The Lovely Chocolate Mob

Warning Dr. Burke

“I’ve got to go. I’ve got to go… now!” I released her from my grasp, charged out into the reception room, leaving Miss Planter standing in dismay. I ran down the hall towards the elevator, skipping it again in favor of the stairs.

“Got to warn him. Got to warn Franklin Burke!” I said as loud as I could, running down the stairs, making sure to hold onto the rail, thinking about the drive I’d have to make back through traffic over to the west section of town, where the nicer homes were.

Running down the stairs, the thought of the better homes flashed through my mind; many of the old-time mansions had been built there as a result of the chocolate factory, since it certainly affected the local economy. In later years, the newer, gated communities in that area could make the same claim.

At the bottom of the stairs, I ran past the security guard, pushed the glass doors open and ran down the concrete steps to the parking lot, as only a man with a mission would. I jumped across the small grassy area and landed on the asphalt of the parking lot, just in time to see something move to my far right and hear tires screech at the same time. I stopped moving and froze as a large dark blue van pulled up in front of me, blocking my path. Three men jumped out, flashing badges and yelling “FBI! Get in!”

I’m wasn’t in the habit of entering vehicles where I didn’t know the driver, except in Walter’s case, so I hesitated until I felt someone pushing me from behind. Falling into the side door of the van, two of the burly men jumped and handcuffed me, then gagged me with a bandana and threw a cloth bag over my head.

I didn’t appreciate my treatment from the civil authorities, and I especially didn’t like the fact that my mission had been interrupted, so I began to kick and thrash about until I felt something like a hard metal object push against my ear, with it making a “click.” A voice said, “Make any more movements, Mr. Owen, and you will be shot resisting arrest.”

Since I didn’t want to be shot, I calmed down considerably. I tried to ask, “Where are we going?” but it came out illegibly, since I was gagged. I felt very frustrated and, at the same time, a little frightened. It hadn’t really sunk in what sort of a predicament I was in. I was on my way to save a life and had been side-tracked and man-handled by government agents, wondering what law I had broken, besides being involved with the disabling of an FBI helicopter.

We drove for what seemed like an hour. The agent let up on the gun next to my head, so I moved very slowly, trying to get comfortable with my arms behind my back, and me resting on my stomach on the floor of a government van. It had already been a long day, but now I wondered what would happen in the near future. And what was with the gag and the blindfold? What did they want, information? I had no info, other than Walter’s electric pulse bazooka used 10 ”D” batteries, and I didn’t remember if they were regular, rechargeable, or alkaline. I didn’t want to rat on Walter, since I’d already “Judased” one person recently. And if they wanted information, why the gag? Wouldn’t they encourage my talking, even if it were only rambling? I hoped I wouldn’t be experiencing any waterboarding.

“We’re there,” said a voice. “Up, Mr. Owen.” I tried to roll over to sit up, but it was a little crowded in the back of the van. I felt two hands grip each arm near the shoulders, and I was pulled out of the van and made to stand up.

“This is for your protection, Mr. Owen. We couldn’t have you heard or seen in our custody; that’s why we’ve treated you this way. If the cartel saw you with the authorities, you’d be history.” Oh. Well, why didn’t they say so earlier? They knew about the cartel, that I had some sort of association or connection with them. If they wanted me to talk about a chocolate gang, I think I could hold out and not crack here, since the FBI wouldn’t threaten me the way that organized crime would. On the other hand, they did hold that pistol to my head. Or was that really a pistol?

We walked a little ways, but I was slow to put my feet in front of me since I still couldn’t see anything. I wondered if I would be fingerprinted and processed; this should have been an interesting experience, since I had never been booked or arrested before.

We went through a number of doors, and I could feel the temperature change, and knew there was carpet in some areas, but other than that I was helpless knowing my surroundings; I must have been quite a sight for all the other FBI agents and bureaucrats.

The same voice said, “Sit here, Mr. Owen,” and I was made to sit in a heavy hard chair, probably wood and metal.

