Two Little Girls in Blue

  Margaret did not respond. Why did it take me so long to go back and talk to Lila? she thought, castigating herself. Where is that woman, Angie? Is Kathy with her?

  Overhead, the clouds were finally clearing, blown away by the crisp late-afternoon wind. But it was after five o’clock, and darkness was setting in. Margaret called home during the drive to the golf club and learned from Dr. Harris that Kelly had fallen back asleep. Then the doctor told her that Kelly seemed to be communicating with Kathy and added that she had experienced a severe coughing spell.

  Lila Jackson had told Carlson they would have to park at the service road gate. As they got out of the car, the agent ordered Margaret to wait in the car. “If this guy is connected to the kidnapping, he could be dangerous.”

  “Walter,” Margaret said, “if that man is there, I am going to talk to him. Unless you’re planning to restrain me physically, you’d better just accept that fact.”

  A squad car pulled up beside them, and two cops immediately got out, one with sergeant’s chevrons on his jacket. They listened to Carlson’s brief rundown about the clothing purchase at Abby’s Discount and how the impression the babysitter had the night of the kidnapping coincided with the way the sales clerk described Clint to them—heavyset and perspiring.

  Like Carlson, they tried to persuade Margaret to wait in the car, but when she would not be dissuaded, they told her she would have to stand back until they were sure there would not be any resistance from Clint Downes to letting them in and to answering their questions.

  As they approached the cottage, it was obvious to all of them that their precautions were unnecessary. The building was in darkness. The open door of the garage showed them that there was no vehicle inside. Bitterly disappointed, Margaret watched as the police went from window to window of the cottage, shining lights inside. He was here this afternoon around one o’clock, she thought. That was only four hours ago. Did Lila frighten him off? Where would he have gone? Where did that woman Angie go?

  She walked over to the garage and flipped on the light. Inside, to the right, she saw the crib that Clint had taken apart and stacked against the wall. The size of the mattress caught her eye. It was nearly twice the size of the mattress of a standard crib. Had it been bought because someone knew that two children would be sleeping on it? As the FBI agent and the Danbury police officers hurried over from the cottage, Margaret walked to the mattress and put her face against it. The faint familiar odor of Vick’s VapoRub filled her nostrils.

  She spun around and screamed at the law enforcement officers, “They were here! This is where they kept them! Where did they go? You’ve got to find out where they took Kathy!”

  79

  At Logan Airport, Clint went directly to the area where the car rental agencies were located. Crushingly aware that if Angie had maxed out the card, he might not be able to rent a car, he carefully studied the rates before he selected the cheapest service and the cheapest car.

  A million dollars in cash, he thought, and if the credit card for the rental doesn’t go through, I’ll have to steal a car to get to the Cape.

  But it did go through.

  “You got a map for Maine?” he asked the clerk.

  “Right over there.”

  An indifferent hand pointed to a rack holding a collection of maps. Clint picked up his copy of the rental receipt and walked over to the display. Carefully blocking his choice from the possible observation of the clerk, he grabbed a map of Cape Cod and shoved it in his jacket. Twenty minutes later he was squeezing his body into the driver’s seat of a budget compact. He turned on the overhead light and studied the map. It was just about as far as he remembered—about an hour and a half drive from Boston. Shouldn’t be too much traffic at this time of the year, he thought.

  He started the car. Angie remembered him telling her that he’d been on the Cape before. She forgets nothing, he thought. What I didn’t tell her was that I was here on a job with Lucas. Lucas had driven some big shot up here for a weekend, then had to stay in a motel and wait around for him. That gave him a chance to look the place over. We came back a couple of months later and hit a house in Osterville, Clint remembered. Swanky neighborhood, but we didn’t get as much as Lucas expected. In fact, he gave me peanuts for my share. That’s why I demanded an even split on this job.

  Clint drove out of the airport. The map had indicated that he should turn left into the Ted Williams Tunnel and then watch for signs to Cape Cod. If I got it straight, Route 3 takes me directly to the Sagamore Bridge, he thought. Then the map says I take the Mid-Cape Highway to Route 137, which will take me to Route 28.

