by Ed McBain
The first time anyone has said the word out loud.
Kidnapped.
Alice says nothing.
“I want to help you. I know they told you not to call the police. I know they made death threats. But Mrs. Garrity did the right thing by calling us. I want to help you. Please let me help you.”
“How?” she says.
“We can put a tap on your phone, get our people in your house. They won’t know we’re listening, they won’t know we’re there, I promise you. They don’t have to know we’re in this.”
“They may already know! You brought me here in a goddamn police car...”
“We were very careful, Mrs. Glendenning…”
“Careful? A police car pulled right up in front of Charlie’s house! Why didn’t you take an ad in the paper?”
“I asked them to show the utmost discretion. Mr. Hobbs’s house is in an isolated, heavily wooded part of Willard Key. There were no cars parked on the approach road, no sign of anyone watching the house. Officer Cudahy checked the perimeter carefully before he drove in. And when you arrived here, we brought you in through the back entrance of the facility. I feel certain that the people who kidnapped your children don’t know you’re here.”
Kidnapped.
His using the word again makes it real all at once.
Kidnapped.
Her children have been kidnapped.
Jamie and Ashley have been kidnapped.
She suddenly bursts into tears.
“Here,” he says, and yanks a tissue from a box on his desk, and hands it to her.
“Thank you,” she says.
“Want to tell me what happened?”
She tells him.
“Have you got a quarter of a million dollars?” he asks.
“No.”
“How much have you got?”
“About three thousand.”
“So what makes them think you’re rich?”
“They probably think I collected a fortune.”
“How do you mean, ma’am?”
“My husband drowned eight months ago. He had a double indemnity policy with Garland.”
“Is that an insurance company? Garland?”
“Yes. Garland and Rice.”
“How much are you looking at?”
“Well… two hundred and fifty thousand, actually. When they pay it.”
“You’re expecting the exact sum they’re asking for? I would say that’s some kind of a rare coincidence. Who else knows about this big death benefit you’re supposed to be getting?”
“My attorney… and his partners, I guess. And people at the insurance company, I suppose. But they all know it hasn’t been paid yet.”
“Anyone else? Have you mentioned to anyone else that you’d be coming into two hundred and fifty thousand dollars?”
“Well… my sister. And I suppose she told her husband.”
“Where do they live?”
“In Atlanta.”
“What’s he do for a living?”
“Drives a truck. When he isn’t in jail.”
“That’s a joke, right?”
“No, it’s the truth.”
“He’s done time?”
“Yes. But not for anything serious.”
“What was it?”
“Two dope convictions.”
“Trafficking?”
“No.”
“Cause that’s serious, trafficking.”
“This was simple possession.”
“Do any of his pals know about this big insurance policy?”
“Pals?”
“Any of his former cellmates? Any of the yardbirds he buddied with? Wherever it was he did time.”
“I don’t know.”
“Be nice to find out,” Sloate says, and nods thoughtfully. He’s really trying to dope this out, she thinks. But he seems so very… country-boy. If this were New York or some other big city…
But this isn’t New York.
This is Cape October, Florida, and my children have been kidnapped, and at noon tomorrow a woman with a voice like a razor blade will call again and ask me if I’ve got the money. And all Alice can think is I don’t have the money, I don’t have the money, they will kill my children.
“How about your sister?” Sloate asks. “What does she do?”
“You’re barking up the wrong tree. She loves my kids.”
“Does her jailbird husband love them, too?”
“I’m telling you you’re mis—”
“What does she do, your sister?”
“She works in a bank. She’s straight as an arrow. Look, I really don’t like the direction—”
“It wasn’t her on that phone, was it?”
“No. Of course not.”
“Mrs. Garrity said you told her the woman sounded black…”
“Well, she might have been black, yes.”
“Does your sister have a Southern accent?”
“No.”
“You said she lives in Atlanta.”
“Yes, but she moved there to marry Rafe. She’s originally from upstate New York, same as me.”
“Rafe. Is that his name?”
“Rafe Matthews, yes. My sister is Carol Matthews.”
“When’s the last time old Rafe was in jail?”
“He got out two years ago.”
“Been driving a truck since?”
“Yes.”
“When he’s not in jail, is what you said.”
“Yes.”
“But you don’t think he’d kidnap your kids, is that it?”
“Of course not!”
“Me, I don’t trust anybody who’s done time. My own brother done time, I wouldn’t trust him. Let’s give your sister a call.”
“Why?”
“Find out where old Rafe is.”
“Why?”
“Man might be in Florida, who knows? Georgia’s not all that far away, you know.”
“Rafe doesn’t have a blue car.”
“Maybe the lady who called you does. Is Rafe playing around?”
“I don’t know. I don’t think so. My sister loves him.”
“That ain’t always insurance. Let’s call her, okay, say hello. Would you like a drink? I have bourbon.”
“No.”
“Calm you down a little?”
“I’m calm.”
“You don’t seem calm.”
