by J. C. Fields
Since arriving in Springfield, his residence had been a hotel on the south side of town. The contract with the banking group was going to increase his workload, creating a need for more space and something more permanent. It was time to find an apartment.
After several phone calls, he stood in a two-bedroom unit four blocks from his hotel. The building manager stood behind him and said, “How about this one?”
Diminski said, “I need at least twenty megabits-per-second internet speed.”
The manager, a bald, short man with a round belly hanging over his belt, sighed. “We offer free cable, but you can get whatever service you want, you just have to pay extra.”
Diminski nodded. “How much?”
“The internet service?”
“No, the apartment.”
“Oh, seven-fifty a month, with a two-hundred-dollar, nonrefundable security deposit.”
Diminski smiled. His apartment rent in New York City was three times that amount and only had one bedroom. “I’ll take it.”
“I have to run a background check. Once I know you’re not a pervert, you can move in.”
Diminski turned around, removed his wallet from his left front pants’ pocket and extracted twenty one-hundred-dollar bills. “There’s two-thousand dollars, my first two months’ rent, security deposit, and a little extra for you, if you let me move in today.”
The man stared at the money and moistened his lips with his tongue. He looked up at Diminski and then back at the money. Finally, he said, “Follow me to the office; I need you to sign a lease agreement.”
The first real test of his new identity came next: applying for a Missouri driver’s license. An independent contractor operated the Missouri Department of Revenue offices, usually staffing them with low-wage clerks. Diminski picked a day when he knew the office would be busy and the staff would be trying to push as many people through the system as possible. After standing in line for forty minutes, he was motioned forward by a young, stocky woman with spiked purple hair. As he approached her desk, she stared at him with a blank expression.
After handing his paperwork to her, she glanced at it and started typing on her keyboard. She frowned at the computer screen, turned to him, and said, “I have to have a name. The computer won’t take initials.”
He smiled and said, “My name is JR.”
She stared at him without emotion. “But the system has to have a name. It’s not allowing J period, R period.”
“That’s not my name; it’s simply JR, no periods, just the letters.”
She once again stared at the computer, then back at him. Finally she shrugged and typed in the letters without the periods. “Huh, it took it.” As she continued typing, she said, “Weird. Who’d name their kid JR?”
Barely able to keep from laughing, Diminski said, “My parents.”
She stopped typing, stared at him with her blank expression, and shrugged again.
Fifteen minutes later, he walked out of the office with a brand-new driver’s license issued by the state of Missouri. His confidence in his new identity was growing stronger every day.
It had been three weeks since the incident in New York City. Diminski’s old identity had been erased. His new identity had passed government scrutiny, and he had a contract with a bank holding company for the next six months. With the signing of the lease for his apartment, a feeling of stability was returning to his life. If no one found him in the next few weeks, he felt he had a good chance of permanently disappearing. This thought made him smile.
Chapter 8
New York City
Alton Crigler opened the door to Abel Plymel’s office and noticed he was on the phone. Plymel sat in his desk chair, his back to the door, facing the window. Crigler shut the door quietly, walked to the leather sofa against the wall, and sat down. He unbuttoned his dark-gray Brooks Brothers suit coat, crossed his legs, and cleared his throat loud enough for Plymel to hear.
Plymel looked over his shoulder and saw Alton sitting. He nodded ever so slightly and said into the phone, “I have to go. Something just came up.”
He turned around, faced Crigler, and placed the phone back in its cradle. “How long have you been sitting there?”
“Just walked in. The FBI has assigned one of their top agents to this incident. I tried to stop it, but I have little control over the internal politics of the FBI.”
“Bullshit. You’re still tight with the director.”
Crigler shook his head. “Not anymore. He won’t even take my calls.”
“Then what do you want me to do?”
“I personally don’t care what you do. But the board is unhappy with this.” He hesitated for a second. “Embarrassment in the front lobby. They are concerned because we do not need any negative publicity right now. The current administration is looking for reasons to put their thumb down on private equity companies, and this incident will only help fuel their obsession.”
