by Al Boudreau
It had been staged.
I was so jacked by the revelation I began tapping out Detective James’s private phone number before coming to my senses. It was nearly 3 in the morning. I hit the back button and set the phone on my desk. I reached inside the desk drawer for an empty USB flash drive so I could upload the isolated recordings to give to James. Within a minute I had the files set for James. I put the drive in my jacket pocket so I’d have it when I saw him again.
My mind was reeling. If I was right, if the individual at the end of that message put Sarah up to creating a phony scenario to throw us off course, then her words meant next to nothing. She could be anywhere. Right down the street or halfway around the world.
It seemed the more I searched for enlightenment, the deeper the darkness became. I felt unsure we were on the right track in pursuing Creitz, and began second-guessing what my next move should be. I even questioned the usefulness of chasing down the cell tower records. If Sarah’s message was indeed an elaborate ruse, I’d simply be chasing my own tail.
But I was certain of one fact: I’d be getting no decent sleep tonight.
Chapter 12
A sharp pain ran down my spine as my head jerked sideways, nearly sending my laptop onto the floor. I fumbled with the source of my rude awakening. “This is Carter.”
“Carter, this is James. You sitting down?”
“Yeah, I am.” I leaned back in my office chair and massaged the back of my neck.
“We’ve got another dead accountant.”
“Wait, what?” I wasn’t exactly sure I’d heard him right, my brain still playing catch-up.
“Female, too. Her name’s Rita Bennett. Works for a company called Stratashield. Their corporate offices are on Causeway Street in Boston. Some punks found her early this morning next to a dumpster. Behind a joint called The Combat Zone on Lansdowne Street.”
I exhaled, my exasperation accompanied by an involuntary groan. This conversation was not how I wanted to wake up. Especially after having spent the last 4 hours slumped over my office desk. The wall clock read 7:10 am.
“You okay, Carter? You sound a little rough.”
“I fell asleep at my desk around 3. You were my wake-up call.”
“Sorry about that, pal. I’ve always known you to be an early riser so I didn’t pay much attention to the time.”
“No worries. Think I’m going to grab a quick shower and head down to the city. Back Bay used to be my beat. I’ve still got a lot of friends in the department.”
“What about those cell tower records? I thought you’d be all over ...”
“Yeah, things changed. I’ll fill you in later. What does your day look like? Any time to meet when I return from Boston?”
“The chief’s on me to wrap a couple outstanding cases, but he’s also on board for making our search for Sarah a high priority. Check in when you’re on your way back. By the way, the lab results came back. One hundred percent of that blood belonged to Mike Webber. And no prints on the gun. Lab said they’d never seen a weapon wiped so clean.”
“I’m not surprised by any of it. Talk to you later on.” I hauled my weary body out of my office and toward the stairs when I heard the water running on the second floor. Guess I’d be making coffee before scrubbing away yesterday’s hard miles. It felt strange to have someone other than Sarah living under our roof. And maybe my selfish side wished the second floor shower was cascading down over Sarah’s shoulders right now instead of her son’s, but I was glad we had one another to lean on. Sarah would be pleased.
I got the morning brew started, then made my way out to the car to grab the Webber file. Sarah had landed the case through a high school friend who now worked at Hy-Tek Solutions. I hadn’t gotten involved until she’d revealed how high the stakes were. The Webber case ended up being our highest paying job to date, netting $15 thousand for helping determine that $3.5 million had disappeared from Hy-Tek’s coffers. As far as I knew, the money had yet to be recovered.
I decided, after hearing about the third murder of a female accountant in so many days, that it would make sense to interview the superiors of the three respective number-crunchers. We always kept a detailed list of the players involved in each case tucked away in our files: suspects, relatives, associates, friends, and enemies. Most files had two to three pages of names and notes.
I tossed Webber’s file on the counter and began flipping through pages to locate her boss’s name when I realized the file was light and the pages I was looking for were missing.
I thought about the places I’d been while toting the file around over the past few days. The hospital, where I’d inadvertently allowed some of the contents to slide out. I’d also had the file in the state prison.
And in James’s cruiser.
And the plane.
And two different police stations.
At first I thought I’d simply lost the pages, but couldn’t rule out the possibility they’d been stolen. Either way, it was safe to say the information was gone.
Normally my next step would be to ask Sarah. The woman’s mind was a steel safe when it came to retaining information. If only…
I shook it off and sipped the morning’s first dose of caffeine. Today was a new day, and I was determined to go forward with a new attitude. The house became quiet, telling me Brian’s long, luxurious shower session had ended. I gulped a few more swallows of coffee and headed upstairs.
A towel-clad Brian emerged from the steamy bathroom. “Carter, I need to take my mom’s Toyota to Boston today. Are you cool with that?”
I wasn’t too keen on the idea but felt bad for the kid. “What do you have going on down there?”
“A couple buddies of mine go to MIT. They just finished finals so they said they’d help me find my mom.”
I was a little taken aback by his words, but played along. “What exactly do these friends of yours think they have to offer?”
