by Al Boudreau
I found Biofile highlighted in a stock-picking analysis written several years ago by some Wall Street hot-shot looking to pedal his services. On any other occasion I might have skipped over this seemingly random paragraph and on to more obvious content, but tonight I picked apart every detail like a starving man would pick the meat from a rotisserie chicken. For two reasons: so I wouldn’t miss that one key detail from which a fountain of information might spring, and so I wouldn’t go insane with worry over Sarah.
This particular broker’s article touted the profit-making potential of investing in a particular multi-national corporation, which, as it turned out, was the parent company of Biofile.
The company’s name? Cantor-Choy.
I did a search. It’s not often you come across an entity where the latest article written about it reads: The biggest company you’ve never heard of. Cantor-Choy is a global support services provider with 50,000 employees across 25 countries, 3 Canadian provinces, and 42 states. Most of the company’s employees are ex-public servants who chose to move from their government jobs and into the private sector. Cantor-Choy’s public sector contracts alone were said to be worth more than 13 billion dollars. Per year. Several years ago.
Billions. With a “B.”
They had my full attention. I was about to click on a link to find out more info on where their headquarters were located when Officer Kent appeared before me.
“What’s wrong?” I asked, his expression not looking too promising.
“We’ve been going back and forth with your cell service provider. Took it all the way up to their regional manager. They have the information we need but have been instructed not to release it.”
“By whom?” I asked.
“The manager told me he wasn’t allowed to release that information. Only thing he could tell us was that a certain government entity had strictly forbidden them from divulging any information concerning specified data.”
“Sounds like Bureau-speak,” I said.
“Yup, either FBI, or Homeland Security. Funny thing is, this department has never been denied access to records like this before.”
“Yeah, well, leave it to me to ensure that this case be the first. I’m beginning to feel a little like a jinx.”
“Aw, c’mon, Carter. This can’t have anything to do with you. It’s just a coincidence.”
“Don’t be so sure,” I said. “I don’t have a warm, fuzzy feeling about this one.”
Kent handed me my phone back just as Detective James stepped through the door.
“Those lawyers are doing a good job keeping their clients quiet. But get this. Each one of those men is from Albany and all three are members of the city’s homeless community.”
“What?” I blurted out.
“That’s not all,” Kent added. “The medical examiner just gave us an approximate time of death for Rose Stanton.” He hesitated. “She was killed more than 24 hours ago. His initial assessment is that she was strangled to death elsewhere, then transported to the steel mill. We’re doing a forensic analysis of both the Mercedes and the SUV to determine whether or not Stanton spent any time in either vehicle.”
I closed my eyes tight and let my head hang over the back of the chair. “What in the name of all things sacred is going on here?”
“I do have one positive bit of news to share,” Kent said. “Carter, you were half-right about your theory concerning Creitz. He doesn’t own a helicopter, but when we contacted the FAA they informed us a flight plan was filed with Boston Center three days ago. Seems a chopper with the tail number N73ZZ left Logan International Airport bound for Troy. It landed and closed the flight plan, then filed a new flight plan for immediate departure to Joliet, Illinois. We then contacted all the towered airports within a 50-mile radius of here. N73ZZ did not land at any of them. We also have copies of several more flight plans filed by the pilot of that aircraft right after the Joliet trip. I made copies of every one of them for you to take back to Bridgeport.”
Back to Bridgeport. Without a single shred of information or evidence to point me in any specific direction. I was no closer to locating Sarah now than I’d been when we left.
Chapter 10
I watched the dimly lit expanse of Troy fade away below us as we climbed to our cruise altitude, bound for Bridgeport. “There’s no way we’re going to get those cell phone records, is there?” I asked Detective James.
“I already put a call in to Chief Goodhue. He said he’d do what he could but told me not to expect any miracles,” James replied.
“Would it make sense for any agency besides the Bureau or Homeland to be blocking those records?”
“Doubtful. I can’t imagine who else would have a reason. We’d have heard something by now.”
“Well, are we thinking Homeland or Bureau?” I asked.
“Flip a coin. Homeland did prevent you from speaking with Rachel Webber, but they also provided the chief with those documents, which got us on the trail to begin with. As far as the FBI goes, they’ve hindered a number of investigations I’ve been involved with for no apparent reason. Other than to be pricks, that is.”
“I’ve got to get my hands on those cell tower records. That call is the only direct connection I have to Sarah right now.”
“Did you come up with anything while we were with the suspects?” James asked.
I sensed James’s effort to change the subject was due to the fact he had no new ideas. Which made two of us. “I managed to find a connection between the outfit Rose Stanton worked for and a multi-national called Cantor-Choy.”
“Cantor-Choy. Cantor-Choy. I know that name. Why do I know that name?”
“Maybe because they’re everywhere. Forty some-odd states, Canada, and too many countries to remember. They employ 50,000 people.”
“Wow, that’s vast. But none of that has squat to do with why the name sounds familiar. I swear I’ve seen or heard it in relation to a case I worked recently.” James dug out his phone and began scrolling through information he’d logged.
