The Boss’s Daughters

by Douglass, Carl;

  “We’ll find them, Babe. You have my word on that.”

  Fifteen minutes later, Desireé’s iPhone sounds its Love Never Felt So Good ringtones from the Xscape album. There is no caller ID. She answers on the first ring.

  “Angelina Paxton.”

  An electronically altered voice that sounds something like a C movie Sam Spade, says, “Shut up and listen. We have your daughters. Don’t bother trying to find them. They are out of your reach and are safe for now.”

  “Who is this?” shrieks Desireé.

  Damien takes her phone and pushes the speakerphone button.

  “Never mind. Just listen. Here’s the deal: first, we only talk to you, Mrs. Paxton. We know who your husband is, and we won’t deal with him or his people. Second, no cops. We get a hint of cops, and you never see or hear from your brats again. Third, this is a business deal, pure and simple. You pay, and you get them back. You don’t pay or if you call in the cops or let your husband’s men get involved, you don’t. Simple. What you pay is twenty-five mil one week from now. We’ll be in touch.”

  Desireé says, “Are they all right? Where are they? Have you hurt them?” but the line was dead.

  She turns her stricken face to her husband’s and finds it deadly calm. It is a face she has not seen before, and it is frightening.

  “Damien, please don’t do anything. We can get the ransom. Our little girls are worth every cent. We can’t sacrifice them just for a little money!”

  Damien chooses his response carefully, “Look, Desireé, we’ll make sure the money is available, but we have no good idea what form the kidnappers want the payment in. What I’ve heard is that paying the ransom is more likely to get rich children killed than not doing so. As long as they don’t have the money, the girls are valuable. Understand?”

  “I think so. Actually, I’ve heard the same thing at a seminar for wealthy women in the city a while ago. I feel so helpless and frustrated. We have to do something.”

  “While you were on the phone, I got an idea. No matter how hard we try to keep police involvement a secret, the kidnappers are bound to discover what we are doing; so, I think we should comply with the demand to keep them out for now. You remember McGee—the guy I play poker with on Fridays?”

  “I think so. He’s the private-eye, isn’t he?”

  “That’s him. So far as I know, he is the best of the best. His partner is Ivory White who used to work with me in the BK back in 2006 when I took over from Alphonse Martin. They deal with high-profile issues; they are very effective; and they are extremely discreet. Ivory and McGee can help if anybody can.”

  “Then call them now. We can’t let the kidnappers have any more of a head start than they already have,” Desireé says.

  “Okay. First let me tell you about McGee and Ivory. McGee’s full name is a mouthful: Joseph Patrick Aloysius Michael John McGee.”

  Desireé looks dubiously at her husband.

  “I swear. That almost theatrical name was a gift from his mother—who was more Irish than the Fenians and more Catholic than the pope. She was very young when McGee was born and could not make up her mind what to call him; so, she used all the names from some little Irish song. Having such a peculiar name guaranteed that McGee would grow up tough—something on the order of being named ‘Sue’ like the Johnny Cash song. Like me, he learned to fight in the first grade and earned a crooked nose and the right to be known only as McGee to everyone but his mother after that.

  “McGee became a private investigator in an unlikely way. Most PIs were former cops who either became unfit for further NYPD service or retired with a nice letter, a nice plaque, and a meager pension, and chose being a PI over being a security guard. McGee told me that he knew what he wanted to be from his midteens. He studied up on what it took to be a successful PI in a highly competitive market. Then he went after it. He got a degree in criminology at CUNY, graduating with honors after three years, and a law degree from Columbia. If I remember correctly, his first job was as a CSI for NYPD. That lasted three years, and then he quit because the pay was too low and the promotions too slow. Then he worked as a criminalist for the FBI specializing in ballistics and then banking fraud for a total of five years. On the QT, McGee said that he quit because he could no longer stomach the bureaucracy. PI work is not all that lucrative for most people, probably because they are just not suited for high-end work. His firm—McGee & Associates—does its share of nasty divorce dirt digging and embezzlement work and that stuff, but their real money comes from surveillance in corporate espionage cases, forensic accountancy, and in-depth investigations for the defense in high-profile criminal cases—usually murders, but the firm has helped more than a few parents whose children have been taken. They have a serious but not advertised reputation for being no-questions-asked investigators, negotiators, and rescuers.

