Chapter Thirty-Four

For a Friday afternoon, the war room was packed. Sitting around the oval table were all the Denver Special Ops Task Force bosses, plus the Denver police chief and police chiefs from half a dozen other impacted jurisdictions. The red light glowing on the black speakerphone parked in the center of the table was the FBI director himself.

"This is what we've learned in the last three weeks." Evan indicated the briefing packets Sammy had handed out. He didn't have to look at it. He knew every word by heart.

He pointed to the photos of children still tacked to the board at the front of the room. "We found almost all the missing children whose photos were in Frank Manello's basement and on his computer." Check marks indicated the ones they'd found. Only three photos didn't have a check mark, including his sister's. "We're working with the Colorado Department of Human Services, Division of Child Welfare, to get them counseling and reunite them with their families. Those who don't have families are staying at the Foundation until arrangements can be made to find them foster homes."

He'd heard through his parents that Marlie had not only taken Dr. Lurch's place as North Metro's child psychologist, but was also volunteering at the Foundation to help undo the brainwashing Elsa and Neil had done on these kids. With the help of the Foundation and child services, Caleb was now being fostered by a family he actually liked.

"I understand from SAIC Mimoa you've enlisted the media to assist in finding the remaining missing children," the director said.

"Yes, sir." Though the man couldn't see, Evan nodded at the speaker. "We circulated those photos to all the major newspaper publications and TV stations, along with a toll-free FBI number manned 24/7 for people to call if they have information on these kids."

"Have you had the chance to interview the ones you rescued from the camp?" Brian asked.

"Yes, sir." He summarized the different in-person and online schemes Manello had used to lure kids to a public place and convince them to come with him to the camp. He left out the parts about showing John and Margaret, along with every kid there, photos of Gracie as a twelve-year-old and the age enhancement image of her.

No one had seen his sister.

"Speaking of Manello." Brian handed him a document. "You're off the rubber gun squad. The shooting review board officially cleared you."

"Thank you." He stared for a beat at the document before accepting it. With Manello dead, the man not only couldn't tell him about Gracie, but he also couldn't testify against Elsa and Neil. But John and Margaret could and did. Between those two singing like canaries, plus a thumb drive chock full of documents received from the Dutch authorities, they now had the whole twisted story.

"John and Margaret—aka Robert and Melinda Tutak," he continued, "were recruited over fifteen years ago by Neil and Elsa Wilson to run and manage the camp and to oversee the marijuana operation. To ensure their own anonymity, Neil and Elsa went by Evelyn and Adama. Their real names are Bram and Nina Ackerman."

Though he didn't need to look at it, he flipped to the next page of the briefing, which included a summary of what had been in the Red Notice files.

"Twenty-six years ago, Bram Ackerman was an investment banker in Amsterdam. He was being investigated for stealing millions of dollars of his clients' money. Apparently, Ackerman had seen it coming. With the help of his wife, Nina, he managed to squirrel away some of his assets before Dutch authorities could freeze all his accounts. Bram was indicted and arrested for securities and accounting fraud, embezzlement, attempted bribery of a government official, money laundering, and wire fraud. He was released, pending trial. Two weeks before the trial was set to begin, he and his wife fled the country. Nina was later indicted as an accessory, and for aiding and abetting many of these crimes."

"The wife," DEA ASAIC Stephen Sills and Deck's boss, said, "was she an investment banker, too?"

Evan shook his head. "No, she ran a day care." Hence her expertise with children, knowing what made them tick and how to manipulate them. "After Dutch authorities served a warrant at Bram's office, the investigation hit the news, and her clientele dried up overnight. Between the stigma of her husband's arrest and the mistrust, her reputation was ruined, and she had to close up shop. There was no reason for either of them to stay in Holland. Nina was the one who set up the offshore account in the Bahamas. Purple Dream, LLC."

