Two Little Girls in Blue (13 page)

A
t nine fifteen, the phone in the cottage rang, a loud, startling jangle that made Angie almost jump out of her skin. She had just opened the bedroom door to look in on the kids. Hastily, she pulled the door closed and ran to answer the phone. She knew it couldn't be Clint—he always called her on her cell phone. She picked up the receiver. “Hello.”

“Angie, I'm insulted, ree-al-ly insulted. I thought my old buddy Clint was going to call me about having a beer last night.”

Oh, no, Angie thought. It was that stupid dope Gus, and she could tell from the sounds in the background that he was in the Danbury Pub. So much for your knowing how much suds to drink, Angie thought, noting his slurred voice. Still she knew she had to be careful, remembering that one time Gus had shown up uninvited at the door, looking for company.

“Hi, Gus,” she said, trying to sound friendly. “Didn't Clint phone you? I told him to. He felt kind of lousy last night and went to bed early.”

From inside the bedroom, she heard Kathy begin to cry, a loud, distressed wail, and she realized that in her hurry to answer the phone, she had not closed the bedroom
door completely. She tried to cover the mouthpiece with her hand, but it was too late.

“Is that the kid you're minding? I can hear her crying.”

“That's the kid I'm minding, and I got to go check on her. Clint went to look at a car some guy is selling in Yonkers. I'll tell him to meet you for a drink tomorrow night for sure.”

“You could use a new car. That's some rattletrap you're running around in now.”

“Agreed. Gus, you can hear the kid crying. Tomorrow night for sure with Clint, okay?”

Angie began to hang up, but before the receiver was in its cradle a now-awakened Kelly began to scream, “Mommy, Mommy!”

Would Gus realize that he was hearing two kids, or was he already too drunk to know the difference? Angie wondered with concern. It would be just like him to call back. He wanted to talk to someone, that was for sure. She went into the bedroom. Both twins were standing now, grasping the rails of the crib and hollering for their mother. Well, I can fix one of you, Angie thought as she yanked a sock out of the dresser and began to tie it around Kelly's mouth.

A
gent Angus Sommers held his cell phone to his ear as, along with Agent Ben Taglione, who was driving, he kept his eyes riveted to the car in front of them, the sedan containing Franklin Bailey. Immediately upon seeing the Excel Driving Service logo, Sommers had contacted the dispatcher at the company. Car 142 had been hired in the name of Bailey and charged to his American Express card. The car's destination was the Brooklyn Museum for a passenger pickup, and from there they were to go to the Pierre Hotel on Sixty-first Street and Fifth Avenue. It's too pat, Sommers thought, a feeling shared by the rest of the kidnap team. Even so, a dozen FBI agents were already on the way to the museum, and several were also staked out at the Pierre.

How did the Pied Piper get Bailey's American Express card number? he wondered. The feeling that the person behind the kidnapping was someone known to the family became more and more certain to Sommers. But that was not his concern now. First they had to get the girls back. Then they could focus on the perpetrators.

Five other vehicles with agents were following Bailey's car. On the West Side Drive the traffic was almost
at a standstill. Whoever was planning to meet Bailey and take the money might easily get nervous waiting at the contact point, Sommers worried silently. He knew they all had the same concern. It was vital that the transfer of cash be made before the kidnapper or kidnappers panicked. If that happened, there was no predicting what they might do to the twins.

At what had been the exit from the West Side Highway to the World Trade Center, the cause of the delay became apparent. A fender bender had tied up two lanes. When they finally inched around the battered vehicles, the traffic began to move dramatically faster. Sommers leaned forward, squinting to be sure that the black sedan, one of many dark vehicles that looked alike in the rain, did not get away from them.

Keeping three cars between them and the Excel sedan, they followed it down around the tip of Manhattan and as it turned north on the FDR Drive. The Brooklyn Bridge, its lights dim in the wind-swept rain, became visible. Then at South Street the Excel car made an abrupt left turn and disappeared onto the exit. Agent Taglione muttered an expletive as he tried to shift to the left lane, but it was impossible to do without colliding with the SUV that was parallel to them.

As Sommers clenched his hands into fists, his cell phone rang. “We're still behind them,” Agent Buddy Winters told him. “He's heading north again.”

It was nine thirty
P.M
.

D
r. Sylvia Harris wrapped her arms around a sobbing Margaret Frawley. Words are not just inadequate at a time like this, she thought. In fact, they are useless. Over Margaret's shoulder, Steve met her gaze. Gaunt and pale, he looked vulnerable and younger than his thirty-one years. She could see that he was fighting to keep his own tears from welling up.

“They've
got
to come back tonight,” Margaret whispered, her voice broken. “They're
going
to come back tonight. I
know
they are!”

“We need you, Dr. Sylvia.” Steve's voice was choked with emotion. Then, with an obvious effort, he said, “Even if whoever has the girls has treated them decently, we know they're bound to be upset and frightened. And Kathy has a heavy cough.”

