by Joseph Lewis
CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE
“He’s awake, and the website is up. I’m on him. No sign of the other two yet, but I’ll keep you posted.”
“Thanks, Morgan.”
“Watch yourself, Chet.”
He clicked off without giving Chet a chance to respond, and Chet went back to monitoring the computer with his back to the front door and out of sight from the elevators. Summer was seated next to the wall in a booth in the corner of the restaurant not clearly visible from the doorway. Captain Jack O’Brien of the Waukesha Police Department, not in uniform, still pretending to read the newspaper, was in the lobby with Chet, but at a distance from him. He sat near the door in a comfortable dark, red leather high-backed chair facing the elevators.
“Mike check,” O’Brien said softly for the fourth time.
“Loud and clear,” Chet responded. “Summer, you okay?”
“Yeah,” she said tiredly. “Anxious to get this over with.”
The hotel was coming to life. Two members of the hotel cleaning crew had already come through, one with a dust cloth and the other with a vacuum cleaner. The hotel smelled of wood and some rather pleasant cleaning spray or polish that O’Brien couldn’t name. An instrumental version of an Air Supply song played softly in the background. A TV on mute was tuned to CNN. They had hoped to contain the media, so the fact that there was no story on the siege that took place in Chicago, Kansas City or Los Angeles was welcomed, especially in the Sheraton in downtown Chicago.
A couple of early birds were lined up at the counter ready to check out instead of using the rapid checkout by phoning the front desk and leaving the keys on the desk inside of the room. An older couple dressed in summer leisure clothes walked out of the lobby going for an early stroll or perhaps breakfast somewhere other than the hotel. A very tired looking mom carrying a steaming hot coffee from room service and a Chicago Tribune followed after a boy that looked to be about nine and a girl about seven, both dressed in swimsuits and sandals obviously headed to the pool. O’Brien didn’t think they’d be lucky to have the pool open at this time in the morning, but it didn’t hurt to try. Two middle-aged men in suits, one carrying a briefcase came in from the street chatting and walked into the restaurant.
O’Brien looked at his watch and saw that it was two minutes faster than the lobby wall clock, which annoyed him. Depending upon which one you looked at, it was either 7:02 AM or 7:04 AM, both Central Standard Time.
Any time now.
The Los Angeles and Kansas City sites were all wrapped up, as was the Chicago site. The kids were safely at hospitals getting checked out, but more importantly, were under guard. No one was going to hurt those kids ever again. O’Brien was concerned about the boy who had been shot because Chet had told him that when the boy got to the hospital, he went immediately to surgery. No word on him yet.
He was pissed and saddened that Paul Gates had lost his life, and that Ronnie Desotel and Fitz had been wounded. Fitz also went into surgery as soon as he entered the hospital, but he was a tough guy. It’d take more than one bullet to keep him down for long. But still, Gates, Fitz and Desotel were his guys, and that kid was, well, a kid. Shouldn’t have happened.
He had to control his anger and not let it get the best of him because he had to watch Chet’s and Summer’s back.
Chet rechecked his connection to the hotel’s security cameras. By using split screen, he could monitor the two floors where the targets were located, the restaurant and the outside camera, which covered the front door, so he could monitor traffic in and out of the hotel. He spotted one target leaving his room on the fourth floor, walking to the elevators while checking his IPhone.
“About to have company, Jack,” Chet said to O’Brien. “Watch the elevators.”
Chet’s cell vibrated.
“Number two is awake, cell on. He phoned number three, and he’s close to your position. Be careful.” Morgan said.
He was anxious, not sure how this was going to play out and wishing he could do more to help.
“Got it, Morgan. We’re ready.”
Chet sat a little lower in his chair because at any moment, he expected someone to enter the lobby. He and Summer had already guessed who it would be.
“Game time, folks. Target just stepped out of the elevators,” O’Brien said.
“Summer, Target One is headed your way in one . . . two . . . now.”
“Gary Sears, aka Victor Bosch . . . the Dark Man,” Summer said quietly.
