Naked Cruelty

by Colleen McCullough

  “Fred’s rigged up this red phone through a tape recorder,” said Carmine. “On speaker, we’ll hear every word said. The recorder switches on automatically the moment the receiver’s picked up. Go to it, Helen, and don’t let us put you off. We have to be here.” He handed her the red receiver.

  Dagmar was at work, and answered the phone herself; the number Kurt had given Helen was a private line.

  The von Fahlendorf daughter’s initial reaction was incredulity, followed by all the emotions associated with a practical joke. Only when they had worn themselves out did Dagmar begin to suspect that her caller was serious. At the same moment Helen reached the end of her tether.

  “Listen, ma’am,” she said, “I’m handing you over to our chief of detectives, Captain Carmine Delmonico. Maybe you’ll believe him—he’s a man!”

  She subsided muttering while Delia patted her soothingly and Carmine talked to Dagmar, who, perhaps because she associated police with men, now seemed to understand Kurt’s situation and peril thoroughly.

  “What’s concerning all of us in Holloman is the size of the ransom,” Carmine said. “Have you any hope of raising it?”

  “Oh, yes,” said the clear voice in its German accent, “it is already collected.”

  “No kidding! How did that coincidence happen?”

  “It is the foundation of a trust fund for my children,” said Dagmar. “My mother has retired from the company, and the ten million represents her capital, which she insisted be put into American dollars. Of course it will go to pay Kurt’s ransom—we can always set up another trust fund for the children later.”

  “I see.” Carmine’s mind was racing. “First of all, ma’am, I do assure you that your brother has been kidnapped. His finger established his identity, as the kidnappers knew it would. I must warn you that the odds of getting Kurt back alive are not good, but there is a chance. The Holloman end will be devoted to a search aimed at finding him, because we have our doubts that the kidnapping masterminds are in America. We think they may be German, and that the kidnappers don’t care who is brought in to solve the American end because it can’t make any difference to the ransom. That’s going straight from Munich to Zurich.”

  “Typically American!” she said in an icy voice. “Blame anyone but yourselves.”

  “There’s no blame attached to us, Frau von Fahlendorf!” said Carmine, voice equally icy. “We’re the whipping boy. What’s your husband’s real name?”

  “Von Fahlendorf,” she said.

  “No, before he changed it.”

  “That is no one’s business except his.”

  “For someone whose blood brother is in terrible danger, you seem to have strange priorities, ma’am.”

  “Don’t call me ma’am!” she snapped. “Helen, what is the account number, and the name of the bank?”

  Carmine shook his head vigorously. “Oh, no, ma’am, you don’t get that information until it’s time to pay the ransom.”

  She hung up.

  “What a bummer!” Nick exclaimed. “The Dodo escalates to murder, and a day later a foreign national who is a Chubb professor of physics is kidnapped. It stretches us thin, boss.”

  “Too thin,” said Carmine grimly. “I’ll have to go see the Commissioner in a minute, but first—priorities. The Dodo has to be worked, even though his victim is dead. We don’t know if von Fahlendorf is dead yet, so we proceed on the assumption that he’s alive. That’s not impossible, because a lot of kidnappers kill passively by imprisoning their victim somewhere impregnable and then not giving them food or water. Three days without water, three weeks without food. Not a terribly accurate rule of thumb. If the prison’s insulated, sheltered and full of air, the victim will survive at least a week unwatered. Therefore our first priority is searching for Kurt.” He hunched his shoulders, sank his chin onto his chest and thought for what seemed an eternity; it was probably three or four minutes. Then he sighed. “I can’ t run the Dodo and the kidnapping,” he said flatly. “As a completely new case, the kidnapping goes to Corey and his team, with Helen tacked on to liaise between us and Kurt’s family as well as with other agencies like the FBI.”

  Helen’s face betrayed her dismay, but she had learned from her conflict with Abe Goldberg; she nodded willingly.

  “When and if Abe and his team can be freed up, we’ll have two teams spearheading the search for Kurt. Helen, keep me in the loop at all times. You’re my trainee, not a part of Corey’s team—understand?”

