Chapter Four

Bill's research into the symbol at the FBI hit pay dirt in the afternoon. Scouring paper and computer files, he discovered that the symbol was a representation of an up and coming crime syndicate based in England. Ho boy, he thought, as usual things always wound up being deeper than appearances. He contacted Interpol and got more information. The syndicate was responsible for several bank robberies, assassinations, and drug running, and probably a lot more Interpol wasn't yet aware of. The triangle/circle symbol wasn't wholly understood—they hadn't had any criminal from the syndicate interpret its meaning for them. When they asked how Bill had learned about the symbol there in Los Angeles, he said his usual line—via a trusted informer—and didn't explain further.

Maxwell asked them to fax over a list of known professional bombers in Europe, and they agreed to get it to him within the next 24-48 hours. Computers, faxes—technology had certainly positively transformed the FBI in the twenty years Maxwell had been slogging along as an agent. Made it easier to nail the creeps who deserved to rot in jail.

Hanging up the phone, Maxwell wondered how four American businessmen had been associated with an English based international crime syndicate. The men were different ages, and had gone to different Ivy League universities. What was the connection? Having his intuition tell him this was something vital to investigate, he spent some time contacting the company representatives of each of the four businessmen who had been killed. Through them, he found out whether their offices were still maintained or if another businessmen was already set up in a redecorated office. Two of the offices were already taken up by a new person, while two were still empty and not yet cleaned out by the family. Although Ralph had holographed in on the art gallery, it seemed that today it made sense to first investigate whether any of these four men were somehow themselves associated with the English symbol. Ralph might be able to help him out doing that, in case the symbol was hidden away too successfully for Maxwell to find it on his own.

Maxwell nodded to himself regarding his productive day. Sometimes good old Federal brains could work just as well as magic suits. Oops! It was 3:00 p.m. Time to leave to pick up Ralph. Maxwell got up when Carlisle walked into the common agents room, filled with numerous small desks and busy federal agents. Maxwell suppressed the low groan that almost always snuck out of him when Carlisle appeared. He was usually Carlisle's target.

Today was no different.

"So, Maxwell, any luck so far?" Carlisle asked, hoping to embarrass Bill into noting publicly in front of his colleagues in the room that he had nothing so far.

"Uh, a little, Sir," Maxwell said, as he threw his coffee cup away. "The deaths seem to be related to an English crime syndicate trying to establish itself here in the States."

Carlisle was speechless for a moment. "An English crime syndicate? How did you find that out?" How did he find out all these remarkable connections?

Maxwell shrugged. "Just some work with the phones, paper files, computers, and confirmation from Interpol. Oh, and a professional explosives expert seems to be our man. Interpol is sending over likely suspects. Look, I've got a few key leads to investigate. I'll fill you in, later, boss." He waited a moment for Carlisle to agree to his departure and Carlisle waved him off. As Maxwell left, Carlisle noticed most of the women ogling the muscular back of the oblivious Bill as he passed through the door. Oh, god, not that, too. Carlisle was aware of the newer agents beginning to idolize Maxwell and his unorthodox ways. Now did he have to start dealing with this? Swooning females with crushes on Bill? He'd have to send out a memo reminding agents of the career perils of office romances.

Once Bill was gone, the agents deliberately avoiding looking at him. No doubt they were thinking Maxwell had won this round, and Carlisle agreed he had. Let alone Maxwell had discovered, in one day, a potentially problematic addition of serious crime in the country. How did he do it? Sometimes Carlisle saw himself as Chief Inspector Dreyfus to Maxwell's Inspector Closeau, and returning to his office, he wondered if he one day he'd develop a stress induced, insidious eye tick himself.

Bill pulled up into the Whitney High School parking lot as Ralph was chatting with his four favorite students, Tony, Rhonda, Rodriquez, and Cyler. Bill would have rather died than admit it, but he liked those kids, especially Tony Villacana, who kind of reminded Bill of himself nearly forty years ago. Tough on the outside, insecure on the inside, Villacana strode around acting like a punk, betrayed openly by the fact he was, in truth, a good kid with no real desire for violence or for criminally acting out. If Bill could get his hands on the kid for two weeks, he was sure he could smooth out Villacana's rough edges. In the meantime, their interactions were like two rocks smacking against each other, waiting for the other one to crack first. Bill enjoyed it immensely and he had a pretty clear inkling that Villacana did, too. Rhonda, Tony's girlfriend, was caring and civil, Cyler was the only one with a working brain in his head, and Rodriquez and his meaningless chattering was easy to ignore.

Bill came up to the five of them, taking off his aviator sunglasses in his patented sideways swipe as he approached.

"Hello, Bill," Ralph said.

"Ralph," Bill said, keeping his eyes on Tony.

"Oh, if it isn't the FBI's lamest Fed," Tony said, smiling broadly. "What are you doing around here, Maxwell? Looking for high school students who have crossed the state line?"

