by Ed McBain
“There’s more risk involved if the boy gets sick,” Kathy said.
“Once we get the dough, we’re never going to see this kid again, anyway,” Sy said.
“What do you mean?”
“Don’t get excited! I meant we’re leaving him here. You’re going to Mexico, I don’t know where the hell I’m going. So who cares if he gets sick?”
“It may be a while before they get to him,” Kathy said. “If he got sick… if something happened to him…”
“She has a point, Sy,” Eddie said. “Why make things tougher for ourselves? Look at the kid. He’s shaking.”
“ ‘Cause he’s scared.”
“I’m not scared,” Jeff said in a small voice.
“Won’t you have to go to that store to make the call, anyway?” Kathy said.
“Yeah, but…”
“Won’t it seem less conspicuous if you went in to buy something, and then just happened to make the call?”
Sy studied her with disgruntled admiration. “That’s not a bad idea,” he said. “What do you think, Eddie?”
“I think so.”
“Okay. When you make the call, get the kid what he needs.”
“I’m going?” Eddie asked.
“Why not?”
“No, no reason. I’ll go.”
“You know what to do? Find out if he’s got the loot first. Then tell him to leave the house at”—Sy studied his watch—“ten o’clock on the button. Tell him to go straight to his car, the Caddy with the DK-74 license plate—make sure you specify, Eddie. We don’t want him using the wrong car. He’s just liable to use his wife’s Thunderbird.”
“All right,” Eddie said.
“So specify the Caddy. Tell him to go straight to the car and begin driving away from Smoke Rise. Tell him he’ll be met by someone with further instructions. Make sure you say he’ll be met.”
“Who’s going to do the meeting?” Kathy asked. “You?”
“Nobody,” Sy said, and he grinned. “Tell him he’ll be watched every step of the way and if he’s followed by the police, we’ll kill the boy. That’s it. Then hurry back here. It’s only eight now, and it shouldn’t take you more than forty minutes or so to get to the store, make the call and come back. That gives us plenty of time.”
“Okay,” Eddie said. “What do you want me to get, Kathy?” He went to the closet and put on his coat.
“A package of hot chocolate and some milk. Get some cookies, too, or some cupcakes. Whatever they have.”
He went to her and kissed her on the cheek. “I’ll be back soon.”
“Be careful.”
“Good luck, kid,” Sy said.
Eddie started for the door and then stopped. “King’s number.”
“Oh, yeah.” Sy opened his wallet and handed Eddie a scrap of paper. “That the right one?” he asked.
“Yeah,” Eddie said.
“Can you read my Chinky handwriting?”
“Yeah.”
“Okay, take off.”
Eddie went to Kathy again, and again he kissed her on the cheek, and again she said, “Be careful.”
Sy unlocked the door for him, and he went out of the house. They heard his footsteps on the gravel in the front yard, and then the sound of a car door slamming, and then the car starting. Sy waited until the car pulled out of the yard, waited until he could no longer hear the engine.
Then, locking the door again, he grinned and said, “Well, well, alone at last.”
* * * *
There were memories Steve Carella carried like heavy stones in his mind. There were things connected with police work which he would never forget, which would lurk always at the back of his skull, waiting to be called up fresh and painfully clear. He knew that the image of Charles Reynolds talking with Douglas King would become one of those memories, and even as he watched the man he wanted to leave the room, wanted to get away from the scene before it registered on his unconscious, before it joined the other lurking shapes.
He would never forget the smell of whisky in the liquor shop on the night he investigated the murder of Annie Boone, the broken trail of bottles, the girl’s body pressed lifelessly to the wooden floor, her red hair afloat in alcohol.
He would never forget the moment of shocked surprise when he faced a boy with a gun, a boy he was certain would not shoot, and suddenly realized there’d been a lance of fire and an explosion, suddenly realized there was pain engulfing his chest, suddenly realized the boy had indeed pulled the trigger, the ground going out of focus, falling, falling, he would never forget that cold day in the park although he had already forgotten the name of the boy who had shot him.
He would never forget bursting into Teddy’s apartment before she became his wife, confronting a killer who had literally been sent there by a reporter named Cliff Savage, firing low and firing fast before the man with the .45 could take a careful bead. He would never forget the scent, the feel of Teddy in his arms when it was all over. He would never forget these things.
And now, listening to Charles Reynolds, he wanted to plug up his ears, close his eyes, blot out what was happening, because he knew with certainty that the scene would haunt him for the rest of his life.
