Perception Deception Part 3 - Tuttle

by Rabid Raccoons

Chapter 21: Down the Rabbit Hole

…..

Sam Jarrett disconnected his call with Don Eppes, and frowned at the door of the diner, watching it drift close. Spike Johnson had just strode inside, and Sam wondered if he were meeting others there, planning for the arrival of the Eppes brothers. If he went inside, he might be able to see how many of them there were…

He shifted in the driver's seat, drumming his fingers on the steering wheel in the gathering gloom. The risk if they spotted him would be minimal, he decided. They didn't know who he was, and the next time they saw him, he would be wearing a sweatshirt and a ball cap, and it would be dark. It was time he got a look at who they were dealing with.

He slid out from behind the wheel and crossed the parking lot, treading with firm steps toward the door on the back entrance. Just an average Joe, looking for a quick cheap meal. He pulled the door open, and stepped inside.

He was instantly assailed by the smell of hot grease, coffee, and barbecue sauce. There was only one woman in the place, and she was behind the cash register. Groups of men, most of them black or Latino, huddled over Formica tables and plates of beans and ribs. Sam's gaze swept the place, and he frowned. No Spike Johnson. Where had he gone?

He stepped forward, and noticed a glass door in the wall to his right, a connecting entrance to a shop next door. A plainly lettered sign above the door read 'Leon's Liquors,' and as Sam peered through it he caught just a glimpse of someone moving, vanishing around the end of an aisle. Sam wasted no time heading that direction; he went through the door into the liquor store, and came around the end of an aisle holding bottles of whiskey, just in time to see Spike step out of the front door of the store, onto Elondo Avenue, the main street. Through the glass door, Sam could see Spike glance up and down the street, and then turn to his right, and head down the sidewalk.

"Shit," breathed Sam, as he strode after him. The wiry, dour man behind the counter near the front door eyed him, but as he saw that Sam wasn't holding any merchandise, relaxed. Sam shook his head. All these times, Spike hadn't simply been going into the diner - he'd been going through it; and then through the liquor store and out on the other side of the building onto the main street, the side away from the parking lot. It had merely been a ruse, a precaution, to keep from being tracked. A rudimentary one, but it had worked. Sam cursed again, under his breath. If he'd followed Spike in the first time, they could have found out where they were holding the women, in enough time to do something about it.

Twilight was falling; it would be dark soon, but visibility was not a problem, yet. As Sam gained the street, he saw Spike several yards ahead of him, walking quickly. His head was down; after that first look up and down the street, apparently he felt secure. Spike glanced behind him once more as he made the corner of Elondo and Smithfield, but Sam had anticipated that, and he sidestepped into an alley just before Johnson got to the crosswalk and turned to look behind him. When Spike turned back around to cross the street, Sam stepped out of the alley and watched Spike go left across the intersection, then followed, trailing behind him as the man went down the street called Smithfield two blocks, past a road named Murphy Avenue, then turned and headed down another, that one named Carson Street. Both streets flanked a large building, an old warehouse, and Sam didn't dare follow too closely – there were no other people around and there were no sidewalks on Carson Street. It was not a place one would stroll; he would have been noticeable. Instead, he idled on the corner and looked down Carson, watching as Spike approached a black vehicle parked outside a loading dock, about a hundred yards from Sam's corner. It was a distance, but it wasn't too far to make out J. Everett Tuttle as he stepped out of the vehicle. The two men spoke briefly and headed inside the warehouse, and the vehicle pulled away from the dock. Sam immediately put his head down and headed back the way he came.

The car passed him as he was walking back up Smithfield, but the driver didn't seem to pay any attention to him; it was doubtful that the man even knew why his boss was there. Sam was sure that Tuttle intended for the bodies to be disposed of somewhere else, and the murder site never to be found. Even if the driver saw the missing people on the news, he would never connect them to Tuttle's trip to the warehouse - and if the site ever came to light for any reason, well, Tuttle would just have one more loose end to clean up.

The thoughts floated through Sam's head as he made it to the end of the block, and watched the car turn the corner and head back toward the main street, back toward the diner. Sam stood on the corner and watched it go, and then turned to his left, down Murphy Avenue, which ran parallel to Carson Street, where he'd seen Tuttle and Spike. Murphy Avenue ran along the back side of the warehouse. He had a little more reconnoitering to do.