“Cantor-Choy’s the parent company of Bio-File,” I informed him as he continued his search. “I was about to look further ...”
“Ha! And Hy-Tek Solutions,” James shouted.
“What? Please tell me you’re not messing with me.”
“Nope. Got it right here in my notes. Hy-Tek owned by Cantor-Choy, Hartford, Connecticut.”
“Why don’t I remember you sharing that information with us when we were working the Webber case?” I asked.
“If I remember correctly, this came to light the same day you and Sarah cracked the case wide open. It became a moot point.”
“Yeah, well it may not be moot any more. What made you decide to note Cantor-Choy’s Hartford location, specifically?”
James said nothing but tapped away on his smartphone’s screen. He handed the device to me about a minute later. “That’s why.”
James had pulled up a headline that had appeared on the front page of a business-oriented newspaper roughly a year ago. Cantor-Choy moves its base of operations from Beijing, China to Hartford, Connecticut. I continued reading the article to myself until I hit a paragraph, which nearly took my breath away.
“Cantor-Choy’s latest coup was their successful bid to strip Correctional Facilities National of their multi-billion dollar prison management contract with the Federal Government, thus allowing Cantor-Choy to displace CFN from the number-one spot as it relates to gross privatized prison management contracts.”
James frowned and tossed his hands in the air. “I don’t understand ...”
“Hold on. I haven’t hit you with the kicker yet,” I said. “Cantor-Choy’s latest acquisition, Cell Détente, based in Scranton, Pennsylvania, will assist in bringing about a smooth transition concerning Cantor-Choy’s foray into detention center management and development.”
The glow from James’s smartphone screen lit up the blank expression he wore. “Okay, you lost me. What’s the kicker?”
“Home of Creitz? That’s all I’ve got.” James hesitated. “Okay, so Roland Creitz is from Scranton.” He squeezed his chin. “I’m still not clear where you’re headed with this. Detention center development?”
“It may sound like I’m grasping at straws, but what if Creitz plans to develop sites like the old steel mill into future prison facilities? It’s certainly worth looking into, don’t you think?” I began a new search on James’s device.
“I guess, in theory, the concept passes the sniff test,” James said.
“Okay, listen to this. I just plugged Cell Détente into a search engine and found a link to a Cell Détente in Bitburg, Germany. It brought me to what looks like a global business networking site. There’s not much here, but it does list the company’s higher-ups. Says the CEO’s name is Ferdinand Creitzman.”
“Could Creitzman be Creitz?” he asked.
I initiated a search using just the CEO’s name. “Here we go. This is an obituary. Ferdinand Cecil Creitzman, founder of Cell Détente, Bitburg, Germany, dead at the age of 79. Mr. Creitzman is survived by his son, Roland Durning Creitzman. According to this write-up the elder Creitzman died more than three years ago.”
James raised his eyebrows. “Pretty high probability that Roland Durning Creitzman is Roland Creitz, don’t you think?”
“No doubt. Wonder why he shortened his name. If it is indeed him, I mean.”
“People have their reasons for doing so. And they’re generally nefarious.”
“It’s dangerous to assume the worst in all cases, but I’m with you as it relates to this guy.” I continued to search for more info about Cell Détente. After several minutes of futility I gave it a rest. “I’m not finding any records, articles, or press releases that relate to Cell Détente moving from Germany to the United States other than the one article written about Cantor-Choy. Or anything else about them, for that matter.”
“We may not need more,” James said. “Between the two of us we’ve taken what the chief gave us and ran with it. The connections between Hy-Tek Solutions, Biofile, Cantor-Choy, and Cell Détente are curious at worst, and damning at best. Carter, I’ve seen you pull smaller rabbits out of practically non-existent hats. If anyone can make the pieces fit it’s you. You’re one of the best private dicks I’ve ever had the pleasure of knowing.”
I was about to speak, but hesitated, avoiding eye contact with James for a moment while I pulled it together. I was done letting my emotions get the better of me.
“You all right?” James asked.
“Yep. Thanks for saying what you said. It means a lot.” I thought about his words. He was right. I was a good dick.
In that moment I decided to pull my head out of my backside and face this fight head-on. Then I imagined Sarah sitting where James sat right now. I knew she would have shared the exact same sentiment James had been gracious enough to offer.
I reached inside my jacket for a pen. I began writing down every piece of information we’d discovered, uncovered, stumbled across, and been handed since Sarah went missing. Somehow the words of encouragement from James coupled with my thoughts of Sarah provided me with newfound strength.
It was nearly midnight but I was given a second wind, and I felt determined to use it to its full potential.
“Detective, do me a favor and see if you can find any records pertaining to the tail number N73ZZ. Let’s dig up all we can on that chopper. There’s got to be at least one solid piece of information out there we can use to link that aircraft to our suspects.”
“Happy to do so, investigator.” James smiled. “Oh, and welcome back.”
Chapter 11
I waved to Detective James as he drove off after dropping me at the station. My watch said 12:45 am. I fired up the tired old Buick and headed for home. Sarah’s son, Brian, would be there. What was I going to tell the kid? He, and every other member of Sarah’s family, was counting on me to get her back safely and I’d nothing substantial to that end. Hopefully he’d be sleeping. I wondered if I’d be able to do the same.