“Well … mom was taken from a hospital, and one of these guys already has a job offer from a company that specializes in cutting-edge security for institutions.”
“That doesn’t really answer my question.”
“This kid is a genius,” Brian said. “He had so many job offers by the time he was a sophomore the school made him a teaching assistant. Now he’s graduating a full year early. The company he’s going to work for when he graduates paid him $200 thousand for a system he designed to track facility operations.”
Okay, I was impressed. What could it hurt to let Brian become actively involved in the search for his own mother? “Look, I can’t give you permission to take your mom’s car.” I removed the ignition key from my ring and tossed it to Brian. “But I can give you permission to take mine.”
“Thanks, Carter.”
The look on his face wasn’t exactly one of excitement. Granted, my ride was no shoo-in for scoring cool points with his college friends, but it was better than not going to the city at all.
I headed outside and transferred some items I’d need today from my car to Sarah’s before Brian took off. I grabbed the mail before heading back inside. Bill, bill, bill, crap, and the last envelope had a return address from the State of NH Department of Safety. A few seconds passed before it dawned on me what its contents might be.
My official New Hampshire private investigator’s license had arrived.
My history as a Boston cop bought me a lot of leeway when it came to accessing all sorts of information the average Joe could not. But when push came to shove my activities skirted a grey area at best, and were out-and-out illegal at worst. Sarah, on the other hand, had followed the proper channels and now carried a bona fide PI’s license. As a result, she’d inspired me to do the same.
I tore open the envelope, glanced at the official piece of plastic, and slipped it inside my wallet. Brian came blasting through the front door just as I was about to reach for the knob, nearly bowling me over and off the stoop.
“See you, Carter. Be back tonight.” He was
in my car and backing out of the driveway before I could regain enough composure to form a reply. “Kids,” I grumbled, bound for the shower.
The hot water, coupled with my morning cup of extra strong coffee, proved to be a decent substitute for a good night’s sleep. I felt my mind and spirit perking up. My instinct pertaining to Sarah’s bizarre voice message also helped alleviate my stress level.
She and I were somehow intellectually connected from day one. I’d never been a believer in all that mind-reading hocus-pocus, or given much credence to the ability to communicate with another human being through the ether. But time spent with Sarah brought too many instances where we knew what the other was thinking to downplay the possibilities. And I welcomed that now. I needed to believe I could intuit an unspoken message from her tone. From her sense of calm. Her grace under pressure. It was all I had to hold onto right now.
I opened the window to let the steam escape as I toweled off, the warm, late spring air rejuvenating my desire to seize the day. I’d make progress out there today.
I got dressed and made the mistake of checking the mirror before leaving the house. I was never one to care much about my appearance, vanity-wise, but had to admit I was looking far less fresh than I felt.
Tucking my gun against my back, I then hesitated. I’d be all over Boston today. Did I really want to chance getting hassled every time I tried to enter a public building? It wasn’t like I was chasing bad guys. It was more of a fact-finding mission.
I placed the weapon inside my sock drawer, grabbed Sarah’s keys, and headed out. My goal today was to focus on the most recently deceased of the three accountants, Rita Bennett, and the company she worked for, Stratashield. Maybe I could get a jump on the feds by hitting up my friends on the force for some information Homeland or the FBI might not have yet. A pattern had emerged and answers were out there. And I was determined to uncover a detail big enough to blow this mystery wide open.
I took out my phone and dialed Sammy’s number.
“Carter. We’ve been waiting to hear from you. Good news?”
“Nothing concrete yet, but I’m chasing down some leads. Headed to Boston as we speak. You have time to give me an assist?”
“Anything, Carter. Name it.”
“Write this name down. Stratashield. They’re based in Boston. I’m looking for an overview of what this outfit does. Also jot down the name Rita Bennett. She was an accountant with Stratashield. She was found dead this morning. I need the name of her closest superior.”
“I’ll start right away and call you when I have answers.”
“You’re the best, Sammy. Thanks.”
My mind went to thoughts of and experiences with Sarah as the miles ticked past. I wasn’t sure what had prompted one memory in particular, but we’d spent the day at Fryeburg Fair in Maine eating lousy carnival food, and riding amusements we had no business being on, when Sarah asked me a question out of the blue: If anything bad ever happens to me will you be my knight in shining armor and come to my rescue?
What do you think? I’d said in reply.
I think you’d risk your life for me. But I’d keep the wolves at bay until you got there, so don’t ever do anything stupid just to bail me out, ‘kay? I’m pretty fierce, you know.
The memory of her words made me smile. Mostly because they were true. Sarah wasn’t extraordinarily strong or skilled, but she was mentally tough, and capable of keeping her head in extreme situations. Which made the difficult job of unearthing clues to find her a bit easier to bear.
I was getting close to downtown when my cell began chirping. It was Sammy. “What have you got?” I asked as I slowed and pulled into the breakdown lane.
“Stratashield’s major thrust is that they engineer technical systems for government agencies, then provide staff and support for those systems. For instance, they just finished a platform for the FBI that enables agents to monitor, as well as interpret, social media posts for potential threats. They liken it to that pre-crime stuff you see in the movies. Only this is the third version of the technology. It’s kind of spooky.”
