by Phil Lollar
As he spoke, Connie moved back to Whit and whispered, “I don’t need anybody to let me in.”
Whit matched her volume. “I know, but I don’t want you walking into the room by yourself.”
Connie sighed. “This is unbelievable!”
Whit smiled. “Life in the big city, kiddo.”
“Then I’m glad I live in Odyssey!”
Mr. Herman cradled the receiver. “The bellboy on that floor will meet you at the elevator, Miss Kendall.”
“Thanks.”
She started off, and Whit said, “I’ll be up in a few minutes, Connie.”
She nodded, opened the door, and stepped through to the lobby. “They better not’ve touched my hair dryer.” She closed the door. Whit stifled a chuckle.
Mr. Herman gestured toward a nearby chair. “If you’ll have a seat while I open the safe?”
“Of course.” Whit sat.
Mr. Herman moved to the bookcase, reached under a shelf near the bottom, and pushed down a hidden lever. There was a click, and he pushed the shelf aside, revealing a walk-in-sized combination safe. His fingers fumbled nervously with the dial. “I just want you to know how very sorry we are for the whole incident, Mr. Whittaker. As I said, this has rarely happened. We would be honored if you would have dinner here tonight at our expense.”
“Thank you, but that won’t be necessary.” Whit stroked his chin. “I just can’t imagine what I would have that anybody would want to steal.”
Mr. Herman dialed in the last number. “Ah, here we are.” He pulled down a lever on the safe door. There was a clack, and he pulled it open. “I believe you’ll find everything in order—your suitcase and your computer.”
The realization hit Whit like a ton of bricks. “Computer?” He rose from the chair and moved to the safe.
“Yes,” Mr. Herman replied. “I have a laptop of my own, although my carry bag is not as nice as this one.”
Whit stared at the computer bag, barely listening. “Is it possible . . . ?” he murmured.
“Something wrong?”
“Perhaps.” Whit retrieved the bag. “I need to look at my computer. May I use your desk?”
“Of course.”
“Thank you.” Whit unzipped the carry bag, pulled out the computer, and examined it. “Mm-hm, my identification plate is gone.”
Mr. Herman mopped his brow again. “This is the computer we brought down from your room, Mr. Whittaker, I assure you!”
“I have no doubt of that, Mr. Herman. Could you leave me alone for just a moment, please?”
“Alone? Uh . . .” Mr. Herman looked around the room. Clearly his nerves weren’t used to this sort of thing. “Well, yes, of course, anything you like.” He bumbled his way to the door and exited the room.
Once Herman was gone, Whit lifted the lid of the computer and pushed the power button. “There’s only one way to be sure . . .” The machine whirred and beeped to life. A few more keystrokes, and he had his answer. A United States Department of Defense emblem appeared on the screen. “I don’t believe it!”
Words faded in, in front of the emblem. Whit read them aloud. “‘This computer and its contents are the property of the United States Department of Defense.’ This is the stolen computer!” He stroked his chin again. “Now, the question is: Did those men put it in my room, or . . .” It hit him. “Was it accidentally switched in the hotel van?”
He took a calming breath. “Okay, slow down. No jumping to conclusions. The only way to be sure this is the one is to check the programs . . . suppose my old passcode still works?” He typed in “Whittaker_Alpha_Omega_J316,” and to his delight, the computer’s home screen dissolved into one containing dozens of small icons. He smiled. “Nice to know I’m still in the loop and have access.”
He took another breath. “Okay, time to close this down and call the authorities.” He started to type the exit command when something on the screen caught his eye—something he thought impossible. “No, it can’t be!”
He slowly moved the cursor to the icon and double-clicked on it. When the program opened, his heart both skipped a beat and sank at the same time. “No, no, no! I don’t believe it! I don’t believe it! What did you all do?”
Connie paced nervously around the elevator car as it carried her upward, muttering to herself. “This is unbelievable . . . first we get stopped at the airport, then we spend all morning at the police station, and now somebody tries to break into our rooms!” She sighed. “What next?”
