Lila looked from him to Margaret. She recognized the hungry hope in Margaret’s eyes. Knowing she was about to disappoint her, she answered directly to Carlson. “As I told Mrs. Frawley that night, I had just sold some outfits to a woman who wanted them for her three-year-old twins, but she said she didn’t know what size to buy. After the kidnapping, I looked up her name, but then, as my mother just said, Jim, who is a retired detective here in Danbury, didn’t think it was worth reporting.” She looked at Margaret. “This morning, when I heard that you had come to the store looking for me yesterday, I decided I would go talk to that woman on my lunch hour.”
“You know where she is?” Margaret asked, gasping.
The manager of the store told us Lila said she had been on a fool’s errand, Carlson remembered grimly.
“Her name is Angie. She lives with the caretaker of the country club in a cottage on the club grounds. I made up a story to tell her—I said that two of the polo shirts I sold her were damaged. But the caretaker told me what happened. Angie babysits and was hired to drive to Wisconsin with a mother and her two children. He told me they’re not really twins, just close in age. The mother was on her way to pick up Angie when she realized she had forgotten one of the suitcases and phoned ahead to have Angie run out and buy some of the things they’d need. That’s why she wasn’t that sure of the size, you see.”
Margaret had been standing. Her knees suddenly weak, she sank down onto the chair opposite the couch. A dead end, she thought. Our only chance. She closed her eyes, and, for the first time, began to give up hope that she was going to find Kathy before it was too late.
Walter Carlson, however, was not yet satisfied. “Was there any indication that children had been staying in that house, Ms. Jackson?” he asked.
Lila shook her head. “It’s a really small place; living room, dining area to the left that’s separated from the kitchen by a divider. The door to the bedroom was open. I’m sure that Clint guy was alone there. I got the impression that the woman Angie was babysitting for had picked her up and kept going.”
“Did this guy Clint seem nervous to you in any way?” Carlson asked.
“Jim Gilbert knows the caretaker and his girlfriend,” Lila’s mother chimed in. “That’s why he said to forget it.”
This is useless, Margaret thought. Useless and hopeless. She felt the tension in her body being replaced by a dull ache. I want to go home, she thought. I want to be with Kelly.
Lila then answered Carlson’s question. “No, I wouldn’t say that Clint, or whatever his name is, was nervous exactly. I mean, he was sweating a lot, but I assumed that he was the kind of heavyset guy who naturally sweats a lot.” An expression of distaste came over her face. “His girlfriend should treat him to a case of deodorant. He stank like a locker room.”
Margaret stared at her. “What did you say?”
Lila looked uncomfortable. “Mrs. Frawley, I’m sorry. I don’t mean to sound flippant. I only wish to God I could have helped you.”
“You did!” Margaret cried, her face suddenly alive. “You did!” She jumped up from the chair, turned to Carlson and saw at once that he, too, had recognized the importance of Lila’s offhand remark.
The only impression Trish Logan, the babysitter, had of the man who had grabbed her was that he was heavyset and stank of perspiration.
75
Even though he was frantic to get to Cape Cod, the Pied Piper had taken the time to dig out a hooded sweater to wear under his jacket, as well as an old pair of dark glasses that covered half his face. He drove his car to the airport, parked, and went inside the small terminal where he found the pilot waiting for him. Their exchange was brief. He was told that the plane was waiting on the tarmac. As he had requested, a car with a map of the area would be ready for him at the Chatham airport. The pilot would wait to fly him back later tonight.
Just over an hour later, the Pied Piper was getting off the plane. It was seven o’clock. The unexpectedly crisp, dry air on the Cape and the star-filled sky made him uneasy. Somehow he’d been expecting to find the same overcast sky and steady rainfall that was blanketing the New York area. But at least when he got to the car it was exactly the kind he wanted, a black midsized sedan, a look-alike for half the vehicles on the road. A study of the map showed him that he could not be very far from the Shell and Dune Motel on Route 28.