“I’m just scared, is all. If anything happens to my kids…”
“Nothing’ll happen to them. Just tell your sister you were thinking about her, decided to call. Don’t mention the kids being missing,” he says, and hands Alice the phone.
She dials Carol’s number, and waits. One of her nephews picks up. Either Michael or Randy, she can’t tell which.
“Hi, honey,” she says, “this is Aunt Al. What’re you doing up so late?”
“Watching TV,” he says.
“Your mama know that?”
“Oh sure.”
“Who’s this I’m talking to?”
“Randall.”
“How’re you doing, Randall?”
“School sucks,” Randall says.
Eight years old.
“Is she there?”
“Yeah.”
“Could you get her for me, please?”
“Sure, just a sec,” he says.
She waits.
“Hello?”
“Carol, hi, it’s me.”
“Hey, Alice, how are you, honey?”
“Fine, fine, just thought I’d check in.”
“I’m glad you did. It’s getting kind of lonely up here.”
“How come?”
“Rafe’s off on a long one. I kind of miss him stompin around. How are the kids?”
“Fine, just fine.”
“Did Jamie get the Myst book I sent him?”
“The what?”
“The Myst book.”
“What’s a mist book?”
“The video game. Myst. M
-y-s-t. It’s a little booklet Randall found very useful in deciphering Myst.”
“Oh. No, it hasn’t arrived yet.”
“I sent it United Parcel, Jamie should be getting it any minute now.”
“No, not yet.”
“How is he, Alice?”
“He’s fine.”
“Is he… honey, is he talking yet?”
“No, not yet.”
“Poor darling.”
“Yes.”
“Why don’t you bring him up here for a while? Being with the boys might work wonders.”
“Maybe so. Maybe when school lets out.”
“I’d love to have him here, Alice.”
“Thanks, sweetie, I appreciate that.”
There is a silence on the line.
“When did Rafe leave?” Alice asks.
“Two days ago. What’s today?”
“Wednesday.”
“So he left Monday.”
“Where’s he off to this time?” Alice asks.
“Down your way, actually, was the first stop. Then it’s over to Louisiana, Texas, Oklahoma, Arkansas, and back home.”
“You say he’s down here now?”
“Probably been and gone by now.”
“Here? In Cape October?”
“No, did I say the Cape? He was heading for Jacksonville. Then Tallahassee and Mobile. I think is what he said.”
“Have you spoken to him?”
“What do you mean?”
“Well… has he called you?”
“He never calls when he’s on the road. He drives practically day and night, all he has time to do is sleep and grab a bite to eat. Anyway, he should be home by the weekend.”
“That’s good.”
There is another silence, longer this time.
“Honey?” Carol says. “Is something wrong?”
“No, no. What could be wrong?”
“You sound… I don’t know… funny.”
“I’m just tired. I had a long day.”
“You selling many houses down there?”
“Oh, scads.”
“Maybe I’ll come buy one.”
“Be a good idea.”
“Honey, I got to go now,” Carol says. “I hear Michael screaming about something. We’ll talk soon.”
“Right,” Alice says.
There is a click on the line. She hands the phone back to Sloate.
“Where is he?” Sloate asks.
“Mobile by now.”
“Was he here on the Cape?”
“No. Jacksonville. Mr. Sloate, I don’t think he came here to steal my kids. My sister would kill him, he ever did something like that.”
“How about one of his jailbird pals? You think he might have mentioned to one of them that there’s this beautiful widow in Florida, has two kids, and has just come into two hundred and fifty grand?”
“You’re scaring me, Mr. Sloate.”
“I don’t mean to be doing that. I’m just trying to figure out who could’ve got it in his head that kidnapping your kids might be a way to get at those big bucks you’re supposed to’ve come into. Which you haven’t come into yet, by the way. But they don’t know that, do they?”
“No, they don’t.”
“Come on, let’s take you home. Get this thing rolling. Find out who these damn people are,” he says, and rises briskly from behind his desk.
If anyone is watching the house on Oleander Street, he will see only a dark-haired woman driving a black Mercedes ML320 up the street. He will see the car pulling into the driveway and stopping to wait for the garage doors to go up. The dark-haired woman is Alice herself. The Mercedes is the car supplied to her by Lane Realty, one of the perks of being a real estate broker.
If anyone is watching the house, he will see the garage doors going up. He will see Alice driving the car in. To anyone watching, Alice seems to be alone in the car. The garage doors roll down again. After a short interval, anyone watching the house will see lights coming on in the living room. He will see the dark-haired woman—Alice again—approaching the windows, looking out at the street, and then drawing the drapes.
