Deck the Halls (Holiday Classics) Page 10

  Alvirah’s bargain-hunting years had left her with the ability to maneuver her body along sales counters without infuriating her fellow shoppers. It worked very well for her today. Within seconds she had found the section where boxes of frames were piled high, an example of each type open and on display. She spotted one that, at a glance, looked just like Nora’s.

  Excited, she reached around another shopper, lunged for the frame, and whipped out her reading glasses. JINGLE MY BELLS was scrawled across the top in gilt lettering.

  “Jingle your own bells,” Alvirah muttered, as with a snap of her wrist, she placed the frame facedown on the table. But when she picked up the one next to it, she smiled broadly. I’LL BE HOME FOR CHRISTMAS . . . IF ONLY IN MY DREAMS, it read. This was it!

  Alvirah managed to catch the eye of the sales clerk, a good-looking boy who couldn’t have been more than eighteen.

  “I’ll take this,” she said, waving the frame at him.

  “Let me see which one that is.” He reached over and took it from her hands. “Oh, we’ve got plenty of those.” He placed the sample back on the counter and took a box from the only large pile. It was stamped, “Made exclusively for Long’s.”

  Good, Alvirah thought. That answers one question.

  “I’m surprised there are any of these left,” she said brightly.

  He shrugged. “The others went like hot-cakes. Not this one.”

  “Maybe you haven’t had them on display long enough,” Alvirah said hopefully.

  “It seems like they’ve been there forever.” He took her money and rang up the sale.

  Alvirah’s heart sank. This was like trying to find a needle in a haystack. “Maybe you can help me out,” she said hurriedly, knowing the woman at her right elbow was starting to get impatient. “Someone dropped off one of these for my friend in the hospital last night, and the card didn’t have a name on it. She feels terrible that she doesn’t know who left it. You don’t by any chance remember ringing up another one like this, do you?”

  “You have to be kidding, lady. You know how busy we’ve been since Thanksgiving? I won’t remember you in two minutes.”

  “I’ll put my picture in one of these frames and send it to you,” Alvirah retorted.

  “Everything all right here?” a supervisor who appeared from out of the woodwork inquired.

  “I was just talking to this nice young man,” Alvirah said in a syrupy voice. “He was being so helpful.”

  “Keep longing for Long’s!” the supervisor chirped and rushed off to troubleshoot elsewhere.

  “I only fill in on this counter at breaks,” the boy said quickly, obviously grateful Alvirah had not complained about him. “The girl who is here most of the time is off today. She’ll be back tomorrow morning. We’re opening at nine because it’s the last day of Christmas shopping.”

  “What’s her name?”

  “Darlene.”

  “Darlene what?”

  “Darlene Krinsky.”

  “She worked yesterday?”

  “All day till closing.”

  “Thank you,” Alvirah said. She’d give this information to Jack Reilly. It was the best she could do for now.

  As she walked away, she heard the woman who had been at her elbow say loudly, “Thank God to get rid of Sherlock Holmes.”

  As the time for the ransom drop approached, the tension in the Major Case Squad at One Police Plaza increased. Everyone who would be involved was in and out of Jack Reilly’s office.

  It had been a totally frustrating day. The prints they had found in the limo did not belong to anyone on record. The security-camera tapes from the hospital had proven basically useless. The man who had left the gift for Nora Reilly was of average height with slouching posture. When he had entered the hospital, he had been carrying the shopping bag cradled in his arms, virtually hiding his face. Only the back of his head was visible when he entered the gift shop, and when he exited, the huge bow on the box effectively shielded his face from the cameras.

  Alvirah had reported on her trip to Long’s department store. They had gotten Darlene Krinsky’s address and phone number from the store’s business office, but so far she hadn’t been located. Not surprising, two days before Christmas, Jack thought. She’s probably running around shopping, or partying. Not that he expected a talk with her would lead to anything. If that guy hadn’t used a credit card for the teddy bear in the gift shop, it was doubtful that he used one for a frame that cost loss than ten dollars.

