The Million Dollar Detective (9) with a compatriot. Bart interrupted to say, "We have to know Tommy's okay before anything else." "The kid? Of course he's okay. Why would anything be wrong with the kid?" Bart rolled his eyes at the cops. "We can't just take your word for it. We need proof." "Like what?" "You know, like put him on the phone, or give us picture of him holding a newspaper." "We can't put him on the phone. We're not calling from the ho--our hideout." One of the cops snickered. Dolty shushed him angrily. Bart said, "Maybe the photo thing then. You could bring a polaroid by like you brought the note earlier." "No way. We know you got cops out there. And we told you not to call them." "We didn't. People at the school did when you grabbed Tommy." "Oh." Again, they heard the sounds of muffled conversation. Bart suggested, "Maybe you could take the photo, plant it someplace, then call us and tell us where to find it." "What?" More muffled speech, then, "Yeah, okay. But listen, smartass, are you authorized to deliver the ransom?" "Yes," Bart answered, then hurriedly added, "But we can't get the whole thing today, only part of it." "No, we want all of it, 9.8 million." "I know, and we'll get it, but it takes three business days to sell the stock options and get a check. Then we have to convert it to cash. We'll have to hit several banks to convert that much." In fact, Dolty had agents fanning out already, preparing to convert Bart's two million in hundreds into twenties. One of Bart's lawyers had come over to make the agents sign papers before letting them walk out with bags of tempting cash. "Three days, yeah, we know about that. So, this is Tuesday . . . Wednesday, Thursday, Friday. Friday, you bring us the 9.8 mil. Bring it to--" Bart risked interrupting him. "We can get the check Friday. It'll take us a couple of days to get the cash. Business days. The weekend's no good. More like Tuesday next week." "Bullshit! You trying to play games with me?" "No, no," Bart soothed, "I understand you're in a hurry. It's just so much cash. Most banks don't carry that much." "Fuck! This is fuckin' shit!" (Bart apologized to Meredith for the language, but she waved it off.) "Don't fuckin' try to play me!" "I'm not, I swear." Bart spoke in a higher register than normal, trying to sound as non-threatening as possible. "What I thought we could do, is get you two million today, as a down payment." As he hoped, that calmed the kidnapper, or at least caught his attention. "Two million today? You got two million ready for today?" "Yeah," Bart said. "That's all George and I could scrape together this fast." "You and George? You're contributing money to the ransom, too? Why would you do that?" "Because somebody kidnapped his son. Any decent person would want to help him out." Bart hoped he hadn't overplayed the implied reprimand. The man on the phone sounded almost contrite as he said, "Yeah, well. So anyway, you have this two mil now." The tone of the kidnapper's voice encouraged Bart. If he felt bad for what he had done, maybe he wasn't such a hard case that he'd kill Tommy if things didn't go his way. "We'll have it all in twenties later this afternoon. Then we can get you the rest next week, I promise." Another muffled discussion took place. "Okay," the voice said, "Let's do it." He instructed Bart to bring the money to a particular park and sit on a particular bench. "And NO COPS." "Of course not," Bart agreed, and winked to the many cops listening in. "Are there cops there right now, listening in?" the caller asked. "No, absolutely not," Bart lied. Chapter Fourteen After the call, Bart asked, "You don't suppose his voice sounded muffled because he used that old cliché of putting a handkerchief over the phone, do you?" "Could be," the FBI communications technician said. "He was plenty clear enough for us to get a usable voiceprint. When we process the recording, we might pull out the other guy's voice, too. We'll get an easy conviction." "Bart," said Dolty, "he asked you to bring the money, but one of my men can take it. The kidnappers won't know it's not you." "I'll do it," Bart said. "No. No. No. Absolutely, positively not!" Special Agent Dolty protested. He even stamped his foot. Bart smiled and placed his foot right next to Dolty's, making the agent's look like dainty ballerina feet by comparison. "Mine's bigger," Bart said. "What are those, clown shoes?" Dolty said. Meredith stretched her own foot next to Bart's and said, "Goodness, your feet are rather large. What size are your shoes?" "Sixteen," Bart said. He held out a huge hand, too, and Meredith placed hers against it, a tiny, delicate masterpiece next to his monstrous paw. "I like to think all my body parts are in correct proportion, at least," Bart said with a leer. Meredith snorted. "Yes, it did seem that way earlier. But size isn't everything, so they say." Bart kept smiling and resumed his tale. Quietly, Bart said, "Do I need to make another phone call?" Dolty understood the political threat, but pleaded, "Bart, you're a civilian, a prominent citizen. We can't justify the risk. Let one of my men do it. My men are trained for this kind of thing, and paid to take the risks." "My training trumps your agent training for this," Bart said. "None of your men can come close to me in unarmed combat capability. I'm a third degree black belt, and a damn good one. There're very few guys in the FBI who could challenge me in a fight. I've trained with a sensei who specializes in weapons retention and takeaways. Nobody in the FBI can match that. And I own a better quality bullet-resistant