The Boss’s Daughters

by Douglass, Carl;

“Is this the one, Anna Bella?” Ivory asks.

  “Yes, sir.”

  “You sure?”

  “Yes, sir. Absolutely.”

  “Take Anna Bella back to St. Anne’s,” McGee orders. “Then get back here as fast as you can. We’ll surround the place and then move in as unseen and unheard as possible.”

  Once everyone is in place, Caitlin makes a suggestion, “A woman alone would be less threatening. Let me go up and knock on the door and see if somebody comes to answer. We can get an idea about who—if anybody—is there.”

  McGee is reluctant; but he knows Caitlin is right; s,o he okays her request.

  “Careful. We don’t need a hero, especially a dead one. That clear, Caitlin?”

  “Crystal.”

  McGee speaks into his cell phone, “Everybody in place and ready?”

  A series of quick “yeses” follow.

  Caitlin walks up to the door. She is dressed in an old tee shirt, worn denim pants, and work boots. She is carrying a handful of papers.

  She knocks and waits, then knocks again. Then again a third time—much louder. She looks back at McGee’s car and shakes her head.

  McGee makes the conference cell phone call, “Move in.”

  The team moves as unobtrusively as possible to the doors and first floor windows as they can, and everyone calls in to announce their readiness.

  “Go,” McGee says, and a storm of powerful athletic men in black break down the doors and two windows and hurl themselves into the main floor under a screen of flash-bang grenades. McGee’s soldiers run room to room and through the smoke and confusion call out, “Clear, clear, clear!” from every room.

  Caitlin makes a quick search.

  “They were here. There’s two suitcases with girl’s nice clothes in one of the bedrooms, and boxes of kid type food.”

  McGee is furious, and his face droops with disappointment.

  “We missed them. We were so close. They must have been spooked by Anna Bella seeing one of the girls or by seeing our presumably invisible search teams. I am going to man up and tell Angelina Paxton and Damien the bad news, then I’m going home to get into bed with a fifth of Jack Daniels, assume the fetal position, and turn the electric blanket up to nine.”

  “We know how you feel, boss,” Caitlin and Ivory say, equally disappointed.

  Chapter Twelve

  Angelina arrives by taxi from the airport to the 142 West 129th Street in uptown Harlem condo late the next afternoon. McGee, Ivory, and Caitlin are waiting in her living room. They each have a key to the condo, and their men have been unobtrusively guarding the place; so, no one can break in or set up a bomb.

  She is carrying the boxes of bearer bonds, and the cabbie is carrying her luggage. McGee stands up and gives the cabbie a generous tip while Angelina fetches herself a good stiff drink.

  “Do you have the documents?” Ivory asks, leery that—despite all their efforts—there could be a listening device somewhere in the house.

  “I do. No problems through customs or in putting the box in the overhead bin for the flight. A nice gentleman helped lift the box into the bin for me. How about you guys? Did you learn anything? Are there any changes in the situation?”

  Caitlin tells her, “Angelina, we do have news. We got a tip and found the new place where the kidnappers were keeping the girls. We told you about it during our last communication with you as soon as you got off the plane. Maybe you were too pooped to comprehend after that transatlantic flight. Unfortunately, by the time we could get there, they were already gone. It’s almost as if they were tipped off. The only people who had the exact information about that place were the three of us, Sister Ophelia, and Brigid O’Hanlon … oh, and you, of course. Our partnership survives and flourishes because of our absolute loyalty to each other and to our clients. And you are their mother. We are probably just overly suspicious and mad because we lost them. We have launched an all-out search through the day today and turned up nothing.”

  “It is heartening to get another tidbit of evidence that indicates that they are alive. Look, this news comes as kind of a shock; so, I think I’ll go to my room and try and think things through. I’ll be out and ready to resume the fight in about half an hour.”

  “We’ll be here. Try and sleep.”

  Caitlin busies herself on Angelina’s laptop and finds nothing new except two icons she cannot figure out how to open. She makes a mental note to ask Angelina the next time they have a chance to talk. About an hour later, Angelina’s throw-away cell phone plays its tune. It is sitting on the coffee table. Caitlin picks it up.