“You’re the goddamn liaison with Congress. Talk to your contacts. Take them to lunch and spread more money around. Every single one of them has a PAC you can pour money into.” He paused and sat back in his chair. “Hell, our activities increase the goddamn GNP.”
Crigler chuckled. “You’re talking like a true Wall Street insider. You have no idea of how Main Street views our industry. Do you?” Crigler shook his head. “It takes enormous amounts of cash from this company and our fellow private equity brethren to keep Congress, the Justice Department, and the SEC out of our little sandbox. So like I said, get this episode behind you. Get it resolved before the FBI finds out exactly what happened.”
Plymel’s face grew red. He jumped out of his chair and leaned across the desk. Pointing a finger at Crigler, he said, “Keep those moronic senators and the FBI off my back. That’s why you’re here enjoying the twilight of your career. You’re the one who’s supposed to take care of problems like this. I will not be lectured to by a semi-literate Senate Finance Committee chairman from Tennessee ever again…”
Crigler raised his left hand with the palm toward Plymel. “Spare me your platitudes. Say a mantra and shut up, Abel. Your temper will cause you to have a heart attack or a stroke, probably both.”
Plymel’s jaw clinched tight. He took a deep breath. His temper was flaring more lately and not dissipating as fast as it had in the past. Secretly, he was worried. His blood pressure was high, and he wasn’t sleeping well. Not that he had ever slept more than five or six hours a night. But now it was down to three hours or less. The presence of a headache reached his awareness. He walked to an armoire on the opposite wall from Crigler. He opened the doors, revealing a fully stocked bar. Grabbing a glass, he poured two fingers of twelve-year-old Glenfiddich. He turned to Crigler. “Want one?”
Crigler shook his head with disgust. He glanced at his watch. “For god sakes Abel, it’s only eleven o’clock in the morning. No I don’t want one. Get a grip, man. You’re on the edge. The board is already asking questions about your stability, and quite frankly so am I. You haven’t produced a high-profit takeover in twelve months. In fact, they think we’ve been out-bid on several recent deals. Deals we should have won. Instead, we’re looking at them from the sidelines.”
Plymel shrugged. “Tell them not to worry. We’ll make it up on the one I’m going to close in a few days.”
Crigler stood and headed toward the door. Before he opened it to leave, he turned back toward Plymel. “I’m just the messenger. The board’s lost confidence in you. They said for me to tell you to get this mess straightened up or resign. In my opinion, it’s going to be hard for you to regain their trust.” He turned back to the door, opened it, hesitated, and looked back at Plymel. “It took a lot of arm-twisting to keep them from asking for your resignation this morning. I’m done sticking my neck out for you. The next messenger won’t be so congenial.” With that comment, Crigler walked out of the room, closing the door behind him.
Plymel stared at the door and started to tremble. He closed hi
s eyes and took several deep breaths. He poured another scotch. Staring at it for a few seconds, he downed it in one gulp.
***
When Kruger and Charlie arrived at the fugitive’s apartment, Alvarez was already there. He said, “Not sure what you’re trying to find. All our people found was a lot of DNA.”
Kruger smiled. “Nothing against your team. Charlie just wanted to get a feel for the guy. If he finds anything, you will be the first to know.”
Ten minutes into his search, Charlie said to Alvarez, “Is this how you found the apartment?”
Nodding, Alvarez said, “Guy lived like a monk, if you ask me.”
Charlie had just finished looking through a desk in one of the two bedrooms. He now stood in the living room looking around. Kruger was sitting on a worn sofa, he frowned, stood and said, “Did you find something?”
“No, I didn’t. That’s what’s wrong with this apartment.” He turned to Kruger. “Remember Paul Bishop’s house in St. Louis?”
Kruger nodded and looked around. “Yeah I do. You’re right, this place is similar. There’s nothing personal here.”
