The Million Dollar Detective (7) and most of the FBI agents in the room knew Bart. The lead guy didn't, though. Bart shrugged mentally. He anticipated hostility and squabbling over turf. A new guy meant that much more difficulty, but also more fun. "I'm Special Agent Dolty." "I'm going to call him Dolty," Bart said. "You'll see why." "I'm Special Agent Dolty of the FBI. I'm in charge here." "FBI?" Bart said pleasantly. " Fools, Bums, and Incompetents? Fat Bozos, Inc.?" George roared with laughter. The local cops chuckled lightly. A few FBI agents smiled. Special Agent Dolty scowled. "You think you're funny, huh? Federal Bureau of Investigation." He said the words like a magic incantation. Bart refused to shrivel up nor turn into a toad. "I brought a gift," he said, and tossed the videocassette to one of the cops he knew. "What is it?" demanded Dolty. "It's a videotape," Bart said. "If you put it in the right kind of machine, you can see pictures on your TV." "Bart," Meredith laughed, "is it wise to be so sarcastic with the FBI?" "Wise, no. Fun, yes." "What's on it?" Dolty demanded in a louder voice. Bart wondered how long it would take before he really started yelling. "Don't know. Haven't seen it yet," Bart said. The cop cued it up in George's VCR, and everyone gathered around the bigscreen TV. The view panned across Bart's driveway, part of his lawn, and a small section of street. Suddenly a motorcycle zoomed by. "It's a Harley," someone said. It quickly drove out of the frame. The camera panned back for a second, then the tape went to static. "Is this a copy?" Dolty asked. "Yep," Bart said. Yet another person said, "Play it back. Maybe we can get the license plate." "We need the original," Dolty said, firmly. "I don't think so," Bart said. They played the tape again. A couple of voices said, "Damn, it doesn't show." The camera had panned the wrong way at the critical moment. "We can get it with a warrant, if you insist," Dolty threatened. "Not from my house you can't," Bart chuckled. "What about identifying features of the bike or the perp?" said a voice. "With a warrant we can get whatever we want from your house," Dolty barked. "No, you can't," Bart said, still pleasantly. A frustrated viewer said, "His face is hidden. Typical biker clothes, tinted faceplate, nothing usable." "Who the hell do you think you are?" Dolty snarled. Bart decided not to count the snarl as a yell, and ignored him. "The details might help with a positive ID later on," said one voice. "This is a really high quality tape," said another voice. "Thanks for noticing," said Bart. "With a search warrant, I can tear your fucking house apart." Dolty yelled. That Bart decided to count. Even in these modern post-J. Edgar Hoover times, FBI agents are expected to maintain their decorum, speak respectfully to citizens, and not lose their tempers. Everyone stopped to stare at Special Agent Dolty. The tape played static for several seconds before anyone noticed. One local detective said, "Uh-oh." Bart smiled pleasantly, though, amused and not at all threatened by the agent's fit of temper. "Let me explain, Special Agent. One--" "More counting?" Meredith said. "You know, I never thought of numbering my statements as a bad habit before--" "Don't change it on my account. It's not a bad habit, just odd and interesting." "Interesting? I thought it made me sound smarter. I do it to help organize my thoughts." "Well, that's all right then. As long as you aren't being a control freak." "No, not me," Bart said. "May I proceed?" "Do, please," she said. Chapter Eleven Bart said, "Let me explain, Special Agent. One, the original is a digital recording, and this copy is a digital transfer, every bit, pun intended, as good as the original." "We'll decide that," Dolty said. "Two," Bart went on, "The original may include other information, comings and goings that my clients or I may not want you to see. If you try to obtain the original, you will have a serious court fight on your hands." "The law's on my side, our side," Dolty said. "It might be," Bart admitted. "But I have better lawyers than you." He had spoken in a light tone for the previous points, but for the next one his tone grew hard. "Third, the bureau does not have the budget to tear apart my house, and if you try it, you'll never ever get the recording." "Don't take that tone with me," Dolty growled. "I'm the FBI. I can hit you with an obstruction of justice charge just like that." He snapped his fingers in Bart's face. Bart opened his cell phone in response, and entered one of the numbers he had looked up earlier. "Who are you calling?" Dolty demanded. "Your boss," Bart said. "The supervisory special agent will side with me, I guarantee it," Dolty said. He spoke with less certainty in his voice now, though, and a small amount of tension showed around his eyes. Bart smiled his most annoying smile. While he waited for the phone to be answered, he said, "By the way, other houses have security cameras at their gates. Maybe someone got a better shot of the