  “Yes, sir.” She looked directly at Carmine. “Will the FBI be a help or a hindrance, Captain? Cops dislike them.”

  “They won’t bother the Holloman PD,” said Carmine, unfazed. “If the kidnappers were known criminals, the FBI would be a big help, but we know they’re not. I’d be willing to take a hefty bet that they’re German nationals who visited the U.S.A. with only one purpose—to snatch Kurt. Further, the kidnappers knew that Dagmar von Fahlendorf had liquidated her mother’s investments to form a trust fund for the grandchildren. Again, it screams a German operation. Our real task is to find Kurt before the ransom money has to be paid.”

  “Do you seriously think that she’s involved?” Delia asked.

  “No, but I don’t trust her security, Deels. If she leaves the name of the bank and account number lying around, and the kidnapper has access to the ten million, the transfer might take place ahead of time. So—she doesn’t get it until her Friday twenty-five .”

  “What if the FBI tell her?” Helen asked.

  “After I’ve explained, they won’t.”

  From Silvestri’s office Carmine went to Corey’s, two floors down. He was on his own.

  When Carmine entered Corey looked up, grinned, and pushed a file across his desk. His long, dark face was suffused with triumphant content.

  “The Taft High arms cache case,” he said. “Closed.”

  “That’s great, Cor. Fill me in.”

  “It wasn’t as bad as we originally thought, though Buzz is still muttering that there’s more to it. All I can say is that if there is more, we can’t find evidence of it, including Buzz. The story as we have it is that someone in the Black Brigade got spooked into thinking there was a raid coming, and gave his little brother the cache of guns he had in their home. The kid hid them at the Taft High gym, and, as you know, Principal White found them.”

  “Why does Buzz think there’s more to it, Cor?”

  “He believes the Black Brigade has thrown off a splinter group composed of less patient, more violent soldiers who don’t think Wesley le Clerc is doing it any more than Mohammed el Nesr. Both le Clerc and el Nesr preach that violence for the sake of violence is a waste of manpower, but the splinter group is tired of waiting for the country’s entire black population to erupt. The guns weren’t supposed to be at the school for more than a few hours in transit—they’d been bought with the proceeds of a bank holdup in Middletown, and there are a shitload more than were found.”

  “But there’s no proof?”

  “None whatsoever.”

  “Then the case is closed. But keep an eye peeled, huh?”

  “Sure, always. What have you got. for me now?”

  “A kidnapping.”

  Corey sat bolt upright, staring at Carmine as at the Angel Gabriel. “A kidnapping?” he squawked, gasping.

  “Yes, and not a baby snatching outside a supermarket.” Corey following avidly, Carmine told him the story of Professor Kurt von Fahlendorf, including the direction his own theories were taking.

  “Is it possible that von Fahlendorf himself is a part of it?” Corey asked.

  “No, I don’t think so. I’m picking his brother-in-law, but I don’t expect to get much co-operation from the Munich cops.” He leaned forward across Corey’s desk. “I’m giving you Helen MacIntosh because she knows Kurt better than anyone else here, and because she’s the liaison between Kurt�
��s family and all the cops on this side of the Atlantic.”

  “He’s already dead, Carmine.”

  “I agree, but we have to pretend he’s alive. And, Cor?”

  “Yeah?”

  “Keep decent notes. That’s a direct order. This case has the potential to wind up in a civil court with the State or the County accused of some kind of malfeasance. And don’t glare at me! You’ve brought cautions on your own head. If Morty Jones takes a drink, he’s off the force. Understood?”

  Corey managed to nod civilly, but the anger burned inside. “Sure, Carmine.” He thought of something. “I guess the FBI will be here to trip us up?”

  “Is assassination the flavor of the year? Sure the FBI will be here. I expect you to co-operate with its agents, okay?”

  “We’ll give them whatever we get.”

  “Good,” said Carmine, knowing it was a lie. “Helen will be here shortly to fill you in on the details.” He walked out, very relieved that Corey was finally shaping up.

