“Golly, Chief,” Ron said. “I’m overwhelmed to see you, too. This is my wife, Dr. Janet Higgins. Chief Viretsky.”
Janet held out her hand and the chief shook it.
“You’d better come in,” he said grudgingly.
He led them though a maze of modernity to some kind of sitting room. Flo Ackerman was there, looking angry and scared; right now, more scared than angry. Janet had planned exactly how she was going to handle this. She ran to her old friend and hugged her warmly.
“Flo,” she said. “I’ve missed you.”
Flo, her face muffled somewhere against the much-taller Janet’s shoulder, said, “Me, too.” Janet took her by the shoulders and held her at arm’s length.
“You look great! Even better than last time!”
Flo looked at her. Finally, she said, “So do you.” But it wasn’t the usual girlish gush. The observation seemed compounded of equal parts sincerity, wonder, and resentment, and it was one of the most soul-satisfying things Janet had ever heard in her life.
“Perhaps,” Benedetti said, “you and Miss Ackerman can catch up with old times later. Right now, I need to brief you and Ronald on the most recent events. Sit down, please.”
Janet shed her coat and sat, thinking, You and Ronald, ha. Benedetti had never openly resented Janet’s presence in Ron’s life, or in his cases, for that matter. In fact, he frequently complimented her on her intelligence, and said what a pity it was he hadn’t been able to train her when she was younger. But he had never, not once, ever given her or anybody else reason to think that in his eyes, she was Ron’s equal in assisting him. Until now. He even put her first. She knew it was a mind game he was playing with Flo (Janet wondered what else the old man had done to Flo), but she would treasure the memory nonetheless.
“The chief has had his men pursuing a number of angles while you have been gone, Ronald. Chief?”
The chief had to chew it a few times before he let it out. Apparently he had decided the best thing to do was to cooperate with Benedetti in the manner to which the Professor had become accustomed, but he obviously didn’t like it.
Still, Janet could see that having made the decision, the chief was going to stick with it.
“Mostly negatives,” Viretsky said at last. “I checked discreetly with Harrisburg and with local FBI. They have no knowledge of any known bad guys arriving in the vicinity lately. Not this kind of bad guy, anyway Federal Express has been checked out—that computer they talk about in the commercials really works. This thing was dropped off at their box in the South Scranton Mall some time between noon and five-thirty yesterday. Payment was included in cash.”
“Is that usual?” Ron asked.
“Not unusual. Anyway, it was the exact amount for a Saturday delivery, which is a little more than Monday through Friday.”
“Well, that makes sense,” Flo said.
“I think what the chief is driving at,” Ron said, “is that whoever is behind this either knew or took the trouble to find out a lot of little stuff. He knew this guy Swantek would be at the plant on Saturday to get the message. What about him, anyway?”
Viretsky shrugged. “Solid citizen. Plant manager for the Pembrokes, vice president of the corporation. Local guy. I’ve known him all my life. Special protégé of Clyde’s. Sort of like the son he never had, you know?”
“Does he need money?”
“Now, how the hell am I supposed to answer that? Do these Wall Street guys, who’ve made five hundred million dollars legit, then start scams, need money? Did that movie executive who forged signatures on checks need money? I’ve seen enough thieves to know that only a tiny minority of criminals steal because they need money. The rest of them just have a bug up their ass.”
Benedetti nodded solemnly. “Excellent, Chief,” he said. “Crudely put, perhaps, but accurate and profound. It is the attempt to understand the origin and nature of that ‘bug’ that constitutes my lifework.”
“Yeah,” the chief muttered. “Good luck.”
“Philosophy aside, Swantek’s one of the few people outside the family circle and the people here who know about the kidnapping,” Ron said. “So what about him?”
“He’s been spoken to, and told to keep his mouth shut. Also, he’s being watched, and knows it. I’ve got good men on him. Happy now, Gentry?”
“Sure. Just making certain. But I was making a point, wasn’t I? What the hell was it?”