I waited. Thank goodness for the waiting; it gave me a little time to gather my thoughts. The authorities already knew about the cartel, but I couldn’t risk telling them anything. They picked me up at Miss Planter’s office, which means they knew about her! If the cartel saw this, they might get to her, and I couldn’t have that! So I made my mind up to keep my mouth shut, for good this time.

I heard the opening and shutting of a door. “You can unshackle him,” someone said. Someone grabbed the handcuffs behind me and I felt the “click,” as keys were being administered to the cuffs. They fell apart and my arms dropped beside me. I reached up towards my head and heard another voice say, “Wait a minute.” The voice jerked the mask off and untied the gag-knot behind my head; I was free. There was a glass of ice water on a table in front of me, and two official-looking men across the table. They were wearing long-sleeved white shirts with ties and badges and shoulder holsters, with guns in the holsters, snapped shut. The room was about 15 X 20 feet, with one exit door and a large mirrored window next to it. I must be putting on a show for somebody; maybe I was being videotaped.

“Drink of water, Mr. Owen? It’ll get that taste out of your mouth.” I grabbed the glass and drank it all and put the glass down. “Thanks… I think,” I said, although still a bit thirsty.

“Mr. Owen,” said the smaller man, “I’m Special Agent Huebner and this is Special Agent Belken. You’ve been brought here under cover to answer questions about the people you had contact with earlier today. We need to know everything you’ve done from the time you entered the Lovely Chocolate Factory at 1:30 p.m. until the time we picked you up for questioning. You’ll need to start talking as soon as I give you the go ahead.”

I looked around and saw a third agent standing directly behind me, to keep me under control, I supposed. I didn’t plan on making his job tough. He was huge and had a shaved head and blond biker’s mustache; with a horned helmet, he could have been a Viking.

Agent Huebner reached over and turned on a recording device. It was quite small, smaller than the tape recorders I’d seen in catalogues. “What’s that?” I said.

“This is a tape recorder, well, not really a tape recorder: everything’s digital nowadays,” said Agent Huebner. “It’s a digital recording device. You’ll need to start talking when I tell you.”

“Oh,” I said. I was still getting used to this situation, and the room. “Could I have another glass of water?” Agent Belken looked at me as if I was dirt; Agent Huebner looked at him and nodded, so Agent Belken took the glass and left the room.

Agent Huebner pushed a button on the recorder and said “This is Agent Michael Huebner, on site taking answers from person in question Randall Owen, who was strongly suspected to having gained contact with the Lovely cartel upon entering the Lovely Chocolate Factory at 13:30 hours, earlier today. Mr. Owen, did you have any contact with any members of the Lovely cartel?”

I let this question sink in for a moment, and leaned towards the recorder and said, “What’s the idea of putting a gun to my head?”

Agent Huebner grabbed the recorder, looking frustrated and pushing buttons to erase what I said. “We’re not going to make much progress if you continue to act this way, Mr. Owen.”

Agent Belken opened the door and entered the room with my glass of water. “Don’t give him that,” said Agent Huebner. “Mr. Owen has decided to become uncooperative.”

“Oh, he has, huh?” snarled Agent Belken. He looked as though he was going to jump across the table and bite my head off, when Agent Huebner said, “I’ve got a few questions to ask him, and if he doesn’t give me the answers I want, you can have him.”

“Gooo-o-o-ooood,” murmured Agent Belken. “I’d like to make him talk.”

“Mr. Owen, you’d better learn to cooperate, and I mean fast, because if you make me lose patience, Agent Belken is known to be, well, somewhat uncontrollable. The bureau doesn’t really know what to do with him; they have to keep covering his tracks.”

Now I had seen enough cop shows to know the “good cop/bad cop” routine and could see that I was being “played” at the moment. In reality, the authorities can’t touch you in a questioning situation, but on the other hand, they can’t just kidnap you, either.

“What’s with the hood and cuffs … and gag? Why didn’t you just ask me to come with you?”