My body needed rest but my brain was too busy to care. It was a lousy combination. I’d felt the toxins of stress building up at the base of my neck all day long, which only happened when I was overwhelmed. James’s initial search for info pertaining to the helicopter Roland Creitz likely boarded to leave Danforth Mills had come up short. Being the tenacious detective that he was, he promised to continue looking in the morning.
My first order of business would be to acquire those cell tower records by whatever means I could. And I wasn’t about to waste one more moment of precious time attempting to do so through conventional channels. Right or wrong, Sarah took priority over whatever it was the government had going and I was determined to run an end play around them. A good detective collects the names and numbers of individuals who aren’t afraid to get their hands dirty in order to turn a no to a yes.
All it ever took was money. And I had just the right name and number in mind.
I rolled into my driveway and noticed the living room lights were aglow. Was Brian still awake or had he forgotten to turn them off? Before I could pull my keys out of the ignition I had my answer. He didn’t even wait for me to get out of the car.
“Did you find her?” he asked as he ran out of the house.
“Not yet. But I did get a phone message from her about five hours ago, so I have every reason to believe she’s okay.”
“My mom didn’t answer when you called her back?”
Brian’s question reminded me that people who aren’t in the crime business don’t always realize how complicated situations often become. And I wasn’t in the right frame of mind to explain it to him. “No, Brian, she didn’t.”
“Well, what does that mean?”
“It means I have a busy day tomorrow,” I said without thinking. I immediately realized how insensitive I was being, and could tell by the kid’s face he wasn’t impressed with my response either. I knew he was angry that his mom was in harm’s way and was looking to me to fix it. He probably blamed me, and to a degree, rightly so.
Before I could come up with a more appropriate answer he was on his way back inside, head hung low. “I’m going to find her, Brian,” was all I could come up with. He kept right on walking.
I heard the door to the room he was staying in slam shut as I crossed the entry threshold. Part of me was relieved. I just didn’t have the energy to hold his hand after what I’d been through over the past 10 hours. And it wasn’t that I didn’t care. I was having a difficult time keeping my own chin up. I resolved to discuss it with him at some point the following day and headed upstairs to try to get some sleep.
I pulled my cell phone out before tossing my jacket onto the hallway chair. I stared at the device as I sat down on the bed to kick my boots off. Sarah’s last message, the voice contained within this cheap plastic slab of electronics I held in my hand, was as close as I could get to her right now.
I fell back, swung my legs up onto the bed, and pulled Sarah’s pillow over to rest my head. The act of listening to the recording had been both painful and haunting, yet my entire being needed another dose.
I dialed voicemail and placed the phone against my ear. Carter, it’s me. Two men grabbed me at Webber’s. Hooded me and drove for 15 minutes. I’m still ...
I launched straight up into a sitting position and listened to the message again.
Something was different this time. Maybe it was the lack of shock I’d initially felt receiving such an unexpected call. Maybe it was the absence of being surrounded by armed personnel in a potentially hostile environment. Or maybe it was simply the combination of silence and the faint scent of the woman I’d come to know and love. Whatever the reason, the fact of the matter was I’d missed a certain subtlety in her voice while listening to the recording in Troy.
I played it a third time. Before Sarah had spoken the last few words I found myself bolting from the room and down t
he stairs to my office. I flipped the laptop on my desk open, rummaged through the top drawer for a cord to connect the phone to the computer, and with a few keystrokes brought up a program I used on occasion to analyze voice patterns. I put a set of headphones on and played the message again while recording it onto the computer. Then I optimized the quality using the software.
By the third time I listened to the enhanced Sarah, I’d figured out just what it was I’d missed.
There was no panic. No duress.
I let my mind travel back to that moment in New York when I’d played the message out loud for James. I tried with all my might to recall his reaction, and after a few moments it came back.
Sarah sounded strong and determined, don’t you think?
Perhaps he hadn’t realized just what it was at the time, but my gut was telling me her delivery had been a little off for him, too.
I listened again. And again. And again.
Each time her words echoed in my head, I became more convinced I was right. I began messing with some of the program’s features to determine whether I might be able to isolate any residual sounds in the periphery. As I was isolating certain frequencies and enhancing others, I heard a sound so startling I subconsciously halted my breathing.
I’d managed to ferret out another voice. A man’s voice.
My heart was off at a galloping pace, my fingers manipulating the controls like a teenager at a gaming championship until I’d fine-tuned the previously undiscovered audio into a clear delivery.
Enough. We’re good.
I listened to it several more times before removing my headphones and tossing them onto the desk. I leaned back in my office chair and laced my fingers behind my head. “Enough. We’re good,” I whispered over and over, as if saying the words out loud would provide a clue as to what they meant. I stood up and began pacing back and forth. “Enough. We’re good.”
After spending so many years as a cop and a PI, my deductive reasoning screamed out one disturbing conclusion: Sarah’s message was nothing more than a production.
