Deck the Halls

by Mary Higgins Clark

  I’ll answer it, she thought. I bet it’s her father. She picked it up and flipped it open.

  “Hello,” she boomed happily.

  “Regan?” The voice was deep and raspy.

  “I’ll get her,” Alvirah said, as she yelled for the driver to go back. “Is this her father?”

  “It’s a message from him.”

  “Oh, good,” Alvirah shouted.

  As Alvirah jumped out of the car and ran up the walk, she did not hear C.B.’s comment to Luke: “Whoever answered your daughter’s phone has a voice like a foghorn.”

  Fred Torres hung up his uniform and closed the door of his locker with a decisive snap. “That’s it for two weeks, Vince,” he said to his partner. “It’s anchors away for me.”

  “I wish I were going sailing in the Caribbean,” Vince Lugano said as he pulled on a sweater. “While you’re on deck with a beer in your hand, I’ll be putting together a fire engine and a dollhouse.”

  The tiny lines around Fred’s dark brown eyes crinkled when he smiled. “You love every minute of it,” he said.

  “I know I do,” Vince agreed, looking with affection at the man who had become his best friend since they were sworn in as police officers in Hoboken, New Jersey, six years ago.

  Fred was twenty-eight years old, just under six feet tall, lean and muscular. His olive complexion, dark hair, and general good looks made him the perfect target for well-meaning friends who just happened to have an available sister or cousin. He was about to begin his final term at Seton Hall Law School after the holidays.

  Vince, the same age as his partner, was two inches taller and twenty pounds heavier, with sandy hair and hazel eyes. He had never been interested in anyone except his high-school sweetheart, whom he married five years ago.

  “What time do you leave?” Vince asked.

  “I’ve got an eight o’clock flight tomorrow morning.”

  “You’ll be at Mike’s party tonight?”

  “Sure.”

  “See you there.”

  Fred had intended to drive straight home to his apartment in a small brownstone at the south end of town. But he impulsively stopped when he turned the corner that led to his street and spotted the dazzling array of poinsettias in the flower-shop window. It won’t take that long, he assured himself as he went in and selected a plant. He had met Rosita Gonzalez at a party a month ago, and they’d gone out to dinner together a couple of times since. He had invited her to the party tonight, but she didn’t have anyone available to baby-sit.

  As he got back in the car, he smiled, thinking of her and remembering the night they had met. They both had arrived at that party at the same time. He had parked behind her. She had been driving a glistening black limousine. As they walked up the steps together, he introduced himself and said, “You certainly arrive in style.”

  “Wait till you see what I go home in,” Rosita had joked. “Among my activities, I drive a limo. One of the guys I work with will be dropping off my car and taking this one.”

  When the party ended, Fred had walked her out to her twelve-year-old Chevy. “Just call me Cinderella,” she said with a smile.

  She seemed so young, with her long, dark hair and infectious laugh, that it was hard for him to believe that she was the mother of two little boys.

  “Does Cinderella have a phone number?” he asked.

  And now, as he found himself driving to her house, Fred wondered if this was such a good idea. There was more traffic than he had expected, and he hadn’t begun to pack for his trip. He admitted to himself that showing up at her house might be sending Rosita the wrong message. He had no intention of getting too involved with anyone at this point. For the foreseeable future, he wouldn’t have enough time to devote to a relationship—especially one that involves kids, he thought.

  Rosita lived in a modest garden-apartment complex not far from Summit. The shortest day of the year was yesterday, Fred thought. I can believe it. At 4:30 it was completely dark. He parked in a visitor’s space, went up the path, shifted the festively wrapped plant to one hand, and rang the bell of Rosita’s ground-floor unit.

  Inside the apartment, seventeen-year-old Nicole Parma was in a state of near hysteria. At the sound of the chimes, she rushed to the door. “Your mother probably forgot her key,” she yelled to Chris and Bobby, both of whom were sitting cross-legged in front of the television set.

  Neither one of them looked up. “Mommy never forgets her key,” six-year-old Chris said matter-of-factly to his younger brother. Only eleven months apart in age, they could pass for twins.

