Authors: Diana Diamond
Angela created a mental picture of the area as the driver spun back and forth over the streets surrounding the building. There was a jewelry store on the corner diagonally opposite the bank. Directly across from the Folonari entrance was a huge imported goods outlet, with open arches looking out over the street. There was a liquor store with dozens of wine racks fronting the street, a drugstore, and a sidewalk cafe. In the daytime, she guessed, the whole area would be swarming with tourists. It was a good area in which to become invisible.
Now, as Angela relaxed on the patio with the white Bordeaux that had been provided by her Cuban customer, she finalized the elements of her plan. She would connect to Walter's computer server and watch for his connection to the
Folonari branch. Once she knew that the money had been moved, she would head for the shops she had noticed. She could kill at least an hour looking at gold chains while she watched the bank entrance through the jewelry store window. Then, if no one showed up, she would move down a few doors to the import center and spend another hour selecting a camera. If she needed still more time, she could look at lenses and other camera accessories, all the while keeping watch on Folonari's entrance. She felt certain she would be able to spot a courier, who would be wearing a business suit in an island of sport shirts and tank tops. And she would see anyone who tried to follow him.
Angela finished her wine and stepped back into the suite to unpack. From the side pocket of her valise, she took out a floppy sun hat. Then she spread out a striped, long-sleeved poncho, oat-colored slacks, and leather sandals. She would blend in easily with tomorrow's columns of shoppers.
Emily's voice seemed to come from hell, shrill with pain and nearly breathless with fear.
“Jesus, he's got a razor. He's going to cut off my ear. Help me, Walter! Help me!”
Then, the calm man's voice that was colored with laughter. It was obvious that Mike was enjoying the moment.
“Not an ear? Then maybe one a your tits! You think he remembers what they look like ⦔
Emily's scream. “God, no! He'll pay. He'll get you the money.”
Walter screamed, “No! Stop it!” into the phone, but all he heard was a click and then the sound of obscene laughter. “Please, don't hurt her,” he begged.
“Why not?” the man's voice demanded. “You brought the cops!”
“No, I didn't. I just ⦔
“Don't lie to me! Who do you think you're dealing with? One of your flunkies at the bank? You had cops casing the place all afternoon.”
Walter stammered, “I ⦠I didn't mean ⦔
“And then those two kids at the bar. Where did you get them? Out of
Mod Squad?
They might as well have been wearing badges.”
“Please, it wasn't my idea. It won't happen again. I'll ⦔
“I'll give you one more chance. Your old lady still has her ears and her tits. But if anything happens this time, I'll be sending you her heart!”
“I'll do exactly what you tell me.”
“Stay by the phone. I'll be calling you back in a few minutes.”
A click, and then the sound of an open line.
Walter used both hands to hang up the phone. When he raised his drink to his lips, he could hear the ice cubes trembling.
“Jesus,” he said in a whisper. His first thought was to call Andrew Hogan and tell him about the call. He wanted to scream at him for the danger that Emily was in, and to berate him for underestimating the kidnapper. But he couldn't get past the terror that he had heard in Emily's voice. It was as if the madman's razor had been hovering over his own face. He didn't want Andrew or anyone else involved. He just wanted to pay the money and put an end to all this.
He snapped down the drink and rushed to the wet bar to pour himself another. Then he began pacing his living room, glancing at the telephone each time he passed it. “Ring, goddammit! Ring!”
It was only half an hour since he had shuffled from his garage into the kitchen, disarmed the security system, and gone to the telephone answering machine. There was no message waiting. Maybe Andrew had been right. The man was of no account and had probably lost his nerve and abandoned the ransom. Walter had taken off his jacket, loosened his tie knot, turned up his sleeves, and gone to the wet bar to fix himself another drink.
