As a matter of policy, approved by Les Chippingham and agreed to by executive producer Chuck Insen, there was always a Sloane kidnap reference in every National Evening News, even if only to record the absence of any new development.
But on a Wednesday morning, ten days after the search of local newspapers began, an event occurred which put everything at CBA News in high gear once more. It also ended the inactivity that had frustrated all members of the special task force.
At the time Harry Partridge was in his private office. He looked up to see Teddy Cooper in the doorway and, behind him, Jonathan Mony, the young black man who had made so strong an impression earlier when the temporary researchers were assembling.
“We may have something, Harry,” Cooper said.
Partridge waved the two in.
“Jonathan will tell you.” Cooper motioned to Mony. “Go ahead.”
“Yesterday I went to a local newspaper in Astoria, Mr. Partridge,” Mony began confidently. “That’s in Queens, near Jackson Heights. Did all the things you said, found nothing. Then, coming out, I saw the office of a Spanish-language weekly called Semana. It wasn’t on the list, but I went in.”
“You speak Spanish?”
Mony nodded. “Pretty well. Anyway, I asked to check their issues for those dates we’ve been watching and they let me. Nothing there either, but as I was leaving they gave me their latest issue. I took it home, looked through it last night.”
“And brought it to me this morning,” Cooper said. He produced a tabloid-style newspaper which he spread on Partridge’s desk. “Here’s a column we think will interest you, and a translation Jonathan has written.”
Partridge glanced at the paper, then read the translation, typed on a single sheet.
Hello, you wouldn’t think, would you, that some people buy funeral caskets the way you and me pick up cheese at the grocery. Happens, though; ask Alberto Godoy of Godoy’s Funeral Home.
Seems this guy came in from the street and bought two caskets just like that off the shelf—one regular, one small Said he wanted to take them to his old Mom and Dad, the tiny one for Mom. Hey, how’s that for a hint to the old folks? “Time to beat it, Mom and Dad, the party’s over!”
Don’t go away, there’s more. Last week, that’s six weeks later, this same guy comes back, he wants another casket like before, regular size. He took it away, paid cash, same as he did for the other two. Didn’t say who this one was for. Wonder if his wife’s been cheating.
Tell you who doesn’t care, that’s Albert Godoy. Says he’s ready and eager for more business of the same kind.
“There’s something else, Harry,” Cooper said. “A few minutes ago we phoned the Semana office. Jonathan talked and we got lucky. The bloke who wrote the column was there.”
“What he told me,” Mony said, “was that the day he wrote the piece you read was a week ago last Friday. He’d just seen Godoy in a bar and Godoy had sold the third casket that same day.”
“Which also,” Cooper added, “happened to be right after the snatch, the very next day.”
“Wait,” Partridge said. “Don’t talk. Let me think.”
While the others were silent, he considered.
Stay calm, he told himself. Don’t get carried away! But the possibilities were unmistakable: The first two caskets, purchased six weeks before the kidnap, only slightly ahead of the estimated one-month surveillance of the Sloane family, and within the three-months’ maximum operation time also estimated by the task force. Then the size of the two caskets: one regular, one small, the second said to be for an old woman, but it could also be for an eleven-year-old boy.
Next, the third casket—according to the newspaper, a regular size. Established fact: Crawf’s father, the old man, Angus, had arrived at the Sloane house virtually unexpected, having phoned only the day before. So if the family hadn’t expected him, neither had the kidnappers. Yet they captured him and took him with Jessica and the boy. Three captives instead of two.
Questions: Did the kidnappers already have two caskets? Did the old man cause them to acquire a third? Was it for him the extra one was bought from Godoy’s Funeral Home the next day after the kidnap?
Or was the whole thing merely an incredible coincidence? It might be. Or might not.
Partridge raised his eyes to the other two who were regarding him intently.
Cooper said, “Raises a few questions, don’t it?”
“Do you think …”
“What I think is, we may have found how Mrs. Sloane and the others could have been taken out of the country.”
