by Ralph Dennis
“Probably from Amos and from that school principal … what’s his name?”
“Nobody tried to talk to me,” Wilt said.
“I think you scared the shit out of them last night.”
“That’s my charm.” He headed for the living room. Joe followed him.
Jonas Moore took his wife’s hand from his shoulder and stood. He seemed oddly sober now despite the drinking Wilt had witnessed early that evening. “There’s one problem I’d better tell you about, Sheriff. I can’t get the money tonight. I can have it tomorrow as soon as the bank opens. But tonight, I don’t know …”
“That’s what you tell them,” Wilt said.
“What if they don’t believe me?”
“If they want the money, they’ll have to believe you. It’s that simple. The fact is that kidnappers know banking hours as well as you do.”
“What do I say?” Jonas looked from Wilt to Joe and back. “I mean … when they call.”
“You tell them you’ll have the money tomorrow.” Wilt turned toward the front door and stopped. “They’ll probably say fine, that they’ll call you again tomorrow and give you instruction for handing the money over.” He opened the front door and felt the raw blast of wind. “I’ll be right back.”
Wilt dug a transparent evidence bag from the box in the trunk of his cruiser. He returned to the house and edged the ransom note into the bag with the tines of a fork.
Joe blocked the doorway when he started back into the living room. “You going to call the Bureau?”
“I’ve got to,” Wilt said.
He faced the Moore across the coffee table. “Here’s how it is. I’m going to leave my chief deputy here with you. When the call comes in, he’ll listen in with you. You do the talking, Mr. Moore. If anything comes up, and you don’t know how to answer or what to say, you look at Joe. He’ll nod or shake his head. You follow his lead.”
“Thank you, Sheriff,” Arlene Moore said.
“We’re doing all we can.” Wilt tapped Joe on the shoulder. “Let me see you outside for a minute.”
Outside, in the glare of the porch light, head down against the cutting wind, Wilt said, “Keep them as calm as you can. And while you’re waiting for the call, run it through your head and anticipate all the roadblocks that can come up. Do some coaching with Moore, what to expect and how to handle the kidnapper’s moves.”
“That’s my next question. How are we going to handle it?”
“We want it tomorrow. We want as much lead time to prepare for it as we can pressure from them.”
“You think we ought to tape it?”
“If we can. I’m going to see how much influence Amos has with Ma Bell.”
Wilt walked through the courtyard. Joe slowed his pace to stay level with him. “You want me to send Floyd back?”
“If you can spare him. He can go on with the door-to-door by himself.”
“He up to it?”
“Yeah.” Joe stopped at the far end of the unit. “You going to call off the search?”
“No. You think we ought to?”
Joe shook his head.
On the way to the station, Wilt called in and told Susie to send Floyd back to Tall Pines. He passed the narrow offshoot road that led to the Blue Lagoon. He stared at the lights in the distance. He realized that he hadn’t thought about Diane Mills for about eight hours. Progress.
Amos wasn’t at the police department. In frustration, Wilt turned the hunt over to Susie. On the fifth call, she located him at the Moose Club. Wilt picked up the phone and filled him in on what had happened and what he wanted to do.
Amos didn’t like the whole idea or want any part of it. “I can tell you ahead of time what that Bell supervisor is gonna say. Shit, Wilt, you know that’s an illegal tap and it can’t be used in court.”
“I don’t want to use it in court. And, anyway, whose rights are we protecting here? Dana Moore or the kidnappers?”
“Well …” Amos was still hedging.
Wilt could hear loud music in the background. “Amos, I’ve got the F.B.I. on the way here right now. You know those boys. You believe they’ll think twice about the legality of this kind of tap when a child’s life is on the line? My problem is that I can’t wait for the F.B.I. to get here. That call might go through any minute.”
“Where are you?”
“At my office,” Wilt said.
“I’ll try my best. I’ll get back to you.”
Amos broke the connection.