The man had come into the living room through the dining-room arch, standing hesitantly in the archway, waiting for Douglas King to notice him. King had been busy lighting a cigarette, his hands trembling slightly, and Carella had been sitting at the wiretap, watching King, and then suddenly aware that Reynolds was standing on the threshold to the room. There was on Reynolds’ face a look of utter despair which, through contamination, infected his entire body. His shoulders were slumped, and his hands hung limply at his sides. Patiently, lifelessly, he stood in the doorway, waiting for King to turn, waiting for the owner of the house, his employer, to notice him.
King walked away from the coffee table, blew out an impatient stream of smoke, said, “They probably won’t even call—” and noticed Reynolds. He pulled up short, sucked in on the cigarette again, and said, “You startled me, Reynolds.”
“I’m sorry, sir,” Reynolds paused. “Sir, I… I would like to talk to you.” He paused again. “Mr. King, I would like to talk to you,” and Carella knew from those first words that this was going to be painful, and he wanted to get out of the room.
“Reynolds, couldn’t…” King started, and then hesitated. “All right, what is it? What do you want, Reynolds?”
Reynolds took a single step into the room, as if that was as far as he was prepared to go, as if even that single step was a break of the rules he had formulated for himself before making his entrance. His shoulders slumped, his hands hanging awkwardly, he said, “I want to ask you to pay the ransom for my son, Mr. King.”
“Don’t ask me,” King said, and he turned away.
“I’m asking you, Mr. King,” Reynolds said, and he extended his hand as if to pull the retreating King closer to him. But he did not budge from his spot just inside the entrance archway. He stood with his hand extended and pleading, until King turned to face him again from the other end of the room. And then, separated by forty feet of livingroom area, separated by God alone knew how many miles, the two men faced each other like knights about to charge with lances, and Carella felt like a spectator who had no favorite.
“I have to ask you, Mr. King,” Reynolds said. “You see that, don’t you?”
“No. No, I don’t. Please, Reynolds, I really feel…”
“I have never begged in my life,” Reynolds said awkwardly, “but I’m begging you now. Please, Mr. King. Please get my son back.”
“I don’t want to listen,” King said.
“You have to listen, Mr. King. I’m talking to you like a man now. A father to a father. I’m pleading with you to save my son. God, God, please save my son!”
“You’re coming to the wrong person, Reynolds! I can’t help you. I can’t help Jeff.”
“I don’t believe that, Mr. King.”
“It’s true.”
“I…I have no right. I know I have no right. But where else can I go? Who else can I turn to?”
“Do you know what you’re asking me to do?” King said. “You’re asking me to ruin myself. Am I supposed to do that? Goddamnit, Reynolds, I wouldn’t ask that of you!”
“I have to ask!” Reynolds said. “Is there a choice for me, Mr. King? Is there someplace I can go, someplace to get five hundred thousand dollars? Where? Tell me. I’ll go. I’ll go. But where? No place.” He shook his head. “I’m coming to you. I’m asking you. Please, please…”
“No!”
“What do you want me to do, Mr. King? Name it. I’ll do it. Anything you say. I’ll work for the rest of my life, I’ll…”
“Don’t talk nonsense. What can you possibly… ?”
“Do you want me to get down on my knees, Mr. King? Shall I get on my knees and beg you?”
He dropped to his knees, and Carella winced and turned away. Separated by forty feet of broadloom, the men stared at each other, Reynolds on his knees, his hands clasped, King standing with one hand in the pocket of his robe, the other hand holding a trembling cigarette.
“Get up, for God’s sake,” King said.
“I’m on my hands and knees, Mr. King,” Reynolds said. “I’m begging you. Begging you. Please, please, please…”
“Get up, get up!” King said, and his voice was close to breaking. “Good God, man, can’t you—”
“…save my son.”
“Reynolds, please.” King turned away, but not before Carella saw him squeeze his eyes shut tightly. “Please, get up. Please, man. Please. Could you… could you leave me alone? Could you? Could you please do that? Please?”
Reynolds got to his feet. With great dignity, he dusted off the knees of his trousers. He did not say another word. He turned and walked stiffly out of the room.
Humiliated, Douglas King stared at the door.
“Does it make you feel like a big turd, Mr. King?” Carella asked.
“Shut up!”
“It should. Because that’s what you are.”
“Goddamnit, Carella, I don’t have to listen to—”
“Oh, go to hell, Mr. King,” Carella said angrily. “Just go to hell!”
“What’s the matter with you, Steve?” Byrnes asked, coming down the steps. “Let’s cut that out.”
“I’m sorry,” Carella said.
“I was just on the phone upstairs,” Byrnes said. “I checked our list of stolen cars and, sure enough, there she was. A gray 1949 Ford. Teletype’s going out on it now. I don’t suppose the license plate’ll still be the same as on that list, do you?”
“No, sir.”
“Now just cut it out, Steve,” Byrnes said.
“Cut what out, sir?”
“The slow burn.”
