In a way, Wainwright sympathized with the Secret Service point of view. The agents were overworked, harassed, their service understaffed, yet the quantity of counterfeit money in circulation had increased by staggering amounts in recent years. They were fighting a hydra-headed monster. No sooner did they locate one source of supply than another sprang up; others remained permanently elusive. For public purposes the fiction was maintained that counterfeiters were always caught, that their kind of crime didn’t pay. In reality, Wainwright knew, it paid plenty.
Despite the initial friction, a big plus from involving law enforcement agencies was recourse to their records. Individuals whom Eastin had named were identified and dossiers assembled against the time when a series of arrests could be made. The counterfeiter, Danny, was identified as Daniel Kerrigan, age seventy-three. “Long ago,” Innes reported, “Kerrigan had three arrests and two convictions for forgery, but we haven’t heard of him in fifteen years. He’s either been legit, lucky, or clever.”
Wainwright recalled and repeated a remark of Danny’s—relayed by Eastin—to the effect that he had been working with an efficient organization.
“Could be,” Innes said.
After their first conference Wainwright and the four agents maintained frequent contact and he promised to inform them immediately of any new report from Eastin. All were agreed that the remaining key piece of information was the location of the counterfeiters’ headquarters. So far, no one had any idea where that might be. Yet hopes of obtaining a further lead were high, and if and when it happened the FBI and Secret Service were ready to close in.
Abruptly, as Nolan Wainwright meditated, his telephone jangled. A secretary said that Mr. Vandervoort would like to see him as soon as possible.
Wainwright was incredulous. Facing Alex Vandervoort, across the latter’s desk, he protested, “You can’t be serious!”
“I’m serious,” Alex said. “Though I have trouble believing you were, making use of the Núñez girl the way you have. Of all the insane notions …”
“Insane or not, it worked.”
Alex ignored the comment. “You put the girl in jeopardy, consulting no one. As a result we’re obligated to take care of her, and may even have a lawsuit on our hands.”
“I worked on the assumption,” Wainwright argued, “that the fewer people who knew what she was doing, the safer she would be.”
“No! That’s your rationalization now, Nolan. What you really thought was that if I had known, or Edwina D’Orsey, we’d have stopped you. I knew about Eastin. Was I likely to be less discreet about the girl?”
Wainwright rubbed a knuckle along the surface of his chin. “Well, I guess you have a point.”
“Damn right I do!”
“But that’s still no reason, Alex, for abandoning the entire operation. For the first time in investigating Keycharge frauds we’re close to a big breakthrough. Okay, my judgment was wrong in using Núñez. I admit it. But it wasn’t wrong about Eastin, and we’ve got results to prove it.”
Alex shook his head decisively. “Nolan, I let you change my mind once before. This time I won’t. Our business here is banking, not crime busting. We’ll seek help from law enforcement agencies and cooperate with them all we can. But we will not sustain aggressive crime-fighting programs of our own. So I tell you—end the arrangement with Eastin, today if possible.”
“Look, Alex …”
“I already have looked, and don’t like what I see. I will not have FMA responsible for risking human lives—even Eastin’s. That’s definite, so let’s not waste time in further argument.”
As Wainwright looked sourly despondent, Alex went on, “The other thing I want done is a conference set up this afternoon between you, Edwina D’Orsey, me, to discuss what to do about Mrs. Núñez. You can start considering ideas. What may be necessary …”
A secretary appeared in the office doorway. Alex said irritably, “Whatever it is—later!”
The girl shook her head. “Mr. Vandervoort, Miss Bracken’s on the line. She said it’s extremely urgent and you’d want to be interrupted, whatever you were doing.”
Alex sighed. He picked up a phone. “Yes, Bracken?”
“Alex,” Margot’s voice said, “it’s about Juanita Núñez.”
“What about her?”
“She’s disappeared.”
“Wait.” Alex moved a switch, transferring the call to a speaker phone so that Wainwright could hear. “Go ahead.”
“I’m terribly worried. When I left Juanita last night, and knowing I was going to see you later, I arranged to telephone her at work today. She was deeply concerned. I hoped to be able to give some reassurance.”
“Yes?”
“Alex, she didn’t get to work.” Margot’s voice sounded strained.
“Well, maybe …”
“Please listen. I’m at Forum East now. I went there when I learned she wasn’t at the bank and I couldn’t get an answer on Juanita’s home phone either. Since then I’ve talked to some other people in the building where she lives. Two of them say Juanita left her apartment this morning, at her usual time, with her little girl Estela. Juanita always takes Estela to nursery school on her way to the bank. I found out the name of the school and phoned. Estela isn’t there. Neither she nor her mother arrived this morning.”
