Chapter 15 - The Bait
Sarah hated the plan.
She made that clear for forty straight minutes.
“You are a mechanic, Evan.”
“I’m aware.”
“You are not an undercover federal agent.”
“Also aware.”
“You have two children who need a living father.”
“That is the entire reason I’m doing this.”
“No, that is the reason you should let Miller do his job.”
Agent Miller sat at the far end of my office, listening with the patience of a man who knew better than to interrupt an angry attorney.
When Sarah finally stopped, he spoke.
“For the record, Mr. Vance will not be conducting any independent undercover operation.”
I nodded.
Sarah pointed at me.
“You hear that?”
“He said independent.”
Miller almost smiled.
Sarah closed her eyes.
“I hate both of you.”
The plan was simple enough to sound safe.
That usually meant it wasn’t.
We would respond to Mercer without directly contacting him.
Miller believed Mercer or one of his people was watching the shop.
So I would deliberately place an old encrypted external drive into a bank deposit envelope while standing near the front window. Then I would tell Tyler loudly that I was taking “the thing from Grant’s Mercedes” to a private storage facility.
Federal agents would follow from a distance.
The drive contained nothing valuable.
The storage locker was monitored.
If Mercer tried to steal it, agents would have probable cause to move.
At two thirty, I performed the little show.
I hated every second.
Not because I was afraid for myself.
Because I knew somewhere, someone might actually be watching.
I drove across town in my pickup and rented Locker 318 at a private storage facility.
Miller’s people had cameras covering the hallway and parking area.
I placed the decoy inside a metal toolbox.
Then I drove home.
Nothing happened that night.
Nothing happened Tuesday.
By Wednesday morning, I started wondering if Mercer had seen through us.
At 1:17 Thursday morning, Miller called.
“He took the bait.”
I sat upright in bed.
“Mercer?”
“Not personally.”
A man had entered the storage facility using a stolen access code. He had gone directly to Locker 318.
Agents arrested him carrying my toolbox.
His name was Dean Kessler.
Former security supervisor for Whitmore Development.
Miller interrogated him for six hours.
Kessler claimed he was hired anonymously.
Nobody believed him.
Then agents found two prepaid phones inside his apartment.
One contained deleted messages recovered by forensic technicians.
The messages were short.
WATCH THE MECHANIC.
FIND THE DEVICE.
USE THE MOTHER IF NECESSARY.
The sending number had been routed through multiple digital relays, but one message contained a photograph.
Melissa’s apartment building.
Another contained Owen’s baseball schedule.
When Miller showed me, every civilized thought left my head.
“Where is Kessler?”
“In custody.”
“I want five minutes.”
“No.”
“Three.”
“No.”
“He photographed my son.”
“And he will be charged.”
“That doesn’t feel like enough.”
Miller leaned forward.
“Evan, men like Mercer survive because angry people make mistakes around them. Do not become useful to him.”
That sentence stopped me.
Grant had been useful to Mercer.
His arrogance made him visible.
Melissa had been useful to Grant.
Her hunger for status made her easy to manipulate.
I would not let rage make me useful too.
That evening, Owen sat beside me on the back steps.
“You’re mad.”
“A little.”
“At me?”
“Never.”
He stared at his sneakers.
“Mom told us bad people are looking for something.”
I turned.
“She told you that?”
“She said we shouldn’t be scared, but we should listen to you.”
I made a note to thank Melissa instead of criticizing her delivery.
Owen looked toward the yard.
“Dad, what if Lucas didn’t put the black box in Grandpa’s tackle box?”
I frowned.
“He said he did.”
“He was eight.”
“He still is eight.”
“You know what I mean.”
I smiled slightly.
“What are you thinking?”
“When Lucas hides stuff, he changes the place.”
I sat straighter.
“What?”
“He hides candy from me, then forgets where he hid it first. Sometimes he tells you the first place because that’s what he remembers.”
We called Lucas outside.
I kept my voice gentle.
“Buddy, when you found the black box, did you put it directly in Grandpa’s tackle box?”
He thought.
“I think so.”
“Think hard.”
His face scrunched.
“I was going to.”
Owen and I exchanged a look.
“But?”
“Tyler came into the room.”
“Then what?”
“I put it somewhere else.”
My heart began pounding.
“Where?”
Lucas stared at the old wooden workbench in the garage.
Then his eyes widened.
“Grandpa’s red thermos.”
I stood so fast the chair scraped backward.
My father’s red thermos had not gone to the storage shed.
It had been too dented and useless to donate.
I kept it for sentimental reasons.
And three months earlier, during the shop renovation, I had placed it inside a glass display cabinet in the customer waiting room.
The same waiting room where customers came and went every day.
I called Miller.
Then I called Tyler.
“Lock the front doors.”
“What?”
“Do it now.”
I grabbed my keys.
“Where are you going?” Sarah asked.
“To the shop.”
Her face changed.
“Evan—”
The phone rang again.
Tyler.
I answered.
He was whispering.
“Boss?”
“What?”
“There’s a man standing outside.”
“Gray hair?”
“No.”
May you like
Tyler swallowed.
“It’s Grant Whitmore’s old lawyer.”