“In caskets? Do you believe they were dead?”
Cooper shook his head. “Doped. It’s been done before.”
The statement confirmed what Partridge was already thinking.
“What happens next, Mr. Partridge?” The question was from Mony.
“As soon as we can, we’ll interview that funeral man …” Partridge glanced at the typed translation to which had been added the funeral home’s address. “Godoy. I’ll do it myself.”
“I’d like to come with you.”
“I think he earned it, Harry,” Cooper urged.
“So do I.” Partridge smiled at Mony. “Nice going, Jonathan.”
The young researcher beamed.
They would leave immediately and take a cameraman, Partridge decided. He instructed Cooper, “Minh Van Canh is in the conference room, I think. Tell him to grab his gear and join us.”
As Cooper left, Partridge picked up a telephone and ordered a network car.
On the way out, passing through the main newsroom, he and Mony encountered Don Kettering, CBA’s business correspondent. When news of the Sloane kidnap broke, it had been Kettering who was assigned to the flash studio “hot seat” and became first to go on the air with a special bulletin.
Now he asked, “Anything new, Harry?” Impeccably dressed in a brown tailored suit, his thin mustache neatly trimmed, Kettering, as always, looked like a prosperous businessman himself.
About to make a perfunctory answer and hurry by, Partridge hesitated. He respected Kettering not only as a specialist, but as a first class reporter. With his background, Kettering might be more at home than Partridge with the subject they were about to tackle.
“Something has come up, Don. What are you doing now?”
“Not much. Wall Street’s quiet today. Need some help?”
“Could be. Come with us. I’ll explain as we go.”
“Let me tell the Horseshoe.” Kettering picked up a phone on the nearest desk. “Be right behind you.”
A network Jeep Wagoneer reached the main entrance of CBA News headquarters less than a minute after Partridge, Mony and Minh Van Canh emerged onto the street. The cameraman climbed into the rear seat with his equipment, Mony helping. Partridge took the front seat beside the driver. As the front door slammed, Don Kettering arrived and squeezed into the rear.
“We’re going to Queens,” Partridge told the driver. He had brought the Semana newspaper and Mony’s translation with him and read out the Godoy’s Funeral Home address.
Making a fast U-turn and facing east, the driver headed for the Queensboro Bridge.
“Don,” Partridge said, swiveling around in his seat. “Here’s what we know and what we’re wondering …”
Twenty minutes later, in Alberto Godoy’s cluttered, smoky office, Harry Partridge, Don Kettering and Jonathan Mony faced the obese, bald funeral home proprietor across his desk. The trio had simply walked in after resisting questions from a woman receptionist.
On Partridge’s instructions, Minh Van Canh remained outside in the Jeep Wagoneer. If any pictures were needed, he would be called in later. Meanwhile, from the vehicle, Van Canh was discreetly videotaping the Godoy building.
From behind his usual lighted cigarette, the undertaker regarded the visitors suspiciously. For their part, they had already taken in the shabby establishment, Godoy’s bloated features which suggested heavy drinking, and the food stains on
his black coat and gray-striped pants. This was not a quality establishment and probably not a scrupulously run one either.
“Mr. Godoy,” Partridge said, “as I told your lady outside, we’re all from CBA News.”
Godoy’s expression changed to interest. “Ain’t I seen you on the tube? Comin’ from the White House?”
“That’s John Cochran; people sometimes mix us up. He works for NBC. I’m Harry Partridge.”
Godoy slapped a hand against his knee. “You been doin’ all them kidnap bits.”
“Yes, I have, and that’s partly why we’re here. May we sit down?”
Godoy motioned to chairs. Partridge and the others sat facing him.
Producing his copy of Semana, Partridge asked. “May I ask if you’ve seen this?”
Godoy’s features soured. “That lousy, snooping son of a bitch! He had no right to print something he overheard, that wasn’t said to him.”
“Then you have seen the paper and know what’s in it.”
“Sure I know. So what?”