Alvarez looked at Kruger and then Charlie. “Who’s Paul Bishop?”
Kruger said, “It was the first time I meet Charlie. Paul Bishop killed himself and left a suicide note confessing to four unsolved murders. The guy lived in a house for twenty years and it looked like this.”
Alvarez nodded. “The landlord said he moved in a couple of months ago. It’s a furnished apartment. Apparently, all of this was here when he moved in.”
“Is it possible he was planning his disappearing act for awhile? Maybe that’s why you couldn’t find any records of him.” Kruger stopped. “By the way, how did you find out where he lived?”
Alvarez was quiet. He shook his head. “The receptionist at P&G Global gave it to one of the first responders.” He looked at Kruger. “Before they got their stories straight.”
Kruger smiled. “How did they know his address? I thought he just appeared out of the elevator.”
“Fucker’s keep lying to us, don’t they?”
Kruger nodded. “Yes they do. I bet no one knew she’d given it to one of your officers.”
Charlie interrupted, “Where’s the laptop you found?”
Alvarez said, “Lab.”
“What did you find on it?”
“Damn thing would make a great door stop. The hard drive’s been crashed. Our computer guys think it was sabotaged.”
Charlie nodded. “If this guy’s as good as we’ve heard, he might have had a booby trap on it. I’d like to see it, if possible.”
“Soon as we’re done here, we can go to the lab.”
“I’m uncomfortable with the timeline.” Charlie pointed to the bedroom and continued, “His clothes and luggage are still in the closet. We know the cabbie dropped him off at Newark at twelve fifty-five p.m. So he had to get in the cab somewhere around noon, with only a backpack. If he came back to the apartment and cleaned it out, what did he do with his personal effects? Why didn’t he take clothes? Nothing fits.”
Kruger said, “How long was it before your team searched this apartment?”
Alvarez pulled out a notebook, flipped a few pages, read for a few moments, and said, “We got the call at nine-thirty a.m. I showed up at ten-oh-three. Let’s see—here it is. We had someone here by three-thirty p.m., why?”
Kruger was silent for a few moments. He looked at Alvarez. “He didn’t come back here. The cabbie said he picked him up outside the library at Thirty-Fourth and Madison. That’s on the other side of town, closer to P&G Global than here.”
Charlie grinned. “What’s at a library?”
Kruger looked at him, thought for few moments, and said, “Books?”
“Yes, but they also have public computers.” Charlie’s smiled widened. “He didn’t have to come back here to erase his computer. He did it remotely. Bet he had backup off site and was more interested in getting it than the computer. Computers can be replaced—the data and programs, not so much.”
Alvarez frowned. “Where would he keep back up?”
Kruger snapped his fingers. “A safe deposit box. A bank.”
Alvarez took his cell phone out and made a call. When the call was answered, he said, “How many banks are within a half-mile of the library at Thirty-Fourth and Madison?” He paused for a few moments listening and said, “That many? Really? I would never have guessed. Well, start calling them and find out if our fugitive had an account or lockbox. We’ll be back there in about an hour.” He ended the call. “They might have a location for us by the time we get back. Damn, I didn’t realize how many banks are in this city.”
***
Charlie was looking at the computer back at the precinct house, while Kruger and Alvarez discussed the timeline. A young detective handed Alvarez a piece of paper. Alvarez thanked the man. “He has an account at Bank of America. There’s a safe deposit box in his name at a location eleven blocks from the library at Thirty-Fourth and Madison.”
Kruger said, “We’ll need a search warrant for the lockbox.” Alvarez nodded and left the room.
Charlie said, “This guy is good. There’s nothing on this hard drive. It’s completely wiped clean.” And more to himself than Kruger, he said, “How the heck did he do that without leaving residual data…”
Alvarez came back into the room. “We’ll have the search warrant as soon as we can get it signed by a judge, probably thirty minutes.”
