by J. C. Fields
“Well, you’re awake for a change. Good.” The intruder used his foot to slide a box sitting on the floor just outside the door into Stephen’s room.
“I’m going away for a few days. I went to a Costco this morning and bought food. It will have to last you while I’m gone. There’s a bag of apples, two loafs of bread and a large jar of peanut butter. I was gracious and provided a spoon for your peanut butter. I didn’t feel scooping it out with your fingers would be dignified.” Bishop chuckled.
Blair stared at the intruder, but remained quiet.
“I forgot to tell you about this past week. It seems, if you have the right documents, you can get a legitimate driver’s license in anyone’s name.” Bishop reached into his pocket and withdrew a laminated card. He held it so Stephen could see it. “It seems you haven’t had a driver’s license in a while. I had to take a test, but that wasn’t too hard. Now I’m officially Stephen Blair. Not sure who that makes you.” Bishop smiled, and his eyes bore into Blair.
“One other piece of news. A private equity company purchased your shares of the company. The funds were transferred to an account I set up specifically to receive them. Did you know your buddy Thomas Zimmerman was plotting to have you declared incompetent and steal your company?”
Blair did not respond.
“I didn’t think so. Thomas has paid for his treachery with his life. Isn’t that the punishment for treason, Stephen? Death. I find it a fitting punishment. Don’t you, Stephen?”
Blair continued to stare blankly at Bishop. He heard the words, but their meaning eluded him. The coding didn’t stop as he listened to the man standing in the door of his room.
Bishop walked over to look closer at Blair. He bent down, stared into the blank eyes of his captive.
“Are you in there Stephen? Knock, knock.”
The man’s expression didn’t change. Bishop straightened, snorted and walked out of the room.
After the door closed and the lock engaged, Blair continued to stare at it. After an hour, he slowly focused on the box containing the apples and bread. He made no effort to reach for an apple; he did not have the strength or desire to eat. After several hours, he lost the ability to focus. As his eyes remained on the food, the coding stopped in his head and his heart beat for the last time. His now lifeless body did not move, his unseeing eyes still pointed at the fruit.
***
Only Kruger and JR occupied the conference room on the second floor of JR’s building. It was late morning, and Sandy Knoll and his team were now in the air, flying to their home base in Dallas. On the numerous flat screen TVs, in the computer room, various cable news stations were discussing the recent discovery, by an FBI swat team, of a trove of weaponry at a junior accountant’s home. The talking heads were telling their audience a fictional account of how the young accountant’s plans to attack a movie theater were discovered.
Kruger ignored the TV screens and concentrated on what JR was telling him.
JR studied his laptop, his fingers dancing over the keys like a maestro on a piano. He stopped typing and looked up at Kruger. “Found something.”
“What?”
“Thomas Zimmerman was a vice president at a software company founded by an old college acquaintance of mine, Stephen Blair.”
Kruger remained silent, knowing JR loved to stretch out his explanations.
“I met Stephen my sophomore year. We had numerous classes together but were never, what I would call, close friends.”
“Why?”
“Stephen had an issue with being around people. I’m not even sure he knew who I was. He always sat in the back of the room and was never very vocal. I later found out he took meds to cope with the stress he was feeling. But he wrote eloquent code. I remember one routine he wrote for routers that was so concise and tight, it made me look like an amateur.”
“Are you saying he was better than you?”
“Definitely better.” JR nodded rapidly. “Coding was his passion. I was more interested in the practical side, concentrating on how to make code better and how to keep others out. Stephen didn’t care about security; he just loved to write code. After college, he started a software company with his father. Last I knew, he had a mental breakdown and turned the day to day operations of the company over to his dad. I haven’t heard anything about him since then.”
Kruger frowned. “What does this have to do with Thomas Zimmerman?”
“According to the company website, Thomas Zimmerman took over the company as COO when Stephen’s father passed away five years ago.”
“Is this Stephen Blair active in the business?”
“Not sure, the website lists him as CEO and majority stock holder, but doesn’t mention involvement.” JR’s fingers started typing again. He frowned. “Uh oh.”
“What? What?”
“The day before Thomas Zimmerman’s death, all of Blair’s stock was sold to a private equity company. You know how I feel about those guys.”
“I share your feelings,” Kruger nodded. “What does the sale have to do with Zimmerman’s death and Randolph Bishop?”
Shaking his head, JR remained quiet.
Kruger stood and started pacing. “We’re missing something, JR. I spoke to Tom Stark earlier. Their investigation is leaning toward the attack being against Judith Day. Zimmerman may have been collateral damage. Sort of in the wrong place at the wrong time. She was a clinical psychologist, and they feel she ran into Bishop because of her occupation.”
“At least that makes sense. But I can’t get past the timing of the stock sale and Zimmerman’s death.”
“It bothers me too, JR. Can you find any references to Stephen’s mental health?”
JR held up an index finger. “Hold on.”
Several minutes pasted as Kruger paced and JR typed. Finally, JR stopped and sat back. “I found the Facebook page of a vice president at Blair’s company. She references Stephen’s sudden appearance at the firm after fifteen years of absence. He announced the sale of his shares to a hastily arranged meeting in a conference room and then promptly left. No explanation or reason. This woman described Stephen as cold and aloof, and he refused to even discuss the matter with them.”
