Stolen Identity

by Michael W. Sherer

  “Congratulations, Preston,” Miss Williams said. “Mr. Samara told me he has some paperwork in the principal’s office he needs to fill out to make it official, but the trip is yours. You did a great job. All of you, in fact, did a terrific job.”

  Mr. Samara leaned over and said something to Miss Williams. She nodded and motioned to Preston. He hesitated, then got up and went to the front of the class.

  “Mr. Samara said he needs your help, Preston,” Miss Williams said. “Why don’t you go with him to Principal Johnson’s office? That way he won’t get lost.”

  Mr. Samara smiled at the comment, and Preston nodded.

  “I can take him,” he said.

  Out in the hallway, Preston led the way, a step or two ahead of the White House envoy.

  “Are you excited about the trip?” Mr. Samara asked.

  Preston’s head nodded like a bobble-head. “I’ve been waiting for this for so long it seems like forever.”

  “Before we do boring stuff like fill out papers would you like to see the limousine you’ll be riding in to go to the airport?”

  Preston couldn’t believe his ears. “Me? You mean that big car out front?”

  “That’s the one,” the man said.

  “Could I? I mean you’re sure it’d be okay?”

  “Of course. What’s the harm in taking a few minutes to look before we fill out forms?”

  Preston happily continued straight down the hall instead of turning into the corridor toward the principal’s office. In a matter of seconds they emerged into the sunshine and Preston practically danced down the steps toward the long, sleek black car. Mr. Samara took several long steps to get ahead of him, and made a show of opening the rear door so Preston could climb in.

  “Take a look,” Mr. Samara said.

  Preston slid into the soft leather back seat, his eyes widening at the sight of the walnut trim, the leather settee along one side of the car, the beautiful crystal glasses on the small bar, their facets reflecting rainbows in the sunlight shining in the open sunroof. The darkened window dividing the passenger compartment from the driver’s seat opened halfway, and Mr. Samara peered at him through the opening.

  “Let’s take a spin, shall we?” he said. “Fasten your seat belt, Preston.”

  Preston heard the doors lock with a chunk as the driver steered the limo away from the curb.

  30

  Roberts walked the two blocks from her hotel in downtown Detroit to the nondescript concrete and glass tower that housed the US Attorney’s offices, trying to shake off the effects of too little sleep. The only aspect of the hot, caffeinated beverage she carried that helped in that regard was the price. Sticker shock had opened her eyes, and now she waited for the effects of the coffee to work their magic on her brain. She picked up her pace, wanting to get in to see Douglas Keator before his day got too hectic. It was still relatively early—for bankers, maybe—but she felt confident he’d be in.

  A receptionist stood guard in the foyer on the 20th floor. Roberts showed her ID and told her she wanted to see Douglas Keator. The receptionist politely asked her to take a seat while she checked to see if Mr. Keator was in. Roberts preferred standing, but moved over to an alcove with comfortable seating and a table covered by magazines. She idly scanned the covers while listening to the receptionist announce Roberts’s presence into the phone. Less than two minutes later a trim, dark-haired man in a suit hurried into the foyer with a quizzical frown. With a nod from the receptionist, he angled toward Roberts. She was surprised by how young he looked despite a heavy beard that would turn to five o’clock shadow later in the day.

  “Doug Keator,” he said as he approached. “You wanted to see me?”

  She put out her hand. “Special Agent Jenny Roberts. I’m sorry to bother you at work, but wondered if I could ask you a few questions.”

  “Can I ask what this is about?”

  “It’d be better if we spoke in your office.”

  “All right,” he said slowly, turning to lead the way to his office. “You’re not Detroit.”

  “No, sir. I’m based out of Washington.” She chuckled softly.

  Keator glanced over his shoulder, his frown deeper. “Something funny in that?”

  She felt warm with sudden self-consciousness. “Sorry. The irony just hit me. I don’t seem to be in D.C. much.”