“We’re under time constraints, Mr. Owen. We think the cartel is moving to put a ‘hit’ on someone, and a little birdy said you’ve set somebody up. We’ve detected activity in the underground, and so far all evidence points to you.”

He turned the recorder back on. “Mr. Owen, did you order a hit today on anyone?”

Me order a hit? I almost started to defend myself, but thought about where this would lead. Instead, I said, “Today, I went to visit the Lovely Chocolate Company’s board of directors, to speak with them concerning a family I know, and for the good of the reputation of the company.”

“What are you, a lawyer?” sneered Agent Belken.

“No, I’m an engineer, working for the company Root and Bonham. I called the chairman of the board, Mr. Hal Ostrander, and was given three minutes to air my concerns, which I did.”

“What’s your concern about their chocolates?” Agent Belken muttered. “You don’t like companies making an honest profit? You some kind of communist?” he growled, getting closer to me on my side of the table.

Even though I was seated, I leaned backwards in my chair, bumping into the silent officer behind me. “No, I’m not a communist and yes, I do like the idea of companies making a profit from their hard work, in a fair and open competitive system. But my concern wasn’t for the immediate financial welfare of the company as much as it was for the family I was represent--“ I cut it off. Maybe I’d said too much.

Agent Huebner smiled and said, “This family you were represent--ing, are they somehow involved in the planned hit? You’d better talk fast, Mr. Owen; someone’s life may be at stake!”

Yes, how well I knew that Dr. Franklin Burke’s life was at stake, but I also knew the cartel gave me a gag order; if I talked, they might go after people I cared about. If these officers let me go, maybe I could still warn Dr. Burke!

“The only people I saw were members of the board. I told them my concerns, and they responded.”

“What did they say? Did they order the hit?” asked Agent Belken, the bad cop.

“There was no talk of a hit, and really what they said is none of your business.”

Agents Huebner and Belken looked at each other; Agent Belken grinned. Agent Huebner said, “Okay, I’ve tried to be nice about it. Agent Belken, he’s all yours!” Agent Huebner stood up and away from the table while Agent Belken sat down directly in front of me.

Taking the recorder and sticking it near my jaw, he said, “You better tell me what I want to hear, and if there’s any resistance, any at all, we’re going to trump up some charges and throw you in the slammer, with some not-so-very nice people. You wouldn’t like that, would you?”

I shook my head in the “No” manner and said, “What would you like to hear?”

“We want to know who you met and who you saw in the cartel and any information they told you concerning a hit. Tell us what we need and we’ll let you go; toy around with us and you’ll rot in Cellblock Lovenest.”

Miss Planter. Miss Planter. “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I said. “I went in to the Lovely Chocolate Factory to speak with the board of directors, and their response was this: nothing. They didn’t say much. It’s probably their practice not to share information with visitors at board meetings.”

“What did you want with the directors? Be specific, now!”

I took a breath, and said, finally, “I was concerned that a young woman, Miss Susan Lovely, granddaughter to Cornelius Lovely, was having an affair with a married man, which would be a public relations disaster for the company, and which would also wreak havoc on an innocent family.”

“Whose family? Who is the man in question?”

I’ve already given his name to the cartel. What could it hurt if I gave the name to the cops? They don’t know he’s the murder target. “His name is Dr. Franklin Burke. He’s married to a lady with whom I went to college, and they have four children.”

The two agents looked at each other again. “Oh, I see, now,” said Agent Belken, looking back at me. “You went to school with his wife. Bet she’s somebody you’ve had your eye on for a long time, now. So you asked them to put out a hit on Dr. Burke, and with him out of the way, it would be easy for you to play pattycake with his wife and become the new daddy to those four ….!” He never finished because I tried standing up, but was pushed back down in the chair by the large officer behind me. Agent Huebner started laughing. “Oh, Mr. Owen, touchy-touchy!” he said. “I can see we’ve hit a nerve with all this ‘hit’ talk!”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about, and you shouldn’t have said that.”