A man and woman entered the restaurant just a step or two behind Sears/Bosch and took a booth kiddy-corner from him. The restaurant now held four people besides Summer, including the two men in suits who came in just before the Dark Man and sat in a booth near the door.
A different waiter from the one who was in the restaurant when she and Chet first entered it was on duty and stepped over to Summer offering her a refill on her coffee and very quietly without making eye contact said, “I’m Kevin Thigpen from the Chicago office. The man and woman in the booth are with me. Agent Vince Cochrane sent us, and Pete Kelliher said to say hello. We’re here to assist and support.”
He left as soon as he finished.
“You guys catch that?” Summer asked.
“Copy. Always nice to have back-up,” O’Brien said quietly.
“Jack, on your six. Our second guest will be entering the hotel in one . . . two . . . now,” Chet said. “Dapper as usual.” Then Chet added, “Smug son of a bitch.”
O’Brien tensed as the impeccably dressed man walked passed him, but he didn’t even pay Jack any attention as he walked directly into the restaurant. The well-dressed man walked to the table where Bosch/Sears was seated, and they shook hands, though Bosch/Sears didn’t get up to do so.
“Jack, watch the elevators,” Chet advised. “On one . . . two . . . oops, a stop on two. Wait a bit . . . wait . . . okay, on one . . . two . . . now. Everyone present and accounted for.”
The third man entered the restaurant and sat with the other two men at a table towards the back of the room, out of direct line of sight of Summer who also sat in the back but in a booth and not near them. The waiter/agent went to them and took drink orders; coffee all the way around, along with ice water with lemon for the Dark Man and one guy. The well-dressed man ordered tomato juice.
The Dark Man reached into his inside breast pocket and took out two thick envelopes and handed one to each man and said, “I appreciate all you’ve done. Once I close down the operations, we’ll have to lay low before we begin again. I’m thinking of an extended stay in Amsterdam or Lichtenstein. I believe I can make some profitable contacts there and . . . enjoy myself while doing so, if you know what I mean,” he said with a humorless chuckle.
“You’ll have to shut them down today, though. They said they’d move on them in two, maybe three days,” the well-dressed man said. “All evidence, and I mean all evidence will have to disappear. That means the kids and the guards.”
“You can’t stall them another day?” the other man asked the well-dressed man.
“Not without arousing suspicion. Storm isn’t stupid and neither is Kelliher.”
“No, we can’t take the risk,” the Dark Man agreed. “I’m going to visit the Chicago stable and spend some time with my new pony . . . a good, long time with him.” He took a sip of water and then said, “His name is Stephen, and he came in last night. You want to see some pictures?”
The well-dressed man waived him off, but the other man asked to see them. Bosch/Sears handed him his IPhone.
The older man took his time looking at the pictures, and then said, “I have some time before I have to get back to Washington. I think I’ll go with you. There are two boys . . . Tim and Brett.” He took a sip of coffee and said, “I like those two boys.”
“Have you heard from Graham yet?” the well-dressed man asked.
“No,” the Dark Man answered looking around the restaurant. “He said he’d meet us here.”
“Did your nephew t
ell you how it went in Waukesha?”
The Dark Man answered, “All he said was, ‘Job done.’”
The conversation came in loud and clear. The powerful microphones and hotel security cameras recorded everything. Summer thought to herself, that was who was tying up loose ends. Graham Porter, the Dark Man’s nephew.
She asked her partners, “We have enough?”
O’Brien answered, “Chet, you get all of that on tape?”
“Every word. Summer, we need their cells, especially Bosch’s before he can erase anything. Text him from Porter’s phone telling him you went to the restroom, and that you’re walking to the restaurant now. That’ll keep him busy. I’ll tell you when to move. Jack, you might want to move into position now, but don’t enter the restaurant until I give the go ahead.”
“Texting now,” Summer said. “Jack, Chet will tell you where the phone is, you get it before Bosch can do anything with it. Break his fingers if you have to.”
