The Imposter's Trail (The Sean Kruger Series Book 3)

by J. C. Fields

  Randolph Bishop removed his stare from Kruger and looked at the lawyer. Ernst nodded and sat down. “What do you want to know?”

  “When was the last time you saw your brother, Mr. Bishop?”

  Bishop glared at Kruger. “I haven’t seen my brother for over six years.”

  “Have you spoken to him recently?”

  Bishop shook his head. “The last time I spoke to him was on the phone over a year ago. He invited me to his home for Christmas. I declined due to a prior commitment.”

  “Did you have a strained relationship with your brother?”

  “I’m a busy individual, agent. Time gets away from me. Our relationship was fine.”

  “But you haven’t seen him in six years.”

  Bishop shrugged.

  “A letter was found next to his body.”

  Bishop was silent. He continued to stare at Kruger.

  “In the letter, he confessed to all four of the so-called Quarry Murders which occurred over the past ten years. The letter was addressed to you. Do you have any idea of why he would do that, Mr. Bishop?”

  “Not a clue.”

  Kruger nodded. “I heard from the coroner that no one has inquired about the body. Aren’t you his next of kin?”

  Again, Bishop did not answer right away. He just glared at Kruger. “I will have someone in our legal department take care of those details. Does that satisfy you, agent?”

  Kruger shrugged. “It makes no difference to me. I just found it odd that his only brother did not inquire about the body.”

  Bishop looked at the lawyer. Ernst immediately stood. “I believe those are all the questions we will be answering today. Mr. Bishop has a busy schedule.”

  Kruger stared at Bishop, who in turn stared back. Neither man averted his gaze. After several long moments, Kruger gave the man a lopped sided smile, but did not divert his eyes. “Yes, I’m sure he does. Very well. I’ll get back to you if I need more information.”

  Ernst escorted Kruger and Monroe to the office door. “Please direct all inquiries to my office, Agent.”

  ***

  Kruger was silent until he and Teri Monroe were back in his Mustang. She still looked at the building containing Harmon, Harmon, and Kinslow. “That was odd.”

  Kruger nodded. “Yes it was. He knows something or he wouldn’t have lawyered up. I’m driving back to Kansas City today to do some research on our Mr. Randolph Bishop. What about you?”

  She glanced at him as he drove. “I’m flying out on a 6 p.m. flight. Charlie will stay here and finish up. What do you think of him, Sean?”

  Kruger smiled. “I’ll be keeping my eye on him. He’s going to be good.”

  She smiled and nodded. “I thought you might like him.”

  ***

  Kruger sat on a sofa in his condo on the second floor of a newly remodeled building west of the Kansas City Plaza. He was reviewing several reports sent to him by Charlie Craft concerning Randolph Bishop. He heard a key in the lock and looked up. When the front door opened, Stephanie Harris, his next-door neighbor and girlfriend, walked in. “Hi.”

  Kruger smiled and stood. “Hi, back. You hungry?”

  “Starved.” She walked over to him and they embraced. “Where do you want to go?”

  After a nice dinner and a lot of conversation centered on catching up with each other’s lives, they were back on the sofa in Kruger’s condo. When a case puzzled Kruger, he would sometimes bounce ideas off Stephanie. “Maybe you can make sense of this. We found connections with Harmon, Harmon, and Kinslow to all four of the murdered women. Nina Watkins interviewed with the company two days before she disappeared. Debra Riley confided in a close friend that she was in line to be offered a position at Harmon, Harmon, and Kinslow—a position Bishop accepted a year later.”

  He paused and put his arm around Stephanie and she snugged against him. He smiled and continued, “Bishop was promoted to the position Julie Martin was given two months after her death. Karla Gray was going to KKR to discuss the CEO position at Harmon, Harmon, and Kinslow. She would be named to the position once they executed the buyout. The death of Gray caused KKR to withdraw their offer.”

  Stephanie looked up at him. “Do you think Paul Bishop killed them to help his brother?”

  Kruger shook his head. “I think he might have done it after his brother told him to, but not on his own.”

  “What if Paul is completely innocent? What if Randolph killed those women?”