A few moments later, at twelve minutes to seven, Sam was back at the same corner, his head down, hurrying back toward the diner. He'd managed to find a mandoor on back side of the warehouse that had been propped open slightly by a bit of broken concrete – probably to allow access to the inside by the homeless. He'd been able to edge inside, into the dark interior, and had slipped behind some rusting industrial lifts. From there he had caught a glimpse of four men standing together across the large expanse of floor, silhouetted in a lone security light that shone over the entrance on the far side of the building. He could hear murmured conversation, but not what they were saying. Then they had turned and headed into an office complex built in the center of the warehouse – if the girls were indeed here, Sam was sure that was where they were being held.

He glanced at his watch – 6:49. Don would be waiting for him already, at the diner, and he was still two blocks away. His cell phone rang as he strode up the block, and he grabbed it, and expecting Don, answered without looking. Instead David Sinclair's voice came through the receiver, sounding uncharacteristically flustered.

"Sam – it's David Sinclair. Have you heard from Don Eppes?"

Sam hesitated for a split second, but managed, "No, have you?"

"We got an email from him a little while ago – we think it's going down, Sam, and we have to find out where he is. We're afraid he's going into something alone."

'Not alone," thought Sam, but he had to admit, the thought of having some backup made him feel a hell of a lot better about things. It was on the tip of his tongue to tell David to come to the diner with a team, and wait until they called them in, but he knew he couldn't – he had promised Don – and Don was a hell of an agent; he knew what he was doing. He pushed down the uncomfortable thought in the back of his mind, the one that asked if Don Eppes was really thinking straight, since it was his girlfriend inside. "Well, I haven't heard from him," Sam reiterated. "I've been waiting for some new instructions. Is there something you need me to do?"

David's voice was raised; Sam got the impression that he was in a vehicle somewhere, moving fast, and he was speaking over the sound of the engine. In spite of the distortion of his voice, Sam could hear the frustration in it. "No, just sit tight. We'll call you if we need you."

"You got it," said Sam. He was crossing Elondo Avenue now, and he could see the front of the liquor store and the front diner entrance up the block. The call disconnected, and Sam put his head down and increased his stride. Don would be waiting for him, right around back.

He made it all the way to the front of the diner before he stopped, pulled out his cell phone, and punched in a text message. He addressed it to David Sinclair, but didn't send it. Instead, he saved it as a draft, and tucked the phone back in his pocket, before jogging around the corner of the diner to the back lot.

…..

Don Eppes fought the urge to climb out of his SUV, tapping the wheel impatiently. It was just a few minutes to seven, nearly dark, and Sam was nowhere to be seen. Don had spied a car with rental plates as he entered the lot, and surmised the car was Sam's, but it was empty. He could feel the tension crawling up his insides, and he was just about to step out of the car and head for the warehouse alone, when Sam came hurrying around the corner of the diner, from around the front of the building.

Don waited impatiently as Sam crossed the lot, opened the door and slid in beside him, but said nothing, because Sam looked as though he was about to burst.

"I got a line on them," Sam puffed, still sucking air. "I followed Spike to the warehouse – well behind him; he didn't pick me up, don't worry. I watched from way down the block – saw Tuttle arrive, and they both went inside. I slipped around back, onto a side street called Murphy Avenue – I found us a way in on the back side of the building – and saw them across the warehouse floor. It looks like there are at least four of them. The warehouse is a huge place – it spans the whole block – and it's dark in there. There's a walled-off section in the middle – it looks like a group of offices. They were talking, then they headed inside the offices. If the girls are at that site, that's where they're holding them – in that office complex in the center of the building."

Don let out a breath. "Good work." He reached around behind him, grabbed a bag, and tossed it at Sam. "There's a hooded sweatshirt and ball cap in there." He paused. "Although I'm not sure that it's necessary now – I can just go in the back way. They probably won't be watching that direction – the address is on Carson Street, so that must be on the front side – and that's where they directed me to go. They'll probably be watching the Carson Street side."

