The Three Monkeys, a Carter A. Johnson & Kate Menke Thriller Page 14

  Both sentries stepped forward to a cleared area behind the fence's four strands of barbed wire. Altmon stepped to his left and stood beside Maggie so the sentries had to turn to face them. Maggie spoke, "Mister, we just need direct—”

  Two county swat team members jumped up and rushed from the tree line on the right side of the gravel lane with their silenced assault rifles trained on the sentries. "Drop your weapons and hit the ground, now! Move it, move it, move it!"

  Altmon and Sanders backed up three feet as they drew their handguns and knelt to shooting positions six feet from the sentries. Sanders yelled, "Drop those rifles now!"

  The sentries exchanged disgusted looks, then placed their weapons against the fence post and laid belly down on the weed covered ground. Both stared with animosity at Altmon, but neither spoke. Sanders leaned in the CTS, took a radio from the console and punched the send button. "Team two to Command. We are secured. Both guards are in custody and being restrained."

  While Sanders spoke, both sentries were cuffed and searched. In a vest pocket, they found the key to the padlock securing the chain on the gate. Before the swat team truck and three SUVs carrying police officers arrived, the gate was opened, and the convoy surged through with a cloud of white dust swirling behind it. The diesel engine in the swat team truck rattled noisily, announcing their presence.

  Altmon and Sanders waited in the CTS until the last SUV passed then pulled in line behind it. As they entered the compound they saw swat team members and policemen scatter in all directions following the plan developed hours earlier.

  Luther Westbrook was located and served a warrant. He appeared to be in a daze at first but quickly recovered. Shortly, he was spouting venomous hatred at Altmon and the entire county sheriff's organization. Luther wasn't alone in his disgust at being rousted on their own turf. Over half the Patriots scattered into the woods, into head-high corn fields or inside cubby holes in the barn and sheds.

  Finally, twenty-two members of the White Patriots were assembled in front of the barn. Some grumbled about being treated like common criminals while held at gunpoint by the fascist police regime. After thirty tense seconds, Richard Allen Henekes grudgingly stepped forward when his name was called for the third time. His disdain for the police was made clear until Lieutenant Altmon showed him the arrest warrant, stepped behind the heavy-bodied bearded man and cuffed him. At that point, his expletives became louder and non-stop. He quieted long enough to spit a glob of tobacco juice with practiced accuracy and hit the toe of Altmon's polished left shoe. The rest of the Patriots yelled and made threatening moves toward the officers but backed off when confronted with weapons held by the jittery and unsure younger officers. A few sheriff's deputies and officers borrowed from neighboring counties stared nervously at the intense standoff.

  Capt. Vonbrecht saw nothing funny in the situation. His deep bass voice bellowed over a bullhorn. "Unless you so called Patriots want to see the inside of a jail cell this afternoon, you'll calm yourselves and cooperate with us. Otherwise, I'll call for cattle cars to haul the lot of you to our jailhouse and arrest you for obstruction." He paused then spoke loudly again. "Lieutenant Altmon, you can interview Mr. Henekes back at our office. The rest of the Sheriff's Department personnel can return to headquarters. Thank you for a fine job."

  Vonbrecht's last comment drew jeers, clenched fists, and serious, loud cursing from the dismissed and ignored Patriot group.

  Chapter Eleven

  Johnny lay on an air mattress in the back of the van. Paul had relieved him at eleven that morning when they stopped at Salina, Kansas, for diesel and food. In an hour, they were fueled, fed, stretched and leaving the truck stop on their way to California.

  The van sped off the approach to Highway 70 West and reached seventy-five MPH. Paul engaged the cruise control and settled in for the drive to Grand Junction, Colorado, where Johnny would switch with him. They intended to drive the five-year-old van straight through to San Francisco by taking turns sleeping when not driving. Paul couldn't contain a satisfied smile. Incriminating a member of the Order of White Patriots in the death of the dog dumped in Ms. Menke's car was a stroke of genius. The police would spend time chasing a member of that radical group and would focus their attention on the whole bunch. He had bought precious time during which little attention would be focused on him and Johnny during the week they were out of state. Their schedule was tight, but a week should be enough time to accomplish his goal. He didn't look forward to the final steps of dealing with examples four and five when he took them back to Missouri. He'd only see it through for the sake of his beloved country.

