Which also meant she might very well have followed me home to Evanston.
A cold chill shuddered up my spine.
She knew where and she knew who.
The race was on.
41
Nivea Young didn't fly. Airline databases were too easily accessed by the FBI, and she knew this. So she rented a car with a bogus credit card and lied about her destination. "Tampa Bay, Florida," she told the rental agency clerk and handed over her bogus driver's license. After she had secured the car and was out of sight of the rental agency, she headed west on the interstate for Illinois. There was plenty of food inside the car with her, as well as a thermos of coffee and a gallon jug of water. She started out on Interstate 270, connected with I70, then decided to take the southern route because it made the least sense if they did come looking in this direction.
If they even figured out who she was and where she was going. She guessed they would not.
She turned onto Interstate 65-70 and eight hours later was in Columbus, where she pulled into a truck stop and ordered the Truckers' Special breakfast. When she finished, she walked out to the parking lots where dozens and dozens of trucks were parked, idling, while their drivers ate and then slept. But she had a mission there, so she began knocking lightly on driver's windows and, as sleepy heads rolled down windows and gruffly asked what she wanted, she would explain what she needed and how much she was willing to pay.
"I'm looking to purchase a semiautomatic pistol in either nine millimeter or forty caliber. I have two thousand dollars to spend on one."
At first, the truckers were angry to be disturbed from their sleep. But when they heard "two-thousand" most became sweetly reasonable.
"No, but I've got an extra three-fifty-seven if that does the trick for you," said the driver of the second rig.
"Won't do it. I need a semiautomatic for magazine swapping."
"Got it. Then I can't help."
But she struck gold in the second row of trucks where, inside a Freightliner, she watched the driver roll out of the sleeper and put the window down.
"What?"
"I need a semiautomatic pistol, nine mil or forty cal."
"I've got an extra forty. How much you got?"
"Two thousand cash right now."
"Sold!"
He opened the console and pulled out a pistol held inside an IWB holster.
She passed the man her cash, and he passed her the pistol. "Got a second magazine with it, too. Wait one."
He went back to rummaging in the console then pulled out a second, loaded, magazine in .40 caliber.
"This do?" he said with a rough smile.
"Perfect," she said.
"The second mag is two hundred."
Acting reluctant, she fished out another two hundred dollars from her jeans pocket. "This is too much for one magazine," she told the seller.
"You'll make it back after you knock off a few 7-Elevens."
"Forget that."
"You're after a bank, maybe?"
"Forget that."
"All right. Good luck. I'm headed back into my sleeper. You don't want to join me for an hour or so do you?"
He was leering now.
"Have a safe sleep," she said making a finger pistol and pointing it at his forehead. "Bang," she said softly.
"Get out," he said and rolled up the window.
She found her rental and slid back into the driver's seat.
Now she was armed.
And dangerous. She didn't have to buy dangerous from anyone.
She came that way.
42
Before the day was over, I had flexed the muscle of my office. Now the FBI, the Special Operations Group of the U.S. Marshals Service, and the Metropolitan Police were formulating a search and arrest net for Nivea Young. Jack Ames had the FBI lead; Ronald Holt had MPD, and Rusty Xiang became my liaison with the Marshals Service. Ames knew there was always the possibility that Young was hitchhiking to Chicago to avoid any form of registration at an airline or car rental outlet or train. If it were him, he decided, that's what he would be doing. The FBI task force began scanning databases of car rentals, airlines, trains, and any other form of transportation that might produce a result. Another group of agents from the team contacted State Police authorities in many of the states she would have to pass through and had them setup roadblocks and examine vehicles one-by-one. It was a massive manhunt underway before the first day was over; if she were out there moving toward Chicago, the agents believed they would turn her up.
At the other end of the trip was Evanston, Illinois, my home. Federal marshals hardened the perimeter defense around my house and neighborhood. I knew they had an uncanny ability to blend in and leave the impression the route to the house was completely unguarded. If she walked into their setup, she would be taken down in a surprising show of force erupting from seemingly nowhere.
Then I had done all I could about the security risk posed by Nivea Young. When the dust had settled Nivea Young was a key witness in a federal murder case, and that was enough to activate all the services I had reached out to. Now it was time to turn my attention to the money sequestered in Moscow, Russia.
I called the bank number from the Internet, got passed around until an English-speaker came online, a man named Leonid, and he asked me how he could help.
"I have an account in Russia, and I want to transfer the money to the United States."
After the bank's previous resistance to my request to move the money, I was all but floored by this agent's response.
"Have you considered a wire transfer? That's your easiest way to transfer funds."
"Can you help me?"
"Of course. Give me your name, routing and account number, and your receiving bank information."
"That's just it. The money is in the name of Gerald Tybaum. I have a power of attorney giving me control."
"That should pose no problems. Can you email me a certified copy of the power?"
I did as we were speaking. Leonid read it over.
"This looks above-board. I'm going to put in the file and mark it accepted."
"Just like that?"
"Of course just like that. We're a bank, Mr. Gresham. We have only distant ties to the Russian government and then only because we have a Kremlin charter."
