“Well, sir,” Havelock said, “I’m not sure I buy all that, and you won’t mind if I discuss the whole matter with the Bureau.”
“Not in the least. I’m sure they’ll tell you we’re acting within our rights.”
What Chippingham did not say was that CBA, like any news organization, would make its own decisions about what to reveal and when, even if it meant ruffling some FBI feathers. He knew that most others in the News Division felt the same way. As to possible consequences, the network would have to deal with those as and if they happened.
After Havelock had left to make a phone call, Chippingham told Rita, “Call the building superintendent. Ask for some keys to these offices and keep them locked.”
In the privacy of Partridge’s office, he and Sloane began their interview with a tape recorder running. Partridge covered the now familiar ground, repeating earlier questions in more detailed ways, but nothing new emerged. At length, Partridge asked, “Is there anything in your mind, Crawf, even down in your subconscious that you might have to search for, something that could vaguely relate to what has happened? Is there the smallest incident you might have wondered about, then dismissed?”
“You asked me that yesterday,” Sloane answered thoughtfully. His attitude to Partridge had changed noticeably over the past twenty-four hours. In one sense it was friendlier. In another, Sloane was less wary of Partridge, even relying on him mentally in a way he never had before. Strangely, Sloane was almost deferential, as if seeing in Harry Partridge his greatest hope of getting Jessica, Nicky and his father back.
“I know I did,” Partridge said, “and you promised to think about it.”
“Well, I thought last night and maybe there is something, though I can’t be sure, and it’s only the vaguest feeling.” Sloane spoke awkwardly. He was never comfortable with hazy, unformed ideas.
Partridge urged, “Keep talking.”
“I think, before this happened, I might have had a feeling of being followed. Of course, it could be I’m thinking this way after discovering there was a watch on the house …”
“Forget that. So you think you were followed. Where and when?”
“That’s the trouble. It’s so hazy I could have made it up, maybe feeling I had to find something.”
“Do you think you made it up?”
Sloane hesitated. “No, I don’t.”
“Give me more details.”
“I’ve a feeling I might have been followed sometimes while driving home. Also I have an instinct, and it’s damned elusive, that someone may have been observing me here, inside CBA News—someone who should not have been here.”
“All this over how long a period?”
“Maybe a month?” Sloane threw up his hands. “I simply can’t be sure I’m not inventing. In any case, what difference does it make?”
“I don’t know,” Partridge said. “But I’ll talk it over with the others.”
Afterward, Partridge typed out a summary of the Sloane interview and pinned it on the conference room “Miscellaneous” board. Then, back in his office, he began the procedure known to all journalists as “working the phones.”
Open in front of him was his private “blue book”—a catalog of people he knew worldwide who had been useful before and might be again. It also included others he had helped by supplying information when they, in turn, needed it. The news business was full of debits and credits; at times like this, credits were called in. Also helpful was that most people were flattered to be sought after by TV news.
The night before, referring to the blue book, Partridge had made a list of those he would call today. The names beside him now included contacts in the Justice Department, White House, State Department, CIA, Immigration, Congress, several foreign embassies, New York’s Police Department, the Royal Canadian Mounted Police in Ottawa, Mexico’s Judicial Police, an author of real-life crime books, and a lawyer with organized crime clients.
The ensuing phone conversations were mostly low-key and began, “Hi, this is Harry Partridge. We haven’t been in touch for a while. Just called to see how life is treating you.” The personal mode continued with inquiries about wives or husbands, lovers, children—Partridge kept notes of those names too—then eased into the current scene. “I’m working on the Sloane kidnapping. I wonder if you’ve heard any rumbles, or have ideas of your own.”
Sometimes the questions were more specific. Have you heard speculation on who might be responsible? Do you think terrorist involvement is a possibility; if so, from where? Are any rumors floating, even wild ones? Will you ask around and call me back if you hear anything?
It was standard practice, at times tedious and always requiring patience. Sometimes it produced results, occasionally delayed ones, often none. From today’s telephoning nothing specific emerged, though the most interesting conversation, Partridge decided afterward, was with the organized crime lawyer.
A year ago Partridge had done him a favor—or so the lawyer thought. The man’s daughter, on a college trip to Venezuela, had been part of a messy drug orgy that made U.S. national news. Eight students were involved; two had died. Through a Caracas agency, CBA News had obtained exclusive on-the-spot pictures, with close-ups of participants—the lawyer’s daughter among them—being arrested by police. Partridge, who was in Argentina, flew north to cover the story.
In New York, the girl’s father somehow learned about the coverage, also the pictures, and tracked Partridge down by phone. He pleaded with Partridge not to use his daughter’s name or image, arguing she was the youngest of the group, had never been in trouble before, and national exposure would ruin her life.
Partridge had by that time seen the pictures; he knew about the girl and had decided not to use her in his story. Even so, keeping his options open, he merely promised to do the best he could.
Later, when it became clear that CBA had made no direct reference to the girl, the lawyer sent Partridge a check for a thousand dollars. Partridge returned the check with a polite note, and since then the two had not communicated.