  Jewel Bateman would be his example of greed run amuck in America. Over two billion dollars was missing from accounts of the bankrupt investment firm she founded twenty-three years ago. She claimed the CFO and other officers of Adaptive Investments embezzled the funds or general mismanagement was to blame. In any event, she claimed from the beginning that she was innocent. Then several months ago, the FBI traced 1.5 billion dollars of the missing money to carefully hidden offshore accounts that eventually belonged to Bateman's husband.

  When Paul heard the news that she and her husband, Dinesh Maisuria, were granted bail pending trial scheduled for early the following year, he added them to his list of people to be highlighted as examples of America's most prominent internal problems. Both thieves were placed under house arrest by the judge with the explicit condition GPS ankle monitors were to be worn by each of them. Paul smiled at the knowledge that the judge's instructions made their job easier because he knew with certainty both of the accused would be home. Ripe for the picking as he'd heard someone somewhere say. The only unknown in that respect was whether the financial miscreants had live-in servants. That could get messy but wouldn't change his plan; it could cause an interruption and additional casualties but not a cancellation. Just collateral damage, as the warriors liked to espouse.

  Instead of gathering three transgressors at three separate locations, as they had done in St. Louis, they would only need to deal with two people at one location outside Seattle, Washington. That alone should make this portion of the plan easier, even if the distance and duration of the kidnappings were serious negatives.

  He had planned carefully for their trip to be fast. The twenty-two hundred miles from St. Louis to San Francisco could be driven in forty-two hours at the most even accounting for storms and road construction. A room at the Grand Hyatt in S.F. had been reserved during the previous month at a cost of over $450 per night. He hated to pay more than $3,000 for a room they would only use for one night, but they needed the receipt as their alibi to confirm where they'd been for a full week. For a man of his national stature to stay anyplace of lesser quality would be a flashing beacon if the authorities investigated his alibi.

  Paul felt this planned abduction should go as smoothly as the first three. An enormous amount of time had been spent planning, and large sums of money had been committed to the mission. Mission, he liked the sound of that word. It painted images of him and Johnny as warriors bringing awareness to the whole country. Of course, those damn liberals wouldn't understand or accept the danger the nation was in due to their progressive craziness insidiously perpetrated on the country over the past decades. Paul turned the radio on and found a classical music station. Holding the steering wheel with his left thigh, he inserted ear buds and relaxed to the piece he couldn't name but recognized as being by Vivaldi. He needed to relax and clear his mind. There'd be enough opportunities to focus on the details of their mission before they reached Seattle.

  Carter sat in Capt. Davis's office. He was early and waited for her to keep their appointment. She'd called him so they could discuss the investigation's findings on Richard Allen Henekes. Pictures of her husband and two rug rats at various ages dominated frames hanging on the right wall. Both of the kids could easily be in college by now judging by the latest looking photos. Others he assumed were of parents and friends and relatives. Numerous certificates
and diplomas from seminars and college classes pertaining to law enforcement filled the wall behind the desk.

  Sometimes he harbored feeling of guilt at not being close to his distant relatives. There had been little effort on either side to establish and nurture a warm relationship between them. It wasn't that he didn't like them. In fact, he simply didn't know them and didn't have a need for close family ties. He felt the same way about close friends, too. He grinned dourly as he remembered what a fellow Marine had told him about friends. A friend is a buddy who'll screw your wife to keep her happy while you're away on an assignment.

  Shoe soles slapped the floor behind him and he turned to see Capt. Davis watching intently. "Impressive," he commented. "I'd almost forgotten how much training was involved in advancing through the government hierarchy."

  "Lucky you. It's almost a monthly issue here. And while I'm away getting educated, I'm still responsible for the actions of the dipshits under my command."

  Carter smiled. "Don't remind me. It's still a bad memory from my law enforcement days. The well-meaning airheads in citizen's advisory boards don't have a clue about good policing, but they think they have all the answers."

