The Program Read online

“Yes. Quite a few times. And I was in People magazine. I got my fifteen minutes. Maybe half an hour.”

  “You’re talking about a lot of exposure. Makes it harder to hide. In fact, that’s how Sammy the Bull got made. Somebody recognized him after they saw him on the tube. I bet there’s plenty of people who could recognize you after they saw you on TV, too. They change your looks much when they brought you in?”

  “My hair, my eyes. I used to wear tinted contacts. Now I wear glasses. My hair’s dark; it used to be blond. You know. No surgery, if that’s what you mean. I’ve lost some weight.”

  “Give me some details about your criticism of the program. One thing you’ll learn about WITSEC is that it doesn’t like attention. Doesn’t seem to much appreciate advice, either.”

  I did. I told Carl Luppo about Billy Foster who was really Wayne Simkin and all the problems I caused for the Witness Security Program while I was in New Orleans. For some reason I even told him about Ernesto’s mother and the bread truck full of Twinkies and Ding Dongs. I told him about the attempt to kidnap Landon in Slaughter, Louisiana.

  As I told my story, Carl called Billy Foster “a drug loser,” and then he called Ernesto Castro “another drug loser.”

  He also said, “Really? Twinkies?” They were his only three interruptions.

  When I was done, I asked, “Well, what do you think, Carl?”

  “I can see some potential problems.”

  My stomach sunk to the floor. “Such as?”

  “Like it’s possible that there’s someone working inside the witness program—I’m talking a marshal or somebody—who doesn’t like what you said when you were a prosecutor. Be easy for them to leak your location back to that guy—what’s his name?—Castro. And that Castro guy you put in prison seems to have the means to reach out. You already know that, right? And you already know that he’s the type of guy who seems to hold grudges. You know what I mean? I’m making sense here?”

  I knew what he meant. I could hear the spent shells tinkling on the sidewalk beside Robert’s ear.

  “Or… it’s possible someone inside the program might be willing to compromise your security on his own. You know? To make a point.”

  “Ron?”

  “That wouldn’t make much sense. You get hit on Ron’s watch, it won’t look good for Ron. Maybe he’s heard something, some rumblings from his buddies, and that’s why he’s all over you.”

  As Carl finished speaking I pulled the phone away from my ear and listened for any sound that might be a sign of Landon descending the stairs. I heard nothing. I moved the mouthpiece close to my lips and tried to summon enough courage to ask a question I’d been dying to ask.

  Finally I said, “Carl?”

  “Yeah?”

  “I don’t know a polite way to ask this. But what was it like to … kill someone you didn’t even know?”

  He didn’t answer immediately. I thought he sounded a little sadder when he finally spoke. “You wondering what it was like for that guy who did your husband?” His question surprised me for its simple insight.

  “I guess I am. I’m not sure.”

  “I think maybe you are. I can see why you’d wonder. You wondering about guilt?”

  “I don’t know, maybe.”

  “Don’t. I imagine for him it was just another piece of work. Nothing personal. The shooter wasn’t alone that day, I promise you that. He was part of a team. They were told to do it—probably given the circumstances they were even told how to do it—and they went and did it. From your description of what happened, I’d say they had plenty of experience, you know. A hit like that was a risky job and the guys were pros. I don’t think the shooter knew either of you—you or your husband. I’d guess it’s possible the guy was hyped, you know like adrenaline-hyped, for a few minutes after he clipped your husband. Maybe he had a couple drinks to help him come back down. Talked it over with his crew after. Maybe he went and saw his girlfriend or else found a hooker. A friend of mine used to do that. He’d go to a hooker. Usually the same hooker each time. Once she told me he cried one day after he was done with her. I don’t know about that, but I had no reason not to believe her.

  “Some guys I know took naps after. But mostly it wasn’t that big a deal to whack somebody. People lived. People died. The violence was part of being a made guy. Life went on.”

  “Not Robert’s.”