"Villacana, your car's registration is two months overdue," Bill said, correctly pointing to the registration stickers on Tony's back license plate. "That's a $50 fine."

"That's not your jurisdiction," Tony complained, nervously eying the plate.

"I've got a couple of cop friends who'll love to take care of it for me."

Ralph sighed deeply as Tony and Maxwell kept a long gaze on each other.

"Man, you just love busting my chops, don't you, Maxwell?" Tony asked.

"Ditto, Villacana."

"Yeah, yeah, alright."

"Look, kids, it's always so much fun to share with you all, I just get tingly all over, but I need to speak to Ralph alone, so exit stage right, pronto," Bill said, flicking his thumb to the side. "You, darling," he added, pointing at Rhonda, "you keep your boyfriend in check."

She nodded, used to hearing Mr. Maxwell tell her that; he seemed to be his signature closing line when the four of them were around. She liked Maxwell herself. She remembered that time on St. Croix, when she had gone looking for Tony after warding off the attack by Dicky the Octopus. He was supposedly staying on the boat Mr. Maxwell and the Hinkleys had found. But, Tony was gone and the boat looked ransacked. It was the middle of the night and she became terrified; she ran out of the front of the boat right into Mr. Maxwell, and it was one of the most comforting experiences of her life. "Oh, hold it, hold it, kid, it's Maxwell", she remembered him saying and in that second she had never felt so safe in her life, with him solid and strong, holding onto her. She was reluctant to let go of him and kept her hand on his arm until he broke free to check out the cabin. Yeah, he was mouthy and sometimes obnoxious, but he was also Mr. Hinkley's best friend and he took his job of protecting people seriously. Hadn't he been invaluable in getting Tony out of jail and saving her mom from the Russians? Her mom really liked him; sometimes they hung out together, went to movies together. Yeah, Rhonda had no doubt Mr. Maxwell was a true blue good guy, and she was pretty sure Tony knew it himself. "Alright, Mr. Maxwell," she replied with a quick nod.

She waved good-bye to her teacher, while the three other male teens acted out in offhand insults and mumbled complaints. The four of them got into Tony's flame-painted car and drove away.

"You might as well adopt him as a foster child, Bill," Ralph said.

"What are you talking about? Adopt who?"

"Whom. Tony. It's becoming harder to hide how much you like him."

"I'm just trying to keep my eye on him for the sake of society. He's a criminal in the making. I'm sure it's our Justice Department who'll adopt him one day."

Why Bill was so resistant to admitting to Ralph he liked Tony, even Bill didn't know.

"You know that's not true. If I ever get that mind push power back, I'm going to make you say 'I like Tony Villacana'."

"Oh, good, then I can consider you a real jerk, too, like the Counselor did. Look, can we get back on the case? The one with all the people being blown all to pieces?"

"Yeah, yeah, okay. Let me get the suit out of the back of my station wagon." As he pulled it out he asked, "So, we're going to Fantago's Art Gallery?"

"No, I've got other plans for this afternoon." In Bill's Diplomat, Bill explained to Ralph the new information he had discovered.

"That's terrific investigatory work, Bill. Carlisle must be proud."

"Gimme a break, Ralph. I've been doing this for twenty years." Still, secretly, Bill was pleased at Ralph's compliment.

They wound up at Global Enterprises, Inc, first, the closest to Ralph's school. With just a little badge waving and a surprisingly polite nature, Bill and Ralph were lead up to the twenty-seventh floor of the GEI office building, and allowed entrance into Harold Perkins office. They asked for privacy and closed the door behind them, locking it, to ensure it was maintained. It was a large office filled with mahogany furniture, a wet bar, long sofas, and it's own bathroom. The windows gave a magnificent view of the L.A. skyline.

"Boy, I should have gotten a business degree," Ralph said, going into the bathroom to change into his suit.

"Tell me about it. I can't afford the ashtray on his desk." Bill said as he lifted it up and read the 'Waterford crystal' sticker on the bottom. "His cigarettes were probably wrapped in silk paper."

Ralph came out of the bathroom all shiny red, attaching his black cape around his neck. "So, what are we looking for?"

"Anything in connection to the symbol," Bill said. "See if you can vibe something."

They walked randomly around the room, Ralph starting at the desk and the drawers and date book, and Bill wandering around to study all the certificates and artwork hanging on the walls. Edgefield High School. Princeton University BA Business. Harvard MA Business. Rotary Club Award. A highly lauded Stevie Business award. Some awful, garish rainbow colored painting. Pictures of him and his wife, kids, dog.

Ralph closed the last desk drawer. "Nothing here." He walked to his partner and as he got closer to the wall, he started noticing that odd alien feeling which meant he was getting helpful vibe energy. "Hey, I'm picking up something."