  A kidnapping! The ultimate crime, the hardest to solve, the most satisfying yet frustrating case to run, thought Corey. He frowned. What was this about, he, a lieutenant, having to wait to be briefed by a lowly trainee? Still, he knew Carmine. If the boss said she knew the most, then she did. Unwilling to sit waiting for her like a patient for his doctor, Corey got up and went to the office of his two team members.

  Buzz was filling in the despised time sheets, a task Corey had handed to his precise second-stringer when he realized that the guy actually enjoyed filling in forms. When told what was in the offing, Buzz swelled in satisfaction.

  “Where’s Morty?” Corey asked.

  Buzz Genovese shrugged. “Try Cells. Virgil Simms is in charge since Vasquez shifted everyone around, and Virgil’s an old pal of Morty’s. I’ll call if you like.”

  “No,” Corey said quickly. “I need some exercise, I’ll go find him for myself. You can go to my office. We have to wait for the princess.”

  The cells and the offices attached to brief incarceration were on the ground floor of the County Services annex, which had been due for demolition ten years ago but was still waiting—and still functioning. It contained all kinds of antique gear for long-abandoned police techniques, like two massive bathtubs wherein raving lunatics were once submerged until the men in white coats could come and remove them to the asylum. The record of every drunk held overnight was on a file card in a special room together with arrests on more serious charges of everything from arson to murder.

  There were twelve terrifyingly white cells, each twenty by twenty feet, equipped with a toilet and inadequate bench-bunk-beds covered in stained mattress ticking down three of the walls. The whiteness, achieved by tiles, dated back to the turn of the nineteenth/twentieth century, and meant that the slightest hint of dirt showed up like neon signs in a black void. It was general practice to put the night’s takings in as few cells as possible; less mess to clean up later.

  No place, however, for a woman. Of the weaker sex the Cell Sergeant saw few; when one did arrive, she was put in a proper room, albeit one easy to clean and not good enough for a lady. It had a toilet with a seat on it behind a screen, a wash basin, and three proper single beds, though the mattress ticking didn’t vary. She was issued with a towel and bed linen. No mirrors, of course. Usually these poor creatures were plunged into a despair so deep that a shard from a broken mirror would have spelled freedom in death. Few of Holloman’s whores were arrested; the female intake varied from wives who had killed their husbands or lovers to child abusers.

  A man pushing forty, Sergeant Virgil Simms was sitting in his office wading through the mountains of paper this new Captain of Uniforms was generating. When Corey came in he sighed, and inclined his head toward the women’s cell.

  “Sleeping it off?” Corey asked.

  “I doubt that,” Simms said loyally; he and Morty had gone through the academy together, served on patrol as partners, kept up their friendship. “The new housekeeper’s giving him hell, so are his kids. The only place he seems to be able to sleep is down here. Sorry, Cor.”

  “Not your fault. Thanks for helping. Our boss isn’t very sympathetic.”

  Corey walked into the women’s cell to find Morty sprawled on one bed in an attitude that suggested either booze or bone-tiredness; he didn’t stink of Jack or Jim, so maybe Virgil was right, he couldn’t sleep in the hell of his home.

  “Morty!” Corey called, shaking his shoulder. “Morty, it’s time to wake up. Have a shave and comb your hair—we’ve got a new case, and it’s a doozy. I need you alert! The Captain’s going to be watching us, and he’s put a spy with us—Princess Helen. She’ll be reporting everything to him. And go home later, find a clean shirt. You look like something the cat dragged in.”

  He caught the elevator upstairs; he’d been gone twenty minutes. Buzz strolled in and sat; Morty, looking reasonable, entered on his heels. All three men were waiting when Helen, looking flustered, came in.

  “You’re late,” said Corey: put her in her place, tell her that she wasn’t going to be the kingpin around here.

  “My apologies,” she said, but offered no excuses. Then she proceeded to give them a description of the case that, Corey had to admit, could not be faulted. “I’m here with you because I know Kurt very well, and the kidnapper is using me as the go-between. Beyond that, I’m strictly a trainee,” she said, winding up her presentation.