The elevator bell dinged, the car glided to a stop, and the doors slid open to reveal a huge man standing in front of her, wearing a too-small bellhop uniform. “Are you Miss Kendall?” he said with a strange accent.
“Yeah, but you’re not the bellboy—hey!” Before she even knew what was happening, the hulking man swiftly grabbed her arm with one hand and clamped his other mitt over her mouth. “Let me g—mmfffflgh!”
He pulled her out of the elevator and, despite her struggling, easily carried her down the hallway and into a service exit.
The elevator doors slid shut silently.
“Hotel operator,” the filtered voice intoned through the speakerphone.
“Yes,” said Whit, “get me the police.”
“Right away, sir.”
The door opened, and Mr. Herman crept back into his office and sidled up to Whit. “Mr. Whittaker? Is everything all right?”
Whit shook his head. “No.” He turned off the computer, placed it back in the carry bag, zipped it up securely, and handed it to Mr. Herman. “Will you please put this back into the safe and keep it there for me?”
Mr. Herman took the bag. “Of course.” He moved back to the safe.
“And I’m the only one who has access to it, right?” Whit asked.
“Absolutely, except for myself, of course.”
“Under any circumstances?”
Mr. Herman placed the computer back in the safe, rose to his full height, and turned to face Whit. “Sir, we treat our hotel safe like a Swiss bank.” He turned back around, closed the safe’s door, and pulled its handle. It clacked again; he spun the combination dial, slid the bookcase back into place, and secured it with the hidden lever. He then turned back to Whit and sniffed. “A Swiss bank.”
Whit smiled. “Good enough.”
A voice blurted out from the speakerphone, “Chicago Police Department.”
“Yes, Special Agent Frank Phillips, please.”
Mr. Herman wilted again. “‘Special Agent’? You’re not calling the police, Mr. Whittaker?”
“Don’t worry, Mr. Herman. We won’t cause a scene.”
Mr. Herman looked aghast. “A scene!?” He collapsed into a chair.
“Agent Phillips,” the speakerphone piped.
Whit picked up the receiver, and the speakerphone clicked off. “John Whittaker here. You were right and you were wrong.”
“What are you talking about?”
“I wasn’t involved in this case before, but I am now.”
“Oh?”
“Yes. I have the computer you’re looking for. It must’ve been accidentally switched by the driver when Greg Kelly got out of the van.”
Phillips’s voice was suddenly more serious. “Where are you?”
“The hotel manager’s office.”
“Where’s the computer?”
“The hotel safe.”
“All right, don’t move, Whittaker. Stay right where you are. And don’t take your eyes off that safe. I’ll be right there. And for heaven’s sake, don’t talk to anyone. Don’t even open the door! You could be in great danger!” He hung up and the receiver went dead.
Whit replaced it in its cradle, sighed deeply, and started to sit when an alarm in his head jerked him back up again. “Danger?! Connie!”
Connie and the hulking man descended rapidly in a dingy chrome service elevator that wasn’t anywhere near as nice as the previous lift. The hulk no longer carried her or had his hand clamped over her mouth, but he still had a viseli
ke grip on her arm, so much so that her hand was starting to go numb. She looked up at his stoic, chiseled face. “I take it you don’t work for the hotel.”
He grunted.
“You didn’t have to drag me to a different elevator, you know. The one I came up in also goes down.”
The hulk sneered. “Too many people.”
“Uh-huh . . .” She watched the lights on the panel pop on and off as they passed each floor. “Just out of curiosity, where does this elevator take us to?”
“Parking garage.”
“Oh.”
He looked down at her. “Relax. Everything vill be all right. No one vants to hurt you.”
She looked back up at him as the elevator dinged and the doors slid open. “Yeah? Well, you better watch it, bub, because I know John Avery Whittaker!”
A voice outside the elevator, recognizable somehow, responded, “What a coincidence . . . so do I.”
Connie looked out the door, but no one was there. “Who said that?”