bike." That started a flurry of activity. A number of agents, detectives, and uniformed officers started canvassing the neighborhood. (Bart told Meredith none of the other recordings they found showed anything near as good as his.) When his call was picked up, Bart said, "Hello, Ms. Reno? Bart Manning here." "Bart!" Meredith exclaimed. "Do you mean to say you called the Attorney General of the United States?" Bart just smiled. Dolty scoffed. "Oh, please. You expect me to believe you called the Attorney General of the United States?" "I'm fine, thanks," Bart said to the phone. "My dad's arthritis doesn't stop him from golfing every chance he gets. . . . Yes, I am working on a case right now, a kidnapping. . . . That's the very case. I'm surprised you heard about it. . . . Well, yeah, it is a big ransom, 9.8 million." Bart made a point of meeting George's eyes while saying the next part. "I know the boy who was taken. He's a real sharp kid. We could sit back and wait, and he'll escape on his own. But we'll try to hurry it along for the sake of his parents." As he said it, Bart wondered where the mother was. Back to the phone, he said, "Absolutely, we're making great progress. Their note gave us loads of clues. Best of all, the kidnappers are idiots. . . . How? Well, for one thing, they asked for almost ten million in twenties. . . . Yeah, it is. It'll weigh about a thousand pounds. They probably think from the movies that they'll get a little attaché case they can carry on a plane with them." Bart shared a laugh with the person on the other end of the phone. "Oh, it's even better than that," he said. "In their note, they said, 'no cops.' But they picked the kid up in front of a hundred witnesses. The cops were called before the van was out of sight." To the spectators in the room, Bart said, "I assume they used a van." A local cop confirmed, "Right, a navy blue or black van, possibly a late model Ford. A few witnesses gave us partial plates. Contradictory, though. We're checking possibles with the DMV." Dolty held his hand up. "Whoa, don't tell him any more." Bart said to the phone, "I'll try my best. . . . No, they've treated me fine so far, no surprises. To prevent any trouble, I was wondering . . . Oh, you will? That would be great. Thanks a lot. . . . Who? Is he the new prosecutor down there? . . . Yeah, sure, he can call me any time. Thanks again. Bye." Bart put his phone back in his pocket like nothing unusual had happened. Dolty snorted, "You expect me to fawn all over you because you pretended to call the AG at her home? HA!" Bart said to George, "How's your wife taking this?" George's face fell into a haggard expression. "She's a wreck, Bart. She's sleeping upstairs, under sedation. She was nearly hysterical. You really think he'll be okay?" "Absolutely. I really believe he could escape on his own, given enough time. I'll bet on your son over these kidnappers any day." Bart turned to the cop who had given him information on the kidnappers' van. "Hey, with the eyewitnesses, were any of them car nuts?" The cop said, "They were almost all kids." "Yeah," Bart said, "but kids around here, their parents work for car companies, some of the kids have an unnatural interest in cars. You know what I mean. A car nut would tell you it had dirty plugs or corroded valves, something like that." A different cop said, "There was one kid I remember kept insisting it was a six cylinder engine, not a four or an eight." "Yeah," Bart said again. "That's the kid I mean. Check his statement about the color, make, and model of the car. He'll have it right when the others weren't sure." The cop's eyebrows went up. "I'll get right on that." "Hold on," Dolty said. "I'll decide what you get right on, not some PI who walks in out of the darkness. How did you get past the guys at the gate, anyway?" He directed the last statement at Bart, who continued to ignore him. The local cop ignored Dolty, too, and began reviewing his notes for what the "car nut" kid had told him. Dolty's phone rang before he could spit any more venom. "Special Agent Dolty here. Yes, sir, he is. . . . Sir, he's a civilian. I can't just . . . Who called? The director? . . . What? She called the director?" His face was a mixture of astonishment and dread. "Please, sir, we can't . . . This is highly irregular." He hung up and muttered, "Goddammit." Bart had a pretty good idea what the caller had said. He made a point of not gloating. He put on an expression of sympathetic concern. And he really did feel for the poor man. Dolty, obviously chewing on something with a very bad taste, said, "All right, listen up, everybody. That was the head of the FBI's Troy office. He got a call from the director. Apparently the attorney general herself wants us to extend every courtesy," here he swallowed hard before continuing, "to Mr. Manning. We're to treat him as a sort of special deputy," again he had to pause for a calming breath, while he clenched and unclenched his fists, "and follow his lead." "Bart," Meredith interrupted. "Did