  Kruger frowned. He stared ahead and was silent for several moments. “I’ve thought of that, but I can’t get past why Paul Bishop would kill himself and confess with the note?”

  She shrugged. “Maybe his brother told him to.”

  Kruger tilted his head to the side. He grinned and kissed the top of her head. “I knew there was a reason I liked you so well. You might have something there.”

  ***

  The next evening, Kruger’s Mustang was parked next to Bishop’s black Cadillac CTS in the parking lot of Harmon, Harmon, and Kinslow. Kruger was leaning against the trunk when Randolph Bishop walked to his car. At first, the man hesitated. Then he moved quickly to get around Kruger to enter his car. As he walked past, Kruger spoke. “Tell me something, Bishop. Was it your idea, or was it Paul’s? My guess is it was yours.”

  Bishop stopped and glared at Kruger. “I’ve no idea of what you’re talking about.”

  “Sure you do. You know exactly what I’m talking about. Was it Paul’s idea to kill those women after you whined to him about them, or did you tell him to do it?”

  Bishop glared at Kruger and, for a fraction of a second, Bishop’s face showed the pure raw rage Kruger knew was inside him. Then just as fast, a mask of complete indifference was displayed. He turned to the door of the Cadillac and opened it. Just before he sat down, he turned to Kruger and in a very controlled voice said, “I’m going to call my lawyer and have a restraining order filed against you for harassment.”

  Kruger smiled. “Go ahead. You see, I’m not here. You’re making this up.” Bishop frowned and Kruger continued, “There are ten FBI agents in downtown St. Louis who will swear in a court of law I’m with them in a meeting.”

  Bishop glared at Kruger as he sat down in the car. His face crimson and his jaw locked tight. Kruger grabbed the door just before Bishop tried to shut it. “Here’s the deal, I know who and what you are. I’ve dealt with scumbags like you for over twenty years. I’ll find the truth, Bishop, and when I do, your world will become the worst nightmare you could ever image.”

  Kruger let go of the door and Bishop slammed it shut. He continued to stare at Kruger as he started the engine and backed out of the parking space. Kruger smiled as he watched him drive off. “I just saw behind your mask, Bishop.”

  ***

  At 8:30 the next morning, two St. Louis County Police Department patrol cars, one detective’s car with Winslow and Cordero, and Kruger’s Mustang were parked in front of Harmon, Harmon, and Kinslow. At 6:30 that morning, Charlie Craft received an email with the results of Paul Bishop’s DNA analysis. Paul Bishop’s DNA did not match the DNA found on Julie Martin. It was genetically similar, just not a match.

  However, the analysis showed the DNA found on Julie Martin was close enough to be Paul Bishop’s brother.

  With that evidence, Kruger prepared a federal arrest warrant for Randolph Bishop properly signed by 7:45.

  When the group entered the front lobby, Kruger could tell something was wrong. The reception desk was empty. Men with their sleeves rolled up scurried from office to office. Finally, a tall elderly man looking slightly disheveled approached the group. “Are you Agent Kruger?”

  Kruger nodded.

  “I’m Frank Netters, chairman of the board. If you’re looking for Bishop, you’re too late.”

  Kruger frowned, “How so?”

  “He’s gone. I just heard from one of our board members who went to find him. He told me the house is empty. Plus, there’s more than five million dollars missing
from the firm’s four bank accounts. We think more is missing, but in the short time we’ve had to look, that’s all we can find.”

  Kruger stared at the man. “I’ll call our financial sector and have a team of FBI accountants here by afternoon.”

  Netters gave Kruger a grim smile. “Thanks. I’ll tell everyone. Do you want us to stop looking?”

  Kruger nodded as he pulled his cell phone out. He walked out the front door and made a call to the St. Louis field office. He ended the call and immediately dialed another number. His boss, Alan Seltzer at the FBI headquarters in Washington, answered on the second ring.

  “Alan, it’s Sean.”

  “How did the arrest go?”

  “It didn’t. He’s in the wind.”

  Seltzer was quiet for a long time. “When did he leave?”