I’ve got at least an hour to kill, maybe more, he thought. Clint might have made the Delta Shuttle at five thirty. Otherwise he’d be on the US Air Flight at six. Right now, he’s probably in Boston, renting a car. The pilot said the drive to Chatham from Boston should take about an hour and a half. I’ll park somewhere around the motel and wait for him.
On the phone call with Clint, he had wanted to ask the license number of the van, but he knew that would have made Clint suspicious. Lucas had described it as old and beat-up. Of course it had Connecticut license plates. It shouldn’t be that hard to find in the motel parking lot, he reasoned.
Even though Lucas had somewhat derisively described Clint and Angie to him, he had never met either one of them. Was he taking an unnecessary risk by coming up here and not just letting Clint finish Angie and the kid off? So what if he got to keep the million dollars? But if all of them are dead, I can sleep at night, he thought. Lucas knew who I am. They don’t. But how do I know that he didn’t tell Clint? I don’t need to have him looking me up after he’s run through his share of the ransom. He just might start to think he should share the other seven million with me.
The traffic on Route 28 was heavier than he had expected. I guess the Cape is like a lot of other summer vacation places, he thought. More and more people are living here year-round now.
Who cares?
He spotted the large Shell and Dune Motel sign with the flashing VACANCY beneath it. The exterior was white clapboard with green shutters. It looked to be a cut above the run-of-the-mill motels situated along most major highways. He saw that after the entrance sign, the driveway split. One side went under the overhang at the office, the other around it. He turned right off Route 28 and followed the lane that avoided the office. Not wanting to attract attention, he drove at what he hoped was a normal pace, his eyes darting back and forth, looking for the van. He was almost certain it was not in front of the motel facing Route 28. He drove around to the back. A lot more cars were parked in that area, most likely the ones belonging to people who had rooms on the second floor. In a way, that was good, he decided. When he found the van, he could look for a spot near it.
If Angie had any brains, she wouldn’t park too near the building. Because of the lights near the entrance, the license plates on the cars parked there were clearly visible. The Pied Piper slowed to a crawl as he studied the vehicles he was passing.
Finally he spotted the one that almost certainly was hers, a dark brown van, at least ten or twelve years old, with a dent on the side and Connecticut license plates. There was an empty space about five cars away in the next row. The Pied Piper parked there, got out of the sedan, and walked over to inspect the van. The light was sufficient to see the car seat in the back.
He checked his watch. He had plenty of time, and he was hungry. He could see the diner next door. Why not? he asked himself as he took out the dark glasses, slipped them on, and began to walk across the parking lot. When he got to the diner, he saw that it was crowded. All to the good, he thought. The only seat at the counter was next to the take-out section. He sat down, and as he reached for the menu, the woman standing next to him began placing her order for a hamburger, black coffee, and a dish of orange sherbet to go.
The Pied Piper turned his head abruptly, but even before he saw the thin woman with the stringy brown hair, he recognized her harsh, aggressive voice.
He buried his face in the menu. He knew he was not mistaken.
It was Angie.
76
The office of A-One Reliable Cleaning Service was located in the basement of Stan Shafter’s home. An hour after his exchange
with Jed Gunther, Marty Martinson decided to have another talk with Shafter. He had reviewed the statements given by Stan’s two sons and by the longtime women employees who had done the actual work of washing and dusting and scrubbing and polishing the Frawley home the day before the family moved in. They had all stated that no one other than they had been in the house when they were there.
When Marty reread the statements from Shafter’s employees, he had been struck by one omission. Not one of them had mentioned that Stan himself had stopped in while they were cleaning, yet he had said that he had made his usual inspection. If they hadn’t thought to mention him, was it possible they had inadvertently missed someone else? It was certainly worth a person-to-person talk, Marty decided.
Stan Shafter answered the door himself. A short but powerful-looking man in his late fifties, with a full head of carrot-red hair and lively brown eyes, and it was said of him that he always gave the impression of being in a hurry. Marty noticed that he was wearing his heavy outside jacket. Either he was on his way out or had just returned home.