"When can you get the funds to me?"
"I'm filling out the wire transfer as we speak. Wait thirty minutes then check your account."
We hung up, and I resisted checking my account balance for the full thirty minutes. Then I looked. My account now showed a balance of twelve-million dollars. Twelve to Annie and twenty-four grand of my own. Not bad for thirty-five minutes of work.
Annie was set. Her account was at my bank. I made a transfer between accounts at the same bank and her balance suddenly shot up to twelve-million dollars and change, and my own plummeted to twenty-four-thousand.
Annie had her money, and I was free of that responsibility to her.
All in all, a great afternoon.
43
"FBI located her on truck-stop closed circuit TV," Holt told me by phone. He was calling my room in the middle of the night from somewhere between Washington and the truck stop. "I'm headed to Columbus now."
"Columbus?"
"That's where she walked into the truck stop and got made by the FBI."
"Hats off to Jack Ames," I told Holt. "Tell him he's won my heart."
"He already knows that, Michael. He's the FBI, for God's sake."
"So she's headed for my home. How did she figure out where we had Annie stashed?"
"I think we've got a leak."
"Where is it? Only you, me, Ames and the U.S. Marshals Special Operations Group know where she went."
"Maybe someone in Special Operations. Maybe a pilot or co-pilot with a flight manifest. Or a clerk with the U.S. Marshals who has access to the manifest. There're lots of people who might know where we've got her."
"True, although I hate it."
"Or maybe she's just that smart that she did the calculus of where you'd stash the kid and decided you'd choose Evanston. There are enough smart bad people to balance-out the dumb bad people."
"I'm afraid that's true," I said. While I was speaking with Detective Holt, my mind was already headed for Evanston and the protection of my family. And Annie. Maybe it had been a terrible idea to take her there. In fact, it probably was a terrible idea because now my kids were at risk. I started kicking myself that night and couldn't get back to sleep.
Around four a.m. I finally got up out of bed and made coffee. I reminded myself that my family--and Annie--were fully protected by heavily armed federal agents, state police, and Evanston PD. There was no way Nivea would get through that.
"You're whistling past the graveyard," I finally had to admit. "You've screwed the pooch this time. Terrible plan, Gresham."
At six o'clock I couldn't wait any longer. I dialed Verona and waited.
"Hello, Michael," she said on the second ring.
"You know my number," I said.
"It's early, Michael. What's up?"
"Are you all okay?"
"Of course we are. We can hardly get in and out of the house to get to school or go shopping there are so many policemen around. There are guns everywhere, coffee thermoses, requests to come inside and use the bathroom. It never stops."
"That relieves my mind. I'm calling because I'm distraught. They've got a world-class killer headed your way, and I'm horrified I've put you all in jeopardy,"
"Nonsense, a prosecutor's family is already in jeopardy. Bad people don't care who they hurt."
"That's one way of looking at it."
"Look, Annie isn't talking. Hasn't said one word since she got here. Can I get her and see if she'll talk to you?"
"Of course. I'll wait."
Five minutes later, I could hear a stirring on the other end of the line, then hear Verona's voice calling into the phone, "Say hello, Michael."
"Hello, Annie, this is Michael. Is that you?"
"Yes. Where are you? I miss you."
"I'm in Washington. I'll be coming to see you before much longer."
"I don't like it here. I want to be with you, Michael."
"Well, what about being with your aunt in California? How does that sound to you?”
"I don't know her. I know you lots better."
"We'll have to talk about that. Now, tell me what you've been up to, please."
"The WI-FI is adequate here. I can get on my computer and not look up until bedtime."
"What about my kids, Dania and Mikey? Do you play with them at all?"
"I don't like kids, Michael."
"That's okay. There's no rule you should."
Long pause. Then, "That's one thing I like about you, Michael. You don't let all the stupid social rules run your life. I don't either, in case you haven't noticed."
"Believe me, Annie, I have noticed."
"Who are we worried about this morning? I can hear it in your voice someone is coming to kill me."
"Her name is Nivea Young. She's a hired gun."
"Hired by who?"
"Guy named Paul Wexler."
"Oh, him."
"What do you mean, 'oh him'?"
"My father talked about him a lot. He hated my father."
"I think that's right. There was no love lost by your dad, either. It was mutual."
"So I'll get online and do what I can with this Nivea Young and Paul Wexler. Do you have a number where I can call you?"
I was astounded. Annie had never talked so much or even hinted she liked me or would do something like get entangled enough to call me up. But I gave her my cell phone number, and she immediately committed it to that massive memory bank in her head.
"All right, Michael. What other questions do you have about the cases?"
I decided to go for it. My decision was based on nothing but her past ability to help me.
"Vice President Jonathan Vengrow. Can you look into any connection he might have with Rudy, Wexler, or Nivea Young?"
"We've talked about this before. Vengrow is very involved, Michael."
"Now I need you to come up with connections that I'll try to trace back to him."
"Of course. Like I said, I'll call you."