“You’re acting like a man under a lot of pressure, Mr. Owen. And come to think of it,” continued Agent Belken, “you’re looking awfully familiar to me for some reason.”

Agent Huebner interrupted, saying, “Don’t you know the cartel used Lovely Choclates back in the cold war to deliver microfilm to our enemies? And that they’ve smuggled diamonds and precious jewelry out of the country, covered in chocolate and delivered in gift-packs to communist dictators and third world banana ‘People’s Republics’? Don’t you love your country? Don’t you want to help us? These are international thieves; don’t you want us to nail these cutthroats?”

I sat there, trying to regain my senses. “Yes, I love my country, but I met with the board of directors and told them my concerns. They didn’t respond to anything I said. They didn’t listen, which is probably their practice with outsiders. I failed. That’s what I do. I’m good at failing.”

Agent Huebner said, “We have a record of a ‘Mr. Smith’ talking to the board of directors, but not a ‘Mr. Owen.’ How do you explain that?”

I took a breath, but before I could say anything, a cell phone went off, and Agent Huebner reached for the phone on his belt and answered it. He looked at the officer behind me with a surprised look on his face. He then looked to Agent Belken and said, “It’s over. It’s taken care of.”

They picked up the recording device and started to leave the room. Agent Huebner, when reaching the door, hesitated and turned to look back at me and said, “You didn’t fail, Mr. Owen,” and shut the door.

I sat there, wondering what he was talking about, wondering how much he really knew. I went to the Lovely Chocolate Factory in disguise; how did they connect me with this? Maybe the same contact at the police station, the one who gave my name to the mob, also dropped a dime on me to the FBI? The big officer behind me must have had pity on me because he put the glass of water back in front of me, and I drank it. “Thanks,” I said.

“You velcome,” he said, with a thick Russian accent. I looked up at him. His name badge read “Agent Carter.” Agent Carter with a Russian accent. “What’s going on?” I heard myself say.

Agent Belken walked back into the interrogation room, carrying a large, flat box, with a beautiful cover, about the size of a board game under his arm. He placed it on the table gently in front of me, and turned to walk back out. “For Karen Planter,” he said, with his back turned to me.

“What the heck?” I halfway asked.

He had placed a box of Lovely’s Assorted Chocolates in front of me, the largest gift box that the Lovely Chocolate Company offered, which must have been in the $500 dollar range. Nobody in the blue collar world could afford this stuff, so how could government agents? I ventured to ask that very question, and said, “How did you FBI agents get this stuff? Confiscation?”

“You’re free to go,” said Agent Belken. “Your car was brought here and is in the parking lot, towards the back, of course.” The large Russian/Agent Carter helped me up and to the door. I walked out into the hallway, carrying the box under my arm. These three agents walked me down the hall towards a large reception area, an area which somehow seemed familiar.

I had seen it earlier that day! We were in the Lovely Chocolate Factory! I was being ushered out the back way towards the back parking lot! I noticed that all the receptionists and secretaries were keeping their heads down, as though they didn’t want to see what was walking through the room.

When we reached the door to the parking lot, I said, “You’re not FBI!”

“That’s right,” said Agent Huebner, holding the door open.

“You’re….!” I stopped myself.

The three men laughed. “That’s right.”

Then… while walking towards the parking lot, all sorts of questions went through my mind. “What was that all about? Why did you bring me back here? Why the treatment?”

The men stopped to look at me. I immediately looked down at the sidewalk; I didn’t want to recognize them, or to remember them, and I wanted them to know that.

“I guess we owe you that, Mr. Owen,” said “Agent Huebner.” “We wanted to see if you would crack; we wanted to see if you would tell the world about us.”

“I don’t know anything about you,” I said. “All I know is I met with members of the board.”

“You’re a smart man, Mr. Owen,” said “Agent Belken.”

“Answer me one more question, if you would,” I said.

“Only one?”

“Well, maybe two.”

“Shoot.”