“I wasn’t—”
“You were, and don’t lie to me, remember that we’ve got a job to do here, and we’re not going to get it done if everybody goes around with his ass being—” He cut himself short. Liz Bellew was coming down the steps, one hand clutching a valise, the other holding Bobby King’s hand.
“Good morning,” she said. “Any word yet?”
“No, ma’am,” Byrnes said.
“Daddy?” Bobby said.
“What is it, son?
“Is Jeff back yet?”
“No, son. He isn’t.”
“I thought you were getting him back.”
There was a long uncomfortable silence. Carella watched them and devoutly hoped he would never see the look that was on Bobby King’s face at this moment on the face of his son, Mark, in years to come.
“Bobby, you should never throw questions at a tycoon so early in the morning.” Liz said breezily. “He’s coming over to my house for now, Doug.” She winked. “It’ll work out.”
“Where’s Diane?”
“Upstairs putting on the finishing touches.”
“Did you… ?”
“I talked to her.” Liz shook her head. “It’s no go. But give her time.” She turned to Byrnes. “Do I get a police escort, Lieutenant?”
“Darn right you do.”
“Make it the tall redheaded cop,” Liz said. “The one with the white streak in his hair.”
“Detective Hawes?”
“Is that his name? Yes, him.”
“I’ll see if I can.”
“He’s just outside the door, Lieutenant, getting some air. I saw him from the upstairs window. Shall I tell him his services are required?”
“Yes, yes,” Byrnes said, a look of puzzlement on his face. “Yes, please tell him.”
“I shall tell him. Come along, Bobby, we’re going to meet a handsome policeman.” She walked him toward the front door. At the door, Bobby turned.
“Aren’t you getting him back, Dad?” he asked, and Liz pulled him through the open doorway and shouted, “Yoo-hoo! Detective Hawes! Yoo-hoo!”
The door closed behind them.
“I feel I should make my position clear to you gentlemen,” King said clearing his throat. “I know that on the surface my refusal…”
The telephone rang.
King stopped speaking. Byrnes looked at Carella, and Carella rushed to the wiretap equipment.
“You’d better get on the trunk line, Pete!” he said, and Byrnes ran to the other phone and picked up the receiver, ready to speak.
“Go ahead, Mr. King,” Carella said, “answer it. If it’s our man, keep him on the line.”
Over the ringing of the telephone, King said, “What…what shall I tell him?”
“Just keep him talking. About anything. Keep him on the line.”
“And… the money?”
“Tell him you’ve got it,” Byrnes said.
“Pete…”
“It’s our only chance, Steve. They’ve got to think we’re playing ball with them.”
“Answer it, answer it!”
King hesitated a moment and then lifted the receiver. “Hello?”
“Mr. King?”
The voice was not the one King had heard before. A frown crossed his forehead. “Yes, this is Mr. King,” he said, “Who’s calling, please?”
“You know who’s calling,” the voice said. “Don’t play dumb.”
“I’m sorry. I didn’t recognize your voice,” King said, and he nodded to Byrnes, who instantly said into the trunk line phone. “He’s on the other wire now. Get moving.”
Sitting at the wiretap equipment with the headphones over his ears, Carella watched the spools of tape revolving as they recorded the conversation. Scarcely daring to breathe, he listened to the voice on the other end.
“Have you got the money, Mr. King?”
“Well…”
“Yes or no? Have you got it?”
“Keep him talking,” Byrnes whispered.
“Yes, I have it. That is, I have most of it.”
“What do you mean, most of it? We told you…”
“Well, the rest should be here momentarily. You specified small bills, didn’t you?”
“What’s that got to do with it?”
“And no consecutive serial numbers. Five hundred thousand dollars is a lot of money, you know. And there wasn’t much time. The remainder is being counted out at the bank now. It should be here within the half hour.”
“All right, fine. Now here’s what you’re to do. Do you have a wrist watch, Mr. King?”
“Yes. Yes, I have one.”
“I want you to set it so that it’s synchronized with mine. Take it off your wrist now.”
“All right. Just a moment.”
“Keep him talking,” Carella said. “Keep him talking.”
“You got it, King?”
“Yes, I’m getting it.”
Into the trunk line phone, Byrnes said, “What’s happening there? For God’s sake, I told you he was on the line!”
“How about it, King?” the voice asked impatiently.
“All right.”
“My watch say
s exactly eight-thirty-one. Set yours for the same time.
“All right.”
“Did you set it?”
“Yes. I set it.”
“Fine. Now the rest I’m going to say fast and only once, so get it all the first time. You are to leave the house at ten o’clock sharp, and you are to be carrying the money in a plain carton. You will go straight to the garage, and you will get into the black Cadillac with the license tag DK-74. That is the car you will use, Mr. King. Do you understand?”