“My pleasure. Might break ‘em even if I don’t have to,” O’Brien answered.
“Text sent,” Summer said.
Chet watched, and Summer and O’Brien waited impatiently. Time moved ever so slowly. The waiter arrived at their table and took orders. The men ordered off the menu rather than the having the breakfast buffet, during which, the Dark Man checked his IPhone.
“Okay, he checked the text.” Chet announced.
“Let’s move. Now!” Summer said.
The waiter stood with his back to Summer as she approached the table. As O’Brien came into the restaurant, she moved across the room in such a way as to appear to head to the doorway. The waiter blocked the one man’s view of her, and the well-dressed man had his back to her. This was all good because she was on them and at the table before anyone realized it, taking the three men seated at the table by surprise.
“Hands on the back of your head, Gentlemen,” she announced. “FBI, and I have warrants for your arrest.”
The waiter/agent reached for his .9M Glock under his apron and held it on the three men, as the man and woman from the booth came to assist behind each man. As Bosch reached for his phone, O’Brien grabbed the man’s hand squeezing tightly, and there was no real struggle as he took the phone and pocketed it.
The two businessmen in the booth towards the front watched in fascination. When the guns appeared, they left the restaurant on a run.
“Summer, I . . .” the well-dressed man started.
“Save it, Doug. Whatever you’re about to say is bullshit.”
Deftly, she took his left hand and cuffed it, pulling it behind his back. As she reached for his right hand, he started to come out of his chair, but she rapped the back of his head with the butt of her gun hard enough to stun him, but not to render him unconscious. She thought about pistol-whipping him, but didn’t.
“Sit your ass back down and stay there until I tell you to move,” Summer said.
Thatcher Davis hung his head briefly and then raised his ashen face towards her.
“I’m sorry,” was all he said.
“You’re a piece of shit, Thatcher,” Summer spit. “You were a friend! I trusted you!”
Bosch took a sip of ice water and then said, “I want a lawyer.”
“You’ll need one. Kidnapping, child endangerment, pornography, sex with a minor, sodomy, just to name a few of the charges. Oh, and I forgot . . . murder.”
“We’ll see,” he said smugly. “We’ll see.”
“Yup, and I can’t wait,” Summer said as he was cuffed by the waiter/agent. “And by the way, the kids in Chicago, Kansas City and Los Angeles are all safe.”
She turned to Doug Rawson and smiled wryly.
She turned back to Bosch and said, “Oh, and I almost forgot. Your nephew . . . Graham Porter . . . isn’t in the restroom, and he’s not in Chicago. He’s dead, killed by the fourteen year old Indian boy you sent him to kill.”
She waved Porter’s cell at him.
“In about a half an hour, arrest warrants will be served on every participant in this ring. So yes, you’ll need a very good lawyer, but probably not one of the seven you have in your network. They’ll need one, too.”
As she stepped around the table towards Thatcher Davis, he snatched up a serrated knife. The lady agent moved to intercept him, but it was too late. Davis jammed it into his juggler and blood sprayed and pulsed out of his neck. His eyes found Summer, who looked impassively at him, then turned away.
The male agent moved to pull out the knife, but O’Brien held the man’s arm preventing him from doing so. The puzzled agent looked at him.
“Safer to let him bleed to death.”
The two agents took a step or two backward.
The expression on Bosch’s face was that of smug contempt.
He turned to Summer and said, “What do you think you’ll prove by arresting me? Hmmn?”
Summer didn’t have any intention of responding.
“Don’t you realize that there are other men out there with similar appetites, similar tastes? Put me away, and someone else will step forward. Put him away, and another will step forward. You think you ended this? You didn’t. There will always be other men to take my place and other ponies to fulfill their needs. Whether those beautiful boys know it or not, they like what we do with them. We fulfill their need as much as they fulfill ours. It’s reciprocity, that’s all.”
“No, you sick son of a bitch. It’s sickness . . . it’s filth. And those boys? They hated it, and at your trial, they’ll step forward and tell you so. That’s a promise you sick bastard. I’ll see to it!”