  He was glad that the weather in Boston was clear. It made it easier to follow the signs. On the other hand, clear weather might be a problem later but not a problem that couldn’t be solved. Should he stop somewhere and phone Angie, he wondered. Let her know that he’d definitely be there by nine thirty or so?

  Once again he cursed her for taking the cell phones with her.

  A few minutes after emerging from the tunnel, he spotted the Cape Cod sign. Maybe it’s good that I don’t have a phone, he thought. In her own crazy way, Angie is a smart babe. She just might start to figure out that it’s just as easy for her to get rid of the kid on her own, and then take off again with the money, as it is to wait for me.

  The thought made him slam his foot down on the gas pedal.

  80

  On weekends, when he could get away, Geoffrey Sussex Banks would race down from Bel-Air to his home in Palm Springs, California. Having stayed in Los Angeles this Saturday, however, he returned from a round of golf in late afternoon to learn from his housekeeper that an FBI agent was waiting for him. “He gave me his card, sir. Here it is,” she said. As she handed it to him, she added, “I’m sorry.”

  “Thank you, Conchita.”

  He had hired Conchita and Manuel years ago, when he and Theresa were first married. The couple had adored Theresa, and when they got news eight months later that she was expecting twins, they had been thrilled. When Theresa disappeared shortly thereafter, they kept alive the hope that one day a key would turn in the door and she would be there. “And maybe she had the babies and just forgot her past and then all of a sudden remembered and came home and your little boys were with her.” That was Conchita’s prayer. But now Conchita knew that if the FBI was here it was only to ask more questions about Theresa’s disappearance or, worse, to confirm after all these years that her remains had been found.

  Geoff braced himself for the news as he walked down the hall to his library.

  Dominick Telesco was from the Los Angeles FBI headquarters. An agent for ten years, he had often read stories in the business section of the L.A. Times about Geoffrey Sussex Banks, international banker, philanthropist, handsome socialite whose young, pregnant wife had disappeared on her way to her baby shower seventeen years ago.

  Telesco knew that Banks was fifty years old. That means he was my age, thirty-two, when his wife disappeared, he thought as he looked out the window that faced the golf course. Wonder why he’s never remarried? Women must be falling all over him.

  “Mr. Telesco?”

  Somewhat embarrassed at not hearing Banks come into the room, the agent turned quickly. “Mr. Banks, I apologize. I just watched someone hit a fabulous shot, and I didn’t hear you come in.”

  “I bet I know who it might be,” Banks said with a hint of a smile. “Most of our members find the sixteenth hole a problem. Only one or two have mastered it. Please sit down.”

  For an instant the two men studied each other. Telesco had dark brown hair and eyes, a rangy build, and was wearing a pin-striped business suit and tie. Banks was wearing a golf shirt and shorts. His patrician features were slightly sunburned. His hair, more silvery than dark blond, showed signs of thinning.

  It was obvious to Agent Telesco that, at least at first impression, the reports that Banks possessed that rare combination of authority and courtesy were justified.

  “Is it ab
out my wife?” Banks asked, getting directly to the point.

  “Yes, sir. It is,” Telesco said, “although what brings me here is actually her possible connection to another case. You may have read about the Frawley kidnapping in Connecticut?”

  “Of course. I understand that one of the twins was returned.”

  “Yes.” Telesco did not share the news that a memo circulated through the Bureau indicated that the second twin might still be alive. “Mr. Banks, are you aware that Norman Bond, your wife’s first husband, is on the board of C.F.G.&Y., and that the board voted to pay the ransom money for the return of the Frawley twins?”

  “I know that Norman Bond is on the board of C.F.G.&Y.”

