The Sean Kruger Series Complete Boxed Set

by J. C. Fields

  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 threatened 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.

  “He used to work for a company Mr. Plymel bought. He was let go. At least that’s what Mr. Plymel told his guests. I left right after that. I didn’t hear any more of the conversation.”

  “Where did you pick him up at?”

  “Right outside his apartment. Franklin escorted him to the Suburban. I was the driver. They called when they were done with the meeting. I had the Suburban parked at the curb waiting for them. I saw Franklin push him out of the elevator toward the front door. Just as they got to the door, the guy shot Franklin and messed up Harvey’s knee.”

  “What was the plan when they got him back into the Suburban?”

  Lekas shrugged. He hesitated for a few moments then said, “Not sure. I wasn’t told.”

  “You can guess, Ron. What was the plan?”

  The driver remained silent.

  “Were your orders to kill him and get rid of the body?”

  Lekas shrugged. “I wasn’t told.”

  Kruger sat back in his chair. “So, he might have been defending himself, is that possible?”

  Lekas nodded. “Yeah, I’d say so.”

  Alvarez said, “Has anything like this happened before with Plymel?”

  Shrugging, Lekas said, “Not that I’ve seen, but I’m usually the day driver. I’ve heard stories. You know, from the other driver. He talks about picking up investors and women.” Lekas stared at his now-empty beer. “These rich guys get all the pussy.”

  Kruger stared at Lekas. This opened up the investigation into something entirely different. They needed to find the fugitive and talk to him.

  Alvarez’s cell phone chirped. He stood, walked toward the back of the bar, and answered it. Kruger looked at Lekas and said, “Thank you for talking to us. We’ll remember your cooperation.”

  Lekas put his head in his hands and said, “Ahh, jeez man. Don’t get me involved.”

  “We’ll try not to.”

  Alvarez hurried back to the table and said, “One of our guys found a cabbie who says he recognized the guy. You wanta meet him?”

  Kruger stood and threw a twenty-dollar bill on the table. “Have another beer or two on us.” Then he walked out of the bar, following Alvarez.

  ***

  Two uniformed cops were talking to the taxi driver when Kruger and Alvarez arrived at the cab company. Having just finished his day shift, he was not pleased about the delay in going home. He was a short man, five foot seven or less, with a full black beard, dark complexion, and dark brown eyes. He was sitting at a table in the break room, drinking a bottle of water and smelled of curry and sweat. Alvarez spoke to the officers; they nodded and stood back a few steps. Kruger showed him a picture. “Tell me about this man.”

  The cab driver looked at the picture and in broken English said, “I dropped him off at Newark International. He gave me a hundred-dollar bill, told me he would give me another one if I got him there by one o’clock. I did. He gave me another hundred. He ran into the airport. I drove off. End of story. Can I go home now?”

  Kruger looked at Alvarez, who said, “I’m on it. I’ll have someone get the security tapes.”

  Returning his attention to the cab driver, Kruger said, “Where did you pick him up?”

  “Library at Thirty-Fourth and Madison.”

  “What did he say to you during the ride?”

  Shaking his head, the cab driver said, “Nothing. He only spoke about the money.”

  “Did he have any luggage?”

  “No. Just backpack.”

  Kruger smiled and said, “Thank you, sir. I appreciate your cooperation.” He walked away toward where Alvarez was talking on his cell phone and waited for him to finish. After the call ended, Kruger said, “What?”

  Alvarez shook his head. “It’s New Jersey, for gawd sake. We have to get a freaking warrant.”

  Kruger smiled. “Let me handle it.”

  ***

  Charlie Craft was a twenty-seven-year-old, pencil-thin forensic technician with the FBI. Years of slouching over a computer screen had given him a slightly stooped posture. He wore black square glasses, his only fashion statement. Clothes were a necessity, but not a priority. He owned a half-dozen khaki Dockers, which made it easy to decide which pair to wear with one of a dozen black or navy polo shirts. A pair of black Converse tennis shoes complemented the Dockers on a daily basis. Meeting Charlie on the street would be a non-event and quickly forgotten. But he was an expert forensic technician and wizard with digital media, including computers. Sean Kruger liked him; therefore, Charlie had prospered within the FBI.

  The next day, Charlie took an early-morning flight from Washington DC to Newark Liberty International, where Kruger and Detective Alvarez met him. As he walked up to Kruger, Charlie handed him an envelope. “I believe this is what you wanted, Sean.”

  Kruger smiled, looked at the federal search warrant, and said, “Perfect. Charlie Craft, meet NYPD Detective Preston Alvarez. He’s our local contact on this little endeavor.”

