Two Little Girls in Blue (12 page)

In the five days since the twins had been missing, she had kept her normal appointments and made her rounds with never a moment going by when the twins were not on her mind.

Like a videotape being constantly replayed, Dr. Harris remembered the late-autumn day three and a half years ago when Margaret Frawley had called to make an appointment with her. “How old is the baby?” she had asked Margaret.

“They're due on March twenty-fourth,” Margaret had said, her voice excited and happy. “I've just been
told I'm expecting twin girls, and I've read some of your articles about twins. That's why I want
you
to take care of them when they're born.”

The Frawleys came in for a preliminary appointment, and they liked each other immediately. Even before the twins arrived, their relationship with Dr. Harris had evolved into a warm friendship. She had given them a stack of books to read about the special bond between twins, and when she was lecturing on the subject, the Frawleys would often be in the audience. They had been fascinated by the examples she gave of identical twins experiencing each other's physical pain and receiving telepathic messages from each other, even when they were continents apart.

When Kathy and Kelly were born, healthy and beautiful, Steve and Margaret had been ecstatic. And so was I, on every level, professional and personal, Sylvia thought now as she locked her desk and prepared to go home. It gave me the chance to study identical twins from the minute they were born—and the girls bear out everything that has ever been written about the twin bond. She thought of the time when they rushed Kathy in to see her because her cold had gone into bronchitis. Steve was sitting in the waiting room with Kelly. The minute I gave Kathy the shot in the examining room, Sylvia remembered, Kelly began to wail like a banshee. And that was only one of many similar instances. For these past three years, Margaret has been keeping a log for me. How often have I mentioned
to her and Steve that Josh would have loved to be involved in taking care of the girls and studying them?

She had told Steve and Margaret about her late husband, saying that they reminded her of the relationship between herself and Josh when they first married. The Frawleys had met in law school. She and Josh had been fellow medical students at Columbia. The difference was that the Frawleys had the twins, while she and Josh had never had the good fortune to have children. After completing their residencies, they had set up a pediatric practice together. Then when he was only forty-two, Josh had admitted that he'd been feeling terribly tired. Tests showed that he had terminal lung cancer, an irony that only Sylvia's great faith had enabled her to accept without bitterness.

“The only time I ever saw him cross with a patient was when a mother came in with the smell of smoke clinging to her clothes,” she told Steve and Margaret. “Josh asked her in a steely voice, ‘You smoke around this baby? Won't you please understand the danger you're putting her in? You must stop
at once.' ”

On television, Margaret had said that she was afraid Kathy was getting a cold. Then the kidnapper had played a tape of the twins' voices, and one of the twins was coughing. Kathy went into pneumonia easily, Sylvia thought. It wasn't likely a kidnapper would take her to a doctor. Maybe I should call the police station in Ridgefield and explain I'm the twins' pediatrician and see if they can have the television stations broadcast
some precautions the kidnappers can take if Kathy is running a fever.

Her telephone rang. For a moment she was tempted to let the service pick it up, but then on impulse she reached for the receiver. It was Margaret, a Margaret whose voice was almost catatonic.

“Dr. Sylvia. The ransom is being paid right now, and we believe we are going to get the girls back sometime soon. Could you possibly come up here and be with us? I know it's asking a lot, but we don't know what may have happened to them. I do know that Kathy has a heavy cough.”

“I'm on my way,” Sylvia Harris said. “Put someone on to give me directions to your house.”

T
he cell phone Franklin Bailey was holding began to ring. His fingers trembling, he snapped it open and pressed it to his ear. “Franklin Bailey,” he said, as his mouth went dry.

“Mr. Bailey, you are admirably prompt. My congratulations.” The voice was a husky whisper. “You must immediately begin walking down Eighth Avenue to Fifty-seventh Street. Turn right on Fifty-seventh and walk west to Ninth Avenue. Wait on the northwest corner. You are being watched every step of the way. I will call you back in precisely five minutes.”

*   *   *

FBI Agent Angus Sommers, dressed in the tattered and soiled clothes of a homeless man, was curled on the sidewalk, leaning against the architectural curiosity that had once been the Huntington Hartford Museum. Beside him stood a shabby cart, covered with plastic and filled with old clothes and newspapers, providing him some protection from a potential observer. Like a score of other agents in the vicinity, his cell phone had been programmed to pick up the call that Franklin Bailey would receive from the Pied Piper. Now he watched Bailey begin to drag the luggage
cart across the street. Even from a distance, Sommers could see that Bailey was straining with the weight of the suitcases and was quickly becoming soaked from the now-heavy rain.

With narrowed eyes, Sommers scanned the circumference of Columbus Circle. Was the kidnapper and his gang somewhere in the crowd of people scurrying under umbrellas to their destinations? Or was it a single person who would send Bailey on a wild-goose chase all over New York in his attempt to identify and shake off anyone following him?

As Bailey moved out of sight, Sommers got up slowly, pushed his shopping cart to the corner, and waited for the light. He knew cameras hooked up at the Time Warner building and in the rotunda were filming every inch of the scene.

He crossed Fifty-eighth Street and turned left. There a junior agent, also dressed in the shabby garb of the homeless, took over his cart. Sommers got into one of the waiting FBI cars, and two minutes later, changed into a Burberry raincoat and matching hat, was dropped off at the Holiday Inn on Fifty-seventh Street, half a block from Ninth Avenue.

*   *   *

“Bert, this is the Pied Piper. State your location.”

