The Christmas Thief Read online

  Books By Mary Higgins Clark and Carol Higgins Clark

  He Sees You When You’re Sleeping

  Deck the Halls

  Books By Mary Higgins Clark

  Nighttime Is My Time

  The Second Time Around

  Kitchen Privileges

  Mount Vernon Love Story

  Daddy’s Little Girl

  On the Street Where You Live

  Before I Say Good-bye

  We’ll Meet Again

  All Through the Night

  You Belong to Me

  Pretend You Don’t See Her

  My Gal Sunday

  Moonlight Becomes You

  Silent Night

  Let Me Call You Sweetheart

  The Lottery Winner

  Remember Me

  I’ll Be Seeing You

  All Around the Town

  Loves Music, Loves to Dance

  The Anastasia Syndrome and Other Stories

  While My Pretty One Sleeps

  Weep No More, My Lady

  Stillwatch

  A Cry in the Night

  The Cradle Will Fall

  A Stranger Is Watching

  Where Are the Children?

  Books By Carol Higgins Clark

  Popped

  Jinxed

  Fleeced

  Twanged

  Iced

  Snagged

  Decked

  SIMON & SCHUSTER / SCRIBNER

  Rockefeller Center

  1230 Avenue of the Americas

  New York, NY 10020

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  Copyright © 2004 by Mary Higgins Clark and Carol Higgins Clark

  All rights reserved,

  including the right of reproduction

  in whole or in part in any form.

  SIMON & SCHUSTER and SCRIBNER are registered trademarks of Simon & Schuster, Inc.

  Designed by Jan Pisciotta

  ISBN-13: 978-0-7432-7420-3

  ISBN-10: 0-7432-7420-2

  Visit us on the World Wide Web:

  http://www.SimonSays.com

  Acknowledgments

  “How about writing a story about the Rockefeller Center Christmas tree being stolen?” Michael Korda asked us.

  It sounded like both a challenge and fun, and we embarked on the journey of telling the tale.

  Now it is time to offer gifts to the people who supported us on the journey.

  Twinkling stars to our editors, Michael Korda and Roz Lippel. You’re great!

  Glittering garlands to our agents, Gene Winick and Sam Pinkus, and our publicist, Lisl Cade.

  Golden ornaments to Associate Director of Copyediting Gypsy da Silva, Copyeditor Rose Ann Ferrick, and Proofreaders Jim Stoller and Barbara Raynor.

  Always a cup of cheer for Sgt. Steven Marron, Ret., and Detective Richard Murphy, Ret., for their insight.

  We sing joyous carols to Inga Paine, co-founder of Paine’s Christmas Trees plantation, her daughter Maxine Paine-Fowler, her granddaughter Gretchen Arnold, and her sister Carlene Allen, who allowed us to invade their quiet Sunday afternoon on their porch in Stowe, Vermont, with our questions about the tree we were creating for these pages.

  A partridge in a pear tree to Timothy Shinn, who explained the logistics of moving a nine-ton tree. If we got anything wrong, please forgive us. Thanks to Jack Larkin for putting us in touch with Tim.

  A holiday kiss to our family and friends, especially John Conheeney, Agnes Newton, and Nadine Petry.

  Candy canes and ribbons to Carla Torsilieri D’Agostino and Byron Keith Byrd for “The Christmas Tree at Rockefeller Center,” the history they wrote of the famous tree.

  A very special chorus of gratitude to the folks at Rockefeller Center for the joy they have given to countless millions of people over the past seven decades with their tradition of finding and decorating the most beautiful Christmas tree in the world.

  Finally to you, our readers, our loving wishes for you. May your holidays be happy and blessed and merry and bright.

  In joyful memory of our dear friend

  Buddy Lynch

  He was the best of the best—

  a truly great guy

  I think that I shall never see

  A poem lovely as a tree.

  —JOYCE KILMER

  Contents

  Cover Page

  Colophon

  Books By Mary Higgins Clark and Carol Higgins Clark

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Acknowledgments

  Dedication

  Epigraph

  1

  2

  3

  4

  5

  6

  7

  8

  9

  10

  11

  12

  13

  14

  15

  16

  17

  18

  19

  20

  21

  22

  23

  24

  25

  26

  27

  28

  29

  30

  31

  32

  33

  34

  35

  36

  37

  38

  39

  Epilogue

  1

  Packy Noonan carefully placed an x on the calendar he had pinned to the wall of his cell in the federal prison located near Philadelphia, the City of Brotherly Love. Packy was overflowing with love for his fellow man. He had been a guest of the United States Government for twelve years, four months, and two days. But because he had served over 85 percent of his sentence and been a model prisoner, the parole board had reluctantly granted Packy his freedom as of November 12, which was only two weeks away.

  Packy, whose full name was Patrick Coogan Noonan, was a world-class scam artist whose offense had been to cheat trusting investors out of nearly $100 million in the seemingly legitimate company he had founded. When the house of cards collapsed, after deducting the money he had spent on homes, cars, jewelry, bribes, and shady ladies, most of the rest, nearly $80 million, could not be accounted for.

