The Boss’s Daughters

by Douglass, Carl;

  Caitlin gives the gathered crowd of volunteers pointers on how to look, see, and not be seen.

  “Remember, you have an equal value to the girls for whom we are searching. We do not want anything bad to happen to you. Don’t linger too long, make too many passes, or otherwise call attention to yourself in those worst areas. If you see something suspicious, call in. If you see something dangerous, take no action yourself. Call us or the police. We are determined that none of us will come to harm during this mission.

  “We are looking for two big black SUVs, but the kidnappers have probably ditched them by now. Ride with your windows down; walk slowly and all the time look for something out of place. Is a girl waving at you from an upstairs window? Is there a crude sign calling for help or displaying ‘SOS,’ or anything else to get your attention? Go with a partner, never alone. If you are approached by thugs or maybe even suspicious kidnappers, run, scream, call 9-1-1, or whatever it takes. Check in to headquarters—that’s here at St. Anne’s—every hour. Sister Ophelia and Brigid will be manning—or womaning—the phones. While I’ve been talking, McGee, Ivory, David, Craig, and Rosalie have marked up a map of Red Hook into search sections. Sister Ophelia and Brigid will keep a record of what areas have been covered.”

  Booker says, “Me and the homies will be organizing the vehicles. Our main job will be to patrol around and make sure you don’t run into any nice boys who forget their manners and need an attitude adjustment. Think of us as the safety inspectors.”

  Booker is a very large, very powerful-looking man with a shiny bald head, a single gold earring, and a wifebeater shirt. He works out, and his 250-pound frame is lean for all of its size. He is compact and has two gold front teeth with cutout stars which reveal the underlying brilliantly white incisors. He looks like a pirate about to overrun a crew trying to repel boarders. Ivory is a tall powerful man with very well-defined muscles. He has a lean and hungry look, like Shakespeare’s Cassius. He is no less an imposing creature than Booker, and no one has any doubts about the man’s ability to preserve and to protect those for whom he is charged to defend. The volunteers are—to a person—all glad to have Booker and Ivory on their side.

  Sister Ophelia smiles at her passing memory of Caesar speaking about men he wants and those he fears, “Yond Cassius has a lean and hungry look He thinks too much; such men are dangerous.”

  Chapter Ten

  Angelina Paxton/ Desireé Markee flies to Frankfurt in her husband’s 2014 Embraer Phenom 300 private jet. She is accompanied on the flight by Earl Hansen and Olivia Zenger, former DSS [US Diplomatic Security Service] special agents who are acting the roles of “valet and personal assistant” in public. The DSS is the federal law enforcement arm of the United States Department of State. Former Special Agents Hansen and Zenger were members of the Foreign Service charged with protecting diplomats before they became well-paid senior officers of McGee & Associates Investigations working under Ivory White. The two officers are not known to people outside the firm, and they are discreet to the point of being tedious about secrets. They will shadow the woman whom they know only as the mother of kidnapped children who is, herself, in danger. They will remain in constant contact with Ivory, and Ivory will update McGee regularly.

  Mrs. Paxton exits the plane within five minutes of taxiing to the VIP private hangars of [FRA] Flughafen Frankfurt am Main escorted only by a liveried valet and her personal assistant. Ten minutes after that, the kidnappers in Red Hook, New York, are aware of her whereabouts and the route of her travel to Deutsche Bank Investment & FinanzCenter on Friedrich-Breuer-Strasse, Bonn.

  The Mercedes drives to the rear VIP entrance of the bank where she is met by Herr Derrick von Krankenheiser and escorted to the fifth floor offices of “Special Investments.”

  “We are pleased that you have chosen Deutsche Bank for your business, Mrs. Paxton. We were informed that time is of the essence. Would you care for a glass of wine while our transaction is underway?”

  “No thank you, Herr von Krankenheiser, but a glass of water would be nice.”

  The bank officer turns to a secretary and says, “Wasser für Frau Paxton, bitte.”

  “Now, do you have the bank name and account number where the money is currently being held?”

  “I do.”

  She gives him the information.

  “Excuse me, please. I will communicate by e-mail with my counterparts in the US and Istanbul. It will not take long.”

  “I’m fine.”

  Twenty minutes later, Herr Krankenheiser returns.

  “The funds are presently residing in account AP05/22/2020SPI, TExpress25MUSD. It will be necessary for you to have this number immediately available to complete your transaction in Turkey. At the Finansbank, you will conduct the funds transfer and receive your bearer bonds in TL [Turkish lira] with the help of bank vice president, Bey Erbey Kızılkaya. Finansbank will provide full security for you as long as you are on Turkish soil or in Turkish airspace. I have a printout for you. Have you any questions, Mrs. Paxton?”

  “No, sir. Thank you for your service. I need to be on my way. There is a time-sensitive issue in my business needs.”

  “I wish you a safe and pleasant journey, then.”

  Angelina leaves the VIP private hangar in Frankfurt one and a half hours later, bound for Istanbul. As promised, Bey Erbey Kızılkaya and a staff of four meets Angelina and her “valet and assistant”—Earl Hansen and Olivia Zenger—who pose convincingly in their benign roles.

