Stolen Identity

by Michael W. Sherer

  He’d driven home like a bat out of hell, calling his dad from his car. And when he’d pulled into the drive on screeching tires, Ann Arbor cops had greeted him in force and tried to get him to calm down. They’d responded to the 9-1-1 call from Preston’s school, and had come to the house and knocked on the door to ask Sally if perhaps someone had brought him home. She’d shrieked in panic and fear, nearly fainting, according to the cops. So they’d called in the FBI.

  The conversation with his father finished, Doug put away his cell phone as he stepped back into the living room from the hallway outside the kitchen. The FBI agents who had just showed up turned his home into a hive of activity, two setting up recording equipment on the land line phone while another pair interviewed Sally, a fifth walked the perimeter of the property, and a sixth, named Jensen, waited patiently for him to get off the phone. The two uniform cops that first responded to Sally’s call stood on the front stoop, thumbs hooked in their belts, killing time. The rest of the Ann Arbor PD cops had gone back to their regular duties now that the cavalry had arrived.

  “My office, wondering what’s going on and when I’ll be in. I’m sorry about that.” Doug wasn’t sure why he lied to the waiting agent, but he something told him to give his dad the benefit of the doubt.

  “To be expected,” Jensen murmured. “I’m sure they’re in shock, like you. So, you were saying that you’d only been at the office a short while when you heard that your son had been kidnapped.”

  “Talking to another agent, as it happens.” Doug bit his tongue too late.

  Jensen’s ears perked up. “Oh?”

  Doug waved his hand. “Another matter. Work-related.”

  “You’re an assistant U.S. attorney, is that right? Is it possible your son was targeted because of one of your cases?”

  “Of course it’s possible,” he snapped. “We won’t know until we find out who took him, will we? Look, I know you’re trying to do your job, but I need to do mine. I need to get over to the school and find out what the hell happened.”

  “We’re interviewing staff and teachers at the school. We’ll do everything we can to bring your son back.”

  “I appreciate it, but I want to speak to them as well. I might get a different response than your agents.”

  “That’s not advisable,” Jensen said firmly. “I know you think you can conduct interviews in your capacity as a U.S. attorney, but you’re the parent of a boy who’s gone missing. Let us handle this.”

  Inwardly, Doug fumed, fingers clenching and unclenching at his sides. Through gritted teeth, he said. “I can’t help you if I don’t know what happened.”

  Jensen’s shoulders slumped. “I guess I’d feel the same if I was in your shoes. Limo showed up at your son’s school at eight-thirty-seven this morning. Driver stayed with the car while the lone passenger, a Mr. Daniel Samara, went into the administrative offices and presented himself as a White House representative, there to name a winner in a civics contest. The school had been expecting someone to call later in the day, not show up in person. But since Samara’s credentials were in order, he didn’t raise any suspicions.

  “Your son’s teacher was called to the office to meet Samara, and she escorted him to her classroom where he announced that your son had won the contest. Preston was supposed to go to the office with Samara to fill out some paperwork. They never got there. Apparently, they walked straight outside and into the limo.”

  Doug could barely contain his anger. “They let him leave his classroom with a perfect stranger?”

  Jensen sighed. “Preston’s teacher is a basket case over this. Probably never forgive herself. But she had no reason to think Samara was anything other than what he said he was. And before you ask, no, there’s no one at the White House named Samara. In fact, Samara’s probably not his real name. And yes, we’re checking security footage on cameras in the area to see if we can get a shot of the license plate of the limo, and we’re checking with local limo companies to see if we can find out who rented it.”

  “The guy actually had White House credentials?”

  Jensen tipped his head. “It raises a question or two.”

  Doug waited to see which train the agent was taking.

  “Someone just looking to grab a kid waits until a kid’s alone,” Jensen said softly. “This was a ballsy snatch. It took planning and inside information.”

  “You don’t think it was random, in other words.”

  Jensen shook his head. “Most often a family member is behind kidnappings like this. But in this case we don’t believe so. Ann Arbor PD already told us that school staff didn’t recognize the man. They know you and your family, right?”

