Vince was barely outside Stewart's door when two special agents approached him. They flashed their FBI badges in his face and led him to an office down the hall.
“Round 2” Vince muttered under his breath.
Seven miles away, FBI made a return trip to Vince's home knowing he would be tied up for at least another hour at headquarters. Carla's cell phone was never found and they were certain Vince hid it in his house. They checked the house thoroughly and then checked every conceivable hiding place in the Mustang. Vince's car was no where to be seen and they soon learned he had not picked it up from the shop when he drove Mitch's car to his daughter's house.
The owner of the repair shop was peeved about the car left at his garage and asked Harry Dean if he intended to come and get it.
“We might just do that Mr. Lansing,” Dean replied, “we'll be in touch.”
“What's her number? Call her phone,” Greg Boyle growled at Dean.
“Yes sir, we have the number, but Parelli probably removed the sim card.”
“Dial the number!” Doyle said through clenched teeth. He hated it when his orders were questioned, and this underling was too green for his taste. This neophyte had a lot to learn, but he wasn't the one to teach him.
As Dean was dialing the cell, the sound of squealing wheels roared away from the curb. The men drew their weapons and ran to the front lawn in time to see a blue cargo van speeding down the street. In the kitchen the sound of a muffled ringing was heard by no one.
The men holstered their weapons, alerted the police, made a couple more calls and returned inside. They settled in the front room.
Rubbing the back of his neck, Boyle remarked. “OK what do we have here? No cell phone but all signs say she wasn't on drugs. Did you check the water tank back of the commode?”
“Yes sir,” Dean replied, “the bathroom was clean. I also checked the laundry room and attic. The attic was full of dust and hasn't been visited in a few months by the looks of it, but I checked it.”
Doyle sat down on the sofa to think. “How about the canisters in the kitchen? Sugar, flour, and coffee?
“I poured them out on the counter the first time we were here,” Dean answered.
“Do it again.” Boyle barked, “Parelli was a cop, he knew we were here last week by the mess left on the counter. He won't expect us to check it again and anyway, just check it again.” His collar suddenly felt tight, and he loosened his tie. OK, he said again, what do we have? “If he has her cell on him, the boys at CPD will relieve him of it when they confiscate his. But it's here somewhere in this house. I can smell it.”
“What if he did take out the sim card?...” Dean said spreading his arms in a half shrug.
“Parelli is a retired cop,” Boyle said, “not a technical guru. He probably wouldn't know about it or if he knows he wouldn't think of it, but we still need the phone to be sure.” he said beating his fist on the table. If we don't find it, we have nothing to go on with Carla's computer and emails. They were squeaky clean, including the emails from Afghanistan. Our only other lead, is that blue cargo van that keeps showing up at the most inopportune times. At least we have a partial plate number.”
Boyle's phone rang, a voice at the other end told him that Vince Parrelli just left CPD. That gave them about three quarters of an hour to finish up and plant the listening devices and cameras. This time when they finished emptying the kitchen canisters, they left them toppled on the kitchen counter with contents spilled on the floor.
It was important for Vince Parrelli to know the FBI were investigating him. They wanted him to feel the pressure of the being accused and watched. The guys downtown did their part to make him feel like a scumbag. No doubt he'd find most of the bugs they planted, but if he slipped up in any other way, they would be their first to know and they wanted him to know it.
As they were leaving, Dean threw a copy of the search warrant on the coffee table.
Vince left the CPD at 11:35 AM. He refused a ride home saying he needed to run errands before taking the bus home. He walked for a few blocks until he located a mobile phone center. After buying a basic cell phone and activating it under the pseudonym Jack Kraft, he bought a prepaid phone card, and walked to a small pub in a neighborhood he knew well. It was his old beat.
He sat at a table by the window instead of his usual seat at the counter. Glen was glad to see him and waited on him personally, offering condolences for the loss of his daughter. Vince thanked him and stared at the menu asking in a quiet voice, “Jimmy the Rat been around?”
Glen motioned toward the door using his eyes. There they were, Camden's finest seated near the door and looking at menus while pretending not to look at Vince. Glen spoke up loudly, “We make the finest corned beef on rye in the city or have our special Italian sub on a bread of your choice.”
Vince ordered the corned beef and a glass of beer. He was hungry and ate quickly. As soon as he finished, he asked for the bill, and Glen pulled his customer check pad out and wrote the last known address of Jim Bardini aka Jimmy the Rat. Throwing a $10 on the table, Vince walked past the table where the plains clothes officers were seated. “Afternoon gentlemen,” he said as he exited the pub.
It was 1:30 PM when he went to pick up his car from the garage on Broadway. His old midnight blue Impala was waiting for him in the lot behind a chained gate. With a disgusted look on his face, he paid the young man the money he owed for "storing" the car and headed toward Philadelphia. It was a short trip but he hoped he would find Jimmy there just the same.
The trip was aborted when he spotted an unmarked car following behind as he was crossing the Benjamin Franklin Bridge.
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