Follow the Sharks (7 page)

“But there are other possibilities,” I said.

“Sure. Sure there are.”

“You think he might’ve run away?”

Basile shrugged. “It’s common. It wouldn’t surprise me if a cruiser picked him up as he was trudging toward Medford to visit his Daddy. Or found him in a bus station or trying to hitch a ride on Route 3A.”

I nodded. “I guess that would make sense.”

“Does he know where his father works?”

“Sure. At least, I assume he does.”

“So he’s headed for the mall. Or maybe he’s already there, wandering around looking for his old man’s store. I’ve already had the Burlington police alerted. Those guys’ll keep an eye out. Hey, there are close to two million kids reported missing in this country every year. The statistics say that between ninety and ninety-five percent of them are runaways. Okay?”

“How many of them are found?”

Basile took a long last drag on his cigarette and snapped it toward a clump of bushes. “Most of ’em. Especially the young ones, like E.J. When they’re fourteen or fifteen they sometimes have the savvy—and the real desire—to get away. The little ones, they tend to chicken out. Or else they just go to a friend or a relative.”

I flipped my butt in the same direction Basile had. “What are the other possibilities?”

“Well, of course, there are sickies out there. We like to think we know who they are, but…” He shrugged. “There are the ones, the women, who just want to have a kid. You know, they go around with a pillow tied onto their belly pretending they’re pregnant. The ones who dress their poodle up in diapers and feed it through a bottle. Sometimes they’ll snatch a child.”

“A ten-year-old?”

“No. Usually a lot younger. Then you have the bastards who do it for profit. The guys who make porno movies. And the baby sellers. Very lucrative black market for babies. Not ten-year-olds, though. The porno moguls, they like ten-year-olds, though. Kiddie porn. Ever see kiddie porn?”

“No,” I said.

“You’re lucky,” he said. “And then we’ve got the old-fashioned ransom kidnappers. Since the FBI got itself involved, there’s not so much of that any more. But it happens. Or kids are held hostage. That’s usually a political thing.”

“God,” I muttered.

“Then, of course, we have the pedophiles,” he continued. “Sex nuts. They’re the worst of all. They usually murder the kids. Like the one in Florida a few years ago. Maybe you read about it. Six-year-old boy. Disappeared in a Sears store. They found his head in a canal two weeks later.”

“I can see why you didn’t go into all this inside,” I said, gesturing back toward the house.

“There’s more,” Basile said softly. “Let me have another cigarette, will you?”

We both lit up again. “The Atlanta case awhile back,” he said. “Twenty-nine black kids disappeared. All murdered. They convicted a guy on two of them.”

I shivered. “So it could be anything, couldn’t it?”

He nodded. “It could be, sure. But, understand, I still think it’s going to work out. It usually does.”

We finished our cigarettes in silence, then went back into the house. Basile told Jan he had to get back to the station and that he’d keep in touch with them, and then he left. I watched him go, wishing I could go with him. I wanted to get back home before Sylvie left. And I guess I’m flawed as an attorney, because I’m just not that good with other people’s tragedies. I hoped this wasn’t going to be a tragedy, but it didn’t feel good to me.

So I stayed for the afternoon, sipping the beer that Josie brought out and ignoring the platter of sandwiches she had made. Nobody seemed to have any interest in food. My own stomach felt as if it had been whacked with a Louisville Slugger. The beer helped a little.

We waited for the telephone to ring. It did, a few times. Business for Sam, which he dispensed with quickly. Jan stared out the window while I held her hand. Josie kept moving. Sam sat on the sofa with his head thrown back against the cushion, his eyes closed. He looked like he might be sleeping, but I knew he wasn’t.

It took me all afternoon to summon up the courage to leave. I didn’t get back to my apartment until nearly seven. Sylvie was gone. As I had requested, she hadn’t cleaned up at all. The coffee pot was still plugged in. It smelled like burning rubber.

I poured myself half a tumbler of Jack Daniels, dropped in some ice cubes, and found the Chicago Symphony playing Beethoven’s Sixth on WCRB-FM. Somehow the music failed to conjure up pastoral images of sheep grazing on verdant pastures. I kept seeing Jan Donagan’s haunted eyes accusing me, it seemed, of all the evil in the world.