  But the conversation with Alvirah did have one direct result. She was going to be riding in the backseat of his car tonight. He still wasn’t quite sure how she had talked him into it, but as she pointed out, the only direct link they had to the kidnappers was the tape made because of her quick thinking. It was a fact that could not be denied.

  At three o’clock, everyone involved in the ransom drop assembled in Reilly’s office. Jack and his close friend, FBI agent Charlie Winslow, jointly ran the meeting.

  In painstaking detail, they reviewed every aspect of what would be happening. There would be six cars in the mobile surveillance unit covering Regan Reilly as she followed the kidnappers’ instructions. They would stay in touch by portable radios operating on a closed FBI frequency.

  The tech unit monitoring Regan’s cell phone would immediately convey the instructions through the closed circuit to the mobile unit.

  “Our agents have picked up the ransom money from the Federal Reserve,” Winslow told them. “Tonight our aircraft will be overhead to track it, wherever it goes.”

  “You guys,” Jack said, nodding to five detectives on the right side of the room, “will be eyeballing the Reillys’ apartment building in case the kidnappers try anything as she’s leaving the garage. Once she’s on the street, you jump in your cars and join the mobile unit. Any comments?”

  Dan Rodenburg, a seasoned police veteran of thirty years, shifted in his seat. “I don’t like the idea of Regan Reilly driving alone in that car,” he said flatly.

  Neither do I, Jack thought. “We’ve thoroughly discussed it with her. She will not further endanger those two lives by having one of us hidden in the car. She was told to keep the police out of it. Regan knows what she’s doing; she’s a licensed PI of considerable note in California.”

  Charlie Winslow addressed the look of skepticism on Rodenburg’s face. “We’ve made Regan Reilly an FBI special deputy for this mission. She’ll be armed.”

  Jack continued, “Regan’s car will be driven into the garage at her parents’ apartment on Central Park South at approximately quarter to six. Regan will be waiting there. The duffel bag with the money will be on the front seat. She’ll drive the one block to Sixth Avenue and turn onto the park drive at six o’clock.

  Jack paused. “I shouldn’t have to say this, but I will. It’s just possible that one of you will have the chance to nail whoever makes the pickup. Don’t do it. The safety of Luke Reilly and Rosita Gonzalez is what this is all about. Whoever grabs the ransom money may have a prearranged signal that if he isn’t back by a certain time, get rid of the hostages. Unfortunately we’ve seen that happen.”

  He stood up. “That about wraps it up,” he said. “As you know, we have an APB out for Ramon and Junior Gonzalez. Everything points to them.”

  Just as everyone was getting up to leave, the phone on Jack’s desk rang. They all stopped, knowing that he had given orders to hold his calls except any that directly related to the case.

  Jack picked up the phone. “Reilly.” He listened. “Both of them? . . . Since Tuesday? . . . You checked all the phone records? . . . Big winners, huh?”

  He hung up. “The Gonzalez brothers are living it up in Las Vegas, winning back the money they lost in Atlantic City. Which means . . .”

  Charlie Winslow finished the thought. “Which means we haven’t got any idea who we’re dealing with.”

  Fred had managed to keep Chris and Bobby busy a good part of the morning by giving them the task of sorting the
ornaments and untangling the Christmas lights. While they were absorbed in trying to beat each other at finding the most ornaments that needed new hooks, he quietly went through the apartment. It was a task he found unsettling., It was only the image of Rosita being held against her will that kept him searching for anything that would help bring her home.

  It was clear that her life was an open book. The divorce papers showed that the decree had been issued almost a year ago. It granted liberal visitation to the father—something he apparently took little advantage of. The bank statements showed she lived within her means, and there were no dunning letters indicating overdue bills.

  Casual questions to the boys about their activities and their mother’s friends did not raise any flags.

  From everything he could see, Rosita was not romantically involved with anyone and had little or no contact with her ex-husband. This confirmed his initial belief that Luke Reilly must have been the target for the kidnapping, and that Rosita simply had the hard luck to be with him.

