43
The swelling yowl of the sirens sent a shiver of excitement through Amir. To be so close, knowing that he had orchestrated their movements, made him feel more powerful than he’d ever been in his life. A quiver ran up his spine as the first patrol car slung around the corner on squealing tires and screeched to a stop. The second car followed in quick succession.
“We gotta go!” Fahrouk growled.
“They’re not interested in us,” Amir said. “They want to see if there really is a dead man in the house. More than that, they want to catch a killer in the act.”
The chase had gone on too long, and the direction Keator was heading would pull the attention of law enforcement agencies east with him. Amir wanted to end this now, before Keator could cause problems for al-Qadir’s plan.
“I’m telling you, man,” Fahrouk said, “we’re too close. They’ll spot us eventually, and wonder why we’re just sitting here.”
“Wait and watch. We’ll be fine.”
The two cops got out of their cars and ducked down behind their open doors, guns drawn and pointed at the front door of Jackson’s house. Twenty seconds later, two more patrol cars slewed up onto the grass of the side yard near the corner. When those cops emerged from their cars and got into the same positions, the first two moved slowly toward the front door.
“Canton Police!” one of them shouted. “Come out with your hands up!”
The pair continued to advance toward the door while the other cops covered them. Emboldened by the fact that no one came out, and no shots were fired from inside, the advancing pair picked up their pace and climbed the steps to the porch. The lead cop waited until the one behind him was close on his heels before he reached around the doorframe and pushed the door open. They both stepped inside and disappeared. Within moments, one of them reappeared on the porch, leaned over the rail and vomited.
The cop closest to the corner called out loud enough for Amir to hear through his open car window, “What the hell, Tomkins? You okay?”
Tomkins wiped his mouth and went back inside.
“Why haven’t they brought him out?” Fahrouk said, his voice rising. “What’s going on?”
Amir patted the air in front of him. “Keep it down. Just wait.”
His stomach cramped with nervousness. It was several more minutes before Tomkins came out and headed for the two patrolmen in the yard. Before he reached them, the first cop exited the house, too. The cops in the yard visibly relaxed and stood next to their cars as Tomkins approached. Amir couldn’t make out what Tomkins was telling them, but he saw the cop’s mouth moving and heard his voice.
“Where’s the old guy?” Fahrouk said, panic in his voice. “You said the cops would arrest him and we could go home.”
“Shut up! Maybe he’s handcuffed inside. I’ll go see, okay?”
“Are you nuts? You can’t go out there and talk to the cops!”
Amir shrugged. “Why not?”
“Because… because you…” Fahrouk’s expression was pleading.
“They don’t know that,” Amir said, reaching for the door handle.
He got out and walked up the block to the corner, tamping down the emotions seething inside. The power he’d felt only minutes before had dissipated, replaced by uncertainty and worry. Looking both ways for traffic, he crossed the intersection kitty-corner. The cops facing him noted his approach, and their sudden alertness made the others turn to face him.
“What’s going on?” Amir’s question was casual, friendly.
“You need to keep back, sir,” the closest cop said. “This is a crime scene.”
“What happened?”
“That’s what we’re trying to ascertain,” another cop said.
The closer cop looked at Amir, then raised his gaze over Amir’s shoulder, his expression hardening. “Where’s your truck?”
Amir followed his gaze, glancing over his shoulder, then tipped his head down to look where the cop now focused. He still had the cable company uniform on.
“Got off work a little while ago,” Amir said easily. “Was on my way home when I heard the sirens. Wasn’t sure where you guys were coming from, so I pulled over.”
The cop gave the barest nod. “So, you didn’t see anything over at this house?”
Amir raised his shoulders and let them drop. “Just you guys tearing in here like the place was on fire.” He paused. “So, no fire I take it.”
“A man got shot,” the other cop said curtly. “Like I said, sir, you really need to keep back. Detectives and Crime Scene Unit will be here any minute, and things will get busy around here.” He turned his back on Amir.