The booze settled in my stomach like a handful of buckshot. I realized that I hadn’t eaten all day. I found a glob of hamburger in my refrigerator, which I beat into a couple of patties and fried. They tasted like Brillo pads—not that bad, with lots of catsup.

I was fiddling with the dial on my television, looking for an old Charlie Chan movie to get me through another Saturday night, when Eddie Donagan called me.

“You drunk?” I said.

“Not yet, old lawmaster. The night is young. You gonna tell me what’s goin’ on? I called Jan. All I got out of her is E.J.’s still gone and it’s gotta be my fault.”

“You didn’t see him today, then?”

“No.”

“That’s all we know, Eddie. I’m sorry.”

“Oh, man…”

“The police are confident they’ll find him, or he’ll turn up. Try not to worry.”

“Yeah. Right.”

“There’s nothing you can do.”

“I feel as useless as tits on a rooster, know that? I can’t stand sitting around waiting for something to happen. Not my style.”

“Are you home?”

“Such as it is.”

“Stay there. Maybe E.J.’ll call you. At least, if anybody hears anything they’ll know where to reach you.”

“Make sure I know, will you?”

“I will.”

“You’re the only one who will.”

But I didn’t hear anything, not that night and not all day Sunday. I talked to Sam a couple of times, pretending not to get his hints that Jan would like me to be there to hold her hand. He told me that Inspector Basile had contacted the State Police and the FBI. He didn’t know what, if anything, they would do. Feeling the need for a little hand-holding myself, I tried Sylvie’s number, but she either wasn’t home or wasn’t answering. So I went to bed. The next day was Monday, and then, at least, I could go to my office and feel useful.

I wondered who was going to do E.J. Donagan’s paper route in the morning.

I
WAS ON MY
first cup of coffee and staring at the accumulation of weekend mail on my desk when Julie, my secretary, buzzed me.

“It’s a woman. Claims it’s urgent. Wouldn’t give her name,” she said over the intercom. “Do you want to take it?”

“Sure,” I said. I pressed the blinking button on my telephone console and said, “Brady Coyne.”

“Mr. Coyne,” came a female voice. “One moment, please.”

I heard a click and a few seconds of static, and then a man’s voice began to speak. It sounded unnaturally deep and slow, as if it had been recorded at forty-five and was being played back at thirty-three. Something like that, I quickly realized, was what in fact had been done.

“This is the only communication you will receive from us, Mr. Coyne,” growled the voice. “For the sake of the boy, please listen carefully and follow precisely the instructions I will give you. Please note down what I am about to say. The details are important. I will repeat it only once. I will now allow you one minute to assemble paper and pen.”

I buzzed Julie, who picked up the line. “Julie, listen to this and make notes, please.”

“What…?”

“I’ll explain later.”

“All right, then, Mr. Coyne,” came the voice again. “I trust you are ready. First, please be assured that the boy is with us and that he is fine. He will be returned unharmed once our transaction is satisfactorily completed. This will assure you that I am telling you the truth.” There was a click, and then I heard E.J. Donagan’s voice. It was unmistakably his. “This is E.J. I’m fine. The Red Sox won today. Dwight Evans hit a homer. I miss my mother.”

I heard Julie breathe, “Oh, my God!”

“We choose to deal with you, Mr. Coyne,” resumed that deep, slow voice, “because you have the reputation for being sensible and discreet. For the sake of the boy, we trust that is true. We will want one hundred and fifty thousand dollars in used bills as follows. Please note this down carefully. First, one-thousand hundreds. Second, six-hundred fifties. Third, one-thousand twenties. We will examine these bills to verify that they have been marked in no way and that they do not have consecutive serial numbers. These bills must be tied into ten-thousand-dollar bundles and put into a large green plastic trash bag. Knot the top securely. Lock it into the trunk of your white BMW. Drive to the bowling alleys on Route 2 in Cambridge tomorrow night. That’s Tuesday night. Be there at nine o’clock. Wear a suit and tie. Go upstairs to the lounge. Sit at the bar. Order Wild Turkey on the rocks with two olives. Wait for instructions. Be alone. We will know what’s going on. If there are any police around, if there’s any effort to follow you, or to interfere in this transaction, you will not see the boy again. Please believe me.

“This message will now be repeated in its entirety one time. Make sure every detail is followed. You will not hear from us again.”

There was a click, a moment of static, and again the voice began, “This is the only communication you will receive from us, Mr. Coyne.” I listened to it all again. When it was over, I said into the telephone, “Julie?”