  At noon he drove with Bobby and Chris to his apartment and got a change of clothes. From there he took them to SportsWorld, an indoor amusement complex, where they had lunch and went on the rides. He kept his cell phone in his breast pocket the entire time. He knew that Keith Waters would call him immediately if there were any developments, or if anyone left a message on Rosita’s phone.

  They returned to the apartment late in the afternoon. Somehow it seemed to have lost its cozy, welcoming feeling. He could see the way the boys’ spirits immediately began to wilt.

  Tears began running down Bobby’s cheeks. “I thought Mommy would be home by now.”

  Fred pointed to the Christmas lights and ornaments now in neat piles on the floor. “Come on, we’ve got to get that tree ready. We want to surprise her when she does get home.”

  “But we want to save some ornaments for Mommy to put up,” Chris reminded him.

  “Absolutely. Hey, does Mommy ever play Christmas music?”

  “Oh, sure. Mommy loves Christmas music. We have lots of CDs,” Chris informed him.

  “I choose first.” Bobby ran over to the stereo.

  As the cheerful sounds of “Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer” filled the room, the phone rang.

  Chris raced to grab it, then, disappointment evident in his face, he said, “It’s for you, Fred.”

  It was Keith Waters, calling to tell him that the Gonzalez brothers were no longer suspects. Not a big surprise, Fred thought as he hung up, but still a big disappointment. As the saying went, Better the devil you know. Gonzalez may be desperate for money, but he probably would not have murdered the mother of his children.

  Were Rosita and Luke Reilly in the hands of sociopaths?

  At 4:30, Nora said to Regan, “You’d better head over to the apartment. Give yourself plenty of time to get there.”

  Regan could tell how nervous her mother was getting. “I wish you weren’t alone,” she said.

  “I’ll keep busy.” Nora reached into the drawer of the bedside table and took out her rosary.

  “A lap around the beads,” Regan smiled.

  “A marathon around the beads,” Nora corrected her.

  Regan bent down and kissed her mother’s forehead.

  “Be safe, Regan.” Nora’s voice broke.

  Unable to answer, Regan gave her a quick hug, then turned to leave. As she opened the door, she paused and looked back at her mother. “You know, Mom, there’s another line that follows ‘I’ll be home for Christmas . . .’ ”

  “ ‘ . . . you can count on me,’ ” Nora said.

  “That’s the one.”

  Regan gave her a thumbs-up and closed the door behind her.

  Luke’s eyes widened in disbelief when Petey emerged from the bedroom.

  Rosita murmured, “Oh my God, I don’t believe it.”

  “Surf’s up!” Petey cried. He was moving somewhat awkwardly, weighted down by a full-body wet suit.

  “Don’t tell me the ransom drop is at a costume party,” Luke said.

  Rosita nodded. “And he’s going as Jacques Cousteau.”

  “Watch your mouths!” a high-strung C.B. snarled. “There’s nothing that says I have to let them know where to find you two.”

  “That wouldn’t be fair,” Petey exclaimed, blinking his eyes. He rotated his neck and shoulders. “This thing feels weird. I shoulda gotten it a size smaller.”

  Always leave room to grow, Luke thought.

  “Quit griping and get your goggles and whatever else belongs to that getup,” C.B. ordered as he pulled on his own coat and unlocked the door. “It’s time to get out of here.”

  “Hey, wait a minute,” Luke said, alarmed that he might not get the chance to talk to Regan. “You told my daughter she could speak to us before she hands over the money. Don’t think she’ll give it to you if you don’t keep your end of the bargain.”

  “Don’t worry,” Petey said. “C.B.’s just giving me a ride down to my boat.”

  “Come on!”

  “Okay, okay, don’t rush me. I’ve got a lot on my mind.”

  They were gone.

  But not for long. Ten minutes later, Petey was back. “Forgot the keys to my boat,” he said almost apologetically. “Like I told C.B., it’s what happens when you rush too much.”

  At 5:30 Alvirah changed into a comfortable pants suit and rubber-soled shoes for her role as a passenger in Jack Reilly’s car, following Regan to the ransom drop. She fastened her sunburst pin on her winter jacket, “That recorder is going to be turned on from the minute I set foot in the car,” she announced.

