Two Little Girls in Blue (23 page)

“Yes, we have,” Angus Sommers said promptly and convincingly. “In fact, we're closing in on him fast. More than that, I'm not at liberty to tell you.”

He noticed that Stanford's mouth tightened. Nerves, he wondered? He hoped so. “Mr. Stanford, we have just come across some information that we need to discuss with you.”

“I cannot imagine what you have to discuss with me,” Stanford said. “I have made my position on the ransom payment eminently clear. That is obviously my only area of interest to you.”

“Not quite,” Sommers said slowly, taking satisfaction in drawing the words out. “When you learned that
Lucas Wohl was one of the kidnappers, it must have been quite a shock to you.”

“What
are
you talking about?”

“You must have seen his picture in the newspapers and on television?”

“I saw his picture, of course.”

“Then you must have recognized that he was the ex-convict who was your chauffeur for several years.”

“I don't know what you're talking about.”

“I think you
do,
Mr. Stanford. Your second wife, Tina Olsen, was very active with a charity that helped ex-convicts get jobs. Through her, you met Jimmy Nelson, who at some time took on the name of his deceased cousin, Lucas Wohl. Tina Olsen had a longtime private chauffeur, but Jimmy—or Lucas or whatever you called him—drove you frequently during your marriage to her. Yesterday, Tina Olsen called your first wife, Amy Lindcroft, and told her that she believes Lucas continued to drive you long after the breakup of the marriage. Is that true, Mr. Stanford?”

Stanford stared first at one agent and then the other. “If there is anything worse than one woman scorned, it is two women scorned,” he said. “During my marriage to Tina, I used a car service. Quite frankly I never established nor did I want to establish any kind of relationship with the various drivers who worked for that service. If you tell me that one of the kidnappers was one of those drivers, I accept it, although of course I am shocked. The idea that I saw his
picture in the newspaper and should have recognized him is ludicrous.”

“Then you don't deny that you know him?” Sommers asked.

“You could tell me that
any
person drove me from time to time, years ago, and I would not be able to either confirm or deny it. Now get out of here.”

“We'll be going over the records Lucas kept; they go back quite a few years,” Sommers said as he stood up. “I think he was your driver far more frequently than you have cared to admit, which leads me to wonder what else you have to conceal. We will find out what it is, Mr. Stanford. I can promise you
that.”

“N
ow get this straight,” Angie told Kathy at nine o'clock on Saturday morning. “Between the crying and the coughing, you kept me awake half the night, and I'm sick of it. I can't stay cooped up in this room all day and I can't shut you up by taping your mouth because with that cold you might not be able to breathe, so I'm taking you with me. I bought some clothes for you yesterday when I went out, but the shoes don't fit right. They're too small. So we're going to go back to Sears, and I'll go in and switch them for the next size, and
you
are going to stay on the floor of the van and say not one word, got it?”

Kathy nodded. Angie had dressed her in a polo shirt, corduroy overalls, and a hooded jacket. Her short dark hair lay limply on her forehead and cheeks, still damp from the shower Angie had given her. An overflowing tablespoon of the cough syrup was already making her sleepy. She wanted so much to talk to Kelly, but twin talk was forbidden. That was why Angie had pinched her so hard yesterday.

“Mommy, Daddy,” she whispered in her mind. “I want to come home. I want to come home.” She knew she had to try not to cry anymore. She didn't
mean
to
cry, but when she fell asleep and reached out for Kelly's hand and it wasn't there, and then she realized she wasn't in her own bed and Mommy wasn't coming in to make sure they were covered, she couldn't help it. That was when she started to cry.

The shoes Angie had bought for her were too small. They hurt her toes, and they didn't feel at all like her sneakers with the pink laces, or the party shoes she wore with the party dress. Maybe if she was very good, and didn't cry, and tried not to cough, and didn't talk twin talk, Mommy would come and take her home. And Angie was Mona's real name. That was what Harry had called her sometimes. And his name wasn't Harry, it was Clint. That's what Angie called him sometimes.

I want to go home, she thought, as tears welled in her eyes.

“Don't start crying,” Angie warned as she opened the door and pulled Kathy by the hand outside onto the parking lot. It was raining hard, and Angie put down the big suitcase she was carrying and yanked the hood of the jacket over Kathy's head. “You don't need a worse cold,” she said. “You're sick enough as it is.”

Angie carried the big suitcase into the car and then made Kathy lie down on the pillow on the floor, and covered her with a blanket. “That's something else. I have to get a car seat for you.” She sighed. “God, you're more trouble than you're worth.”

She slammed the back door, got in the driver's seat, and turned the key in the ignition. “On the other hand, I always wanted a kid,” she said, talking more to herself
than to Kathy. “That's what got me in trouble before. I think that little kid really
liked
me and wanted to stay with me. I almost went nuts when the mother picked him up. His name was Billy. He was cute, and I could make him laugh—not like you, always crying. God.”

Kathy knew that Angie didn't like her anymore. She curled up on the floor and put her thumb in her mouth. She used to do that when she was a baby, but then she stopped. Now she couldn't
help
doing it—it made it easier not to cry.

