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bartender, showed his FBI credentials and asked for a plastic zip-top bag.
    Nodding, the guy found one behind the bar and handed it to Kruger. “You gonna pay for that glass or just take it?”
    Kruger stared at the man. “It’s evidence. I’m taking it. You got a problem with that?”
    The bartender backed up and hurriedly shook his head no.
    With the bagged glass in hand, he walked to a quiet section of the reception area and took his iPhone out. He attached the pictures of the man to an email and sent them to a technician at the FBI Facial Recognition Department in D.C. Hopefully, he would get a response in a day or two. The fingerprints on the glass would be taken to the local FBI office first thing in the morning for processing. If he was lucky, using both methods there was a good chance to identify the man by tomorrow afternoon.
    Suddenly he realized there might be one more possibility. He found Ted Margolin’s number on his phone and called. Ted answered immediately, “Do you know it’s Sunday, Kruger?”
    “Actually I do, but I just met Fernando Guevara. I also found something interesting and thought you might want to know.” He paused. “If you don’t, I can call you tomorrow.”
    “Don’t hang up. What is it?”
    “Did you know he has a shadow?”
    Margolin was quiet for several moments. “What do you mean, a shadow?” He paused, but before Kruger could answer, he continued. “Hey, what’s going on, are you harassing the man?”
    Laughing, Kruger said, “No, he showed up at a reception my wife’s company is holding for us. Remember, the company he is trying to take over.”
    “Okay, now what do you mean about a shadow?”
    “Someone is following him. Not a pro from what I could tell, but definitely someone trying to listen in on his conversations.”
    Margolin was silent for a moment, and then said, “We don’t have anyone following him, if that’s what you wanted to know. Could be an investor trying to get a scoop on his next target. They’d start buying shares anticipating the announcement of Whiterock making an offer. Once the news is out, the stock price of the target company goes up, and the investor makes a profit. Or it could be a reporter for one of the financial publications.”
    “So you think this is just some guy trying to make a buck?”
    “Yeah, that’s how I would view it.”
    “Okay, Ted, thanks. Sorry to bother you.”
    Kruger ended the call and stood thinking. Was the guy just some investor trying to get a lead on a stock or a reporter? If either were true, he was wasting his time getting the fingerprints analyzed. But his instincts told him different, and those instincts had solved more than a few cases over his career. Finally he decided he would get the prints checked and wait for the facial analysis. No use getting excited, and if it turned out to be a false alarm, so be it. At least he was being proactive.

Chapter 11
     
    Kansas City, MO
    Monday
     
    A patch above the left breast pocket on his shirt read ‘Jerry’ in stitched cursive letters. His name was not Jerry. The time was 10 a.m., and busy shoppers were already competing for parking spaces around Kansas City’s Country Club Plaza. Frustration growing, it took several passes before one of three parking spaces he had chosen the previous day where available. The spot was just west of O’Dowd’s Little Dublin at the corner of Pennsylvania and 48th Street. After parking the white Ford van, he gathered his clipboard, opened the door, and walked to the back of the van for his tool case. Calmly strolling to the front door of the tavern, he knocked and waited. O’Dowd’s was still closed at that time of the morning, but a manager unlocked the door and motioned for him to enter.
    “Well, Jerry,” the manager said, glancing at the name on his shirt, “about damn time you got here. We open for business in less than thirty minutes, so you’d better hurry”
    “Sorry, couldn’t find a parking space. From