Two Little Girls in Blue Page 9

  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.

  32

  “Bert, 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.”

  “You’re talking too fast,” Bailey protested.

  “Listen carefully if you want the Frawleys to see their children again. In front of Cohen Fashion Optical, you will see a pile of trash bags waiting to be picked up. Open the door of your sedan, take out the trash bags with the money, and place them on top of the other trash bags, making sure that your neckties are clearly visible. Then immediately get back in the car and instruct your driver to continue driving east. I will call you back.”

  It was 10:06.

  * * *

  “Bert, this is the Pied Piper. Proceed immediately through the passageway. The trash bags are being dropped now.”

  Lucas had taken off his chauffeur’s cap and pulled on a hooded rain slicker and dark glasses that covered half his face. He leaped out of the car, opened his large umbrella, and followed Clint, who was similarly dressed and also carrying an umbrella, down the corridor. The rain was still so heavy that Lucas was certain that the few other people going back and forth nearby were oblivious to them.

  From the protection of the umbrella shielding his face, he saw Franklin Bailey climbing into a car. He held back as Clint grabbed the trash bags with the ties and ran back across the sidewalk to the corridor. Lucas waited until Bailey’s car pulled away and he was certain he could not be seen before joining Clint and grabbing one of the bags.

  In seconds, they were back on Fifty-sixth Street. Clint pushed the trunk button of the stolen Toyota but it would not open. Swearing under his breath, he yanked at the back door nearest the curb, but it, too, was locked.

  Lucas knew they had only seconds to spare. He flipped open the trunk of the limo. “Throw them in there,” he snarled as he looked frantically at the corridor, then up and down the street. The people who had passed the corridor as they were running through it were already almost out of sight.

  He was back behind the driver’s seat, the rain slicker rolled under the front seat, his uniform cap on, when men he was sure must be FBI agents came running through the corridor and from both ends of the block. His nerves racing, but his demeanor calm, Lucas responded to the sharp rap on his window. “Is something wrong?” he asked.

  “Did you see a man carrying or dragging trash bags coming out of this passageway not more than a minute ago?” Agent Sommers demanded.

  “Yes. They were parked right here.” Lucas pointed to the spot Clint had just vacated.

  “They? You mean there were two of them?”

  “Yes. One was stocky, the other a tall, thin guy. I didn’t see their faces.”

  Sommers had been too far back to see the drop because their car had gotten boxed in at the light on Sixth Avenue. They arrived in time to glimpse the Excel car pulling away from the curb in front of the optical store. Seeing no sign of the suitcases on the piles of trash there, they had continued to follow the car to Fifth Avenue.

  Alerted to their mistake by a call from another agent, they parked and ran back. A pedestrian who had stopped to answer his cell phone told them he had seen a stocky man drag two just-abandoned trash bags into the corridor. They’d arrived here to find Bailey’s limo and driver waiting for him.

  “Describe the car you saw,” Sommers ordered Lucas.

  “Dark blue or black. Late model, four-door Lexus.”

  “The two men got in it?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  His hands clammy, Lucas managed to answer questions in the obsequious voice he used when he addressed Franklin Bailey. In the next minutes, still nervous but secretly amused, he watched as the street swarmed with
agents. By now they probably have every cop in New York looking for the Lexus, he thought. The car Clint had stolen was an older, black Toyota.

  A few more minutes passed, and the Excel car carrying Franklin Bailey pulled up behind him. Bailey, now on the verge of collapse, was helped into the limo. Accompanied by two agents, and followed by others, Lucas drove back to Ridgefield, listening as they queried Bailey on the instructions he had received from the Pied Piper. He was gratified to hear Bailey say, “I had asked Lucas to remain in the vicinity of Columbus Circle. At about ten o’clock, I was instructed to tell Lucas to wait for me at that spot on Fifty-sixth Street. My final order as we drove east after throwing out the trash bags was to meet him at that place. The Pied Piper said he didn’t want me to get wet.”

