Betsy stepped from the shower, all pink as a posy and wearing only a smile. I was half-dressed. I reversed the process. We were late for work but in a great mood when we finally arrived. I telephoned Brennan.
Brennan confirmed the FBI was approached and questioned about the preponderance of credible tips. The bureau responded, from the top, that all tips were welcomed and followed up, regardless of source. Yes, they admitted it appeared a large volume of tips bore mutual similarities. Yes, the tips proved accurate an unusual number of times. But sorry, they were as in the dark as the man on the street as to source or circumstance. However, not knowing did not diminish their appreciation of receiving them!
"You're name isn't Mr. Youngblood, is it?" Brennan asked when there was a break in our conversation. I could almost hear the smile in his voice. "I was wondering if you jumped out of a California closet."
I laughed. "I read about the guy. He's a pretender, pure and simple. Are your people checking him out?"
"I suppose so. We have jurisdiction on kidnappings. I heard there was a reward posted by a bank. The boy was the son of a dirt-poor single mother. Not your usual kidnap victim. Are you jealous this Youngblood guy is stealing your thunder?"
"No way! We're happy to see the attention directed elsewhere."
Econ Scrutiny, Inc., our ersatz employer, proved to be rather interesting. Our office received thousands of Internet generated reports from around the world, listing a myriad of up to date economic data. We were presented corn production figures from Columbia or hafnium levels from New South Wales. Where was platinum, palladium, scandium, coal or peanuts slacking off? The figures ran through our operation like a train past a no-stop station.
Our company was supposed to correlate this information and feed it on to a west coast company that would condense and analyze the reports. Ultimately, somewhere, economic projections resulted. In truth, the raw information funneled to us was transmitted as received after passing through our office. While we were free to play with it, nothing was required of us. Still, we sometimes found ourselves perusing a report out of pure curiosity.
"Better stock up on Merlot," Martha said on a slow morning. "It was a poor harvest."
"Check Argentina, they're growing a great crop below the equator," Quinn answered.
Hundreds of printed reports covered our premises like a winter blizzard making us look as busy as a toy store at Christmas. Any of our infrequent visitors or friends asking about the operation quickly developed a bleary look when we tried to explain what we did for a living. Quinn was great at this given his past incomprehensible endeavors. Our activities certainly looked demanding and our positions important.