“Things the kidnapper knew or found out,” Janet reminded him.
“Right. Thanks. He knew about Swantek. He knew Henry could get a million dollars out of the bank on Saturday afternoon, a trick not many of us could pull off. He knew he could slip the other note, the one Jackson found, into the mailbox without being seen.”
“Well, Gentry, the thing is out there on a public road, for crying out loud.”
“Okay, scratch that one. Try this one. He knew or guessed or found out that Mr. Jackson would be likely to pick up that letter and get it to Henry before Federal Express delivered the follow-up.”
“He might,” Viretsky objected, “have just dumped the thing in there. Clyde would still be kidnapped. The ransom demand would still get there. What’s the difference?”
“Big difference,” Ron said. Viretsky glared.
“I agree with my young colleague,” the Professor said. “A crime of this sort is a drama, scripted by the kidnapper. He must draw his own shadowy character with care for the benefit of the other unwilling actors in the play.
“He must convince the family of the victim that he is indeed desperate enough and cruel enough to murder the person who has been kidnapped if the ransom demand is not met. At the same time, he must present sufficient rationality to inspire the belief that the victim will, in fact, be released unharmed if the ransom is paid.
“Most importantly, he must project an air of competence. He is the dramatist, he is (or needs to be seen as) the god of this particular universe. Dr. Higgins?”
When Janet was a child, it had been a schoolyard game for boys to sneak up on each other, or on the girls, and throw them something, anything from a red-pebbled kickball to a wadded-up tissue, yelling, “Think fast!”
The first few times Benedetti had interrupted his pontifications and called on her without notice, her first instinct had been to respond the way she had in the playground—throw her hands in front of her face and scream.
She hadn’t (though she had let loose with an unladylike “Huh?” a couple of times), but it had made her uncomfortable enough to ask the Professor to stop. He had refused, sweetly, telling her that eventually her confidence in herself would equal the confidence he had in her, and then she wouldn’t mind it.
Well, she was still waiting for the confidence to click in, and she still minded it—a little. But she had learned to expect to be pushed into the spotlight at any time, and she was rarely, if ever, caught at a loss.
And she had begun to be flattered by it, too.
“The Professor is right,” she said, reflecting that that was always a safe opening. “Kidnapping, like so many other violent crimes, has at least as much to do with the perpetrator’s desire for a sense of power as it does with a desire for money The victim, or victims—the loved ones of the person kidnapped are as much the targets of the crime as the actual kidnappee—are almost always financially successful, and frequently famous, at least on a local or regional basis. The kidnapper may have a specific grudge against the victim-family. Or he may simply be bitter at his own insignificance.”
Everyone’s eyes were on her. Janet cleared her throat. “I say ‘his.’ Kidnapping for ransom is almost exclusively a male crime. There are frequently women accomplices, but a lone woman, or a group of women, kidnapping someone for ransom is virtually unknown.”
“That stands to reason,” Viretsky said. “Thank you, Dr. Higgins.”
“I’m sorry it’s not much help. After I’ve seen the notes, and know more about the whole situation, I might be able to narrow down the pro
file from ‘unhappy male’ for you. If you’d like me to, that is.”
“Sure, go ahead. We don’t have any shortage of unhappy males—I’m one of them—at the moment. And even if you can’t do anything else with the profile, it’ll be a pleasure to tell the FBI when they get here that I’ve heard it already.”
“Look at the bright side,” Flo said. “Maybe you’ll get it all settled tonight. Maybe you’ll catch them. Then you won’t need the FBI.”
“Maybe,” Viretsky said. He didn’t sound confident.
Heavy doors opened. “I think,” the Professor said, “that Henry and Chip have returned.”
Fourteen
CHIP PEMBROKE COULD FEEL his eyes glazing over, as if being coated with a silver spray for the purpose of showing him movies projected from inside his head. He was really about to do it. He was really about to leave the safety of Omega House and drive out into a misty fall Pennsylvania night into the teeth of a crime.
