The tension in the Smithers' household was thick enough to cut with a knife. There wasn't enough sofa space to hold all the participants, so Don was standing over Colby's shoulder, pretending to supervise the man as he fired up the circuits on the tracing equipment set up on a card table.
Two sources of tension, Don grumped to himself, only one of which was legitimate: the Smithers. Bart Sr. and Rebecca were huddled on the blue sofa, Rebecca's face again tear-drenched and red. Don didn't think he'd yet seen her without the tremor in her hands. There was a suspicious red spot on Bart Sr.'s lip that suggested that teeth had all but bitten through with anguish. There were some families where you wondered if the parents even cared enough about their kids as something more than trophies to trot out and display; this wasn't one of them. No matter what else, you knew that this was a father and mother worth having.
Even the rest of his team had that tense set to their shoulders, the look that spoke of action in the immediate future. Colby had the primary responsibility; the tech equipment was his, and he would be tracing the call as soon as the bell rang. And they're off, echoed through Don's mind like an announcer at a horse race. Megan was trying to keep the distraught parents calm, and David was pacing the perimeter and peering out the window as if hoping that the kidnapper would be considerate enough to display the kid through the rhododendrons underneath the sill. Every black sedan that meandered past got the binocular treatment of its license plate.
All that tension was understandable, even acceptable. It would keep them that extra bit sharp, push the adrenalin through when needed. Don approved.
What he didn't approve of was the consultants.
"I cannot work with that glowering at me," The Great Vervette announced, pointing a dramatic finger at Professor Eppes. "Remove your attitude at once, young man!"
"I need the data as quickly as possible," Charlie snapped back. "Without additional information, I can't refine the equations—"
"I will not be able to find the child if that non-believer is present—"
"I'm a legitimate consultant with a string of successes—"
"—who couldn't find a pig in a blanket—"
"Don, I told you about this fraud—"
"I feel quite faint," The Great Vervette announced, setting a hand to his forehead. He toppled over, carefully managing to land in a seated position on the other sofa in the room. "I require something to calm my nerves."
"Water?" Rebecca Smithers jumped to her feet, grateful to have something to do.
"Yes, please. With ice."
"Perhaps wine would be better," Kenneth Randall suggested. "It would settle your nerves."
The Great Vervette flashed the big reporter a grateful glance. "Yes, that would be wonderful. I will require something to settle my spirits in order to work." He turned a disdainful glare upon the mathematician who had dared to pollute the psychic atmosphere with his derision.
Charlie snorted.
In Don's opinion, this was rapidly turning into a circus. At the Smithers' request—orchestrated, no doubt, by The Great Vervette—the reporter Kenneth Randall had joined the group for exclusive coverage of the event for his readers. Don had reluctantly agreed after extracting a promise that nothing would be released without his express approval and, to give the reporter credit, Randall had acquiesced without a fight. It was better than trying to keep the case under wraps with Randall butting in, Don reasoned, and with The Great Vervette playing to the house it was a given that information would leak out like a sieve. Don would strive for whatever control he could get. And the reporter had already demonstrated that he could take orders from the FBI.
The Great Vervette pushed. "Please remove that man!" he begged, pointing once again at Charlie who sat glowering over his laptop. Even the laptop gave off a disdainful beep. The Great Vervette drooped on the sofa. "He's giving me a headache. I shall not be able to find your son if he remains!" Ralph sipped daintily at the glass of white wine offered to him, pinky stuck in the air. "Thank you, my dear," he told Rebecca. "This is delightful. Most kind of you." He sipped again. "I am most distraught," he murmured. He placed a limp hand against his forehead. "I cannot think."
Rebecca's eyes flashed in alarm, and she turned an entreating look at Don, the senior agent. It was crystal clear what she wanted.
This was so not good. Charlie would never forgive him. On the other hand, if the kid was never found, the FBI and the Smithers and the rest of the world would never forgive Don. And Charlie could get his data just as easily back at headquarters. And they were family. Blood thicker than water, right?
He cleared his throat. "Uh, Charlie, would you mind…?"
Dr. Charles Eppes most certainly did mind. Being thrown out of a house in favor of a charlatan by his own brother was akin to requesting an audience with a rabid dog not wearing a muzzle. Dark eyebrows furrowed. Psychic daggers flew across the room, and they weren't from the resident psychic.
