“Is Kristie awake now?” Buck asked.
“No. Shortly after waking up, Ms. Karlsson fell back to sleep.”
Just then they heard a soft, weak voice say, “I’m not asleep, I’m awake.”
Buck, Jake, and Janet rushed to Kristie’s bedside.
“Do you know who I am?” Jake asked.
Her eyes widened, Kristie gazed up at Jake and smiled faintly. She giggled. “Yeah, I do. You’re Santa Claus, and those two are your helpers.”
“Seriously, do you know who I am?”
Kristie laughed. “I’m not senile yet. I know who you are. You’re my baby brother, Jake.”
Buck chuckled, Janet cried, and Jake grinned.
“It’s good to see you haven’t lost your sense of humor,” Buck said.
“How did I end up in here?”
Buck went on to explain what had happened the morning they went jogging. After finishing the story, he asked. “Do you remember anything?”
“Can’t say that I do.”
“The bump on your head you received when you saved my life at Starbucks was a lot more serious than you thought or let on. Do you remember what happened that day?”
“Not really. My head hurts like hell, and my mind’s a little fuzzy.”
“I hope you don’t mind,” Jake said. “Buck set us up in your condo. We’re staying in the spare bedroom.”
“I’d be insulted if you stayed anywhere else. I hope you don’t mind the mess.”
“It’s perfect. We appreciate it,” Janet said.
Kristie’s eyes began to droop, and in a few seconds, she was snoring softly.
“That’s it for now, folks. It’s best we let Ms. Karlsson sleep. She needs to build up her strength,” the nurse said.
Two days after Kristie regained consciousness, she was transferred to a private room on the eighth floor. When Buck, Jake, and Janet entered the room, Kristie was sitting up in bed reading a magazine. She smiled when she saw them, put the magazine down, and said, “Good morning.”
“You’re sounding and looking chipper this morning,” Janet said. “How are you feeling?”
“I’m almost feeling normal. My headache’s gone, and I’m actually eating solid food. I guess that’s a good sign.”
“Damn right it is,” Jake said, grinning from ear to ear.” He went over and kissed Kristie on the cheek.
“And what about you, Buck? You’re awfully quiet this morning.”
“I’m speechless. You look amazing.”
Buck took her hand and kissed Kristie softly on the lips.
Jake and Janet couldn’t help but notice the feelings Buck and Kristie had for one another.
“I’m itching to get out of here and get back to work. If I have to stay in this hospital much longer, I’ll go bonkers.”
“I know how you feel,” Buck said. “But you’d better listen to Dr. Scott. He said it could take a couple of months before you can even think about returning to the job.”
“Yeah, you’re right, but I’d much rather be recuperating at home.”
During her stay in the hospital, Captain Robertson came to visit Kristie every second day. Her room was overflowing with flowers and get-well cards from friends and acquaintances at the NYPD. Police Commissioner George Gowan and Mayor Jackson Chandler had each dropped by with flowers and best wishes for a speedy recovery.
Ten days after they had arrived, Jake and Janet said their goodbyes and headed back home. By this time Kristie was able to get out of bed on her own and take short walks in the hallway.
A few weeks after Jake and Janet had left, Kristie was released from the hospital. The day Buck picked her up, he had insisted that she stay with him so he could keep an eye on her. Kristie reluctantly agreed, but before heading to Buck’s condo, she asked to make one stop. Buck waited in the car. Twenty minutes later, Kristie came out wearing a broad smile and a blonde wig.
“Amazing! That wig looks like your real hair. I can’t tell the difference,” Buck said.
“Yeah, it looks great. It’ll have to do until my hair grows back. At least I look like my old self again.”
Buck was pleased to see Kristie looking so happy and sounding like her confidence was back.
A home care nurse visited Kristie every day for the first two weeks to make sure she was taking her meds and to help her with personal hygiene and an exercise program. The operation had not affected Kristie’s memory or speech, so a speech therapist was not required.
Just over two months from the day of her operation, after visiting with Dr. Scott, Kristie was given his approval to return to work on a limited basis. He cautioned her not to overdo it and to keep her hours to no more than thirty per week.
The first day back on the job, a few minutes before five, Kristie’s cell phone rang. She checked the screen and frowned. “How did you get my cell number?”
Curious, Buck looked up from the report he was working on and stared at Kristie’s angry face.
“Don’t you remember, a while back you called me asking about Brian Hubert. Your number came up on my screen, and I jotted it down.”
“What do you want?”
“I’ve been doing a lot of thinking. I still love you and was hoping we could try again. I’m sorry for what happened. I was immature. Because you worked crazy hours and were never home, I tried to get even.”
“It’s too late for sorry, Trent. I’ve moved on, and I don’t love you anymore. I’m happy with my life, and it doesn’t include you.”
“Does it include your partner, Buck Woods? Are you two shacking up?”
“That’s none of your business.”
“I followed you a few times and saw you go into a condo complex on Palisades Avenue with him.”
“Have you been stalking me?”
“Not really. I just wanted to talk to you. But you were never alone. You were always with Woods.”
“I’m hanging up now. Don’t ever call me again. And if I find out that you’re stalking me, I’ll have you arrested.”