Wilt took a deep breath and drew the list of phone numbers for area law enforcement agencies toward him. He dialed the F.B.I. office in Raleigh and got a taped message that told him to leave a message explaining his business. His call, the cool voice said, would be returned.
Fifteen minutes after leaving the message, he got a call back from a supervisor telling him that Special Agent Harriman would arrive at the Webster County Sheriff’s Station within an hour.
His private line phone rang as soon as he replaced the receiver. “Yes, Amos?”
He recognized the throaty laugh. “You give up on girls, Wilt?”
“How’d you get this number?”
“Oh, I have my ways.” Diane said.
“I never said you didn’t.” He looked at the wall clock. He didn’t want to tie up the line. He wanted it open if Amos called.
“I’m dancing tonight. I thought you might be interested.” Her breathing stirred him. “You coming by, Wilton?”
“Where’d you get this Wilton nonsense?”
“From your friend, Erlene. She thinks you’re quite something. You were a Marine hero and an officer and a gentleman and you even went to college. My, oh, my.”
“Chapel Hill, if it matters. Navy R.O.T.C.”
“Come out, Wilton. You can get your little boy thrills.”
“You didn’t hear?”
“Hear what?”
“It happened again. Another little girl’s missing,”
He heard the sudden intake of her breath. “I’m sorry, Wilt. I’ve been such an ass.”
“Another night I’ll drop by and study your tattoo.”
“Wilt …”
“Got to go.” He placed the receiver on the base.
A count of ten and the buzzer rasped at him. Susie connected him with the Chief.
Amos sounded smug. He’d worked his magic with Ma Bell. He’d invoked the power of the police, the Sheriff’s department and even hinted at the F.B.I. The supervisor was driving in from home and he’d be met at the switching station by a police technician. A patch would be put on the Moore line and they’d record all incoming calls.
Wilt thanked him and promised, yes, he’d bring the Special Agent by for a talk as soon as the investigation was underway.
After the call, Wilt put his head on the desk and tried to rest. But he couldn’t empty his head. He kept replaying the conversation with Diane over and over in his mind. If the man and woman mating dance was a war, then he’d won this round.
He knew, however, that it had been a cheap win. The bad feeling was in him. He’d used the shock impact, the missing child, to turn it back against Diane.
Cheap. A bad win that was hardly a win at all.
CHAPTER TWELVE
Every F.B. I. man Wilt ever met in his life looked exactly like every other one he’d met. Neat, hair cut just so and at the same length that could be measured from the shirt collar, shoes shined to a high gloss, his suit and tie tasteful, and a vaguely lean and athletic body. As if Edgar demanded of his underlings what he wasn’t.
Special Agent Harriman had been stamped from the same mold at the same plastic factory. Windy as it was outside, not a hair was out of place and his shoes didn’t show a speck of dust.
He was about thirty, with sandy blond hair, pale green eyes and he wore a pair of black-rimmed glasses. His suit was some kind of wool blend in a dark gray and he’d matched a black tie with that.
Wilt had Susie bring in coffee. Wilt motioned Harriman to a cha
ir and filled him in on the death of the Dobbs child and the extent of his investigation into the disappearance of Dana Moore.
Harriman said little. He nodded now and then as if to encourage Wilt to continue. When the matter of the ransom demand came up, he took his time studying the note in the evidence bag. He appeared to be memorizing the note word-for-word. When he passed it back to Wilt, he took a sip of the cooked-down coffee.
“This doesn’t make a lot of sense if it’s the same guy who killed Cathy Dobbs,” Harriman said. “Unless he killed the her so the family of the next girl he grabbed would know he was serious about what he’d do if they didn’t pay up.”
“I don’t this so. A man who’d rape and murder a child isn’t in it for a payday. If this is the same guy, then Dana Moore is already dead.”