“We’d appreciate your answering some questions, Mr. Godoy. First, what was the name of the man who bought the caskets? What did he look like? Can you describe him to us?”
The undertaker shook his head. “All that’s my private business.”
“It is important.” Deliberately, Partridge kept his voice low-keyed and friendly. “It’s even possible there’s a connection to something you just mentioned—the Sloane family kidnapping.”
“Don’t see how there could be.” Then Godoy added stubbornly, “Anyway, it’s private, so nothin’ doing. And if you all don’t mind, I’ve got work to do.”
Don Kettering spoke for the first time. “How about the price you charged for those caskets, Godoy? Want to tell us what it was?”
The undertaker’s face flushed. “How many times I gotta tell you people? I’m minding my business. You mind yours.”
“Oh, we’ll do that,” Kettering said. “In fact we’ll make it our business to go directly from here to the New York City sales tax office. Even though it says in this report”—he touched the copy of Semana—“that you were paid all cash for those three caskets, I’m sure you collected, reported and paid New York sales tax, which will be a matter of public record, including the purchaser’s name.” Kettering turned to Partridge. “Harry, why don’t we leave this uncooperative person and go to the sales tax people now?”
Godoy who a moment earlier had paled, now spluttered, “Hey, hold it! Just a minute!”
Kettering turned, his expression innocent. “Yes?”
“Maybe I …”
“Maybe you didn’t pay any sales tax, didn’t report it either, though I’ll bet you charged it.” Kettering’s voice became harsh; abandoning any pretense of friendliness, he leaned forward over the undertaker’s desk. Partridge, who had not seen the business correspondent in action in this way before, was delighted he had brought him.
“Listen to me carefully, Godoy,” Kettering continued. “A network like ours has a lot of clout and if we have to, we’ll use it, especially because right now we’re fighting for one of our own—against a filthy crime, the seizure of his family. We need answers to questions fast, and if you help us we’ll try to help you by not revealing what isn’t important as far as we’re concerned, like the sales tax or income tax—you’ve probably cheated the IRS, too. But if we don’t get honest answers, we’ll bring in—here, today—the FBI, the New York police, the sales tax force and the IRS. So take your choice. You can deal with us or them.”
Godoy was licking his lips. “I’ll answer your questions, fellas.” His voice sounded strained.
Kettering nodded. “Your turn, Harry.”
“Mr. Godoy,” Partridge said, “who was it bought those caskets?”
“He said his name was Novack. I didn’t believe him.”
“You were probably right. Know anything else about him?”
“No.”
Partridge reached into a pocket. “I’m going to show you a picture. Simply tell me your reaction.” He held out a photocopy of the twenty-year-old charcoal sketch of Ulises Rodríguez.
Without hesitation Godoy said, “That’s him. That’s Novack. He’s older than the picture …”
“Yes, we know. You’re absolutely sure?”
“Dead sure. Seen him twice. He sat where you are.”
For the first time since today’s procession of events began, Partridge felt a surge of satisfaction. Once more the special task force had scored an investigative breakthrough. A positive connection between the caskets and the kidnap was established. Glancing at Kettering and Mony, he knew they realized it too.
“Let’s go over this Novack’s conversation with you,” he told Alberto Godoy. “From the beginning.”
During the questions and answers following, Partridge extracted as much from the undertaker as he could. In the end, however, it was not a lot and it became clear that Ulises Rodríguez had been careful not to leave a trail behind him.
Partridge asked Kettering, “Any other thoughts, Don?”
“One or two.”
Kettering addressed Godoy. “About that cash Novack paid you. I believe you said, adding both lots, it was nearly $10,000, mainly in hundred-dollar bills. Right?”
“Right.”
“Anything special about them?”
Godoy shook his head. “What’s special about money, except it’s money?”
“Were they new bills?”
The undertaker considered. “A few may have been, but mostly no.”
“What has happened to all that cash?”
“It’s gone. I used it, spent it, paid some bills.” Godoy shrugged. “Nowadays money goes fast.”