He flipped to the next page, waiting for everyone else to do the same. "Back then, before September 11, it would have been relatively easy to buy phony ID. The Ackermans became Neil and Elsa Wilson. After leaving the Netherlands, they disappeared into Canada. From there, they crossed into the U.S. and into Wyoming, where they bought over a thousand acres of land situated almost entirely in a hidden valley. They paid in cash.

"We think settling in Wyoming was a carefully crafted move. Marijuana has been legal in Holland since 1976. Recreational marijuana wasn't legalized in the U.S. until 2012, and then only in Washington and Colorado. My theory is when the Ackermans came here, they saw an untapped market. Even though it's legal in Colorado and many other states now, there are heavy taxes and license fees at every step of the chain: grower, processing, distribution, then sales with the largest taxation of any product out there, fifteen percent. By keeping their farm a secret, they saved thousands and thousands of dollars every year. By doing business under the table and not charging sales tax, their business grew by leaps and bounds with loyal black-market distributors all over the state who also saved their customers in taxes. We've seized all their assets, although it's likely they never abandoned using offshore LLCs, which will be hard to get to." If not impossible.

He cued up photographs of the camp's marijuana fields and the processing facility inside the two warehouses. The director had already been emailed the same photographs. The photos showed hundreds of thousands of plants beneath the white tarps he'd seen from the air, and hundreds of bins inside the warehouses containing harvested marijuana buds. "The street value of the plants and buds are estimated at more than three hundred million dollars." Tax free, of course.

"And they've been doing this for how many years?" the director asked.

"At least twenty," Evan said. "Maybe longer. They were smart enough never to outwardly live beyond their supposed means, so no one ever suspected they were bankrolling millions every year."

Brett's boss, Lori, whistled. "Unbelievable."

"Who's handling the marijuana issue?" the director asked.

"The camp is in Cheyenne PD's jurisdiction, but the volume of weed is so large they've enlisted the Wyoming State Police and the DEA." He nodded to Deck's boss, ASAIC Sills. "The plants and buds will be transported to an incinerator."

"They certainly had a green thumb," Sills said. "Those are some of the healthiest plants we've ever come across."

Evan gripped the briefing packet so tightly the pages crunched and crinkled. "Bram Ackerman was not only a whiz with numbers, but he was also a trained horticulturalist. It was a hobby for him. That, combined with his wife's experience with children at the day care she ran, gave them all the acumen they needed for their operation."

That was another thing he'd been completely oblivious of—all the unusual flowers Neil brought to his mother on his and Gracie's birthdays. At the time, he'd been grateful for the man's thoughtfulness. Now it was a slap to the face. All these years, they'd known exactly where Gracie had gone.

"What about the statute of limitations?" Lori asked.

Evan already had a lengthy discussion with Dutch investigators on this very issue. "Right now, Dutch prosecutors are looking into that. For ‘serious' Dutch criminal offenses, no statute of limitations applies to certain felonies and specifically enumerated offenses." In lawyer-speak, that meant it would be a while before they figured anything out. "It probably won't matter. The Ackermans are in their late sixties. With all the charges they're facing here, they probably won't make it to extradition."

"Where are we with the search warrants?" the director asked.

"A state warrant was served at the camp relating solely to the illegal marijuana operation. For everything else, we served federal search warrants on the camp and at the Wilsons' house."

Evan had been present when all the warrants had been served. Then he'd had the dubious honor of telling his parents their friends were the source of grief that had plagued them for twenty-four years. Compounding that grief were the real reasons they'd remained friends with his parents and volunteered at the Foundation—to grab an occasional kid for the camp. The ones who'd disappeared and never came back.

The last thing he'd wanted was to add to his parents' continued suffering, but he'd had no choice. Eventually, they would have seen or heard something on the news. When he'd finally told them, they'd been in total shock, disbelieving at first. Now they were in the angry stage. His father had wanted to storm the prison where Bram and Nina Ackerman were being held without bail and punch them both in the face.

Get in line, Dad.

"There wasn't any evidence at the residence," he continued. "They were careful to keep their books and records at the camp. We're dumping everything on their laptops. Our forensic techs are working on that as we speak. We also found the rifle Frank Manello used to shoot down the chopper."