"Well, do your thing, kid," Bill instructed, moving out of the way.

Ralph lifted up his hands and was drawn to a little rectangular wooden box with a lock on it. "This. I'm feeling something with this." Ralph began trying to open up the box by snipping off the lock with his fingers, but, as he commonly did when excited, he misgauged his strength and in a second the whole box had fractured into pieces.

Bill pulled the corners of his mouth down into a "Yikes" look. "Ralph, watch it! We don't want to trash the place. It's a dead guy's memorial."

"Sorry." Ralph put the pieces on the long, low table, and he and Bill opened the box, examining the contents. There was a cushioned bottom with the mark of the triangle/circle design embossed on it. A little scroll of white paper sat on top of it.

"There's our symbol," Bill said. "What's the scroll say?"

Ralph took the scroll out and unrolled it. The only thing written on it was "$100,000 or Help As Specified."

"'$100,000 or Help as Specified'? What does that mean?" Ralph asked.

"I don't know," Bill said gravely. "But, I've got a bad feeling about this. Was Perkins involved in an English Crime Syndicate? Look at those certificates. He seemed to be getting awards for endless charity work." Bill paused, growing deadly serious. "Then, again, I've seen some of the worst criminal creeps arranging their lives so they look like angels to socialites and charitable organizations. Guys like that make me sick."

"Well, don't judge him, yet. We don't know the full story."

"Yeah. He could have been an honest guy. Look, put your clothes on and let's check out the other three businessmen. I'm beginning to think we may hit four out of four in the triangle derby today."

It took several more hours, going to another office and then rummaging through boxes of office stuff in the homes of two of the deceased men, but all three had wooden boxes, which when—"Gently, Ralph!"--opened up, had triangle/circular embossed cushions with scrolls resting on them. The other three scrolls were equally cryptic: all of them had the exact same phrase as had Harold Perkins'.

When relatives were asked about the boxes, they were told the boxes had been around forever, never opened as long as they knew, and never spoken about. They were enigmas.

What was the connection between the men? They didn't know each other; they didn't work together or socialize together. None had gone to the same undergraduate university, being graduates of Princeton, Temple, Stanford, and Rutgers, although they all had graduated within a five year time span. What was the connection? Bill and Ralph sulked, unable to pull the case together.

It wasn't until they were silently driving back to Whitney High, to drop off Ralph at his car, that Bill's mind pieced it together.

"Of course, why didn't I think of this earlier! Ralph, what ties together four men, different ages, different universities, same obscure symbol?"

"I don't know, what?"

"Fraternities!"

Ralph realized that was truly a brilliant idea. It had to be the answer. He glanced at his friend. They did make a great partnership. Him and his magic suit, and Bill and his FBI experience. "You know, Bill, you really aren't as stupid as you act." Thoughtful pause. "Or look." Thoughtful pause. "Or sound."

Bill's self-satisfied smile evaporated into a mope, as he dead-panned, "Thanks, Ralph, thanks a lot. You and the counselor always bring sunshine and bluebirds into my life."

"My pleasure, pardner," Ralph smiled, patting Bill's shoulder fondly. "My pleasure."

It was home for Ralph, to fill in his wife on the case's progress, and back to the office for Bill, toting a deli bag with turkey sandwich, cole slaw, and diet pop with him. Finding out symbols for every fraternity in the country using the computer and paper research was going to be an arduous process, he figured. No need doing it hungry.

Then, tomorrow, follow-up on the lead at Fantago Gallery. Things were coalescing nicely together, but no clear pattern had yet formed. Bill had confidence, though, that he and Ralph would pull things together quickly.

Even with six or seven cups of coffee in him, and as a result, two or three antacids, Bill was a wave of yawns by 2:00 a.m. He had wasted a couple of hours when he came across the Triangle Fraternity, active at many universities in American, delving deeply into it's origins. Then, he realized that the schools where this fraternity was active did not contain the four his businessmen matriculated at, and the field of studies allowable for entrance did not contain business. Just about when he knew he had to get some sleep, he stumbled upon a small reference to Alpha Alpha Omega, which the FBI files listed as a by invitation only college organization, with secret meetings. Like the Masons, but only for some select group of undergraduates. All four of the universities the dead men attended were supposed to contain an Alpha Alpha Omega organization, as well as University of California at Berkeley and Northwest University. The symbol for AAO was a triangle, with three circles on the points, and three smaller triangles on the circles. Bingo once again.

Somehow the fraternity was associated with crime syndicates and bombs. But, how? What tied them together?

It was enough for one day. Bill stretched his tall body, stiff from squatting over a computer, then threw his food and beverage trash away, put on his jacket, and left the Bureau building. When he was younger he could stay up the whole night doing research and then work an energetic next day. He didn't have that endurance anymore, but his stamina wasn't too far off. A few hours of sleep and he'd be ready to carry on.