  It is after hours when they touch down in IST [Istanbul Atatürk Airport], and the three of them are exhausted. They take a taxi to the Sheraton Istanbul Atakoy Hotel and crash for the night. They sleep in and have a big breakfast before calling the bank. Angelina calls Finansbank and the receptionist assures her that a limo will be along presently.

  As promised, a limousine arrives at the hotel’s front door, and Angelina, Earl, and Olivia are whisked to the Finans Bank Anonim Şirketi on Büyükdere Cad. No: 129 Mecidiyeköy. They are met by the bank vice president.

  “How nice to meet you, Mrs. Paxton,” Bey Kizilkaya says, offering his hand to Angelina and ignoring the servants.

  “I have taken the liberty of having the staff pour glasses of our pleasant nonalcoholic ayran, a yogurt, salt, and water mix. I think you will find it refreshing.”

  Even the servants are given a glass; and, indeed, it is refreshing. It has been a long couple of days.

  Because of the size of the transaction and the bank’s fee, Bey Kizilkaya and his staff work overtime to produce the bearer bonds. Each bond is in the TL equivalent of $10,000 USD—2,500 certificates, each carrying the notation, “Payable to Bearer.” Each certificate is printed on beige-colored 28 pound stock paper the size of a half sheet of standard type paper. After two countings carried out in Angelina’s presence, the bonds are boxed into six ream-size packages and sealed in a box with the logo of the Finansbank, Istanbul.

  Bey Kizilkaya offers his hand to Angelina and says, “Thank you for bringing your business to us. If we can ever be of service again, please let me know. Here is my card. I am sure that you are well aware of the downsides of bearer bond ownership, but it is my duty to remind you. You will be unable to cash these unregistered bonds in the United States. The applicable law is the Tax Equity and Fiscal Responsibility Act of 1982. These Turkish bonds are backed by the bank and the government of Turkey. The holder of these bearer bonds need only submit certificates to the issuer’s agent and can thereby anonymously cash them in for their face value. While that is expeditious and may suit special needs of the bearer, it also creates great risk for you as the legitimate owner. If they’re lost or stolen, there is virtually no way to prove who the rightful beneficiary is. In that case, since there is no registration at the time of purchase, the holder—you—who should be entitled to the proceeds—will be out of luck. Do you have any questions for me, Mrs. Paxton?”

  “No thank you, Bey Kizilkaya. I understand and accept the risks. Despite the lat
e hour, we need to return to the United States early tomorrow morning.”

  “Our security service will escort you and the bonds until you are safely aboard your aircraft. I wish you well, madam.”

  At six the next morning, Angelina, Earl Hansen, and Olivia Zenger are taken in a protective convoy back to the airport from the Sheraton and sink into their comfortable recliner seats on the luxurious Embraer Phenom 300. They still have a sleep debt to pay; so, they sleep almost the entire way back home to New York City.

  The search of Red Hook, Brooklyn, is thorough, efficient, well-coordinated, and successfully surreptitious. It takes four days. McGee drops in to meet Dominic Lanza, head of what once was the Colombo crime family in his usual haunt, the Terzaghi Wine and Dine on Hicks. Nothing comes of the meeting; but, nonetheless, McGee is satisfied that the don really does not know anything about the kidnapping of Damien Markee’s daughters. That leads to the conclusion that the abductions were not associated with any of the five families either, because Dominic is too well-connected to be naïve about the activities of la cosa nostra. The crew takes two days to canvass the stretch of blocks between the Bergen and Carroll train stops. This is Red Hook at its best and raunchiest. The neighborhood offers a dense concentration of bars ranging from historic, to divey, to speakeasy, to sexy cocktail date spots, to rustic wine bars, and to rowdy sports crowds, all with little pretension or attention to updating or maintenance, but with copious character. The result—like McGee’s inquiries into the possible involvement of the mafia—is a cipher. The last two days are devoted to an intensive scrutiny—as much as possible without becoming obvious—of the Point and the areas around the projects. Like Harlem, the population is a diverse ethnic, color, language, and religious composition often with dubious citizenship status. Again—like Harlem’s lower south end—this section of Red Hook missed out on city gentrification projects.

  Most of the area’s religious buildings are storefront churches, which operate in an empty store, a basement, or a converted old brownstone townhouse. The congregations have fewer than fifty members each, but there are hundreds of them. The good people of the churches, like all good New Yorkers, respond to questions with an “I don’t want to get involved” shoulder shrug. The same responses come from the many cabarets, speakeasies, street artists, and the jazz scene. Street crimes and the murder rate are ten times the average of the more affluent parts of the five boroughs, and it is not surprising that the population is reticent to talk to anyone who is even suggestive of involvement with police.

  The project to learn where Cinnamon and Paprika Paxton are being held is not helped by the omnipresence of social ills: Red Hook suffers from one of the highest jobless rates in New York City, teenage pregnancy, AIDS, drug abuse, homelessness, spousal and child abuse, prostitution, and an asthma rate five or six times the national average. It vies with Harlem for the distinction of having the second highest concentration of public housing in the United States. Also, like Harlem, Red Hook has a high concentration of shelters and facilities: homeless shelters, drug and alcohol treatment facilities, and mental health treatment centers. The process of asking questions in those facilities is fruitless and discouraging.

