Stephen Cannell - Three shirt deal

E. Emmett Riley was a little man in a brown suit whose hair looked like it had been drawn on his head by a cartoonist. His rosy complexion shined and he had glossy, manicured fingernails that reflected light like little shiny windows.

"I don't see how this information is any of your concern," he said, busily protecting one of America's great national secrets.

"Mr. Riley, all we're asking is that you tell us what the Department of Homeland Security's interest is in this little bus company. It's not such a big deal," I said.

"Do you have a supervisor I might contact?" he said, looking directly at me, ignoring Alexa because after all, as everyone could plainly see, she was just a great-looking chick.

"Yeah. She's my boss," I said and nodded at Alexa. He flicked a glance over at my beautiful wife.

"Hi there," she said, smiling at him.

"She's your boss?" Incredulous. Struggling to adjust.

"Yes. She's Lieutenant Alexa Scully, and if you can have somebody go to the LAPD Web site, you'll see she's pictured there as the acting head of the Detective Bureau."

He turned abruptly around and for the next minute, those polished fingers flew over his computer keyboard. He quickly accessed the LAPD Web site and, sure enough, right there on the command structure management tree was a smiling press photo of Alexa. Then, with a little flourish, like Liberace finishing a piano run, he removed his polished fingernails from the keyboard and swiveled slowly around in his giant chair until he was again facing us. His expression seemed only slightly more cordial.

"I still don't-"

"Humor us," Alexa said, interrupting him. "Please don't make me take this to Chief Filosiani. I thought we were all supposed to be sharing information these days. Part of the new interagency guidelines."

It was a tough problem for E. Emmett. Like any good midlevel bureaucrat, he knew information was power and he hated sharing power with anyone. But the fact was, in this post-9/11 world, we'd all been tasked by the President of the United States with information sharing. I could see all of this calculating behind hazel eyes. Finally, he leaned forward.

"I'm not sure-"

"I am," Alexa interrupted.

His resolve began to dissolve like Alka-Seltzer in a glass of cold water. He tipped forward and hit an intercom. "Liz, bring me the NVNTA file." Then he leaned back in his chair.

Two minutes of uncomfortable silence followed. Man, I hate bureaucrats. Give a guy an office with any kind of government seal on the door, and you instantly have a testosterone problem.

Finally, Liz arrived. Liz, as you might expect, could have worked in reception over at Penthouse magazine. She swept into the office on three-inch platforms and handed Emmett the folder before disappearing back out the door like a vision sent by God. E. Emmett licked his fingers carefully before opening the file and examining the contents.

"Okay, what do you want to know?" he asked, the words coming out like tooth extractions.

"You sent several letters of merit and congratulations to this bus line. We were wondering in regard to what?" Alexa said.

"Which tells me, you obviously don't have enough P. C. to serve a warrant on this bus line and that's why you came to me. This is just a fishing trip." Snotty and bitchy, even in defeat.

"Obviously you haven't worked many investigations," Alexa said pleasantly. "If you had, you wouldn't make that statement."

"I wouldn't?" he said, smiling at her. I guess he smiled because she was too pretty to sneer at.

"No, you wouldn't because the minute you serve a warrant, you alert the suspect that you are investigating him. We like to save the warrant serving for last."

He tried to look as if he was evaluating this as a tactic. Then he shrugged slightly as if to say, "If that's your silly way of doing things, okay, but at Homeland we do it differently."

"So, what were all the letters and commendations about?" Alexa pressed.

She had him on the run. E. Emmett Riley was obviously enamored of beautiful women, but they made him nervous and he wasn't quite sure how to handle them.

"The NVNTA has been upgrading their security," he said reluctantly. "They've been spending a great deal of money to conform to our threat assessment transit guidelines. That's why I wrote the letters."

"You are, of course, aware of the fact that this nonprofit bus line only provides transportation for a limited number of senior citizens in a very small community," she said.

"They met the minimum two-hundred-fifty-seat bus-line-size limit, which qualifies them as a full-fledged transit authority," he said. "Beyond that, it's not our concern." He was back on familiar ground, curling a lip at us.

"Why not?" Alexa now gave him a beautiful, sweet smile. You could almost feel him wilt under it. Like Secada, Alexa knew how to use her assets.

"Because we're tasked with trying to get any qualified transportation agency to conform to our top threat level security guidelines. In order to do that, these companies have to undertake a significant capital outlay, which quite frankly, many are unprepared to do. So we provide incentives to encourage them. The more security a bus line, train, or airline has, the harder it is for terrorists to strike. I should think that's pretty obvious."

"So NVNTA was spending a lot of money," Alexa stated.

"NVNTA has been simply incredible," he said, looking at his file. "They are a nonprofit line and transport only about a thousand people per seven day week. But despite that, they've met every single one of our guidelines. They've passed all of the safety checks, as well as meeting this agency's most stringent requirements. Everything, I might add, at great expense."

"And that's it. That's the whole deal," I said.

E. Emmett shot a hard look at me. "Are you being flip?" he snapped.

"No, sir," I answered. "I'm trying to find out what these guys are doing."

"They're growing. They're attempting to expand their services in keeping with the highest threat assessment standards of this agency and we're helping them do it."

"Helping them? How?" Alexa asked.

"They've applied for and received a DHS government grant."

"I'm sorry?" I said.

"A grant. Money from the government."

"Really?" Alexa looked over at me. "How much money?"

"For transit authorities that meet our most stringent guidelines, the federal government is approving nonrecourse grants to continue growth and defray cost. It's part of the incentive program I just mentioned. But in order to qualify, the transit authority must meet every single guideline. They must have a transit police department with at least six members. They must install all of the preferred security materials-GPS and satellite tracking equipment. Only about six or seven percent of the transportation companies in the nation have qualified. I'm proud to say NVNTA is one of our better examples."

"How much money did you give them?" Alexa asked.

E. Emmett Riley looked through the folder and found it on the last page.

"To date, just a little more than fifteen million dollars," he announced proudly.

Alexa and I were sitting in our backyard in Venice, both of us wearing self-satisfied grins. We'd figured it out, cut through all the B. S. and had finally gotten to the bottom of it.

"It locks every piece in place." I tipped back the ice-cold Corona I'd just pulled from the fridge and drained half of it.

"Yep," Alexa agreed. "We be good."

"Mike Church isn't smart enough to figure all this out on his own. This is pure Wade Wyatt. That arrogant asshole engineered it. He sees that one old rusting bus and he knows about the Homeland Security grants. Maybe he got the info from his father, or while he was clerking for the Supreme Court. It's just the kind of get-rich-quick fast-food idea that would appeal to that little putz. He tries it on Church, who is so greedy he decides not to wait, so he kills his father to get the bus line. They end up scamming the government outta fifteen mil."