His eyebrows lifted when he saw his visitor. “Come on in, Marty, or should I say Captain?”
“Marty’s fine, Stan. I need just a couple of minutes of your time, unless you have to be somewhere.”
“I just got back three minutes ago; I’m in for the rest of the day. Sonya left me a note saying that the business phone has been ringing all afternoon, so I’ve got to call the answering service and collect the messages.”
As Marty followed him down the stairs, he thanked his stars that Stan’s wife was out. A nonstop talker and world-class gossip, she would have peppered him with questions about the investigation.
The walls of the basement office were covered in knotty pine, a finish that reminded Marty of his grandmother’s recreation room. The large clipboard behind Shafter’s desk was filled with cartoons depicting home-cleaning situations.
“I’ve got some new ones, Marty,” Shafter said. “Really funny. Take a look.”
“Not now,” Marty responded. “Stan, I need to talk to you about the Frawley house.”
“Fine, but your guys grilled all of us after the kidnapping.”
“I know they did, but there’re still things to cover. We’re following any inconsistency, no matter how trivial, in our hunt for those kidnappers. You can understand that.”
“Yes, I can, but I hope you’re not insinuating that any of my people lied to you.” The bristling tone in Stan’s voice, and the way his barrel chest suddenly swelled as he straightened up in the chair, reminded Marty of an angry rooster.
“No, I’m not looking at your people, Stan,” Marty reassured him quickly. “And this is probably just one more of the many dead ends we’ve been running into. To put it simply, we believe that someone staked out the house and learned beforehand which bedroom the twins would be in. As you know, the house is a lot bigger than it looks from the outside. There are five bedrooms, anyone of which would have been appropriate for the little girls, yet someone knew exactly where to go. The Frawleys moved in the day after your people did the cleanup. Margaret Frawley tells us there were no strangers in the house before the kidnapping. We doubt that someone would have had the nerve to try to sneak in and case the place.”
“You mean . . .”
“I mean someone knew exactly where to go upstairs. I believe that your staff would never deliberately lie, but on the other hand, in your statement you said you had stopped in to inspect the house near the end of the day. Not one of your people mentioned that.”
“They must have thought you were asking if an outsider came in. They count me as part of the crew. Go talk to any of them again. They’ll be back soon to pick up their cars.”
“Did any of you know which room had been selected for the children?”
“We all knew. The parents were driving up that night to paint it. The cans of blue paint were stacked in the big back room, and the white carpet was rolled up in the corner. They’d even dropped off some of the toys and a hobby horse, and they were in there as well.”
“Did you discuss that with anyone, Stan?”
“Only Sonya. You know my wife, Marty. She could be an investigator for you. She was in that house years ago when old Mrs. Cunningham had some charity event there. If you can believe it, she was trying to get me to consider buying it when Mrs. Cunningham passed on. I told her to forget it.”
Stan Shafter smiled, indulgently. “Sonya was excited when she heard that identical twins were going to live there. She wanted to know which room the twins would be in, or if they had separate rooms, and if they had put up Cinderella wallpaper for them because that’s what she would have done. I told her the twins were in the same room, the big one in the back corner, and I told her it was going to be painted sky blue and have a white carpet. Then I said, ‘Sonya, now let me have a beer in peace with Clint.’ ”
“Clint?”
“Clint Downes. He’s the caretaker at the Danbury Country Club. I’ve known him for years. We do a general housecleaning there every season before the club opens. Clint happened to be here when I got back from the Frawley house, and I asked him to stay for a beer.”
Marty stood up and reached for his uniform hat. “Well, if anything occurs to you, give me a call, Stan. Okay?”
“Sure. I look at our grandkids and try to think of one of them being gone for good. I can’t handle it.”
“I understand.” Marty climbed the first few stairs, then turned. “Stan, this guy, Downes. Do you know where he lives?”