Harriman looked down at his carefully clipped fingernails. Wilt thought he could read the Special Agent’s mind. It was shaping up as a no-win situation for the Bureau. From the beginning, the Bureau liked good press too much to get themselves involved in losing situations. It was like the old doctor’s advice to the new doctor who’d come to town to start his practice. Young man, in your first year here, don’t let anybody you’re treating die. And he advised the young man to send all the hopeless cases to North Carolina Memorial or Duke or Bowman Gray.
Susie buzzer ended that speculation. “It’s Joe on the line.”
“The call just came in, Wilt.”
“Walk it by me.”
“He was, the way you figured, a very understanding kidnapper about the money. He’ll call back tomorrow and tell Moore where the money drop is.”
“Anything else?”
“Whoever it was, I think he’s been watching crime movies on television. From the way he sounded, I’d say he had a handkerchief over the phone mouthpiece.”
“Where’s Floyd?”
“With me. On second thought, I decided we ought to do the interviews in the door-to-door together.”
It was Joe Croft’s polite way of saying that, on second thought, he’d decided that Floyd didn’t have the brains or the experience to handle that job by himself. “Okay, Joe, get back on that door-to-door.”
There was a hesitation at Joe’s end of the line. “It’s getting late. We’re going to get complaints if we roll people out of bed to ask them questions.”
“Tell them to direct the complaints my way.” He looked at Harriman. The F.B.I. man seemed preoccupied, even bored, and he stared out the window past Wilt. “Look, remind them we’re talking about the life of a little child.”
Susie opened the door and waited until Wilt looked at her and nodded. “It’s the Chief on line two.”
“Joe, work at it for another hour. Then come in. I think we both need a few hours of sleep. We’ve got to be at the Moore apartment tomorrow when that call comes in.”
“See you in an hour.”
Wilt punched in line two.
“The tape is on its way to your office,” Amos said.
“That’s great, Chief. I was just telling Special Agent Harriman that you could really get the wheels moving.”
Harriman turned in his chair and stared at Wilt.
Wilt grinned at him.
“He’s there … right now?” Amos asked.
“Big as life,” Wilt said. “Now, we’re going to need to tape the next call, the one tomorrow.”
“I don’t know, Wilton. I stuck my neck out this time to get …”
“Not the same way, Amos. Tomorrow we tape it from the Moore apartment. How about the loan of the same technician and his equipment tomorrow? Send him to the Tall Pines, D-3, at ten in the morning.”
“I guess I can do that.”
“I appreciate it and I know Agent Harriman appreciates it too.”
When the call was over, Harriman stood and stretched. “You’re free with my name, Sheriff. I’m not sure I like it.”
“Sorry. But getting Chief Wilson to move on anything is like trying to kick Mount Rushmore one foot to the right.”
“As long as you don’t make a habit of it.”
Wilt watched Harriman pull on his raincoat. “You staying the night?”
“I thought I’d let you recommend a hotel.”
“The Holiday Inn’s two blocks over. Nothing special but no bad surprises either.”
Harriman said the Holiday Inn was fine.
Wilt followed Harriman into the lobby. He stopped by the switchboard. He told Susie to call the Holiday Inn and book a room for Harriman and that the Sheriff wanted the V.I.P. treatment for him.
Wilt walked outside with him and pointed him in the right direction. They agreed to meet at the Station at eight-thirty or nine the next morning.
After Harriman drove away, Wilt stood on the steps and let the wind beat against him. He took some deep breaths. After all the cigarette and the coffee, the air was like cold spring water.
“Hello.”
Wilt heard the shuddering, anxious breath Jonas Moore took before he spoke on the recording.
“You get the note?”
“Yes … yes, I got the note.”
“Do you have the money?”
“It’s not that easy. Please. The bank’s closed. I can’t get the money until tomorrow morning.”
“But you’ll get it then?”
“I promise.”
“And you didn’t call in the law?”
“No.” A flutter of breath. “I did what you … said.”
“I’ll call again tomorrow.”
“Wait a minute,” Jonas said.
“What?”
Wilt guessed that Joe was prompting Moore.
