More Twisted

the thought that been buzzing around Carnegie’s consciousness settled. “Billy, are you still taking French?”
    His son blinked. “Yeah, you signed my report card, don’t you remember?”
    “Who’s your teacher?”
    “Mrs. Vandell.”
    “Is she at school now?”
    “I guess. Yeah, probably. Why?”
    “I need her to help me with a conference call. You go on home now. Tell your mother I’ll be at the meeting as soon as I can.”
    Carnegie left the boy standing in the middle of the hallway and jogged to his office, so excited about the brainstorm of using the French teacher to help him translate that he nearly collided with a workman hunched over one of the potted plants in the corridor, trimming leaves.
    “Sorry,” he called and hurried into his office. He phoned Billy’s French teacher and—when he told her how important the case was—she reluctantly agreed to help himtranslate. The conference call went off as scheduled and the woman’s translation efforts were a huge help; without his brainstorm to use the woman he couldn’t have communicated with the two officers at all. Still, the investigators in France reported that they’d found no impropriety in Muller’s investments or financial dealings. He paid taxes and had never run into any trouble with the gendarmes.
    Carnegie asked if they had tapped his phone and were monitoring his online and banking activities.
    There was a pause and then one of the officers responded. Billy’s French teacher translated, “They say, ‘We are not so high tech as you. We prefer to catch criminals the old-fashioned way.’ ” They did agree to alert their customs agents to check Muller’s luggage carefully the next time he was in the country.
    Carnegie thanked the two men and the teacher then hung up
    We prefer to catch criminals the old-fashioned way.  . . .
    Which is why we’ll get him and you won’t, thought the detective as he spun around in his chair and began staring intently at Big Brother’s computer monitor once again.

    Jake Muller stepped out of the department store in downtown Annandale, following the young man he’d noticed in the jewelry department.
    The boy kept his head down and walked quickly away from the store.
    When they were passing an alleyway Muller suddenly jogged forward, grabbed the skinny kid by the arm and pulled him into the shadows.
    “Jesus,” he whispered in shock.
    Muller pinned him up against the wall. “Don’t think about running.” A glance toward the boy’s pockets. “And don’t think about anything else.”
    “I don’t—” the boy said with a quivering voice, “I don’t have a gun or anything.”
    “What’s your name?”
    “I—”
    “Name?” Muller barked.
    “Sam. Sam Phillips. Like, whatta you want?”
    “Give me the watch.”
    The boy sighed and rolled his eyes.
    “Give it to me. You don’t want me to have to take it off you.” Muller outweighed the boy by fifty pounds.
    The kid reached into his pocket and handed him the Seiko that Muller had seen him lift off the counter at the store. Muller took it.
    “Who’re you? Security? A cop?”
    Muller eyed him carefully and then pocketed the watch. “You were clumsy. If the guard hadn’t been taking a leak he would’ve caught you.”
    “What guard?”
    “That’s my point. The little guy in the ratty jacket and dirty jeans.”
    “He was a security guard?”
    “Yeah.”
    “How’d you spot him?”
    Muller said grimly, “Let’s say I’ve had my share of run-ins with guys like that.”
    The boy looked up for a moment, examined Muller then resumed his study of the asphalt in the alley. “How’d you spot me ?”
    “Wasn’t hard. You were skulking around the store like you’d already been busted.”
    “You gonna shake me down or something?”
    Muller looked up and down the street cautiously. Then he said, “I need somebody to help me with this thing I’ve got going tomorrow.”
    “Why me?” the boy asked.
    “There’re some people who’d like to set me up.”
    “Cops?”
    “Just . . . some people.” Muller nodded at the watch. “But since I spotted you boost that, I know you’re not working for anybody.”
    “Whatta I have to do?”
    “It’s easy. I need a driver. A half hour’s work.”
    Part scared, part excited. “Like, how much?”
    “I’ll pay you five hundred.”
    Another examination of the scenery. “For a half hour?”
    Muller nodded.
    “Damn. Five hundred?”
    “That’s right.”
    “What’re we