“I agree. Do you have any names for me concerning key employees?”
“Sure do. Bennett’s immediate boss is named Ronald McEntee. He’s the chief financial officer for Stratashield. She held the senior accounting position according to the information I’ve been able to access. Got as high as she could go within the financial division. Unless she bumped the head exec out of his spot, that is.”
“Great work, Sammy. Thank you. Talk to you soon.” I finished jotting down the details, then got rolling again.
I had a decision to make and about a minute to make it. I was nearly on top of the exit that leads directly to Causeway Street and Stratashield. It would be far easier to go there first and hit Back Bay Police Station second due to the building rush-hour traffic. But talking with the cops first could give me valuable insight into what questions to ask Ronald McEntee. Not to mention permission from the local police to go poking around where I didn’t really belong, as PI licenses generally had no reciprocity from state to state. Not that getting their blessing had any legal value, but sometimes it’s more who you know than what you know.
I cranked the wheel, cut across two lanes, and headed down the exit bound for Causeway Street. Parking would already be an issue in the downtown area, despite the early hour, so I pulled out a special parking pass the Boston PD had issued to me as a parting gift when I left the force. The boys knew I planned to become a PI and couldn’t have handed me a more valuable tool. The laminated placard was good for a ten-year stretch. And they’d offered to issue a new one when this one expired.
I pulled Sarah’s vehicle into a prime parking spot less than a block away from Causeway Place, the brand new low-rise complex in which Stratashield was headquartered. I placed my fancy placard on the dash before making my way down the street toward the building’s grandiose lobby entrance.
The first detail I encountered as I stepped inside the cavernous structure was the curious display listing the nearly two dozen businesses that called Causeway Place home. I chalked the abomination up to some artist’s vision of progressive art form. My distaste was soon displaced by surprise as one of the entities listed was none other than the Federal Protective Service, the quasi-police arm of the Department of Homeland Security.
I had to search for information concerning the exact location of Stratashield within the tower, as the fancy-pants artiste neglected to include that information. However, I did find a sign warning that facial recognition software was integral to their video surveillance efforts.
Normally I would have asked the individual seated at the entry podium for directions, but it was early. They were likely still in line at the nearest coffee drive-thru. Not wanting to delay any of the folks arriving for work with my questions, I finally stepped inside one of the elevators and found a directory.
How utterly handy.
Unless I’d misinterpreted the selections on the elevator’s panel, Stratashield occupied the entire third floor. I stepped out with three other individuals and approached reception.
Instead of paying attention to me, the young man behind the desk was focused on the suit in front of me as he passed by. “Good morning, Mr. McEntee,” I heard him say. The suit barely acknowledged the receptionist’s greeting, much less actually provide a response.
Screw it. I knew it was improper corporate etiquette, but after witnessing McEntee’s apparent disregard for those beneath him I couldn’t have cared less.
“Mr. McEntee,” I called out, now hot on his heels. He glanced over his shoulder to see who had beckoned him but didn’t break stride one iota.
At that point I wasn’t taking no for an answer. “Mr. McEntee, this will only take a minute or two of your time.” He picked up his pace. And I picked up mine. To the degree that I was now in a mild jog to catch him. He headed directly for a desk with a stunning brunette seated behind it. Behind her, a double set of carved wooden doors.
Upon those doors, spelled out in what appeared to be brushed nickel letters, read Ronald J. McEntee, Chief Financial Officer.
I caught up to him just as he was about to turn the ornate hardware on said doors and disappear inside his office. Unexpectedly, McEntee turned toward me. I very nearly planted an involuntary sloppy kiss on his chin, getting myself stopped just short of embarrassment.
“Look,” he said, “I don’t know who you are – yet – or what your business is here, but any questions should be directed to our public relations department.” He cast a glance toward his lovely assistant and gave a subtle nod. He then disappeared behind his slammed door while she depressed a red button on her console.
That was my cue. I was moments away from being not-so-gently escorted out of the offices of Stratashield. I figured there was a 50/50 chance of making it out of the building before security could detain and harass me. I was only three floors up. I’d take the stairs.
I heard the elevator doors slide open behind me just as I entered the stairwell. I had no idea if the person or persons coming out of the elevator were looking for me, and I wasn’t sticking around to find out. Technically, I hadn’t broken any laws, or even done anything wrong, but the fact that it was a Department of Homeland Security-occupied building meant it fell under the jurisdiction of their Federal Protective Service police.
There were cameras mounted at the top and bottom of each flight of stairs. I did my best not to face them directly, and kept my hand in front of my face as if my cheek had an itch that I just couldn’t scratch away.
I reached the ground floor and exited the stairwell, which placed me about 30 yards from the main lobby’s exit doors. There was one other way out directly in front of me: an alarmed emergency fire exit door. I wasn’t MacGyver, nor was this an emergency, so I opted to take the long walk across the foyer’s wide-open expanse. It was still early. In fact, there probably wasn’t a better time of day to slip out, as the staff of security personnel would be light at this hour.