  In the years of his incarceration, Packy’s story never changed. He insisted that his two missing associates had run off with the rest of the money and that, like his victims, he, too, had been the victim of his own trusting nature.

  Fifty years old, narrow-faced, with a hawklike nose, close-set eyes, thinning brown hair, and a smile that inspired trust, Packy had stoically endured his years of confinement. He knew that when the day of deliverance came, his nest egg of $80 million would sufficiently compensate him for his discomfort.

  He was ready to assume a new identity once he picked up his loot; a private plane would whisk him to Brazil, and a skillful plastic surgeon there had already been engaged to rearrange the sharp features that might have served as the blueprint for the working of his brain.

  All the arrangements had been made by his missing associates, who were now residing in Brazil and had been living on $10 million of the missing funds. The remaining fortune Packy had managed to hide before he was arrested, which was why he knew he could count on the continued cooperation of his cronies.

  The long-standing plan was that upon his release Packy would go to the halfway house in New York, as required by the terms of his parole, dutifully follow regulations for about a day, then shake off anyone following him, meet his
partners in crime, and drive to Stowe, Vermont. There they were to have rented a farmhouse, a flatbed trailer, a barn to hide it in, and whatever equipment it took to cut down a very large tree.

  “Why Vermont?” Giuseppe Como, better known as Jo-Jo, wanted to know. “You told us you hid the loot in New Jersey. Were you lying to us, Packy?”

  “Would I lie to you?” Packy had asked, wounded. “Maybe I don’t want you talking in your sleep.”

  Jo-Jo and Benny, forty-two-year-old fraternal twins, had been in on the scam from the beginning, but both humbly acknowledged that neither one of them had the fertile mind needed to concoct grandiose schemes. They recognized their roles as foot soldiers of Packy and willingly accepted the droppings from his table since, after all, they were lucrative droppings.

  “O Christmas tree, my Christmas tree,” Packy whispered to himself as he contemplated finding the special branch of one particular tree in Vermont and retrieving the flask of priceless diamonds that had been nestling there for over thirteen years.

  2

  Even though the mid-November afternoon was brisk, Alvirah and Willy Meehan decided to walk from the meeting of the Lottery Winners Support Group to their Central Park South apartment. Alvirah had started the group when she and Willy won $40 million in the lottery and had heard from a number of people who e-mailed them to warn that they, too, had won pots of money but had gone through it in no time flat. This month they had moved the meeting up a few days because they were leaving for Stowe, Vermont, to spend a long weekend at The Trapp Family Lodge with their good friend, private investigator Regan Reilly, her fiancé, Jack Reilly, head of the Major Case Squad of the NYPD, and Regan’s parents, Luke and Nora. Nora was a well-known mystery writer, and Luke was a funeral director. Even though business was brisk, he said no dead body was going to keep him away from the vacation.

  Married forty years and in their early sixties, Alvirah and Willy had been living in Flushing, Queens, on that fateful evening when the little balls started dropping, one after the other, with a magic number on each of them. They fell in the exact sequence the Meehans had been playing for years, a combination of their birthdays and anniversary. Alvirah had been sitting in the living room, soaking her feet after a hard day of cleaning for her Friday lady, Mrs. O’Keefe, who was a born slob. Willy, a self-employed plumber, had just gotten back from fixing a broken toilet in the old apartment building next to theirs. After that first moment of being absolutely stunned, Alvirah had jumped up, spilling the pail of water. Her bare feet dripping, she had danced around the room with Willy, both of them half-laughing, half-crying.

  From day one she and Willy had been sensible. Their sole extravagance was to buy a three-room apartment with a terrace overlooking Central Park. Even in that they were cautious. They kept their apartment in Flushing, just in case New York State went belly up and couldn’t afford to continue making the payments to them. They saved half of the money they received each year and invested it wisely.

  The color of Alvirah’s flaming orange-red hair, now coiffed by Antonio, the hairdresser to the stars, was changed to a golden red shade. Her friend Baroness Min von Schreiber had selected the handsome tweed pantsuit she was wearing. Min begged her never to go shopping alone, pointing out that Alvirah was natural prey for salespeople trying to unload the buyer’s mistakes.

  Although she had retired her mop and pail, in her newfound life Alvirah was busier than ever. Her penchant for finding trouble and solving problems had turned her into an amateur detective. To aid in catching wrongdoers she had a microphone hidden in her large sunburst lapel pin and turned it on when she sensed someone she was talking to had something to hide. In the three years of being a multi-millionaire, she had solved a dozen crimes and wrote about them for The New York Globe, a weekly newspaper. Her adventures were enjoyed so much by the readership that she now had a biweekly column even when she didn’t have a crime to report on.

  Willy had closed his one-man company but was working harder than ever, devoting his plumbing skills to bettering the lives of the elderly poor on the West Side, under the direction of his eldest sibling, Sister Cordelia, a formidable Dominican nun.

  Today the Lottery Winners Support Group had met in a lavish apartment in Trump Tower that had been purchased by Herman Hicks, a recent lottery winner, who, a worried Alvirah now said to Willy, “was going through his money too fast.”