Today, after listening to Partridge’s casual opener, the lawyer responded bluntly, “I owe you. Now you want something. Tell me what it is.”
Partridge explained.
“I haven’t heard anything, except on TV,” the lawyer said, “and I’m sure as I can be that none of my clients are involved. It isn’t the kind of thing they’d touch. Sometimes, though, they get to hear about things that others don’t. Over the next few days I’ll do some discreet asking around. If I find out anything I’ll call you.”
Partridge had a feeling that he would.
At the end of an hour, when he had covered half the names on his list, Partridge took a break and went to the conference room to pour himself coffee. Returning, he did what almost everyone in TV news did daily—went through the New York Times and Washington Post. It always surprised visitors to TV news centers to see how many copies of those newspapers were around. The fact was, despite TV’s own news achievements, a subtle, ingrained attitude persisted that nothing was really news until printed in the Times or Post.
The strong voice of Chuck Insen broke into Partridge’s reading.
“I bring tonight’s lineup, Harry,” the executive producer said, entering the office. “The word is, we’ll do a split-anchor news. You’re to be half the horse.”
“Rear end or front?”
Insen smiled faintly. “Which of us ever knows? Anyway, from tonight on, you’ll anchor anything to do with the Sloane family kidnap which—unless the President gets shot before air time—will be our lead again. Crawf will anchor the rest of the news as usual, the point being that all of us feel we’re damned if a bunch of thugs, whoever they are, are going to dictate how life goes on at CBA.”
“Fine with me,” Partridge said. “I presume it is with Crawf.”
“Frankly, it was Crawf’s idea. Like any king he feels insecure if off his throne too long. Besides which, his staying invisible would achieve nothing. Oh
, another thing—right at the end of the news, Crawf will say a few spontaneous words thanking those who’ve sent messages about his family, or otherwise care.”
“Spontaneous?”
“Of course. We have three writers toiling over them now.”
Amused, despite the circumstances, Partridge said, “You two are managing to agree for the time being.”
Insen nodded. “We’ve declared an unspoken armistice until all this is over.”
“And afterward?”
“Let’s wait and see.”
6
Almost a month earlier, soon after Miguel had entered the United States illegally, he had attempted to buy funeral caskets to be used for transporting his two intended kidnap victims to Peru. The plan had been developed well before his arrival on the scene and Miguel assumed their purchase could be accomplished quickly and quietly—a simple matter. He discovered it was not.
He had gone to a funeral home in Brooklyn, wanting to spread out his activities rather than confine them to the Little Colombia area of Queens, his operating center at the time. The establishment he chose was near Prospect Park—an elegant white building labeled “Field’s,” with a spacious parking lot.
Miguel entered through heavy oak doors which opened onto a lobby with golden-beige carpeting, tall potted plants and paintings of peaceful landscapes. Inside he was greeted by a decorous middle-aged man wearing a black jacket with a white carnation, black-and-gray-striped trousers, white shirt and a dark tie.
“Good morning, sir,” the sartorial paragon said. “I am Mr. Field. How can I be of service?”
Miguel had rehearsed what he would say. “I have two elderly parents who wish certain planning to be done about their eventual … er, passing.”
With an inclination of his head, Field conveyed approval and sympathy. “I understand, sir. Many older people, at the sunset of their years, wish to be comfortable and assured about their future.”
“Exactly. Now, what my parents would like …”
“Excuse me, sir. It might be more suitable if we stepped into my office.”
“Very well,”
Field led the way. Perhaps intentionally, they passed several salon-type rooms with settees and armchairs, one with rows of chairs prepared for a service. In each room was a corpse, gilded with cosmetics and propped on a frilly pillow in its open casket. Miguel noticed a few visitors, but some rooms were empty.
The office was at the end of a corridor, discreetly hidden. On the walls were framed diplomas, much as in a doctor’s office, except that one was for “beautification” of dead bodies (it was adorned with purple ribbons), and another for embalming. At Field’s gesture, Miguel took a chair.
“May I ask your name, sir.”
“Novack,” Miguel lied.
“Well, Mr. Novack, to begin we should discuss the overall arrangements. Do you or your parents have a cemetery plot chosen and obtained?”
“Well, no.”
“Then that must be our first consideration. We ought to get that for you right away because it’s becoming difficult to obtain a plot, especially a choice one. Unless, of course, you are considering cremation.”
Miguel, curbing his impatience, shook his head. “No. But what I really want to talk about …”
“Then there’s the question of your parents’ religion. What service will be required? And there are other decisions to be made. Perhaps you would care to study this.”
Field passed over what resembled an elaborate restaurant menu. It included a long list of separate items and costs such as, “Bathing, disinfecting, handling and cosmetizing of deceased—$250,” “Special care for autopsied cases—$125” and “Clerical assistance in the completion of various forms—$100.” A “full traditional service” at $5,900 included, among other things, a $30 crucifix placed in the deceased’s hands. A casket was extra, ranging up to $20,600.