  Capt. Davis brushed against him as she squeezed past, stepped behind her desk, and sat. "I checked on you. There's no longer a place for tough, independent officers on a police force. We're all touchy feely nowadays. It doesn't work, but we do it to keep our jobs. It's disgusting to be forced to apologize to criminals because we invaded their personal space, hurt their precious feelings or slipped and said a cuss word." Carter took a seat across the desk from her. "Sounds as if you're looking forward to retirement." She nodded, exhaled and gave a slight smirk.

  Capt. Davis turned and removed a folder from a wire rack behind her. "Now for the business at hand. Henekes was released about half an hour ago. He had an alibi for the day the dog was put in Ms. Menke's car. He was in Columbia at the Black Rifle gun shop buying a large amount of ammunition for the Patriots. Luther Westbrook brought a receipt from the gunshop with Henekes' signature on it. He also brought a logbook that he records the names of each person who is on site daily at their compound. Henekes was also supposedly there the entire week those three mutilated bodies were discovered in Illinois."

  He stopped biting his bottom lip. "I'm not surprised. The evidence planted to incriminate Henekes was too obvious to be true. Those brochures didn't belong there. The person or people behind those killings are more organized than to leave something that stupid behind accidentally."

  "I asked about the brochures, too," Davis said. "The members take turns passing them out at gun shows, protest events and such activities. Our perpetrator must have collected them that way and was careful to get some with the fingerprints of a member of the Order of White Patriots on them. So, we're back to no leads to follow."

  Carter stood then leaned across the desk with his right arm extended. They shook hands as he said, "Thanks for cooperating and following through on this. I appreciate it. We'll be in touch if anything else turns up." He laid a business card on her desk. At the door, he turned back to say, "If things go well in the future, say the next two years, J&M will need additional investigators. A bright ex-police captain would be my first choice for a new investigator." He smiled and winked at Harlee, stepped out of the office and pulled the door shut behind him.

  Capt. Davis leaned back in her chair. Other job offers were rejected occasionally, but this could be the one she'd accept. It and a police pension would elevate her and her husband to another level of security after the kids were out of the house. Both sons had done well in school and received scholarships that eased the financial burden of higher education. But the drain still impacted her and hubby's lifestyle. In three years, she expected both kids to have degrees and jobs and be self-supporting. She hoped that worked out. The small J&M staff impressed her. She might be a good fit there. Early retirements with significant pay packages were offered in the past and possibly could be again. If and when an offer was made, she'd be ready to contact J&M.

  Johnny again said, "Grandpa, wake up. We're fifty-two miles from San Francisco." Johnny waited for long seconds and heard no response. Louder he repeated. "Grandpa the sign says—"

  Sounds of movement and a disoriented, muted reply indicated Paul was awake. "Don't yell, I hear you." In a minute, Paul's image appeared in the rearview mirror.

  Paul was groggy. He sat on the pile of comforters on the extra-large air mattress and blinked his eyes repeatedly. Sleep had been evasive and erratic. He hadn't roughed it like that since he was in his early thirties. "The map indicated there should be a rest stop ahead soon; pull in there and I'll relieve you. If there's still some food in the cooler, we'll eat a snack or buy some munchies. Depending on the traffic, we should be about an hour and a half from our hotel." He paused to look at his watch, rub his eyes, and stretch. “We’re several hours ahead of schedule.” Paul blinked and shook his head. "We'll get a bath, a decent hot meal and a good night's sleep in a bed before we start out early tomorrow morning." Ten minutes passed until he heard the turn signal clicking before Johnny slowed to exit the highway at the roadside rest stop. Using the restroom facilities, stretching, and taking a ten-minute power walk went a long way toward reviving them.

  The morning after his talk with Capt. Davis, Carter stopped at Deline's desk. He’d gotten up early, jogged three miles and hit the weight machines in their gym. "Good morning, how are you today?"

  She smiled. "I am good, Boss. Is it not a shame our only suspect in the dead dog caper turned out to be a set-up to frame an innocent man?"