“Yeah, sure,” Amir said. “Thanks. Good luck catching the guy.”
The cop raised a hand without turning to look, already in conversation with his fellow officers.
Amir walked back to the car fuming, furious with himself for letting Keator slip out of his grasp. He couldn’t figure out how Keator had done it, unless he’d simply gone out a window or the back door. If that was the case, then Keator was on foot, since he and Fahrouk hadn’t seen either the pickup truck or the Crown Vic come down the street. The cops would run Keator down quickly if he didn’t have a car. Still, it was a complication he’d hoped to eliminate by now, and Amir was not happy about it.
He got in the car and slammed the door. “Drive!”
Fahrouk stared at him. “They didn’t catch him. I don’t fucking believe this. You jack my car unless I agree to drive. We go halfway across Ohio chasing this old guy who hasn’t done shit. You kill a cripple just for the fun of it. And we still can’t go home ’cause you fucked up?”
“I said shut up and drive!” Amir said, his jaw clenching.
Wordlessly, Fahrouk started the engine, put the car in gear and pulled away from the curb.
“Where to?”
“Back out to the highway,” Amir said. “We know where Keator’s daughter lives. That’s where we go next.”
44
With hands shaking like Jell-O in a temblor, I dug one of the cell phones out of the bag. Gripping it against the steering wheel, I dialed the number Dickie had given me. Like before, someone else answered and told me that if they had someone there by that name, he’d get back to me. I left my cell number.
I drove 45.6 miles without stopping to get away from the grisly scene in Canton, spending the entire drive checking the mirrors for flashing lights. Sirens filled my head, most imaginary, some hallucinatory from lack of sleep, and a real one coming from an ambulance heading in the opposite direction.
I also spent that time thinking about Dinky and the senselessness of his death after surviving a senseless war halfway around the world a half-century ago. Those of us who fought willingly, eagerly, in Vietnam did so for what so many people considered cheesy reasons—for God and country, and to protect the world from communism. When we returned home, protestors ridiculed and reviled us, the general public was embarrassed for us and by us, and the government tried to forget us. Only after Desert Storm did the popular mood begin to shift. After 9/11—finally—people thanked us for our service whether they believed what we’d done in Vietnam was right or wrong. For all he’d been through, Dinky hadn’t deserved to die like that, to die because of a phone call from me. And the more I thought about it, the more it pissed me off.
I pulled off the highway on the way into East Liverpool, Ohio, and stopped at a Walmart, parking on the fringes of the lot alongside several RVs. Inside the store, I purchased a cheap ratchet wrench set, two changes of clothes including a windbreaker, a case of bottled water, several easy-open, ready-to-eat entrees, a sandwich and a banana, and wheeled it all out to the van in a cart. Just another shopper in Walmart’s target demographic. I loaded the water and shelf-stable entrees in the back. While the hatch was still open, I knelt and used the ratchet wrench to remove the license plate. By now, cops on the scene in Canton might have figured out that Dinky had owned two vehicles, one of which was missing.
Leaving the cart in front of the open hatch, I circled around the front of one of the massive RVs. Hidden from view of the store and the lot, my back to a wooded area, I swapped plates, took the RV’s plate to the back of the van and mounted it. After closing the hatch, I threw the sandwich and banana in the front seat, pushed the empty cart to the closest cart return area, and walked back to the van. I popped the hood, walked around to the front, checked to see if anyone was looking, and squatted down to remove the front plate. I stood on creaky knees, closed the hood, turned and tossed the plate in the woods.
According to the friendly folks in Walmart I could find a Western Union office only a few yards away in the mall, between a jeweler and video game store. Dinky had quoted me fifteen hundred dollars for an Ohio driver’s license and two clean credit cards. I’d heard that hackers got ten or fifteen bucks per stolen credit card number, so the number had seemed high. But his text had explained that a California D.L. would have run me ten grand. In any case, I knew I was taking a gamble. With Dinky dead, I had no recourse if I didn’t get what I needed, and what I needed wouldn’t be delivered unless I wired cash as instructed. It would leave me with around four hundred after buying the cell phones earlier and the food, water, and clothes—enough to hold me for a while.
