Two Little Girls in Blue (11 page)

“On both tests, you were asked if you knew the person responsible for the kidnapping,” Walter Carlson repeated quietly. “When you said that you did not, on the second test it registered as a lie.” He raised his
hand at the protest he saw forming on her lips. “Margaret, listen to me. You're not lying. We know that. But it is possible that subconsciously there is someone you suspect of being involved with the kidnapping, and it is affecting the test results even though you are not aware of it.”

It's getting dark, Margaret thought. It's seven o'clock. In another hour, Franklin Bailey will be outside the Time Warner building waiting for someone to contact him. If he delivers the money, I may have my babies tonight.

“Margaret, listen,” Steve urged.

Margaret could hear the sound of the kettle beginning to whistle. Rena Chapman had come over carrying a casserole of baked macaroni and cheese and slices of freshly baked Virginia ham. We have such good neighbors, she thought. I've hardly had a chance to get to know them. When we get the twins back, I'll invite all of them in to thank them.

“Margaret, I want you to look again at the files of some of the people you defended,” Carlson was saying. “We've narrowed it down to three or four who, after their convictions, blamed you for the fact they lost their cases.”

Margaret forced herself to focus on the names of the defendants. “I gave them the best defense that I could. The evidence against them was very strong,” she said. “They were all guilty, and I'd worked out good plea bargains, but they wouldn't accept them. Then, when they were found guilty at trial, and got longer sentences than
if they'd accepted the plea, it became my fault. That happens a lot to public defenders.”

“After his conviction, Donny Mars hanged himself in his cell.” Carlson persisted. “At his funeral, his mother screamed, ‘Wait till Frawley finds out what it is to lose a child.' ”

“That was four years ago, long before the girls were born. She was hysterical,” Margaret said.

“She may have been hysterical, but she's dropped out of sight completely, and so has her other son. Do you think there is any chance that without realizing it you may be suspicious of her?”

“She was hysterical,” Margaret repeated calmly, and wondered that she could sound so matter-of-fact. “Donny was bipolar. I begged the judge to send him to a hospital. He should have been under a doctor's care. His brother wrote a note apologizing to me for what his mother said. She didn't mean it.” She closed her eyes, then opened them again slowly.

“That's the other thing I've been trying to remember,” she said suddenly.

Carlson and Steve stared at her. She's withdrawing, Carlson thought. The sedative was beginning to relax her and make her sleepy. The timbre of her voice was dropping, and he had to lean forward to hear what she was saying. “I should call Dr. Harris,” Margaret whispered. “Kathy is sick. When we get her and Kelly back, I want Dr. Harris to be the one to take care of Kathy.”

Carlson looked at Steve. “Is Dr. Harris a pediatrician?”

“Yes. She's at New York-Presbyterian in Manhattan and has written extensively about the behavior pattern of twins. When we knew we were expecting twins, Margaret called her. She's been taking care of the girls ever since.”

“When we know where to find the girls, they'll be taken immediately to a nearby hospital for a checkup,” Carlson told them. “Maybe Dr. Harris would meet us there.”

We're talking as though it's an accomplished fact that we'll have them back, Steve thought. I wonder if they'll still be wearing their pajamas. He turned his head as rain began slapping at the windows, then he looked at Carlson. He thought he knew what Carlson was thinking. The rain would make the surveillance of the kidnappers that much more difficult.

But FBI Agent Walter Carlson was not thinking about the weather. He was concentrating on what Margaret had just said. “That's the
other
thing I'm trying to remember.” Margaret, he thought, what else, what else?
You may have the key. Remember it before it's too late.

T
he trip from Ridgefield to Manhattan took an hour and fifteen minutes. At a quarter past seven, Franklin Bailey was hunched in the backseat of the limo which Lucas had parked on Central Park South, half a block from the Time Warner building.

The rain had started falling in earnest. On the drive into the city, Bailey had nervously explained the reason he had insisted Lucas be available for him. “The FBI will tell me to get out of whatever car I'm in. They know the kidnappers will suspect that an agent is driving me. If somehow they were able to watch us at home, by my arriving with the driver and limousine I always use, the kidnappers may understand that all we want is to get the children back safely.”

“I can understand that, Mr. Bailey,” Lucas said.

“I know that there are agents swarming around the Time Warner building and driving cabs by it and in private cars, all ready to follow me when I get instructions,” Bailey said, his voice a nervous quiver.

Lucas glanced into the rearview mirror. He looks as shaky as I feel, he thought bitterly. This is all a trap for me and Clint. The FBI is just waiting to spring it. For all I know, they're putting cuffs on Angie right now.

“Lucas, you have your cell phone?” Bailey asked for the tenth time.

“Yes, sir, I do.”

“When the transfer of money is completed, I'll call you immediately. You'll be parked around here?”

“Yes, sir, and ready to pick you up wherever you are.”

“I know one of the agents will ride with us. They told me they'd want to question me about any impressions I was able to make of the kidnapper's contact person. I understand the need for that, but I told them I wanted to be in my own car.” Bailey attempted a faint chuckle. “I mean
your
own car, Lucas. Not mine.”