Kruger sat down and stared at JR. “I know Zimmerman and Judith Day were killed by Bishop. There are too many similarities. Stark said he doesn’t have the results back from the DNA analysis and would call when they do. But, if it wasn’t Bishop, we have to consider Blair a person of interest.”
“I would agree with you.”
“There is only one issue with it, Blair has an alibi.”
JR looked up from the computer. “How so.”
“Seems he flew to Miami the afternoon before the murders.”
“Who told you that?”
“Stark. They wanted to question Blair, but no one was home at his estate. They found a ticket and boarding pass in his name on a 2 p.m. Delta flight into Miami.”
JR frowned. “Convenient.”
Kruger didn’t say anything for a moment. “Is there a way to find Blair?”
“No. He doesn’t have an internet presence. Hasn’t for at least fifteen years.”
“What do you mean, doesn’t have an internet presence?
“I mean what I said. No email, no social media, no website, nothing. He doesn’t exist on the web and from what I can tell, he doesn’t own a cell phone. At least not one I can find. But that’s a meaningless statement since there are lots of ways to have a cell phone without using a major carrier.”
Kruger sighed. “We aren’t going to find him that way, are we?
JR shook his head. “Not at the moment.”
“Keep looking. What else do you have?”
Sliding a thumb drive across the table, JR said, “Look these over.”
Nodding, Kruger palmed the drive and placed it in his jeans pocket.
Chapter 18
Springfield, MO
Kruger’s cell phone chirped. After glancing at the caller I
D, he swiped the screen and answered the call. “Kruger.”
“Sean, it’s Tom Stark.”
“Sorry about the phone tag. You called earlier.”
“Yeah, I wanted give you an up-to-date on the Zimmerman and Day murders.”
“Did you get the DNA back?”
“Yeah.”
“Bishop?”
“Positive match with the DNA found at the St. Louis murders. The same guy did Judith Day.” Kruger didn’t respond. Currently at his desk in his home office, he stood and started pacing while listening. Tom Stark continued, “Before we knew it was Bishop, we were looking at Stephen Blair.”
“Anything unusual?”
“We met him at the gate on his return flight from Miami. Funny thing, he didn’t get indignant or seemed surprised to see us. After giving us a summary of his activities in Miami, we followed up.”
“And?”
“He said he was meeting with investors.”
“Was he?”
“Miami field office dispatched a couple of agents to interview several of the ones he told us about and confirmed he was there. But…”
“What?”
“Before we let him go, we checked with the hotel to confirm he there. There’s a twelve-hour gap from when the plane landed and he checked into the hotel.”
“Did he give you an explanation?”
“Kind of. Apparently, he was picked up at the airport and wined and dined until 3 in the morning. The hotel shows he checked in at 4 a.m.”
“Huh.”
“Now with the DNA confirming Bishop did the murders, we’ve cleared Blair.”
“Only thing you can do, Tom. Good work on this. One other thing, how was Blair’s demeanor?”
“What do you mean?”
“Oh, I don’t know, was he nervous?”
“No, not really. Like I said earlier, he didn’t seem surprised to see us. Almost like he was expecting something. He answered our questions, joked around a little, but he wasn’t nervous. Why?”
“Nothing, just curious. Keep me up to speed, Tom.”
“Will do, Sean.”
Kruger ended the call and stopped pacing. There was nothing unusual about the twelve-hour gap and it wasn’t a crime to check into a hotel at 4 a.m. But something about it gnawed at the back of Kruger’s conscious. He sat down at his computer and pulled up Google Maps.
***
“It takes ten hours to drive from Atlanta to South Beach in Miami. Zimmerman and Day were killed between four and six in the afternoon. Blair checks into the hotel at 4 a.m. the next day. Bishop’s DNA is found at the scene of the murders, clearing Blair of the crime. So, why does the ten-hour gap bother me, JR?” Kruger was standing on his back deck with the cell phone pressed to his ear and a beer in his other hand.
“It could be a coincidence.” JR’s reply was without enthusiasm.
“Right.”
“Or, like he told the FBI in Atlanta, he was partying.”
“I’m not buying it.” Kruger shook his head. “You told me Blair had a mental breakdown and isolated himself from the world for almost fifteen years. Now, all of a sudden, he’s making trips to South Beach to party and find investors. What’s wrong with this picture, JR?”
Silence was his answer.
“You know the guy, JR. Was he the partying type?”
“No.”
“If you take meds for a psychological problem, it’s because there’s a chemical imbalance within the brain. Most of those issues don’t go away. As a rule, they’re permanent.”
“Maybe he’s been in therapy and taking meds?”
“Judith Day was a therapist.”
JR was quiet for a few moments. “So you’ve said. But was she Stephen’s therapist?”
“How do we find out?”
“Not sure I want to hack into the records of a psychologist.”
“Why?”
“I do have some scruples left. Not much, but some.”