Don let his eyes shift to the Smithers and back, pleading silently with Charlie not to make a scene. The parents had enough to deal with, and if playing with the nice psychic made them feel like they were contributing, couldn't Charlie just let them have their fantasy? And, no matter what, The Great Vervette had found the previous kid. Would it really be so bad for Charlie to do his work off-site? It wasn't as though the mathematician really needed to be here…
Charlie set his jaw. "I'll wait in the car," he said. "Let me know when you need me." Mild delivery. Iron control. Only Don could guess what it cost his brother to say that. And Don didn't want to imagine what it would cost Don himself once out of earshot of the Smithers. I'm in for it now…
"Think they'll be on time?" David broke the stalemate of silence that crested through the room in Charlie's absence. "The kidnapper, I mean."
"We'll find out," Don grunted, trying to re-focus on the case; trying not to think about the slight figure trudging out to Don's Suburban to wait like a child sent to his room. A quiet bang from outside informed him that Charlie was now sitting in the front seat, fuming. The laptop had gone with his brother; play solitaire or something, Charlie. Take out your frustration on that. Can't you see that I had no choice?
"This is a copycat," Megan said. She too was trying to ease the discomfort that still pervaded the room. "If at possible, he'll try to maintain the same timeline as the original. Chances are, he'll use the same wording on the note. That was reported in your article, wasn't it, Ken?"
"Yes, it was," the reporter agreed. He slicked a hand through dark hair, pushing it out of his eyes. As one of the largest men in the room, he'd elected to remain standing. Others needed the available seating more than he did, and he would take up more than his fair share of the sofa if he tried to sit. "It was one of the pieces that gave me the lead on page one. None of the other papers had it."
Yeah. The article had published all the details, right down to the phone call that the previous victims had received and rumbled on through to The Great Vervette finding the little girl. Randall had been thorough. Inquiring minds, and all of that. Nice and easy for any copycat kidnapper who happened to come along.
Could have been worse. It could have been a smear campaign for the FBI, with Don's name up there in lights. But Randall had been very even-handed, almost complimentary, about the professionalism of Don's team. Whatever his motives, Randall was not out to rub any FBI noses in the dirt.
Right on schedule, the phone rang. The electricity that shot through the room could have fried an elephant. Don held up his hand, waiting for Colby to give the go ahead.
Lights flashed on the circuit board. Colby nodded.
"Pick up the phone," Don directed, putting calm into his voice for the father. "Try to draw him out. Keep him on the phone as long as possible. And demand to talk to your son." See if he's still alive, went unsaid.
Bart Sr. nodded, his face pale. He picked up the phone. "Hello."
Colby put it on speaker, hands darting over the circuit controls.
"I have your son. Do you have the money?"
"Almost. It will take another two hours to get it together." That was Don's coaching. Stall for time. "I want to talk to my son."
"Bring the money to the park. Leave it on the bench and go. If I see anyone in the vicinity, I will kill your child. You will be contacted after I have the money as to where you can find your boy."
"My son," Bart Sr. tried to demand. "I want to talk to my son!"
Click.
"Lost him," Colby reported tersely.
"The trace?"
"Not long enough for a complete tracing." Colby's fingers danced over the circuit board, teasing out the information that he could. "I've got a partial. A general area."
Don could feel the reporter's eyes boring into him. "Good work, Colby. Get that to Charlie; see what he can make of it."
Bart Sr. was next. "We don't have any time, Agent Eppes," he said, desperation edging his voice. "I have to take the money over to the park."
"The briefcase is ready," David slipped in. "We've got a tracer on it, and the money has been marked."
"Listen to me," Don said carefully. "This guy wouldn't let you speak to your son. Do you understand what that means?"
"I know exactly what it means!" Smithers grated out. "But if there's any chance at all of getting my son back, then I'm going to take it! Do you understand that, Agent Eppes?"
"I understand," Don replied soothingly. "Believe me, that's the first thing, and the most important thing, that any of us want. But we have to look at this realistically: once the kidnapper has the money, he has no reason to return your son. You have to give this guy a reason to keep your son alive. Do you hear me on this?"
Bart Sr. closed his eyes tightly. Don recognized the move: it was designed to hold a scream of anger and despair. But it wouldn't help, wouldn't get his son back.
Don didn't push further. "Go ahead and make the drop. Our people have the briefcase ready with a transmitter in it. Once we have your son back, we can move in on the kidnapper."
"I don't care about the money." As if that would help.