  Telesco did not miss the anger in Banks’s voice. “Mr. Banks, Norman Bond hired the twins’ father, Steve Frawley, for a job at C.F.G.&Y., and he did it under rather unusual circumstances. Three other mid-level executives at the company were the leading candidates for the position, yet Frawley was chosen. Note that Steve Frawley is the father of identical twins, and he lives in Ridgefield, Connecticut. Norman Bond and his wife were living in Ridgefield, Connecticut, when she gave birth to identical twins.”

  Geoff Banks’s sunburn could not conceal that the color was draining from his face. “Are you suggesting that Bond had something to do with the Frawley kidnapping?”

  “In light of the suspicions you have voiced about your wife’s disappearance, do you think Norman Bond would be capable of planning and executing a kidnapping?”

  “Norman Bond is evil,” Banks said flatly. “I am absolutely certain that he was responsible for my wife’s disappearance. It is a matter of record that he was wildly jealous when he learned that she was pregnant again with twins. When she disappeared, I put my life on hold, and it will remain on hold until I know exactly what happened to her.”

  “I’ve investigated the case thoroughly, sir. There isn’t a shred of evidence to tie Norman Bond to your wife’s disappearance. Witnesses saw him in New York that night.”

  “Witnesses thought they saw him in New York that night, or maybe he hired someone to do the job for him. I said it then and I say it now, he was responsible for whatever happened to Theresa.”

  “We talked to him last week. At that time, Bond referred to your wife as his ‘late wife.’ We wondered if that was a slip of the tongue, or perhaps more incriminating.”

  “His ‘late wife.’ ” Geoffrey Banks exclaimed. “Look through your notes. All these years, that man told everybody that he believed Theresa was still alive, and he said she wanted to get away from me. You will never once hear of him referring to her as if she were dead. Are you asking me if he is capable of kidnapping the children of someone who is living the life he wanted and expected to live? You bet he is. You bet he is.”

  When he was back in his car, Dominick Telesco looked at his watch. It was a little after seven on the East Coast. He put a call into Angus Sommers in the New York office and related his conversation with Banks. “I think it would be a good idea to start tailing Bond, 24/7,” he said.

  “So do I,” Sommers agreed. “Thanks.”

  81

  “Lila Jackson told us the garage was empty,” Agent Carlson said to the Danbury police officers. “She also told us that Clint Downes had received a phone call from someone named Gus while she was in the cottage. She would have reported her suspicions earlier, but one of your retired detectives, Jim Gilbert, stopped her. He claimed he knew Downes and his girlfriend. Maybe this Gus is the one who picked up Downes there earlier. Maybe Gilbert knows who Gus is.”

  Margaret could not keep her eyes off the dismantled crib. That’s where they kept my babies, she thought. Those sides are so high—it’s like a cage! The morning Monsignor said Mass for Kathy, Kelly described it, talking about the big crib. I’ve got to go home. I’ve got to question her. She’s the only one who can tell us where Kathy is now.

  82

  The Pied Piper put the menu down and slipped off the seat. He needed to know where in the motel Angie was staying. As the curious eyes of the counterman caught his gaze, he pulled his cell phone from his pocket. Hating to attract attention to himself, he flipped it open and made a gesture of answering it, listening intently as he walked outside.

  He was standing in the shadow of the diner when Angie came out, a bag of food in her hand. Looking neither to the left nor the right, she darted through the diner parking lot and over the curb that separated it from the motel property. As his gaze followed her, the Pied Piper observed that Angie was intent on getting back inside the motel. She doesn’t expect Clint for another hour and a half, he reasoned, and maybe she thinks she’s safe holed up here.

  To his satisfaction, she opened the door to a ground-floor unit. Easier to keep an eye on, he thought. Did he dare to go back to the diner and have something to eat? No, better to follow her example and order take-out. It was seven twenty. With any luck, Clint would be here between eight thirty and nine.

  The shade on the window of Angie’s room was fully drawn. The Pied Piper rolled up the collar of his jacket. The hood pulled up, his dark glasses on, he walked slowly past it, hesitating only as long as it took for him to catch the repetitive, hiccuping wail of a child who clearly had been crying for a long time.