vest than you guys typically use, slimmer, and more stylish." Dolty frowned at this egotistical boasting. But two agents and a detective backed up Bart's claims. Bart offered to prove it, if anyone wanted to volunteer. Dolty still frowned, until Bart said, "Besides, your snipers won't let anything happen to me." "Snipers? I thought you agreed to no cops." "Well, no visible cops. Have them hide in the weeds or something. I'll wear a wire, and we'll agree on a safety word. Try to resist the urge to shoot the guy, though, 'cause we want him to tell us where they've got Tommy stashed." Dolty tried one last feeble argument. "Okay, you're tough. But you're so big you might scare the guy off." "I'll wear a disguise. I want to look older, and plumper, and I'll hunch down to look shorter." He demonstrated the hunching down. He lost several inches in height, but still ended up looking eye-to-eye with Special Agent Dolty. The FBI man harrumphed, but gave in. Bart called Henderson, who brought over a disguise kit--body padding, bulky sweater, gray wig, fake glasses--and a very sleek bulletproof vest that all the cops wanted to try on. Despite being too big on most of them, it weighed almost nothing, and its smooth lines vanished under clothing. "It's made of mithril," Bart said. A local detective impressed his peers by saying, "I've got one just like that." An FBI agent said, "I priced those things. They're like forty-seven hundred dollars each." The detective said, "It was donated by a generous benefactor," and winked at Bart. Bart called a local karate master, a retired police officer, that he knew. The sensei cleared his schedule and the two of them cleared some furniture out of the way in George's basement to hold an impromptu class in weapons takeaways. The sensei reviewed key principles, and suggested subtle improvements in Bart's form. Mostly, he had Bart rehearse various scenarios over and over again. After a while the sensei invited the curious police spectators to join in, partly to give Bart experience with different partners, partly to further educate the law enforcement community. When he said to them, "These techniques have saved lives," he could name officers they knew. When he demonstrated a particular combination, they could see, and feel, that this was no game. Bart tried to be careful with the cops, though he secretly enjoyed dishing out bruises to them, but his sensei scolded him for it. "Don't hold back when you deal with a real opponent. Don't get yourself killed being a nice guy." He followed this advice by demonstrating it on Bart. Such demonstrations ended up with Bart slammed hard to the floor. The cops didn't mind showing their enjoyment of Bart receiving bruises. They all breathed a sigh of relief when class was interrupted by a shout. "Phone! It's the kidnappers again!" Bart flew up the stairs, at least three at a time, and breathlessly answered, "Hello! Um, Ryan Pitt here." He had almost forgotten his pretend name. "That photo you wanted. We just left it for you." The kidnapper named a place, then hung up. Dolty said, "That'll be the proof of life you requested." Unfortunately, George overheard this. With an edge of panic in his voice, he said, "Proof of WHAT?" "It's a photo of Tommy," Bart said. "They're showing us he's all right, not hurt in any way." "Let's go get it," George said and started for the door. Bart put a hand on his shoulder to stop him, and said, "No, George. I'll get it." The local detective said, "We could have a cop swing by and pick it up." Dolty and Bart both said, "No." Dolty finished, "They might be watching. Remember, they think we're not listening in to their calls." Bart slipped on his disguise, and just in case, Dolty called the communications techs to wire Bart for sound. Bart put his fake glasses on, hunched down, and gave a pretty fair impression of a dumpy, middle-aged man. George looked him over and said, "Is this what you think business executives look like?" He pointed at Bart's padded middle, and sucked in his own gut to hide an incipient potbelly. Bart said, "I'm trying to look like my dad." Meredith said, "Your father has a slight weight problem, I take it?" "He did back then," Bart said. "Then he took up tennis. All that running around helped him trim down. I don't know how he stands it in the Florida heat. Now, he cuts quite a dashing figure for the Palm Beach widows. He keeps threatening to present me with a stepmother one of these days." George chuckled at Bart's paternal insult, and relaxed his own stomach. "You do look like a plant manager I know," he admitted. Bart borrowed one of George's cars, not wanting the kidnappers to spot him in a police-issue vehicle, nor in one of his own. He found the photo taped to a wall and brought it back without incident. He slapped it down on the table with disgust. "I told them to take a snapshot with Tommy holding a newspaper. And here he is, holding last week's People magazine." The cops laughed. Bart said, "Is there no end to their stupidity?" The local detective said, "Hey, I read that magazine. Not everybody who reads People is stupid, you know." Dolty said, "I think he means because it's last week's, it doesn't clearly establish the time of the photo." When he saw the cop's disdainful expression, he said, "Oh, you were joking." "They almost certainly took the snapshot after the call," Bart said. "They hadn't thought of it earlier." George ran in and snatched up the photo with trembling hands. He stared at the picture intently, perhaps without really seeing it. "Is he okay? Does he look okay?" "He looks good to me, George," Bart