  “No, you’re right, of course. Bad choice of words. I’m sorry.”

  “What did you do? After?”

  The silence became prolonged. I wasn’t at all sure he was planning on answering me.

  Finally, he said, “I’d do what the other guys did. We all—everybody—drank too much. We’d go to clubs, joints, places our friends owned. But then, usually, I went home. If I had a girlfriend, I’d go see her first, maybe.”

  I could hear him breathe as he paused for what felt like an eternity. Maybe it was ten seconds.

  “Once we got an okay to hit a guy who was made. It was a big deal, didn’t happen often. Made guys were usually untouchable. We did him in his car, then buried the whole fuckin’ thing—him and his car—at an excavation site. Took half the night. I remember that after that one I went home and played ball with my kid. He’d pitch. I’d catch. We’d do it for hours. Pitch and catch. I liked to pretend I was Yogi Berra catching Don Larsen’s perfect game.

  “I liked to listen to music, too. Crooners. Sinatra. Sometimes I’d surprise everybody and cook a meal. Pasta was my thing. My wife used to yell to the kids, ‘Clear the decks, the penne king is on board.’”

  “But when you were done with your, your—”

  “Piece of work.”

  “With … your piece of work, you wanted to be with your family? That’s what you did?”

  “Never thought about it that way, but yes, I guess I did. First I was with my boys, that family, and then I’d go home and I’d be with my other family. Yeah, I usually went home after. Eventually anyway.”

  I thought that talking about his family might have left Carl momentarily off balance. I asked, “Were you following me yesterday, Carl? Or were you following Ron Kriciak?”

  Before he could say anything, the sticky sweet melody of Landon’s CD suddenly blared louder from the open door of her room. She called from the top of the stairs, “Mo—ther!”

  “Just a sec, Carl,” I said into the phone. “I’m down here, babe. What’s up? What do you need?”

  “Have you seen my scissors?”

  “Check the shoe box on top of your dresser.”

  “I did. They’re not there.”

  “Did you look in your desk drawer?”

  “They’re not there, either.”

  “What about—?”

  “Mom? Can you come help me look?”

  Her voice was instantly whiny, too desperate for the circumstances. I knew the feeling. I felt that way a lot lately myself. I had to go and comfort her. “One minute, and I’ll be up,” I yelled up the stairs.

  “Your daughter needs you,” Carl confirmed. “That’s a good thing. You gotta treasure that.”

  “Yes.”

  “To answer your question, I started off following Ron. When I saw who he was following, I started following both of you. Now that I hear your story, I think you might have something to be worried about.”

  “Thanks for not lying to me,” I said. “Now I have to go to my daughter.”

  7

  Prowler waited until he heard a gruff greeting rasp from the speaker in his ear, then he said, “I told you my plan would work. We have three possibles. I’m sending someone to check them out in person. I should have something for you in thirty-six hours max.”

  “Tell me how you got where you are.”

  “According to the records you provided, the subject’s kid is a spelling wiz. Since she was six years old, she’s done all the big spelling bees, and she’s done them well. Kind of a little spelling wunderkind. I searched the state and regional spelling tournament listings for kids abou
t her age who are appearing on the roster in their state or region for the first time. Most of these tournaments are sponsored by newspapers. That helps; they keep good records. I succeeded in accessing records for forty-three states accounting for 93 percent of the U.S. population.”

  “That must be a lot of kids.”

  “It was.”

  “Good work.”

  “Thank you.” Prowler’s sarcasm was intentional.

  “Go on.”

  “I began to rule out kids based on how long they’d lived at the address on their registration form and how long they’d attended their schools.”

  “You can get that data? I’m impressed. Good again, I’m still with you.”

  “Next I ruled out kids whose birthdays differed from our target by more than six months. I can’t see WITSEC altering the kid’s birth date by more than six months. I think three is more likely. Or even one. But my goal was to be conservative. And that whittled the list down to eleven.”

  “Eleven’s a long way from three.”