  They were about to cross Fifth Avenue in front of the Plaza Hotel. “The light’s turning yellow,” Willy said. “With this traffic I don’t want us to get caught in the middle of the street. Somebody’ll mow us down.”

  Alvirah was all set to double the pace. She hated to miss a light, but Willy was cautious. That’s the difference between us, she thought indulgently. I’m a risk taker.

  “I think Herman will be okay,” Willy said reassuringly. “As he said, it always was his dream to live in Trump Tower, and real estate is a good investment. He bought the furniture from the people who were moving; the price seemed fair, and except for buying a wardrobe at Paul Stuart, he hasn’t been extravagant.”

  “Well, a seventy-year-old childless widower with twenty million dollars after taxes is going to have plenty of ladies making tuna casseroles for him,” Alvirah noted with concern. “I only wish he’d realize what a wonderful person Opal is.”

  Opal Fogarty had been a member of the Lottery Winners Support Group since its founding. She had joined after she read about it in Alvirah’s column in The New York Globe because, as she pointed out, “I’m the lottery winner turned big loser, and I’d like to warn new winners not to get taken in by a glib-talking crook.”

  Today, because there were two more new members, Opal had told her story about investing in a shipping company whose founder had shipped nothing but money from her bank to his pocket. “I won six million dollars in the lottery,” she explained. “After taxes I had just about three million. A guy named Patrick Noonan persuaded me to invest in his phony company. I’ve always been devoted to Saint Patrick, and I thought that anyone with that name had to be honest. I didn’t know then that everyone called that crook Packy. Now he’s getting out of prison next week,” she explained. “I just wish I could be invisible and follow him around, because I know perfectly well that he’s hidden lots of money away.”

  Opal’s blue eyes had welled with tears of frustration at the thought that Packy Noonan would manage to get his hands on the money he had stolen from her.

  “Did you lose all the money?” Herman had asked solicitously.

  It was the kindness in his voice that had set Alvirah’s always matchmaking mind on red alert.

  “In all they recovered about eight hundred thousand dollars, but the law firm appointed by the court to find the money for us ran up bills of nearly a million dollars, so after they paid themselves, none of us got anything back.”

  It wasn’t unusual for Alvirah to be thinking about something and have Willy comment on it. “Opal’s story really made an impression on that young couple who won six hundred thousand on the scratch-a-number,” Willy said now. “But that doesn’t help her. I mean, she’s sixty-seven years old and still working as a waitress in a diner. Those trays are heavy for her to carry.”

  “She has a vacation coming up soon,” Alvirah mused, “but I bet she can’t afford to go anywhere. Oh, Willy, we’ve been so blessed.” She gave a quick smile to Willy, thinking for the tenth time that day that he was such a good-looking man. With his shock of white hair, ruddy complexion, keen blue eyes, and big frame, many people commented that Willy was the image of the late Tip O’Neill, the legendary Speaker of the House of Representatives.

  The light turned green. They crossed Fifth Avenue and walked along Central Park South to their apartment just past Seventh Avenue. Alvirah pointed to a young couple who were getting into a horse-drawn carriage for a ride through the park. “I wonder if he’s going to propose to her,” she commented. “Remember that’s where you proposed to me?”

  “Sure I remember,” Willy
said, “and the whole time I was hoping I had enough money to pay for the ride. In the restaurant I meant to tip the headwaiter five bucks, and like a dope I gave him fifty. Didn’t realize it until I reached for the ring to put on your finger. Anyhow, I’m glad we decided to go to Vermont with the Reillys. Maybe we’ll take a ride on one of the horse-drawn sleighs up there.”

  “Well, for sure I won’t go downhill skiing,” Alvirah said. “That’s why I hesitated when Regan suggested we go. She and Jack and Nora and Luke are all great skiers. But we can go cross-country skiing, I’ve got books I want to read, and there are walking paths. One way or another we’ll find plenty to do.”

  Fifteen minutes later, in their comfortable living room with its sweeping view of Central Park, she was opening the package the doorman had given her. “Willy, I don’t believe it,” she said. “Not even Thanksgiving, yet, and Molloy, McDermott, McFadden, and Markey are sending us a Christmas present.” The Four M’s, as the brokerage firm was known on Wall Street, was the one Alvirah and Willy had selected to handle the money they allocated to buying government bonds or stock in rock-solid companies.

  “What’d they send us?” Willy called from the kitchen as he prepared manhattans, their favorite five o’clock cocktail.

  “I haven’t opened it yet,” Alvirah called back. “You know all that plastic they put on everything. But I think it’s a bottle or a jar. The card says ‘Happy Holidays.’ Boy are they rushing the season. It’s not even Thanksgiving yet.”

  “Whatever it is, don’t ruin your nails,” Willy warned. “I’ll get it for you.”

  Don’t ruin your nails. Alvirah smiled to herself remembering the years when it would have been a waste of time to put even a dab of polish on her nails because all the bleaches and harsh soaps she used cleaning houses would have made short work of it.

  Willy came into the living room carrying a tray with two cocktail glasses and a plate of cheese and crackers. Herman’s idea of nourishment at the meeting had been Twinkies and instant coffee, both of which Willy and Alvirah had refused.