“I did.” A familiar figure stepped into view and smiled. “Hello, Miss Kendall.”
Connie gasped. “You!”
“Yes. Dr. Regis Blackgaard, at your service.”
Chapter Thirteen
Whit paced around his room at the Excelsior like a caged tiger waiting for his dinner. Agent Phillips’s young, bespectacled, curly-haired assistant, Woody, sat on the sofa, tinkering with a phone tap device he attached to the receiver on the room phone. After a moment, there was a gentle knock, the door opened, and Phillips strode in. “There’s no sign of a struggle, no evidence that Connie was kidnapped.”
Whit kept pacing. Phillips adopted an assuring tone. “You know how teenagers are, Whittaker. She probably decided to do some sightseeing on her own.”
Whit glowered at him. “I know Connie, Agent Phillips. She wouldn’t do something like that without telling me first. Especially with everything that’s happened.”
Phillips nodded. “Yes, well, we’ve checked for fingerprints. Everything’s clean, as you’d expect. Y’know, if you told me the truth in the first place—”
Whit turned on him. “I did tell you the truth. I didn’t know I had the government computer until I came back. It looks exactly like mine. The van driver must’ve gotten them confused.”
Phillips folded his arms. “Uh-huh. Another coincidence?”
“I don’t believe in coincidences, Agent Phillips, but yes, for lack of a better word.”
“So, you have no idea who tried to break into your room?”
“Well, obviously, it was someone who wanted the computer,” Whit snapped. “Beyond that, no. No idea.”
The phone rang, and Whit pounced at it. Phillips grabbed his arm. “Wait! Don’t pick it up yet. Woody, start the tape and begin the tap.”
“The tape and the tap,” Woody responded nasally. “Right.” He held a thumbs-up, and Phillips let go of Whit’s arm. “Okay, Whittaker. You’re on.”
Whit picked up the receiver and held it to his mouth and ear. “Hello?”
Connie’s annoyed voice answered. “Hi, Whit.”
He breathed a huge sigh of relief. “Connie! Are you all right?”
“Yeah, I’m fine. But the person I’m with wants the computer.”
“Who are you with, Connie?”
“He doesn’t want me to be a name-dropper. He knows you’re trying to tap the line, so I’ve gotta talk fast. He wants you to bring the computer and wait alone under the big clock in the center of North University’s South Park Campus at six o’clock.”
Whit glanced at his watch. “But, Connie—”
Click. The phone line went dead.
Blackgaard dropped the phone receiver into its cradle on his desk in the warehouse office and smiled benevolently at Connie. She scowled back at him. “There. I hope you’re happy, Mr. Blackgaard.”
“Doctor Blackgaard. And, yes, Connie, well done.”
“You’re gonna be in big trouble for kidnapping me, you know,” she sneered.
Blackgaard chuckled in his deep baritone. “Kidnapping? I don’t know what you mean. I invited you along for a look at my new electronics warehouse, and you agreed. You’re welcome to go at any time you like.”
“Really? Good.” Connie jumped up and headed for the office door. “See ya.”
“Of course, if you do go,” Blackgaard chimed in, “it’s anyone’s guess what will happen to Whittaker.”
Connie stopped. “Whaddya mean, happen?”
Blackgaard sat on the edge of the desk. “There are a lot of ruthless people who would do anything to get their hands on that computer.”
“People you know personally, right?”
Blackgaard smiled and shrugged. “In a way, by staying with me, you’re helping to keep him safe.”
Connie glared at him for a few moments and then sighed heavily and plopped back down in the chair. “I figured there was a catch.”
Another chuckle. “Funny, isn’t it? Whittaker and I reunited once again over a computer? And all because of a meeting decreed by chance!”
Connie snorted. “Yeah. Hysterical.”
“So, what do you think of my new operation?”
“Huh?”
Blackgaard opened his arms. “My warehouse! Every conceivable electronic device for every conceivable need. I’m opening a chain of stores.”
“You’re kidding.”
“Not at all! It’ll be called ‘The Electric Castle.’”
