The Money Trail

by J. C. Fields

  Flipping back through the pages, Clark stopped on one. “Uh, let’s see. Ah, here it is. She was defending a congressman in an aggravated assault charge. At the same time, she was representing an oil company executive on an embezzlement indictment.” Looking up from the pages, his eyebrows rose. “How do you go from defending high-level executives to defending drunk office workers?”

  Kruger glanced at him. “Don’t know. Never been a lawyer.”

  “Me neither, but it seems strange. I would think they would give the DUI cases to a junior or rookie lawyer, not someone who had handled the Robert Burns Jr. case.”

  Thinking back on the Burns case, Kruger felt the same way. Burns was a newly elected Senator from the state of Washington. His father was the thirty-ninth richest man in the world and spending a lot of his wealth on the defense of his son, who was accused of murdering a hooker. When it was discovered he was a serial sexual predator with ties to the Russian mafia, the case got complicated. Jolene Sanders was his attorney.

  “What did you think of Sandifer’s reaction to Jolene’s death, Ryan?”

  “Cold and uncaring.”

  “My thoughts exactly. I think it’s time we found out more about Jolene Sanders. Is the crime lab still at her apartment?”

  Clark pulled his phone out and sent a text message. Kruger heard it beep thirty seconds later.

  “Yes, and they just found something.”

  Chapter 3

  Washington, D.C.

  Located three blocks from Constitution Avenue, the Imperial Apartments were within walking distance of the park bench once occupied by the deceased Jolene Sanders and Keira Pennington. Situated in the upscale Foggy Bottom neighborhood, it provided easy access for residents to enjoy a variety of restaurants and night life. Built in the 1930s, a 2013 renovation transformed the interior into a trendy and expensive place to live.

  Kruger and Clark showed their badges to a D.C. cop standing at the door of Jolene Sanders’ apartment and entered. The place was small, Kruger guessed fewer than 700 square feet and busy with forensic technicians looking for anything that could possibly be associated with her death. Clark proceeded to look for the individual who sent the text message while Kruger took in the room. The apartment consisted of an open living room, kitchen and dining area toward the rear of the space. A small hallway to his right led to the bedroom and bath area. Kruger walked toward the dining area and peered out the window of the far wall. The Washington Monument was clearly visible rising above the roof line of adjacent buildings. As he turned from the window, Clark approached.

  “They think someone was here searching the apartment either while Jolene was being murdered, or immediately after. They recovered her cell phone at the scene, but her laptop and an iPad are missing.”

  “How do they know?”

  “Receipts found in a small desk in the bedroom. Plus, the place has Wi-Fi.”

  Kruger nodded and walked into the kitchen area. “What else?”

  Clark’s hands were covered by latex gloves and he offered a five-by-seven-inch spiral notebook.

  “This was found taped to the bottom of her nightstand drawer. Whoever was here missed it.”

  Smiling grimly, Kruger pulled two similar gloves from his suitcoat side pocket and slipped them on before taking the journal. As he flipped through the pages, his smile grew. “She suspected someone would steal her laptop, didn’t she?”

  “Apparently. I didn’t read much of it, but after skimming a few pages, she knew something was wrong at Rothenburg and Sandifer. What exactly, she doesn’t disclose, but it was the reason she was talking to the reporter.”

  Kruger paused on a page and read it carefully, then said, “This answers the question if they were friends. They only met a week ago. Jolene reached out to Keira.”

  Clark nodded, “I saw that.”

  “Where did Pennington live?”

  “House in Manassas. Techs are there now.”

  “Let’s go.”

  ***

  The neighborhood consisted of small, comfortable homes well suited for middle-income families in the high-cost Washington, D.C., area. Keira Pennington’s ranch-style house featured buff brick on the front façade and vinyl siding stretching around to the back. Yellow tape blocked off the yard and an FBI forensic van blocked the driveway. Curious neighbors stood in their front yards, staring as FBI agents scurried in and out of the home.

