by Joseph Lewis
Gavin glanced at his mother. He stared at his shoes, then at Tim, then at Kaiden, but didn’t commit one way or the other.
Ellie cleared her throat and said, “We’ll be there.”
Tim nodded at her, smiled at Gavin, and gave his shoulder a squeeze.
“I missed you.” He paused, looked down at his shoes, blinked back tears, and then looked at each boy. “When I was taken, I wondered if I’d ever see you again. All that time, I wondered if you’d even remember me. And then, when I was in the hospital, I was afraid to see you because I didn’t know what you thought of me. I was afraid.”
“Shit, Tim . . . excuse my language, Mrs. Hemauer . . . shoot, Tim, why would we forget you?” Cal asked.
“Well, you forgot you guys were friends, right?” Tim asked.
The boys looked at one another and then down at their shoes.
Kaiden reached across the small circle, put his hands on Gavin’s shoulders and said, “Gavin, I’m sorry. Honest. Please forgive me.”
Tim watched Gavin flinch away, and he could see the hurt in Gavin’s eyes, in his body.
“At school I know guys made fun of you. I know you were by yourself a lot,” Cal said. “I . . . shit, I don’t know.”
“Please forgive me . . . us,” Kaiden pleaded.
Gavin looked first at Tim, then at Cal and then at Kaiden.
“I know it might take some time, but we’re friends, right?” Tim said.
The boys nodded.
Maybe one less thing to worry about. There were, however, still other, bigger things, and Tim worried about them a lot.
CHAPTER FIFTY-TWO
Fishers, Indiana
The room was comfortable but small with typical hotel furnishings: a desk and hard-backed chair, an over-stuffed but uncomfortable chair in a red floral print with a matching ottoman, two queen-sized beds with five or six pillows of various sizes and thicknesses on each, a cheap one-serving coffee machine and two black plastic mugs, four glasses with an ice container that was empty except for a plastic bag that served as a liner, and a four drawer dresser with a flat screen TV on top of it. It didn’t matter if the room was on the first or second floor. Each room was the same except for the color pattern.
Pete’s alarm had gone off at 4:30 AM, but he had pushed the snooze button twice so he crawled out of bed a little before 4:50. He had showered, shaved, brushed his teeth and smoothed his close cropped salt and pepper flat-top, then dressed in a pale blue button-down short-sleeved shirt with a yellow and blue striped tie and dark slacks that would fit nicely with a light-weight sport coat that hung in the closet. He didn’t shop at Jos. A. Banks or S & K. Anything in his drawers or closet could be found in any of the thousands of Sears stores across the country.
He never went anywhere without his .45 stuffed snuggly into his leather shoulder holster under his left arm. Pete opted for the .45 because he didn’t like the feel of the Glock .22 or .23 that was issued to new FBI recruits. He was old school and had argued that his .45 worked better for him because of the heft of it, and he knew that when he shot at someone, the slug would tear a whole in and mostly through whatever he aimed at.
Skip and Chet wanted to sleep in, so alone, he drove to a Denny’s where he had eaten a breakfast of oatmeal and a chocolate muffin with a Diet Coke to wash it down. He glanced at the paper and then had driven back to the hotel. He flipped between CNN and the local news searching for anything on his perps. The coverage of the sieges in Chicago, Long Beach and in Kansas City had dried up and had mostly played out, except for what was happening with the ones who got away.
Normally, Pete was quiet. He left the media to Summer or others who were better in front of the camera. He didn’t want the spotlight and didn’t seek the headlines. He was a cop in a suit, an investigator who operated best on his feet out in the field. He didn’t like the politics of the job and just as he did with the media, left that for others.
He didn’t leave many messes for others to clean up. While no one mentioned it, the ones who got away were loose ends that needed to be tied up because if they weren’t, they would become a mess that either he or others would have to clean up.
He was startled out of his thoughts by a rap on the door. With his hand on his gun, he looked out the window and saw Skip Dahlke leaning against the railing outside his room. Skip gave him a nod when he saw Pete at the window and then Pete opened the door for him to enter.