There was a silence. Margot’s voice asked, “Alex, are you still, listening?”
“Yes, I’m here.”
“After that, I phoned the bank again and this time talked to Edwina. She’s checked personally. Not only has Juanita not appeared, she hasn’t phoned in, which isn’t like her. That’s why I’m worried. I’m convinced something’s gone terribly, terribly wrong.”
“Do you have any ideas?”
“Yes,” Margot said. “The same one you have.”
“Wait,” he told her. “Nolan’s here.”
Wainwright had hunched forward, listening. Now he straightened and said quietly, “Núñez has been picked up. There isn’t any doubt of it.”
“By?”
“By someone from that Double-Seven crowd. They’re probably on to Eastin, too.”
“You think they’ve taken her to that club?”
“No. That’s the last thing they’ll do. She’s somewhere else.”
“Do you have any idea where?”
“No.”
“And whoever it is has the child, too?”
“I’m afraid so.” There was anguish in Wainwright’s eyes. “I’m sorry, Alex.”
“You got us into this,” Alex said fiercely. “Now, for God’s sake, you’ve got to get Juanita and the kid out of it!”
Wainwright was concentrating, thinking as he spoke. “The first thing is to see if there’s a chance of warning Eastin. If we can get to him, and get him out, he might know something which could lead us to the girl.” He had a small black notebook open and was already reaching for another phone.
20
It happened so swiftly and was so totally unexpected that car doors had slammed, the big black limousine was moving, before she had a chance to cry out. By then Juanita knew instinctively it was too late, but screamed just the same—”Help! Help!”—until a fist slammed savagely into her face, followed by a gloved hand clamped across her mouth. Even then, hearing Estela’s shriek of terror alongside her, Juanita went on struggling until the fist hit hard a second time and vision blurred while sounds receded far away.
The day—a clear, fresh, early-November morning—had begun normally. Juanita and Estela were up in time to have breakfast, then watch the NBC Today news on their small black and white portable. After that, they hurried to leave as usual at 7:30, which allowed Juanita just enough time to accompany Estela to nursery school before catching a bus to downtown and the bank. Juanita always liked mornings, and being with Estela was a joyous way to start any day.
Coming out of the building, Estela had skipped ahead, calling back, “Mommy, I’m missing all the lines,” and Juanita smiled because evading
lines and cracks in the sidewalk was a game they often played. It was about then that Juanita took vague notice of the dark-windowed limousine parked just ahead, with its rear curbside door open. She had taken more notice, though, as Estela neared the car and someone inside it spoke to her. Estela moved closer. As she did, a hand reached out and yanked the little girl inside. Instantly, Juanita had run to the car door. Then, from behind, a figure whom she hadn’t seen closed in and shoved Juanita hard, making her trip and fall forward into the car, scraping her legs painfully. Before she could recover, Juanita was dragged inside and pushed to the floor with Estela. The door behind her slammed, also a door in front, and the car was moving.
Now, as her head cleared and full consciousness returned, she heard a voice say, “For chrissakes, why ya bring the goddammed kid?”
“Hadda do it. If we don’t, the kid’s gonna make a big fat fuss, then some jerk hollers cops. This way we got away clear, fast, no sweat.”
Juanita stirred. Hot knives of pain, originating where she had been hit, surged through her head. She moaned.
“Listen, bitch!” a third voice said. “Ya make trouble, y’ll get hurt plenty more. And don’t get ideas about anyone outside seein’ in. This car’s got one-way glass.”
Juanita lay still, fighting off panic, forcing herself to think. There were three men in the car, two on the back seat above her, one in front. The remark about one-way glass explained her earlier impression of a big car with dark windows. So what had been said was right: It was no good trying to attract attention. Where were she and Estela being taken? And why? Juanita had not the least doubt that the answer to the second question had something to do with her arrangement with Miles. What she had dreaded had come true. She was, she realized, in gravest peril. But, Mother of God!—why Estela? The two of them were sandwiched together on the car floor, Estela’s body heaving in desperate sobs. Juanita moved, trying to hold and comfort her.
“There, amorcito! Be brave, little one.”
“Shaddup!” one of the men commanded.
Another voice—she believed the driver’s—said, “Better gag and blindfold ’em.”