  Doug’s thoughts immediately went to his father’s grumbling when he’d had to go to the school administration office to fill out forms, sign papers and consent to a background check in order to be allowed to collect Preston on occasion. The staff would definitely recognize him.

  “They would,” he said. Doug wondered if Sally knew or suspected his father had taken Preston, and a searing stab of guilt sliced through him. “So, someone getting back at me, maybe, because I put them away.”

  “There’s that,” Jensen agreed. “Or…”

  “Or what? What the hell else is there?” As Doug’s voice turned shrill, Sally glanced over at him. Doug lowered his voice. “What else could there be?”

  “Someone wants something,” Jensen said. “Quid pro quo. A trade—Preston for whatever it is they want.”

  “Okay, but what?”

  Jensen shrugged. “Like you said, we won’t know until they call.”

  33

  The Detroit field office had set aside a conference room for the fly team’s use. A white board on wheels stood against a wall, half-covered with notes and photos from the case, a DMV photo of Zane Keator centered at the top. As Roberts got off the elevator and looked through the plate glass wall separating the conference room from reception, the two agents who had worked the communications van overnight sat bleary-eyed in front of laptops, chasing down background information and leads, and Hunt peered at the board. He glanced up as she headed for the door, looking her over in that way he had, as if he was appraising a piece of art or a side of beef—she could never decide which—and turned back to the board.

  “So, you talked to him?” Hunt said as Roberts walked in.

  “Started to, anyway. Decent guy. Seems to have done well for himself. Reports to the head of the district’s national security unit, and apparently is one of their top prosecutors. Seemed shaken when I asked him if he knows where his father is. Wanted to know why we’re looking into him. Says his dad couldn’t be the guy we’re looking for. Pretty adamant about it. But we might have a different problem.”

  “What’s that?”

  “He got a call while we were talking. His son was kidnapped from school today. Keator left for home right away.”

  “What? Kidnapped? By whom? Couldn’t be our suspect, could it? Maybe grabbing a hostage to bargain with? And how come I’m just learning about this?”

  “Whoa, slow down. I’m still looking into it. Resident agency in Ann Arbor was just informed. They’re at AUSA Keator’s house setting up gear and filling in the kid’s parents. The local cops called and gave Keator the news. I don’t think Keator’s father was behind this, but I’ll find out in a bit.”

  “Why not?”

  “The way the AUSA talked about him. I’m telling you, Terry, this guy we rousted is not al-Qadir. He’s too normal.”

  Hunt’s face reddened, and the tendons in his neck stood out. “What he did this morning was not normal.”

  “We all look bad if this doesn’t turn out.”

  “At the very least, this son of a bitch is going to answer for what he did as well as answer some questions. You’ll finish up with the AUSA later?”

  “Assuming I’ve got time, of course.” She poured herself a cup of coffee from a thermos on the table, took a sip and grimaced. “Where’s Machowski?”<
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  “A garage where the suspect works. Apparently he stole a car.”

  “Uh, sir?” One of the tactical intelligence analysts pushed back from the table and swiveled toward Hunt. “Might have something here.”

  “Go on, Davis.”

  “Agent Machowski called in. Ohio State Patrol put out an APB on a car, same make and model as the one taken from the garage this morning. Driver matches the suspect’s description.”

  Hunt felt his pulse quicken. “Where and when?”

  “About eight miles south of Toledo, around seven-thirty this morning. Trooper pulled the car over for a broken taillight. Driver rammed the patrol car, injuring the officer, shot out the officer’s radio and computer, and took off.”

  “Is it the same guy or not?”

  “Patrolman didn’t have time to run the plate,” Davis said. “We don’t know for sure. State Patrol wants this guy bad. Report says he pulled the officer’s service weapon.”

  “He took a cop’s gun?” Color rose in Hunt’s face.

  Davis squirmed in his seat. “Well…yes and no. Witnesses say the guy threw it in a field after shooting out the cruiser’s communications.”

  “Sounds exactly like our guy,” Roberts said softly.

  “You think?” Hunt gave her a hard look.

