David Sinclair, warrant in hand and back up agents behind him, walked up to the condo. It was located in one of the nicer neighborhoods in L.A. The car outside in front of the garage was a high end Beamer. The small lawn in front had the well-manicured look of a place with some expensive grounds-keeping. It fit. David rang the door bell.

A butler—so help him, it was really a butler!—answered. "May I help you?"

David flourished his badge. "Sinclair, FBI. I'm here to see Walter Raritan."

"I'll see if Mr. Raritan is available." The butler turned away.

David stopped the door from closing. "He's available, and I'm here to take him into custody." He walked into the house, his back up on his tail, not taking no for an answer. A crooked smile lifted one corner of his mouth. "And I'd start updating my resume, if I were you."

Xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

Megan Reeves knocked on the door. It was a lovely place, a mansion with memories of the Thirties embedded in it. Three stories at least, she decided, and that was before considering if the place had a basement. Megan had already seen the guest house in back and figured that the guest house alone was bigger than Megan's own apartment. Graciousness was the key word for this place, and Megan almost regretted having to make this call. Even the rose bushes out front seemed to chide her for being so uncouth as to come to arrest the occupant of this elegant home.

An old woman answered the door. "I'm sorry, dear. We've already ordered our Girl Scout cookies for this year."

"That's all right. I'm not selling any."

"Well, whatever you're selling, we're not interested at the moment. Perhaps you could come back another time." The woman tried to close the door.

Megan stuck her foot over the door sill, preventing it from closing. "I'm looking for Agatha Terwilliger. Are you she?"

"No, I'm not. She's out at the moment."

"When will she be back?"

"I'm not sure. She didn't say."

"I see." Little warning flags, running up and down her spine. Behind her she could sense her back up with the same unease. "I'll come in and wait."

"I'm afraid that won't be possible—"

"I'm afraid you don't have any choice." Megan hardened her voice and flashed the warrant. "Do you, Mrs. Terwilliger?"

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

Okay, the place looked like a fortress.

Not really, Colby realized, but yes, really. That stone wall surrounding the place was composed of chiseled stones six feet high and at least a foot thick. And it looked like there was some barbed wire lying on top of it to discourage anyone from climbing over. That was okay; Colby didn't intend to climb over. He intended to and already had gone through the front gate, past the two Dobermans that were even now eying him and his back up with a look that said just give the word and we'll rip these two FBI dudes into leather chew toys. Colby's gun was itching in his holster, two bullets with two Dobermans' names on them. Fortunately for all concerned, the chains that kept the Dobies in place were made of thick steel.

The house itself was modern, had been remodeled and remodeled again in the not so distant past. It was daylight, so the flood lights weren't needed, and the warrant got Colby past the three different locks on the front door. An ultra up to date alarm system flashed a warning light that unwanted intruders would be subjected to sirens, arrests, and any other burglar-proofing devices that Gretchen Vanderhoecken could dream up. The lady in question had opened the door herself, regarding Colby with suspicion, her gray hair in curlers and leaning on a cane. Colby could see a little gray basket hanging on the front of a walker beside the door with a phone, a hair dryer, and a small bag of dog treats in it. Mrs. Vanderhoecken's eyebrows furrowed with annoyance, and Colby could well imagine her back in the Old Country, keeping invading soldiers from her home by sheer force of will. He could feel his back up's attention wander nervously toward the dogs. He wouldn't put it past her to tell the animals to attack.

Colby flashed his badge. "Agent Granger, FBI. Mrs. Vanderhoecken, you'll need to come with us."

Colby was wrong. It wasn't the dogs that were the bigger threat. It was Mrs. Vanderhoecken herself.

She hit him with the cane.

It hurt.

Colby added assault to the list of charges.

Xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

"We got 'em," Don reported.

Charlie was finally home, propped up on the sofa with plenty of pillows and plenty of pill bottles on the side table next to him. His color was better, Don noted, and the black eye had faded to a deep purple with green not far behind. Some of the bandages had been removed.

"All three?" Charlie looked up with interest.

"All three, exactly who you said, including that little old lady. Feistiest one of the bunch," Don added. "She hit Colby with her cane. He added assault to her charges. And Colby's got a black eye to rival yours, now," he added gleefully. "You should see it."

"And—?"