  “I ruled out four kids in Louisiana and Florida. I don’t think WITSEC would risk placing her in either state. The kid’s mother is too well known in both locations. The marshals would consider them ‘hot’ territories.”

  “Agreed. We’re down to seven.”

  “I ruled out the other five children one at a time. Turns out that two kids live in segregated neighborhoods and attend segregated schools, one in the south side of Chicago, the other in East St. Louis. WITSEC can’t hide a kid who’s as white as the one we’re looking for in neighborhoods like either of those. Be like trying to hide a grain of rice in a box of red beans.”

  “That’s five.”

  “One kid had a feature written about her in her local paper. I have the photo. It’s not our girl.”

  “One to go.”

  “I couldn’t eliminate the next one right away. Then I realized that our kid wouldn’t have a sibling in the tournament and one of the remaining girls had an older brother registered.”

  “I’m impressed. Where are the final three girls?”

  “A suburb of Indianapolis, Indiana, called Carmel. A town in California called Oceanside—it’s north of San Diego. And Boulder, Colorado.”

  “I like Indiana.”

  “I do, too. It’s our first stop.”

  “Your plan is?”

  “We have the addresses. My people will do surveillance and achieve visual confirmation of the identities of both mother and daughter. I should have digital photos to you within an hour of confirmation.”

  “Excellent.”

  Prowler asked, “Your own surveillance? Any fruit from that tree?”

  “We have that bug in his home. Still not in hers. She’s in a security building. It’s felt too risky. And neither of their offices. So far I mostly get to listen to his daughter talk to her friends about boys.”

  Prowler said, “Let me know if you get something.”

  “Will do. My friend will be pleased with the progress.”

  “I’m so happy to hear that.”

  chapter

  four

  TWELVE STEPS

  1

  About halfway between Peyton’s town house and the sharp rise of the Rocky Mountain foothills, Lauren and Alan were meeting after work to begin shopping for a crib. The plan was for him to meet his wife at Kids and Co. on Arapahoe near Twenty-eighth, next door to Grand Rabbits toy store. When he arrived at the furniture store he spotted Lauren in the back admiring an ornate mahogany crib with lathe-turned spindles. The look was vaguely Victorian.

  Lauren’s black hair was still cut short. Her neck was bare, and from the rear he could hardly tell she was pregnant. He paused for a moment and admired her profile, concluding that he didn’t see how doing yoga with Adrienne was going to improve upon that butt. “Hey, pretty lady,” he said when he was still a few steps away. “I was wondering—you doing anything later?”

  Without turning to face him she replied, “I don’t know. My evening is pretty full. I was planning on doing some work to update my baby book. And maybe see if I can figure out how my new breast pump works.” She put a seductive lilt in her voice and added, “Are you interested?”

  “The breast pump part sounds interesting enough.”

  She turned and kissed him. “This was probably why you were available when I met you. You wasted all your best pickup lines on women in maternity stores and baby furniture shops.”

  He gazed into her eyes and thought she looked tired. He constantly fought concerns about her health. Pregnancy and multiple sclerosis. Multiple sclerosis and pregnancy. He quipped, “But all my friends told me that that’s where the women were.”

  She smiled. “Fortunately for me, all your friends were complete fools. You like this crib?”

  He was still trying to gauge her mood. “Should I feign interest or tell you what I really think?”

  “It’s early in the process. Feign interest.”

  “Well, in that case, I will say that it seems to be about the right size for a baby. That’s a definite plus. And, given the design, it has some definite potential should we decide to name the kid Beatrice or Arthur.”

  She kicked him lightly on his shin. “Humor me, Alan. I’m pregnant. I’m tired. And I’m hungry.”

  He looked at his watch. “I think the store’s open until nine. You want to get something to eat before we do this?”

  “Full Moon Grill?”

  “You read my mind. We have reservations.”

  “I know I read your mind,” she said. “Especially about the breast pump.”