Well, he’d gone too far to turn back now. Uncle Clyde was out there, waiting for him. Chip had no choice but to go. The script was all written; the actors were in their places. All Chip had to do was finish out his part.
Just that.
He was getting a last-second briefing. Three of them, actually. One each from Professor Benedetti, Chief Viretsky, and Ron Gentry. Details varied, but the burden of the songs was consistent. Don’t be a hero.
“Look,” Viretsky said. “Follow directions. Do whatever they tell you. If they put a blindfold on, don’t peek, okay? If they want the suitcase, let them take it. Just try to remember.”
“Remember what, Chief?” Chip was having enough trouble remembering his own name at this point.
“Everything you can remember,” Viretsky told him. “Sights, sounds, smells. Anything that might help us pick up the track, later.”
“Right. Maybe I can—”
“Don’t do anything extra. Just follow instructions. Now, you’re going to take the Samurai, right?”
Chip frowned. “I was going to take my father’s Lincoln.”
Viretsky shook his head. “Don’t. Take the little car instead.”
“Uncle Clyde would be awfully cramped in the Samurai, especially if he’s ... not in such good shape.”
“Don’t worry about that; we’ll get him an ambulance even if he’s only tired. The point is, your uncle’s car is also missing; it may come into the case, one way or another, and have to be traced—tire tracks and so on. There’s no sense in taking the chance of crowding up the crime scene with a virtually identical car.”
Chip thought about it for a few seconds.
“Okay?” the chief demanded impatiently.
“Huh?” Chip said. “Oh, sure. Now that you’ve explained it, I mean. What’s a few extra bumps?”
“Good boy,” Viretsky said. He turned to the Professor. “You got anything?”
“Yes, the precaution I spoke of earlier. You will keep in touch with us. The chief agrees.”
Chip looked at the chief. He looked sour, as if he didn’t like it, but he nodded.
“Isn’t that kind of risky?”
“I will be frank with you, Mr. Pembroke. This is a move for your own protection. A person capable of kidnapping is capable of anything. If you stay in touch with us, we are much more likely to be able to come to your aid if you should need it. You will use a simple cellular phone, and your call will come right through to the house here, where the chief controls the situation. I am assured that while it is a simple matter to intercept and monitor police calls, it takes quite sophisticated technology to intercept a satellite-relayed telephone call.” The old man opened his palms. “That is, if you are willing to use it.”
Chip tried a shaky grin. “Willing? I was going to insist on it. I’ve thought of this myself, you know. I may not be a genius like you, Professor, but it’s my butt that’s going to be on the line tonight.”
“Precisely. I think this is very wise of you.”
“I’ve got a few conditions, though.”
Benedetti raised an eyebrow. Chip could see this old man was not used to other people’s setting conditions for him. Too bad, he thought.
“First, this ‘staying in touch’ stuff is to be strictly a oneway operation. Don’t talk to me, because I won’t answer. If I can do it, I’m going to put the earpiece of the phone out of commission. Also, I am going to explain—frequently—why I’m talking away on the phone, that I’m doing it for my own safety, period.”
Benedetti nodded with his lower lip stuck out. “In case anyone does contrive to listen in. Va bene. A sensible precaution. I approve.”
“Finally, if I scream for help, come running!”
“It’s a promise,” Ron Gentry said. He was the only one who wasn’t smiling.
“Look,” Gentry said. “What you’re doing here takes a lot of guts.”
“Thanks.”
“You have a right to be impressed with yourself.”
“Believe me, I’m not.”
“It can happen. I know. This bravery is dangerous stuff, and a little bit goes a long way.”
“I’m not sure what you’re talking about, Ron.”
“You do something brave, so when the opportunity presents itself, you push the envelope a little. Then a little more. The next thing you know, you’re taking chances that don’t help anybody”
Chip shook his head. “You’re talking to the wrong guy.”
Ron took off his glasses and polished them on his tie. “I’m not so sure,” he said.