The tension was suffocating. Pilfering accounts. Moving small amounts of money. Assembling the $100 million ransom. At any point in the process, he could have been spotted by any one of hundreds of people who sat bleary-eyed at their
computer terminals, watching the flow of funds in and out of banks on three continents. It had taken all his nerve just to keep his fingers on the keyboard.
And then there were the hours spent at Randy's, pretending to drink when his stomach was in knots, eyeing the lowlife regulars hoping for a sign, and all the while stealing glances at his car.
Even though nothing was resolved, it had been a relief just to lock himself in the familiar and safe surroundings of his own home. But then the new worries began. Would he be able to transfer the entire $100 million as he had planned? Would Hogan recognize the transfer in progress and be able to stop it? Would the transfers go through or would they be blocked by some well-meaning clerk, awaiting a confirmation? Would he be summoned to the boardroom instantly or would the money be gone and Emily be free before his theft became known? Walter had none of the answers. But there was no turning back. He would have to plunge ahead and live with the consequences, whatever they were. He had gone to the bar for another drink, hoping that the alcohol might bring a few moments of peace. And then the telephone had rung. Walter had hesitated, sure that it was probably something routine, but fearful nevertheless. He had been greeted by a moment of silence and then the sound of a tape player. An instant later, his head had nearly exploded with the sound of Emily's screams. It wasn't supposed to be this way. He had never intended to hurt her.
Now, the telephone rang again and he sprang to it instantly.
“Hello.”
The voice: “You gotta car phone?”
“Yes, of course.”
“What's the number?”
He rattled off the number of his cellular telephone.
“Wrap the money up in a brown paper parcel. Keep it outta sight, on the floor of your car, in back of the passenger seat. And bring the leather briefcase with you. Keep it in the front seat, in plain sight. You got that?”
“Yes, I understand.”
“Noon on Saturday you go for a drive on the Garden State, by the Paramus Mall. Make sure the car phone is turned on. I'll call you.”
“Saturday?” Walter couldn't contain his fear. “What about tonight? Or tomorrow?”
“Saturday! At noon. And don't screw it up. You know what will happen.”
Emily lay motionless, her hands chained above her head, the blanket tossed in a heap at her feet. She had hardly breathed since her grotesque jailer had sauntered up the stairs, playing back the screams he had recorded. And now he was on his way back down to the basement.
It had been the most terrifying moment of her life when he had brandished the razor-sharp linoleum knife and fantasized about where he would begin the process of slicing her to pieces. Her plans of escape were forgotten. Her dreams of freedom had become a nightmare. Even though she had come to despise her husband, there had been no pretense in the screams that begged Walter to save her. If he had arrived at that moment and paid her ransom, she would have clung to him in gratitude for every living moment that was left to her.
The leering psychopath had held out strands of her hair and sliced them in front of her eyes so that she could see the capabilities of the blade. He had drawn a drop of blood simply by touching the curved point under her ear. He had cupped her breast and used the back of the knife to trace the ease with which he planned to mutilate her. And all the while, his machine had been running, recording her pleading and begging and, when he seemed about to strike, her screams. Then he had played it all back for her, enjoying the sound of her degradation as much as he would enjoy the feel of the ransom money.
He was chuckling to himself when he came down the steps and obviously enjoyed her fear as he slithered toward her bed. “Your loving husband is scared shitless. He's beggin' me to take his money.” Mike leaned over her. “Guess he's finally
realized that he's met his match.” He touched his fingers to her face. “Or maybe he's not so sure how much he'll be able to love you if I send you home with some of his favorite parts missing.”
His hand drifted slowly down her neck and then under to the top edge of the gown. “But maybe if you're very nice to me ⦠very nice ⦠I'll send ya back to him in one piece. He won't mind havin' seconds.” The sick smile curled into a corner of his mouth.
“Hey, Mike! You down there again?” It was Rita, shouting from the floor above.
“Yeah. Just checkin' to make sure she's not goin' nowhere.”
He stood up straight, towering over Emily. “I'll be back when she's not around. In the meantime, you better be thinkin' of how you're goin' to make me happy.”