I walked back to the mall. Inside Western Union, I filled out the requisite paperwork, handed over most of the stack of hundreds, and waited while the clerk made change and typed the information into the terminal. He came back to the window with a receipt and a confirmation statement that the money had been sent. I thanked him and walked out.
In the van, I unwrapped the sandwich, started the engine and got back on the road. When the sandwich, banana, and most of a bottle of water were gone, I called my house. The answering machine kicked in after a few rings, and I entered my code to retrieve messages. I played the lone message.
“Mr. Keator? Zane. May I call you Zane? It’s Ben Sturgis at the V.A. hospital. Look, I know you probably don’t want to deal with this right now, but there is no good time. So, no time like the present, right? I really would like to talk with you about this, rather than leave a message on your answering machine. Which is what I’m doing now, right? Duh. I promise you we can work this out. But you have to trust me. And you have to come see me. Please. Call me back and let me know when you’d like to come. I’ll clear my schedule. We could even meet somewhere neutral, like maybe have coffee. Just call me. Office or cell, doesn’t matter. Any time. Okay?”
I wanted to slam the phone down. I didn’t have time for that shit. But, of course, I couldn’t stop my thoughts from wondering what Sturgis wanted to talk about. How much time I had left? How many options I had to poison my body with chemicals and radiation and make my life miserable only to die anyway?
The other cell phone rang, thank God, before I had time to wallow in maudlin self-pity. I snatched it up.
“Dickie?”
“Still alive, I see. And not yet incarcerated.”
“For fuck’s sake, Dickie, I called to tell you that I didn’t have anything to do with Canton. Someone else is playing me.”
“Canton? I was talking about the state trooper. Now what?”
“You’re a few hours behind. Remember a guy from the old days, name of Dinky Jackson?”
“Sure. Never worked with him, but he had a good rep. Almost as many kills as you, if I recall.”
“I reached out to him on a burner. We’d been in touch over the years. You know, after ’Nam. Someone beat me to him. Shot out his knee before they blew his brains out.”
“And you didn’t tell anyone that’s where you were headed, right?”
“No. The car I boosted was bugged. I know who did it and when. I just don’t know why.”
“Who?”
“Couple of young guys. Middle Eastern. When I worked out how, they were the only ones who could have done it. They were at the garage this morning, gassing up their car.”
“That could fit with what I told you this morning.”
“Terrorists. But why follow me? Why kill Dinky? They already had the FBI roust me. All they have to do is let the feds finish the job. I can’t run forever.”
“They’re covering their bases, Zany. Watching you. Making sure you don’t interfere, just in case the feebs blow it.”
“Interfere in what?”
The line went silent for a moment. “I’m still trying to pin that down. You ever hear the oath that al-Zawahiri swore after bin Laden was killed? Said he’d free every al-Qaeda member and Islamic jihadist jailed in the U.S.”
“You can’t be serious.”
“Zayn al-Qadir, if there is such a person—and we believe there is—called Zawahiri’s boast an idle threat. But he says that he can actually pull it off. If that’s true, if he has the resources and manpower to make it happen, then we’ve been fooling ourselves since 9/11. The sheer logistics would be...well, off the charts. But if he did it, Homeland Security, us, the FBI, our entire government—this country—would be the laughingstock of the world, a huge joke. And it would encourage every fanatic nutcase around the globe to take a crack at us.”
“I guess you better find the guy who’s been impersonating me then. I’ve got other problems.”
“Bigger than that?”
“Maybe not to you. But this guy following me? Whoever he is, he knows where my daughter lives.”
“And after what he did to your friend,” Dickie finished for me. “I get it. What can I do?”
“Nothing. I’m on my way there now.” I heaved a sigh.