  “No ID. This is probably the perps. I’ll get Angelina.”

  She hands the burner to Angelina after the third ring.

  “Hello,” she says with apprehension hanging in her voice.

  “People came to the place where we were keeping the kids. What’s up with that? Did you sic the cops on us?”

  “I did not, and Damien could never bring himself to talk to any cop except one he owns.”

  “Maybe. I better not find out you’re lying.”

  “I’m not. Why did you call this time?”

  “Have the next set of instructions. Did you get the bearer bonds?”

  “Yes, I did. They are in a safe place and ready to make the exchange.”

  “This is the crucial time. You—and nobody else—come to the back entrance of the Super 8 Motel in Albany. 1579 Central Ave, a few blocks north of I-87.

  “I’ve never been to Albany. Can you give me some directions?”

  “Are you stallin’ me, trying to have the cops get a fix on where I’m callin’ from?”

  “Certainly not. I just need to be sure where to go; so, I don’t screw up.”

  “Remember, a lie could be fatal. Well, here goes: Interstate 87 is located entirely within New York State. Get on it from the Bronx approach to the Triborough Bridge and drive pretty much northward through the Hudson Valley and the Capital District. Turn east on I-787 and look for exit 2 onto the 5 and turn north onto it. That’s Central Avenue. Follow it until you see the sign for the motel. It’s a big one.”

  “Hang on a second, I’m writing all that down.”

  She repeats the instructions.

  “That’s right. Come alone. Bring the paper. No GPS trackers. No helicopters. No drones. No nothin’ else. If you deviate in the slightest way, we’ll know. Be here at exactly noon tomorrow. Got all that?”

  “Yes, sir. Don’t hurt my girls.”

  Click.

  Angelina turns to look at McGee, Ivory, and Caitlin.

  “Did you hear all that?”

  “Got it all.”

  “Did you record it; so, Damien can hear it, not just hear about it?”

  “We did. Now we have to get you ready for the meeting.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “We need to get a tracking device on you and your car and some tiny listening devices on you. We have the latest equipment that the FBI uses….”

  Angelina interrupts McGee, “No, no, and a thousand times no! None of that stuff. I am going all alone. You are not to follow me, even electronically. Those are my girls, and I am going to do everything that monster wants to get them back. Don’t tell me that I can’t trust him. I know all about that. It’s still my decision.”

  “Angelina,” Caitlin says, “think about it for a sec. If this goes south on you, there’s no recourse. They could get away with the untraceable bonds, kill the children, or even kill you or kidnap you. Who knows what people like this are capable of? Just think about it.”

  “I already have. It is a terrible decision to have to make; but I have to do something; and this is the best thing to do of all the terrible possibilities. Don’t get in my way.”

  Angelina’s eyes are burning, daring anyone to stand in her path.

  McGee says, “All right, Angelina. It’s on you. It is against our advice, and we want you to sign a paper to that effect.”

  “If it’ll get you of
f my back, I’ll sign it. You write one up, and I will take you off the hook.”

  “Please reconsider, Angelina,” Ivory pleads, but he knows it is a lost cause.

  She looks him hard in the eyes and enunciates clearly, “NO.”

  For some reason, Damien cannot be reached immediately. He finally returns McGee’s call at nine that night.

  “Damien. Come up to Angelina’s place. We have something important to talk about, and the phone is not a good idea.”

  “All right. I have something going at the moment that can’t wait. I should be there in about forty-five minutes.”

  The three partners of McGee & Associates Investigations sit in the comfortable living room chairs to have a short power nap before Damien arrives, knowing that they will need all of their strength to withstand the firestorm that is coming.

  Determined not to let Damien dominate her, Angelina takes matters into her own hands. She packs a small bag of the necessaries and slips out of her bedroom window onto the fire escape and as quietly as possible descends to the ground. She intentionally parked her car on the street when she came in for just such an eventuality. She drives away and onto the I-87. She finds a small anonymous, off the highway, Choice Motel in Nyack and hides out for the night.

