Kurt, the social service’s in-house law advocate, looked up from his bagel and cream cheese. He’d gone to Ford-ham and hadn’t passed the bar yet, but Francis had faith in him. The kid’s heart was in the right place.
“The reason I called is that Mr. Franklin’s last appeal pretty much got slam-dunked into the shitter, Francis,” he said between bites. “The fuckers are going to fry him this Friday, and the rednecks down there will probably tailgate in the prison parking lot. What are you going to do? Hope the Republicans are happy. Another one bites the dust.”
Francis couldn’t believe it as chuckles exploded around the room. Mr. Reginald Franklin, the son of a destitute local resident, and borderline retarded, was about to be executed by the American government. How was that funny?
“Did you look over the habeas corpus?” Francis said.
“Of course,” Kurt said. “The appeals court decided to go by the trial record.”
“That’s what they always do,” Francis said, raising his voice now. “Did you get a copy of the police report, like I told you to? Did you look into the adequacy of his first attorney? The man supposedly fell asleep at one point.”
The room was silent now. Kurt set his bagel on the table as he sat up.
“No, I didn’t get a chance,” he finally said. “I did call you.”
“Didn’t get a chance? Didn’t get a chance!” Francis yelled. His chair made a thunderous shriek as he leapt up. “Are you out of your fucking mind? The man is about to die!”
“Jeez, Francis,” Kurt mumbled with his head down. “Relax.”
“I won’t,” Francis X. said. He didn’t want to cry. Not in front of these kids, but he couldn’t help it. A torrent of hot tears poured down his reddened face.
“I can’t relax, don’t you see?” he said as he stormed out. “There’s no more time.”
Chapter 41
WE WERE OUT on Columbia’s sprawling Low Plaza, heading over to the bursar’s office to get Dan Hastings’s personal info, when my phone rang.
“Mike,” Detective Schultz cried. “Get over quick to the vice president’s office at the Low Memorial Library. We need your help. You’re not going to believe this.”
I met a frustrated-looking Schultz and Ramirez in a hallway on the second floor of the college’s iconic domed building. The administration was denying them the tapes from the Campus Security cameras due to “privacy concerns.”
“These wackos are acting like we’re the KGB rounding up people for the gulag instead of trying to save the life of one of their kidnapped students,” Ramirez said wide-eyed.
After twenty minutes of arguing, it finally took the threat of both a city and federal subpoena to get the officials to release the tapes, along with Dan Hastings’s personal information.
“Only in New York,” Agent Parker said as we went out toward the Broadway gate and the Crown Victoria that the FBI’s New York office had dropped off for her.
“Or any Ivy League college campus,” I said.
The victim’s father, Gordon Hastings, lived way downtown on Prince Street in SoHo. As Emily drove, I listened to a 1010 WINS report that was already being broadcast about him. Gordon Hastings used to work for Rupert Murdoch and now had his own business buying radio and TV stations, mostly in Canada and Europe. His wealth was estimated at eight hundred million dollars. I couldn’t even imagine that kind of money. Or what the man had to be going through, knowing that his disabled son had been abducted.
As she drove, Emily called the New York office and ran Gordon Hastings through NCIC and other federal databases.
“He was born and raised in Scotland,” she said, hanging up a few minutes later, “but became a U.S. citizen a couple of years ago. He’s clean, though the IRS has an open case on him due to some remarks he made about offshore accounts in a Vanity Fair interview.”
“Imagine that,” I said. “And all my Vanity Fair interviews always go so swimmingly.”
I let out an angry snort a moment later as we turned off Broadway onto Prince.
Half a dozen news vans had beat us to Hastings’s cast-iron building. Cold-eyed camera lenses swung on us as we double-parked. I swung my cold-eyed Irish face right back at them.
“No goddamn comment,” I yelled at them as I got out. “And get that goddamn eyewitness van away from that fire hydrant if you ever want to see it again.”