  “But Mommy said she’d be home by now,” Bobby said, his voice low and troubled. “I don’t like Nicole. She won’t play with us like Sarah does.” Sarah was their regular baby-sitter.

  Forgetting all of Rosita’s warnings about not opening the door until she knew who was on the other side, Nicole flung it open. Fred did not miss her look of acute disappointment when she saw him standing there.

  “Is Mrs. Gonzalez home?” He took a step back, not wanting to suggest that he would make any attempt to enter unless invited.

  “No, and I expected her over an hour ago!” The answer was almost a wail.

  “It’s Fred!” Chris shouted, jumping up.

  “Fred!” Bobby echoed.

  Both boys were at the door, crowding past Nicole to greet him.

  “That’s Mommy’s friend!” Chris told her. “He’s a policeman. He arrests people.”

  “Hello, you two.” Fred looked back at Nicole. “I just wanted to drop this plant off for the boys’ mother.”

  The boys were pulling at Fred’s jacket.

  “I can tell it’s all right if you come in,” Nicole said. “Rosita should be here any minute.”

  “Mommy better be here soon,” Chris volunteered as Fred stepped inside. “Nicole’s freaking out. She’s got to get ready for her dance tonight and doesn’t want to look ugly ’cause she lovvvvves her boyfriend. Ha ha ha, Nicole.”

  If looks could kill, Fred thought, as the young girl glared at Chris.

  “You brat! I told you to hang up the phone when I was talking before.”

  “Kissy, kissy, see you later, I can hardly wait.” Chris made a loud smacking sound with his lips.

  “Kissy, kissy,” Bobby repeated, mimicking his brother’s sing-song tone.

  “Come on, guys,” Fred said. “That’s enough.” He saw the tears shining in Nicole’s eyes. “You’re running late, I guess.”

  “Really late,” she confirmed, as her mouth quivered and the tears began to roll down her cheeks.

  “Hasn’t Rosita called?”

  “No. I tried her cell phone, but there was no answer.”

  “She must be on her way home.” The same impulse that had made him stop at the flower shop elicited the next words from his mouth: “Look, I’ve got some time. I can wait with the kids.” He started to pull out his police ID. “You can see the boys know me.”

  Chris ran over to an end table and picked up a framed picture. It was a group shot taken at the party where Fred and his mother had met. “There he is!” he cried, pointing at the photograph and running over to Nicole. “That’s him in the back row.”

  Nicole barely glanced at Fred’s ID or at the good-times snapshot before she was out the door, one arm already in the sleeve of her coat.

  “She’s a pain,” Chris observed. “All she did was talk on the phone with her boyfriend. Yuck.”

  “She wouldn’t play checkers,” Bobby said quietly.

  “She wouldn’t?” Fred said, his voice suitably incredulous. “I love to play checkers. Let’s find a place to put Mommy’s plant, then we’ll see if you two can beat me. Red or black?”

  When Regan opened the door, Alvirah waved the cell phone at her. “The call you’ve been waiting for!” she said breathlessly.

  Regan grabbed the phone. “Dad?”

  Without hesitation, Alvirah stepped inside and closed the door. I just want to make sure everything’s all right,
she told herself. But an instant later, judging by the look on Regan’s face, she was certain that something was very, very wrong.

  Instead of the voice Regan had been expecting to hear, she was chilled by a curt command, “You’ll talk to him in a minute. Get rid of whoever is with you.”

  This isn’t the police or a hospital calling, Regan thought. She made a snap decision to let Alvirah stay. Not that she would have had much choice. Alvirah’s two feet were practically glued to the marble floor. But the concern in her eyes made Regan glad for her presence. “Thank you, Alvirah,” she said loudly. “I won’t keep you.” She reached past her and noisily opened and closed the door.

  That guy doesn’t want anyone else to overhear what he’s telling Regan, Alvirah thought. Yanking open her coat, she quickly unhooked the sunburst pin that she always wore, turned on its tiny hidden microphone, and handed the pin to Regan.

  Regan’s eyes widened at first, and then she nodded, realizing what Alvirah intended. “Let me talk to my father,” she said as she held the sunburst pin next to her ear and the earpiece of the phone.

  “Not so fast,” the gruff voice snapped. “I’ve got a list of demands.”