  "Yeah. I don't place the Patriots as a group high on my list of suspects, but that still doesn't rule out one or a small segment of the group being involved in murder."

  "Agreed. Now another matter. A Mr. Masinelli, Thomas Masinelli, of the FBI phoned to speak to you. He is the SAC, as in Special Agent in Charge of the Kansas City office." She extended a note paper with the name and phone number to him.

  Carter grinned happily. "I'll be damned. Tom Masinelli. Sounds like he's the head dog in this area."

  Kate exited the elevator and walked to the front of the office. She stood next to Carter and greeted Deline. He handed the note to Kate.

  "Tom and I worked two cases when I was a detective in L.A. He's a good man. I wonder why he's calling. I hope it's about our Three Monkeys' investigation. We could use some support from the Feds if we get a solid lead on this case."

  In a voice lacking emotion, Kate said, "If we ever get a solid lead."

  Deline injected in her upbeat manner, "I have some information pertaining to Ms. Anastasia Dubois. This was difficult to assemble because her youth was spent in an orphanage in the Dominican Republic. As near as I can ascertain, her parents were drug addicts. They abandoned her to the care of her father's mother; she in turn dumped the child in the orphanage at age twelve. Anastasia ran away from the institution upon reaching sixteen. She must have lived on the streets until she arrived in Florida illegally. Nothing was found on how she managed that. From there, at age eighteen, she was sent by a nefarious and now defunct placement agency to Mr. and Mrs. Paul Peltier's home in St. Louis as a domestic servant." She looked up with a frown. "Now it gets interesting. Initially, she lived in quarters at the Peltier home. Soon her salary appeared to have been about thirty percent above the expected rate at that time. After approximately eight years, I could not determine exactly when, she took lodging on her own away from the Peltier mansion. That was, I think, after the Peltier’s divorce. Now something extraordinary." Deline glanced up at both of her employers. "She is quite wealthy for a domestic servant, in the amount of over three million dollars. During the internet boom of the early 2000s, she was an active and extremely successful stock trader, starting with small amounts. During that time, she had accounts at up to three different discount brokerage houses. There is more, but I need to take a short break."

  Deline left the room. She returned ten minutes later with cups of hot
coffee for everyone. From a bottom desk drawer she extracted a tin of homemade cookies. She continued her report. "Ms. Dubois has no police record, has a driver's license and owns a four-year-old Chevrolet Malibu. She has attended St. Louis University for the past six years where she was awarded a bachelor's degree in psychiatry after four years and is working on her master's degree. She attends night classes when they are offered and has been granted permission to skip day classes and go in at night to take tests as required."

  Carter and Kate nodded appreciatively as Kate mumbled around a cookie, "I am duly impressed."

  At nine the previous evening, Paul crashed in the queen-sized bed. He awoke at five and saw the TV still on with the sound turned down low. With a spring in his step from a good night's sleep, he walked to the bathroom to relieve his bladder, brush his teeth and comb his hair. Getting Johnny up was a mild irritation, but he held his temper until the man child grudgingly crawled from the bed and took over the bathroom. Room service delivered their breakfast twenty minutes later and Paul spread the food out on the sitting area's coffee table. At five-thirty Johnny reappeared, dressed and ready to eat.

  By eight-thirty they had escaped the heavy early morning rush hour traffic and were northeast of San Francisco on Highway 80. Soon they would merge onto Highway 5 and run it all the way to Seattle. For the rest of their mission they would pay cash for everything and spend one night in a bottom-tier motel. As far as anyone need know, they were still in San Francisco at the Hyatt for the full week. Old luggage filled with slightly worn clothing sat open on racks in their room. A few days after their scheduled departure from the Hyatt, Paul would phone and tell the desk clerk to donate the forgotten luggage and clothing to Goodwill.

  Paul anticipated reaching Seattle, Washington, before midnight. They would find a cheap motel that accepted cash and leave no record of being in the Northwest. Downgrading his lifestyle habits felt degrading and he resented it sorely, but it was necessary to complete his ultimate goal.