Two Little Girls in Blue (8 page)

“Yeah, it's awful,” Angie agreed.

“Makes me glad that Connecticut still has the death penalty on the books. If anything happens to those kids, I'll volunteer to personally prepare the lethal injection for the rats who took them.” He shook his head. “Guess we can only pray they'll get home safe. Angie, what can I do for you?”

Aware of the nervous perspiration gathering on her
forehead, Angie made a show of fishing through her pocketbook, then shrugged her shoulders. “Can't do much. I guess I forgot my prescription.” Even to her ears, the explanation sounded lame.

“I can call your doctor.”

“Oh thanks, but he's in New York. I know he won't be there now. I'll come back later.”

She thought back to the time she'd gotten the liniment for Clint's shoulder. She had talked with Julio for a couple of minutes and had happened to mention that she lived with Clint in the caretaker cottage of the country club. That had been at least six months ago, yet Julio had remembered her name the minute he saw her. Would he remember where she lived as well? Sure he would!

Julio was a tall Latin type, about her age. He wore glasses with really sexy frames that enhanced his eyes. She watched as his gaze flickered over the contents of her cart.

It was all out there for him to see. Baby aspirin. Children's nose drops. Rubbing alcohol. The vaporizer.

Will he get to wondering why I was buying stuff for a sick kid? Angie wondered as she struggled to push back the frightening possibility. She didn't want to think about it. She was there on a mission. I'll buy a jar of Vick's and stick some of it in the vaporizer, she decided. It worked good enough when I was a kid.

She hurried back to aisle 3, grabbed the jar of Vick's, and rushed to the checkout. One register was closed, the other one already had six people on line. Three of
them were taken care of fairly quickly, but then the clerk called out, “I'm off duty. It will be just a minute.”

Stupid dope, Angie thought, as the new clerk proceeded to take forever to set up at the register.

Hurry up, Angie thought, giving the shopping cart an impatient push.

The guy in front of her, a heavyset man with a loaded cart, turned around. His look of annoyance changed to a broad grin. “Hi, Angie, what are you trying to do, cut my feet off?”

“Hi, Gus,” Angie said, attempting a smile. Gus Svenson was a pesky guy they sometimes ran into when she and Clint ate at the Danbury Pub, the kind of jerk who was always trying to start a conversation with other people at the bar. A plumber with his own business, he often did work at the golf club during the season. So the fact that she and Clint lived in the caretaker cottage when the club was closed made Gus act as if they had something big in common. Blood brothers because they both did the grub work for people with money, she thought with contempt.

“How's my boy Clint?” Gus asked.

Gus was born with a loudspeaker on his vocal cords, Angie thought, as people turned to look at them.

“Never better, Gus. Hey, I think the dynamo behind the counter is about ready for you.”

“Sure, sure.” Gus unloaded his purchases on the counter and turned back to peer in Angie's basket. “Baby aspirin. Baby nose drops. Hey, you two got news for me?”

Angie's worry about the pharmacist now deepened into outright fear. Lucas was right, she thought. I shouldn't be shopping for anything for the kids, or at least I shouldn't be shopping where they know me. “Don't be silly, Gus,” she snapped. “I'm babysitting for a friend, and the kid's getting a cold.”

“That will be $122.18,” the clerk told Gus.

He opened his wallet and pulled out his credit card. “Cheap at half the price.” He turned back to Angie. “Listen, if you're stuck babysitting, maybe my old friend Clint would like to meet me for a few beers. I'll pick him up. That way you don't have to worry if he ties one on. You know me. I know when to quit gulping the suds. I'll give him a call.”

Before she could respond, he had scrawled his signature on the credit slip, grabbed his purchases, and was on his way to the exit. Angie slammed the contents of her cart on the counter. The bill came to forty-three dollars. She knew she didn't have more than twenty-five dollars in her pocketbook, which meant she had to use her credit card. She hadn't thought about that when she took the vaporizer off the shelf.

Lucas had given them cash to buy the crib. “That way there won't be a paper trail,” he'd said. But there would be a paper trail. She'd had to use the card to pay for the outfits she bought the twins at the children's outlet store, and she had to use it now.

It'll be over soon, she promised herself as she headed for the exit. A guard was standing by the door. She abandoned the cart and picked up the packages.
Now all I need is for the alarm to go off, she thought as she passed the guard. That happens when the dopey clerks don't scan the stuff.

Two days at the most and we'll have the money and be out of here, she reminded herself as she crossed the parking lot and got into Clint's twelve-year-old Chevy van. A Mercedes-Benz parked next to her was just pulling out. Her headlights caught the model of the car, an SL500.

Probably cost way over a hundred thou, Angie thought. Maybe we should buy one. In two days we'll have five times that much money, and all of it in cash.

On the short ride home, she reviewed the timetable. According to Lucas, tomorrow the Pied Piper would get the wire transfer. Tomorrow evening they'd get the million dollars cash. When they were sure it was all there, early Thursday morning they'd drop the kids somewhere and tip the parents off where to find them.

That was the timetable according to Lucas, Angie thought. But not according to me.

O
n Wednesday morning, the unpredictable March weather had once again turned bitterly cold. A biting wind rattled the windows of the dining room where Steve and Margaret sat with Walter Carlson and his colleague, Agent Tony Realto. A second pot of coffee sat untouched on the table.

