"Montague, Art - George Broozner - Redezvous in Swift Rapids" - читать интересную книгу автора (Montague Arthur)

= Rendezvous in Swift Rapids
by Art Montague


Introducing ... PI Wannabe George Broonzer


By August 1999, government downsizing had left the Swift Rapids FBI office in straitened circumstances. The staff was still housed in the Federal Building, but the DEA and the ATF had the prime digs -- top floors, corner offices, windows, even carpets and air conditioning, since they were still riding budget highs for the war on drug kingpins and survivalist wackos. What the Swift Rapids FBI office desperately needed was a high profile bust -- a kidnap victim to rescue or a serial killer to profile.

Right now their office was in the basement. Two cubicles; a reception area; and a state of the art holding cell with electronic locks. The cell had a surveillance videocam, but it was never turned on because the request for a monitor had been denied.

When a suspect was in the holding cell, the three local agents had to do their case conferencing in the hallway outside the office door lest the suspect discover their evidence inventory and interrogation strategy. That's where they were now.

Agent-in-Charge Jonathan Rigby was pacing. Agents Moore and Crawford were hunkered against the walls, out of his way. Agent Moore was worried about his suit; it was hard to hunker and keep a crease. Agent Crawford was worried that he'd be assigned to Swift Rapids forever. Agent-in-Charge Rigby was worried that a mobster in the Witness Protection Program had just been whacked on his turf and he'd be hard pressed to cover his ass. True, he had a suspect in custody, but the suspect wasn't looking as suspicious as Rigby would have liked. The man's confiscated notebook might be another story.

Suddenly, Rigby stopped pacing. Maybe, just maybe, this case could be turned from adversity to advantage. Maybe it could be a career saver for all three of them, something Rigby had wanted for a long time. He decided to explain the facts of their exile to his team and outline how they could come out of it awash in glory, lionized in D.C., and the stuff of legend and hope in other remote FBI outposts.

* * *

George Broonzer was the suspect, a situation he enjoyed even less than being in Swift Rapids. The Greyhound bus back to Fergus City left at 8:30 that night. Broonzer had about an hour and a half to figure out how to be on it.

Broonzer had been Grade A Ready for the day's assignment. For more than a year he'd been practicing in Fergus City, his stomping ground. Tailing people, learning disguise, crowd blending, conversation eavesdropping, detail noting, and record keeping; all these were facets of his private investigator correspondence course. They were at least as important as the lesson on Fee Setting and Billing, and they were definitely essential if he wanted his diploma.

The Swift Rapids trip was to be his surveillance practicum, the last piece of the surveillance lesson. Complete this, and all that stood between Broonzer and his PI diploma was the lesson on Lock Picking and Unobtrusive Entry, plus working one full case. The Fergus City welfare office was paying the freight for his course in the name of job readiness training. So far, they'd been paying fees for nearly six years, including a city PI license -- not much good without a diploma.

His correspondence instructor had designated Swift Rapids as the surveillance site, judging Swift Rapids more metropolitan than Fergus City because its airport had a paved runway and because trains made scheduled stops, albeit only twice a week. Broonzer knew this would be a real challenge, but he was up for it.

Broonzer's practicum was simple. Go to the airport and spend the day shadowing the first passenger he saw step off a plane for the duration of the day. Marks would be accorded on the basis of learning the subject's name, home address, occupation, purpose of visit, and names and addresses of all contacts with whom the subject interacted. Additional marks were awarded for outcome of subject's visit, meal selections, method of payment, and tipping habits. Detailed description of the subject was, of course, de rigeur. To be spotted was to fail, a guaranteed "E" and it wasn't for Effort, or an "F" if spotted before lunch. No second chances; very real life, which, of course, Broonzer knew and accepted, and what Broonzer also knew he was personally all about. Period.

Tailing was Broonzer's particular forte. This he knew as surely as he knew Tuesday afternoons were the best pickings at the Fergus City Chapel of Hope and Happiness Food Bank, provided you got there before two.

He'd cut his teeth tailing random passengers alighting from Fergus City's public transit. In his first days, when he was green, he'd been hassled a few times as a suspected mugger or unspecified pervert. He still carried a scar from an old lady's umbrella, but to him these were just learning experiences; they came with the territory. He was so good now at tailing that in Fergus City he could guess with astounding accuracy, by dress and demeanor, which bar and which drinks a subject preferred. To be sure, Broonzer had an edge; he knew most of the bars.

Instinct, expertise, and an unwavering eye to detail: those factors, Broonzer knew, would make even the complexity of a surveillance in big city Swift Rapids a walk on the prairie for the budding PI.

Broonzer was at the Swift Rapids airport by 8:40 a.m., a time he jotted into his spiral steno pad, the first entry in this new case file. He didn't have long to wait for a subject. The first plane in was a six-seater Cessna 210, a single engine job probably manufactured around 1975. Had it been a car, it would already have been compacted. Broonzer knew his airplanes -- part of his consummate tradecraft. The pilot, plus one passenger.

Broonzer could have taken the easy way out and followed the pilot, but he decided that the passenger's activities might give him more meat for his practicum report.

Before the passenger was across the tarmac to the quonset terminal building, Broonzer had noted the plane's registration number and distinguishing characteristics -- white, wings, engine, flaps, propeller, wheels; just the facts.

Quick as he could, invisible as a silken shadow on an overcast night, he slid unobtrusively into the quonset. His subject was bent at a counter filling out a form. The clerk, a young snot wearing a backward baseball cap, glanced up at Broonzer and scowled.

"You wanna kill yourself, do it outside. We don' allow smoking in here," he barked at Broonzer. The subject swung around, sunlight glinting from wire spectacles that must have been designed in the 1800's.

Broonzer cringed, marked already. He looked at the Marlboro in his hand, a prop because he didn't smoke. Coolly he opened the door and flicked away the offending butt. The subject turned back to his form; the clerk returned to watching the subject fill out the form.

"Jeez," thought Broonzer, "the guy looks as old as his glasses. He'd better stay out of the sun; any more shrivelling and he'll be jerky."

The subject handed the form to the clerk who officiously began reading it, squinting almost painfully, slowly moving his finger line to line and mouthing every word. Broonzer was no slouch at lip reading. Lesson Five: Lip Reading and Body Language Deciphering Made Easy.