Kruger chuckled. “You have more ethics than you realize, my friend. I’ll handle the Judith Day inquiry.”
“Thanks.”
The conversation lagged for several seconds. “Bishop’s DNA at the murder scene and Blair’s sudden change in behavior is an inconsistency I don’t like. Something is askew.”
JR took a deep breath. “Sean, you’re talking about two different men. We may never know how Bishop and Judith Day crossed paths. Zimmerman being there was purely by chance. Stephen may have been under therapy for years and decided to re-join the world. Who knows? Are you seeing relationships that don’t exist?”
Lapsing into silence again, Kruger stared out across his back yard with the cell phone still pressed against his ear. “Maybe.”
“You’re not going to let it go are you?”
“Probably not. But I have to for now. Too many other projects need attention.”
The call ended two minutes later. Kruger took a deep breath and looked up at the night sky as he returned his cell phone to his jeans pocket. He stood like that for several minutes until he heard the door to the deck open. He turned and saw Stephanie step out of the house.
“Saw you were off the phone. Kristin’s asleep. Thought you might like some company.”
He reached for her as she approached. He put his arms around her and kissed the top of her head. She smelled of jasmine. “You haven’t worn that fragrance in a long time.”
She looked up at him and smiled. “Nope.” She wore one of his OU sweat shirts and no jeans. As he hugged her, he didn’t feel the outline of a bra underneath the shirt.
“You’re not wearing anything under there are you?”
“Nope.” She reached up and pulled his head toward her. They kissed and went inside.
***
Kruger’s arm was wrapped around Stephanie’s shoulder as her head lay on his chest. He could feel her slow rhythmic breathing, a sign she was asleep. As he started to move his arm he heard. “Don’t, I’m awake.”
“Thought you were asleep.”
“Just dozing.” She snuggled closer as he hugged her tighter. They both were silent, enjoying the moment. “Are you going to Atlanta to follow up on Judith Day?”
“I’m thinking about it. Why?”
“I want to go with you.”
Kruger was silent for several moments. “Any particular reason?”
He felt her head nod.
“Want to tell me?”
“You’ll think it’s silly.”
“Probably not.”
“I love being a mother. Having Kristin around has lifted my spirits more than I ever imagined…”
“Uh-oh. There’s a ‘however’ in there somewhere.”
She poked him in the rib with her index finger. “Hush, I was getting to the point. I miss being around adults.”
“If you want to go back to work, I’m not stopping you.”
“No, I don’t miss my old job. Glad those days are behind me.”
He stayed silent.
“I miss being around individuals with a shared purpose.”
“Stephanie, I’m not sure how going to Atlanta to investigate a brutal murder is going to help you be around individuals with a shared purpose.”
“I’m not either. But I want to go.”
“No shopping.”
“Wasn’t planning on it.”
Kruger chuckled and kissed her. “I’ll book our flight tomorrow.”
“Mia wants Kristin to stay with them while we’re gone. She hasn’t told JR yet, but she’s pregnant.”
“What?”
She nodded.
“Oh boy. Watching JR become a father is going to be interesting.”
***
Randolph Bishop sat in a leather wing chair facing the unlit fireplace that graced one wall of Stephen Blair’s library. He sipped on the single malt scotch in the lowball glass in his hand. The presence of the FBI at the gate on his return to Atlanta from Miami had been expected. Satisfied with how he answered their questions, he
once again went over the sequence of events after leaving Zimmerman’s condo.
The drive to Miami in the rented Camry took ten hours. Everett Stewart rented the car, and since no one knew about Everett Stewart, he doubted it would be traced. After checking into a luxury motel room in South Beach as Stephen Blair, he spent the rest of his stay sampling the local cuisine and trendy nightclubs of the area.
Using his new found status as a multimillionaire, he visited several exclusive investment companies. The purpose was not to invest with them, but to learn how to approach rich investors and take their money.
After three days, he returned the Camry to the Hertz counter at Miami International Airport and used the return ticket to fly back to Atlanta. He had no idea where the man who used his boarding pass on the first leg of his Miami trip was, nor did he care.
The questioning by the fools from the FBI lasted longer than he anticipated, but he kept his cool and answered everything they asked.
When Randolph Bishop returned to Blair’s home and walked into the house from the garage, he knew immediately his problem in the basement was resolved. He grabbed a towel from the kitchen, held it under the faucet until it was wet, and hurried toward the stair case leading down to the basement.
He took the steps two at a time to where the bedroom holding Stephen Blair was located. The stench of death grew stronger as he reached the room’s door. Placing the wet towel over his nose and mouth, he unlocked the door and peered inside. The putrid odor washed over him. It was a smell he grew accustomed to in Thailand. Blair’s body remained in the same position as the last time he saw him, but the eyes were dull and lifeless.
His last problem was solved. All the individuals who could possibly suspect he wasn’t Stephen were dead. Dead men tell no tales.
Now three days later, the body was disposed of, the stench gone, and Randolph Bishop was the only person on the face of the earth who knew he wasn’t Stephen Blair. Things were working out better than planned.
After another sip of the scotch, he smiled. Time to initiate the real purpose of his return to the United States.