  At quarter past twelve, Lucas pulled up in front of Bailey’s home. One agent assisted Bailey inside. The other waited to thank Lucas and to tell him that he had been very helpful. With the ransom money still in the trunk, Lucas drove to his garage, switched the money from the limo to his old car, and drove to the cottage where a jubilant Clint and a strangely quiet Angie were waiting for him.

  33

  The ransom drop had been completed, but the agents had lost the people who picked up the money. Now they could only wait. Steve and Margaret and Dr. Harris sat quietly, silently praying that the phone would ring, that someone, maybe another neighbor, would say, “I just had a phone call telling me where the twins are.” But there was only silence.

  Where would they leave them? Margaret agonized. Maybe they’ll find an empty house and put them in it. They couldn’t walk into a public place like a bus station or a train station without being noticed. Everyone looks at the twins when I’m out with them. My two little girls in blue. That’s what the papers call them.

  The blue velvet dresses . . .

  Suppose we don’t hear from the kidnappers? They have the money. Suppose they got away.

  Waiting does not seem long once it has been accomplished.

  The blue velvet dresses . . .

  34

  “The king was in the counting house, counting up his money,” Clint chortled. “I can’t believe you drove the money home with the FBI guys in the car.”

  The piles of bills were on the floor of the living room in the cottage, mostly fifties, the remainder in twenties. As directed, the bills were not new. A hasty, random check showed that they were not in sequence.

  “Believe it,” Lucas snapped. “Start throwing your half in one of the bags. I’ll take mine in the other one.” Even though he was sitting here with the money in front of him, Lucas was still certain that something would go wrong. That airhead, Clint, had been too dumb to test the trunk of the car he’d stolen to make sure he could open it. If I hadn’t been there with the limo, he’d have been caught red-handed, Lucas thought. Now they were waiting for a call from the Pied Piper to tell them where to drop the kids.

  Wherever it was, it would be just like Angie to want to stop and buy them an ice cream. He took some comfort in knowing that they couldn’t find a Dairy Queen open in the middle of the night. Lucas felt as though his guts were twisted into knots. Why hadn’t the Pied Piper called?

  At 3:05 A.M., the sharp crack of the cottage phone made them all jump. Angie scrambled up from the floor and ran to answer it, muttering, “It better not be that creepy Gus.”

  It was the Pied Piper. “Put Bert on,” he ordered.

  “It’s him,” Angie gasped nervously.

  Lucas got up, taking his time to cross the room and take the receiver from her. “I was wondering when you’d get around to us,” he snarled.

  “You don’t sound like a man who’s staring at a million dollars. Listen to me carefully. You are to drive in the borrowed car to the parking lot of La Cantina, a restaurant on the northbound Saw Mill River Parkway in Elmsford. The restaurant is near the entrance to the Great Hunger Memorial in V. E. Macy Park. It has been closed for many years.”

  “I know where it is.”

  “Then you must also know that the parking lot is behind the building, and out of sight of the parkway. Harry and Mona are to follow you in Harry’s van, bringing the twins. They must transfer their charges to the borrowed car and lock them in it. The three of you will return to the cottage in the van. I will call by five A.M. to confirm that you have followed instructions. I will then take the final step. After that, none of you will hear from me again.”

  At three fifteen they began the trip. From behind the wheel of the stolen car, Lucas watched as Angie and Clint carried out the sleeping twins. If they get a flat tire in that old rattletrap; if we come across a road check; if some drunk slams into one of us . . . The range of possibilities for disaster leaped into his head as he started the engine, then noted with alarm that there was less than a quarter of a tank of gas in the car.

  It’s enough, he tried to reassure himself.

  The rain was still falling but not with the same force as it had been earlier. Lucas tried to take that as a good sign. As he drove through Danbury heading west, he made himself think about La Cantina Restaurant. Years ago he had stopped there for dinner after having completed a spectacularly successful heist in Larchmont. The family had been outside at the pool, and he’d slipped in through the unlocked side door, then went straight up to the master bedroom. Talk about luck! The wife of the hotel big shot had left the door to the safe open—not just unlocked, but open! After I fenced the jewelry, I spent three weeks in Vegas, Lucas thought. Lost most of it, but had a good time.