  THEY WALKED WEST a few hundred feet while enjoying a view of the parking lot of the Safeway Supermarket across Arapahoe and of the soaring flat rock faces of the distant Flatirons. At the restaurant they were escorted to a pleasant deuce by the windows.

  “You know what? I really want a beer,” she said.

  “Sorry, sweets. You want to order a nonalcoholic something? A Sharps or a Cutters?”

  “No, I don’t think so. I’ve decided that abstaining is easier. Near beer is like having sex without orgasm.”

  He thought about it for a moment. “There are worse things.”

  “I’ll remember that the next time we’re—”

  “That’s not… what I meant.”

  The waitress walked over and smiled a smile that was too kind for strangers. Alan ordered a beer. Lauren asked for a large glass of lemonade. The waitress spun on her heels and departed.

  Alan asked, “How are you two feeling?”

  “We two are doing fine. Like I said before, we’re tired and we’re hungry. Maybe a little cranky.”

  “Let’s order something to start, then.” He pointed to the list of appetizers on the menu. “But you’re just usual-tired and usual-cranky? Nothing special I should be concerned about?”

  “Just the usual,” she said. “How was your day?”

  “Okay. I think my new government patients are going to provide me with a constant source of amusement and challenge.”

  Lauren was instantly intrigued. She asked, “In what way?”

  He’d opened the door to her question and had to figure out a way to tell Lauren what he wanted without breaching his patients’ confidentiality. “Maybe it’s not too surprising, but my impression is that nobody involved seems to trust anybody else very much.”

  “You mean your patients and the government?”

  He reached across the table and tore a crust off a hunk of bread. Didn’t say yes, didn’t say no.

  Lauren said, “I would think that the witnesses would be quite beholden to the marshals who are protecting them.”

  “That’s what I thought at first, too. But apparently once your life has been threatened, trust doesn’t come too easily.”

  Lauren waited until she was certain that Alan wasn’t planning to continue, then she said, “If that patient of yours is who I told you I thought she was, she has plenty of reasons to mistrust the Witness Protection people.” L
auren didn’t take her eyes off the table as she spoke.

  Alan felt a need to distract Lauren from drawing him further into a conversation about Peyton. “Have you ever dealt with them? Professionally, I mean. Has the Boulder DA ever prosecuted a protected witness?”

  “No, not that I’m aware of.” She lifted the napkin that was covering the bread in the basket and perused her choices. “Sweetie?” she said.

  “Yes.”

  Lauren leaned forward and lowered her voice to a whisper. “I know that you can’t tell me about her. About your work with her. But I know what I saw in your waiting room. Okay? What she did in calling attention to problems in the Witness Protection Program—”

  “Technically it’s called the Witness Security Program.”

  “Whatever, you idiot. Don’t try to distract me—it’s not going to work. In my eyes, what she did in focusing attention on the problems with protected witnesses was flat-out heroic. What happened to her after she took that risk—God, I can’t imagine it. It’s my biggest fear about my work, that somehow I’ll do something that will draw some crazy guy back into our lives—yours and mine and the baby’s—and he’ll seek his revenge on us.

  “I feel so deeply for her. I can’t begin to express how glad I am that you’re helping her, and I wouldn’t dream of doing anything to jeopardize the work that you’re doing with her. Please understand that. But if there’s anything I can do, any questions I can answer, anything I can teach you about being a prosecutor that you don’t already know, please ask. I won’t pry into your therapy with her. But it would feel great to me to be able to help her, even in the smallest possible way. Do you understand what I’m saying?”

  “I think so.”

  The waitress returned with their drinks and asked if they were ready to order. Lauren said, “Sorry, we haven’t even looked at the menus.” The waitress forced another smile and moved on to another table. Then Lauren said to Alan, “I mean it. I want to help any way that I can.”

  “I don’t know what to say. But if I think of anything that you can do to help me with my work, I’ll let you know. How’s that?”

  “That’s fair,” she said. “You know, last night I dreamt that our baby is going to be blond.”