Vicki was pretty sure she knew why the crew was assembled here. She remembered Mr. Curtin saying: “The Tampa police have called in the FBI.” But she saw no point in mentioning this. Maybe, for all she knew, the FBI was keeping the whole thing a deep, dark secret while they worked behind the scenes.
So she simply said, “If I have my choice between South American dictators and movie stars, I vote for movie stars.”
At that moment the door to the manager’s office opened to reveal Captain March’s frowning face.
“Will you come in, please.”
The three filed in through the door.
Aside from Captain March, the only other person in the room was a short, heavy-built man in a tan gabardine suit. His crew-cut hair was salty black and he had a tired look about his eyes.
“Sit down, sit down,” he said briskly but courteously. “This shouldn’t take more than a few minutes.”
Slowly, intently, his eyes went from one member of the crew to the other. Then he straightened his shoulders, rested his hands on the sides of the desk behind which he was sitting, and leaned slightly forward.
“My name’s Quayle. John Quayle. Special Investigator, Federal Bureau of Investigation.”
Well, she’d been right, Vicki thought. She stole a sidelong glance at Cathy and Johnny. Both were openmouthed with surprise.