Chapter 209: The Stolen Declaration of Independence
Yes, Ron's final birthday present for Phil was a Glock 19, a reliable self-defense pistol, but it certainly scared the hell out of Phil.
A former male cheerleader and real estate agent's fear of guns was understandable, but Ron still couldn't figure out what Claire saw in him.
Caroline still refused to sell the cupcake shop, but Ron was too swamped to deal with that situation, leaving it to her and Max to sort out, as he had a new assignment: Washington, D.C.
"I don't get it. According to you, when the Declaration of Independence is on display, it's surrounded by armed security and surveillance cameras. Beneath that inch-thick bulletproof glass are dozens of motion sensors and thermal imaging cameras that trigger alarms if anyone gets within ten feet."
"When it's not on display, it's lowered into a four-foot-thick, reinforced concrete and steel vault equipped with electronic combination locks and biometric access controls."
Ron paused, taking a sip of his coffee. "Under such tight security, how absolutely incompetent are you people to let something this priceless just disappear?! Do you have any idea what kind of shitstorm this is going to create?"
As Ron spoke, his emphasis on certain words caused spit to fly into the face of the FBI agent in front of him. However, the agent made no effort to wipe it away, just sat there taking Ron's verbal assault while hanging his head in shame.
There was nothing else they could do. They had royally screwed the pooch on this one.
Everyone knows that America has a relatively short history compared to other nations—just over 200 years. In those brief two centuries, finding something to represent the nation's founding principles is no easy task.
The Declaration of Independence perfectly embodies the spiritual foundation of this country, the very essence of American democracy and freedom.
Unfortunately, it's one of the few physical documents that represents the American spirit, and now the original has vanished, right under their noses.
No wonder the current president was absolutely livid, ordering every available elite agent to drop everything and focus on this investigation.
Then again, truly elite agents are usually swamped with work; they wouldn't be sitting around doing nothing, unless someone had been slacking off.
"Actually, this hasn't gone public yet," the museum security chief said, trying to save face. "We immediately switched in the replica as if it were the original, and none of the visitors at yesterday's gala knew anything had happened."
"Really? You think you handled this brilliantly, don't you? Genius move!" Ron stormed up to her and shouted in her face. The officer, like a kid who'd been caught red-handed, was so humiliated she could barely breathe.
"Look up! All of you, look up! If keeping your heads down could magically make the Declaration reappear, then by all means, stay down there!"
Ron was furious: "Where's the surveillance footage? I want to see every damn frame! Are there any eyewitnesses? Any other evidence whatsoever?"
"Our main surveillance system was compromised," the supervisor continued quickly when he saw Ron's expression darkening, "but we managed to recover some footage—just enough to get a clear shot of the suspect's face.
There was a security guard on duty, but he was knocked unconscious and doesn't remember squat. Also, we found some shell casings and they're being processed for ballistics."
"Shell casings?" Ron's professional instincts kicked in as he zeroed in on that detail. "There was a shootout here? How many casualties did you have?"
"Actually, aside from the security guard getting knocked out, nobody was hurt. That's what's got us really confused."
Ron buried his face in his hands. He was absolutely done with this bunch of clueless morons. For the first time, he understood Sherlock Holmes' frustration with ordinary people's stupidity.
"Don't you get it? There were two different groups trying to steal the Declaration! They got into a firefight over it. One group must have shot at the other! Jesus Christ! I seriously wonder how any of you managed to get into positions of responsibility?"
"His dad's on the board of directors at JPMorgan Chase," a staff member behind Ron whispered.
Damn nepotistic corporate cronies should be strung up from the nearest lamppost! Ron barely managed to keep from cursing out loud.
"Alright, do you have any other relevant information? Spill it all right now, so I don't have to drag every detail out of you one by one."
"Uh... about a week ago, we started receiving anonymous tips that someone was planning to steal the original Declaration of Independence." The supervisor hesitated, then perhaps emboldened by his Wall Street connections, finally spoke up.
"So you knew about a potential theft a week in advance, and you didn't beef up security?" Ron felt his blood pressure spiking again.
The supervisor continued making excuses: "I figured it was just some prank caller. You know how it is—bored people pull these kinds of hoax calls all the time. Who the hell would want to steal some old piece of parchment with the Declaration written on it?"
"Anyone who wants to humiliate America on the world stage?"
If nothing else, Ron was certain that terrorist cells hiding in caves from Pakistan to Syria would kill for the chance to get their hands on it and post videos of themselves using it as toilet paper.
This wasn't just the Declaration of Independence.
No! This was America's reputation! This was definitely no minor incident.
"This is our prime suspect," a nearby technician quickly pulled up the surveillance footage, trying to defuse the tension. "Dr. Chase introduced him as Mr. Brown, but he wasn't on our guest list."
"A cashier at the gift shop saw him and said he looked panicked and tried to walk out with a replica of the Declaration without paying."
"So you're still hawking copies of the Declaration of Independence in your gift shop, are you?" Ron's jaw was clenched with rage. "Tell me, which brilliant mind came up with that marketing strategy?"
All the staff members turned their pitying gazes toward the supervisor who'd been getting chewed out by Ron.
"He paid with a credit card, and the transaction went through to a Benjamin Franklin Gates." The quick-thinking technician threw the supervisor a lifeline and pulled up the complete surveillance footage, showing a crystal-clear facial shot. Ron saw a face that was both very familiar and completely surprising.
Ron scratched his head in disbelief. "What did you say this guy's name was?"
"Benjamin Franklin Gates, sir."
"You're absolutely certain that's his name? Is this a legitimate identity? Does this person have any history of international travel or foreign connections?" Ron felt a growing sense of unease.
Another familiar "celebrity face," which meant, if his pattern recognition was correct, he was probably mixed up in some seriously complicated mess.
After checking their databases, the staff replied, "No sir, this is a natural-born American citizen."
(End of chapter)
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