“Now, that’s what I call media savvy,” Emily said with a grin as we waded through the newsies on the sidewalk. “If you ever make it down to DC, you should toss your résumé into the ring for White House press secretary.”
“You thought that was bad,” I said. “I was being restrained. I usually just empty a magazine into the air.”
It actually turned out that the ride we had taken downtown was for nothing. The luxury building’s handsome but seemingly stoned concierge stifled a giggle when we asked to speak to Gordon Hastings.
“C’mon. Where you been, man? I thought everyone knew that only Mr. Hastings’s second wife and new baby twins get to live in the penthouse duplex during the divorce proceedings.”
“Could we speak to the soon-to-be ex–Mrs. Gordon Hastings, then?” Emily said before I could ask the guy for a urine sample.
“I wouldn’t think so,” the spaced-out model look-alike said. “Unless, of course, you’re planning a trip to Morocco, where her Italian Vogue shoot is.”
The only useful thing we learned was that the mogul’s mail was being forwarded to somewhere called Pier Fifty-nine, at Twenty-third Street and the Hudson River.
It turned out to be the Chelsea Piers Sports Center. We stared at the kids Rollerblading and the men with golf bags on the sidewalk in front of it.
“That kid was even higher than he looked. How could this guy live at a sports facility?” Emily said as we pulled up.
“That’s how,” I said as I pointed to the yacht-filled marina beside the netted driving range.
Chapter 42
OVER TWO HUNDRED feet long, Gordon Hastings’s yacht, the Teacup Tempest, turned out to be the largest one at the marina. Ten minutes later, we sat waiting to meet the mogul at the rear of its massive cherry-paneled forward salon.
There were antiques and paintings. There were also row upon row of flat-screen TVs. Smaller computer screens on scattered desks showed investment graphs. In addition to the ship’s crew, there were eight or nine businesspeople, Hastings’s corporate team that actually worked from the ship. Like us, they were just standing around waiting, with stressed-out looks on their faces.
The captain of the vessel, John McKnight, who’d escorted us on board, told us about the accident that had crippled the abducted Columbia freshman.
“It was on a mountain-biking trip in Asia that was all Mr. H’s idea,” the captain said in a low voice. “He completely blames himself. That’s what led to his divorce, if you want my opinion. Now with Dan being abducted, it’s just unbelievable. Unbearable. For all of us. Dan was the most down-to-earth, lovable kid you ever met. He took the accident like it was nothing. He was inspiring.”
“He still is inspiring as far as we know, Captain,” I said. “You can’t forget that.”
A barefoot figure in a Hawaiian shirt and khakis finally emerged from one of the rear staterooms. The wiry, deeply tanned man came directly over to us and shook our hands, and we introduced ourselves. I noticed that his heavy gold watch had nautical flags on it instead of numbers. I could also see the top of his pajama pants above the waistband of his khakis. He didn’t stagger or smell of alcohol, but I could tell the distraught father had been drinking.
“Thank you so much for coming,” he said with an unexpected thick Scottish burr. With his bald head and mustache, he actually looked a little like Sean Connery. “Have you learned anything?”
“There’s been nothing so far, sir,” Emily said. “I can’t imagine what you must be going through.”
He stared at Emily a moment and then a vicious look crossed his face.
“Maybe that l
ack of imagination is the reason why the first two victims ended up dead, Agent Parker,” he said with a sneer. “I just bought the New York Mirror a few weeks ago, you know. One hears these things.”
Wow, I thought. Looks like James Bond, acts like Attila the Hun. And make that drinking heavily. I understood that Hastings was hurting, but his nastiness was inappropriate and completely uncalled for.
“The pattern of the man who kidnapped Jacob Dunning and Chelsea Skinner is to contact the family,” I said, edging myself between Emily and Hastings. “We don’t know if the person or persons who seem to have taken your son are the same, but we’ll go on that assumption. With your permission, we’d like to put trap-and-trace equipment on your phones.”
“I guess . . .,” Hastings said, brooding.
“Thank you, sir,” Emily continued with a grin. “You wouldn’t happen to know either the Dunnings or the Skinners by any chance, would you?”