  “Thanks.” said Corey, “First, I want you to come with me to an interrogation room—yeah, yeah, I know the Powers That Be want them called interview rooms, but the old name suits me fine. Whatever you know about Kurt von Fahlendorf and his family is best put on tape and transcribed. We’re going to have the FBI all over us, and I want something to slap on my desk in front of their head honcho. It’ll save us a lot of time as well. Buzz and Morty, listen in and ask your own questions.”

  Off they went, Helen’s head spinning; Corey’s detecting techniques were certainly different from Carmine’s!

  Nor was Corey easy on her, either because she was one of their own, or because her father was the President of Chubb University and she had a trust fund five times bigger than the von Fahlendorf ransom. He grilled her mercilessly for two hours as to her relationship with Kurt—thank God she wasn’t sleeping with him! Who his other friends were, how much she knew about the people he worked with, why the son of an industrial chemist had gone into particle physics, what his habits were, his favorite colors, his favorite music, why he’d bought a pre-Revolutionary house—it went on and on. She answered calmly and lucidly, and was sufficiently intelligent to keep the threads separated in her mind—no contradictions or uncertainties in Helen MacIntosh’s testimony! To her surprise, she was asked to read the typed version and sign it as an affidavit. Smiling slightly, she obliged. Corey was loading both barrels for the advent of the FBI by giving them twenty tangents to fly off on.

  “Shrewd, but it won’t answer,” she said. “By the way, Corey, has anyone told you recently what a prick you are?”

  Looking taken aback, Corey took her affidavit and left; she was not surprised to find that he chose to go to lunch with Morty and Buzz. The word was getting around too. Soon the papers, radio and TV would be sniffing, and the kidnapping would go public.

  Delia was eating alone; Helen slid in opposite her and ordered a burger and fries.

  “I just told Corey Marshall he was a prick.”

  “Accurate,” said Delia, enjoying Yankee pot roast.

  “He grilled me for two hours, then brought in these people to rubber-stamp my statement as an affidavit.”

  “You could have said no.”

  “Wasn’t worth it.”

  “Carmine had to break into Kurt’s house,” mumbled Delia through a mouthful of mashed potato. “The Porsche was locked in the garage, and his keys and wallet were on his hall table. That means he got home.” Her e
yes followed Carmine as he entered Malvolio’s, sought out Corey. “Corey’s being told now.”

  Helen put her pager on the table. “In case Munich calls.”

  “I hope they don’t call you in the middle of the night.”

  “Doesn’t matter,” Helen said cheerfully as she bit into her burger. “I go back to sleep in seconds.”

  Carmine slid into the booth next to Helen. “Is it usual for Kurt to leave his keys and wallet on the hall table?” he asked, his body language telling those who watched that it was Delia he questioned, not Helen.

  Who got the message and picked up a French fry. “Yes, sir, it’s usual. Just as he always locks up the Porsche.”

  “You’d better come with me as soon as you’re finished eating, Helen. I want you to check Kurt’s house, including the guest quarters, with particular regard to foreign presences.”

  “How do I explain my delinquency to Lieutenant Marshall?”

  “I already have.”

  “Then as soon as Delia is finished, I’m ready, sir.”

  “No one has stayed here, Captain,” Helen said to Carmine after touring Kurt’s premises thoroughly. “Nothing is out of place. It also looks as if Kurt’s wearing the outfit he wore when we went to Buffo’s last night.”

  “How long have the von Fahlendorfs been planning to set up this trust fund?” Carmine asked as he locked the front door.

  “It’s a mystery to me. Kurt’s never mentioned it.”

  “Would you have expected him to under normal circumstances?”

  She paused halfway down the path. “Yes, I think I would.. Kurt’s not secretive. I don’t mean that he runs off at the mouth, but a trust fund is an important thing. Yes, he’d discuss it.”

  “Which means one of two things: that he wasn’t told, or that the idea is a very recent one. Does Dagmar tend to cut Kurt out because he’s elected to live in a foreign country and pursue a foreign career?” Carmine asked.

  “I think Dagmar loves Kurt very much,” Helen said slowly, “but I also think that a part of her condemns him for leaving the Fatherland. When Kurt talks of her, there’s always an underlying tone of sadness. Once he told me that the family felt that if he was brilliant enough to be a Nobel contender in physics, he could have done the same in chemistry.”