Carlson had not thought it was his right to soft-pedal what Franklin Bailey had told him, that one of the twins had been coughing, a deep bronchial-sounding cough. “Steve and Margaret, I know it's frightening to think that Kathy is sick,” he told them. “On the other hand it proves that Bailey really was listening to them. You've been worried that Kathy was getting a cold.”

“Don't you think that the Pied Piper will know better than to call Bailey's neighbor again?” Steve asked. “He has to be smart enough to guess that you've got that line tapped by now.”

“Steve, criminals make mistakes. They think they've thought of everything, but they
do
make mistakes.”

“I wonder if whoever has them is giving Kathy anything to keep her from going into pneumonia,” Margaret said, her voice breaking.

Carlson looked across the table. Margaret Frawley's skin was paper white. Her dark blue eyes were heavily circled. Every time she said anything, she would then press her lips tightly together, as though afraid of what she might say next.

“My guess is that whoever has the children wants to return them safely.”

It was quarter of ten. The Pied Piper had said he would be in touch at ten o'clock. The three fell into silence. They could only wait.

At ten o'clock, Rena Chapman, the neighbor who had cooked dinner for the Frawleys, raced over from her house. “Somebody on my phone says he has important information about the twins for the FBI,” she said breathlessly to the police officer on guard outside the house.

Steve and Margaret at their heels, Realto and Carlson ran to the Chapman home. Carlson grabbed the phone and identified himself.

“Have you pen and paper?” the caller asked.

Carlson pulled his notebook and pen from his breast pocket.

“I want seven million dollars transferred to Account 507964 in the Nemidonam Bank in Hong Kong,” the Pied Piper told him. “You have three minutes to make it happen. When I know the transfer is completed, I'll call back.”

“It will be completed immediately,” Carlson snapped. Before he could finish the sentence he heard the click of the phone.

“Is it the kidnapper?” Margaret demanded. “Were the girls with him?”

“It was the kidnapper. He didn't refer to the girls. It was only about the ransom.” Carlson dialed Robinson Geisler's private number at the executive office of C.F.G.&Y. Geisler had promised to be waiting there for instructions about the money transfer. In his precise, clipped voice, he repeated the name of the bank in Hong Kong and the account number. “The transfer will be made within sixty seconds, and we have the suitcases with the cash waiting to be delivered,” he assured the FBI agent.

Margaret listened as Carlson next barked instructions to the FBI communications unit to try to triangulate the Chapmans' phone line in the hope that they might pinpoint the Pied Piper's location when he called back.

He's too smart for that, Margaret thought. Now he has the seven million dollars. Will we hear from him again?

Carlson had explained to her and Steve that, for a commission, some overseas banks will accept wire transfers, then allow them to be moved again immediately. Suppose that satisfies him, she agonized. Suppose we never hear from him again. But yesterday Franklin Bailey heard the girls' voices. They talked about seeing us with him on television. They were alive yesterday morning.

“Mr. Carlson. Right away. Another call. Three houses down.” A Ridgefield policeman on duty outside
the Frawley house had rushed to Rena Chapman's kitchen door and opened it without knocking.

The wind blew Margaret's hair into her eyes as she and Steve, their hands joined, ran behind Carlson and Realto to the house where a neighbor she had never met was frantically waving them in.

The Pied Piper had disconnected, but called back less than a minute later. “You have been very wise,” he told Carlson. “Thank you for the wire transfer. Now get this straight. Your helpful friend, Franklin Bailey, must be standing in Manhattan in front of the Time Warner building at Columbus Circle at eight o'clock tonight. Tell him to wear a blue tie, and to have a red tie in his pocket. He must have the suitcases with the money and be carrying a cell phone. What is the number of your cell phone, Mr. FBI agent?”

“It's 917-555-3291,” Carlson said.

“I'll repeat that: 917-555-3291. Give your cell phone to Franklin Bailey. Remember we will be watching him. Any attempt to follow him or to apprehend the messenger who accepts the suitcases will mean that the twins will disappear forever. The alternative is that once we have validated the amount and authenticity of the cash, sometime after midnight, someone will receive a phone call telling you where to pick up the twins. They're very homesick and one of them has a fever. I suggest you make sure there are no slipups.”

W
alking back from their neighbor's house, clutching Steve's arm, Margaret tried to believe that within twenty-four hours the twins really would be home. I
have
to believe it, she told herself. Kathy, I love you. Kelly, I love you.

In her rush to get first to Rena Chapman's house, and then to their other neighbor for the second call, she had not even been conscious of the media vans parked on the street. But now the reporters were outside the house clamoring for a statement.

“Have the kidnappers contacted you?”

“Has the ransom been paid?”

“Have you confirmation that the twins are alive?”

“There will be no statement at this time,” Carlson said brusquely.

Ignoring the questions that were shouted to them, Margaret and Steve darted up the walk. Captain Martinson was waiting for them on the porch. Ever since Friday night, he had been in and out of the house, sometimes conferring privately with the FBI agents, other times simply a reassuring presence. Margaret knew that his officers at the Ridgefield Police Department and the Connecticut State Police had distributed
hundreds of posters with the picture of the girls standing by their birthday cake. One of the posters she had seen had a question printed on it:
DO YOU KNOW ANYONE WHO OWNS, OR OWNED, A ROYAL MANUAL TYPEWRITER?