said. "I think he has that look on his face that kids get when grown-ups do something really stupid or embarrassing." He checked the time. "We should leave for the drop early to set up." "I already have agents moving into position," Dolty assured him. "Is the money all ready?" Bart asked. "Serial numbers recorded? Tracking device hidden? But no dye bomb, right?" "Right. It's all set." Dolty pointed to four good-sized cases, guarded by two agents and Bart's attorney. "Those are pretty heavy," the FBI man said. Bart hefted one. "Yowza," he said. As a test he tried to pick up all four at once. He got them off the ground, but it took tremendous effort. "I think I better make more than one trip." Cops helped him load the cases into George's car. He could probably have gotten away with using his own, but he didn't want to take that one in thousand chance that a kidnapper had access to police or Secretary of State databases, and could look up his real name. Dolty put a hand on Bart's arm. "Safety word," he said. "Right," Bart thought for a moment. "How about 'suffering succotash?' Or I'll just yell, 'Take him!' And, of course, if he shoots me, I'd feel obliged if you shoot him back." Dolty nodded. Bart added, "You let me know as soon as you can if he's alone or not, okay? And wait for my signal before you come running in, even if I disarm him. There're still ways this could go sour." "You be careful out there," Dolty said. Bart did a double take, but Dolty appeared earnest. Bart parked in a handicapped space, hoping the police had more important things to do than write him a ticket. FBI agents had quietly spirited any innocent bystanders out of the area, and replaced them with decoys. Three snipers found bushes to hide behind, giving them coverage of the bench area and the parking lot. Bart carried the cases to the bench, two at a time, and placed them on the ground. Then he sat and waited, resting his chin in his hand with his fingers over his mouth to cover when he spoke with Special Agent Dolty. A mid-size blue car pulled in. The man who got out wore what the FBI had called a Unabomber outfit--gray hooded sweatshirt and big dark glasses. Under the hood, a fringe of recently cut light brown hair showed. He was clean-shaven and neat, of medium build, leaning toward pudgy, wearing sneakers and khaki slacks. Bart had expected a skinny, scruffy guy in blue jeans, the drug-user stereotype. Instead, he got the office worker stereotype. Dolty's voice whispered in Bart's ear, "He's alone. No one else in the car. No other car came in with him." Bart stood, but not straight, remembering to play shorter, and moved to the side of the bench. He shifted his weight from foot to foot, trying to act nervous. The man walked up and stopped a few steps short of Bart with his hands in his pockets. He made as if he were scanning the area for cops, but apparently saw none, even though several were in plain sight. "You Ryan Pitt?" he said. "Yeah, that's me," Bart said. Again Bart spoke in a higher voice than normal, cringed a little, and tried not to look the man directly in the eyes, acting as submissive as he could. "Are you the guy who has Tommy?" Chapter Fifteen The bad guy drew a gun and pointed it at Bart. It was an odd gun, a western style six-shooter, Colt .45 Peacemaker, a real cowboy gun. "Yeah, I got the kid," he growled. "You got the money?" Bart immediately raised his hands, all cooperation. He half-pointed with one hand and said, "It's in the cases over there." The bad guy glanced over and frowned. "Why are there four cases?" "It's a lot of money," Bart said. "Those're heavy, too, like fifty pounds each." "Fifty pounds?" The bad guy was complaining now. He probably expected one case he could lift with his free hand while keeping Bart covered with the other. Four heavy cases presented a logistical challenge. How would he carry them to his car and keep an eye on Bart? He moved closer and put the gun right in Bart's face. "You better not be trying anything," he warned. Bart made a cringing motion, though really he felt less afraid now that the guy had brought himself within arm's reach, and had shifted his aim from Bart's body to his head. Bart only had to move maybe four inches to get out of the line of fire. In his squeakiest voice yet, Bart said, "No! It's just such a lot of paper. I mean, look at those cases. They're stuffed full of cash." When Bart said, "Look at those cases," the bad guy almost involuntarily took the suggestion, thereby taking his attention off Bart. Bart took this as his cue. He slid forward and to the left half a step, pulled his head out of harm's way, placed his left hand on the bad guy's wrist, pushed his gunhand two inches further off line, and made a little circular move with his right hand, down below the gun barrel, then up and over the top of the gun, grabbing the barrel firmly and twisting it sharply downward and loose from the bad guy's hand. He carefully pointed the gun down at the ground, then back toward the bad guy's own chest, never at any part of his own anatomy. He had the gun free, and pulled it back out of the bad guy's reach without the gunman ever having a chance to put any pressure on the trigger. This all happened as one continuous, flowing movement, the fruit of repetitious drilling in George's basement. As a second movement, Bart swept the bad guy's leg out from under him, and gave him a sharp shove to the upper chest. With his foot going one way, and his upper body the other, the criminal had to obey the law of gravity. As he fell,
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