In the garage, Wilbur Sloate gets up from where he is lying on the floor in the backseat of the Mercedes, climbs out of the car, and comes around to the hatchback at the rear. He yanks that open, and offers his hand to Detective Marcia Di Luca, one of the sixteen detectives assigned to the Criminal Investigations Division. Marcia’s specialty is communications, but she looks somewhat like a barmaid, wide in the behind, big in the chest, unruly red hair trailing to below her shoulders. She is wearing a tan skirt and a lime green blouse and a nine-millimeter Glock. Looking at Marcia, Alice gets the impression that she wouldn’t particularly like to get in a catfight with her. She gets the impression that Marcia wouldn’t mind shooting someone right between the eyes if the opportunity presented itself.
“What we’re going to do,” Sloate explains, “what Marcia’s going to do, as a matter of fact, is place a tap on your phone before that call comes in at noon tomorrow. This way we can listen to and record any calls you get…”
“We call it a Tap and Tape,” Marcia says.
“She’s also going to set up equipment that’ll be able to locate the caller’s phone numbe—”
“We call that a Trap and Trace.”
“And she’ll put in a second line so we can call the captain direct downtown.”
“That’ll be Captain Roger Steele,” Marcia says.
“He’s in charge of the department’s CID.”
Alice nods.
“So, what you can do, ma’am, you can go to sleep now, while Marcia and me get started. No sense you pacing the floor all night, we’re not going to hear from them again till noon tomorrow. Okay?”
“Yes, fine,” Alice says.
“G’night then, ma’am.”
“Good night,” Marcia says, and goes out to the garage for her equipment.
The phone rings at a little before midnight.
Alice is not yet asleep. She doesn’t know if she should pick up the bedroom extension or not. She throws on a robe and comes out into the living room, where Marcia and Sloate are still working.
“You ready on that trace?” Sloate asks Marcia.
“Nope,” she says.
“What should I do?” Alice asks.
“Let it ring a few more times. Tell her you were asleep,” Sloate says. “We can at least listen and record, get some information that way, do a voice profile later. Tell her you’re selling all your stock. Tell her you’ll have the money tomorrow afternoon sometime. Tell her to take a Polaroid picture of your kids holding tomorrow morning’s edition of the Cape October Trib. Tell her to Fed Ex it to you.”
“She won’t do all that.”
“Just keep her talking, see what she has to say for herself.” He sits in front of the wiretap equipment, puts on the earphones. “Go on, pick up,” he says.
“Hello?” Alice says.
“Al? It’s me. Charlie.”
“Charlie?”
“Did I wake you?”
“No.”
“What have you heard?”
Sloate shakes his head, wags his finger at her.
“Nothing,” she says.
Sloate runs his finger across his throat.
For a moment, Alice is puzzled.
Then she understands that he wants her to end the conversation.
“Charlie, I just got out of bed,” she says, “can you excuse me a minute? I’ll call you right back.”
“Sure, honey, I’ll be here.”
She puts the phone back on its cradle.
“Why?” she asks Sloate.
“I wanted to brief you. I don’t want you to tell him anything. Don’t tell him we’re here, don’t tell him a thing, not a single thing. Just say we asked you a few questions downtown and let you go. You didn’t tell us anything about your kids being missing.”
“Charlie’s my best friend. Why can’t I…?”
> “They may know that, too. Nothing. Tell him nothing.”
“Suppose he wants to come here?”
“Tell him no.”
Alice looks at him.
“You want to see your kids alive again?”
“You’re beginning to sound like her.”
“Better call him back,” Marcia says.
“Make it short,” Sloate says. “Tell him you want to keep the line clear, case anybody calls.”
“He’ll smell a rat.”
“He’ll smell a rat if you don’t call back pretty damn soon,” Sloate says.
Alice picks up the receiver and begins dialing.
“Hello?”
“Charlie?”
“Yes, hi. What happened with the cops?”
“They asked me a lot of questions, and then let me go.”
“What kind of questions?”
“Well, you know, Rosie told them all about the kids being gone…”
“Yeah, so?”
“I told them they were mistaken. They said, Okay, it’s your funeral, lady, and let me go.”
“Were those their exact words?”
“More or less. Charlie, I hate to cut you short, but I want to keep the line free. In case they call again.”
“You haven’t heard from them again, huh?”
“Not yet.”
“That’s strange, don’t you think?” he asks.
“Well, they said noon tomorrow.”
“Even so.”
“Charlie, I really have to—”
“I know, okay. Call me if you need me, okay? Do you want me to come over?”
“No, I don’t think that would be smart. They may be watching the house.”
“Right, right.”
“Charlie…”
“I’m gone. Talk to you later.”
Alice hangs up.
“Okay?” she asks Sloate.
There is an edge to her voice.
“Fine, ma’am. You did just fine.”
“I hope you know what you’re doing,” Alice says.
“We know what we’re doing, ma’am.”
“I hope so. Because if anything happens to my kids…”
“Nothing will happen to your kids.”
She looks him dead in the eye.
The look says, Nothing had better happen, Detective Sloate.
“Good night,” she says, and goes off to bed.
Thursday
May 13
3
At 8:45 A.M., Rosie Garrity is still watching television, hoping to hear something about the kidnapping.