Sam nodded slowly. "Yes, that's probably true. Although I can walk down Carson Street – create a diversion. They'll be watching me out the front – maybe even trying to figure out if I'm Charlie or just some random schmuck. If they're occupied, it'll give you a better chance of getting in the back and to those offices unseen." He paused and looked at Don. "They'll be in warehouse, waiting for you – you'll have to get past them. If the shooting starts I can try to come inside, but if they've got the front covered it'll take me several minutes to get around the back to try to get in that way. I think you ought to consider calling in backup."

Don shook his head, lips tight. "Not yet. If you hear shooting, go ahead and call it in – I'm sure Wright and the team will be ready and waiting, after the email I sent. But right now, I can't afford anyone else around – if Tuttle and his men get suspicious and think there are agents outside, they might hole up in those offices with the girls, and we won't be able to get to them. I want to get into the warehouse first and try to get past them. You can walk down Carson Street to create a diversion – that's a good idea. But if shooting starts, I don't want you to come inside – someone will need to stay outside and hook up with Sinclair and the team and give them the lowdown."

Sam nodded again, as he pulled on the sweatshirt. "Okay. It's almost seven – we'd better get going. It's about a five minute walk to get over there."

As soon as he had the sweatshirt and cap on, he and Don got out of the SUV. Sam led the way, hunched over, cap brim down, around the corner of the diner to Elondo Avenue, and headed down the block. Don moved slightly in front of him – to anyone watching, he would appear to be leading the way, with 'Charlie' trailing behind him. So it was that he didn't see Sam, who had dropped a step or two back and reached into his pocket for his cell phone, which he pulled out just enough to see the screen, and quickly hit 'send' before tucking it back in his pocket.

…..

David Sinclair and Colby Granger took a quick look around the block; then emerged from David's car, which they had parked in front of a quiet Pasadena home. They trotted up the driveway of the home in the gathering gloom, through the back yard, and through the dense bushes at the back of it that separated the house's back yard from the back yard of the Eppes home, on the opposite block. Concealed by the shrubbery, they stopped and took a quick minute to survey their surroundings. No movement, no noise, except for the ordinary sounds of a quiet neighborhood. The television was on in the house they had just passed; they could see it through a rear window, along with the back side of the owner's head; their approach through his driveway and back yard had obviously gone unnoticed. With a nod from David, they pushed out of the shrubs and headed for the Craftsman.

They knocked quietly on the back door and waited a moment; then Colby frowned, and tried the doorknob. Locked. He looked up at David, concern in his eyes. "We'd better check the front."

They trotted around the front side, glancing up and down the street to make sure they weren't being watched, and came in behind the large planters to the front door, before David realized that the driveway – along with the street in front of the home – was empty, save for Alan's car, and they knew he was gone, visiting his ill brother. "Shit," he muttered, "Charlie's car is gone."

Colby shot him a look of consternation as he quietly tried the front door. It was unlocked, and they ducked inside and closed it quickly behind them. The light in the dining room was on, but otherwise the house was dark and quiet. They gave the place a thorough once-over – guns extended – until they were sure it was empty. Only then did they raise their voices.

"Damn it," exploded Colby, "we told Charlie to wait here!" David's only response was to shake his head, his lips tight, and Colby looked at him. "You think he left under his own power?"

"His car was gone, and I don't see signs of a struggle," said David slowly, "so yeah, I would think so. I'll bet he figured out where Don was." His gaze strayed to the dining room table, and he frowned. "He left his cell phone here, though – that's odd."

Colby's gaze followed his. "Maybe you're right – he was going to join Don, and didn't want us to trace him."

David nodded. "Possibly. Although if he turned his phone off like Don did his, it wouldn't do us much good anyway." Wright was trying to line up a GPS trace on Don's phone, which could be used with a cell phone that had been turned off, but a GPS trace took longer to set up than a cell phone tower triangulation, which was quicker but was only good when the phone was turned on. Wright was going ahead with the GPS trace anyway, but they had no way of knowing if it could be done in time… David's eyes narrowed as they rested on the recording equipment. "Get a BOLO out for Charlie's Prius. Whether someone forced him to leave or he left under his own power – either way, the car will probably lead us to both of them. I'm gonna see what's on that machine."