  Craft and Alvarez shook hands and they all started walking toward the airport security office. Charlie said, “What are we looking for, Sean? You were a little cryptic when you called.”

  “We’re looking for a fugitive. We need you to search the security tapes. Hopefully, you can determine which flight he took. Once we know where he went, we can start the manhunt in earnest.”

  “Huh…” He paused, blinked a couple of tim
es and said, “That’s going to take a while.”

  ***

  Harvey Ramirez was still in the recovery room after his second operation to repair his badly injured knee when Kruger and Alvarez arrived at the hospital. While Alvarez checked in with the two uniforms guarding the man, Kruger asked a nurse at the nurse’s station if he could speak to the attending surgeon. Ten minutes later, the doctor was shaking Kruger’s hand.

  “How bad was the injury, Doctor?”

  Doctor Kendra Rivera, was as tall as Kruger, slender, dark brown hair pulled back in a tight ponytail, rimless glasses sitting in front of hazel eyes on a slightly up-turned nose. She was attractive, but her demeanor distracted from her appearance. “In my judgment, it’s permanent. He’ll likely have a stiff leg the rest of his life. Why do you care Agent Kruger?”

  Kruger smiled slightly. “I really don’t, but I need to talk to him. How long before that’s possible.”

  She stared at him for a few moments. “Not today, maybe not tomorrow.”

  “I really don’t have that kind of time, Doctor. Can you give him something to wake him up?”

  She frowned. “Absolutely not.”

  “The man has information I need…”

  “Not at the expense of his well-being, Agent.”

  Kruger leaned in closer to the Doctor, who did not give up any space. “Doctor, there is a fugitive out there who has already killed one man and severely injured your patient. My concern is for the public well-being. I need Ramirez awake.”

  She glared at him for a long time. Finally her face relaxed. “Very well, follow me.”

  Kruger and Alvarez stood next to the bed containing the groggy Harvey Ramirez. Doctor Rivera stood on the other side, arms crossed over her chest. Ramirez was larger than Kruger realized. He was at least six foot six and weighed close to two seventy five, all muscle.

  The wounded man was blinking his eyes and struggling to gain consciousness. Kruger looked at the doctor, who nodded. Kruger said, “Harvey, tell me about the man who did this to you.”

  Ramirez focused on Kruger and shook his head.

  “Harvey, I’m an agent with the FBI, I’m trying to find this guy. Can you help me?”

  In a voice barely above a whisper, Ramirez said, “Not a chance. Go away.”

  Kruger looked at Alvarez, “See what you can get out of him. I’m going to check with Charlie.” He walked out of the room and was followed by the doctor.

  As Kruger walked down the hall the doctor caught up and said, “I tried to warn you, it will probably be a few days before he’s cognizant enough to really answer your questions.”

  Kruger stopped and looked at her. “I had to try. In a few more days, the fugitive will be long gone and my chances of finding him will be nil.”

  She nodded. “You don’t sound like you’re from this part of the country.”

  Kruger shook his head. “I’m based out of Kansas City.”

  “Do you spend much time in New York City?”

  He shook his head.

  She smiled, turned to walk back to Ramirez’s room and said, “Shame.”

  ***

  Kruger’s cell phone vibrated as he got a cup of coffee in the hospital cafeteria. He said, “Kruger.”

  “Sean, it’s Charlie. You’re not going to like what I’ve found.”

  “What?”

  “You need to see this. How quickly can you get back here?”

  “One hour.”

  When Kruger was back at the airport, minus Alvarez, he sat next to Charlie at a security monitor. Charlie pointed to a figure entering the airport. “Here’s the cab you told me about. See the license? It matches.” Kruger nodded and Charlie continued, “We see him enter the airport on this camera.” He pecked at a keyboard and another camera angle popped up. “Here we see him stop once he’s inside. He watches as the cab drives away. He looks around, finds what he’s looking for, and walks into a trinkets-and-trash store. At first, I didn’t see him come out. But after a closer look, I found him.” He pointed to a man with a ball cap, a dark windbreaker, and sunglasses. The man’s head was down as he walked. Charlie said, “Ten minutes after our suspect goes in, this guy comes out of the shop.”

  Kruger said, “Same guy?”

  Charlie nodded. “Same backpack. That’s how I identified him. Now, watch as he takes the escalator down to baggage claim and transportation.” More typing on the keyboard and the view changed again. “Here he’s coming down the escalator. He doesn’t pause and look around after he gets off, like most people. He goes straight outside to the taxi queue.” He typed on the keyboard again and pointed to the screen. “There he is, getting into a cab. He didn’t take another flight, he left the airport.”