W
ALTER PAUSED AT THE
door of his inner office and set down his briefcase so that he could fit the key into the lock. Then he stumbled over the case as he pushed the door open. He was exhausted, his eyes still red and puffy from his sleepless night, a tiny speck of tissue stuck to the blood clot on his cheek, evidence of his effort at shaving. He picked up the briefcase and dropped it heavily into one of the chairs that flanked his desk. Then he went into his private washroom and tried to make to himself look presentable before his staff began arriving.
He was shocked at what he saw in the mirror. Not just the fatigue, which he had expected, but more the total emptiness in his eyes and expression. The week had taken its toll. In some higher court of justice, he was being fined heavily for his plan to put Emily aside.
Walter had never wanted her hurt. He could have stood before God and sworn that he wished her absolutely no ill. Oh, there would certainly be some embarrassment. Even though he expected her to tell their friends that he was a liar and a philanderer, and blame the breakup on his weakness, she would still feel humiliated that he had preferred another woman. Some resentment was inevitable. But Walter knew Emily to be a strong and practical woman. Deep down, she would be able to admit to herself that he had simply gone off into another orbit. She would know that she had no interest in traveling with him and that her happiness was located exactly where he was leaving her, in a gracious home, with her tennis and travel, in the love and occasional company of her children. His settlement would guarantee that she would never want for anything. It was not even unthinkable that she would find another man to take his place.
Instead, he had left her in the hands of a madman whose
ambitions reached only to $50,000 and whose lust would be sated by cutting her to pieces. No matter what, regardless of what it might omen for his relationship with Angela or his future with the bank, he had to save her from the monstrous voice on the telephone. His own needs, important as they were, paled in comparison with her danger.
He held a wet washcloth over his eyes, letting the cold invigorate his dead face. He removed the tissue paper and carefully wiped away the spot of blood. He took his electric razor and completed the job that he had botched with a blade. He gargled with mouthwash to cleanse the paste from his tongue and ran a comb through his hair to cover the thin spots. Then he went to his desk and turned on his computer.
The first step was to check into the accounts in which he had stored the $100 million ransom. Once he had moved the few thousand that Andrew needed to set up his trap in Grand Cayman, he fully intended to follow with the full amount.
Next, he checked his own accounts in the bank's executive compensation files. He had over $100,000 in treasury bills, accumulated from his incentive percentages and available to purchase approved securities. He could draw the $50,000 with a simple coded order that automatically posted the required tax and payroll deductions. His problem would be getting the funds in cash, specifically nonsequenced twenties. Cash was fast becoming a curiosity among money center banks and his request for compensation funds in twenty-dollar bills would certainly raise some eyebrows. The last thing he wanted to do now was call attention to himself. He was going to have to take a bank check for the funds and then go to another bank to cash the check. In fact, he would be better off taking several bank checks and cashing each at a different bank. This was the kind of thing that Andrew Hogan could arrange easily. But Emily's safety depended on his keeping Hogan's people away from the ransom.
He was startled when he heard Andrew's voice. “What did you decide?” The security officer was speaking as he came through the door, acting as if they were still engaged in last night's conversation.
Walter looked up, his expression registering his confusion.
“We agreed to sleep on it,” Andrew reminded him, as if there had been any chance of his finding restful sleep. Walter wanted to scream.
“I'll tell you my thoughts,” Hogan said, settling into a chair, “but you're not going to like them.” He took Walter's silence as interest in his decision. “I think we ought to go together up to Hollcroft's office and lay everything out for him. That's probably what we should have done right off the bat. But there's still time to get this off our backs.”
“Jack Hollcroft will call in the police and the FBI,” Walter said in despair.
“That's the best move. We were wrong to try to handle this with our own resources.”
“And Emily. We just act as if she's of no importance. As if her life isn't worth anything?”
“That's the bank's policy, Walter.”