Ed McBain - Alice in Jeopardy

“Which means they were working with this Cuban fuck, whoever he is,” Rafe says. “Where’d he get that name Dustin, anyway?”

“His mother probably was a fan.”

“Of Dustin Hoffman’s, you mean?”

“Yes, of course Dustin Hoffman,” Jennifer says. “Who else is named Dustin besides Dustin Hoffman?”

“Well, this guy, for example,” Rafe says, and taps the byline on the column. “In fact, maybe it’s the other way around,” he suggests. “Maybe Dustin Hoffman was named after Dustin Garcia.”

Jennifer gives him a look.

“So you think that’s it, huh?” she says. “They figured this out between them. Garcia and the cops?”

“Don’t you think?”

“But why?” she says. “I don’t see what they hope to accomplish.”

“Here’s his picture right here,” Rafe says, and grins like a barracuda. “Why don’t we just go ask him?”

Tully Stone, the special agent in charge of the FBI’s regional office seventy-two miles north of Cape October, has copies of all the southwest Florida newspapers on his desk that Sunday morning, but the one that interests him most is the Cape October Tribune. There on the first page of the Sunday section, someone named Dustin Garcia has written a droll little story about Alice Glendenning — the woman Stone’s agents have been busting their asses over — taking her kids to Disney World for a couple of days and thinking it’s comical that everyone’s in an uproar about them being missing.

“It’s a plant,” Sally Ballew tells him.

“No question,” Felix Forbes says.

The two agents read the story early this morning, and then drove all the way up here to Stone’s office at regional HQ, an hour’s drive in very light traffic. Stone was perturbed on the telephone, and he is visibly upset now, to say the least.

“It’s nothing to worry about,” Sally tells him. “Just another example of the way the Mickey Mouse department down there is handling the case.”

“Do you think there’s any truth to it?” Stone asks.

“Not a word,” Forbes says.

“Pure misinformation,” Sally amends.

“Did they advise you of this?”

“That they were planning to do it? No.”

“Then how do you know it was them?”

“Who else could it’ve been?” Forbes asks.

“Maybe the woman herself.”

“Why?” Sally asks.

“Let the perps think she’s being a good little girl. Let them think she hasn’t called the cops.”

“Well, I guess that’s a remote possibility,” Sally says dubiously, “but my guess is a plant.”

“Shall I call them?” Stone asks.

“Why not?”

“See what’s on their alleged minds.” He pulls the phone toward him, begins looking through his directory.

“He’s probably at the Glendenning house,” Forbes suggests.

“Have you got that number?”

“Sure,” Sally says, and writes it down for him.

“What’s his name down there?”

“Sloate. Wilbur Sloate.”

“That’s a name, all right,” Stone says, and begins dialing. Sally is thinking “Tully Stone” ain’t such a winner, either.

“Hello?” a woman’s voice says.

“Mrs. Glendenning?”

“Yes.”

“Is Detective Sloate there?”

“Who’s this, please?”

“FBI. Special Agent in Charge Tully Stone.”

“Just a minute, please.”

Stone waits.

“Sloate,” a voice says.

“Detective Sloate, this is Special Agent in Charge Tully Stone, calling from FBI Regional?”

“Yes, sir,” Sloate says.

“It was our understanding till now that a kidnapping has taken place down there, which of course if true would naturally attract our attention…”

“Yes, sir, it already has. Agents Ballew and Forbes were down here visiting with us already.”

Visiting, Stone thinks.

“I am aware of that,” he says. “But, Detective, I have here on my desk a copy of this morning’s Cape October Tribune, and on the first page of the Sunday section there’s a story written by a man named Dustin Garcia…”

“Yes, sir, I’m familiar with the story.”

“Then you know it says the Glendenning children weren’t kidnapped at all, they merely went on a little outing to Disney World.”

“Yes, sir, that’s what the story says.”

“Tell me, Detective, did you folks plant that story?”

“Yes, sir, we did.”

“Would’ve been nice if you’d told us what you were up to.”

“Would’ve been nice if you’d told us you had a make on the woman who rented that blue Impala at the airport.”

Stone says nothing.

“Or that the name she gave Avis is a phony. Would’ve been nice to know all that without us having to go digging all the way to New York on it.”

“If we’ve been remiss—”

“You have indeed, sir.”

“—then I’m sorry, Detective. But the lines are somewhat blurred here…”

“They wouldn’t be if we could share information and work this together.”

“What do you think that story’s going to accomplish?” Stone asks, changing the subject.

“We’re hoping they’ll turn the kids loose and go on a spending spree.”

“Have they given any indication that they’re about to do that?”

“No, sir. But we’re with the Glendenning woman now, awaiting further word from them. We’re hoping—”

“Does she know you planted that story?”

“Yes, sir, she has been informed of that.”

“What was her reaction?”

“She did not seem terribly pleased, sir.”

“Neither are we,” Stone says flatly. “It’s my understanding that a ransom was already delivered. Is that the case?”

“Yes, sir. The drop was made on Friday morning at ten o’clock.”

“And no word from them yet?”

“Well, she called…”

“She?”

“The black woman. One of the perps. She called Mrs. Glendenning to tell her the kids were okay, and they were checking the money.”

“What does that mean, checking the money?”

“I don’t know, sir. Those were her exact words.”

“And that was when?”

“Friday afternoon, sir.”

“This is Sunday. What makes you think they aren’t in Hawaii by now?”

“They could be, that’s true.”

“Well, has the mother heard from them since then?”

“No, sir. What we’re hoping is the black woman and her blonde accomplice—”

“What blonde? Is this a new development?”

“No, sir, we’ve known all along it was a blonde woman who picked up the children after school on Wednesday. I believe your people know that, too, that’s one of the things we shared. What I’m saying is the ransom notes are marked, and we’re hoping—”

“How are they marked?”

“The serial numbers. The bills are supers, difficult to detect without special equipment. But they’re all A-series bills, and the serial number is identical on each and every bill. We’ve circulated that number to every—”

“Who the hell’s gonna check serial numbers?” Stone asks.

“Someone might.”

“Or someone might meanwhile kill those kids,” Stone says.

The line goes silent.

“Here’s what I’m gonna do, Sloate.”

No more “Detective,” Sally notices. The gloves are off.

“I’m sending Forbes and Ballew to the Glendenning house. They should be down on the Cape by…”

He looks up at the wall clock.

“…eleven, eleven-thirty. Let’s say twelve noon to be safe. They’ll be running the case from now on, and I expect your full cooperation in bringing it to a swift and—”

“With all due respect, sir, it’s your department that hasn’t been—”

“You don’t understand me, Sloate, do you? This just went federal on you. The case is ours. Ballew and Forbes are running it from this minute on.”