“He’s such a nice man,” Alvirah said to Regan as they walked up the path. “I felt funny when I pushed the button that raised the partition in the car so he couldn’t hear us.”
“So did I,” Regan said. “That’s why I’m glad we’re picking up my mother’s car right after we leave here. We’ve got to be able to talk freely if Jack Reilly or anyone else calls.”
Alvirah knew that by “anyone else,” Regan meant the kidnappers.
The driver was right; there were patches of ice on the path. Regan tucked her arm under Alvirah’s elbow to keep her from slipping.
At the entrance to Rosita’s ground-floor apartment, they looked at each other for a moment, then Alvirah pressed her finger firmly on the bell.
Inside, Fred was sitting on the couch, a sleepy little boy on either side of him. Hearing the bell, Chris sat up. “Maybe Mommy did forget her key,” he said in a tired, hopeful voice.
Bobby rubbed his eyes as he straightened up. “Is Mommy home?”
Fred felt his throat tighten. How many times in his job had he been the one to ring the bell, bearing news of an accident or worse? Regan Reilly had been evasive on the phone. Was that what she was coming to tell them?
He experienced a fleeting instant of profound relief when he opened the door and realized there were two figures standing outside in the dark. The relief, however, was painfully short-lived. An older woman was standing next to the one he knew had to be Reilly. Perhaps a social worker, he thought with a sinking heart. If so, that means something terrible has happened to Rosita.
“Fred Torres?” the younger woman asked.
He nodded.
“I’m Regan Reilly.”
“And I’m Alvirah Meehan,” Alvirah said heartily.
“Come in,” Fred said quietly.
Alvirah preceded Regan. She glanced around the room. Two little boys with dark hair were standing together by the couch, the expression in both sets of large brown eyes apprehensive and disappointed.
“Now which one of you is Chris and which one is Bobby?” she asked, a warm smile brightening her face. “Let me guess. Mrs. Reilly told me all about you. Chris is the oldest, so that must be you.” She pointed to the taller of the two.
Chris smiled tentatively.
“I’m Bobby,” the younger one said, moving closer to his brother.
“Where’s Mommy?” Chris asked.
“Did you know that Mrs. Reilly broke her leg last night?” Alvirah asked, dropping her voice as though she were telling an important secret.
“Mommy told us this morning before she left,” Bobby said with a yawn. “Mommy said that tonight we would make a card and send it to Mrs. Reilly.”
“Well, Mrs. Reilly needs your mommy’s help tonight,” Alvirah said softly. “So she just wants you two to go to bed, and she’ll be home as soon as she can.”
“I want her to come home now,” Bobby said, suddenly on the verge of tears.
“Mrs. Reilly is nice,” Chris told him. “It’s all right if Mommy stays with her when she’s sick.”
“But when do we get to decorate our tree?” Bobby asked plaintively.
“In plenty of time for Christmas,” Alvirah assured them.
Regan had been watching. Alvirah knows exactly how to handle the kids, she thought. Walking over to them, she said, “I’m Mrs. Reilly’s daughter, and I’m so glad your mommy is with my mother right now. Having your mommy there makes mine feel so much better.”
“Then your daddy is Mr. Reilly,” Chris said. “I like his cars.”
“Especially the reeeealy long ones,” Bobby added, yawning again.
“You know, I think both you boys look pretty tired,” Alvirah observed, “and that’s just the way I feel too.”
Fred knew exactly what these two women were doing—they were reassuring the boys about their mother, then they wanted them out of earshot.
“Okay, guys, bedtime,” he said, putting his hands around two small shoulders.
Bobby peered up at him anxiously. “You’re not going to leave us, are you Fred?”
Fred bent down and looked into the two distressed faces. He hesitated, then said firmly, “Not until Mommy gets home.”
While he was settling the boys in their room, Alvirah went into the tiny kitchen and put the kettle on the stove. “I need a cup of tea,” she announced. “How about you, Regan?”
