatee and round spectacles. He’d been divorced twice and had two grown kids my age. His boy was an actor out in LA. The girl was an assistant district attorney in Chicago. They’d both inherited his genes — one with his court room theatrics, the other with his passion for the law. David made no apologies that he lived and breathed the law and slept on the pullout leather sofa in his spacious office most nights of the week, even though he owned an expensive townhouse nearby.

  “What about you, Sam?” David asked. “Where are you from originally?”

  “Denver.”

  “Is that where your family is? How’d you end up in DC?”

  I thought
about it for a second. “I don’t have family. I grew up in foster care and on the streets. I got into a little trouble in my teens and after that I decided I wanted to make something of my life. Maybe help other kids growing up in the system. I went to undergrad in Colorado, did well enough, and then moved here for law school. That’s me in a nutshell. Nothing too exciting.”

  “I beg to differ,” David countered, a small smile crossing his face. “A car thief, huh?”

  I tilted my head. He’d checked me out. “Something like that.”

  “We’ll get to that later. I’d say you did more than well at CU. A perfect 4.0 all four years in a difficult major. Then you scored a near perfect 176 on the LSAT.”

  I shrugged. “I got lucky.”

  “No one gets that lucky, Sam. I studied like a madman and only squeezed out a 162. And I’m sharp as a whip. You obviously have the brains for this stuff.”

  I didn’t know what to say, so I just sipped my beer.

  David continued. “So tell me, how’d you survive all of those years? Your file says you skipped out on the foster system when you were only thirteen. That’s a long time to be on the streets as a teenager.”

  “What file?”

  “I may have dug around. One of my investigators even talked with one of your former street buddies. A guy I think you all called Casper?”

  I was surprised at the mention of that name. It was all surprising. Why was David investigating me?

  “Yeah, I know Casper. Been a lot of years. Where did you find him?”

  “Colorado State Penitentiary.”

  I wasn’t surprised. Casper wasn’t smart enough to stay out of jail.

  “Casper had some interesting things to say about you,” David said.

  “That kid always talked too much. Don’t believe half of it.”

  “Well, they were good things. He said you had a mind that worked differently than the rest of them. That you are wicked smart. He said that you could see things the others couldn’t and could get in and out of situations like some kind of ghost.”

  “A ghost wouldn’t have gotten caught stealing cars and spent three months in juvie.”

  “He said you only got caught because they squealed on you. Otherwise, you were untouchable.”

  “Well, not really something to brag about, you know? Those days are behind me.” My eyes narrowed. “Why are you creating a file on me?”

  “I want you to come work for me, Sam.”

  I was shocked at the offer. “Criminal law?”

  David shrugged. “All kinds of law. Look, I need a guy like you. Someone incredibly street smart, who can better understand the minds and actions of our clients. And who can handle himself in more threatening situations. I have enough guys who are good behind their desks, good at research, good at filing motions and pleas for me. What I need is a true fixer.”

  “What’s a fixer?”

  “Someone who knows the law really well, but who can handle themselves out in the field. A guy who’s not intimidated by anyone or any situation. A guy who can make arrangements with people and get the job done no matter what it takes.”

  “Are you talking about bending the law?”

  David shook his head. “No, of course not. But I am talking about butting right up against those boundaries.” David sipped his beer, studied me. “Sam, look, I know you’ve set yourself on this noble path to practice street law, helping the underprivileged. And I commend you on that. I’m not asking you to consider abandoning that pursuit. There’s plenty of room for that with my firm. There is no question we could stand to do a lot more pro bono work. But you’re clearly capable of so much more. You can do things other people can’t. And you don’t have to work at a street clinic and be a broke lawyer your whole life to do it.”

  “Money doesn’t motivate me.”

  He smiled. “I know. I think I like that the most about you. The fact that money doesn’t drive you makes you even more lethal. But it does take a lot of money to pay expensive medical bills, you know?”

  My mom’s situation was obviously in my file as well.

  “Okay, tell me more,” I said.

  “You’d work directly with me. I’d be the only one giving you your assignments. Your office would be right next to mine. We’d be joined at the hip.”

  “How much are we talking here, David? What’s the salary?”

  “I thought you didn’t care about money?”

  “I don’t.”

  He smiled, took a pen from inside his suit jacket, wrote some figures on a napkin, and slid it across to me. I didn’t touch it but glanced down. It was three times as much as the street clinic where I was already interning.