“Of course not,” Hastings spat at her again. “What kind of question is that? Do you think we’re part of some billionaire cabal? Don’t they have any actual professionals who take care of kidnappings?”
“Right here, sir,” Emily said with an even wider, lovelier smile. “You’re looking at them. Thank you again for your cooperation.”
“Way to handle that jackass, Parker,” I said as the millionaire left.
“I’ve learned from the best, Mike,” Emily said, grinning.
Chapter 43
OUTSIDE, EMILY AND I huddled with our own team and got busy bringing in the phone-tracing gear from the FBI and NYPD tech cars in the marina’s lot. In addition to recording the conversation, the tech guys were going to run it through voice-analysis software, a kind of high-tech lie detector and emotion indicator. We hooked up my phone to the equipment as well this time.
We’d just finished setting everything up when something sounded from one of the computers in the luxury salon’s corner.
“You’ve got mail,” it said in an inappropriately cheery tone.
“I didn’t know they actually still said that,” I said to Hastings’s secretary.
“They really don’t, but Mr. Hastings insists. He finds it nostalgic,” she said in a way that implied it was one of many nutty insistences that came from Emperor Hastings.
We rushed over. Mr. Hastings’s personal assistant quickly brought up the mail page.
From Subject
[email protected] Whether I live or die
The secretary bit her lip as she opened the e-mail.
Hastings,
If you want to see your son alive again, you’ll get five million dollars in hundred-dollar denominations ready for delivery. You have three hours. The faster we wrap this up, the faster you can get back to your greedy, decadent life.
I do not think I need to remind you what I am capable of.
“What is it?” Hastings said, emerging from his stateroom. He banged a shin on a settee as he rushed over and stared at the screen. Everyone jumped as he emitted a primal moan.
“Oh, Danny! Oh, my son,” Hastings said. He knocked a lamp off the desk as he reached for the computer monitor. Luckily, he missed. He landed with a painful-sounding thump next to the lamp on the Oriental rug.
We watched as Captain McKnight lifted Hastings from the floor. It looked like something he’d done before. He spoke to him soothingly as he guided him to the back of the ship.
Vivid freeze-frame images of Jacob Dunning and Chelsea Skinner flashed through my head as I reread the last part of the e-mail.
I do not think I need to remind you what I am capable of.
No, he didn’t, I thought. He was right about that.
Chapter 44
AS OUR TECHS got busy tracing the e-mail, I caught Emily’s attention.
“Could I talk to you out on the aloha deck?” I said, motioning for the salon’s exit.
On our way outside, through an open doorway I spotted a dining room set with crystal and silver for twenty. I found the sight of it, for some reason, the most lonesome thing.
No wonder Hastings had gone over the edge. Even with eight hundred million dollars, life had rammed him completely through the wringer. Despite his drunken melodrama, I truly felt sorry for him.
“I don’t like this, Parker,” I said as we stood outside, watching yuppies hit golf balls on the converted dock beside us. “Something smells. On the one hand, switching to e-mail is in keeping with our guy’s pattern of changing methods. But on the other hand, our guy loves the sound of his voice too much to send an e-mail. He loves talking to me, crying on my shoulder. I’m not convinced this is the same guy.”
Ramirez suddenly stuck his head outside.
“Mike, get in here quick. And I thought Columbia was bad. Now this is really getting nuts.”
Back inside, I saw a large, bald gentleman in a pinstripe suit collecting the laptops off the desks.
“Sic ’em, Vin,” Hastings yelled from a couch with a laugh. He lit a cigar. “Tell them their services are no longer required.”
“Vinny Carbone,” the new arrival said, offering his hand. “I’m Mr. Hastings’s attorney. I’m going to be representing Mr. Hastings in this matter here.”
I stared at Parker, baffled.
“I wasn’t aware this was a court proceeding,” I said.