  “I mean, you’re right,” she went on. “He’s not normal. But if this is Keator, this is twice that he’s been cornered, but has made a point of not killing an armed law enforcement officer.”

  “And maybe he’s just lucky it hasn’t gone that far,” Hunt said. “He’s put two people in the hospital. This guy is dangerous, and needs to be put behind bars.”

  “Dangerous, possibly. But put yourself in his shoes, Terry. We came in hot this morning. He didn’t know who the hell we were or what we wanted. If Keator really is al-Qadir, we would’ve had a bloodbath this morning. I think he’s running scared because he’s just a guy who got mixed up with somebody else.”

  Hunt gave his head a slow shake. “Whose side are you on, Roberts?”

  “The side we’re always supposed to be on—the side of truth.”

  “Hey, guys,” the other analyst called from across the table. “I hate to interrupt your lovers’ quarrel, but I got some more news that doesn’t look good.”

  Hunt whirled. “What?”

  “The name is Brown, sir. T.I.A. Brown.”

  Hunt waved at him impatiently.

  “Right. You don’t care….” The analyst flushed. “I searched the suspect’s name in several databases to see what might come up. CBP has a record of a Zane Keator crossing into Mexico from Arizona two days ago and returning yesterday.”

  “What the hell…?” Hunt muttered.

  “No way he could’ve—”

  Hunt cut Roberts off. “We’ll find out. Brown, check with the airlines. Find out if Zane Keator has gotten on a flight in the last seventy-two hours. And get me a passport or surveillance photo of the person who crossed over and back. Davis, get a highway map up on the board as soon as you can. Let’s see where this guy might be running.”

  He turned. “Roberts, get with Ann Arbor and find out about this kidnapping. I want to know for sure if our suspect is involved or not.”

  She frowned. “Timing isn’t right. If he was in the highway patrol incident down in Ohio, he was long gone before the kid was taken.”

  “He could have had an accomplice. At this point, I’m not ruling anything out, including the possibility that Keator really is al-Qadir and all the rest is smokescreen. See if you can nail down the son—Doug? Set up another interview with him as soon as you can. And let’s get Machowski back in here. I want a handle on this before it all gets away from us.”

  Roberts clenched her hand until her nails dug into her palm. No way she’d disobey orders, but she didn’t like where this op was headed. The bad feeling she’d had ever since getting on the plane to Detroit just kept getting worse.

  34

  Quiet countryside rolled by, and sunshine slanted through the windows, warming the car’s interior and adding to the weight of the exhaustion that threatened to crush my bones. I cracked my window an inch or two, a rush of crisp fall air quickly lowering the temperature and clearing some of the loginess from my brain.

  Thoughts of Preston filled my head, and the feel of his warm, moist little hand in mine, thick with callouses, was so palpable that I want to cry. I held it up in front of the windshield and examined it, crevices and whorls permanently darkened by grease that wouldn’t scrub clean, finger and wrist joints made knobby by arthritis from repetitive motions of holding and twisting small parts clockwise and counterclockwise. A slide show of memories of days like the one before flashed by—walking through a park, strolling downtown Ypsi in search of an ice cream cone, picnics in Doug and Sally’s back yard. With them came the realization that Doug’s little boy—my grandson, my flesh and blood—had probably saved my life on more than one occasion. That without Preston’s love and the chance to love him back, I might never have climbed out of the mire of depression brought on by Susan’s death.

  And those memories prompted thought of others who’d come into my life after Susan left it. A frequent attendee at the backyard barbecues was a woman named Janice from Doug’s office. Though Doug valued her as an associate and close friend, I think he and Sally had ulterior motives when they invited both Janice and me at the same time. And while nothing alike, we’d actually formed an easy friendship. She liked cars, and I liked the way her sharp, analytical mind worked.

  I dug out one of the phones out, called Doug’s office and asked to be connected to Janice.

  “Janice, it’s Zane Keator,” I said when she answered.

  The long pause made me uneasy. “You know, Doug’s dad?”

  “Of course, Zane,” she said. “I’m sorry. I’m a bit preoccupied this morning. This is quite a surprise. What can I do for you?”