you, in truth, call the attorney general and enlist her help?" Bart spread his hands and said, "It's my story. Believe it or not." "How would you know the attorney general?" "She used to be a prosecutor in Florida where my dad lives. I do a little work down there. I made a few cases, provided key testimony, and helped her put a number of very bad people in prison. She respects me. I respect her. You know, she's very tall for a woman." Meredith shook her head. "Are you so chummy with the current attorney general?" "No, I don't know him. He's from Missouri. I've never been there." "It's fortunate for you this case didn't come up since the election, then." "I still know important people in the bureau," Bart said. "And I know one of the president's brothers. The Florida connection again. And my dad knows the vice president, and several cabinet secretaries. When I call connections to impress someone," he explained, "I like to go high and really knock the stuffiness out of them." "Thank you, Special Agent Dolty," Bart said, as graciously as he could. He knew Dolty was pained and embarrassed, but he didn't want the animosity to linger. "Where do we stand, and what do you recommend we do next?" Dolty recognized the olive branch Bart held out. He showed surprise and a hint of puzzlement, but recovered and made an effort to accept his defeat as gracefully as he could. "Well, we've set up on the phones here. Trap and trace. The note didn't say how they'd contact us next. But we're ready. And we have people at the gate in case the biker comes by with another envelope." "About that," Bart said. "It might be best to let him deliver it and covertly tail him back to wherever. What do you think?" Dolty considered. Given the political interference from his superiors, he might have to do as Bart suggested, and he might resent that. If so, he managed to fight it down and gave Bart's idea grudging consideration. He slowly nodded. "Okay," he said, "we could try that. And he might just lead us back to the hostage." He passed the word to set up camouflage surveillance teams, with chase teams ready to go, and a helicopter on standby. "And get the guys guarding the gate in hiding. We don't want to scare him off," he said. "What else?" Bart asked himself, and began rubbing his lower lip with one finger. A possibility bordering on suspicion began growing in his mind. "George, why would anyone ask for 9.8 million dollars? Why that specific amount? Can you raise that much?" "Yeah, I could probably scrape together fifteen, if I had to," George said. "But 9.8," Bart said again. "Have you ever mentioned that amount to anyone? Think hard now, George." "I don't--Wait. Oh, my God!" George said. "At a company thing a while back, a retirement party, I mentioned I had 9.8 million in stock options I hadn't cashed in yet. Dammit!" he exclaimed. "I knew as soon as I said it, I should have kept my mouth shut. You're saying that's why my boy got kidnapped? You think it's one of those people? I work with them!" "Slow down, George," Bart said. "Smart, dumb, wise, foolish--it doesn't matter now. Someone could have told somebody something. It could have spread far and wide." "Still," Dolty said, "we should take the names of those present, and try to trace the information forward from there." Bart agreed. Dolty snapped his fingers at one of his minions, and George shakily began to list names. Bart threw a question out to the room in general: "When the perps snatched the boy, did they say anything?" Witnesses had said two white males in Unabomber costumes (hooded sweatshirts and sunglasses, Bart explained to Meredith) jumped out, grabbed the kid, and pulled him into the van. Nobody mentioned them saying a word. Bart said, "They didn't yell his name first?" "They musta known what he looked like," Dolty said. Bart said, "George, what pictures do you have on your desk?" "At work? Photos of my family. Jesus H. Christ! It is someone I work with." "Yeah, it might be," Bart admitted. "They knew him by sight. They knew what school he went to. They knew an exact amount you could afford. At least one of the three has inside knowledge." "Three?" Dolty said. "Two grabbed the boy, one was driving. There could be a fourth if the guy on the motorcycle was another player. At least three, let's say." Chapter Twelve Dolty asked George, "Sir, can you think of any disgruntled employees who might have a grudge against you?" "Disgruntled?" George echoed. "How do you define disgruntled? Either they're all disgruntled or none of them is. I can't think of anyone who'd want to hurt me like this." Bart said, "They might just want money. You know anyone with money troubles? Gambling, drugs, that sort of thing?" "I don't know," George said. "They all have jobs, so their money troubles can't be that bad. I don't know about gambling or drug use." "Don't worry, sir," Dolty said. "We'll check it out. Just give us all the names you can think of. If anything's amiss with these people, we'll find it."
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