Two Little Girls in Blue (34 page)

A
t Logan Airport, Clint went directly to the area where the car rental agencies were located. Crushingly aware that if Angie had maxed out the card, he might not be able to rent a car, he carefully studied the rates before he selected the cheapest service and the cheapest car.

A million dollars in cash, he thought, and if the credit card for the rental doesn't go through, I'll have to steal a car to get to the Cape.

But it did go through.

“You got a map for Maine?” he asked the clerk.

“Right over there.”

An indifferent hand pointed to a rack holding a collection of maps. Clint picked up his copy of the rental receipt and walked over to the display. Carefully blocking his choice from the possible observation of the clerk, he grabbed a map of Cape Cod and shoved it in his jacket. Twenty minutes later he was squeezing his body into the driver's seat of a budget compact. He turned on the overhead light and studied the map. It was just about as far as he remembered—about an hour and a half drive from Boston. Shouldn't be too much traffic at this time of the year, he thought.

He started the car. Angie remembered him telling her that he'd been on the Cape before. She forgets nothing, he thought. What I didn't tell her was that I was here on a job with Lucas. Lucas had driven some big shot up here for a weekend, then had to stay in a motel and wait around for him. That gave him a chance to look the place over. We came back a couple of months later and hit a house in Osterville, Clint remembered. Swanky neighborhood, but we didn't get as much as Lucas expected. In fact, he gave me peanuts for my share. That's why I demanded an even split on this job.

Clint drove out of the airport. The map had indicated that he should turn left into the Ted Williams Tunnel and then watch for signs to Cape Cod. If I got it straight, Route 3 takes me directly to the Sagamore Bridge, he thought. Then the map says I take the Mid-Cape Highway to Route 137, which will take me to Route 28.

He was glad that the weather in Boston was clear. It made it easier to follow the signs. On the other hand, clear weather might be a problem later but not a problem that couldn't be solved. Should he stop somewhere and phone Angie, he wondered. Let her know that he'd definitely be there by nine thirty or so?

Once again he cursed her for taking the cell phones with her.

A few minutes after emerging from the tunnel, he spotted the Cape Cod sign. Maybe it's good that I don't have a phone, he thought. In her own crazy way,
Angie is a smart babe. She just might start to figure out that it's just as easy for her to get rid of the kid on her own, and then take off again with the money, as it is to wait for me.

The thought made him slam his foot down on the gas pedal.

O
n weekends, when he could get away, Geoffrey Sussex Banks would race down from Bel-Air to his home in Palm Springs, California. Having stayed in Los Angeles this Saturday, however, he returned from a round of golf in late afternoon to learn from his housekeeper that an FBI agent was waiting for him. “He gave me his card, sir. Here it is,” she said. As she handed it to him, she added, “I'm sorry.”

“Thank you, Conchita.”

He had hired Conchita and Manuel years ago, when he and Theresa were first married. The couple had adored Theresa, and when they got news eight months later that she was expecting twins, they had been thrilled. When Theresa disappeared shortly thereafter, they kept alive the hope that one day a key would turn in the door and she would be there. “And maybe she had the babies and just forgot her past and then all of a sudden remembered and came home and your little boys were with her.” That was Conchita's prayer. But now Conchita knew that if the FBI was here it was only to ask more questions about Theresa's disappearance or, worse, to confirm after all these years that her remains had been found.

Geoff braced himself for the news as he walked down the hall to his library.

Dominick Telesco was from the Los Angeles FBI headquarters. An agent for ten years, he had often read stories in the business section of the
L.A. Times
about Geoffrey Sussex Banks, international banker, philanthropist, handsome socialite whose young, pregnant wife had disappeared on her way to her baby shower seventeen years ago.

Telesco knew that Banks was fifty years old. That means he was my age, thirty-two, when his wife disappeared, he thought as he looked out the window that faced the golf course. Wonder why he's never remarried? Women must be falling all over him.

“Mr. Telesco?”

Somewhat embarrassed at not hearing Banks come into the room, the agent turned quickly. “Mr. Banks, I apologize. I just watched someone hit a fabulous shot, and I didn't hear you come in.”

“I bet I know who it might be,” Banks said with a hint of a smile. “Most of our members find the sixteenth hole a problem. Only one or two have mastered it. Please sit down.”

For an instant the two men studied each other. Telesco had dark brown hair and eyes, a rangy build, and was wearing a pin-striped business suit and tie. Banks was wearing a golf shirt and shorts. His patrician features were slightly sunburned. His hair, more silvery than dark blond, showed signs of thinning.

It was obvious to Agent Telesco that, at least at first
impression, the reports that Banks possessed that rare combination of authority and courtesy were justified.

“Is it about my wife?” Banks asked, getting directly to the point.

“Yes, sir. It is,” Telesco said, “although what brings me here is actually her possible connection to another case. You may have read about the Frawley kidnapping in Connecticut?”