Connie rolled her eyes. “Clever.”
“I was even thinking of opening one in Odyssey. Perhaps on the site of my old shop.”
“You wouldn’t dare!”
“It’s been two years. I miss the place.”
She shook her head. “They’ll never let you back in Odyssey.”
“Why not?”
“Because of everything you did!”
Blackgaard rose from the desk. “And what, exactly, did I do?”
“You know. Richard Maxwell told the whole story at his trial.”
Blackgaard’s eyes sparkled. He began to pace slowly behind her chair. “Richard Maxwell? Currently serving time in the Campbell County Detention Center for arson?”
Connie crossed her arms. “You know who I mean.”
“Mm. And the good people of Odyssey would take the word of a delinquent over mine?”
“Well . . .”
Blackgaard stopped and stood behind her. “He burned down Tom Riley’s barn. He burned down my shop. I can’t be held responsible for his actions. At least, not without any proof.” He leaned in on her right side. “You . . . don’t have any proof of anything, do you?”
Connie leaned away from him. “But why didn’t you stick around to defend yourself? You disappeared.”
Blackgaard shifted to her left side. “I had urgent business elsewhere and left the managing of my property to Mr. Glossman. Is that a crime?”
Connie again leaned away. “No. But . . . but . . .” she sputtered angrily. “Ooo! You have more loopholes than a spaghetti strainer!”
He stood up and laughed. “Ah, that Odyssean humor. Maybe I will pay a visit soon. After we get this bit of business taken care of.”
She turned in her chair to face him. “The government isn’t going to sit back and let you have their computer, you know.”
Blackgaard put a hand to his chest, feigning dismay. “Miss Kendall, your lack of confidence deeply offends me.” He leaned in close to her again. “What makes you think I’m not working with the government?” A Cheshire cat grin spread across his face, and he chuckled yet again.
Connie’s eyes widened and her jaw dropped. “What?”
The chuckle turned into a sinister laugh and echoed throughout the building.
Chapter Fourteen
Back in the manager’s office at the Excelsior, Mr. Herman had just finished opening the secret safe. Whit reached inside and pulled out the government computer, and then Mr. Herman closed the safe and locked it. Agent Phillips growled. “I don’t like
this, Whittaker, not one bit. You can’t take the real computer! What if something happens to it?”
Whit set the carrying case on the desk, unzipped it, and checked its contents. “What if something happens to Connie if they discover I have a fake computer? We don’t know who we’re dealing with—or what they’re capable of doing.” He rezipped the case.
Phillips shook his head, moved closer, and reached for the bag. “I can’t let you risk high security information.”
Whit blocked him. “And I won’t let you risk Connie’s life.” The two men stared at each other for a moment. Whit took a breath and continued, deadly serious. “Agent Phillips, if you’ve run a check on me like you say you have, then you know I’ll do everything in my power to safeguard the secrets in that computer.” He tilted his head slightly toward the case but kept his eyes locked on Phillips’s.
There was a long pause, and finally Phillips backed off a few steps. He dropped his head and sighed. “All right. But if anything happens—”
“It’ll be my responsibility,” Whit interrupted. “Besides, there are certain safeguards we can take. I assume you still use homing devices?”
“Of course,” Phillips barked irritably. “Woody, put one on the computer.”
The young agent snapped to. “Yes, sir!” He moved to the desk, retrieved what appeared to be a coin from a bag of his own, fiddled with it for a moment, and then slipped it inside the computer case.
Phillips spread out a small map of the campus on the desk. “Take a look at this, Whittaker. We’ll have our men stationed around the big clock . . . here at the library . . . here in the student union building . . . and here in the conservatory. I’ll be in the science building, directly across from the clock. I’ll be able to see everything from there.”
Whit nodded. “Good.”
“Not really. Unfortunately, today is the college’s annual Summer Arts Festival. The place’ll be packed. How’s it coming, Woody?”
The young agent turned on a signal receiver he also retrieved from his bag, and it immediately began beeping. “The homing device is on.”