I looked around, making sure nobody was holding a gun on me. Agent Huebner said, “Just a figure of speech, Mr. Owen. I meant ‘go ahead.’”

“Do you still deal in gems, microfilm, illegal smuggling?”

“Agent Huebner” laughed. “Mostly we deal with chocolate, Mr. Owen. Sometimes we have to smuggle it across borders to avoid tariff and taxes, and we always get it into the hands of paying customers, who are among the wealthy, and many times high up in their respective governments. Most of our gem and microfilm smuggling went out with the Cold War, and we quit running drugs and munitions a looong time ago. It was too risky and caused bad public relations. But everybody likes chocolate, especially ours.”

I thought that “Agent Huebner” enjoyed talking, or else he was really proud of his work. I nodded as he spoke; it acted as a pump to keep him talking.

“Did you know our chocolate is used as currency on the black market in some countries?” he said. “It’s like cigarettes in jail, used in trade. In some parts of the world, it’s traded for food, wheat, land; the list is endless. We’re not just making chocolate, Mr. Owen, we’re printing money!”

“Wow,” was all I could say. “A mint!”

“Da,” said “Agent Carter.” “And ve put mints in our mint!” He laughed at his joke.

“What was your second question, Mr. Owen?” said “Agent Belken.”

“Earlier when ‘Agent Huebner’ took his phone call, what was -- ‘taken care of’?”

We had reached my car, far out at the end of the parking lot. They opened the door for me, and I got in. “Agent Belken” leaned over the driver’s side door and said in a grim voice, “Dr. Franklin Burke, he’s been taken care of.”

I was too late.





Destruction

The “special agents” left me in my car, so I felt it was time to put as much distance between myself and the Lovely Chocolate Factory as possible. I headed straight over to the West Side of town, to the neighborhood of Dr. Franklin and Helen Ceraldi-Burke. Turning on their street, I could see lots of cars lining the road, and police cars in the Burkes’ driveway to the courtyard. There were people who were coming out of their houses, neighbors walking over to the Burkes’ front door, an unusual sight in a suburb where the mansions were spread so far apart, where you wouldn’t think the neighbors knew or cared about each other; maybe Dr. Burke had made free house calls? Driving slowly down the street, I could see movement in the distance at the Burkes’ front door, and then saw Helen being escorted out by two policemen. She was crying, and they were holding her arms and shoulders, supporting her on either side while walking out to a squad car. Surely they didn’t suspect her in any wrongdoing? They must have been taking her down the station for questioning, or to the morgue for identification purposes. Traffic was so congested that the police car left before I reached the house. Seeing a few neighbors walking back to their homes, I called over to one of them:

“Excuse me! Can you tell me what happened with the Burkes?”

An older lady stopped, and said, “Oh, it was terrible. There was an explosion; Dr. Burke’s car was blown up over at the hospital, and it's still burning. The fire department is there, and I heard one of the police say it’s a total loss; nobody could have survived it. By the time firemen arrived, the fire in the vehicle was burning out of control; they’ve decided to wait and let it burn itself out.”

I asked, “Do you know where they’re taking Mrs. Burke?”

“No,” she said, “Dr. Burke had told one of his workers that he was going home for the day, and then this happened! Poor Mrs. Burke, they seemed like such nice neighbors. Did you know them?”

“Yes,” I replied. “I went to school with them. Where are their children?” I asked.

“Oh, Mrs. Burke has plenty of siblings in the area; they’re all with their aunts and uncles. I heard they were still in school when this happened, and the police contacted each one through the different school administrations. Most of the neighbors will be here if they come back home.”

“Thank you” was all I could say, and I drove on, still being slowed by traffic and rubberneckers. Dr. Burke may have been a minor celebrity in town, since he’d been seen by many of the sick, was known at the hospital, and had hobnobbed with society’s upper crust. Since there was more traffic appearing behind me, I left, not knowing what to do, where to go. There was nothing I could do here.