  In the houseboat, Petey nodded his approval. “Kind of like a top-ten list,” he whispered to Luke, with a friendly punch to his manacled arm.

  C.B. glared at him.

  “Sorry.”

  C.B. continued. “You must have one million dollars in cash by tomorrow afternoon. It must be in one-hundred-dollar bills, in a duffel bag. At six o’clock on the dot, and I mean on the dot, be in your car driving into Central Park at the Sixth Avenue entrance. You will receive a phone call telling you where to leave the money. Do not call the police if you want to see your father and his cutie-pie chauffeur again. Once the money has been received and counted, you’ll get a call about where to pick them up.”

  “I want to talk to my father now,” Regan demanded.

  C.B. walked over to Luke and held the phone to his ear. “Say hello to your little girl. And tell her she’d better do as she’s told.”

  It was with heartsick relief that Regan heard Luke’s calm voice. “Hi, Regan. We’re both okay so far. Your mother will know where to get the money quickly.”

  Before Regan could answer, C.B. pulled the phone away. “That’s enough from you. It’s Rosita’s turn.” He was at her side. “Say hello to Regan.”

  The words rushed out of Rosita’s mouth. “Take care of my boys.”

  Again C.B. didn’t give Regan a chance to respond. “Okay, Regan Reilly,” he said. “We’ve got a date. Six o’clock tomorrow. Right?”

  “I’ll be there,” Regan said. “But I have to talk to my father and Rosita again before I drop that money.” Trying to keep the mounting fury out of her voice, it was her turn to ask, “Right?”

  “You’ve got it, Regan.” The line went dead.

  “Beverly, I feel like nine miles of torn-up road,” Nora told her nurse as she looked into the mirror of her small compact and applied lipstick.

  Beverly Carter smiled. “You look fine, Mrs. Reilly,” she said reassuringly, fluffing up Nora’s pillows. “I’m glad you slept so long. You seem a lot better than you did this morning.”

  “I certainly feel better,” Nora said, glancing at her watch. “It’s 6:30. Let’s turn on the news and see what else has happened in the world today.”

  “It’s me,” Regan announced as she pushed open the door which had been slightly ajar.

  Nora’s face brightened. “You’re early. That’s great. Where’s Dad?”

  Regan hesitated. “He’s been delayed.”

  “Mrs. Reilly, I’ll be outside if you need me,” the nurse said.

  “Beverly, why don’t you go have dinner?” Regan suggested. “We’ll be visiting for a while. Take your time.”

  When the nurse left, Regan closed the door and slowly turned around to face her mother. Her expression was troubled.

  “Regan, what is it?” Nora asked, her voice suddenly panicky. “What’s wrong? Has something happened to Dad?”

  “Mom, I . . .” Regan began, searching for the right words.

  “He’s not dead, is he?” Please God, Nora thought, not that.

  “No, no—nothing like that,” Regan said swiftly. “I spoke to him a couple of hours ago.”

  “Then what? What is it?”

  “There’s no simple way to tell you. He’s been kidnapped, and someone called me with a ransom demand.”

  “Mother of God,” Nora whispered. She clasped her hands against her chest as if to shield herself from another blow. “How did it happen? What do you know?”

  Regan hated to see the pain on her mother’s face as she related the little she knew about Luke’s disappearance: her attempts to reach him; her decision to go to Dr. Jay’s office; the ride to their home in Summit with Alvirah Meehan, whose articles about crime Nora had sent to her; and finally, the call on her cell phone demanding the million-dollar ransom.

  “If Rosita’s with him, and he didn’t make it to the funeral, then the kidnapping must have happened right after he left here this morning.” Nora’s eyes welled with tears. She looked out the window. It was impossible to believe her husband of thirty-five years was out there somewhere in that cold, dark night, at the mercy of someone who might at any moment snuff out his life. “We can get the million dollars. But Regan, we have to let the police in on this.”

  “I know. Alvirah is friendly with the guy who runs the Major Case Squad here in Manhattan. He would be the right person to call. That squad handles high-profile kidnappings. Alvirah is with me. She’s waiting outside.”

  “Bring her in,” Nora said, “but wait a minute. Who else knows about this?”