  The three partners are watching TV when Damien walks in.

  “Tell me,” he says.

  McGee tells him about the call, the instructions, and Angelina’s decision.

  “She wants you to hear our recording of the call before you talk to her.”

  Damien listens to the entirety of the recording with growing dismay and anger. He has nothing to say to the private investigators. He walks directly to Angelina’s bedroom door and knocks, although he could just barge right in.

  There is no answer to two more attempts, each louder than the first. He tries the knob. Locked. He bangs hard on the door and is once again greeted with silence. He does a spinning back kick and smashes the door off its hinges and onto the bedroom floor.

  “Desireé!” he yells as he strides quickly towards the closed bathroom door.

  He is in no mood for coquetry or any nonsense about her going to Albany alone.

  “Open it!” he yells in a voice that has made strong man incontinent.

  He only demands once. When the door remains closed and no sound comes from the bathroom, he kicks it down just like the bedroom door and pushes his way in. McGee, Ivory, and Caitlin are behind him, worried that in his irrational state he could do great harm to his wife.

  Damien’s face is purple.

  “She’s gone.”

  “Where?” asks Ivory.

  Caitlin is already looking for how she could have gotten by them. It takes about two seconds to fix her gaze on the window that opens out onto the fire escape.

  “She got out through here,” she says.

  “I’m going after her,” Damien says and makes a determined march to the bedroom exit.

  “Stop!” say both McGee and Ivory.

  He pauses.

  McGee says, “Listen up for a minute, Damien. You’ll never find her tonight. Her cell phone is gone; so, maybe we can get hold of her.”

  Caitlin has her on speed dial and gets the terse message, “Leave your number and I’ll get back to you.”

  She shrugs in defeat.

  “I am going to that crappy little Motel 8 in Albany right now. I’ll get a room and wait around until noon. I’ll stop her and keep that meeting from happening.”

  He begins to leave the room.

  “What do you think will happen to your girls—including Desireé—if you do, Damien?”

  Damien’s face contorts in anger, frustration, helplessness, and sadness. He sags and takes a seat on the couch in the living room.

  “It’s the right choice for the moment,” Ivory reassures his old BK gang leader. “I guess we’ll just have to trust her judgment, much as I hate being in that position.”

  Damien rubs his eyes and shakes his head back and forth.

  “You’re right. We’d better sleep on it and decide what, if anything, we can do before noon tomorrow.”

  Damien and the three McGee Associates agree on one thing the next morning, at least. They will drive up to Albany and find a place a few blocks away from the Motel 8. There are differences of opinion about what to do once they are there.

  The three men and Caitlin argue and plot, plan, replan, and fight over what to do as they sit around nervously in their Hilton Express Inn room through the morning. None of them is in the mood to eat, and the TV is just a nerve-wracking distraction.

  McGee wins the argument for the time being. It is just too dangerous to approach the motel, however careful they might think they can be.

  “So, we’ll just sit here on our cans until she calls one of us or until we can’t stand it anymore, and we call her,” says Damien in a rare gesture of defeat.

  “How long do you think we should wait before we call?” Caitlin asks.

  After a few halfhearted suggestions and countersuggestions, they agree to wait until one o’clock but not a minute longer.

  The time moves with glacial celerity. Ten, ten-fifteen, eleven, eleven-thirty … twelve.

  “She should be having the meet right now,” says Damien. “I like to be an optimist and think that she is handing over the bearer bonds, and the kidnappers are leaving Desireé in the room for a few minutes while they fetch the girls. Happy reunion.”

  His facial expression does not match his words.

  Twelve-fifteen. Twelve-thirty. The four keep one eye on their watches and the other eye looking at the other three people. There is nothing else to pass the time.

  One o’clock, straight up.

  Damien opens his iPhone and thumbs down to Desireé’s number in the phone book. He touches the number. The cell phone rings six times. No answer. He does it again and then again.

  “You try, Caitlin. Maybe I’m too nervous to do it right.”

  She tries, but has no illusions that she will do any better than Damien.

  One-fifteen.

  “Let’s go,” Damien says and rises from his seat.