“I'm parked at Fifty-fifth Street between Eighth and Ninth. I'm in front of a hydrant. I can't stay long. I warn you. According to Bailey, this place is swarming with the FBI.”

“I would expect no less of them. I want you to drive
to Tenth Avenue, then turn east on Fifty-sixth Street. Pull over to the curb as soon as you can and wait for further instructions.”

*   *   *

A moment later, Clint's cell phone rang. He was parked on West Sixty-first Street in the car he had stolen. He was given the same instructions by the Pied Piper.

*   *   *

Franklin Bailey waited on the northwest corner of Ninth Avenue and Fifty-seventh Street. By now he was soaked to the skin and out of breath from pulling the heavy suitcases. Even the certainty that his every step had been tracked by FBI agents did nothing to relieve the stress of the cat-and-mouse game he was playing with the kidnappers. When the cell phone rang again, his hand shook so much that he dropped it. Praying that it was still functioning, he snapped it open and said, “I'm here.”

“I can see that. You are now to walk to Fifty-ninth Street and Tenth Avenue. Go into the Duane Reade store on the northwest corner. Purchase a cell phone with prepaid hours and a box of trash bags. I will call you in ten minutes.”

*   *   *

He's going to make him get rid of our phone, Agent Sommers thought as he stood in the driveway of the Holiday Inn and listened to the call. If he's able to observe Bailey's every move, he may be in one of those apartment buildings around here. He watched as a taxi pulled up across the street and a couple got out. He
knew that a dozen agents were driving cabs with other agents in the backseat. The plan was to drop the supposed passengers off near where Bailey was waiting so that if he were told to hail a cab it would not seem unusual that one became immediately available. But now the Pied Piper was trying to make sure that anyone following Bailey would become obvious.

Four more blocks in this rain, dragging those suitcases, Sommers worried as he watched Bailey turn north, following the Pied Piper's instructions. I just hope he doesn't collapse before he gets to hand over the money.

A car with Taxi and Limousine Commission license plates pulled up at the curb. Sommers raced to get it. “We'll go around Columbus Circle,” he said to the agent who was driving, “and park on Tenth around Sixtieth Street.”

*   *   *

It took Franklin Bailey ten minutes to reach and enter the Duane Reade store. When he came back out, he was holding a small package in one hand and a phone in the other, but they could no longer hear what the Pied Piper was telling him. As Sommers watched, Bailey got into a car and was driven away.

Inside Duane Reade, Mike Benzara, a Fordham/Lincoln Center student and part-time stock clerk, was walking by a cash register. He stopped when he saw a cell phone lying amidst the gum and candy displayed on the counter. Pretty fancy phone, he thought as he handed it
to the cashier. “Too bad it isn't finders, keepers,” he joked.

“That's the second one today,” the cashier said as she took it from him and dropped it into the drawer below the register. “Dollars to donuts this one belongs to that old guy who was dragging those suitcases. He no sooner paid for the garbage bags and phone he just bought than the phone in his pocket rang. He asked me to give the number of the new one to whoever was calling him. He said his glasses were too blurred for him to read it.”

“Maybe he's got a girlfriend and doesn't want his wife to find her number when she's going over the bills.”

“No. It was a guy he was talking to. Probably his bookie.”

“There is a sedan outside waiting for you,” the Pied Piper had instructed Bailey. “Your name is displayed on the window of the passenger side. You need not be afraid to get in. It is car 142 of the Excel Driving Service. It has been reserved in your name and prepaid. Be sure to take the suitcases from the carrier and have the driver place them in the backseat with you.”

Excel driver Angel Rosario pulled up to the corner of Fifty-ninth Street and Tenth Avenue and double-parked. The old guy dragging a luggage cart and trying to look in the windows of the cars parked at the curb had to be his passenger. Angel jumped out. “Mr. Bailey?”

“Yes. Yes.”

Angel reached for the handle of the cart. “I'll open the trunk, sir.”

“No, I must get something out of the bags. Put them in the backseat.”

“They're wet,” Angel objected.

“Then put them on the floor,” Bailey snapped. “Do it. Do it.”

“Okay. Okay. Don't have a heart attack.” In his twenty years of driving for Excel, Angel had had his share of kooky passengers, but this old guy was a definite worry. He looked like he was about to have a heart attack, and Angel didn't intend to contribute to it by arguing. Besides, there might be a good tip if he was helpful, he reasoned. Even though Bailey's clothes were soaked, Angel could tell they were expensive, and his voice had a classy tone, not like his last passenger, a woman who argued about being billed for waiting time. She had sounded like a buzz saw in action.

Angel opened the rear door of the car, but Bailey wouldn't get in until the suitcases had been unsnapped from the cart and hoisted onto the floor. I ought to put the cart on his lap, Angel thought as he folded it and tossed it into the front passenger seat. He closed the door, ran around to the driver's side, and got in. “The Brooklyn Museum, right, sir?”

“That's what you've been told.” It was both a question and an answer.

“Yeah. We're going to pick up your friend and bring him back with you to the Pierre Hotel. I warn you. It's
gonna take a long time. There's a lot of traffic, and with the rain, the driving is lousy.”

“I understand.”

As the car started, Franklin Bailey's new cell phone began to ring. “You have met your driver?” the Pied Piper asked.

“Yes. I'm in the car.”

“Begin to transfer the money from the suitcases into two trash bags. Secure the bags with the blue tie you are wearing and the red tie you were instructed to carry. I will call you again shortly.”

It was twenty minutes of nine.