As Angie drove out of the motel parking lot, she said, “Just in case you're interested, you're in Cape Cod, baby doll. This street leads to the docks where the boats go over to Martha's Vineyard and Nantucket. I went to Martha's Vineyard once, with the guy who brought me up here. I kind of liked him, but we never got together again. Boy, I wish I could tell
him
that I'm driving around with a million bucks in a suitcase. Wouldn't that be something?”

Kathy felt the car turn.

“Main Street, Hyannis,” Angie said. “Not as crowded as it will be in a couple of months. By then we'll be in Hawaii. I mean, that's probably a lot safer than being in Florida.”

They drove for a little while more. Angie began to sing a song about Cape Cod. She didn't know many of the words, so she'd hum and then sort of yell, “In Old Cape Cod.” She sang those words over and over and over. Then, after a while, the car stopped, and Angie sang one more time, “Here in Old Cape Cod.” Then
she said, “Boy can I belt out a song,” after which she leaned over the seat and looked down, a mean expression on her face. “Okay, we're here,” she said. “Now listen, don't you dare get up, understand? I'm going to pull the blanket over your head, so that if anyone happens to look in, they won't see you. If I come out and find you moved one
inch,
you know what will happen, don't you?”

Kathy's eyes welled with tears, and she nodded.

“Okay. We understand each other. I'll be back fast, then we'll go to McDonald's or Burger King. You and me together. Mommy and Stevie.”

Kathy felt the blanket being pulled over her head, but she didn't care. It felt good to be dark and warm, and anyhow, she was sleepy, and it was good to be asleep. But the blanket was fuzzy, and it tickled her nose. She could tell she was going to start coughing again, but managed not to cough until Angie got out of the car and had closed and locked the door.

Then she let herself cry and talk to Kelly. “I don't want to be in Old Cape Cod. I don't want to be in Old Cape Cod.
I want to come home.”

“T
here he is,” Agent Sean Walsh whispered to his partner, Damon Philburn. It was nine thirty on Saturday morning. He was pointing to the lanky figure of a man in a hooded sweatshirt who had parked near a condominium in Clifton, New Jersey, and was now walking up the path to the front door. The car the agents had been waiting in was parked on the opposite side of the street. In a swift, simultaneous movement, they were out of it and on either side of the man before he could even turn the key in the door.

Steve Frawley's half brother, Richard Mason, the object of their surveillance, did not seem surprised to see them. “Come on in,” he said. “But you're wasting your time. I had nothing to do with my brother's kids being kidnapped. Knowing the way you guys work, you probably had my mother's phone bugged when she called me after you came looking for me.”

Neither agent bothered to reply as Mason turned on the foyer light and walked into the living room. To Walsh, it had the look of a motel unit: a couch upholstered in a brown-tweed pattern, two striped brown chairs, two end tables with matching lamps, a coffee table, beige carpeting. They had learned that Mason
had been living there for the past ten months, but there was nothing in the room to suggest that this was his home. The built-in bookshelves did not hold a single book. There were no family pictures or personal items that might have suggested a hobby or any kind of leisure-time activity. Mason sat in one of the chairs, folded his legs, and took out a pack of cigarettes, lit one, glanced at the table next to the chair, and looked annoyed. “Threw out the ashtrays so that I wouldn't be tempted to smoke.” Shrugging, he got up, disappeared into the kitchen, came back holding a saucer and resettled in the chair.

He's trying to show us how cool he is, Walsh thought. We can all play that game. He exchanged a quick glance with Philburn and knew they were of the same mind. The agents let the silence grow.

“Listen, I've done a lot of driving these past few days and need to get to bed. What do you want?” Mason asked, his tone insolent.

“When did you resume smoking, Mr. Mason?” Walsh asked.

“A week ago, when I heard my brother's twins were missing,” Mason answered.

“It wasn't when you and Franklin Bailey decided to kidnap them, was it?” Agent Philburn asked matter-of-factly.

“You've got to be crazy! My brother's kids?”

Walsh watched as Mason turned his head to look at Philburn. He could see the deep flush that rose on his neck and colored his face. He had studied his mug shots
and already noticed the strong physical resemblance to his half brother. But there the resemblance ends, he thought. He had seen Steve Frawley's appearances on television, and had been impressed by his emotional control, even though he was clearly under tremendous strain. Mason had gone to prison because he was a con man who bilked people out of their money. And he's trying to con us now, Walsh thought, by playing the part of the outraged uncle.

“I haven't spoken to Franklin Bailey in eight years,” Mason said. “Considering the circumstances, I doubt very much that he would want to speak to me.”

“Doesn't it seem quite a coincidence that he, a virtual stranger, rushed to offer his services as a go-between to the Frawleys?” Walsh asked.

“If I were to guess at all, from what I remember of Bailey, I'd say he loved the spotlight. He was mayor when he was investing in my company, and I remember he even joked to me that he'd go to the opening of an envelope if the press would cover it. When they finally voted him out of office, it just about broke his heart. I know he was looking forward to taking the witness stand at my trial and had to be disappointed when I took a plea deal. With all the liars the feds had lined up as witnesses, I didn't stand a chance if I went to trial.”

“You visited your brother and his wife in Ridgefield shortly after they moved in a few months ago,” Walsh said. “You didn't stop by Franklin Bailey's home for old times' sake?”