  “Okay, but more like a ninja than the cavalry, okay, Damien?” McGee says quietly.

  “Of course. I’m not some dumb young kid, McGee.”

  It takes them twenty minutes to get up close to the motel.

  “Angelina’s car’s not here,” Caitlin observes.

  “Let’s show the manager her picture and watch him every second as we do. He could be in cahoots with the kidnappers, for all we know,” says Ivory.

  The man shows the four visitors a blank face in response to the photograph.

  “Never seen her.”

  “We’re going to check out the rooms. We’ll pay for the room of anybody we disturb who doesn’t have anything to do with this lady. You are going to come along with us and open every door. There’s a C note in it for you if you cooperate,” Damien says, and the manager immediately grasps the logic, especially as he locks his eyes with Damien’s cosmic blackhole eyes.

  The third room they enter contains a terrible shock.

  Tacked to the foot board of the bed is a note created from crude cutout magazine letters, “SUCKERS. We got your wife, and we still got your brats. We got your money, too. Want them back? Cough up another 25 mil. Got your cell number from the sweet little mother. Expect a call in three or four hours. Signed: The Smart Kidnappers and two smiley face drawings.

  Damien looks as if someone just drove a dull 2 X 4 through his chest. He stands mute, his face contorted in a towering rage which is frightening to the other three—not so much for themselves, but for what erratic actions lie behind that devil’s mask.

  McGee and his partners scour the room for any kind of a clue, taking care not to touch anything and inadvertently leave their prints.

  “I’ll get someone from the office to come up and dust the place, but I don’t have much faith that we’ll turn anything useful up. These places much have hundreds—if
not thousands of prints. It’ll take months to follow up on all of them,” Caitlin says.

  Chapter Thirteen

  They return to Manhattan and sit in the McGee & Associates Investigations offices waiting for the call with a sense of doom—like the sword of Damocles—hanging over them. The call comes three hours later. It is nine-thirty.

  “Hello,” Damien says to his cell phone.

  “You know who this is.”

  “Not really. How about a name?”

  “That’s a great joke, big man. You ought to get your act together and take it on the road.”

  “So, what’s the plan? You seem to hold all the cards.”

  “How perceptive of you. So, we’ll get right to the point. Twenty-five mil in unregistered Turkish bearer bonds by five days from now. Damien goes alone, makes the deposits, makes the arrangements, collects the paper, and gets back to the city in time to field a call at this same time five days down the road. Questions?”

  “Proof of life or no deal.”

  “Oh, slipped my mind. I’ve been so busy. How’s this?”

  The kidnapper shows a photograph of all three of his female family members. Desireé is holding the same day’s New York Albany Times Union newspaper front page. The cell phone connection is terminated.

  “That laughing hyena,” growls Damien. “It’s one of the greaseballs,” he says.

  “Take it easy, Damien. Think this through. There’s no proof linking this to the mafiosos, but there’s lots of pain in store if you think of it as a working hypothesis.”

  “McGee, I’ve followed your instructions and all of the crap from the kidnappers. It’s time I did something useful. I’ll get the truth. Mark my words.”

  He stands up and marches out the door. The private eyes shake their heads, but presume—correctly—that it is futile to argue with the man at this point. The only hope is that he will simmer down by morning.

  Damien is beyond simmering. By the time he reaches his BK headquarters in the East Harlem Men’s Club on 133rd Street in Spanish Harlem and sits down in his usual booth, he is at a rolling boil. On the drive down from McGee’s office, Damien makes six calls and asks each recipient of the call to meet him in the club. During the next thirty minutes, the men he summons arrive and find seats. Damien gives the club’s employees the night off with pay and begins to speak to Phoenix Draper, his insurance agent and trusted employee; Luigi Amara and Modesto Mattaliano his long-time capos; Atticus Whren, the BK enforcer; Alphonso Vergansi, his only Italian underboss; and Hector “Ice-man” Aguilara from Los Angeles. The bodyguards of each of the men—towering and intimidating black men with muscle-builders’ bodies—stand behind the men they are sworn to protect at any cost.