Chip was doing fine, lucky to walk away from the crash, having suffered only a concussion. The chopper, however, was a total loss.

"I know this is difficult for you," Brian said. "What about the graves?"

He cleared his throat. That part of the warrant—the dig—hadn't made the news. Yet . When he'd told his parents about the Wilsons, he'd intentionally left that part out. "There were four graves. None with headstones, only unlabeled crosses. Turns out the Ackermans were somewhat religious. Even though we suspect they were responsible for these people being dead, they'd insisted on religious markings."

"I take it they're still not talking?" the director asked.

"No, sir." He shook his head at the speaker. Not even in their native Dutch tongue which, he'd heard from the U.S. Marshals during processing, had grown thicker now that they no longer had to hide their identities. "They lawyered up on the spot. Robert and Melinda Tutak said they don't know anything about the people buried in the graves. We think Manello did most of the dirty work." And he wouldn't be talking. Ever.

"Didn't you say the coroner had come back with reports on some of the bodies?" Lori asked, flipping to the back of the briefing packet.

He nodded. "Two adult males and two female teenagers. The adult males were identified as the two men who'd been reported missing over twenty years ago."

"You still think mouthing off about working at the camp's marijuana grow got them killed?" Brian asked.

"I do." Again, he nodded. "The Tutaks said the Ackermans had once complained the police had come snooping around years ago, and that's when they started luring in kids to work at the camp. At the right age, kids can be brainwashed. That, plus the isolation and the ideal geography, kept the camp hidden all these years."

"And the teenagers?" Sills asked.

"We have an ID on one of them. Angela Freeman. She was reported missing three years ago. Brett and I notified her family this morning." A truly shitty way to start the day.

"Did the coroner ID the other female body yet?" Lori asked softly.

Evan took a deep breath. As if notifying the family of the dead teenager wasn't hard enough. He still might have to do the same for his own family. "Not yet." He'd been promised the remaining report yesterday. The waiting was killing him.

"Is there a chance there are other bodies buried on site that aren't in the cemetery?" the director asked.

"To be safe, we ran cadaver dogs over the entire camp. No more bodies were found." That was one good piece of news.

"Anything else we should know about?" the director asked.

When Brian looked at Evan, brows raised, Evan shook his head.

Brian cleared his throat. "The U.S. Attorney's Office is making this case their priority."

"Good," the director said. "Keep me posted. Thank you, and good job, Evan."

"Thank you, sir."

The red light on the speakerphone went out.

"Let us know if you need any other resources," Brian said.

"I will." Evan collected his briefing papers and went back to his office.

Blue and Crystal lifted their heads, watching as he sat heavily on his desk chair. Sammy had given him the news that a young couple was interested in adopting Crystal. If the adoption went through, Blue's days of canine canoodling would be over.

Crystal rested her head on Blue's front paws and closed her eyes. In a gesture so gentle, Blue nuzzled the other dog's ears and sighed, as if in a state of complete and utter contentment.

A big ole chunk of Evan's heart gave way. Breaking his dog's heart wasn't something he could live with, not when there was something he could do about it. He would adopt Crystal, because Blue was head over tail in love. If only he could make decisions about his own love life so easily.

Now that the briefing was over, his thoughts returned to the same topic they always did when he had a quiet moment alone: Marlie.

That day at the camp, he'd been impressed and humbled by her speech to the kids. She'd bared her soul for them.

Where was she right now? What was she doing? Had she filed papers to adopt Noah yet? All questions he wondered about but didn't have the right to ask.

He nudged his laptop mouse and cued up his email. He stared at the top line. A new email had come in.

From the coroner's office .

The report he'd been waiting for on the identity of the other girl in the grave. His heart raced like an antelope running from a lion. Did he really want to know what was in that report? Yes. And no . It would either be the end of a lifelong quest…or continuation of the torment that had plagued him for two-thirds of his life.