  “The office of McGee & Associates Investigations is in midtown Manhattan, is clean and presentable with chrome and glass fixtures, and no handpainted signs by the proprietor—another set of differences between McGee’s and the lower class of PIs whom the real cops refer to as “bottom feeders.” They don’t advertise on TV or on billboards. Their clients are largely rich, have serious issues with opponents; or, in criminal cases, they have vices to hide and important secrets to keep. They are sticklers for ethics. We can talk with McGee or Ivory, and I’m sure you’ll be impressed.

  “Besides McGee himself, there are two other partners: Caitlin O’Brian, who has been with me for six months. Her former occupation was as one of New York’s finest, a homicide detective in the Central Investigation and Resource Division, Homicide Analysis Unit, who ran afoul of her precinct captain. It seems that there was a disagreement about who had the right to do what with which and to whom, and she decked him. To avoid unpleasantness of separation with its attendant negative publicity, Catlin accepted a full pension and a nice letter of recommendation. She is a tough black Irish girl from the Bronx who had four brothers—a condition that lent itself to an early education in fighting. After finishing the academy and doing her rookie year, she obtained an associate degree in criminology specializing in bank fraud and handwriting analysis. That proved to be boring, so the feisty colleen moved to the homicide division of midtown Manhattan where McGee and Ivory first met her.

  “You might have heard of Ivory White back when we worked together. We parted on good terms. Ivory White is a most unlikely name for the blackest man I ever met—even blacker than me. He has something of a murky past about which only McGee knows everything, and no one else but me knows anything. He’s the muscle of the organization. He is tall, athletic, bald, arrogant, and mean if needs be—and that is often the case in his line of work, perhaps best known by its euphemism—’special investigations.’ He does all of the serious personal security for high profile clients. For all of his martial arts and other physical skills sets, Ivory is extremely intelligent. He is a remarkable linguist who speaks six of the most useful languages of the 800 used by the citizens of the most densely populated city in the country if not the world. He is an extremely determined man. Nobody refuses him when he is sure he is on the right track.”

  “I’m convinced. Call him now, please, Damien.”

  He nods and picks up his iPhone.

  “McGee & Associates Investigations,” the receptionist answers.

  “I need to speak to McGee or to Ivory White. It is urgent. Tell them it is Damien Markee, their Friday night friend.

  “Yes, sir.”

  McGee answers after a short pause, “What’s up, Damien?”

  “Not on the phone, McGee. Please bring Ivory and come to room 1241 in the Carlyle. My wife and I need your help ASAP.”

  “We’ll be there.”

  Chapter Five

  “Come in McGee, Ivory,” says Desireé.

  “Damien? Desireé? What’s up?”

  “McGee, Ivory, I … we need your help for a huge family problem.”

  “How can we be of help?”


  “Our daughters, Paprika and Cinnamon, have been kidnapped. We got a ransom demand no more than ten minutes ago.”

  “I was watching WNN on the way over here. I didn’t see an Amber Alert. This smacks of complications.”

  “That would make you the master of understatement, my friend. Let me give you the short version and ask you to get to work for us as fast as possible.”

  For the next half an hour, Damien and Desireé work as a team to fill in all of the details of the day thus far. Damien tells McGee and Ivory frankly why they cannot go to the police over and above the obvious fact that their daughters’ kidnappers require them not even to hint to police anything about the incident.

  “I don’t need to tell you that I have enemies … more than I can count. That’s why my wife and girls live separately and under assumed names. There are people around the city—especially in Harlem—who will not hesitate to take advantage of our turmoil. NYPD is full of corruption; I know that as well as anybody since I have a slew of them on my payroll. If the word gets out, there will be a frenzied attempt to find the girls and to steal them from the original kidnappers; so, they can up the ante.”