I drove downtown to police headquarters and parked in the visitors’ parking lot, and stayed outside for awhile, looking for evidence of Helen doing a perp walk, but didn’t see any signs of the media; usually they’d be tipped off if there were to be an event. I entered the police building and spoke with the desk sergeant. He was an older gentleman, wearing a name tag reading “Sgt. Bechen,” probably past his prime and so took this assignment; he couldn’t tell me much, but did offer me some candies at the desk. I made a little small talk with him, gave him my phone number and asked him to call me if he managed to see Mrs. Burke come in. He must have seen my concern because he turned to a busy-looking policeman, who was hurrying through the lobby area, about Helen Ceraldi-Burke. The hurried officer said they had taken her to the hospital to identify the car, in case someone switched license plates, and maybe to identify the body, but doubtful there’d be much to ID. I thought to myself, “Why couldn’t this wait until later? Why would they do that?”

In the television shows, police always look first to the people closest to the victim, and if that’s the case, this may have been shaping up badly, into a wrongfully accused situation. Maybe they were hoping to get her to talk, to say something that would give them reason to book her.

I thanked Sgt. Bechen and left, deciding I didn’t want the police to drag me into this. All I could think about were those kids, those poor kids. What else could I do? If it came down to it, I suppose I could spill all the beans to the law, tell them the whole story, if indeed Helen was charged with a crime. But then, what about the people I love? The cartel already knew about Miss Planter. They’d know who talked; it wouldn’t be hard for them to backtrack the information to me.

It was getting late and so it was time to drive home; it had been a long and eventful day; I was tired and had to re-group. Home would become the base camp; I’d have to see what I could do from there. So I made the slow drive across town in the dark, trying to take the side and back roads; the drive helped me to think. How would this all work out? What steps would be necessary to keep Helen’s name clear? She did have an education, but she married soon after college and had no time in the military; her records would show that. She had no background in munitions or explosives unless she’d excelled in chemistry; she had been an excellent student. Plus, a female wouldn’t kill her husband using anything as crude as a bomb. Women used poison or guns, but not explosives; it’s too dangerous; they might blow themselves up! On the other hand, the cops might say this was a ‘hit,’ that she had hired somebody to kill Dr. Burke. Helen was always paying someone around the house: the maid, cook, gardener; it wouldn’t be anything for her to pay a murderer to “erase” Dr. Burke. And if it came out that Dr. Burke was having an affair with a younger and richer woman, that would give the police a motive. Things were looking worse for Helen; by the time I reached home, I was thinking what an easy time a district attorney would have in pinning this on Helen, a scorned wife and the mother of the victim’s children. If the tabloids got wind of this, and they would thanks to the celebrity/model Susan Lovely, headlines would read “Spurned Older Wife Bumps off Playboy Doctor-Husband,” with pictures of Helen, Dr. Burke, and Susan Lovely, a love triangle. The internet would take this and make it go viral, spreading this story around the world. Courtroom accounts would follow, and after all the dust had settled and sentences handed out, different versions of television movies would be made of this, along with interviews on daytime talk shows, where one of the innocent parties, Susan Lovely, would be promoting her book, a tell-all, and how she didn’t know that Dr. Burke was a married man, which might be a hard sell, seeing how he had four kids.

Helen’s fate would be decided in the court of public opinion before she even had a day in court: oh, those poor children.

I reached home, worn out by the day’s activities, and walked up the steps to my simple little home. It was a good thing the neighborhood wasn’t crowded and the houses were spaced far apart because I didn’t feel like talking to anybody just then. All I wanted to do was to get ready for the next day; I even looked forward to the routine of work again. I also needed to phone Miss Planter and tell her how everything worked out, but then decided against that because the telephone was an easy piece of equipment to tap; no, I didn’t trust the telephone. I needed to tell her face-to-face how this dark day played out.

It had been a terrible day. One death, a shattered family, a wife and mother possibly framed for murder, how could Helen defend herself?