  “That’s not my final offer,” David added, “just a starting point for our discussion. We have clients all over the world, Sam. Fortunately for us, crime happens everywhere. You could travel the planet and see some cool places. All while still helping the people that matter the most to you.”

  I had to admit I was intrigued. I really liked David. I didn’t know what to say. The offer had come out of nowhere.

  “No pressure,” David reassured me. “Just be thinking about it, okay?”

  “Okay.”

  TWENTY-ONE

  Sunday, 2:46 p.m.

  Washington, DC

  1 day, 9 hours, 14 minutes to Election Day

  Natalie headed back to her office to better work her sources, so I took a moment to slip away. I needed to speak with David Benoltz. With the hurricane near Florida fizzling, the national media focus was squarely back on me and my impending capture. After all, it had now become a nationwide manhunt, and I was apparently on an all-out killing spree. This was a nightmare. I needed to start planning my escape route.

  Which was why I was now standing in the parking garage beside his shiny black Lexus sedan, waiting for him to come down from Benoltz & Associates’ high-rise offices near Union Station. I had the fake round glasses and the black knit cap on my head. I’d checked the schedule and knew that David was set to guest speak at a law school ceremony at 3pm that afternoon. It was fifteen to three at the moment. I fidgeted in the shadows, waiting, hoping David would not walk it today. Georgetown Law was only five blocks from his office, where he spent nearly every day and night of the week.

  Across the walkway, the elevator dinged. It had been dinging regularly every few minutes. Each time, I perked up, only to be disappointed. This time, two women in business suits exited together, heading in the opposite direction. Finally, I spotted who I hoped was going to be my criminal defense attorney. David wore a dark blue pin-striped suit and carried a black briefcase in his palm. He moved with steady focus across the parking garage to his designated spot.

  David was reaching down to his car door when I popped into view on the opposite side of the vehicle. He looked over, startled. I knew that he carried a handgun at times, even though it was illegal in DC. David had represented some shady characters over the years. There were men in jail who despised David. Men with angry brothers and uncles and nephews. He’d had various threats on his life. He’d even been shot at once outside of his home two years ago, one shot of which caught him in the thigh. That story was not part of his perfectly crafted recruiting pitch to me. It was only shared when he’d had a few too many bottles of his favorite Guinness after taking me to a Georgetown Hoyas basketball game last spring. He said it came with the territory, and he seemed proud of it.

  It took him a couple seconds to recognize me beneath my ridiculous guise.

  “Sam?” he said, incredulous. “What the hell?”

  “I need an attorney, David.”

  He nodded. “Yes, you do, son. Get in the car.”

  David made a call, canceled his speaking engagement, told me to keep my mouth shut for the duration of the car ride. I rode in silence for nearly fifteen awkward minutes as he drove north of the city before finally pulling off down a series of long gravel roads in a heavily industrialized area. We eventually entered the dirty gates of a mass
ive auto salvage junk yard. A huge machine nearby was crushing old vehicles like metal pancakes as black smoke puffed into the air. A huge forklift was moving smashed up cars around the property. David parked the Lexus behind a pile of metal and steel in the back of the property, indicated with a nod of the head for me to get out. We circled around to the rear of the car. It was no longer raining but a mist still hung in the air. There were puddles of mud everywhere at the junkyard. It smelled like burnt rubber and oil. I wondered how many client meetings David had here. He knew exactly where he wanted to go to have this talk with me.

  “Sorry for that car ride, Sam. We need a safe place to talk. I’m on a big case right now, a lot of shady players, both government and corporate, a whole helluva lot of heat,” David explained. “There are espionage charges involved. My security guy is certain my car is bugged. But we’re not sure by which side just yet, the Feds or my own client. So I’m being extra cautious. Hope I didn’t freak you out.”

  “No, I actually appreciate the extra caution.”

  “Yeah, I bet you do, son. It looks like you got your nuts caught in a serious vice grip right now.”

  “You could say that.”

  “Not exactly the way I wanted my future star associate to start out his budding career. You want to tell me what happened?”

  I did. From start to finish, in between the crushing of metal and glass nearby.

  “You really think they took your mom, Sam?” David asked.

  “Yes.”

  “Damn.” David shook his head. “I gotta say, that’s one helluva story.”