With slightly shaky fingers, he clicked open the email. The coroner had previously provided preliminary autopsy information. He already knew she was between fourteen and seventeen years old when she died, and the condition of the body indicated that had been at least twenty years ago, maybe more. Twenty years ago, Gracie would have been sixteen.

The attachment was slow to open. While he waited, Evan tapped his fingers on the desk.

To assist the coroner, he'd sent over dental records that had been in Gracie's FBI file. Good thing that, because dental records were normally purged seven years after a patient's last visit or seven years after a patient turned eighteen.

The attachment opened. Holding his breath, he scrolled to the ID section and read the name.

Trina Davis. Not Grace McGarry.

He read the name over and over, expecting to feel…what? Relief? He did, kind of, and kind of not. Then what he felt was guilt. Guilt over wishing in some tiny pocket of his heart it was Gracie in that grave, so this could finally be over. Now all he felt was nothing. Numbness.

Now the only people who could help him were the Wilsons. They still refused to cooperate with the AUSA on the case, especially when it came to questions about his sister. Initially, he'd hoped they could squeeze it out of them as part of a plea bargain, but the AUSA hadn't sounded optimistic.

He continued reading.

According to the coroner, Trina Davis had given birth. They hadn't found an infant's remains in the cemetery. The coroner had matched Trina to records of a teenager reported missing much longer than Gracie had been gone.

Evan opened the other attachment, the original police report on Trina Davis, including her photo. What the—?

It wasn't possible. He'd met the Wilson's daughter a couple of times over the years. Trina Davis looked eerily similar to Jenny Wilson. So much so that it wasn't possible they weren't related.

He sat back. Could the Wilsons have killed Trina after she'd given birth, then taken the girl's daughter in as their own child? That would have happened right before his parents had met the Wilsons. Maybe Trina had wanted to leave the camp. Noah said no one actually left the camp. They wound up in the cemetery.

"Oh, Jesus." Gracie used to babysit Jenny, giving the Wilsons an opportunity to speak with her privately, learn about her issues at home.

And tell Frank Manello she was camp material.

Evan shoved a hand through his hair. This was a whole other can of worms the Wilsons would never admit to. It would only add to the lengthy list of criminal charges they were facing. Poor Jenny. She was twenty-four now. Would ruining yet another life serve any purpose?

A knock sounded on his open door. "Yo," Brett said as he and Deck came in.

"Any news?" Deck asked.

Evan blew out a heavy breath, still uncertain whether it was one of relief or disappointment. "It's not her."

"Okay," Brett said, sitting down in a chair. "So what's next?"

Good question. What was next?

For the first time in his career, he didn't know where he went from here. Then in the time it took for his heart to beat once, he knew. "I'm putting in for a transfer."

"What?" Deck pushed from the doorway and plunked down in another chair.

Brett's brows rose to his hairline. "You're kidding."

The shock on his friends' faces nearly made him laugh. "Not from Denver, and not off the task force. Just off the CARD teams." Which had been sucking the life out of him.

"Good." Brett nodded.

"'Bout time," Deck agreed. "It was killing you."

"Yeah." Slowly, he nodded, relishing the blanket of peace that had instantly surrounded him at making the decision. No matter what, something had to change, because he couldn't go on like this.

"Tell him," Deck said, looking at Brett.

"Tell me what?"

"Marlie and Noah are moving," Brett announced. "She rented a house with an option to buy it in a year."

Evan straightened in the chair. If she moved far away, he might never see her again. The thought left him with a giant, gaping hole in his chest. "Where's she moving to, and when?"

Brett shrugged. "Dunno the where , but I can tell you the when . Today."

No . Not that he couldn't find her after she moved. Finding people was what he did best, but the panic he'd felt a moment ago began twisting and spinning like a tornado.

If he didn't get off his ass, he'd be making another big mistake. Bigger than letting Marlie walk out of his life the first time.

"Blue!" He shot to his feet and whipped the jacket off the back of his chair. "We've got somewhere to be."