“The bottom line is, you don’t need to be putting any kind of trace software or spyware or anything else on Mr. Hastings’s computers,” the lawyer continued. “He’s had a little trouble with you guys, especially the IRS, and, well, we’re sorry, but we can’t cooperate. In fact, you can get off his phones, too. He wants to handle things on his own from here. And if you’ve left any bugs, you should take them with you. We will be sweeping the whole boat after you leave.”
Spyware and bugs? I thought. These people really were worse than the nuts at Columbia.
“Mr. Carbone,” I said, putting up my palms. “This is a kidnapping. Dan Hastings is a citizen. We can’t just walk away.”
“Tell him to get the fuck off my boat, Vinny,” the father yelled, pointing his stogie for emphasis. “Tell him we’ll do it the right way. By ourselves. I let these assholes handle it, Dan comes back in a plastic bag.”
“You heard it from the horse’s mouth, kid,” the lawyer said in his Brooklyn accent. “You gotta go.”
More like the other end of the horse, I thought.
“Yeah, in a second, Pop,” I said to Carbone, stepping past him.
“This might not even be the same kidnapper,” I said to the father, trying not to lose my cool.
Emily, following me, seemed to have lost hers.
“You think you can buy your kid back?” she said loudly. “You’re going to get him killed.”
“Piss off, cop,” Hastings said. “You’re oh for two! You fools have no idea what you’re doing.”
He waved his cigar at us dismissively. He suddenly sounded a lot less upper crust than at our initial meeting.
“Oh, don’t worry. I am pissed off, Mr. Hastings,” Emily yelled at him as we left. “I’ve been pissed off pretty much since the second I met you.”
Chapter 45
VINNY CARBONE, ESQUIRE, followed Emily and me back outside to the observation deck.
“Are you as insane as that guy? This is a federal investigation,” Parker said to the lawyer.
“Hold on a second, Agent Parker,” I said, pulling her back. “I think I can work this out.
“Listen, Vinny. You want subpoenas, you got ’em. But I guarantee you, I’ll be going over his computers and phone records with a fine-tooth comb now. I’ll lock his ass up for obstruction of justice—or shit, maybe I’ll make him my main suspect. You gonna muzzle him, or do I take his rich drunken ass up to Harlem for questioning?”
Vin didn’t think about my offer for too long. For all his blue-collar demeanor, he definitely seemed on the ball.
“I’ll talk to him,” Vin said. “Gimme a sec.”
As we waited, Parker and I stared at the cars on the We
st Side Highway, trying to brainstorm.
“We need to piece this thing together before this idiot really does get his son killed,” Emily said.
“Okay, Parker,” I said. “For the moment, let’s assume it’s the same guy. How does Dan Hastings fit in?”
“He’s rich, obviously,” Parker said. “One of the other two was a college freshman, too. He’s an only child.”
“No, he isn’t,” I pointed out. “He has two new half siblings, remember?”
“You’re right,” she said. “Is that important?”
“I don’t know. It’s a difference. Also, this guy’s going through a divorce. The other two families were happily married.”
“Good point. But doesn’t that indicate another kidnapper?”
“Or that there’s another connection we haven’t made.”
“Yeah, well, we better make it quick,” Parker said as we watched an armored car pull into the pier’s parking lot.
Two armed uniformed guards got out of the car, went around to the back, and removed two very large currency bags.
“Because this ship of fools looks like it’s about to set sail.”
Chapter 46
WE WERE ALLOWED back on board with the stipulation that our technicians be closely monitored by Gordon Hastings’s staff. Hastings’s IT adviser actually stood over the shoulder of our FBI techie as he installed a Computer and Internet Protocol Address Verifier.
The petty squabbling was still going on when the next “You’ve got mail” came at three o’clock on the button. Hastings himself opened up the e-mail.
The following instructions will be followed to the letter.
The five million dollars will be placed in a black rolling suitcase.
You and you alone will bring the money to the south playground of the Polo Grounds projects at 155th Street in Harlem at 4:45 PM.
When you are there and when we are convinced you have not been followed or brought the police, you will be given more instructions.