“Don’t worry about it,” Bob said. “Just put that thing away — quick! Here comes the guard.”
Jupe stuffed the decoder in his shirt and the three of them tried to look casual as the security guard approached the front desk. Before he got there, Bob reached up and rang the night bell.
The guard opened the door only a crack, eyeing them up and down. “What can I do for you?” he asked cautiously.
Jupe was determined to make up for his failure with the lock decoder.
“Three Guys in Black T-Shirts Messenger Service,” Jupe said. “We’re supposed to pick up something in Mr. Dellasandro’s office. He said it was a matter of life and death.”
“It takes three guys to pick up a package?” asked the guard suspiciously.
“Well, I’ve got the job,” Jupe said.
“But I own the car,” added Bob.
“And I have a road map,” said Pete.
“I thought the Three Stooges were dead,” muttered the guard. He opened the door and let them in. “Get your package and get out of here.” He motioned impatiently toward a hall.
The Three Investigators followed the guard’s directions, taking the carpeted hallway to the left, which led to offices, rather than the concrete hallway to the right.
At the end of the hallway they came to a large walnut door marked executive suite.
Don Dellasandro’s office was spacious, with ceiling-to-floor windows on two sides. It smelled of fresh-cut flowers, even though there wasn’t a single bloom in the room. The central feature of the room was a large rosewood desk with a built-in telephone and computer. There was also Nautilus exercise equipment in one corner. All over the walls were mementos and awards from Dellasandro’s past flavoring achievements. Labels from candy bars, salad dressings, babies’ rubber pacifiers, frozen mixed eggplant and zucchini, and more were framed and displayed.
The awards didn’t impress Jupiter, but the thoroughness of Don Dellasandro’s filing system did.
“What are we looking for?” Pete asked, going through Dellasandro’s king-size executive desk.
“A jar of Multisorbitane would be helpful,” Jupe said, opening another file cabinet. “But I’ll settle for any evidence that Don Dellasandro has tampered with the ingredients of Drippin’ Chicken.” Jupe’s fingers flipped through one file folder after another.
“He has a computer terminal in his executive washroom,” Bob said from the bathroom, trying a splash of one of Dellasandro’s expensive men’s colognes. He reappeared in the room. “Does it make me smell like a million?”
“A million what?” Pete asked.
“Brominated pseudo phosphates!” Jupe exclaimed.
“Watch your language, Jupe,” Bob said. “Pete’s at an impressionable age.”
“Brominated pseudo phosphates is one of the ingredients in Drippin’ Chicken,” Jupe said. “At least, according to the recipe Juliet got for us.”
“It sounds more like something Pete put in my car engine last week,” Bob said.
Jupe slammed the file cabinet closed. “But I have just gone through two years’ worth of purchase orders, invoices, and inventory lists. There’s no evidence that Miracle Tastes has purchased or manufactured any of that ingredient! We’ve got to get into the warehouse immediately.”
They ran back down the carpeted hall and found the same security guard, dozing at the front desk. He woke up with a start. “Get your package?” he asked.
Pete and Bob looked to Jupe to supply an answer.
“No,” Jupe said. “He said it would be right here in the warehouse office, but it wasn’t.”
“Warehouse office?” sputtered the guard. “That isn’t the warehouse! Does this look like a warehouse? Don’t any of you boys have any common sense?”
“The fourth guy has common sense,” Bob said. “But he didn’t want to come tonight.”
“Go down that concrete hallway. Walk through three red doors. That’s the warehouse,” said the guard. “Do you know what a door looks like?”
“He does,” Pete said, pointing to Jupe.
Down the hall, through three red doors, the Investigators found themselves catching their breath in a cavernous room filled with pyramids of sealed drums full of chemicals.
“Spread out and check every label,” Jupe said.
“What time is it?” Bob called.
“Almost seven.”
“Don’t forget the press party starts at nine,” Bob reminded them. “We’ve got to hurry.”
Pete and Bob wandered separately up and down the aisles, surrounded by drums of powdered acids.
“Hey, guys, over here!” Bob suddenly called.
Pete and Jupe worked their way through the maze of barrels to reach Bob. Their shoes squeaked on the clean, painted concrete floor. They found Bob standing in front of a stack of barrels. Each one was marked in big letters — BROMINATED PSEUDO PHOSPHATES.
“Here’s what you’re looking for, Jupe,” Bob said. “But what does it prove?”
Jupiter examined the barrels carefully. “Look at the received dates on the barrels,” Jupe said.
“They came in a couple of months ago,” Pete said.
“How could they?” asked Jupe. “I just went through his invoices. They clearly indicate that in the last two years he hasn’t ordered or stocked a single pound, a single ounce of brominated pseudo phosphates. Let’s get a sample out of these drums. I’d like to know what’s really in them.”
“Bottom line? I think you can guess the answer to that question,” said a voice behind them.
The Investigators whirled around. Don Dellasandro stood behind them. “I was hoping we wouldn’t have to interface like this,” he said. “I was hoping that you’d drop the ball on this investigation, but instead you’re impacting on me — negatively.”
The guys froze in fear.
“I’m sorry,” Don Dellasandro said, drawing a gun from his pocket. He aimed the gun at the Investigators, at about heart level. “You guys are expendable. I’ve got to waste you.”
15
A Taste of Fear
Holding his gun on the detectives, Don Dellasandro quickly looked at his watch. “Okay, there’s a little time before Big Barney’s party at the Beverly Hilton.” He reached into his other jacket pocket.
What now? thought Jupe.
Slowly Dellasandro pulled his hand out of his jacket, but he kept the hand closed. “We can network for a few minutes,” he said. “Want to do some market research before you go belly up?”
“What do you mean?” asked Jupe, staring hard at Dellasandro’s fist.
He opened his hand. He had more wrapped candies. “Try one,” he said.
“It’s poison, Jupe,” Pete warned.
“Would I poison someone with taste buds like his? It’s a shame I have to kill you, pal.”
Jupe looked at Dellasandro, then at the gun, then at the candy, then at the clock on the wall. What good would it do to stall? The police weren’t on their way. No one was coming to rescue them.
“I’d really value your input,” Dellasandro said. “Unless you’re in a big hurry to die. Tell me what you taste. Are my flavors on target?”
“Okay,” Jupe said reluctantly. “I’ll try it. But it’s going to cost you.”
“Everything has a price,” Dellasandro said. “I used to think being a scientist was a noble profession. But without marketing skills it’s just bottle pouring or germ breeding. Today if you can’t tune into your channels, what good are you?”
“You can always get hooked up to cable,” Bob said.
“Watch it!” Dellasandro said, suddenly wheeling toward Bob in anger. “I hate people who treat business like a joke! You’re lucky your friend here is such a genius in the taste bud department, or you’d already be dead meat.” He took two deep breaths to calm himself down and then added, “Dead meat is one of my best flavors, by the way.”
Jupe held very still, as it dawned on him that Dellasandro was more than a little unhinged. Maybe he’d ingested too much Multisorbitane over the years.