“Margaret told me that when she called,” Sylvia said quietly.

Walter Carlson saw the concern on her face and felt that he could read her mind. If Dr. Harris had already treated Kathy for pneumonia, she had to be thinking that an untreated heavy cough was particularly dangerous for her little patient.

“I made a fire in the study,” Steve said. “Let's go in
there. The trouble with old houses like this is that the forced air heating makes most of the rooms either too hot or too cool, depending on which way you try to adjust the thermostat.”

Carlson knew that Steve was trying to steer Margaret's thoughts away from the escalating apprehension she had begun to exhibit. From the moment she had phoned Dr. Harris and begged her to come, Margaret had voiced her conviction that Kathy was very sick. Standing at the window, she had said, “If, after the money is paid, the kidnappers leave the girls out somewhere in the rain, Kathy might go into pneumonia.”

Then Margaret had asked Steve to go to their room and get the journal she had been keeping since the twins were born. “I should have written in it this week,” she explained to Carlson, speaking in an almost catatonic tone. “I mean, when we get them back, maybe I'll be so happy and relieved I'll try to blot it all out. I want to write what it's like to be waiting now.” Then, almost rambling, she added, “My grandmother had an expression she used to repeat when I was a kid and impatient for my birthday or Christmas to come. The expression was, ‘Waiting does not seem long once it is accomplished.' ”

When Steve brought her the leather journal, Margaret read aloud a few excerpts. An early one told how, even in their sleep, Kathy and Kelly would open and close their hands at the same time. Another entry she read was about a day last year when Kathy tripped and banged her knee against the dresser in the bedroom.
Kelly who was in the kitchen, grabbed her knee at the same moment, for no apparent reason. “Dr. Harris is the one who told me to keep the journal,” she explained.

Carlson left them in the study and went back to the dining room where the monitored phone was on the table. Something in his gut told him that the Pied Piper might still decide to make direct contact with the Frawleys.

It was nine forty-five, almost two hours since Franklin Bailey had begun to follow the Pied Piper's orders to initiate the ransom drop.

“B
ert, in the next two minutes you will receive a call from Franklin Bailey instructing you to wait for him on Fifty-sixth Street, at the passageway that runs between Fifty-sixth and Fifty-seventh Streets just east of Sixth Avenue,” the Pied Piper told Lucas. “Harry will already be parked there. When I have confirmed that you are in place, I will direct Bailey to drop the trash bags with the money onto the curb in front of Cohen Fashion Optical on Fifty-seventh Street. He will place them on top of the trash bags already there waiting for the sanitation department to pick up. They will each be fastened with a necktie. You and Harry will run up the passageway, grab the bags, run them back through the passageway, place them in the trunk of Harry's car, and he will drive off. He should be gone before the agents are able to connect with him.”

“You mean we have to run the length of a block carrying the trash bags? That doesn't make sense,” Lucas protested.

“It makes a great deal of sense. Even if the FBI has managed to continue to follow Bailey's car, they will be far enough behind to give you the opportunity to grab the bags, and for Harry to drive away. You will stay there,
and when Bailey and the FBI show up, you will truthfully state that you were directed by Mr. Bailey to pick him up where you are waiting. No agents would dare to follow you too closely down the passageway where you might spot them. When they do arrive, you will be their witness and say that you saw two men drop bags into a car parked near you. Then you will provide a partial and misleading description of that car.” With that, he broke the phone connection.

It was six minutes of ten.

It had been necessary for Franklin Bailey to tell Angel Rosario why they were constantly changing directions. From his rearview mirror, Rosario had been able to see that cash was being transferred from the suitcases to the trash bags and had threatened to drive to the nearest police station. Frantically, Bailey had explained that the cash was the ransom money for the Frawley twins and begged for the driver's cooperation. “And you'll be eligible for a reward,” he had added.

“I've got two kids myself,” Angel had responded. “I'll drive anywhere that guy tells us to go.”

After veering off the South Street exit, they had been instructed to drive up First Avenue, turn west on Fifty-fifth Street, and find a place to stand as near as possible to Tenth Avenue. Fifteen minutes passed before the Pied Piper called again. “Mr. Bailey, we are at the final phase of our association. You are to phone your personal driver and instruct him to wait for you on West Fifty-sixth Street, at the passageway that connects Fifty-seventh to Fifty-sixth. Tell him it is just a quarter of a
block east of Sixth Avenue. Make the phone call. I will be back in touch.”

Ten minutes later the Pied Piper phoned Bailey again. “Have you reached your driver?”

“Yes. He was in the vicinity. He'll be there momentarily.”

“It is a rainy night, Mr. Bailey. I want to be considerate of you. Instruct your driver to proceed to Fifty-seventh, turn right, and drive east, slowing down and keeping near the curb after you cross over Sixth Avenue.”