“It's yours whenever you want it, Mr. Bailey.” Lucas felt his hands grow clammy, and he rubbed them together. Let's get started, he thought. Enough of this waiting.

At two minutes of eight he pulled the car in front of the Time Warner building. He pushed the trunk button, sprang out of the limo, and opened the door for Bailey. His gaze lingered on the two suitcases as he hoisted them from the trunk.

The FBI agent who had been at Bailey's home had put the suitcases in the trunk and added a luggage cart. “When you drop off Mr. Bailey, be sure to load the suitcases on the cart,” he'd told Lucas. “They're too heavy for him to carry.”

With hands that itched to grab the suitcases and run, Lucas stacked them on the cart and secured them to the handle.

The rain was a steady downpour now, and Bailey turned up the collar of his coat. He had put on a cap, but not soon enough to prevent strands of damp white hair from falling onto his forehead. From his pocket he pulled out FBI agent Carlson's phone and held it anxiously to his ear.

“I'd better go, Mr. Bailey,” Lucas said. “Good luck, sir. I'll be waiting to hear from you.”

“Thank you. Thank you, Lucas.”

Lucas got into the limo and took a quick look around. Bailey was at the curb. Traffic was moving slowly around Columbus Circle. On every corner people were vainly signaling for cabs. Lucas pulled out and drove slowly back down Central Park South. As he had expected, there was no place to park. He made a right on Seventh Avenue and another right on Fifty-fifth Street. Between Eighth and Ninth Avenues, he parked in front of a fire hydrant and waited for a call from the Pied Piper.

T
he kids had been asleep for a good part of the afternoon. When they woke up, Angie noticed that Kathy was looking flushed and, sure enough, she was getting another fever. I shouldn't have left her in those wet pajamas, she told herself, feeling them. They're still damp. Still, she waited until Clint left at five o'clock to change Kathy into one of the sets of overalls and polo shirts that she hadn't thrown away.

“I want to get dressed, too,” Kelly protested. Then acknowledging Angie's angry glare, she turned her attention to the TV and the Nickelodeon channel.

At seven o'clock, Clint phoned to say that he had purchased a new car, a black Toyota, and that he'd bought it in New Jersey, meaning he'd stolen a car and it now had Jersey plates. He ended the call by saying, “Don't worry, Angie, we'll be celebrating tonight.”

You
bet
we will, Angie told herself.

At eight o'clock, she put the twins back in the crib. Kathy's breathing was heavy and she was still warm. Angie gave her another aspirin, then watched as she curled up into a bundle, her thumb in her mouth. Right now, Clint and Lucas are hooking up with whoever has the money, she thought, her nerves tingling.

Kelly was sitting up, her arm around her sister. The blue teddy-bear pajamas she'd worn since last night were wrinkled and had become unbuttoned at the neck. The overalls Kathy was now wearing were dark blue, the polo shirt a blue and white check pattern.

“Two little girls in blue, lad,” Angie began singing. “Two little girls in blue . . .”

Kelly looked up at her, her eyes solemn as Angie repeated the last line of the refrain twice, “But we have drifted apart.”

Angie turned out the light, closed the bedroom door, and went into the living room. Apple-pie order, she thought, sarcastically. Better than it's looked in a long time. I should have kept the vaporizer though. Getting rid of it was Lucas's fault.

She looked at the clock. It was ten after eight. The only thing Clint knew about the ransom payment was that he had to be parked a couple of blocks from Columbus Circle in a stolen car at eight o'clock. By now the Pied Piper should have things rolling.

Clint hadn't been told to carry a gun, but with her encouragement, he had decided to do so anyway. “Look at it this way,” she had told him. “Suppose you're getting away with the cash and somebody's following you. You're good with a gun. If you're really cornered, aim for the cop's leg or the tires of his car.”

Now Clint's unregistered pistol was in his pocket.

Angie made a pot of coffee, sat on the couch, and turned on the television to the news channel. A cup of mouth-burning black coffee in one hand and a cigarette
in the other, she watched intently as the anchorman speculated that the ransom payment transaction might be in progress between the kidnappers and the Frawley family. “Our Web site has been flooded with messages from our viewers who are praying that very, very soon the two little girls in blue will be back in the arms of their heartbroken parents.”

Angie laughed. “Guess again, pal,” she said, smirking at the solemn-faced anchorman.

A
recent magazine article had described her as “sixty-three years old, with wise and compassionate hazel eyes, a full head of finger-waved gray hair, and a rounded body that offers a comfortable lap to babies and toddlers.” Dr. Sylvia Harris was the director of pediatric services at the Children's Hospital of New York-Presbyterian in Manhattan. When the news of the kidnapping first broke, she had tried to get through to Steve and Margaret Frawley but had only been able to leave a message. Frustrated, she had phoned Steve's office and asked his secretary to tell him that she had everyone she knew praying for the safe return of the twins.