They both headed for the equipment, Colby pulling out his cell phone and dialing LAPD dispatch as David hovered over the machine. By the time Colby had delivered the brief message, David had the recording going.

They listened intently, with grim faces, and had just reached the point where Tuttle was reciting the address, when there was a noise at the front door. They both started, then, as David hit the 'off' button on the recorder, immediately swung out of sight behind a piece of wall that separated the dining room from the living room, and pulled out their service weapons, holding them upright in front of their faces, their bodies rigid. They could hear the door close; and the sound of something hitting the floor – a satchel perhaps – and then heavy footsteps approached the dining room. Too heavy to be Charlie.

The footsteps were almost upon them, and the intruder would enter the dining room at any second. Colby, who was against the wall behind David, nodded, a silent sign that he had David covered, and they both tensed as one, then swung out from their hiding spot, David in front, aiming at the intruder, and Colby behind him, his gun trained on the living room in case there was anyone else there, behind the man. "Freeze, FBI!" David yelled.

A startled Alan Eppes gasped and staggered, his eyes going wide at the sight of two nine millimeters so close to his head. "Wha-," he rasped, and David and Colby let out simultaneous deep breaths, and dropped their weapons.

Alan's knees looked as though they were buckling, and David reached out to grab his arm to steady him as he hit the safety and holstered his Glock. "Sorry, Alan," he said, trying to calm his own breathing, which had deepened uncomfortably as he realized that he had almost shot his SAC's father. "Don had told us you were out of town – we weren't expecting you back." He tried to steer Alan toward the sofa, but the older man resisted, staring at the apparatus on the dining room table.

"What's going on?"

David and Colby exchanged glances, and Colby strode back over to the machine to rewind it, so they could hear the address again. "It's a long story, and we really don't have time," said David, his voice tight, as the machine began to play back through the brief message. "We think Don and Charlie need some help, and we need to move."

Alan's gaze darted from his face to the machine, and he strained to hear the message over David's voice. The remainder of the recording floated out into the suddenly quiet room.

"Then I need you and your brother to come directly to an address that I will give you."

"Charlie won't be coming. He's resting at the FBI offices − he couldn't even make the drive home. He's very ill − in fact, I'm going to tell one of my agents to take him to a hospital."

"That is not an option. Your brother comes with you, or the deal is off. The two of you will come alone − if we see anyone else in the area, we will abort the handoff. You will show up at this address promptly at 7:00 p.m. 410 Carson Street, in East L.A. Don't be late."

Colby switched off the machine, just as David fumbled for his cell phone and flipped it open. "Damn," he exclaimed softly, "it's a text from Sam Jarrett. He and Don are already down at the warehouse – Sam said they are going in, and he is posing as Charlie. He's requesting backup, as soon as we can get there." As he talked, he and David turned and strode for the front door. "Wait!" Alan emitted a strangled cry as he trotted after them. "What's going on?"

David shook his head as he brought up Wright's number on his cell phone, and Colby opened the front door. "We don't have time to explain. We'll fill you in later."

Alan's eyes flashed. "Like hell you will. If you think I'm going to sit here and wait after what I just heard, you have another think coming. I'll just head down to Carson Street myself and find out." His jaw jutted pugnaciously, and David and Colby looked at each other.

"It might be better to bring him and park him down the block, with an agent or an officer, for his own safety," murmured Colby quietly. "Then someone will have eyes on him."

David nodded, and then jerked his head at Alan. "Come on, then," he said tersely, "we're already late. Head down to the curb – we're parked around the block. Colby and I will swing around and pick you up."

The three trotted out of the entrance, and Alan hurriedly pulled the Craftsman door shut behind them. It closed hard, with a sound of finality, and Alan could hear the front window rattle slightly from the impact as he bustled toward the curb. He could hear David's voice on his cell phone as he reported in to Wright, and Alan glanced back behind the house to see the agents disappear into the darkness and dense shrubbery in the back. He wondered why they had parked on the other block. His head was whirling, his heart still pounding from the unexpected ambush, and from the fear generated by the agents' obvious concern. He had a sudden sympathy for Lewis Carroll's Alice; he felt as though he'd suddenly gone down the rabbit hole, himself.

…..

End Chapter 21