  “I don’t know, Damien.” says Ivory. “The NYPD and the FBI have good track records for getting children back, saving the ransom money, and getting convictions. Maybe you ought to involve them. The more boots on the ground, the better.”

  “What do you think about paying the ransom?” Desireé asks Ivory.

  “From what I’ve read and experienced, paying or not paying is about a statistical toss-up. Neither law enforcement nor us can advise you on that. However, we should let some time pass and not appear to be too anxious. We’ll need proof of life, exact information from the kidnappers about how the transfer of funds is to be accomplished, to do the best and most unobtrusive search we can do, and to rescue them if an opportunity arises.”

  “I want to be involved,” says Damien.

  “We can talk about that later, Damien, but for now hold tight and let us cover as much ground as possible before you make yourself a public target. We can talk more about that as things progress.”

  Damien gives a shrug of acquiescence but does not meet McGee eye-to-eye.

  “I brought a contract for us to sign. We will need to talk about any developments immediately and at least a couple of times of day. That all right with you?”

  Both Damien and Desireé agree.

  McGee enters the conversation, “Damien, let me fill you in on how we work. Our policy is to provide the truth; and all clients who pay the bills are informed up front that we will not lie for them in or out of court; and we will give them all of what we discover and let them be the judge of how to use the information. We don’t take bribes; anyone who does such a thing will be kicking rocks down the road half a minute after I learn that he or she does. Sometimes our clients balk at such pristine morality, but it has paid off over the two decades we have been in business. Let me ask a question: do we work for both of you?”

  “Yes,” Desireé says emphatically and gives her husband a determined look.

  Damien nods his agreement.

  “Okay. Ivory and I brought a box of burner phones. We will use them exclusively, or we will communicate face to face. Trust no one else. Use your usual landlines or cell phones or your e-mails, but keep all of those communications limited to routine daily business and chit chat. If the kidnappers are savvy about electronics and are accomplished hackers, they will be able to monitor everything you say. Someone from our firm will come by your homes in the wee hours of every night to sweep for listening devices, but we don’t want to put in a scrambler on your phones or in any of the rooms of your house or businesses. That should reassure the kidnappers that you are complying with their demand to keep the police and the FBI entirely out of the effort. Your phones will have a recording device that will automatically feed our office any contact you get with the criminals. Don’t try to be clever and to get them to linger longer than ordinary to allay their fears that calls are being traced.

  “We have to presume that you two are in danger; so, Ivory and his surveillance team will be nearby wherever you are. The team is very discreet and has a perfect record for watching clients without being detected.

  “One last thing before you get to ask questions. Our other partner, Caitlin O’Brian, is a first-class electronic communications genius. She will need full access to your e-mails, social media accounts, and your business data. We are absolutely discreet. In the past we have learned about criminal activities on the part of our clients. We provide the clients with what we learn and leave it at that. We never go behind our clients’ backs and report to law enforcement.”

  Damien looks dubious but decides to hold his tongue for the time being.

  “Questions?” McGee asks.

  Desireé has one. “So, when does all of this get going?”

  “As soon as you can get back home—your respective homes. From what the kidnappers said, they will likely be calling you, Mrs. Paxton. I think it is important for you to be available and for you to maintain your identity as Angelina Paxton and to keep your distance from Damien more than you have been doing in recent months. We don’t know if money is the sole reason for the kidnapping; maybe it is somebody with a grudge against Damien or who is after leverage. We’ll learn more when they make their next call.”