"I know you don't." Don gentled his voice. "Do what the kidnapper says. Stall for time; try to keep him talking if he shows up. You're going to wear a wire so that we can monitor the situation, take down what he says for clues. Are you ready for this?"
"Is anyone ever really ready for a situation like this?" Bitterly.
Point of no return. Further discussion would avail them of nothing. David helped put the transmitters onto bare skin, taping it down so that there were no tell-tale wires or bumps. Colby tested the circuit, making certain that the team would be able to hear everything, that all the words and sounds would be transferred onto a digital recording for later playback. Hopefully it would be a record of what went right. Worst case scenario, they could play and re-play it in a frantic search to save a little four year old boy's life.
It was Megan that Don owed his continued existence to. Silently she gathered up the information that Colby's tracing equipment had won for them, taking it out to the Suburban where Don's brother waited in infuriated solitude. And that was going some, Don reflected soberly. Megan was one of The Great Vervette's biggest fans on the FBI team. She had been the one to tell them how Ralph Maurer, AKA The Great Vervette, had been able to figure out her family history, what college she'd gone to, all things that he shouldn't have been able to know.
Yet he had, and had followed it up with similar recitations for each of the team, even correctly guessing where Colby had a scar from when he'd broken his leg as a kid. With the man's flamboyant style Don could see how Charlie would label The Great Vervette as a fraud, but Don himself was having a hard time figuring out how he did it. The most sensible explanation was that The Great Vervette was the real thing. And the most sensible plan of action was to treat him with respect.
And, no matter what, it gave Mrs. Smithers something to do, something to feel useful over. She fussed over the man, giving him whatever he asked for, handing him one of Bart Jr.'s favorite toys so that he could 'find' her son through his 'psychic aura'. Don watched the pair for a few moments to assure himself that they wouldn't interfere with the official efforts.
Megan re-entered the house, the data she'd jotted down missing, so Don assumed that Charlie had swallowed his anger, accepted the information, and was now plugged into the car battery with his laptop, working his own sort of magic. Megan's eyes were unreadable.
"How'd he take it?" Don kept it quiet, so that the others couldn't hear.
Megan sighed. "Want me to drive him back instead of you?"
"That bad?"
"He wasn't a happy camper, Don."
Don winced. "What was I supposed to do, Megan? The Smithers wanted Ralph in on this. They're desperate."
"Lose-lose situation, Don. No matter what, you were going to hurt someone. Charlie was the one who could best afford to be hurt." She shrugged helplessly. "I don't blame you."
"Charlie does."
Half-smile. "Charlie doesn't see the world as you and I do. For him, it's black or white. Understanding that there are things not meant to be understood is not part of his character. That's part of what makes him so good at math: he's tenacious. Problems have solutions; it's just a matter of time and effort to solve them."
"For him, maybe," Don grunted. "The rest of us have to live in the real world." He looked straight at her. "Megan, I would take it as a real favor if you would bail me out on this one with Charlie."
"Consider it done, Don. Just remember that you owe me one."
"Two," Don nodded fervently.
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Don set up his perimeter well outside the confines of the park, placing his people where he hoped that the kidnapper wouldn't see them. The command van itself he put onto a distant hill where a telescope replaced the field glasses and a video camera hidden in the trees gave him an up close and personal view of the surroundings.
The park was pretty, with a small sand lot for toddlers to play in. A small sand castle had already fallen back into a pile of pebbles under the hot sun. For a change, the place was empty; too many parents were too well aware of what had occurred, and weren't willing to take the chance that their own child might be next. Well-watered trees covered over the area, blocking the worst of the sun's harsh summer rays with giant green leaves, an occasional bird chirping in the branches but most too over-heated to do more than flutter to another branch to get out of the direct sunlight. It looked peaceful.
Appearances were deceiving. Tension radiated from every one of the FBI agents, from the LAPD people brought in to help with the perimeter, and from Smithers himself. Don found himself taking more than one deep breath, letting it slowly out through his nose, to still the tremors in his hands.
He watched the scene closely. Smithers was following the instructions to the letter, not deviating one iota. He strode into the clearing where three benches sat, legs plunged into concrete to keep the benches from mysteriously vanishing in the night. He carried the brown briefcase that David had set up for him, and Don knew that Colby, in the van, was already tracking its movements. David was almost a mile away, on the other side of the clearing, with his own set of field glasses, ready to charge in from the opposite direction. The FBI was prepared.