  He stopped and motioned to an open door. Roberts entered and headed for a chair in front of the desk. She waited until Keator rounded it and sat down before taking her own seat.

  “Have you heard from your father lately?” Roberts said.

  “My father?” Keator’s brows knitted. “I talked to him yesterday.”

  “About anything in particular?”

  “I asked him if he’d pick up my son from school. My wife had a doctor’s appointment.”

  “And he did?”

  “Of course. What’s this about?”

  “Bear with me, please, Mr. Keator. Tell me what happened yesterday.”

  She saw the flash of irritation cross his face like a bolt of lightning, but he replied calmly.

  “I called him, I don’t know, mid-morning after my wife reminded me of her appointment. He said he’d take care of picking up Preston and asked if he should take him to the park or something. I said that would be fine. He even asked if he should take him somewhere for dinner. I told him he could take Preston home for dinner.”

  “And he did what you asked?”

  “Yeah. Sure. Of course he did. Preston was there when I got home from work. My wife said he had a great time at the park, and my dad brought him home in time for dinner.”

  “And your father sounded normal when you spoke with him?”

  “Yes, I told you.” He ran his fingers through his hair, agitated. “Why are you asking about my father? Has he done something?”

  “You know I can’t tell you that. Let’s just say his name came up in an investigation, so we’re checking all the facts.”

  “What investigation? Why would my father’s name come up in an FBI investigation? You’re part of that fly team that came in yesterday. Some special op. What the hell’s going on?”

  “Take it easy, Mr. Keator.” She waited until he took a couple of deep breaths. “You know how the game is played. I wish I could tell you what we’re working on, but I can’t. So, please, just answer my questions and I’ll get out of your hair.”

  His jaw clenched, but he gave a short nod for her to continue.

  “Okay, so he sounded normal, and he took your son to the park yesterday. How about in general? How has he acted recently?”

  “How has he…? Look, we’re not exactly close, but I try to include him in family barbecues and stuff. So he can be part of my kids’ lives. He wasn’t all that present when I was growing up, and I didn’t think he should miss it again. He’s the same as he’s always been.”

  “No changes then? Nothing in the way he’s acted, or his mood?”

  “No. For God’s sake, I don’t know what you want, but I can tell you you’ve made some mistake. My father doesn’t have a criminal bone in his body.”

  “Has he ever been violent?”

  “What? No. Well, not since….”

  He paused as some memory bubbled to the surface making him look up at the corner of the room over her shoulder for an instant.

  “Not since…?”

  “Dad was a grunt in Vietnam. He never talked about the war much, but I found out later he earned a couple of medals for his service. Anyway, when he came home he was fine, according to my mom, but all the protests made him angry. I remember some of that—shouting, arguments, that sort of thing—from when I was pretty little.”

  As Roberts watched his expression, he seemed to get lost in the memory for a moment. Then he focused on her face again.

  “But he never got physically violent,” he said hurriedly. “Like, he never hit my mom or anything. Or us. But it took a few years for him to get over it. By then I think he and my mother had b
oth decided they’d be better off divorced.”

  Roberts cocked her head. “And nothing since then?”

  He slowly turned his head side-to-side once. “No. Actually, he mellowed a lot when he met Susan. I didn’t see much of him, but when I did he always seemed to be happy. Until she died.”

  “I’m sorry to hear it,” Roberts said quietly. She remembered the property search she’d done. “Susan—your step-mom… That was Susan Alquist?”

  He nodded. “She wasn’t exactly my step-mom. I mean, we never spent time there.”

  “Do you know where he is? We’d like to speak with him.”

  “I assume he’s at home. If not, did you try finding him at work?”

  Roberts sighed. As she’d thought, this was going nowhere. Keator had confirmed almost all of her initial impressions of the man whose house they’d raided. They had the wrong guy, she was sure of it. But now with the senior Keator in the wind, they couldn’t put it to bed. She tried to think if there were any other questions she should ask when Keator’s phone rang.

  He held up a finger and grabbed the phone with his other hand.