“But…”
After Kristie had hung up, she was still fuming.
“What was that all about?”
“That was Trent, my ex.”
Kristie told Buck the story. When she had finished, she said, “My nerves are shot. I want to get out of here. Let’s go to my place, and I’ll cook you dinner.”
“I’ve got a better idea. Why don’t I take you out to dinner? A little wine should help you to relax. After dinner, we can go to a movie.”
“That sounds good. What’s playing?”
“I don’t know, but we’ll find something.”
“Remind me to change my cell number tomorrow.”
CHAPTER 22
Following her regular routine, at six thirty on a Monday morning, Charlotte Carolina Chandler, the twenty-year-old daughter of recently elected New York City mayor Jackson Chandler, stepped out into the bright sunlight. She was standing at the front entrance of an exclusive condominium building on West 57th Street. The building was owned by her father and overlooked Central Park.
Charlotte’s father, a fifty-eight-year-old billionaire, was the majority stockholder in Robotics Inc., a NASDAQ-listed high-tech company he had founded twenty years ago. Jackson Chandler was only the second African-American to be elected mayor of NewYork City since David Dinkins held the office from 1990-1993. He and Charlotte, his only child, occupied the penthouse suite. Three winters ago, while on a family vacation, Chandler’s wife, Maria, fifty-two at the time, was killed in a freak skiing accident in Aspen. While on a downhill run, she caught an edge, lost control, and crashed head-first into a tree. Maria Chandler went into a coma and died two days later. Both father and daughter were devastated by the tragedy.
Before heading to Central Park for her daily jog, Charlotte inhaled the fresh morning air and exhaled slowl
y. She wore a black nylon windbreaker, black leggings, and a red toque that matched her red jogging shoes.
Charlotte was about to begin her routine stretching exercises when a white panel van squealed to a stop. The side door slid open, and two large men wearing black ski masks jumped out, grabbed Charlotte, and tossed her inside. As soon as the door closed, the driver hit the gas, and the van sped away.
It took a few seconds for Charlotte to realize what had just happened. “Who are you? What do you want?” she screamed. Before she could utter another word, she felt a sharp sting on her neck. A few seconds later Charlotte’s world went black.
“Good morning, Wanda,” Jackson Chandler said to his secretary.
Wanda Swan smiled. “Good morning, Mr. Mayor. How are you this morning?”
“Never better. The sun is shining, and I’m on the right side of the turf.”
Wanda laughed. “I should hope so. You’ll have to be above ground to deal with the busy day you have ahead of you.”
“Remind me again what’s on my agenda.”
“At ten you’ve got a meeting in the boardroom with the budget committee. At one, you’ve got a meeting in your office with Police Commissioner Gowan about police corruption. At three the Citizens Coalition will present you with some new ideas to help make the city a safer and better place in which to live. That meeting will take place in the boardroom.”
“Sounds like I’ve got a full day.”
“Indeed you do, Mr. Mayor.”
“Is the coffee ready?”
“It sure is. I’ll bring you a cup.”
“Thanks, Wanda.”
Chandler entered his office, removed his suit jacket, and draped it over the back of his chair. As he sat down he glanced up at the wall clock––8:05 a.m. It was too early to call Charlotte. She would still be out on her morning run. He was just about to review the minutes from the previous budget committee meeting when Wanda appeared at the door with his coffee.
“Thanks, my dear.”
“You’re welcome, Mr. Mayor.”
“By the way, when we’re alone, it’s okay to call me Jack. Mr. Mayor is too formal.”
“Okay, Mr.––um––Jack” Her face flushed. Wanda turned and quickly left the room.
Wanda Swan, who was in her late forties, had the body of a thirty-year-old. She exercised and jogged every day. Wanda had been divorced for almost five years and had not had a relationship until a month ago when Jackson Chandler (known as Jack to his close friends and business associates) asked her out to dinner. They hit it off, were attracted to one another, and found they had a lot in common. They became lovers after their third date.
Even though Jackson Chandler was almost ten years her senior, Wanda found him a sexy man. His six-foot toned body, his short, wiry gray hair, his twinkling brown eyes, and his rugged face with his neatly trimmed white beard reminded her of a younger version of Morgan Freeman.
At 9:00 a.m., Chandler picked up the phone and dialed. After four rings he heard Charlotte’s voicemail message. “Good morning, my dear. I just thought I’d give you a call to see how your jog in the park went. Sorry I missed you. You’re probably in the shower. No need to call me. It’s nothing important. I’ve got a crazy day ahead of me. See you this evening. Love you.”
When Charlotte awoke, her head was still fuzzy from whatever they had injected into her. She was lying on a saggy mattress on a single bed in a dark, musty-smelling room. As her eyes adjusted to the darkness, Charlotte looked around. The room was small, with concrete walls, a concrete floor, and no windows. She was in a basement. At the foot of the bed, she saw a white wooden chair, and in a corner, she spotted a toilet and a pedestal sink. She couldn’t tell if it was day or night. How long have I been unconscious? What time is it? Charlotte didn’t have a clue. Her watch and cell phone were missing. Where am I? There was no way of telling. She could be in Timbuktu for all she knew.