Megan had been appointed to keep The Great Vervette under observation and, incidentally, keep track of the reporter Ken Randall. Both had been left at the Smithers residence with Rebecca Smithers and the older daughter, one to search for the psychic aura and the other to search for the story surrounding the search for the psychic aura. Megan's job was actually to stay with Mrs. Smithers and be present in case the kidnapper inexplicably called back, but every member of the team knew her real goal: prevent the psychic and the reporter from interfering with the current operation. If the psychic could pull another miracle out of his hat and locate the boy, more power to him. Don wanted to know immediately if the kid was found. Made it easier to decide when to move in on anyone that he had under observation with a briefcase under his arm containing a million dollars in marked bills and a transmitter.
Time for that later. Don focused his attention on the scene below, Smithers walking into the clearing and sitting down onto the bench, the briefcase prominent beside him. He set the case onto the bench and looked around.
"I can't see anyone." His voice was full of anguish. Don wished that he could have set the man up with an earpiece, just to offer words of comfort, but it would have been too dangerous. Priorities: get the son back alive and well. Hurt feelings and money were secondary. Smithers had whole-heartedly agreed, but that didn't make it any easier on the father.
"I do," murmured Don's own earpiece. Don could just barely make out David from across the park. "I have a male, approximately five ten, blond, early twenties, heading in Smithers' direction."
Don tightened. "Look alive, people. No one moves until my signal. We let him take the money, we see about how to get the kid back. Nobody moves until I say so. The kid is the priority."
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"How's it coming, Charlie?" Colby didn't take his eyes off of his own screens, watching both Smithers on the monitor and the little green blip that represented the briefcase and its transmitter on another. There were several screens in the van, and Colby was watching all but the one attached to Charlie's laptop. It was getting stuffy inside; Colby had turned the van engine off to prevent the noise from alerting the kidnapper, which meant that there was no air conditioning to keep them human in the heat.
It didn't bother Charlie. "Getting closer." The dark tousled head didn't lift from its own screen. Fingers tapped away frantically, urging greater speed from the laptop. "I think I may have narrowed the list of suspect sedans down to twelve."
"Nice." It was. Twelve sounded like a lot, but it was a heck of a lot better than two thousand. "Maybe we can find the sedan in the area, get a better license plate, in case this bozo slips through our fingers."
"Maybe." More fingers tapping. "Got it!"
"How many?"
"Ten possibilities. All dark sedans with the appropriate letters in their plates, all registered to people living in lower class neighborhoods, more likely to commit a crime of this nature."
"Don." Colby tapped the key to open a channel to his team leader. "Charlie's come up with a list of suspects."
"How many?"
"Ten."
Pause. "Tell him: good work." The sound came in loud and clear over Colby's equipment, loud enough so that Charlie could hear. Colby turned halfway to make sure that the consultant had heard it, nodding. "We'll see how it goes down here, then start running those leads."
"Not now?" Charlie asked.
Colby cut the transmission. "Not enough manpower. We may get lucky; they may let the Smithers kid go once they have the money. We can still use your leads, Charlie. We'll be able to track them through the money and arrest them."
"Right." Charlie bent back over his laptop.
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"I feel him!" The Great Vervette announced, waving his empty wine glass in the air. "I feel his aura!"
Megan blinked. That had come out of nowhere. But wasn't that why the Smithers wanted him? Because he could pull stuff like this out of the air? And it wasn't as though this was an exact science. According to Charlie, this wasn't science at all. "We'll take my car." She pulled out her cell, tapping in speed dial. "Don, it's Megan. Ralph has something. I'll keep you posted."
"Keep it tight, Megan. We have a bogie. Timing'll be close."
"Got it." Megan snapped the phone shut. "Let's go."
They piled into Megan's car, the FBI profiler taking the wheel. Ralph directed her through a series of winding roads and seemingly endless turns, his eyes half-closed and sitting in the front passenger seat. Megan could feel the reporter's eyes boring through her, assessing her moves as she followed the instructions of the psychic, watching her closely. Megan wondered how the newspaper article would read. Would it be something to the effect of: the attractive FBI profiler, her hair swaying across her shoulders, sped to the scene that the miraculous Great Vervette saw in his mind, etc. etc.? Certainly that would be preferable to 'those bumbling FBI idiots'. Randall too had been good to the FBI team.
"Here," Ralph said suddenly. "Stop the car. I need to get out."
"He's here?" Rebecca Smithers had insisted on coming along.
"I feel him. He is close."