  “Doug Keator. …Wait, what? …When? …Oh, my God. You don’t know…. Okay, I’ll get there as soon as I can.”

  His hand shook as he hung up the phone, and the blood had drained from his face.

  “What happened?” Roberts said.

  “They took my son. Someone kidnapped Preston. I have to go.”

  He walked around the desk to a coat tree near the door and shoved one arm into a trench coat.

  “Wait,” she said. “Who kidnapped your son? Who was that?”

  “Ann Arbor PD. They’re at my house. I have to go. Please.”

  Stunned, she stood and nodded. “Of course. I understand.”

  As he rushed out, Roberts didn’t think she’d ever seen a face as desperate and forlorn as his.

  31

  Slamming the now sore hand on the wheel again, I swore obscenities at the top of my lungs. I tromped on the gas pedal, pulled out and passed an old fart in an ancient pick-up truck. In seconds the heavy Crown Vic was back up to ninety on the country two-lane. Relief was short-lived when a T-junction loomed in the windshield. I lost precious seconds at the intersection waiting for cross-traffic, the sedan tailing me gaining a quarter of a mile before I turned left onto another county road and floored it again. Within a mile or so I came up behind a line of slow-pokes, and I watched the rearview mirror nervously for the sedan.

  I nosed out over the centerline, hoping to pass, but oncoming traffic didn’t allow enough room. As I waited for a semi-trailer and a train of cars behind it to pass in the other direction, the sedan quickly gained on me, the sight twisting my stomach in knots. I nosed out again when the last of the oncoming cars streamed by, judged the opening just large enough and pulled around to pass just as the beige sedan came up fast on my rear. The big 4.6-liter V8 engine in the Crown Vic strained with the effort as I accelerated past one, two, three cars. But with one more car to go, the gap between me and oncoming traffic closed fast. I pressed more weight onto the accelerator, as if pushing it through the floor would improve the car’s acceleration specs, sent up a silent prayer, and watched the car on my right from the corner of my eye as an oncoming truck bore down on me.

  The car I “borrowed” drove the quarter-mile faster than any other model year in the Crown Vic Police Interceptor line, putting out 250 horsepower at 4900 rpm. Right then I would have given eyeteeth to trade it in for the new Dodge Charger Pursuit the state trooper had been driving. The Dodge produced 292 horsepower from a V6 three-quarters the size of the Crown Vic’s V8, got to 60 mph from a standing start more than a second faster, and had a top end of 160 mph versus the old Ford’s 140 mph.

  The trucker laid on his horn as if he thought I needed waking up. I gritted my teeth, counted to three and cut for the empty lane just before an image of a raised finger and an angry face in the cab of the oncoming truck flashed in my vision as it barreled past.

  The Crown Vic steadily moved out in front of the pack, and I nervously watched the rearview mirror for a sign of the beige sedan pulling out to pass. The driver might have been able to make out the numbers on my plate before I’d made a break for it. I hadn’t been able to see the driver’s face through the glare on his windshield, but the fact he’d come after me said I had one more thing to worry about.

  Soon, far enough ahead that the parade behind me vanished, I turned off the highway onto another county road and worked my way south and east for a while, turning often to throw pursuers off the scent. I should have dumped the Crown Vic and gotten another car, but I couldn’t take the time to scout a car to steal, let alone the chance of getting caught.

  The autumn countryside rolled by, weathered stubble of harvested fields turned the color of dust by the sun, trees bursting into flames of yellow, red and orange. I drove cautiously now, keeping the big car under the speed limit, and obeying traffic signals and signs in the small towns I rolled through. After an hour or so with no sign of anyone on my trail, the tightness in my shoulders eased. I had a long way to go, but I started to believe I might actually make it.

  I stopped at a Walmart in the next large town and parked in the back of the lot. Inside, I bought half a dozen cell phones. When the checkout clerk gave me a funny look, I muttered something about Christmas presents and a big family. Back in the car, I unwrapped one, plugged it into the cigarette lighter, and called my house. The answering machine picked up after four rings. I punched in my security code and the machine told me I had two messages. I listened to the first. Dickie’s voice told me to call, so I did.