“I am.”
“Okay. Just remember two things.”
“Gee, the chief wants me to remember everything.”
Gentry’s smile was half indulgent, half impatient, as though he knew Chip was resorting to humor to keep his spirits up.
“Remember these starting now. One, the only thing that matters is getting you and your uncle back safe, and, two, all the kidnappers want is the money. It’s in their best interests to keep violence to a minimum. Yours, too.”
“Okay Ron. Thanks.”
Gentry stuck out his hand in a gesture of what Chip was sure was genuine friendship.
He would have been touched, but right now he had other things on his mind.
“Time to go,” Chip said. He started for the door.
“Wait a second,” Gentry said.
Chip felt his heart stop. “What’s wrong?”
“Don’t forget the money.”
Chip let out a sound between a laugh and a wheeze, but inside he was kicking himself. He must be more nervous than he thought.
“No, I’d better not forget that, right?”
“I wouldn’t have let you forget,” Viretsky said. “One of my men is bringing the car around. Another one will bring the suitcase to the car.”
The chief had insinuated three of his men into the house in the plausible guise of bank guards accompanying the million in cash from the bank to Omega House. Chip was just as glad to have them there.
“Right,” he said again, and once more headed for the door. He could hear the high whine of the small four-wheel-drive vehicle he was to be driving grind to a stop. The cop/bank guard put the suitcase behind the seat. The cellular phone was there already.
“The number’s already in there,” said the cop who relinquished the driver’s seat to him. “Just push redial when you’re ready.”
“Yeah,” Chip said. He couldn’t believe he was really about to do this. He slipped in behind the wheel. It was a little hard to breathe. “Thanks.”
Viretsky, Benedetti, and Gentry all had last-minute instructions. Chip heard them, but they didn’t register. It didn’t matter anyway, they all boiled down to the same thing: Don’t be a hero.
Chip Pembroke put the car in gear and drove off down the bumpy road wishing he could have reassured them.
He didn’t have the slightest intention of being a hero.
Fifteen
LIGHTS FLASHED; TAPE HISSED quietly through the recorder attached to the ph
one at Omega House.
Everyone in the house had been gathered into the parlor—with only three cops and Ron to help him, Chief Viretsky decided it would be easier to keep an eye on everyone if they stayed in one place.
They sat in silence, leaning in toward the speakers like a Depression-era family listening to FDR on the Stromberg-Carlson. The chief sat with his eyes closed, trying to visualize what was going on. Benedetti had his head tilted to one side, like a man at a concert trying to ascertain if one of the flutes is a little off. Flo Ackerman gnawed her lower lip. Sandy Jovanka, Chip’s receptionist, had a puzzled look on her face like a kid who hadn’t expected a math test.
Henry Pembroke and Jackson, the housekeeper, sat together on a love seat. It was hard to tell who looked more nervous and miserable, or who was closer to tears.
Ron and Janet knelt by the big kidney-shaped coffee table, tracing Chip’s reported route over the (to them) unfamiliar territory on a large-scale map of Harville provided by the chief.
Not that there was much to listen to, just the low hum of the motor, and the occasional terse report by Chip that he’d gone another ten miles on the road the kidnappers had chosen.
He’d just made the second such report when the chief sighed. “They’re not going to contact him.”
“But they left the instructions,” Flo protested.
“Dry run,” Viretsky said, shaking his head. “They just want to make sure we’re willing to dance to their tune.”
“It also,” Janet said, “increases the uncertainty of the family, and their desire to get it over with.”
Henry Pembroke’s voice was hoarse. “I can’t take much more of this. I ... I’m not a well man.”
“You must be strong,” Benedetti told him. “Whatever happens.”
“How?” Pembroke demanded. “My twin brother and my son are in God knows what kind of danger, and ... and the chief says the kidnappers are probably just toying with me, and you tell me to be strong. How am I supposed to do it? Where is this strength supposed to come from?”
The Manx Murders Page 10