They piled out of Megan's car, The Great Vervette almost sniffing the air like a psychic bloodhound. Randall's pencil scratched against his notepad. Megan unsuccessfully attempted to lean over just far enough to see what the man was jotting down, but the markings on the page were less legible than Charlie's chicken scratchings. She gave up in disgust.
They made an odd grouping of four: the FBI agent, the psychic, the reporter and the mother. But not one of them stopped; a child's life was at stake. It wasn't particularly good FBI procedure but, as Don had said, if it works—do it! Because nothing else was coming close, not the license plate clues that they were tracking down, not the phone tracings, and not Charlie's numbers.
Ralph had led them to an area far outside the outskirts of Los Angeles, the high desert reaching into the eastern mountains. It looked desolate to Megan's eyes; there was nothing to see but a few rolling hills and the occasional left-over boulder from some cataclysmic event a few millennia ago. A single tall cactus was the only sign of life standing tall in the blazing desert heat. Megan thought about the sole bottle of water baking in the trunk of her car and wondered how she could possibly pull it out without collecting dour glares from Ralph. She sighed; the water could stay where it was. At best, she could re-chill it at home and at worst, they'd need it for little Bart, Jr., assuming that Ralph had once again pulled off a miracle.
A miracle that Charlie was insisting was a fraud. Don had told her about his arguments, about how psychic talents resisted examination by scientific methods. About how no one claiming psychic powers had ever been able to reliably perform tasks that couldn't be done through trickery. In other words, no proof. Of course, Charlie would go on to say that there wasn't any proof that psychic powers didn't exist, just that no one had yet proven that they did.
Scientific testing, that's what Charlie had wanted. Proof that psychic powers were present and could work and could work again. A single occurrence could be random. Probabilities talked about one chance in a million, but there was always that one chance. Charlie had told Don that proof would be if The Great Vervette could reliably find child after child.
This could be that proof.
Megan hid a smile. Professor Charles Eppes was not going to be a happy camper if The Great Vervette, with all his grandiose gestures, found the Smithers child. And he most certainly wouldn't be pleased if his numbers couldn't do the same thing. The smile tried to broaden to a grin. Charlie'd be impossible to live with. Don was lucky to have his apartment to escape to.
More boulders. Ralph led them to rock after rock, peering around, looking for who knew what. As for herself, Megan listened. Listened for a child's cry, sobbing into the darkening afternoon, listened for the sounds of any movement. She heard the rustle of wings as a ground bird took off in hurried flight, saw the lazy circles of a vulture high above in the air. And, most of all, she felt the hot sun beating down on her shoulders.
Knew I should have used the heavy duty sun block this morning.
"Here." The Great Vervette's voice was hushed.
'Here' was a large boulder. Behind it, Megan could see the dark entrance to some sort of den.
"How could he get into there?" the reporter, Ken Randall, asked. "The boulder's in the way."
"He's in there," The Great Vervette insisted. "Remove the boulder!"
Mom had a more direct method for testing The Great Vervette's hypothesis. "Bart?" she called. "Bart, are you in there?" Her voice cracked on the last word.
Not words, but muffled sobbing emerged.
"He is in there!" Megan gasped. "Quick, get this boulder out of the way!" She darted forward, grasping at the rock. It was heavy, and massive. Rebecca Smithers too, manicured nails forgotten, hauled at the boulder, desperate to get to her child.
"Let me help." Randall appeared beside them, broad shoulders inserting themselves between the two women. He reached, longer arms able to get better purchase, fingers seeking the nooks and crannies to grab onto. The three of them heaved. The boulder inched back.
"That's it!" Megan cried. "We're getting it!"
"We're coming, Bart!" Rebecca called out. "Mommy's coming, Bart. It's going to be all right!"
Inch by inch, the boulder reluctantly allowed itself to be pulled away from the shallow cavern. With every sliver of distance, it became easier, Randall able to get better purchase on the boulder and used strong muscles to pull it away.
Megan, the slenderest one there, squeezed inside. Bart was there; the resemblance to his mother was unmistakable. The four year old was tied, hand and foot, with a rough gag muffling everything except his tired sobs.
No time to waste. Megan gathered the boy up in her arms, pushing him out through the opening into the waiting embrace of his mother.
By the time Megan herself squeezed back out, the ropes were off and Bart Jr. was hugged to his mother, looking as though the two wouldn't be parted for the next decade. Given the circumstances, Megan was sure that that exaggeration wouldn't be far off.