  “Where are you?” he said as soon as he picked up.

  “You really want to know?” I replied.

  “I can find out pretty easily, you know.”

  “Hell, you probably have me on a satellite video feed right now. I’m smack in the middle of Ohio. Why?”

  “CBP has you crossing the border into Mexico two days ago and coming back yesterday morning.”

  I shook my head as if he sat in the car next to me. “Wasn’t me.”

  “Question is, who’s using your name and why?”

  “You’re the one with all the answers.”

  His voice turned serious. “Can’t say for certain, but there’ve been rumblings about a major terrorist action for a while now.”

  “Aw, c’mon, Dickie. What the fuck do my stolen credit cards have to do with some terrorist bullshit?”

  “I don’t know yet. Maybe nothing. Maybe everything. Here’s what I do know. An FBI fly team went out of D.C. yesterday headed for Detroit. Still checking, but it looks like that’s the team that hit your house.”

  “Why? What’s the FBI want with me? And why a black op, Dickie?”

  “I don’t think it’s you they want. I think they fucked up. They wanted the guy who stole your identity. The guy who slipped across the border from Mexico yesterday.”

  “Who is he?”

  “No clue, but I could make some educated guesses.”

  “Enlighten me. A terrorist threat, you said.”

  “Maybe.” He paused. “Let me do a little more digging. It may be nothing more than some guy doing a Jimmy Buffett on your good credit. But if it’s what I think it is, you’re not the only one with problems.”

  “Easy for you to say. I nearly killed two people so far this morning, Dickie. Both of them white hats. And now I’m running for my life.”

  “Call me back in an hour. I’ll see what I can do. In the meantime, don’t trust anyone. Not everyone wearing a white hat is a good guy these days.”

  He clicked off before I could ask him what he meant.

  Using another phone, I called my house again to pick up the other message on the answering machine.

  “Dad? It’s Doug.” His voice hadn’t sounded that tentative and fearful since he was ten. The sound of it turned my heart to ice. “Dad, they took Preston. Grabbed him at school. I don’t know what to do. The FBI just s
howed up, so I gotta go. If you see him or hear from him, call me on my cell phone, okay? Day or night.”

  Preston kidnapped? And Doug hadn’t needed me since I’d left his mother. Suddenly, it didn’t matter who was after me. I dialed his cell. He picked up on the first ring.

  “Doug? Dad. What the hell’s going on? What do you mean someone took Preston?”

  “Where are you?” he said, his fierce whisper taking me aback.

  “What difference does that make? What about Preston?”

  “You’re not at home.” He spoke quietly, as if to keep from being overheard. “Or work. The FBI is looking for you. You tell me what the hell’s going on! What are you mixed up in?”

  “Nothing. I’ve done nothing wrong.”

  “Why are they asking about you? Do they think you might have had something to do with Preston’s disappearance?”

  “Doug, we’ve had our differences, but I promise you I would never harm a hair on that kid’s head. And I don’t know where he is. What happened?”

  “We’re still trying to sort that out.” He sounded less sure of himself now. “Someone took him from school. I don’t know much more than that yet. The FBI just showed up here at the house. A special agent was about to tell me what happened.”

  “I don’t know what to say. Of course I’ll call if I hear from him.” I paused. “I don’t know why the FBI wants to talk to me. But I promise you, it’s got nothing to do with Preston.”

  “Yeah, okay.” The dejection in his voice stabbed me in the heart. “Look, I have to go. What should I tell the feds?”

  “What did I always tell you, kiddo? Stick to the truth.”

  He didn’t reply.

  32

  Doug had never been so afraid in his life. Not for himself. He feared for his son, and for Sally. A portion of his rational mind noted that this was what love must be all about. Putting aside the selfish for the selfless. Which was why he forced the fear aside and directed the rest of his thoughts toward a solution to getting Preston back.