We left it at that, and I hung up without speaking again to Verona.
In one way I felt much better, but in another, I was more frightened for my family and Annie than ever. I began making plans to go to Evanston.
This case had outgrown its Washington DC playpen.
It was time.
44
When she reached Indianapolis, Nivea turned off the interstate and began driving the back roads. It was all part of the plan she had been conceptualizing to lose any pursuers. Not a trace of her after Indianapolis, where she pulled into the first Exxon-Mobil and topped off her tank. Then at Lafayette, she changed her mind and pulled into a huge truck stop. She parked the rental at the far end of the endless rows of massive eighteen-wheelers idling and coming and going. Then she again began knocking on windows.
"Hi," she said to the first trucker to roll down his window. He was a good old boy wearing baggy jeans, red suspenders, a too-small flannel shirt tight around the middle and a year's growth of unruly whiskers. He was just shifting into first gear when she knocked, but he paused for her anyway.
"Hello," he said. "I'm not looking to get laid if that's what you're selling."
"Naw, I'm looking for a ride to Chicago. I'm looking for a good buddy who wants to earn a thousand bucks by taking me along on a straight-through to Chi-Town."
"Show me the money."
She passed him ten one-hundred-dollar bills.
"Go around and climb in. It's unlocked."
And just like that, she began the last leg of her trip to Chicago. Up Interstate 65 they went to Gary, Indiana, where they hit Interstate 90 and jogged west then north toward their destination.
On arriving in Chicago, they continued north a few miles until they reached Skokie. The driver pulled into a Wal-Mart lot and stopped.
"Time for you to hop out, sugar."
"Would you take another thousand to lie to anyone about ever seeing me? Would you lie and tell them I was never seen anyplace along your route?"
"Pass me the money. Let's count it."
Again Nivea counted ten one-hundred-dollar bills into the driver's hand. As she counted his head nodding became more and more pronounced, and she knew she had just bought his silence.
Then, out of the cab and walking away, done with the long part. But now began the difficult part, getting up to Evanston without being discovered.
Back out to the road, she trudged in the slushy snow. Across the four lanes and down a half-mile stood a Jadon's Restaurant, Chicago's answer to the mid-priced restaurant crowd of diners. She ran across the road when the traffic let up and checked her watch. Five a.m. Then she began hiking a quarter-mile to the friendly, glowing restaurant sign.
As she had guessed there would be, several motorcycles were parked in front. Good riders, she thought, capable of negotiating a film of snow on the main roads that would come and go throughout the night. In the daytime, the rime would melt away, and normal driving speeds would be attained. She counted: four bikes. So she was looking for four men wearing leather.
Sure enough, inside the doors seated in the second booth on her left with four bikers in black leather and a passenger wearing red leather. Nivea sidled up to the table and waited patiently until the topic being discussed was abandoned. Now they were all looking at her. "What?" said a middle-aged man with long stringy hair and a mouthful of gold. "Are you looking for us?"
She smiled. "I'm looking for a ride up to Evanston on back roads. I have one-thousand dollars to pay for the ticket."
"Two thousand," said the same man. "Two thousand and I'll get you up to Evanston by way of Iowa if that's what you need."
"No, just back roads will do."
She began
counting out yet another sheaf of hundred-dollar bills. At twenty, she stopped and looked up. "We good?"
The man held out his hand, and she paid him. "Let me finish my coffee," he said.
"I'll be out by the bikes," she replied and nodded graciously before turning and walking back outside.
Two-and-a-half hours later they pulled into Evanston on a side road, found the inner highway and the driver dropped Nivea at the portico of a Red Roof Inn. Without a word to her driver, she hurried inside and paid for a room.
Upstairs, her tiny backpack's contents arranged on the bed, she took inventory. There was a KBAR knife, PlastiCuffs, pepper spray, and throwing darts. Plus, there was the gun. But, she decided, the caliber was too small if she were shooting at armored law enforcement officers. So she decided to re-group and add to her armaments.
At nine o'clock that morning she called a cab and rode to North County Pawn. She climbed out and asked the driver to wait and slipped him a hundred-dollar bill. He nodded and said he'd be there, no hurry.
Inside the pawn shop, Nivea went back to the glassed-in showcase module, where she could view the guns.
None of them leaped out at her. Most were six-shot revolvers, most of those being .38 caliber, a worthless gun for what she had in mind. A man approached from behind the bulletproof glass and slid open a window.
"Help you?'
"I need a semi with at least a fourteen-round magazine. Best is .40 caliber."
"No such thing on our shelves," the man said with a sweep of his eyes along the display case. Let me go inside the office and speak to the owner."
"I'll wait."
Several minutes later, he returned. He was carrying a gun-sized box with blue sides and a white top.
"Here's what you need," he said and opened the book. He removed a fat gun and placed it in Nivea's hand,
"Nice," she said, swinging up the firearm and sighting along its barrel. Forty-five ACP. It holds fourteen in the magazine. How much?"
Annie's Verdict (Michael Gresham Legal Thrillers Book 6) Page 21