  With this half million, he was going to be more careful. No gambling it away. My luck is bound to run out, he thought. And I don’t want to spend the rest of my life in a prison cell. That was another worry. He wouldn’t put it past Angie to call attention to herself by going on another shopping spree.

  He was turning onto the Saw Mill River Parkway. Another ten minutes and he’d be there. There was not much traffic on the road. His blood froze as he spotted a state trooper’s car. He glanced at the speedometer—he was going sixty in a fifty-five-mile zone. That was okay. He was in the right-hand lane, not darting back and forth. Clint was far enough behind that no one would even think he was following him.

  The state trooper turned off at the next exit. So far, so good, he thought. Lucas wet his lips with the tip of his tongue. Less than five minutes, he thought. Four minutes. Three minutes. Two minutes.

  The aging structure that had been La Cantina Restaurant was coming up on the right. There was no car in sight on either side of the Saw Mill. With a quick flip of the switch on the panel, Lucas turned off the headlights, turned right onto the road that passed the restaurant, and drove to the parking lot behind it. There he turned off the ignition and sat and waited until the sound of an approaching car told him that the final phase of the plan was about to be completed.

  35

  “It takes a long time to count one million dollars by hand,” Walter Carlson said, hoping that he sounded reassuring.

  “The money was transferred at a little after ten,” Steve replied. “That was five hours ago.” He glanced down, but Margaret did not open her eyes.

  She was curled on the couch, her head in his lap. Occasionally, her even breathing told him that she had dozed off, but almost immediately afterward, there would be a quick gasp and her eyes would fly open.

  Dr. Harris was sitting erect in the wing chair, her hands clasped in her lap. There was no sign of fatigue in either her posture or expression. It had occurred to Carlson that this must be the way she looked when she was sitting with a desperately sick patient. A calm and calming presence, he thought. Just what was needed.

  Despite trying to sound encouraging, he knew that every passing minute suggested that they would not hear from the kidnappers. The Pied Piper told me that sometime after midnight we’d get a call about where to pick up the twins. Steve’s right. They’ve had the money for hours. For all we know the twins are already dead.

  Franklin Bailey heard their voices on Tuesday, he t
hought. That means we know that a day and a half ago the girls were alive, because they talked about seeing their parents on television. That is, if we believe Bailey’s story.

  As the hours wore on, a hunch had been taking shape in Carlson’s mind, the kind of gut-level hunch that had served him well throughout his twenty years with the Bureau. The hunch was to check out Lucas Wohl, the ubiquitous chauffeur who so conveniently happened to be parked exactly where he could observe the kidnappers carrying the money, and then could give a description of the car they were supposedly driving.

  Carlson conceded that maybe it was exactly as Bailey had claimed, that while he was being driven around in the Excel car, he had received instructions from the Pied Piper about where Lucas should meet him and that he had relayed those instructions to Lucas. But the now persistent thought that kept biting at him was that perhaps Bailey had made fools of them.

  Angus Sommers, the FBI agent in charge of the New York group, had driven up with Bailey and was convinced he and the chauffeur were on the level. Even so, Carlson decided, he was going to put in a call to Connor Ryan, Special Agent in Charge in New Haven, and Carlson’s immediate boss. Ryan was in his office now with his guys, ready to jump if the word came that the twins had been left in the northern part of Connecticut. He could start doing a rundown on Lucas immediately.

  Margaret was slowly pulling herself up. She brushed back her hair with a gesture so weary that Carlson thought the effort to raise her arm was almost too much for her to make. “When you spoke to the Pied Piper, didn’t he say that he would call around midnight?” she asked.

  There was no answer to give her except the truth: “Yes, he did.”