Jonathan Mony had been watching the undertaker intently throughout the questioning. Earlier, when the talk turned to the cash, he was sure he detected nervousness on Godoy’s part. He had the same feeling now. On a notepad he scribbled a message and passed it to Kettering. It read: He’s lying. He has some of the cash left. He’s scared to tell us because he’s still worrying about taxes—sales and income.
The business correspondent read the note, gave the slightest of nods and passed it back. Speaking mildly, at the same time rising as if ready to leave, he asked Godoy, “Is there anything else you remember, or that you might have, which could be helpful to us?” As he concluded, Kettering turned away.
Godoy, now relaxed and confident, obviously wanting this to end, answered, “Not a damn thing.”
Kettering spun on his heels. His face contorted, red with anger, he strode to the desk, leaned over and gripped the undertaker by the shoulders. Pulling the other forward until their faces were close, Kettering spat out the words, “You’re a goddamn liar, Godoy. You still have some of that cash. And since you won’t show it to us, we’ll see if the IRS can get to see it. I told you we wouldn’t call them if you helped us. Well, that’s all over now.”
Kettering pushed Godoy back into his chair, reached into a pocket for a slim address book and pulled a desk telephone toward him.
Godoy shouted, “No!” He wrenched the telephone away. Breathing heavily, he growled, “You bastard! All right, I’ll show you.”
“Understand,” Kettering said, “this is the last time we fool around. After this …”
Godoy, standing, was already removing a framed embalmer’s certificate from the wall behind his desk. It revealed a safe. The undertaker spun the combination lock.
A few minutes later, while the others watched, Kettering carefully examined the cash Godoy had extracted from the safe—nearly $4,000. During his inspection the business correspondent looked closely at both sides of every bill, at the same time separating them into three piles—two fairly small, the third larger. At the end he pushed the larger pile toward Godoy and motioned to the two remaining.
“We need to borrow these. We’ll give you a proper receipt on behalf of CBA News. You can add the serial numbers if you like, and Mr. Partridge and I will both sign the receip
t. I personally guarantee you will have all the money back within forty-eight hours with no more questions.”
Godoy said grudgingly, “I guess that’s okay.”
Kettering motioned Partridge and Mony closer to the two small piles of bills. All were of one-hundred dollar denomination.
“Lots of business people,” Kettering said, “are wary of hundred-dollar bills for fear they might be counterfeit. So what they often do is write on a bill, showing where it came from. For instance, if you take out a rental car and pay with hundred-dollar bills when turning it in, Hertz or whoever will write the rental contract number on each bill, which means they can trace you later if a bill is bad. For the same reason some tellers in banks note the depositor’s name or account number on hundred-dollar bills paid in.”
“I’ve seen that on hundreds sometimes,” Partridge said, “and wondered why.”
“Not me,” Mony interjected. “That kind of paper doesn’t come my way.”
Kettering smiled. “Stick with TV, kid. It will in time.”
The business correspondent continued, “All those marks on money are illegal, of course. Defacing the currency can be a criminal offense, though it’s seldom, if ever, enforced. Anyway, what we have in this first stack of bills is written numbers, and in the second, names. If you like, Harry, I’ll show the number groups to banking friends who may recognize who uses them, then will float them through computers. As to the names, I’ll go through the phone book and try to locate whoever had those hundred-dollar bills and used them.”
“I think I see where we’re headed,” Partridge said. “But just spell out, Don, exactly what we’re looking for.”
“We’re looking for banks. Whatever information we get should lead us to banks which at some point received those bills; maybe someone in a bank wrote on them the names or numbers that you see. Then, if we’re exceptionally lucky, we may identify the bank that actually handled all of this money and paid it out.”
“I get it,” Mony said. “Paid it out to the kidnappers who used it to buy those caskets from Mr. Godoy.”
Kettering nodded. “Exactly. Of course, it’s all a long shot, but if it works we shall know the bank the kidnappers used and where they probably had an account.” The business correspondent shrugged. “Once we have that, Harry, your investigation can move on from there.”