“Morning,” was all Skip said as he stood momentarily just inside the room.
He moved to the edge of a bed that didn’t have a slept-in look and sat down.
“You eat?”
Skip shook his head. “Not hungry.”
“You have to eat something. You’re too skinny, and it might be a long day.”
Skip shrugged and yawned tiredly.
After leaving the McGovern house the afternoon before, he had borrowed Pete’s car and using the directions MB had given him, drove out to the mall to pick up a couple of polo shirts, a couple of button-down white shirts, two pair of slacks, and a dark sport coat that would match whatever shirts or slacks he choose to wear. This day, Skip wore a black polo with khaki slacks and loafers. He carried his sport coat and laid it over the arm of the stuffed chair. He wore his side arm on his belt at his right hand. On his left side was his iPhone 5.
“Is Chet up yet?” Skip asked.
Pete grunted and said, “If he is, just barely.”
Chet was a night owl who stayed up late surfing the web, checking leads, and checking in with Morgan to find out if there was any cell traffic. Even having Cochrane’s cell hadn’t helped. Either the bad guys knew Cochrane was dead and weren’t using their cells to communicate or they were lying low and waiting.
Skip pulled out his cell and hadn’t even finished tapping in Chet’s number when there was a knock on the door. He leaned towards the window, saw Chet and then went to the door and opened it for him.
Chet flopped down in the red floral print stuffed chair waiting for orders.
Pete took out his cell, hit speed dial, and turned on the speaker function so the three of them could listen together.
“Right on time,” Summer said as she answered on the first ring. “Who’s with you?”
“Chet and Skip.”
“Chet, any word from Morgan?” Summer didn’t waste any time because there wasn’t any to waste.
“Nothing,” Chet said shaking his head. “There isn’t anything coming over Cochrane’s cell. No email coming to his laptop, and nothing coming into any other cell that we’re monitoring. Nothing.”
“Skip, what did you find at Dominico’s house.”
“Just what I put in the report. Like it was wiped clean other than his own prints.”
The three men heard papers ruffling on the other end and then Summer said, “Tell me about the hole in the floor.”
Skip sat up straighter, leaned towards the phone and said, “It wasn’t a hole. It was more of a cut-out. I doubt if anyone would have found it if it weren’t already open. It measured ten inches in length, ten inches in width and fifteen inches in depth.” He paused to see if Summer or anyone else had any questions. When none came, he said, “I found what seemed to be an oily substance at the bottom. I’m guessing gun lubricant. Other than that, it was clean. Like I said, his house looked like he had wiped everything down.”
There wasn’t anything new and nothing but dead ends all the way around.
The problem was there were still men out there, and there was a very real threat against the McGovern family, as well as George, Randy and Jeremy.
“Pete, any ideas?”
He ran his hand over his hair, looked at both men in the room and then said, “Two options, I think. But first, was anything found at Cochrane’s residence or office?”
“Nothing,” Summer answered. “He was thorough . . . not sloppy.”
Pete puffed up his cheeks and then blew them out.
“Um . . .” Skip said, waiting for permission to spe
ak further.
“Skip, speak freely. You’re part of the team,” Summer said.
“I was wondering . . . in Cochrane’s apartment or home or whatever, did they find a hole or cutout like Dominico had?”
They heard Summer shuffling papers and then she said, “No. I don’t see anything like that in the report.”
Skip frowned and shook his head.
“What?” Pete asked.
“I bet there’s one there. It just wasn’t found.”
“Summer, there isn’t anything for Skip and Chet to do here. I’d like to send them back to Chicago to tear apart Cochrane’s place? If Skip’s right, we might be able to find a lead.”
“Okay. Guys, get back to Chicago and like Pete said, tear the place apart.”
“Will do,” Skip said.
“Pete, what will you do?”
“Stay here. The McGovern family is under protection inside and out. It’s just a matter of waiting.”
“Any other ideas?” Summer asked.
Skip and Chet looked at Pete, expecting him to answer for them.