  “Nobody except Alvirah’s husband and his sister, who’s a nun. She’s staying with him right now. After the dental surgery, he’s pretty out of it.”

  “What about Rosita’s children? Who’s minding them?”

  “I got her phone number from Dad’s Rolodex,” Regan replied. “When I called, I spoke to a friend of hers who said he had just relieved the baby-sitter. I only told him that Rosita had been detained, but I could tell that he suspects something is seriously wrong.”

  “As long as the kids are all right for the moment.” Nora took a deep breath as she tried to pull herself up on the bed. Damn this leg, she thought. To be trapped like this when every fiber of her being screamed for her to take some action. “Let’s get Alvirah in here,” she said. “We’ll get in touch with her connection in the police department and then get a million dollars together.”

  Regan had scarcely opened the door before Alvirah bustled into the room, walked over to the bed, and gave Nora Reilly’s hand a reassuring squeeze. “We’re going to get your husband and that girl back safe and sound,” she promised.

  There was something about Alvirah Meehan that made Nora believe she could do just that.

  “Last year I lectured at John Jay College about the case of a baby whose kidnapping I solved,” Alvirah told her. “The newspapers called it the baby bunting case because I found the bunting the baby had been wearing when she was abducted from the hospital.”

  “I remember that case,” Nora said. “That one was right around Christmas too.”

  Alvirah nodded. “Yes, it was. We got the baby back on Christmas Eve. Jack Reilly was at my lecture that day and invited me to have lunch with him. He’s the grandest fellow, and so smart. Only thirty-four years old and already in charge of the Major Case Squad with the rank of captain.” She reached for the phone. “He’ll know how to handle this. He works out of One Police Plaza.”

  “Reilly?” Nora asked.

  “Can you believe that? And he spells it just like you do too. I asked him that day if you were related.” Alvirah waved her hand dismissively. “You’re not.”

  Regan smiled slightly as she sat on the edge of the bed and closed her hand over her mother’s outstretched fingers. Together they listened to Alvirah’s refusal to take no for an answer.<
br />
  “I don’t care if he’s not due back until Monday, “ Alvirah was saying. “Nobody else will do. I want you to page him now. Here’s the message: ‘It is absolutely urgent that you call Alvirah Meehan immediately at . . .’ what’s the phone number here, Regan?”

  “Give him my cell-phone number,” Regan replied. “It’s 310-555-4237.”

  Alvirah replaced the receiver. “Knowing Jack Reilly, I’ll hear from him in the next ten minutes.”

  Eight minutes later the cell phone rang.

  Jack Reilly did not even mind the particularly impossible traffic on the East River Drive. His suitcase was in the trunk, and he was headed for his parents’ house in Bedford. It was evident that the usual one-hour trip would take almost double that time tonight. The holiday exodus from Manhattan was well under way.

  Of his six siblings, he hadn’t seen two of his brothers and one of his sisters since August, when they’d all been at the family home on Martha’s Vineyard. Counting spouses and children, there’d be nineteen of them under the same roof for the next four days. I just hope we don’t end up killing each other, he thought with a grin. The weather reports were indicating a heavy storm over the weekend.

  He jammed on the brake. Despite the bumper-to-bumper traffic, the car on his right had made a sudden move and cut in front of him. “You’ll get there a lot faster now, won’t you pal?” he muttered, looking out at the mass of red taillights that extended as far as the eye could see.

  Jack Reilly had sandy hair that tended to curl, hazel eyes more green than brown, even features with a strong jaw, and a broad-shouldered, six-foot-two body. Keenly intelligent, quick-witted, and with a sharp sense of humor honed by growing up in a large family, he had undeniable charisma. Both at social gatherings and at work, his laid-back presence somehow filled the room.

  His easygoing manner disappeared, however, when he was on a case. The grandson of a New York police lieutenant, after graduating from Boston College he surprised his family by making the decision to pursue a career in law enforcement. In the twelve years that followed, he had risen through the ranks from patrolman to captain and head of the Major Case Squad. Along the way he also had picked up two master’s degrees. His goal was to become police commissioner of New York, and few who knew him doubted he would make it.