“Good idea. I’d love one.” Regan glanced around the cozy yet slightly cluttered apartment. The brightly slipcovered couch and matching chair with their rounded arms and thick pillows looked wonderfully comfortable. A corner with shelves had been turned over to the children’s videotapes and toys. But it was the sight of the Christmas tree, already in the stand, just waiting to be decorated, that clutched at her heart.
By the time the kettle began to whistle, Fred Torres had emerged from the boys’ bedroom. “I promise I’ll be right out here, guys,” he said as he closed the door.
Alvirah poked her head out of the kitchen. “I’m making myself at home, Fred. A cup of tea?”
“Yes, thanks.” He looked at Regan. “Tell me what’s going on.”
“What is your relationship to Rosita?” she asked.
“We’ve had a couple of dates.” He pulled out his police ID. “I’m a cop. Rosita’s in trouble. What is it?”
Alvirah came into the living room holding a tray. “I’ll put it right here on the table. Why don’t we all sit down?”
Fred sat straight backed on the edge of the club chair, Alvirah and Regan opposite him on the couch.
“Fred is a police officer, Alvirah,” Regan said, then looked directly at him. “Rosita and my father were kidnapped sometime this morning. We believe it must have happened between ten o’clock, when my father left the hospital after visiting my mother, and twelve o’clock, when he was supposed to show up for a funeral.”
She looked down at the cup she was holding. “At about 4:30, I received a ransom call demanding one million dollars by tomorrow afternoon. We’ve already met with the head of the Major Case Squad in New York.”
Fred felt as though he had been punched in the stomach. “Kidnapped?” he said, his tone disbelieving, his face registering shock. He glanced down the hall at the closed bedroom door. “Those poor kids.”
Alvirah turned to Fred and put her hand on the sunburst pin on her suit jacket; on the drive out to Rosita’s apartment, she had inserted a new cassette. “Fred, do you mind if I record our conversation? Sometimes we say things that don’t seem significant at the moment, but that really turn out to be significant later. In some cases I have worked on, listening to the tapes over and over has led to the break we needed.”
“Go ahead,” he said. Ignoring the cup of tea cooling in front of him, he listened intently while Regan and Alvirah filled him in on everything they knew.
“Do they have any idea who could have done this?” he asked.
“None at all,” Regan said. “We think this is just about money, though. My father has no enemies that we know of.”
“Did Rosita discuss her ex-husband with you?” Alvirah asked. “From what Nora told us, he’s something of a ne’er-do-well who could probably use some money.”
“I only met Rosita last month, at a party. We’ve been out to dinner twice. She didn’t want to talk about him. Today the kids told me they hadn’t seen him in a long time.”
“He sounds like a real charmer,” Regan said. “The police are going to be checking him out very carefully.”
Fred shook his head. “I hope for the kids’ sake he’s not involved. Rosita didn’t give any indication that she’d had any trouble with him lately. When we went to dinner, we talked about the usual things. She really likes her job.” He nodded at Regan. “She said your father is the best boss anyone could have. And that he keeps his cool no matter what happens. But there was nothing she said that would indicate he was having any real problem with anyone.”
Regan put down her cup. “When we leave here, Alvirah and I are going
over to my father’s office to meet with his associate. We’re going to dig around to see if perhaps there are any business problems that could be relevant. It’s possible the kidnapper is a disgruntled person, perhaps even a former employee, who has a grudge against my father.”
“That’s sensible, and it’s almost the only thing you can do. The hardest part of a kidnapping is having to wait for the kidnappers to make the next move,” Fred added angrily.
“I have to keep busy,” Regan said matter-of-factly, as she and Alvirah got up.
“My sister-in-law is a nun,” Alvirah told Fred as she gathered the cups. “There’s a young woman in her convent, Sister Maeve Marie, who was a cop before she realized she had a vocation. Maeve is wonderful with kids; she can be here in an hour if you want to go home.”
Fred thought about the party he was missing, the plane he was supposed to catch in the morning, the long-planned sail with his friends. All those things seemed so trivial now. He thought about Rosita, her dark hair spilling on her shoulders, her warm smile as she joked. “Just call me Cinderella.”
