Stolen Lives : The Lives Trilogy Book 1 (8 page)

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

Pete’s cell chirped.

He stepped away from the huddle of agents and said, “Kelliher.”

He nodded two or three times and made eye contact with Summer who excused herself and moved next to Pete.  He stabbed a finger on his phone to end the call and took Summer by the arm, so they could move further from the group.

“We’ve got problems.”

“What?”

Pete glanced at the other agents, then at George who stood talking quietly with the two crime scene investigators and said, “Someone just burnt down the Tokay ranch and executed his family.”

Summer went white.

“How . . . when?”

“That was Leonard, George’s cousin . . . the Indian cop.  He saw smoke and went to investigate.  He also saw a helicopter leaving from that general direction.  He found the ranch burned down and the family dead.  He said it looked like large caliber weapons.  George’s younger brother, William, was tending the sheep.  He’s about the same size as George, and whoever killed his family, must have thought they had murdered George.”

“Oh God!”

Summer looked over at George, who noticed both Pete and Summer looking at him.   She tried to smile and spoke quickly and quietly to Pete.

“Who knew about George?”

“Only our group,” Pete said grimly.  “Perhaps someone out of Albuquerque or the tribal police.  That’s it.”

Pete let that sink in, and it didn’t take long for Summer to catch the thought.

“We might have a leak.”

Pete said nothing, only stared first at Summer, then looked over at Doug Rawson and then at Chet Walker.  Neither noticed.  He then stared at Summer.

“No way,” Summer protested emphatically with a shake of her head.

“We don’t know it’s us, but we can’t rule it out either.  It could be as simple as the guy with the baseball cap and sunglasses . . . maybe tying up loose ends.  George said the guy didn’t seem to be involved . . . that was George’s word,
involved.
Maybe he was the leader and decided to get rid of them.”

Summer shook her head, not believing either possibility, but said, “Ok, so we don’t rule it out.  What’s the plan?”

“What’s the typical profile of a pedophile?”  Pete asked.

“You know the answer,” Summer said with impatience.  “White male, twenty to fifty, single, doesn’t get along well with his own peer group, tends to hang around kids of a specific age group and gender, no real friends.”

“Right.  Chet, Logan and I fit the profile.  You and Doug don’t.”

“Forget it,” Summer said, turning half away from him.

“Can’t.  You know we can’t.  We need to look at this objectively.  You and Doug need to do some discreet digging.  Discreet, but dig like hell.  Once we’re ruled out . . . or in, we can check out Albuquerque and the tribal police.”

Summer turned back to Pete, crossed her arms and toed a small pebble without looking up at him.

“Do you have anyone in mind . . . I mean . . .”

“No.  I don’t think it’s one of us, but again, we’ve got to dig, deep as hell if need be, discreetly, but we’ve got to dig.  That’s the only way,” Pete said, running a hand through his grayish flattop and then wiping sweat from his face.  “As I said, it could be the guy wearing the baseball cap and sunglasses tying up loose ends.”

“What about George.  We’ve got to tell him, but I don’t think we can send him back until we know more.  It’s too dangerous,” Summer added.

“I’ll tell him, and I’ll find a safe place for him.  Once I place him, I’ll let you and only you know where he is, but it has to stay between the two of us.”

Summer nodded.

“And,” Pete paused and said, “I’m thinking on sending Skippy to Arizona to check the crime scene, but I think you should go too.  I don’t want to go too far out of the group, and I don’t want this to get out too quickly.”

“I’ll go, but you just can’t send Skip to Arizona, Pete.  He’s got to answer to somebody.  Someone is going to want to know where he is.”

“I’ll work it out,” Pete said walking away, knowing Summer was okay with it.  He stopped and came back to her, “You take care of Doug but don’t involve anyone else other than someone who can work a computer better than Chet.”

“And who do you suppose
that
might be?”  Summer said doubtfully.

Pete shrugged, believing Chet was the best.  He turned on his phone, checked the recent calls and phoned George’s cousin in Arizona.

“Leonard, this is Pete Kelliher.  Who knows about this?”

“Just you.  I need to radio in and get the coroner.  Is George okay?”

“George is fine.  Hold off on contacting anyone.  I want a very, very tight lid on this.  My partner is coming out along with a forensics guy by the name of Skip Dahlke.  They’ll arrive in roughly two hours.  Can you trust one other individual who will give them an escort?”

“Yeah, I got a cousin.  What about George?”

“I give you my word, George will be safe.  After I tell him what happened, I’ll have him call you, but don’t give him a lot of detail.  He’s too young and doesn’t need that right now.  Okay?”

Leonard hesitated, but said, “Yeah, okay.  But he’ll be safe?”

“You have my word.  My partner and Dahlke will catch a chopper out to Window Rock.  Have your cousin meet them there.”

“Got it.”

“And Leonard, you’ve got to keep a tight lid on this.”

