Chapter 6–Monday, 8:15AM

Things were buzzing along when Herb walked through the doors at work, his leaves still wet from a run through the sprinkler. A box of donuts sat on Marge’s desk, untouched. That’s crazy! Herb thought, snapping up a jelly-filled as he strode by. You’ve got to have energy to think and work! Marge looked up, but said not one word.

He was midway through his second bite when Linda strode up to him with the reports from the previous night’s search. He knew what the reams of paper would reveal. Nothing. A waste of good trees!

He entered his office, dropped the stack on his Cheez Whiz-stained, cherry wood desk and snatched up the phone. He flipped on his lamp and fumbled for the one thing he’d come after, Miss VBI’s card. Retrieving it, he sat in his chair and punched in the numbers.

On the first ring, she picked up. “Hello,” the sound of her voice took his breath away. “Hello?”

“Uh, Monica. This is Herb,” he stammered. “I left your card here at the office or I would’ve called earlier. Have you seen GNN?”

“I’ve seen GNN, GNBC, GABC, GCBS and GFOX,” She was mad. Herb could tell it. “The picture’s every where,” she shouted. “What were you thinking?!”

“I didn’t leak the photo,” he snapped back.

“Then, who?” she retorted.

“Somebody at the station,” he ventured. “Or one of your guys.”

“Wait a minute!” she cautioned. “You’re saying a VBI agent sworn to secrecy on this matter...”

“I’m not accusing anyone!” Herb interrupted. “I’m just saying it had to be someone from here or there. The only other possibility is the photographer who sent you the crazy thing. Now, listen. Our fine mayor called me this morning. Got me out of bed. He wants to hold a press conference this afternoon at 1:00. He demanded my presence and he wants you there too. He wants...”

“What! Where?” she screamed. “Does he have my number?”

“No,” Herb said, trying to keep himself under control. “I haven’t given your number. The press deal is at the courthouse. He likes to hold conferences there because it makes him look tough on crime. He likes to have someone else at them when the public is angry so he can point fingers. He’ll make us look stupid then go on to win the next election using his heroics as a crime fighter to endear himself to the masses.”

“What do you mean, ‘make us look stupid’?” Stewinsky countered loudly. “You are not going to give him my number! I am not going to be there!”

“A solo hanging, huh?” Herb sighed.

“Listen,” she said, her voice softening just a bit. “It’s not that I don’t feel for you. It’s just that we can’t blow our cover. We were monitoring cell phone calls last night while your guys were stirring up trash heaps. We think we’ve got a lead. We’re still tracing the call’s point of origin, but we heard someone say clearly, ‘They’re on to us. Lay low.’ The guy on the other end wasn’t having any of it. He insisted they go ahead ‘as planned.’ If word gets out the VBI is anywhere near, cell phone chatter could cease.”

“And you think it was our ‘moonlight stalkers’?” Herb quipped. “Since when do monsters carry cell phones?”

“Since the late 90s for your information,” Monica snapped, an edge returning to her voice. “We’ve caught hundreds of idiots tapping wireless calls. It’s, oh, so easy. They talk. We record. We find them and some federal stalk holder gets another guest. And for the record,” she paused for effect, “they’re not monsters, at least not officially. They’re celery gone to seed.”

“We’ll see Miss Stalkton-does-it-right-and-Garden-City-does-it-wrong.” Herb was furious and he did nothing to hide it. “You can trace your cell phone calls. I’m stalking the stalkers, the monsters, the celery gone to seed, whatever the juice you called them. Call me when you have something real to tell me.”

Herb slammed the handset down with enough force that his “in out” trays fell off the back of his desk, spilling forms and folders on the laminate floor. That made him madder. He grabbed the phone, picked it up and slammed it on the cradle again.

“Women,” he muttered. “Always right.”