  Clark parked their Bureau car behind the van and both stepped out. With their badges on lanyards around their necks, they ducked under the crime scene tape and walked to the front door. A familiar face greeted them.

  Kruger smiled and shook the hand of a long-time friend. “Charlie, I thought you were in management and too important to be seen at a crime scene.”

  Charlie Craft, a pencil-thin thirty-something with a slightly-stooped posture from working with computers his entire life, smiled at his former mentor. His rimless glasses and now-thinning hair made him look older than his true age.

  “I’m never too busy to help on cases you’re investigating, Sean.”

  “Thanks, Charlie. You remember Ryan Clark?”

  Clark shook the younger man’s hand and smiled, “It’s been a long time, Charlie. Good to see you again.”

  “Same here, Ryan.”

  Looking inside the house, Kruger’s smile disappeared as he asked, “What’ve we got, Charlie?”

  “House was ransacked before we got here. Neighbor across the street is an elderly woman and said there was a white van from a local plumbing company parked in the driveway from about ten this morning till noon. She didn’t see anyone, just the van.”

  He handed them disposable booties to cover their shoes.

  Once inside, Kruger asked, “Is there a husband?”

  Charlie shook his head. “Divorced about a year ago. She lived alone. No pets.”

  Kruger nodded as he slipped on a new pair of latex gloves.

  “She was a reporter. Have you found any files or notes?” he asked.

  “No, there’s a bedroom in the back she appeared to use as an office. All the drawers are empty. The only things left in the desk are a few pens and paperclips in the middle drawer. No computer or tablet. Her cell phone was found at the scene, but that’s all we have.”

  “Same thing for the Sanders woman.”

  While Kruger and Craft conversed, Clark wandered toward the bedroom to look inside a walk-in closet he could see from the hall. Chaos was the common theme in the house and the closet was no exception. Clothes were ripped from hangers, shoe boxes opened with their content scattered, books tossed about and old suitcases cut apart.

  Standing in the doorway, his gaze swept over the mess until it settled on a lockbox barely visible under a pile of sweaters in the corner. When he reached to see if it was open, it moved only a few inches before a steel cable bolted to the floor prevented it from going further.

  “Hey, got something here.”

  Fifteen minutes later, a forensic technician managed to open the box. The contents were a treasure trove of files and information: ten flash drives, three spiral notebooks and fifteen jewel-cased CDs stared back at the investigators.

  Kruger smiled. “Wanna bet those are investigation notes?”

  Clark nodded, “More than likely.” Reaching for one of the notebooks, he flipped it open to the first page. “Looks like some kind of code.” He continued to flip through the book.

  Looking over his shoulder, Kruger frowned. “Reporter’s shorthand?”

  “Doubtful. Most reporters record interviews these days. This looks like a code someone like Keira would use to keep a logbook or personal notes.”

  Glancing at Clark, Kruger grinned as he said, “How would you know?”

  “Close friend.”

  “I heard. How is Tracy?”

  “Good. I never thanked you for introducing us.”

  “My pleasure. Think she could interpret these notes?”

  “Won’t hurt to ask.”

 
Smiling, Kruger shot a glance at his wrist watch. “Go for it. I have to catch a flight home in three hours. Talk to Tracy and give me a call tomorrow.”

  All Clark could do was nod as he studied the pages with the strange-looking hieroglyphics.

  ***

  Several years younger and three inches shorter than Clark, Tracy Adkins wore her dark blonde hair long and assessed the world with dark blue eyes behind black blocky glasses. Conscious of her California good looks, she kept her hair up when working and always wore conservative dark gray, brown or black pantsuits with a white blouse. This kept her interviewees calm and concentrating on her questions, not on her looks or what she wore.

  With Clark, she dressed to enhance her figure. Sean Kruger introduced them during the hunt for Robert Burns, Jr. Unbeknownst to Kruger at the time, they started dating, fell in love and were now planning a quiet, private wedding in Panama City Beach, Florida, the following summer.