“I’m here,” she said. “Is that what it sounds like, Brady?”

“I’m afraid so. Did you get all of it?”

“Of course. It’s in shorthand.”

“Bring it in here, then, so we can check the details.”

A moment later she came into my office, and except for the horror on her face she was still the green-eyed Irish beauty I had hired twelve years earlier. She sank onto the sofa. I moved from behind my desk to sit beside her.

“You never told me…”

“I would have, Julie. I’m sorry. I didn’t know I was going to get this call.”

“What has happened?”

As I recounted the story, Julie’s eyes filled with tears. She had a two-year-old daughter. It wasn’t hard to imagine what was going through her mind. My own sons were in college, and I had no trouble identifying with Jan and Eddie Donagan.

When I finished, Julie said, “So what now?”

“I want you to get Sam Farina on the phone for me. Then type up the transcript of that telephone call.”

She nodded.

“Tell me,” I said. “What exactly did the woman who called say? Can you remember her exact words?”

“She just asked for you. She said, ‘May I speak with Mr. Coyne, please?’ I said, ‘May I ask who’s calling?’, of course, and she said, ‘This is urgent. I must speak with Mr. Coyne.’ So I buzzed you.”

“Did you notice anything about her voice? Any accent? Young, old, or what?”

Julie frowned. “Youngish, I’d say. Mature, you know, but young. Kind of a low voice. You’d probably call it sexy.”

“From the little she said to me, yes, I’d call it sexy. Anything else about it?”

“Well, maybe a hint of a Boston accent. When she said, ‘Mr. Coyne’ to me it came out ‘Mistah.’ The way we all talk around here.”

I smiled and nodded. “Anything else?”

She shrugged. “No. She didn’t say that much.” Julie frowned and shook her head slowly. “Oh, those poor people. What’s going to happen?”

“I don’t know. I just don’t know.”

There were eight of us in Sam Farina’s living room that afternoon. Besides Sam, Jan, Josie and me, Eddie was there, perched uncomfortably on the edge of one of the kitchen chairs that had been dragged out to accommodate us all. The Winchester cop, Basile, was flanked by two other men. One was a sturdy, white-haired guy who looked like he pressed weights. Basile introduced him as Inspector Bill Travers of the State Police. The other was a skinny little olive-skinned FBI agent with a face like a tomahawk named Marty Stern. Stern wore heavy horn-rimmed glasses, which he would nervously grab from his face and wave around in the air when he talked. Stern seemed to be running the show. He spat out questions like a prosecutor.

“How’d they know you drove a BMW?” he said to me, after he had read over the transcript of the telephone conversation I had handed to him.

“I don’t know.”

“You drink Wild Turkey usually?”

“Whatever.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“It means I drink whatever there is. I do prefer bourbon.”

“With olives in it?”

“Never.”

“Why you figure they called you?”

“It’s no secret Brady’s my lawyer,” said Sam.

“I asked him,” said Stern, whipping the glasses off his nose and stabbing at me with them.

“It’s no secret I’m Sam’s lawyer,” I said with a smirk. “Where are you headed with this, anyway?”

Stern sighed. “Be kinda nice to know who called you, huh?”

“Sure.”

“That’s where I’m headed.” He sighed again. “It’s gotta be somebody who knows you all, who knows that Coyne was here Saturday, is how I figure it. Dontcha think?”

He looked around at all of us. Then he answered his own question. “The answer is, I’m right.” He jammed his glasses back onto his face, pushing them onto the bridge of his nose with his forefinger. He studied the transcript I had given him. “Okay,” he said after a minute. “Two things. First, we get the boy back. First priority. We do nothing to screw that up. Second, we catch them.” He peered at Sam. “Can you raise this kind of money?”

Sam nodded. “Just about. A hundred and fifty grand is just about what I can raise in twenty-four hours.”

“Like they knew that, too, huh?”

Suddenly Eddie pounded his knee with his fist. “Jesus Christ! Can we just get on with it, huh? Brady didn’t kidnap E.J. Neither did Sam. Why don’t you cut the bullshit. This is ridiculous.” He got up from his chair and glared down at the diminutive FBI agent. “How the hell are we gonna get E.J. back? Ain’t that what we’re supposed to be doing here? Let’s get him back first. Then we can worry about catching these guys.”