***
With the proper paperwork in hand, the bank’s branch manager opened the lockbox and left. Using latex gloves, Kruger opened the now empty box. He handed it to another detective, who started dusting it for prints.
Alvarez walked up to Kruger. “Just got his balance. He has over twelve-hundred dollars in a checking account.”
Kruger was silent. Finally he said, “The guy comes in, empties his lockbox, and doesn’t withdraw twelve hundred bucks. What’s wrong with that statement, Preston?”
Alvarez shook his head. “Didn’t need the money?”
Kruger nodded. “Yeah, he didn’t need the money. He had cash in the lockbox. Plymel’s driver said our fugitive stole money from Plymel. This guy’s been planning to disappear for a long time. If he’s paying cash, we’re screwed. He won’t leave a money trail we can follow.”
Charlie sighed. “The only way we’re going to find him is if he makes a mistake or we get lucky.”
Kruger nodded. “This guy is smart, real smart. I doubt he’s going to makes any mistakes. I have a feeling we aren’t going to get lucky anytime soon.”
Chapter 9
New York City
Crigler returned to his office and immediately went to the coffee service in the corner. He poured a cup and absent-mindedly added a packet of Equal to the strong black liquid. The view out his floor-to-ceiling window included Midtown, Central Park and the upper East Side; he saw none of it as he stood sipping his coffee and staring into the distance. Plymel downing a scotch at eleven in the morning played into his plan. He had seen this type of conduct during his years at the Justice Department in Washington. Perfectly stable men, when confronted with a crisis they couldn’t resolve, resorted to self-destructive behavior. Plymel was now heading down that slippery path.
Plymel was skimming funds from the company—of that, he was sure. He also suspected the incident in the lobby involved those funds. But, the board would not act on suspicions. He needed proof the man was diverting funds into personal accounts. How to get this proof was the current dilemma. After several minutes of staring out the window, he smiled.
Turning back to his desk, he opened the top left-hand drawer and retrieved his personal cell phone. After finding the number he needed, he pressed the call icon. It was answered on the fourth ring.
“You are either in trouble or need a favor Alton, which is it?” The voice was gruff, without a hint of humor. If Crigler had not known the man for over thirty years, he would have ended the call.
/> “I have a job for you, Adam. Are you interested?”
“Not sure yet. How much does it pay?”
“Going rate.”
“Don’t be insulted if I hang up.”
“I need you to find out something about someone.”
Adam Weber chuckled on the other end of the call. “That has to be the vaguest job description I’ve ever heard. Meet me at O’Hara’s Pub in an hour. You’re buying lunch.”
***
O’Hara’s Pub was crowded, as usual. It was a popular hangout for Wall Street workers. Executives didn’t go there very often because lunch was inexpensive for New York City standards. Plus, it was hard to conduct business in the loud atmosphere. But it was a good place to meet for discussions concerning illicit matters. Not that all discussions at O’Hara’s were illicit. But a fair portion did lean that direction. Adam Weber was sitting at the bar nursing a Guinness when Crigler arrived.
Weber was a large man in his late-fifties. His thinning brown hair was kept short, not quite a buzz cut. With a face to match his gravelly voice, Weber was a master at intimidation. His line of work demanded good physical strength and agility, so he worked out regularly. An ex-U.S. Marshal, he now owned a private company specializing in finding and recovering white-collar embezzlers and the funds they had liberated. Crigler had used Weber several times over the years, both for legitimate reasons and for a few illegitimate endeavors. Weber preferred the illegitimate ones; they paid better.
Crigler joined Weber at the bar. “Why do you like this place? It’s loud and crowded.”
Weber raised his beer to his lips and before taking a swig said, “Exactly. No one will hear what you have to say. Let’s go to our table. There’s one in the back reserved for us. We can talk there.”
The waiter was an older man who appeared to have been present when the restaurant opened back in the late forties. But he was efficient, took their order, and kept the crowd away. After the waiter left with their order, Weber said in his gruff voice, “Okay, what’s the job?”