Entering the house, I could see Walter sitting on the couch. I shut the door behind me and said, “It’s been a bad day, Walter.”

Walter replied, “I figured that from the way you looked. You can tell me all about it, but first let me ask you a favor. You think you could use a boarder for a couple of days?”

This was a bit confusing, so I said, “You’re already in the house; what do you mean?” and then I stopped speaking because as I looked over at the easy chair, there was Dr. Franklin Burke, sitting, alive and wide-eyed as if he had no idea what was going on.





The Explanation

“What? What’s this?” I exclaimed. “How did this happen?”

“Now take it easy, Randall. You’ll hear soon enough.”

“How is he still alive?” I asked. He’s supposed to be dead! I saw them take Helen away in a squad car!”

“They think Helen killed me?” said Dr. Burke. “How do you know this?”

“I drove by your house and I saw them hauling her away; I had tried to warn you earlier but…”

“You know about that; I told you that,” said Walter to Dr. Burke. “I didn’t know the cops got hold of Helen, though.”

“What’s he doing here?” I asked Walter, hoping to get some clear answers.

“Now, let’s just all calm down, and I’ll answer all questions,” he said. “Let’s have a drink!”

That was something we all could agree on; I was beginning to favor the idea of alcohol, so we moved 10 feet into the kitchen area and sat around the table. I was a little bit flustered but figured I could wait to hear how Dr. Franklin Burke escaped death at the hands of the cartel. We drank a bit; Walter and Dr. Burke had a few beers; I remained the teetotaler. I wanted to be sharp when I heard the explanations.

“Okay, Randall, here sits Dr. Burke. He’s alive. He needs a place to stay for a few days. Can he impose on you?”

“I see that he’s alive. What I want to know is… if he’s here, who got blown up at the hospital?”

“Oh!” said Walter. “Well, nobody really. A dummy was sitting in his car when it went up.”

“A dummy?” I asked. “You mean to tell me that there are cops and firemen poring over the death of some store mannequin?”

“A crash-test dummy…,” offered Walter.

“…poring over the death of a crash-test dummy? What happens when they find out Dr. Burke isn’t in the car? There’ll be a county-wide search, and what happens when they find him here?”

“They’re not going to find him here,” said Walter.

“How do you know?” I asked.

“Easy,” he said. “They’ll be watching his home, looking in hospitals and any properties he used to own, his boat, and checking his itinerary; there’s nothing to connect him to you. They’ll be looking through his upper-crust friends, of which you ain’t one.”

I stopped and thought about all Walter had told me. I trusted Walter, but sometimes he did things a little out of the ordinary. Dr. Burke remained silent and drank his beer, watching the two of us.

“Okay, okay, he can stay here. But how did you keep him from getting blown up? There are people out there who’ve got his number!”

“You’re talking about the cartel.” I looked at Walter. “I know all about that,” he said.

“How? How do you…?” I stopped and stood up. I checked my pockets, my belt, belt buckle, jacket pockets, tie. “How do you know all this stuff?” I asked again.

“It’s behind your lapel,” said Walter. “No, your left one.”

I checked behind my jacket lapel, on my left, not his, and there it was, pinned into the jacket. A tiny microphone, with a wire going up a few inches, also pinned in place. It was so light I didn’t even feel it.

“That’s how you knew I needed to call Miss Planter,” I remarked, surprised he would wire me.

“Yes, and also how I found out about the cartel.”

“What cartel?” said Franklin. “Who are these people?”

“These are people who are very mad at you for seeing Susan Lovely,” I said. Franklin looked up quickly, like a deer in the headlights. “They don’t like you getting too close to her and her billions. You’re treading in dangerous waters.”

“How do you know this? How did you know about Susan and me?” he asked.

“We found out when people started talking. Don’t get defensive; we already know all about it. What you don’t know is that there are those who want to kill you for it.”

“Why do they want to kill me? What have I done to them?” said Franklin, almost pleading.