  A concerned Willy eyed her sensible shoes. “Honey, if there’s a foot chase, you’re not going to try to get in it, are you?” he asked anxiously.

  “Oh, gosh no, Willy. I couldn’t keep up. But if for any reason we get out of the car, I don’t want to break my neck. It’s getting icy.”

  “As long as you promise to stay back, no matter what happens.”

  They went down the hall to the living room where Cordelia was waiting for them.

  When Regan had phoned twenty minutes earlier, Cordelia had answered and spoken to her quietly.

  “Is your mother alone at the hospital?” she’d asked.

  “Yes,” Regan had said. “Which bothers me a lot, but she was very adamant about not telling anyone, even her closest friends, about what’s going on. She’s so afraid of a leak to the media.”

  “She shouldn’t be by herself,” Sister Cordelia said firmly. “I’d like to volunteer to go over there. And I know Willy would too.”

  Five minutes later, Regan called back. “I thought my mother wanted to go this alone, but she says she’d welcome your company.”

  They went down in the elevator together.

  The doorman hailed a cab for Willy and Cordelia, then turned to Alvirah.

  “A friend is picking me up,” she explained.

  From the front door, she could see the garage of the Reillys’ apartment building. At seven minutes of six, Regan drove out in the dark green BMW. “Godspeed, Regan,” Alvirah whispered, as Jack Reilly’s car pulled up to the curb. She ran across the sidewalk and slid into the back seat.

  “Alvirah, this is Detective Joe Azzolino,” Jack said, indicating the driver. He did not take his eyes off the BMW as he spoke.

  “Nice to meet you, Joe,” Alvirah said crisply. No small talk at a time like this, she thought.

  The long block to Sixth Avenue, as native New Yorkers still called the Avenue of the Americas, was clogged with taxis and limousines, picking up and discharging people at the upscale hotels and restaurants that lined Central Park South.

  They followed Regan’s inch-by-inch progress. “This traffic is perfect for the timing,” Jack said with satisfaction. “She won’t have to worry about delaying too long at the intersection.”

  At precisely six o’clock, Regan turned left into Central Park.

  A voice came over the FBI closed circuit. “Her cell phone is ringing.”
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  “Have you got it straight?” C.B. asked as he drove down the narrow track that led to the cove where they had secured Petey’s boat and hidden the trailer.

  “Can a duck swim? Is the Pope Catholic? Do bears—”

  “Don’t do this to me,” C.B. begged. “Let’s go through it just once more. You are going to get on that termite-infested piece of wood you call a boat. You are going to watch the time, and at precisely six o’clock turn on the engine and leave.”

  “Shall we synchronize our watches, me matey?”

  C.B. glared at him, then continued. “You will guide that bucket through Spuyten Duyvil, around the north end of Manhattan to the Harlem River—”

  “Spuyten Duyvil is Dutch,” Petey volunteered. “I think it means ‘in spite of the devil.’ Current is reeeeeally bad up there. Yup. But no problem for an old salt like me.”

  “Shut up! Shut up! Shut up! I gave you Rosita’s cell phone to use—”

  “Mr. Reilly’s is much newer. You could have given that one to me. But no—”

  C.B. braked so violently that Petey was thrown forward. “I could have had a concussion,” he said reproachfully.

  “To continue, I will call you at about quarter of seven. By then you will be in place, tied to the dock at 127th Street, next to the seawall. I will speak to you briefly. Try to understand that the location of a cell phone can be traced in less than a minute.”

  Petey whistled admiringly. “That’s really fast. It’s all about technology today, isn’t it, C.B.? Me, I like things a little simpler.”

  “God knows you’ve proven that,” C.B. moaned.

  * * *

  Even with the traffic along River Road, it took C.B. less than ten minutes to drive the half mile from the cove to the houseboat. Every time he made the final turn off the busy thoroughfare, he was acutely aware that a passing police car might trail a car driving down a road that led to a marina closed for the winter.