Not every kidnapping ended happily, he thought. In fact, many did not.
He shook his head. “You heard me tell the boys—I’m not leaving.”
It had been said of Alvin Luck that his name didn’t suit him. Fifty-two years old, with thinning brown hair, a slight frame, and an amiable but timid smile, he lived with his mother in a rent-controlled apartment on Manhattan’s West Eighty-sixth Street. The author of twelve unpublished suspense novels, he eked out a living doing temporary jobs while waiting for his break in the publishing world.
Given the season, his current odd job was to don a red suit and white beard and ho-ho-ho his way through the toy section of a discount department store near Herald Square.
“Stop slouching, Alvin!” his boss screamed at him regularly. “Santa Claus is supposed to have some authority.”
You’d think I was working for F. A. O. Schwarz and not this junk shop, he often thought.
Alvin was not without spirit.
Nor was his lack of success in the publishing world due to a lack of diligent research. He had dissected every mystery and suspense novel that had appeared on the New York Times bestseller list in the last twenty years, and then some. He was a virtual walking encyclopedia when it came to the plots, characters, and settings used by hundreds of suspense and mystery novelists. He had filled notebooks with plodines, and he consulted them regularly when working on his own stories. He had divided the plots into categories such as espionage, bank robberies, murder, extortion, domestic crime, hijackings, arson, courtroom drama, and kidnapping.
His only luxury was to attend writing seminars and mystery conventions, where he listened attentively to the sage advice of published writers and later tried to corner editors at the cocktail parties.
He had been getting ready for work on Thursday when he heard on the radio the news about Nora Regan Reilly’s broken leg. Over the oatmeal that his mother prepared for him every morning, he had discussed it with her.
“Mark my words,” he said. “Nora’s next book will be set in a hospital. She’ll make the best of this situation.”
“Eat your oatmeal. It’s getting cold,” his mother admonished.
Dutifully, Alvin picked up his spoon and slurped the somewhat lumpy mixture. “I think I’ll send her a card.”
“Why not stick in the picture you took of that husband of hers at the last mystery-writers’ dinner?”
“You’re right. I did get a good shot of him,” Alvin recalled. “But only one. In the other picture his head got cut off because he’s so tall.”
“I like tall men. Your father was a shrimp, God rest him.”
“Maybe I’ll put the picture in a little holiday frame and drop it off at the hospital after work. The store has some frames with nice Christmas sayings on them.”
“Don’t spend too much on it,” his mother cautioned.
“They’re on sale,” Alvin said, a trace of irritation in his voice. “Nora Regan Reilly always talks to me at the cocktail parties and is so encouraging.”
“Not like those editors,” his mother had sighed.
Alvin went to work, looking forward to the surprise he was planning for Nora Regan Reilly. To his disappointment, most of the best Christmas frames already had been snapped up. He settled on one that said, I’LL BE HOME FOR CHRISTMAS . . . IF ONLY IN MY DREAMS. Considering how she’s stuck in the hospital, it applies more to her than to her husband, he thought, but it will have to do.
To his disgust, there was no employee discount on sale items.
“What do you expect?” the salesgirl asked as she popped her bubble gum. “They’re practically giving this stuff away.” She studied the frame before placing it in a bag. “Maybe that’s not such a bad idea,” she mumbled as Alvin carefully placed his wallet back in a deep pocket of the Santa Claus suit.
The evening-shift Santa Claus apparently had not made it down from the North Pole, and Alvin’s boss told him he had to work until 8:00 P.M. That was when the sign went up that Santa was back in his workshop. By then, Alvin’s ears were numb. He’d had enough of listening to the incessant demands hurled at him by an unending stream of children, all of whom seemed to take sadistic pleasure in plunking down on his boney knees.
“You don’t look much like Santa,” a number of the little darlings had said accusingly.
In all, it had been a long day, but that did not deter Alvin from making his planned pilgrimage to the Upper East Side. Since it was his responsibility to keep the Santa Claus suit pressed, he carried it back and forth to work. It was now neatly folded in a shopping bag, with the gift-wrapped, framed picture of Luke Reilly resting on top.