“Of course. I understand that one of the twins was returned.”

“Yes.” Telesco did not share the news that a memo circulated through the Bureau indicated that the second twin might still be alive. “Mr. Banks, are you aware that Norman Bond, your wife's first husband, is on the board of C.F.G.&Y., and that the board voted to pay the ransom money for the return of the Frawley twins?”

“I know that Norman Bond is on the board of C.F.G.&Y.”

Telesco did not miss the anger in Banks's voice. “Mr. Banks, Norman Bond hired the twins' father, Steve Frawley, for a job at C.F.G.&Y., and he did it under rather unusual circumstances. Three other mid-level executives at the company were the leading candidates for the position, yet Frawley was chosen. Note that Steve Frawley is the father of identical twins, and he lives in Ridgefield, Connecticut. Norman Bond and his wife were living in Ridgefield, Connecticut, when she gave birth to identical twins.”

Geoff Banks's sunburn could not conceal that the color was draining from his face. “Are you suggesting
that Bond had something to do with the Frawley kidnapping?”

“In light of the suspicions you have voiced about your wife's disappearance, do you think Norman Bond would be capable of planning and executing a kidnapping?”

“Norman Bond is evil,” Banks said flatly. “I am absolutely certain that he was responsible for my wife's disappearance. It is a matter of record that he was wildly jealous when he learned that she was pregnant again with twins. When she disappeared, I put my life on hold, and it will remain on hold until I know exactly what happened to her.”

“I've investigated the case thoroughly, sir. There isn't a shred of evidence to tie Norman Bond to your wife's disappearance. Witnesses saw him in New York that night.”

“Witnesses
thought
they saw him in New York that night, or maybe he hired someone to do the job for him. I said it then and I say it now, he was responsible for whatever happened to Theresa.”

“We talked to him last week. At that time, Bond referred to your wife as his ‘late wife.' We wondered if that was a slip of the tongue, or perhaps more incriminating.”

“His ‘
late
wife.' ” Geoffrey Banks exclaimed. “Look through your notes. All these years, that man told everybody that he believed Theresa was still alive, and he said she wanted to get away from me. You will never once hear of him referring to her as if she were dead. Are you
asking me if he is capable of kidnapping the children of someone who is living the life he wanted and expected to live? You bet he is.
You bet he is.”

When he was back in his car, Dominick Telesco looked at his watch. It was a little after seven on the East Coast. He put a call into Angus Sommers in the New York office and related his conversation with Banks. “I think it would be a good idea to start tailing Bond, 24/7,” he said.

“So do I,” Sommers agreed. “Thanks.”

“L
ila Jackson told us the garage was empty,” Agent Carlson said to the Danbury police officers. “She also told us that Clint Downes had received a phone call from someone named Gus while she was in the cottage. She would have reported her suspicions earlier, but one of your retired detectives, Jim Gilbert, stopped her. He claimed he knew Downes and his girlfriend. Maybe this Gus is the one who picked up Downes there earlier. Maybe Gilbert knows who Gus is.”

Margaret could not keep her eyes off the dismantled crib. That's where they kept my babies, she thought. Those sides are so high—it's like a cage! The morning Monsignor said Mass for Kathy, Kelly described it, talking about the big crib. I've got to go home. I've got to question her. She's the only one who can tell us where Kathy is now.

T
he Pied Piper put the menu down and slipped off the seat. He needed to know where in the motel Angie was staying. As the curious eyes of the counterman caught his gaze, he pulled his cell phone from his pocket. Hating to attract attention to himself, he flipped it open and made a gesture of answering it, listening intently as he walked outside.

He was standing in the shadow of the diner when Angie came out, a bag of food in her hand. Looking neither to the left nor the right, she darted through the diner parking lot and over the curb that separated it from the motel property. As his gaze followed her, the Pied Piper observed that Angie was intent on getting back inside the motel. She doesn't expect Clint for another hour and a half, he reasoned, and maybe she thinks she's safe holed up here.

To his satisfaction, she opened the door to a ground-floor unit. Easier to keep an eye on, he thought. Did he dare to go back to the diner and have something to eat? No, better to follow her example and order take-out. It was seven twenty. With any luck, Clint would be here between eight thirty and nine.

The shade on the window of Angie's room was fully
drawn. The Pied Piper rolled up the collar of his jacket. The hood pulled up, his dark glasses on, he walked slowly past it, hesitating only as long as it took for him to catch the repetitive, hiccuping wail of a child who clearly had been crying for a long time.

He hurried back to the diner, ordered himself a hamburger and coffee to go, grabbed it, and once again walked past Angie's motel room. He was not sure he could still hear the child, but the sound of a rerun of
Everybody Loves Raymond
assured him that Angie was still there, waiting for Clint to arrive.