  Most of the homes are low-rise residential buildings on avenues or major cross streets. Many have sealed-up residential floors, despite having commercial businesses on the ground floor. All of the McGee and St. Anne’s volunteers overcome their fear and repulsion as they talk to the downtrodden inhabitants. Hidden in the alleys and doorsteps of Red Hook—as is the case in the center of many other US cities and in many areas of rural America—is a vast network of invisible, inarticulate, impoverished citizens, and illegal immigrants living out lives of quiet desperation, one paycheck away from disaster. The regular citizens of America—the “citizens”—occasionally see the homeless sleeping in cardboard boxes, panhandling for cash for food or to feed their addictions, or in the news after being accused of a crime, usually a violent one. Most of the American population finds it easy to look the other way. Likewise, the disenfranchised people in much of Red Hook with their insurmountable barriers of class, income, race, culture, language, education, and life’s experience, live by the creed of “Hear no evil, see no evil, speak no evil.” They are almost entirely separated from the greater America in which they live. The result is no progress towards finding Cinnamon and Paprika.

  Until near the end of the fourth day of effort. Brigid O’Hanlon persuades Sister Ophelia, McGee, and Caitlin to let her have a try. She bravely walks the streets—with an unseen security force of Ivory White’s homies shadowing her—amidst the explosion of graffiti on buildings, cars, trucks, buses and school yards. There is trash everywhere. Because of so much shoplifting, grocery stores only operate in very few Red Hook locations, and there are none in the area where Brigid is walking and talking to the down and out. She is a bright girl and knows the desperation faced by the women and their children. More importantly, almost all of them recognize her as the poster child of the Wednesday’s Child kidnapping case and instinctively trust the beautiful adolescent.

  She stops to talk to a thirty-something-year-old mother of two young girls—both of whom should be in school, but the mother—who was deserted by her boyfriend—cannot afford clothes decent enough for her daughters to be seen in school.

  “Hi,” Brigid says with her signature fetching smile, “I’m Brigid. Could you take a second to look at these pictures of two little girls who were kidnapped?”

  Letting down her guard for a few minutes because Brigid is so obviously not a threat, the young mother says, “Maybe. You’re the one that got took from the orphanage by the Snakeheads, ain’t you?”

  “Yes, and I want to save these two little girls if there is any chance. Have you seen them?”

  She looks and then offers, “I might have seen them. I done a little cleaning in a real bad dirty place … over on Adams Ave. near the Red Hook Houses East.”

  “That’s close to the orphanage where I live.”

  “Yeah. Anyways, while I was there, I seen a little black girl standing at the top of the stairs lookin’ very sad. That ain’t all that unusual ‘round here, but what was different was that she had real uptown clothes on. Her dress was probly worth more’n all the clothes me and my kids got altogether. It wasn’t none of my business; so, I pretty much forgot about it. I got my own problems.”

  “Think you could take me there?”

  “Nah, it’s too far. Me and my kids didn’t get nuthin’ to eat today. We would not be able to make it that far.”

  “I can get a car to take us. And plenty of food. Please do this for me.”

  “I’m ascared. If these people are the kidnappers, they are probly killers, too. I gotta think about my own daughters. I just can’t do it. I’m sorry.”

  “They will never know that you or your little girls are involved. See those big guys over there across the street? They are my protectors. Let me call them over, and you’ll see. They can keep us safe. It’ll take a while, but we can get a car here and get some real tough people to go with you to the building. What do you say?”

  “I don’t know….”

  “What’s your name? Mine’s Brigid, Brigid O’Hanlon.”

  “I’m Anna Bella.”

  “Please, Anna Bella, you are a mother. Think how the mother of those girls feels. She must be half-crazy with worry.”

  “Okay, but you have to guarantee that nobody can see me. Promise?”

  “Cross my heart and hope to die.”

  Chapter Eleven

  Half an hour later, Brigid, Anna Bella, and her two daughters, are sitting at the dinner table in St. Anne’s orphanage eating generous helpings of rich chicken noodle soup and soft fresh whole wheat bread smeared with butter and strawberry jam. Sister Ophelia, McGee, Caitlin, Ivory, Booker, Father O’Leary, and seven of Ivory’s homies, are gathered around the table waiting patiently until the famished mother and children eat their fill.

  Sister Ophelia gives
Anna Bella an oversized black hoodie, and Brigid finds her a pair of large opaque sunglasses.

  “You sure nobody’s gonna see me?” she asks anxiously.

  “Absolutely,” McGee tells her.

  McGee has a reassuring authoritarian presence about him, and Anna Bella relaxes.

  They leave the orphanage in three separate nondescript vehicles. The men and Caitlin are armed to the teeth and surround the skinny little mother in a protective human shield which is the equivalent of a scrum by the Chicago Lions Rugby club. She is frightened but feels safe enough to peek out the window as they make the first of three passes by the building Anna Bella remembers.