“Yeah, in the cottage on the grounds of the club.”
“Does he regularly drop in on you?”
“No. He wanted to tell me that he’s accepted a job in Florida and would be leaving soon. He thought I might know someone who’d like to apply for the job at the golf club.” Stan laughed. “I know Sonya can wear most people down, but Clint was polite enough to act real interested in what I was telling her about the Frawley home.”
“Okay. See you.”
Back in his car, returning to the station house, Marty thought about what Shafter had told him. Danbury isn’t my jurisdiction, but I think I’ll call Carlson and pass this on to him, he decided. It’s probably another dead end, but since we’re all grasping at straws, we might as well give this guy the once-over, too.
77
On Saturday evening, dressed in casual clothes, seeking to blend in with the dozens of other passengers, Agents Sean Walsh and Damon Philburn stood in the Galaxy Airlines baggage collection area at the international arrivals terminal of Newark Liberty Airport.
They both wore the exasperated expressions of travelers who, after a long flight, can’t wait to see their bags tumble onto the carousel. In fact, they were actually watching a thin-faced, middle-aged man who was there waiting for his luggage. When he reached down and plucked a nondescript black suitcase from the carousel, they moved immediately to either side of him.
“FBI,” Walsh told him. “Do you want to come quietly or make a scene?”
Without answering, the man nodded and fell in step with them. They herded him to an office in a private area of the terminal where other agents were guarding Danny Hamilton, a frightened twenty-year-old who was wearing the uniform of a baggage handler.
When the man accompanied by Walsh and Philburn saw Hamilton in handcuffs, he turned ashen and blurted, “I’m not saying anything. I want a lawyer.”
Walsh laid the suitcase on a table and snapped open the locks. He put the neat piles of folded underwear, shirts, and slacks on a chair, then took out a pocketknife and slit the edges of the false bottom of the suitcase. When he ripped it off, the hidden contents of the bag were revealed, large packages of white powder.
Sean Walsh smiled at the courier. “You’re going to need a lawyer.”
Walsh and Philburn could not believe the turn of events. They had come here to speak to Richie Mason’s co-workers to see if they could learn any shred of information that might connect him to the kidnapping. They sta
rted to talk to Hamilton and had immediately sensed that he was unduly nervous.
When they pressed him, he adamantly denied any knowledge of the kidnapping but then broke down and admitted that he knew Richie Mason was getting cocaine shipments at the airport. He said that Richie had given him five hundred dollars on three or four occasions to keep quiet about it. He’d told them that late this afternoon Richie had called to tell him that a shipment was coming in, but he couldn’t be there to meet it.
Richie had told Hamilton to meet the courier at the carousel. From Richie’s description, he would recognize him because he had seen him at the airport with Richie before. He had instructed Hamilton to give the code words “Home Free,” and the courier would then know that it was safe to give the suitcase containing the cocaine to him. Hamilton said that Richie had told him to hide the bag at his apartment and that he would contact him in the next few days and let him know how he would retrieve the bag.
Sean Walsh’s cell phone rang. He opened it and listened, then turned to Philburn. “Mason’s not at his Clifton apartment. I think he’s taken off.”
78
“Margaret, this may be another blind alley,” Agent Carlson warned as they drove from Lila Jackson’s home to the caretaker cottage where Clint Downes lived.
“It’s not another blind alley,” Margaret insisted. “The one impression Trish had before she was knocked out was that of perspiration on a heavyset man. I knew, I knew, I just knew that if I spoke to that sales clerk, she would be able to tell me something that would help. Why didn’t I do it sooner?”
“Our office is having a check run on Downes,” Carlson said as he drove through downtown Danbury, headed toward the club grounds. “We’ll know soon if he’s ever been in trouble. But you’ve got to realize that if he’s not home, we have no grounds for breaking into that house. I don’t want to wait for one of our agents to get here, so I’m having a squad car from the Danbury police meet us there.”
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