“It’s the caskets I came to discuss,” Miguel said.
“Certainly.” Field stood up. “Please come with me.”
This time he led the way down a stairway to a basement. They entered a display room where the carpeting was red and Field went first to the $20,600 casket. “This is our very best. It’s of 18-gauge steel, has three covers—glass, brass and quilted brass—and will last and last and last.” Elaborate ornaments adorned the casket’s exterior. The inside was lined with lavender velvet.
“Maybe something a little simpler,” Miguel told him.
They settled on two caskets, one smaller than the other, priced at $2,300 and $1,900. “My mother is a tiny lady,” Miguel explained. About the size of an eleven-year-old boy, he thought.
Miguel’s curiosity had been piqued by several plain, simple boxes. When asked about them, Field explained, “They are for religious Jews who require simplicity. The boxes have two holes in the bottom, the theory being ‘earth to earth.’ You are not Jewish?” When Miguel shook his head, Field confided, “Frankly, that is not the kind of repository I would choose for my own loved ones.”
They went back to the office where Field said, “Now I suggest we go over the other matters. The burial plot first.”
“That’s not necessary,” Miguel said. “What I would like to do is pay for the caskets and take them.”
Field looked shocked. “That isn’t possible.”
“Why not?”
“It simply isn’t done that way.”
“Perhaps I should have explained.” Miguel was beginning to see that this might not be as simple as expected. “What my parents would like is to have their caskets now, in their present home, placing them where they can be seen each day. That way they can get used, so to speak, to their future accommodation.”
Field appeared devastated. “We couldn’t possibly do that. What we arrange here is—if I may use that word—a ‘package.’ It would be possible for your parents to come to view the caskets they will eventually rest in. But after that we would insist on keeping them until the need arose.”
“Couldn’t you …”
“No, sir, absolutely not.”
Miguel had sensed the other man losing interest, even possibly becoming suspicious.
“Very well. I’ll think about it and perhaps come back.”
Field escorted Miguel out. Miguel had not the slightest intention of coming back. As it was, he knew he’d already left too strong an impression.
The next day he tried two more funeral homes farther afield, making his inquiries shorter. But the response was the same. No one would sell him caskets separate from “the package.”
At that point Miguel decided the attempt to move away from his operating center had been a mistake and he returned to Queens and his Little Colombia contacts. After a few days’ delay they sent him to a small, drab funeral home in Astoria, not far from Jackson Heights. There he met Alberto Godoy.
In terms of funeral establishments, Godoy’s was to Field’s what K mart was to Tiffany—geared to a down-scale clientele. Not only that, but shabbiness prevailed, extending to the proprietor himself.
Godoy was obese, bald, with nicotine-stained fingers and the bloated features of a heavy drinker. Food stains were conspicuous on his undertaker’s uniform of black coat and gray-striped pants. His voice was raspy and punctuated by a smoker’s cough. During the meeting with Miguel, which began in Godoy’s tiny, cluttered office, he smoked three cigarettes, lighting one from another.
“My name is Novack, and I’ve come for information,” Miguel had said.
Godoy nodded, “Yes, I know.”
“I have two elderly parents …”
“Oh, is that the line?”
Miguel persisted, repeating his earlier story while Godoy listened with a mixture of boredom and disbelief. At the end his only question was, “How will you pay?”
“Cash.”
Godoy became a shade more friendly. “This way.”
Once more a basement provided the setting for sample caskets, though here the carpeting was dull brown and worn, with the choi
ces fewer than at Field’s. Expeditiously Miguel found two suitable caskets, one of average size, the other smaller.
Godoy announced, “For the regular size, three thousand dollars. For the child’s, twenty-five hundred.”
Though the “child” reference ran counter to his story and was dangerously near the truth, Miguel ignored it. Also, while convinced the $5,500 total was at least twice the normal price, he agreed to it without discussion. He had brought cash and paid in hundred-dollar bills. Godoy asked for another $454 for New York City sales tax which Miguel added, though he doubted that the city’s coffers would ever see the money.
Miguel backed his recently acquired GMC truck to a loading dock where, under Godoy’s watchful supervision, the caskets were wheeled aboard. Miguel then took them to the safe house where they were stored until their later transfer to Hackensack.
Now, almost a month later, he had returned to Alberto Godoy’s establishment in search of one more casket.
Miguel was uneasy about going back because of the risks involved. He remembered Godoy’s offhand reference to the second casket being for a child. So was there a chance, Miguel wondered, that Godoy had connected yesterday’s kidnapping of a woman and boy with the earlier purchase of the caskets? It wasn’t likely, but one reason Miguel had survived so long as a terrorist was by weighing every possibility. However, having decided to transport the third captive to Peru, at this point there was no alternative to Godoy. The risk had to be taken.
Slightly more than an hour after leaving the United Nations, Miguel instructed Luís to park their hearse a block from the Godoy Funeral Home. Again Miguel used his umbrella in the pouring rain.
Inside the funeral home a woman receptionist spoke to Godoy via an intercom, then directed Miguel to the proprietor’s office.