"And, yes, you were right. We have some financial types working on the leads that you gave them, scanning through the pipelines that you identified. At least one CPA, last I saw, was in tears at how beautiful a scheme it was. I think she was jealous that she hadn't thought it up first." Don thought about that for a moment. "I think I'm going to have to have her boss keep an eye on her. That's a lot of money to be tempted with."

"You think your CPA will try and imitate the Black Bart trio?"

"Imitation is the sincerest form of flattery, buddy."

Charlie altered the subject slightly. "And the leaks? Who told them that Jessica Morton was going to raid that Up the Creek place?"

"It was Judge Berenstein's stenographer," Don said, sobering. He relaxed into the comfort of the easy chair. "She won't even get a slap on the wrist from the courts, although she will lose her job. It was all intimidation. They threatened her life. But the interesting one was Johnny Dease, formerly of the LAPD. One of the officers guarding you at the hospital."

Charlie lifted his eyebrows. There was a small tremor of one hand, underneath the covers.

Don pretended not to notice. "Dease was one of the people who went after Morton, Charlie. Remember? In the parking lot outside the Math Building? Shot up the place?"

"I remember." Charlie really didn't, but wasn't about to admit it.

"That was before you ever came up with the next level of sub-units of the Black Bart operation. They were after Morton because they thought she was a threat to them."

"She was," Charlie observed. "And so were you, Don. You got shot." He shifted uncomfortably on the sofa. "How is it feeling?"

Don waved it off, careful not to disturb his own arm. He could use it, but he remembered the docs digging into his arm every time he reached for something. No benefit in letting Charlie know that. My brother feels guilty enough as it is, and he didn't even do anything. "Yeah, but you were even more of a threat, buddy. They figured that out next, got orders to stop you in your tracks. So when Morton got you into her car, they decided on a two for one sale." Don tried not to shudder himself at how close it had been. "We're lucky that Morton was a good driver. Aced the Quantico course. You both would be dead if she hadn't been." His arm stabbed at him again, just for spite. "Forensics ran the scenarios. By rights, the car should have crushed you both. They figure that Morton managed to fishtail the Miata just right so that it touched the ground on the sides of the car as it rolled instead of coming down squarely on the top." He took a deep breath. "We had our differences, Charlie, but Morton was a good agent at the end. She saved your life."

Charlie wasn't made of the same stern stuff as his brother. He did pale at the thought; a cold shiver ran up and down his spine despite the throw tossed over his legs. He changed the subject, unwilling to explore the circumstances of Morton's death and his own survival any further. "And the LAPD officer? What was his name? Dease?"

"Heavy duty leaks. He confessed the whole thing; was having money deposited into an off-shore account. Another year or two of this, and he would have retired a rich man. He fingered Morton, and then he fingered you, buddy. Even more: he got himself assigned to your guard duty at the hospital, when one of the trio told him to. That's what tipped the scales; leaking info was one thing, but murder was another. The trio didn't trust him, so they sent back up. The back up, one of Blackburn's men, took out Dease's usual partner—we found him with a headache in the men's room one floor down—and took his place as the second cop. When they heard that I was coming in with your laptop, they knew they had to act fast. The whole Black Bart scheme was about to be revealed. The entire organization was going to crash."

Charlie swallowed hard. "I owe you my life, Don. They almost killed me. I owe you a big one."

"Let's just call it even," Don told him. "We were lucky that I arrived just at the right moment. To be honest, if I hadn't been so fixated on a tug of war with Morton over you, this never would have happened. We could have worked together; shared leads. She wouldn't have pursued you like a bat out of hell and I wouldn't have used you to feed her leads that I could snare her with. She wouldn't have kidnapped you, you wouldn't have gotten into her car, and Dease wouldn't have pushed the two of you off of the road." He grinned. "Let's call it even." He handed over another slice of pizza to emphasize the point. It was the healthy kind of pizza, to Don's way of thinking. It didn't have extra cheese, and it did have veggies. That made it healthy. Healthier, at least. Good for convalescing.

"You mean that? We're even?" Charlie lay back against the sofa, wrung out but eyes still bright and alive in his head. He accepted the slice, took a small nibble out of it, and set it down, too tired to snack but still wanting to bond.

"Yeah, buddy, I do." Don was pretty proud of his brother at the moment. The Eppes brothers had pulled off a big one. They'd done it together. And they'd come out on top. Battered and bruised and dented, but on top. "Even."

"Not quite, Don."

Don paused. "Charlie?"

His brother developed an evil glint in his eye. "Did you forget about the back shed?"