“I can’t help but think we’re missing something. Something obvious. I just can’t put my finger on what it is.”
“Can you narrow it down some?” Summer asked.
Pete shook his head and said, “No. There’s something right in front of us, but we’re not seeing it.”
Chet frowned; Skip tilted his head as he thought. Pete ran his hand over his flattop.
“I don’t know what to tell you,” Summer said. “Just keep picking at it.”
“Yeah, I will.”
“So, any other ideas?”
Pete lowered his head and then said, “Well one. We could wait and see what happens. The second would be to push them some. We release their pictures, including Dominico’s new look according to Pressman’s description. That might force them into action.”
“Or it could send them running for cover,” Chet said.
Pete nodded considering the viewpoint, one he had already thought of.
“Possibly, but I don’t think so,” Pete said quietly. “These assholes are arrogant. They’re used to having it their way. They’re used to acting as if they won’t get caught. I’ve read and reread MB’s report on Dominico. He especially. He won’t run. He won’t hide. I think it will force him to act.”
“Would Brett and his family be safe,” Skip asked. “They’ve been through a lot.”
“I’ve coordinated with Jamie Graff on that, and they should be in place this morning. We already have someone with the family at all times,” Pete answered.
“I know I’m new to this, but what if the family gets split up? Brett and his brother go to a friend’s house or Thomas or Victoria go to work? What happens then?” Skip asked.
“Good question,” Pete said with a smile, followed by a shrug. “That’s one reason we need to get this group to act. The longer this takes, the harder it’ll be to contain the situation. The sort of protection we’re providing is expensive in terms of man hours. We can’t account for every contingency, and it won’t be long before the McGovern’s ask us to leave.”
Pete knew he never directly answered Skip’s question. He couldn’t because he didn’t have an answer for him.
Pete continued, “We know that three of them are going to be in Arizona when George, Jeremy and Randy get there. I’ve set up a net to let them in, but not let them out. Dangerous, yes. Easy, no. But I feel confident we’ll be able to protect them as well as get whoever comes after them.”
Skip lifted his head and looked first at Pete, then at Chet. “We’re sure George and the others will be safe?” Skip asked.
“As sure as we can be, Skip. There are a lot of unknowns and variables we can’t control,” Summer answered.
“Do Jeremy and George know?”
Pete hesitated, his eyes looking away from him to the phone, darting to Chet, and then back to Skip.
“We’ve given them a plan, but it’s fluid.”
Both Chet and Skip looked at each other, and it was Chet who spoke for them.
“So . . . what you’re saying is . . . you’re using them as bait.”
Pete frowned, opened his mouth to speak, but Summer cut him off.
“Chet, we have a plan. They’re aware of the plan and have agreed to it. It’s been vetted by Dandridge. They’ll be protected and there will be precautions.”
“So, they’re bait,” Chet said firmly.
“It’s the only way we know to get these assholes. If we don’t get them now or very soon, the time will come when there’ll be no more protection or help for them and then they’re sitting ducks. We might as well paint a bull’s eye on them.”
“Seems like you’ve already done that,” Skip said quietly.
CHAPTER FIFTY-THREE
Waukesha, Wisconsin
Detective Jamie Graff stood about five eleven or six foot. His dark complexion, dark eyes and dark, wavy hair worn on the short side gave him a Latino look, but he wasn’t Latino at all. Of the three Js, he was the quiet one and the most intense, certainly the most serious. It wasn’t that he didn’t talk or laugh, but mostly, he was an observer, a listener who took in and processed everything around him. Like his eyes, his mind never stopped working. As a detective, he was a chess master who stayed three or four moves ahead of his opponent, and his current opponent was whomever had tried to have Stephen kidnapped.
They sat around the Bailey kitchen table with coffee cups or glasses of milk or juice either empty or nearly so. Stephen and Mike sat next to each other on one side facing their mothers, Sarah and Jennifer. Jamie sat at the head of the table. Neither Ted Bailey nor Mark Erickson sat. Instead, they leaned against the counter watching and listening, but kept their distance from one another. Ted glowered in the corner sipping his coffee, wishing it was a cold beer.