With a little effort, she managed to stand. Her legs felt weak and wobbly. Slowly she made her way to the door and turned the knob––locked. She pressed an ear to the door. All was quiet. Charlotte rattled the doorknob and screamed at the top of her lungs. “Let me out, let me out. Why am I here? Who are you? What do you want?” Silence.
Her heart pounding with fear, Charlotte stumbled to the chair and sat down. Her mind began to race. What is going on? Why have I been abducted? Probably because the kidnappers know my father is wealthy. Am I being held for ransom? That’s the only thing that makes any sense.
She had recently completed her first year in law school at NYU and was looking forward to spending the next few months working in the Robotics Inc. legal department. Now all her plans were in jeopardy. Stay calm, Charlotte, stay calm. Daddy will pay the ransom, and I will be freed. Stay positive, Charlotte, stay positive.
Her thoughts were interrupted by the sound of a deadbolt sliding, and then a key turning in the lock. The door opened, and a huge man wearing a ski mask entered the room carrying a tray. There was no way she would be able to identify him.
Charlotte yelled, “Who are you? What do you want? Why have you kidnapped me?”
Without a word, the man set the tray down on the floor next to her, turned, and left, locking the door behind him.
Charlotte had been too preoccupied to even think about food. As her stomach growled, she realized it must be around noon. Glancing down at the tray, Charlotte saw a bowl of steaming chicken noodle soup, crackers, a ham and cheese sandwich on rye bread, and a glass of milk. She hesitated for a moment. Her stomach growled again. She picked up the tray, placed it on her lap, and began to eat.
At 9:45 a.m., Mayor Chandler’s cell phone rang. The screen showed Charlotte’s name.
“Hi, my dear, how did your run go?”
“Good morning, Mr. Mayor,” a distorted voice said.
“Who is this? Where’s Charlotte? What do you want?”
“I’m using your beautiful daughter’s cell phone. Listen carefully. We have Charlotte. At the moment she is unharmed. If you want her back alive, you must do exactly as I say. Any deviation from my instructions and your daughter is dead. And don’t attempt to trace this call. If we smell any cops, your daughter will be killed immediately. Have I made myself clear?”
It took a few seconds for Chandler to process what he had just heard. “Yes, you’ve made yourself clear. How do I know you have my daughter? I want proof of life. If she’s there let me speak with her.”
“Just a second,” the garbled voice said.
Charlotte’s panic-stricken voice came on the line. “Daddy, are you there? I’m scared.”
“Yes, my dear, I’m here. Don’t be afraid. Are you okay? Have they hurt you?”
“I was drugged, but I’m okay. I’m not hurt.”
Before Chandler could say another word, the distorted voice came back on the line.
“Now that you know we have your precious daughter, here’s what I want you to do.”
“I’m listening.”
“First, I want you to do a wire transfer of twenty-five million US dollars. You have forty-eight hours in which to complete the transaction. Second, you are to obtain the release of Lieutenant Karl Kruger. Your daughter will be exchanged for Kruger at a time and place that will be given to you after we have confirmed the money has been transferred. Third, the only cop we want to see is the one driving the car with Kruger in it. If we see any other police at the exchange location or anywhere nearby, your daughter will be killed––no second chances. Do you understand these instructions?”
“Yes. I understand, but there could be a problem. I don’t have that kind of cash just sitting around. To get your money, I’ll have to sell stocks. If I do it today, I won’t have the settlement for three business days. That’s the earliest I’ll be able to make the transfer. And I don’t have the authority to get Kruger out of jail. The only person who can do that is Police
Commissioner Gowan.”
“Then you’d better get busy and work it out with Gowan. And you’d better not be screwing me around about the money. I’ll call you in four days. If the money’s not transferred by then, you will never see your daughter alive again. Do you have a pen handy?”
“Yes.”
“Here’s the banking information you will need.”
Chandler wrote down the account and routing numbers. He repeated them back to make sure they were correct. The numbers were for Kruger’s offshore account.
“How do I know you won’t kill my daughter even if I meet all your requirements?”
“You don’t. You’ll just have to trust me.” The distorted voice laughed and hung up.
After the line went dead, Jackson Chandler sat at his desk, his mind in overdrive. What started out as a typical day had suddenly turned into a nightmare. Coming up with the money wouldn’t be a problem, but getting Kruger out of jail could be next to impossible without the commissioner’s help. He buzzed Wanda.
“Yes, Mr.––Jack.”
“Wanda, something important has come up, and I need you to cancel all of today’s appointments. Don’t bother about Commissioner Gowan, I’ve got to call him. I’ll cancel his appointment myself.”
“What is it? What should I tell everyone?”
“I’m sorry, I can’t discuss it. Just say I wasn’t feeling well and had to go home.”
“Okay. I’ll take care of it.”
“Thanks, Wanda. You’re an angel.”
Chandler picked up the phone and dialed. After two rings he heard, “Commissioner Gowan’s office.”
“Hi, Dorothy, it’s Mayor Chandler. Is he available?”
“I’m sorry, he’s on the phone. Would you care to hold?”
New York City Murders Page 17