The Lovely Chocolate Mob - By Richard J. Bennett Page 0,81

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