  She studied one of the spiral notebooks found in Keira Pennington’s lockbox.

  “It’s been a long time since I’ve seen this particular shorthand so I’m rusty. But I can tell they are notes concerning stories she was working on. These are more background notations versus the actual story.” She looked up at Clark to ask, “What else was in the lockbox?”

  He held up one of the flash drives. “Nine more of these, notebooks and fifteen CDs.”

  She nodded and went back to studying the pages.

  “What does Sean think?”

  “He suspects Jolene Sanders was telling her what was going on at Rothenburg and Sandifer.”

  “Ryan, there is something about the vice president in these notes.”

  “Vice president of the law firm?”

  She shook her head.

  “The United States.”

  “Ah, geez. What?”

  ***

  Kruger walked into the kitchen from the garage and the first person to greet him was his five-year-old daughter, Kristin. He scooped her up as she squealed, “Daddy’s home.”

  Two-year-old Mikey stood next to his father, bouncing up and down with his arms up, waiting his turn for hugs. Bending over, Kruger grabbed his son and embraced his two children. This was a common occurrence when he returned from any lengthy trip.

  Kristin Kruger looked remarkably like her adoptive mother, a quirk of luck rather than genetics. Adopted at birth by her newly-married parents, she had naturally curly brown hair, pale blue eyes and an infectious, gleeful smile. She had her father totally and completely wrapped around her finger.

  Mikey Kruger was the natural son of Sean and Stephanie Kruger. Blonde, blue-eyed and rambunctious, he resembled his father and in contrast, had his mother wrapped around his finger.

  After the hugs and kisses, Kruger let both kids down and they scurried away back to whatever activities they had previously been engaged. Kruger smiled as he gazed upon his wife, Stephanie, who stood off to the side watching the homecoming. They embraced and Kruger took in the fragrance of his wife’s hair as their hug lasted almost a minute. With each breath, the loneliness of being away from her and their children vanished.

  “Glad you’re home safe.”

  “Me, too. I’m back for a while. Clark is handling things in D.C. and I’ll be doing what I need to do on the internet.”

  “Good.”

  Stephanie was a petite woman, seven years younger than her husband. Her curly brown hair was growing longer since the children no longer tugged at it while she held them. Pale blue eyes sparkled as they gazed up at him.

  Their meeting was by chance. Kruger had already raised one son as a single parent when he met Stephanie. Her career as a top-level executive with a greeting card company suppressed any thoughts of family until she met Kruger. After buying the neighboring condos in a renovated apartment building west of the Kansas City Plaza, they met during an attempted assault on her by two men in the parking lot. Kruger’s arrival on the scene prevented any harm coming to her. Even though their meeting was random, they immediately became friends, fell in love and were totally devoted to each other.

  “How were your classes today?”

  She shrugged as they walked toward their bedroom so Kruger could unpack. “I’ve got some really involved students in my marketing class and a few who I don’t anticipate will finish the semester.”

  Kruger chuckled. This was Stephanie’s first full year as an instructor at a local university. She was working on her doctorate and teaching a few classes at the same time. With a PhD in psychology, Kruger had spent three years teaching at the same university during a break from his career as a profiler for the FBI.

  “It happens,” he told her. “You can spot them pretty quickly. The ones who are there to learn and the ones who would rather be anywhere but in class.”

  As he unpacked his suitcase, Stephanie sat on the bed and watched him. He was tall, just over six feet in height. Still slender and athletic in build, his dark brown hair was growing lighter with each haircut as gray hairs proliferated. She thought of him as the most handsome man she had ever met. However, she refused to tell him so. One day, maybe.

  When he came back into the bedroom from depositing his suitcase in their closet, she asked, “Have you spoken to Brian recently?”

  Brian was his grown son who lived with his wife about a mile from them.