*                            *                            *

While Pete spoke to Leonard, Summer spoke with Doug Rawson.  The tall black man listened intently, squinting, a hand in his pocket, and every now and then he nodded at something she said.  Luckily, Chet was busy with his laptop, so the conversation remained private between the two of them.  Finally, Rawson nodded, turned away, pulled out his cell and made a call.

                            *                            *                            *

George listened silently, head down.  Every now and then, he’d glance up at Pete, struggling to keep his composure.  Pete admired him for that but knew that the struggle was intense.

“Everyone’s dead?”  George asked, lip trembling, eyes welling up.

“Yes.  That’s what Leonard said.”

George dropped his head and folded his arms.  Pete reached out and gripped his shoulders.  George let him but didn’t raise his head.  He wiped his eyes but didn’t look up.

“George, I need you to trust me, okay?”  Pete said gently.

George nodded but didn’t look up.

“I’m not going to let anything happen to you, but until we find some answers, I can’t let you go back home.”

“Someone will need to say prayers for my family,” George said with a shaky voice.

“Can your cousin arrange that for you?”

George shrugged.

“I know you want to go back home and take care of your family, but I don’t think it would be safe for you.  Not yet, anyway.”

George looked up at Pete, wiped his eyes and said, “It’s because of me, isn’t it.”

Pete took George’s face into his hands and turned it up so they were eye to eye.

“What happened was not your fault.  You did the right thing.  You helped solve a little boy’s murder.  That’s a good thing.  What happened to your family isn’t your fault.”

“But they killed my family because of me,” George insisted.

Pete didn’t say anything, but wiped away tears from George’s eyes with his thumbs.  George said nothing, but breathed deeply, took Pete’s cell phone, turned and walked away.  Pete let him go, knowing the boy needed some space, time and quiet.  Instead, he walked over to the forensic team.

“Skip, can I speak with you a second?”

Dahlke recognized a difference in Pete’s voice, had noticed him talking to George and had noticed George crying off by himself.  He left Roz and walked over to Pete.

“Skip, I need a huge favor.”

Pete told him about George’s family being murdered, the family ranch being burnt to the ground and the need for him to fly to Arizona to cover the crime scene.

“You don’t have anyone else?”

“No one I trust right now.  I’m sure this is related to the murder George witnessed and the murder of this boy and these two assholes.  I’m just not sure who or how.”

James glanced over at George who had reappeared in the clearing, walking towards Roz.

“What’s going to happen to him?”

“Nothing will happen to him.  He’s my responsibility now.”

“What do I tell Roz?  She’s going to need to know,” he shrugged and shook his head, “
Some
thing.”

Pete chewed on his tongue and then puffed out his cheeks.

James said, “I’ll give her directions and the protocols on this scene.  I’m going to tell her I was asked to run another scene and that I’ll be in touch with her.  I won’t tell her where or who.  Fair enough?”

“Catch a ride with Chet, Summer and Doug in the helicopter.  Summer will arrange for both of you to take a plane to Arizona and a chopper to take you to Window Rock, where someone will pick you up and take you to the ranch, or what’s left of it.  Call me when you arrive and after you check it out.”

“You want me to use my gear, or do you have some for me?”

“I can get it, but it could take time.  I’m not sure we have time.”

James nodded and turned to walk away.

“Skip?”

“Yeah,
Boss Man
,” he said with a smile.

Pete smiled and said, “I owe you.”

James looked over at George and then back at Pete. 

“No you don’t.”

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

Pete phoned the Center for Missing and Exploited Children.

“There’s a kid in Wisconsin I heard about who was a victim and held captive a couple, maybe three years ago.  He works with families of missing kids or victims of sexual predators.  Would you happen to know who he is and how to get a hold of him?”

The man on the other end paused before asking, “Can I ask why?”

Pete paused for effect and then said, “I’d rather not say.”

It was the man’s turn to pause and then he said, “His name is Randy Evans, and he lives in a suburb of Milwaukee.  His father, Jeremy, is a high school counselor.”

He gave Pete a phone number.

After thanking him, Pete signed off and punched in the number.

*                                                        *                                                        *

“What the hell were you thinking?”

The dark man smiled, smoked his cigar, blew smoke towards the ceiling and answered calmly, “Tying up loose ends.”

“Do you realize that now they suspect they have a leak?  They’ve begun an investigation into who that might be?”

After another puff on the cigar, the dark man said, “I pay you to keep things private.  You’ll just have to divert that investigation.”

The man on the other end of the line said, “They aren’t stupid . . . Kelliher isn’t stupid and neither is Storm.  It won’t be that easy.”  He paused and asked, “Why?  Why did you do this without first asking me?”

The dark man sighed and answered, “First of all, I don’t have to ask you anything . . . not a thing.  Secondly, they’re Indians.  No one in Arizona gives a shit about Indians, least of all me.”  He let that sink in and then said, “Besides, Graham was with them, and I need to protect him.  You know why.”