He picked up on it quickly. “What else?”
“Just been a rough day.” Had it really been only twelve hours since the shit had hit the fan? “On top of all this, my grandson was kidnapped from school this morning.”
“Your grandson? I didn’t know you had grandkids.”
“Yeah, two, with another on the way. Preston is my son Doug’s oldest.”
“Wait.” Dickie sounded like he’d suddenly sat up straight. “What does your son do?”
“He’s in the U.S. District Attorney’s office in Detroit. Why? What does that mean?”
“Maybe nothing. I need to do some more checking.”
Maybe it was the lack of sleep, or what they call a “senior moment,” but I hadn’t seen it until Dickie asked about Doug’s job. I groaned aloud. “You think it’s connected. You think they took Preston because they want something from Doug. What? What does Doug have to do with this al-Qadir?”
“I think it’s time I found out. Go take care of your daughter. And, Zane? Watch yourself. If you’re up against al-Qadir’s people, they’re not screwing around and they’re worse than al Qaeda.”
45
Roberts got off the elevator with a cardboard carrier filled with large cups of coffee. As she walked into their temporary command center, Hunt pressed his palms against his closed eyes and rubbed them hard, stifling a yawn. He straightened up and brushed a hand through his hair when he saw her, but he looked exhausted. Sweat darkened his shirt under his raised arm. He stared at her open-mouthed as she handed him a cup of coffee, making her smile inwardly. Some of the best her father had given her was, “Never let them see you sweat.” Though she was pretty sure he’d stolen the line from a television commercial, he’d told her it would be the key to her advancement in the male-dominated world of law enforcement. As a cop, he knew better than anyone.
“Thanks,” Hunt said as he took the coffee. “Appreciate you making the run.”
She nodded and handed out the other cups.
“Case summaries you asked for of everything AUSA Keator’s been working on for the past five years just arrived,” Hunt said, pointing to a stack of file boxes in the corner.
“I’ll get started on them,” Roberts said. “You know we may have to go back more than five years.”
“I know, but we have to start somewhere.”
“Got something,” Machowski said. He looked up from his laptop on the conference table. All the heads in
the room turned in his direction expectantly. “Police in Canton, Ohio, found the stolen Crown Vic Keator was driving. And get this. Less than a block away, they found a fresh victim. Preliminary report says it looks like a B-and-E, but the only thing missing is the dead guy’s minivan.”
“Okay, so now maybe we’re getting somewhere,” Hunt said. “What have they got on the victim? Any background?”
Machowski frowned. “Not much. Unemployed steel worker. Older black man. Did some freelance computer consulting. Confined to a wheelchair most of the time from multiple sclerosis. Quiet, well-liked by neighbors, though not many admitted knowing him. Uh-oh.”
“What?” Hunt said sharply.
“Investigators say he may have been tortured first. Kneecap was blown to smithereens. Definitely not post-mortem; whoever did it tied it off with a makeshift tourniquet.”
“Any link between this guy and Keator? Or was this a random attempt to swap out his vehicle?”
“Don’t know. I’ll see what I can find.” Machowski leaned over, grabbed the nearest phone and dialed.
Roberts shook her head.
“Something bothering you?” Hunt said.
She bit her lower lip. “It’s not adding up. You think it’s Keator, right? Everything we know about this guy says he’s running scared. Running for his life. But as much havoc as he’s left in his wake, he’s gone out of his way not to kill anyone. Why now? Why an old man in a wheelchair?”
“Maybe the victim wouldn’t give up the keys to the minivan.”
“And Keator killed him for that? I’m not buying it. Smack the guy around some, if he was desperate. But blow out his knee and then kill him? Uh-uh.”
“So how do you explain the Crown Vic?”
“I’m not saying he wasn’t there. And maybe he took the minivan. But I think someone else did this. Maybe after Keator left. Maybe someone who wanted to know where he went.”
Stolen Identity Page 19