  He hurried back to the diner, ordered himself a hamburger and coffee to go, grabbed it, and once again walked past Angie’s motel room. He was not sure he could still hear the child, but the sound of a rerun of Everybody Loves Raymond assured him that Angie was still there, waiting for Clint to arrive.

  Everything was going according to plan.

  83

  Gus Svenson was sitting at his usual perch in the Danbury Pub when two men appeared on either side of him. “FBI,” one man told him. “Get up.”

  Gus was on his third beer. “Who you kidding?”

  “We’re not.” Tony Realto looked at the bartender “Run a tab for him.”

  Five minutes later, Gus was in the Danbury police station. “What’s going on?” he demanded. Gotta clear my head, he told himself. These guys are crazy.

  “Where did Clint Downes go?” Realto snapped.

  “How do I know?”

  “You called him at about quarter after one this afternoon.”

  “You’re nuts. At quarter past one this afternoon I was fixing the mayor’s plumbing. Call him if you don’t believe me. He was there.”

  Agents Realto and Carlson exchanged glances. He’s not lying, they communicated to each other. “Why would Clint act as if he’s talking to you?” Carlson asked.

  “Ask him. Maybe he didn’t want his girlfriend to know another dame phoned him.”

  “His girlfriend, Angie?” Realto asked.

  “Yeah, that nutcase.”

  “When was the last time you saw Clint?”

  “Let me see. Today’s Saturday. He and I had dinner last night.”

  “Did Angie go with you?”

  “Nah. She was away on a babysitting job.”

  “When was the last time you saw her?”

  “Clint and I went out for a couple of beers and a burger on Thursday night, too. Angie was in the house when I picked him up. She was minding a kid. His name was Stevie.”

  “You saw the child?” Carlson could not hide the rush of excitement in his voice.

  “Yeah. Not much of a look. He was wrapped in a blanket. I saw the back of his head.”

  “Could you see what color hair he had?”

  “Dark brown. Short.”

  Carlson’s cell phone rang. The ID showed that it was from the Ridgefield police station. “Walt,” Marty Martinson began, “I’ve been wanting to talk to you for the last couple of hours, but we had an emergency. Teenage drivers in a bad accident; fortunately they’ll mend. There’s a name I want to pass on to you in the Frawley case. It’s probably another waste, but I’ll tell you why I think it’s worth checking.”

  Even before Martinson continued, Agent Carlson was sure that the name he was going to hear was Clint Downes.
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  Across the table, a suddenly sobered Gus Svenson was telling Tony Realto, “I hadn’t been out to dinner with Clint for months. Then I ran into Angie at the drugstore. She was buying a bunch of stuff like a vaporizer and cough drops for a kid she was minding who was sick. And I . . .”

  As the agents listened, Gus willingly poured out anything he remembered about his recent contacts with Clint and Angie. “I called Clint Wednesday night to see if he wanted to go out for a couple of beers, but Angie said he was out looking at a new car. She was babysitting and the kids were crying so we didn’t stay long.”

  “The kids were crying?” Realto snapped.

  “Oh, wrong. I thought I heard two of them, but I couldn’t be sure. When I asked, Angie just about hung up on me.”

  “Let’s get this straight. The last time you saw Angie was Thursday night, and the last time you saw Clint was last night?”

  “Yeah. I picked him up and then dropped him off later—he said he had no way to get around. He told me Angie was in Wisconsin babysitting, and that he’d sold the van.”

  “Did you believe him?”

  “Listen, what do I know? I can’t figure why he’d sell one car before he got something else to drive.”

  “You’re positive his van wasn’t there last night?”

  “Swear to God. But it was in the garage when I picked him up Thursday night, and Angie was there then with the kid she was minding.”

  “Okay. Just stay there, Gus. We’ll be right back.” The agents walked outside and stood in the corridor. “What do you think, Walt?” Realto asked.

  “Angie must have taken off with Kathy in the van. Either they split the money and have separated, or he’s meeting her somewhere.”