  “Not sure. Sometime after 7 p.m. yesterday. I’ve got the St. Louis team checking the airports. We might know something later. I blew it, Alan.”

  “I doubt it. What did you do?”

  “I was here last night when he left the office. I wanted to see his reaction when I asked him about his brother.”

  “And…”

  “The tell, it was there, as plain as it could be. The uncontrollable rage before he could get it under control.”

  “What can we do at this end?”

  “I want a national BOLO issued.”

  “Send me the details.”

  After the call, Kruger leaned against the trunk of his car. He pressed his palms against his eyes. “Shit.”

  ***

  Kruger met Brenda Parker at the St. Louis County Coroner’s office. She arrived thirty minutes prior and was signing papers when he walked into the office. He waited silently while she completed the paperwork and thanked the clerk. She turned to him and offered her hand. As he shook it, she tucked her purse under her arm. “Thank you, Agent Kruger, for calling me.”

  “I thought you would want to know the truth.”

  She smiled. “I always knew the truth. Paul didn’t kill those women.”

  Kruger nodded. “At first I believed he did, until I spoke with you in Rockford. Plus, we found Paul’s computer and cell phone at Randolph’s house.”

  “Oh, what did I say that changed your mind?”

  “When you told me about Paul’s reaction to his brother’s visit to your home, I realized the control Randolph had over him.”

  A small tear formed in the corner of her eye. “Was there something on Paul’s computer?”

  “Yes.”

  She waited, but Kruger did not explain further. “Why did his brother treat Paul so badly? I don’t understand.”

  Kruger half smiled. “The same reason he killed those women and looted his company. I can stand here and lecture about the psychiatric diagnosis for hours. But simply put, he doesn’t have the ability to feel any guilt or empathy. All he cares about are his own needs. Randolph will do anything to satisfy those desires.”

  “Sad. So sad for Paul.”

  “Yes ma’am.” He was quiet while he watched her wipe tears from her eyes. “What are your plans?”

  She took a deep breath, sighed, “I’ll take him home with me. After you called the other day, I contacted a funeral home in Rockford. I bought a double plot with a headstone. I’ll be able to visit him often. When it’s time, I’ll be next to him.”

  Kruger nodded and remained silent, not knowing what to say.

  Brenda Parker looked up at him. “I still love him, Agent Kruger. Always have.”

  Kruger suddenly realized Randolph Bishop claimed his first victim a long time ago. His brother’s marriage. Finally, he gave her a sad smile. “We’ll probably never know why Paul took the blame for his brother.”

  She smiled back at Kruger. “I know. All Paul ever wanted in life was for his brother to love him. All Randolph did was to constantly forget about Paul. It’s that simple, Agent Kruger.”

  Kruger was silent for several moments and then just nodded.

  Part Two

  Present Day

  Chapter 4

  Bangkok, Thailand

  The Glock’s barrel pressed hard against the Vietnamese man’s forehead, leaving a discernible impression on the skin.

  “Are you lying to me?”

  “No, no, no, device inside suitcase, I place in plane like you say.” He stared at the taller man, eyes blinking rapidly, his back to the wall of the tiny apartment’s living area. The room was sparsely furnished and smelled of body odor, spoiled seafood, and urine.

  “Why is the plane still flying?

  The smaller man eyes widened. “I not know.”

  “You’re lying.”

  “Not lying, earn money.”

  Randolph Bishop lowered the gun and stepped back. The man in front of him relaxed slightly, but kept his eyes on the Glock. Bishop asked, “Okay, exactly what did you do?”

  “Like you told me, I wait until last minute to put bag on board. I shut baggage department door. Plane taxied away from terminal fifteen minutes later. No problems, all good.”

  He smiled slightly, still nervous.

  Bishop looked at the man. “It’s been almost four hours and there’s no reports about the plane disappearing. Can you explain that?”

  The smaller man shrugged, still staring at the Glock. “Maybe device not work.”

  “You’d better hope it worked.”

  “You pay rest of money now?” The baggage handler raised his eyebrows and grinned, displaying numerous missing teeth.

  “No, not until I hear the plane went down. Then you’ll get your money.”

  “I did what you ask. Not my fault device not work.”