  The Chevy drives about for over an hour and the girls are aware that they are making many turns, including U turns. Getting car sick, Paprika vomits inside her hood and starts to choke. Cinnamon screams, and the car abruptly stops. The rear doors of the vehicle fly open and harsh voices yell at them. However, one of the abductors recognizes that Paprika is in trouble, maybe choking or suffocating. He rips off her hood and wipes her face with a garage towel, and the little girl is able to blow the vomitus from her nostrils and mouth. In a few minutes, her breathing returns to normal, and the ride resumes. After about half an hour, the car slows to a stop; and two strong men carry Cinnamon and Paprika into a building and remove their hoods and wrist and ankle bindings. The room is dark and the abductors remain shrouded in black clothes with nothing but eye slits showing. They leave the room, and the two sisters fall into each other’s arms sobbing.

  A few minutes later, the unmarked van pulls up to the building; and the girls’ three security officers are roughly herded up a short flight of stairs, across a wood floor then up two flights of stairs. One of the abductors opens a heavy door and shoves Lydia and Chet into a room with no furniture.

  “Sit,” orders the kidnapper. “Don’t say nothin’ or you’ll regret it a whole lot.”

  He removes the plastic wrist and ankle bindings then quickly leaves the room. Lydia and Chet hear the door slam and multiple locks being closed.

  They wait five minutes, then Lydia whispers, “Chet?”

  “Yeah,” he whispers back.

  “Andy?” No answer.

  She asks again, and is again met with silence.

  She listens carefully, then takes the risk and removes her hood, aware of the foul odor coming from the inner lining of the hood from sweat and fear. She is sure that not all of the odor is from her.

  She looks around, and determining that she and Chet are alone, she moves to him and removes his hood.

  The room is very dark, but the crack under the door and around the two windows lets in just enough light that the two imprisoned security guards can get an idea of the room where they are being held prisoner.

  “Any idea what happened to Andy?” Lydia asks.

  “He was in the van with us. They must have taken him someplace else in this building,” Chet replies.

  “That doesn’t sound good,” Lydia says.

  “And probably isn’t going to be good for you and me, either, Lydia,” Chet says.

  “Look, we need to get an idea what kind of place this is and how to get out of it,” Lydia tells Chet.

  “I agree. Why don’t we feel around the floorboards and the windows to fin
d out at least whether or not this is a house, or an old office building, or whatever.”

  They crawl on their hand and knees.

  Chet is the first to find something.

  “Feels like a bed pan and a hospital urinal,” he says.

  Lydia finds three trays with paper cups and plastic utensils on her side of the room. They meet at the window and find it’s casings to be secured to the wall. The openings are closed over with slick painted two by two boards. The only thing they can ascertain about the outside world is that it must be daytime because of the thin but bright light coming in.

  Desireé returns to her condominium at 142 West 129th Street and her identity as Angelina Paxton. Separately, Caitlin O’Brian and her number two, Grant Lathrum, meet McGee and Ivory at a Wendy’s on Fredrick Douglass Boulevard. David Harger and his senior technical assistant, Craig Yankovich, and Caitlin’s assistant, Rosalie Hertel, arrive in separate cars. After a brief conference, Harger, Yankovich, and Hertel drive to the unofficial BK office in the East Harlem Men’s Club on 133rd Street. McGee, Ivory, Caitlin, and Grant drive to Angelina’s neighborhood and park four blocks away from her condo. They split up and walk around blocks; so, they can all arrive at the back of the building at different times and from different directions.

  Once in Angelina’s condo, Caitlin and Grant set to work to place listening and recording devices on all phones—land and cell—Angelina’s computer, and in strategic locations around the interior of the five-story residence and in the garage. After two hours work, she is satisfied and then sits down in front of Angelina’s computer and—using Angelina’s entry codes—is into the young mother’s life from its every personal, social, and business avenue. She copies the hard drive; so, she can study its contents at her leisure back at the McGee & Associates offices over the next couple of days. She works a little magic and brings up a separate copy of all of Angelina’s deleted material—millions of bytes worth. She knows she will be busy for four or five days total. Without Angelina’s knowledge, Grant hacks into her business and social media files and harvests a crop of secrets that Angelina would not like Damien to know, but nothing that seems to be connected to or a motive for the kidnappings.