  Kruger stared at the video monitor and was silent for a few moments. Finally he said, “Damn. We may have lost him.”

  Charlie nodded. “That’s a strong possibility.”

  “Why would you pay two hundred dollars to a taxi driver to get you to the airport if you weren’t late for a flight?”

  “Maybe hundreds were all he had.”

  Kruger shook his head. “No, there’s something else.”

  “The cabbie remembered him because of it.”

  “Charlie, that’s why I like working with you. Exactly, he wanted the cabbie to remember him. See if you can identify this new taxi. If you can, we’ll go talk to the cab company.”

  Charlie handed Kruger a piece of paper. “Already did. Let’s go.”

  ***

  The cab company had records of where the taxi Charlie identified had dropped off the passenger. The Westminster Hotel in Livingston, New Jersey, a twenty-minute ride from Newark Liberty International Airport.

  At the hotel, Kruger identified himself as an agent with the FBI and asked for the manager. She was a short, overweight lady in her late-fifties with unnaturally black hair. She looked at the picture and name Kruger gave her. She went to one of the computers at the front desk and typed. “No, no one by that name ever registered. We still have the security disk for that day. You’re more than welcome to review it.”

  Fifteen minutes later, Charlie found what they needed. “There he is, Sean, getting out of the cab. Once again, he watches the cab drive away and starts walking west. He never even came in the door.”

  “We’ve lost him, haven’t we?”

  Charlie looked up at Kruger. “I’m afraid so. There no telling where he went.”

  “Okay, it’s time to go back to basics. The NYPD searched his apartment, but you haven’t. Let’s get over there and see if you can find something they missed.”

  Chapter 7

  Springfield, MO

  JR Diminski handed Senior Vice President Brian Quest a three-page report. It had been a week since Diminski convinced Quest he needed a security audit of his banking systems. Quest gave it a quick glance, expecting to find a clean report. He stopped halfway down the second page and returned to the first page. This time, he read more carefully. He read the memo two more times. He laid it down on this desk, took his glasses off, and shut his eyes. Squeezing the bridge of his nose with his right thumb and forefinger, he said, “How hard was it to find?”

  “Not very. I’m surprised you haven’t had a lot of complaints from your customers.”

  Quest’s eyes were weary and it looked like he hadn’t slept in a couple of days. “My team can’t find it. We knew we had a problem, but knowing and correcting are two different issues. Can you fix it?”

  “How much has the bank lost so far?”

  “About a hundred thou…” He caught himself. “The amount is not for publication. The bank has covered all the losses, not one customer has lost a penny.”

  Diminski nodded. “FDIC. Do they know about the security breach?”

  “No, it would raise our rates. Can you fix it?”

  He nodded. “Yes, I can.”

  Quest stared at the report, then at his computer screen. “Draw up a contract. I’ll take it to the president for his signature. Can
you start tonight after the bank closes?”

  Diminski reached into his computer bag, withdrew a prepared contract spelling out his obligations to the bank and the bank’s obligation to him. Standing, he handed the contract to Quest. “I’ll be here at six.”

  Three days later, a smiling Brian Quest handed Diminski a check. “I’ve been authorize by the board to offer you a long-term retainer.”

  Diminski raised his eyebrows. “Why?”

  “The holding company that owns the bank wants to be able to request your services and receive immediate attention.”

  “Are there other banks with similar problems, Brian?”

  Chuckling, Quest nodded. “The same company designed the systems for most of the banks within our network, JR.” He smiled, his eyes looked rested. “They want you to do a complete audit of our online security structure.”

  Diminski smiled. “Sounds like something I would enjoy. Tell them I accept.”

  After all the paperwork was signed, Quest said, “I’ve been meaning to ask you, what does JR stand for? Are you a junior?

  Hesitating for just a moment. “It stands for J and R. My parents never told me why they named me that way; they died when I was young.”

  His parents had died when he was young, but the name had really come from a gravestone he had found in a large cemetery in the northern part of town. The child had died within a month of its birth, but the birthdate was the same as his: same year, same day. The child’s name was John Robert Diminski. After several days of manipulating databases in New York and Missouri, Diminski had a new identity. There was now a credit history, New York driver’s license, Social Security card, and birth certificate for a person called JR Diminski. His former identity had been permanently erased; no public records remained, except behind a very secure firewall at the Pentagon. A firewall even he couldn’t get past.