“You’re disrupting their plans for Susan Lovely. They’re afraid if you make her look bad in public, it will hurt the company she’s associated with. And they don’t want that.”

“You mean the ‘Happy Hippy Bikini Company?’ But she hasn’t done any work for them in a long time!” said Dr. Burke.

“No,” said Walter, “He means the Lovely Chocolate Factory.” Franklin looked over to Walter as though he didn’t believe it. Walter continued, “It’s true; there’s a multi-national group that has infiltrated the company and will do anything to make and keep it successful, and that includes bumping-off any ‘problems.’ Get my drift, Dr. Problem?”

“I’m getting the picture. I’m the target,” said Dr. Burke. “I should have listened when they… What about Susan? Is she in danger?”

“No, I’m sure she’s not in any danger,” continued Walter. “They want to keep her healthy and wealthy and in good stead.”

Franklin leaned back in his chair. “That’s good,” he said. Walter and I looked at Dr. Burke. He was genuinely concerned about his girlfriend, even though he had just narrowly escaped death just a few hours earlier.

I turned to Walter. “How did you get to him before the cartel did? How did you save him?”

“Well, after hearing the discussions of the cartel concerning Dr. Burke from the mike…”--he pointed to my lapel-- “…I decided the best course of action was to grab him in order to help him lay low for a few days, until all the hostilities blow over. A diversion was needed, and so…”--he stopped for a moment and looked at Dr. Burke-- “…I blew up his car.”

Franklin Burke quickly sat up. “You blew up my Mercedes-Benz?” he asked.

“Why, who do you think put the crash-test dummy in your seat?” asked Walter, amazed Dr. Burke hadn’t put the pieces together. Obviously ”logic” wasn’t on the curriculum at medical school.

“He was trying to save your life, Dr. Burke,” I pitched in.

Dr. Burke sat back in his chair. “Sorry,” he said. Then, in a quieter tone: “You blew up my Mercedes-Benz?”

“Yes,” said Walter. “I had to do it; it was the only thing I could think of in the few minutes I had to apprehend you.”

“And you put a dummy in the driver’s seat, in order to throw the cops and firemen off track?” Dr. Burke asked.

“Yes,” Walter said. “I figured if they could see somebody or something in the car, they’d mistake it for a body. Of course it would only be for a few moments, an hour at the most, until they could put the fire out and get to it. Bet they’re mad as hornets right now!” Walter threw his head back and laughed at the thought of it. “Haw-haw-haawww! All them civil servants mad with nobody to blame, and no body to claim, haw-haw-hawww!”

I said to Walter, “You know the hospital parking lot has security cameras, right?”

“Sometimes they do,” chuckled Walter. “It doesn’t take long to disable a camera from behind.” And with that he laughed some more.

Then I thought about something else. “You don’t normally have a bomb available on a moment’s notice?”

Walter stopped laughing for a moment and remarked, with a straight face, “Sometimes.” He didn’t retain his straight face for long and went back to laughing.

“I’m going to need for you to park your RV further from the house, at least on the other side of the pine trees,” I said, “for safety’s sake.”

Dr. Burke asked, “How did you get a crash-test dummy in such a short time?”

Walter quit laughing and replied, “It’s a big RV, and sometimes it’s nice to have someone to talk to.”

Dr. Burke and I looked at each other while Walter continued, “But weep not; he led a full life and had a useful death; I will cherish his memory.”

Dr. Burke looked worried. “The police are probably blaming me right now for faking my death. How am I going to explain this to the hospital, to my patients, my peers?”

“When the members of the gang find out, they’ll be looking for you as well,” I said. “There’s too much going on. We’ll figure all that out later; the first thing we’ve got to do now is to keep you safe and out of sight. You take the couch; there are some extra pillows and blankets in the hall closet. I’ve got to hit the sack; it’s been a long day, and now I’m wondering if I’ll be able to get to sleep after this.”

Walter started his laughing again. He was still laughing when I went to bed. I hoped the authorities didn’t catch up to us; I had a feeling they’d throw away the key.