The Christmas Thief

“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.

P
acky 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.