Megan's job wasn't finished. She pulled out her cell. "Don?"
"Megan?"
"We got him."
"Alive?"
"Alive," she confirmed with weary satisfaction.
"Good work, Megan. Damn good work."
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"Eppes, to all teams. The boy has been found. Repeat: the kid is alive and well. We move in on my signal."
"Got 'im in sight," David reported from his position. "Suspect advancing, approaching Smithers."
Words whispered into Don's earphone, transmitted from the small electronic box hiding in Smithers' pocket. Dad didn't know that his son had been found, Don reminded himself. There was still plenty of fear in the man's voice. Smithers was going to play along with the kidnapper as though his son's life depended on it. In the father's mind, it did.
"All units, move in with caution," Don directed. "We don't know if this guy is armed. The original had a boatload of weapons; let's play it as though the copycat has an arsenal in his back pocket. Got it?"
Murmured assents whispered in through the earpiece. From his position high on the hill, Don could see the stealthy movements of the FBI agents easing forward, surrounding the tableau below, enclosing the father and the kidnapper in a circle of justice.
Don too picked his way down the slope, two other agents behind him, all with handguns already in hand. The trees covered their approach, the grass muffled their footsteps. The kidnapper was already within speaking distance of Smithers, the man actually a kid barely beyond his teens, sandy blond hair artfully greased into a fake punk look. There was a hint of pink at the tips of the blond ends.
Don could hear the interchange between Smithers and the kidnapper.
"You've got something for me?"
"Right here." Don saw Smithers indicate the briefcase, the movements partially hidden through the tall brush. "Where's my son?"
"Not here, that's for sure."
"I want my son!" Smithers' voice began to rise. Hysteria wasn't far behind.
No way out for the kidnapper. "Move!" Don ordered into the microphone. "Move in!" He jumped into the clearing, the other two agents behind him, all with pistols aimed at the kidnapper. Out of the corner of his eye he saw David and his team secure the other side. "FBI! Freeze! You're under arrest!"
"Yeah, yeah, you got me." The kidnapper lazily put his empty hands up in the air.
"On the ground, hands behind your head, fingers laced," Don snapped. The gun didn't waver. He advanced, keeping his attention on the gun, making sure that Smithers didn't get in the line of fire.
Smithers was still terrified. "Eppes! My son."
"Safe."
That was all that it took. The blood drained out of the father's face, enough so that Don was momentarily concerned that the man would pass out in front of him. But the bench was there, and Smithers sank onto it, overcome.
Don had more immediate concerns. Holstering his gun and careful not to get in the line of fire of David and the others, he pulled first one hand then the other behind the suspect's back, slapping on the cuffs.
"Hey, take it easy," the suspect complained. "I bruise easy."
"You have the right to remain silent," Don snarled, trying not to let the relief he felt leak out. This was going well. This copycat was clearly an amateur, and a poor one at that. "I suggest you use it. You're going to need a damn good lawyer if you don't want to spend the rest of your life in jail." He shoved the kidnapper all the way onto the ground, immobilizing him.
"That's my bad side!" the suspect objected. "Look, I told Vinnie I wanted to be shot from the right. Can't you hit your marks?"
What was this idiot talking about? Don shoved him further onto the ground, grinding the suspect's face into the dirt, securing the handcuffs. "We've got the kid safe, genius. You're going down."
"Little further," the suspect directed. "My agent says I look good with dirt smudges. The edgy look, you know?"
"No, I don't know." Don hauled him back onto his feet. "You working alone?"
The suspect looked around. "Damn, but you guys are good! Where'd you hide the cameras? For an independent film, you've got some expensive stuff."
Don began to get a sinking feeling. "What are you talking about?"
"The cameras, man! You hide 'em in the branches, so you can get a 3-D shot?"
Don flashed his badge in the suspect's face. "Listen, dude," he drawled. "You may not realize this, but you are in a whole heap of trouble. This is not Candid Camera. We really are the FBI."
The suspect's face turned as white as Smithers. "What?"
"FBI, man." David stepped up, his own badge in his hand. "And this ain't made of tinfoil." He patted the suspect down, pulling out the wallet. "He's clean. No guns, just an ID. Jacob Stashov, of 1415B Cayoga Apartments."
Don put his face six inches from the suspect. "Well, Jacob Stashov of 1415B Cayoga Apartments, I suggest you start talking very fast, because right now you're looking at fifteen to twenty, minimum."