“Summer, I was undercover. I was playing a role,” Rawson pleaded.
“Save it,” O’Brien said. “Your bank records, your cell records, and your travel arrangements tell us differently.”
“Summer . . .”
He never finished. Summer punched him on the nose sending him crashing to the floor.
CHAPTER FORTY-SIX
Hospitals have a certain smell; not quite clean, not quite dirty, something in between and not altogether pleasant. Sort of like one’s grandmother’s house, minus the freshly baked bread or aerosol air freshener. Of course the hospital was bright, sunny and clean. It just didn’t smell that way. A sour smell, perhaps, Skip couldn’t decide. It was different from the lab where he worked, even different from the lab where he performed his autopsies. Different.
He never liked hospitals. Not that he ever spent time in one, not even one night. He had never known anyone close to him who had spent time in a hospital. And, it was interesting that he chose Forensic Science as a career considering how he felt about hospitals.
Skip sat in the waiting area for word on how Brett and the other boys were doing after surgery. The little dark-haired boy, Patrick, sat with his head against him, mouth slightly open and sound asleep. Skip had one arm around the boy protectively. Every now and then, Skip would brush his lips against the boy’s brown hair, kiss him and give his shoulder a squeeze. Patrick never noticed. He was sound asleep.
The doctor felt that the Erickson boy would be pretty routine, thinking that five or six stitches might do it. The fact that it was inside his anus and rectum necessitated him being placed under sedation. Of course, you never knew what they might find once they enter, but the preliminary physical and evaluation resulted in a “minor” diagnosis. It would be the after-surgery that would require care. He also had a shiner, and his face was beaten up badly, but there weren’t any broken bones. He had, however, lost two teeth and at least one other was loose.
Tim Pruitt’s surgery was similar to Mike Erickson’s, but because he was penetrated with an object, then raped, the attending physician thought it might be more than minor. Just how much, he wasn’t sure until he took a closer look.
Fitz and Brett were different stories. Both had shoulder wounds, but the bullet in Fitz rattled around a bit, nicking his lung and in general, “created a bit of havoc” to quote the surgeon. In Brett’s case, because he was so sma
ll, malnourished and dehydrated, the bullet did even more damage. It didn’t touch the lung, but it nicked several large veins, just missed an artery, damaged muscle and other tissue and eventually exited out his armpit and entered his upper arm, nicking his triceps. His surgery would take more time and the rehab even longer.
Johnny Vega was in intensive care being treated for dehydration, complicated by pneumonia, or vice versa. The doctors weren’t sure. He was on oxygen and an IV drip, and he wasn’t allowed visitors yet. Skip had looked through the window at him, and Johnny tried to smile, but it came out more as a grimace. He did manage to flash a weak thumbs up, which Skip reciprocated. Then, Johnny shut his eyes and seemed to fall asleep.
Pete and Jamie entered the waiting area and found Skip sitting in a chair, one arm resting on his knee, the other around a sleeping Patrick, head hung low and cell phone in his hand. It had been almost two hours since they had seen him, and the only thing they had heard was that Fitz, Brett, the Erickson boy, and Tim were in surgery, and that Johnny Vega was being treated for pneumonia. They wanted an update.
Their butts dragging, Jamie dropped into a seat next to Skip, while Pete sat across from them. Jamie shut his eyes and rested his head on the back of the chair, legs stretched across the cramped sitting area. Pete wiped his eyes with his hands, ran his hand over his face and yawned.
“I’m too old for this shit,” he said softly.
Jamie answered, “I’m too young for this shit.”
He clapped Skip on the leg and asked, “So, what have you heard?”
Skip gave them as much information as he had, then paused and added, “And, I’m out of a job.”
Jamie glanced sideways at him, then straightened up and said, “What?”
“Wisconsin’s closing the Wausau office due to budget cuts, and everything will now be handled out of Milwaukee or Madison.”
“Can’t you get on with one of them?” Pete asked.