He had picked out a get-well card and written in it, “Nora, thought you’d like to have a pic of your sweetie.” On a whim he signed it, “Your number-one fan.”
Now he would have something to talk about with Nora Regan Reilly next time he saw her at a mystery-writers’ event. He could reveal himself as the mysterious benefactor who’d sent her the nice framed picture.
Once inside the lobby of the hospital, Alvin noticed a gift shop, and in the shop window the word SALE caught his eye. Underneath the sign were perched adorable teddy bears wearing Christmas hats. He hurried in just as the shop was about to close. I won’t tell Mother, he thought. But wouldn’t it make it really special if a teddy bear is holding Luke Reilly’s picture?
The saleswoman obligingly waited while he unwrapped the frame and stuck it in the arms of the teddy bear he had selected. She tied a huge Christmas bow around the box while Alvin counted out the exact change, which came to fourteen dollars and ninety-two cents.
Thanking her, he left the shop and went over to the reception desk. They assured him the package would go up to Mrs. Reilly immediately.
“Oh no, not until the morning,” he said firmly. “I wouldn’t want to disturb her. It’s late.”
“That’s very thoughtful,” the woman said pleasantly. “Have a nice holiday.”
Alvin went out into the cold night air once again and walked up York Avenue to Eighty-sixth Street, to catch the crosstown bus. Glowing with Christmas spirit, he smiled cheerily at the passersby who were spilling out of restaurants and shops.
They all ignored him.
Jack Reilly’s top assistant, Sgt. Keith Waters, as well as Lt. Gabe Klein, the head of TARU, the Technical Assistance Response Unit, were waiting in Reilly’s office at One Police Plaza when he arrived there.
“Long time no see,” Waters said laconically. “You just can’t stand being away from here, can you?” A handsome black man in his late thirties, with keen intelligent eyes, he radiated restless energy.
“It’s you I miss,” Jack said.
But the note of levity disappeared as they promptly got down to business.
“What have you got on the car?” Jack asked.
Gabe Klein began, “The records from E-Z Pass show that the car went through the Lincoln Tunn
el into Manhattan at 9:15 A.M. That would be when the girl went in to pick up Luke Reilly at the hospital. At some point the car must have been driven back to New Jersey, because it crossed the George Washington Bridge into New York again at 11:16 A.M. Then it crossed the Triborough Bridge in a lane headed for Queens at 11:45 A.M. That was the last time the E-Z Pass registered any activity.”
“That means they may have reached New Jersey before they were abducted,” Jack said. “Or maybe they were abducted in New York and taken to New Jersey. Most likely the car has been dumped somewhere. Stretch limos aren’t that easy to hide.”
“We have a bulletin out for it,” Keith responded, “but nothing’s turned up so far.”
“You put on a safeguard for prints?”
It was a rhetorical question. That was the first thing Keith would do in a kidnapping situation. If located, the car would not be touched until the lab technicians got there.
Now, in terse sentences, Jack filled them in on the rest of the details.
Both men made notes as they listened.
Gabe Klein, fiftyish and balding, wore glasses that perched precariously on the end of his nose, giving him a bookish, slightly vague appearance. To a casual observer, he looked like the kind of man who was unable to change a lightbulb.
It was an impression that was absolutely wrong—Gabe was a technical wizard and ran the highly sophisticated unit that had become a vital tool in the police force’s crime-solving efforts.
“These are the phone lines we’re covering, right?” Gabe rattled off the numbers Jack had phoned in. The Reilly home and apartment, Rosita Gonzalez’s apartment, the funeral homes, Nora Reilly’s hospital room.
“And if they call back on the daughter’s cell phone, she knows enough to try and keep them on the line so we can pinpoint the location,” Gabe confirmed.
“Regan is a private investigator in Los Angeles,” Jack said. “She knows the drill.”
“That’s a break,” Keith observed. “Then you think it’s okay to have her drive the car to the ransom drop?”
“She’s smart,” Jack said shortly. And very attractive, he thought.
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