  “No, I got a text message from him. He said he and Michelle wanted to come over this weekend. Why?”

  “Remember what I told you in the parking lot the night we first met?”

  “You said more than one thing that night.”

  “I know. But I made one comment in particular.”

  He smiled. “You mean when you told me it would be a great story to tell our grandchildren?”

  She nodded.

  Chuckling, Kruger shook his head. “I thought it a strange comment at the time, but I was going to enjoy finding out what you meant. We hadn’t even had a date, let alone talked about getting married…” He paused and stared at her. “Wait a minute—no.”

  “Yes.”

  “Michelle’s pregnant?”

  Smiling, she nodded. “Yup. My prophecy will be fulfilled.”

  Chapter 4

  Annandale, VA

  Tracy rolled over and put her hand on Clark’s chest as she murmured, “I’m the one who normally has trouble sleeping. What’s wrong, Ryan?”

  The digital clock on his nightstand indicated the time was 2:16 in the morning.

  “The vice president’s name in Keira’s notes.”

  She moved over and snuggled against him. He automatically put his arm around her to bring her closer.

  “I’m sorry I can’t read all of them.”

  “Not your fault. You told me she had her own shorthand.”

  “Yes, she does. Now what?”

  “I don’t know. That’s why I can’t sleep. Investigating a sitting vice president is politically dangerous for the agency.”

  “And you.”

  He shrugged. “Yes, but what if Keira discovered something about the vice president and it was being corroborated with information Jolene Sanders possessed? If that’s the case, why were they killed with a Russian nerve agent?”

  “Well, when you put it that way…” She paused for a second. “Now I don’t know if I can get back to sleep.” Silence filled the room. “We don’t know if Jolene was giving her information about the vice president. Maybe they were discussing something entirely different.”

  “Maybe.” He was quiet for sixty seconds as they lay in each other’s arms. Finally, he said, “As Sean has said many times, he doesn’t believe in coincidences. I don’t either. From what you could read of her notes, it was the only story she was working on. Jolene’s notes indicated she reached out to Keira. Why? How did Jolene know to reach out to her? Does that mean her investigation of the vice president involves the law firm of Rothenburg and Sandifer? I would bet it does.”

  “How are you going to determine if it does, Ryan?”

&nb
sp; “With what we have right now, I’m not. The official agency position is Keira Pennington was working on a story someone didn’t want published. Jolene Sanders may have been collateral damage. There are fifty agents trying to determine who that someone is. I think they’re wasting their time.”

  “Why?”

  “They’re looking at it the wrong way. Jolene is the key. She knew something and was telling it to Keira Pennington.”

  “Don’t you need to mention this to the agency?”

  He shook his head. “Not until we can prove it.”

  “How do you do that?”

  “Keira’s notes are the key. Can you keep working on them?”

  “Yes, I was thinking the same thing. If this is what you think it is, her investigation needs to be completed. I’ll talk to my editor.”

  “Good, just don’t get too specific.”

  She chuckled slightly. “Not my first rodeo, Ryan.”

  “I know, but you need to be careful. The fewer individuals who know the direction we’re taking, the better.”

  Clark felt her nod.

  “I’ll talk to Sean in the morning.”

  “JR?”

  “Yeah, JR.”

  ***

  “So that’s my theory, Sean.”

  Kruger was quiet as he sat in his home office listening to Clark’s reasoning. At the end of the summary, he said, “I think you’re onto something, Ryan. It makes more sense than statements the agency is making about the two women’s deaths.”

  He lapsed into silence again. Clark let him think.

  Finally, he said, “If someone wanted Keira Pennington out of the way, they could have done it quietly and made it look like an accident,” he mused. “This was a show, a production to draw media attention. It worked. The agency has their collective underwear in a wad about it and the news media can’t go five minutes without speculating about their deaths.”

  “Kind of what I was thinking. What are our next steps?”

  “Has Tracy given up on interpreting Keira’s notes?”