“Graham was the third man?”

“Yes.  Now you understand?” the dark man asked.

The man on the other end swore and said, “It was still very stupid and dangerous.  You could have just gotten rid of Frank and Ron.  You didn’t have to whack the kid and his family.”

“I wasn’t going to take that chance.  That kid still might be able to identify Graham. You’ll just have to divert the investigation.”

Exasperated, the man asked, “You do realize that you’re planning a pick up just hours from the deposit, don’t you?”

“And?”

The caller on the other end was out of patience, tired of trying to explain the predicament the dark man put him in, so he said, “I think you’re reckless.”

The dark man smiled and said, “I’m a business man.  I need to tie up loose ends and restock my stables.”

“And I don’t have to tell you what happens if you get caught.”

“I pay you money to keep me from getting caught, now don’t I?  Not to mention an open invitation for certain privileges with my ponies.”

A long pause.

“I just need you and your handlers to be careful.”

“Of that you can be certain.  I’ll let you know when the pony is in our possession.”

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

Stephen Bailey, dressed in his tiger-stripped goalie shirt and his white Addidas gloves with finger spines, danced on his toes watching the play develop ahead of him.  He had not been scored upon, but since the half, most of the play took place on his end of the field.  A mid-fielder dribbled past a defender and down his right sideline.

Noticing his stopper down on one knee tying a shoe, he said, “Mike, watch the pass to the forward.”

Mike Erickson straightened up and said, “Got it,” and sprinted to intercept the pass.

He misplayed it, but it went off his foot out of bounds, giving his defense time to regroup.  Stephen barked directions to his defense and moved to a defensive angle. The throw-in was headed by a defender and picked up by Stephen’s forward, and the play moved to the other side of the field.

“Time?”  Mike yelled to his sideline.

“Less than two,” his coach yelled back.

“Nothin’ past you, Mike!” Stephen yelled.

“Nope, nothin’.” 

The ball was stolen and launched to a quick forward on Stephen’s left.  The attacker dribbled nicely through the mid-field and past Stephen’s left fullback.  Mike slipped when he sprinted to defend it, and the attacker drilled it high to Stephen’s backside.  Somehow, Stephen laid out, knocking it out of the goal box.  He scrambled to his feet ready for a second shot, but Mike had recovered and booted the ball to the far end of the field.

“Nice one, Mike!”  Stephen yelled with a sigh of relief.

“Nothin’ past me,” Mike said with a laugh.

The two of them had been best friends since second grade, spending as much time at each other’s house as their own.  Stephen was a bit taller than Mike and was a strawberry blond, which he kept fairly short.  Not only was he an excellent goalie, he was also a very good catcher on his baseball team, usually hitting third or fourth in the lineup.  Mike, on the other hand, had dark hair, and he wore it a bit longer than Stephen.  Soccer was his best game, though he played on the same baseball team as Stephen as a centerfielder.  He was naturally quick, as well as fast, which made him ideal for each sport and the positions he played. Both boys also took tennis lessons, with Mike being the better of the two.

Three whistles, and the game ended in a 2-0 win.  Cheers all around.  Mike and Stephen, best friends, threw their arms around each other’s shoulders and accepted knuckle bumps and low fives from their teammates, and as was their tradition, Mike and Stephen took off their shirts and waved them in the air.  And as was the typical reaction to their tradition, their coach Barry Miller yelled at them to get their shirts back on.  They did, but not before Mike did a nifty back flip and not before they squirted each other with their water bottles.  Every win, the same routine, and so far, the routine occurred each game they had played. 

The Spring City Revolution was fifteen and zero and ranked second in the boys U-13 age group in Wisconsin.  They had high hopes for the Schwanz Cup Tournament in the Twin Cities in two weeks.  After their team meeting, Stephen and Mike stripped off their socks and shin guards, slipped on their Addidas slides, picked up their gear and headed to the opposite sideline to catch up with their parents and finalize plans for the rest of the afternoon and evening.  Typically, they alternated sleeping at each other’s house after games, and it was Stephen’s turn to spend the night at Mike’s house.

“What time do you want me over?” 

Mike glanced at his mom, who shrugged and said, “We’re grilling out.  Do you want to eat at our house?”

Stephen began to say yes, but his mom said, “If that’s ok with you, Jennifer.  Ted and I were going out tonight.”

“No problem.  What time would you like me to pick him up?”

“We can drop him off on our way.”

Close by, a small, non-descript man listened in on the exchange with more than a little interest.  He turned towards the parking lot and turned on his cell and placed a call.

“How soon?”

“We’re about an hour away.”

Ace told them the boys’ plans and gave them the address.  He glanced back to get another look at them.  He got into his car, stolen from a Milwaukee parking garage, and waited until he noted which vehicles the boys got into.  He checked the license plates he had written down in a small spiral notebook one more time to be certain.

One pony almost in the stable.