“Let me talk to Dana. How am I supposed to know she’s all right?”
“You don’t … until we get the money.”
“When?”
“When … what?”
“When will you call tomorrow?”
“When I feel like it.”
A click and the call was over.
Jonas Moore didn’t want to give up. “Wait … let me talk to Dana.”
There was a second click. Wilt guessed that Joe had taken the receiver from Moore and placed it on the base.
Wilt took the tape out of the player. After he locked the tape away in the safe, he walked into the lobby, leaned on the counter and grinned at Susie. “How you feeling?”
“I’m fine. I really am.” She covered a yawn and turned her head.
He considered her for a time. She’d been on all day with just rest breaks and now, by the wall clock, it was five of midnight. He could have asked her to stay another hour, until Joe and Floyd checked back in from Tall Pines. But he knew that was selfish. He couldn’t ask it of her. That decided, he moved behind the counter and got her heavy coat and scarf.
“Home,” he said. “And don’t come in until you feel rested.”
“Really, Wilt, you need sleep more than I ….”
Wilt shook his head and held her coat for her. He gave the scarf three or so turns around her neck. “Shoooo.”
“But you …”
He took her arm and walked her toward the front door.
“… you need your sleep.”
He guided her down the steps. “And I’ll get it as soon as Joe and Floyd come in. That ought to be in a half an hour or so.”
He watched her drive away and then returned and sat in her chair at the switchboard. He dozed. At twelve-thirty, he made a fresh pot of coffee. Joe and Floyd arrived a few minutes later.
Floyd was fresher. He’d had a good night’s sleep. Joe was bleary-eyed. Wilt assigned Floyd to the switchboard. Wilt left the Station while Joe was putting the camp cot together in the office.
Being head man had its advantages. He’d sleep in his own warm bed.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
He parked the cruiser in his assigned space at the Martindale apartments. It was a squarish, brick building that had been a hotel into the 1950s. A new owner converted blocks of rooms into apartments. The apartments even came furnished
but Wilt took a long look at the cigarette burns on the tables, the scarred dresser and the ratty rugs and drove straight to Sears and bought the complete outfit for the apartment.
He talked about bringing in a crew of painters but Joe said he and Floyd would help Wilt one weekend and get it all done. Wilt furnished the beer, all they could drink, and when they were done, knowing neither Joe nor Floyd would take pay, he gave each of them two quarts of Wild Turkey. One bourbon and one rye each.
Wilt settled in. A black woman cleaned two days a week for him.
At times, late at night, Wilt wondered why he just didn’t rent a room somewhere. For all the time he spent in the apartment, for all the use he got of it, he might as well have placed a bed in the hall of the station and let it go at that.
When he slammed the cruiser door, he heard another slam a distance away. It was so close to him that he almost decided it was an echo. He turned and looked over the cruiser in the direction of the second door slam. What he saw was Diane Mills with a large bag of groceries in front of her like an offering.
“I bet you haven’t had your supper.”
Wilt locked the cruiser door and walked around the back of it to meet her. “Not unless you count a candy bar and a peanut brittle.”
“Does that mean I can fix you supper?”
“They didn’t call it dinner at Coker College?”
“I didn’t.”
He took the bag of groceries from her and led the way up the stairs and into the lobby. The old elevator clacked and rattled as it carried them to the third floor.
Wilt placed the bag on the kitchen table and returned to the living room to help her remove her coat. The coat was leather but it was as supple as the kind used in making gloves.
She turned slowly, looking at his furniture. “Sears 1984.”
“Hey, it’s older than that. It’s Sears 1982.”
“Antiques,” she said.
“Only a young lady educated at the Coker Finishing School ….”
“Or a Carolina Tarfoot …”
“… could appreciate such classy furniture.”
“While we’re talking about classy.” She went into the kitchen and returned with a bottle of wine. “I wiped the dust and spider webs away after I selected it from my four thousand bottle cellar.”