  Bishop shook his head, raised the Glock, and shot the man in the chest. The Vietnamese man’s eyes grew wide as he stared down at the blossom of red on his right breast. Eyes still wide, he looked up at Bishop as he slid down the wall to the floor. Bishop walked over to where the man sat and looked down with no emotion. The man on the floor stared up at Bishop.

  “No, I don’t suppose it would be your fault the device didn’t work. But I don’t want you discussing it with the authorities.”

  He raised the Glock again and aimed it at the now sobbing man’s forehead. He shook his head and pulled the trigger. The sobbing stopped.

  Looking around, Bishop found the two ejected brass casings and put them in his pant pocket. The dingy apartment only contained two rooms; it took only a few minutes to find what he was looking for. Hidden in a metal box buried under folded clothes in a foot locker, Bishop found the money. Thumbing the stack of bills, he determined it was all there except for a few hundred dollars.

  Bishop glanced around to make sure nothing incriminating was left. Satisfied, he walked out of the apartment and shut the door behind him. No one opened their door as he walked down the hall. Neighbors knew not to be curious or react to gunshots in their building.

  Outside in front of the baggage handler’s apartment building, he looked up and down the crowded street. It was a shabby part of a modern, but ancient city. A part seen by few of the city’s visitors. Private conversations were held in shadowy corners as street vendors hustled their wares and money exchanged hands for illicit goods or services. The din of activity made it hard to concentrate as Bishop walked west away from the baggage handler’s apartment.

  Several blocks later, the side street ended. He stood on the corner of a busy thoroughfare, looking for one of the thousands of taxis populating the city. He flagged one down. As he shut the door, he said in Thai, “No meter,” and handed the driver a crisp United States hundred dollar bill. The driver’s eyes widened and he smiled as the taxi pulled away from the curb.

  “Destination?” asked the driver in heavily accented English.

  Bishop gave him an address, then sat back as the driver negotiated the incessant Bangkok traffic. As the taxi crawled along, Bishop took a passport out of his inside jacket pocket. He opened it and stared at the name and picture: Everett Stewart from Sydney, Australia. The
man was in his fifties, heavy set, with gray hair.

  ***

  “How much to make changes to the passport?”

  Arane, the only name Bishop knew for the forger, looked up from the magnifying glass. The passport, given to him by Bishop, was in his hand directly under the glass. The man’s English was clipped with a heavy accent. “Ten thousand, US dollars.” He smiled and stared at Bishop.

  Bishop shook his head. “Too much, six.”

  Still smiling, Arane shrugged and handed the passport back to Bishop. “No can do. Take elsewhere.”

  Bishop folded his arms across his chest. “Seven.”

  Arane still held the passport, but pulled it back closer to his body. “Maybe eight, no less.”

  Bishop nodded. “How long before it’s done?”

  “I take picture now, you come back tomorrow.”

  Shaking his head, Bishop’s eyes narrowed. “I’ll wait.”

  The artist shrugged. “Could take hours.”

  “I’ll wait.”

  “You steal passport?”

  “The man’s dead, Arane. Don’t ask questions.”

  “I not care, just curious.”

  “It’s not healthy to be curious.”

  Arane nodded, turned, and disappeared behind a curtain covering a door frame. A moment later he reappeared with a digital camera on a tripod, which he placed in front of a blue sheet hanging on a wall.

  “Step over there, smile big.” He pointed toward the sheet and Bishop complied, but did not smile. When the picture was taken, Arane connected the camera to a laptop on a cluttered desk. He opened the laptop and started.

  As Bishop sat down in a chair and watched the man, his thoughts wandered back to how he obtained the passport.

  Everett Stewart was waiting outside the gate for Malaysia Airline Flight 24, destination Sydney. At Stewart’s feet sat a backpack with the man’s passport and boarding pass half exposed in one of the pockets. Handy to get when his flight was called, but also easy to steal. Bishop nonchalantly sat next to the snoozing man and waited several minutes to make sure the man did not wake. He then bent over and pretended to tie his shoe. With one swift move, he switched his own passport and boarding pass for Stewart’s.