  Heat that I couldn’t blame on the bright yellow orb beaming through the windshield rose into my face. She’d certainly given me subtle encouragement a few of the times we’d met.

  “I… I’m sorry to ask this, but…”

  “But what?”

  “Doug called me. Told me about Preston. Do you know what’s going on?”

  Again, she hesitated. “Just the basics, I’m afraid. I know Preston was abducted from school this morning.”

  “Doug thought I might have had something to do with it.”

  She didn’t react.

  “You knew. I—”

  “I have to go. Things are a little crazy around here right now.”

  “Janice, wait! I’m in trouble. Not because of Preston. Swear to God, I didn’t have anything to do with that. You have to believe me. Janice?” She didn’t reply, but she hadn’t hung up. I rushed on. “They raided my house last night, Janice. I don’t know who. FBI, maybe. A black op. No ID on their clothing. I definitely don’t know why. I need to know what’s going on. Can you help me?”

  “I know the FBI wants to talk to you. That’s all I know. I can’t help you.”

  “You hear things. You see the bigger picture.”

  Again, silence. I took the phone away from my ear to check reception, thinking I’d lost her.

  “Turn yourself in, Zane. If you didn’t do anything, you can straighten it out.”

  “They picked the lock on my front door and came in with suppressors on their weapons. Do you understand what that means?”

  “What have you done?” she murmured.

  “Nothing! That’s my point. They weren’t interested in talking when they broke into my house. They wanted to take someone out. But I’m not that guy. Please, Janice. Just see what you can find out. Then make up your mind.”

  The silence wasn’t as long this time. “All right. I’ll see what I can learn. Give me a few hours.”

  I let out the breath I was holding. “Thank you. Whatever this is, I’m going to try to fix it. But I don’t know who I’m up against. I really appreciate your help.�
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  “I can’t promise you anything, Zane. You know that. But I’ll do what I can.”

  “I know. Oh, and keep an eye on Doug, would you? He must be going through hell. I’ll call you in a few hours.”

  I knuckled one eye then the other, and rolled my head to work some of the kinks out. The fatigue settled deeper like a visiting aunt taking over a favorite easy chair. I shuffled the phones with one hand, trying to remember which one I’d used to call home. When I found it, I transferred it to the hand on the wheel and reached over for my combat knife. I notched the phone, set the knife down and called the answering machine. Only one call had come through. I played the message.

  “Mr. Keator, this is Ben Sturgis—Dr. Sturgis—at the V.A. I’d like to talk to you as soon as possible, but not over the phone. I’d like you to come in. I’ll make room in my schedule if you’ll give me a couple of times that would be convenient. The sooner the better. Give me a call. You have my card.”

  I deleted the message and tossed the phone aside. One more item to add to the list of troubles.

  35

  Al-Qadir watched the tall, slender woman step into The Lafayette’s light-filled interior flanked by a pair of athletically built men in suits and starched white dress shirts, their eyes scanning the nearly empty restaurant’s entire dining room. He felt their keen gaze tromp all over him, but his focus was on the woman. She wore her gray hair short in a utilitarian cut that looked as if it needed little but a comb-through with her fingers in the morning. It framed a surprisingly youthful face that belied her true age. Her charcoal tropical wool suit coat, worn over a white silk blouse and matching charcoal pencil skirt, accentuated rather than hid her figure.

  That his breath caught for a moment surprised him. It had been years since he’d spoken to Abigail Cartwright, let alone seen her. He’d looked forward to this meeting with great anticipation just to see how the years had treated her, but didn’t expect that her appearance would trigger that twinge of excitement she’d once generated in him. They’d met nearly forty years ago in a Cambridge coffee shop. Both students at Harvard, he’d been a philosophy major intent upon getting into the Divinity School. She’d been pre-law. Sparks had flown between them in more ways than one, but for whatever reason, neither had acted upon their physical attraction. In the end, it was better that way. They’d remained friends, a state of affairs unlikely to have occurred if they’d become romantically involved. Not after the abrupt change in course his life had taken midway through graduate school.