The boys and their mothers had been discussing various men in the boys’ lives. Barry Miller, their soccer coach, was the first man on the list. The mothers considered him a long shot because he appeared happily married and had two young ones of his own. They discussed two teachers: Gordon Franklin and Richard Reif, both single and who were considered by the boys as being fun, nice guys and good teachers. Franklin taught mathematics and Reif, science.
“I feel bad putting them on the list,” Stephen said quietly.
“You can’t feel that way, Honey,” Sarah said. “Detective Graff has to consider everyone.”
“Your mom’s right,” Graff said. “Who else is on the list?”
Stephen shrugged and said, “I put Lucky on the list, but I don’t think it’s him either.”
“Lucky?” Jamie asked.
“Stephen takes tennis lessons at the Waukesha Racquet Club, and he’s one of the instructors,” Sarah answered.
“Bob Luchsinger? The dark-haired guy?” Jennifer asked.
She and Mike took lessons there too, but she had never worked with him. Mike had on occasion, but only when paired with Stephen.
“Yeah,” Mike answered. “He’s a good guy.”
Jamie took the list from Stephen and scanned the list of seven names, wishing he had his chew.
“Both of you put this list together?”
The boys nodded.
“Stephen, I’m going to ask you some questions, and I want you to consider each one carefully, okay?” He handed the list back to Stephen, and then looked at Mike and said, “Because you’re his friend, you’re in a good position to notice things Stephen might not, okay?”
The boys nodded.
Jamie had worked abuse cases and sex crimes with Jeremy, and not only took notes on the various kids’ responses, but also took notes on the types of questions Jeremy asked.
“Of the men on this list, is there anyone who gave you extra attention . . . any unexpected gifts?”
Stephen looked at his mom as he thought about it. Jeremy had asked him the same question at the hospital.
“I got a birthday cards from Lucky and Mr. Franklin.”
>
Jamie looked at Mike and asked, “Did you get a birthday card from either of them?”
“From Mr. Franklin. I got one from Mr. Reif, but other guys did too.”
Jamie made some notes. His handwriting was small, cramped and unreadable except by him. It was a common complaint in the department.
“Lucky asked me to be his partner for a doubles tournament.”
Jamie looked up from his notes.
“Do you consider that . . . I don’t know . . . unusual?”
Stephen looked at his mother and shrugged.
Sarah answered for him, “It is a father-son tourney. Ted doesn’t play, and Stephen is pretty good.”
“The fact that Stephen and Luchsinger aren’t father and son, is that acceptable?”
“It happens. Several adults play with kids who aren’t their sons,” Sarah answered.
“How good a tennis player are you?” Graff asked.
Stephen made a face, shrugged and said, “I’m pretty good, but not that good. Mike’s better than I am.”
“Maybe,” Mike offered.
Graff made more notes.
“Okay, think about this one. Is there anyone on this list who touched or touches you anywhere from your shoulder to your knee?”
Stephen sat back and looked at Mike. Mike cocked his head, squinted in thought and then his expression changed subtly, but enough for Jamie to notice.
“What?”
Mike looked back at Stephen and then at Jamie.
“Franklin hugs kids. Not girls . . . just guys.”
“What do you mean he hugs guys?” Ted asked.
Mike glanced at Stephen and waited for Stephen to respond to his father.
“I don’t know,” Stephen shrugged. “When we’re working on math problems and we ask for help, he’ll put his arm around your shoulder like this.” He stood up and demonstrated on Mike. He sort of bent over him and slipped his arm around Mike’s shoulders, gave his shoulder a little squeeze and said, “Like this.”
To Jamie, it looked innocent, like something a caring individual might do for encouragement. The fact that he didn’t hug girls was understandable: he was a single guy and hugging girls might get you in trouble, whereas guys not so much unless you hugged the wrong one. And, to Jamie, it couldn’t really be described as a hug. Still, Franklin was worth a closer look.