Juanita felt movements, heard a cloth-like substance tear. She pleaded frantically, “Please, no! I’ll …” The remaining words were lost as a wide adhesive tape was slapped over her mouth and pressed down. Moments later a dark cloth covered her eyes; she felt it being fastened tightly. Next her hands were seized and tied behind her. Cords cut her wrists. There had been dust on the car floor which filled Juanita’s nostrils; unable to see or move, choking under the gag, she blew frantically to clear her nose and breathe. From other movements beside her she sensed the same treatment was being meted out to Estela. Despair enveloped her. Tears of rage, frustration filled her eyes. Damn you, Wainwright! Damn you, Miles! Where are you now? … Why had she ever agreed … made it possible … Oh, why? Why? … Mother of God, please help me! And if not me, save Estela!
As time passed, with pain and helplessness increasing, Juanita’s thoughts drifted. She was aware vaguely of the car moving slowly, stopping and starting as if in traffic, then of a long burst of speed followed by more slowness, twists, and turns. The journey, wherever it was to, seemed endless. After perhaps an hour—or was it much more or even much less?—Juanita felt the force of brakes applied fully. Momentarily the car’s motor was louder, as if in a confined space. Then the motor stopped. She heard an electric hum, a rumble as if a heavy door was closing mechanically, a “thunk” as the rumble stopped. Simultaneously the limousine’s doors clicked open, hinges creaked and she was pulled roughly to her feet and impelled forward. Juanita stumbled, striking her legs painfully again, and would have fallen, but hands seized her. One of the voices she had already heard ordered, “Goddamit-walk!”
With the blindfold still in place, moving clumsily, her fears remained centered on Estela. She was conscious of footsteps—her own, others—resounding on concrete. Suddenly the floor fell away and she stumbled, partly held, partly shoved down stairs. At the bottom, more walking. Abruptly she was pushed backward off balance, her legs shooting out until the fall was stopped by a hard wooden chair. The same voice as before told someone, “Take off the shade and tape.”
She felt the movement of hands, and fresh pain as the tape was pulled carelessly away from her mouth. The blindfold loosened, then Juanita blinked as darkness gave way to a bright light directed into her eyes.
She gasped only, “¡Por Dios! where is my …” when a fist struck her.
“Save the singing,” one of the car voices said. “When we tell ya, y’ll spill plenty.”
There were certain things which Tony Bear Marino liked. One was erotic sex—by his standards, erotic meant things women did to him which made him feel superior and themselves degraded. Another was cockfighting—the bloodier the better. He enjoyed detailed, graphic reports of gangland beatings and executions which he ordered, though he was careful to stay away from evidential involvement. Another, though milder, taste was for one-way glass.
Tony Bear Marino so liked one-way (or mirror pane) glass, which permitted him to observe without being seen, that he had it installed in multiple places—his cars, business premises, hangouts including the Double-Seven Health Club, and his secluded, guarded home. In the house, a bathroom and toilet which women visitors used had an entire wall of one-way glass. From the bathroom side it was a handsome mirror, but on the other was a small closed room in which Tony Bear would sit, enjoying a cigar and the personal privacies unknowingly revealed to him.
Because of his obsession, some one-way glass had been installed at the counterfeiting center and though, out of normal caution, he seldom went there, it had proved useful occasionally, as was the case now.
The glass was built into a half-wall—in effect a screen. Through it he could see the Núñez woman, facing him and tied to a chair. Her face was bruised and bleeding, and she was disheveled. Beside her was her child, secured to another chair, the little girl’s face chalk white. A few minutes ago, when Marino learned the child had been brought in, he exploded angrily, not because he cared about children—he didn’t—but because he smelled trouble. An adult could be eliminated, if necessary, with virtually no risk, but killing a child was something else. It would cause squeamishness among his own people, and emotion and danger afterward if rumors leaked. Tony Bear had already made a decision on the subject; it related to the blindfold precautions taken while coming here. He was also satisfied to be out of sight himself.
Now he lit a cigar and watched.
Angelo, one of Tony Bear’s bodyguards who had been in charge of the pick-up operation, leaned over the woman. Angelo was an ex-prize fighter who had never made the big time but was built like a rhino. He had thick, protruding lips, was a bully and enjoyed what he was doing. “Okay, you two-bit hooker, start talkin’.”
Juanita, who had been straining to see Estela, turned her head toward him. “¿De qué? Talk, what about?”
“Whassa name o’ da guy who phoned ya from the Double-Seven?”
A flicker of understanding crossed Juanita’s face. Tony Bear saw it and knew it would be only a matter of time, not long at that, before they had the information.
“You bastard! … Animal!” Juanita spat at Angelo. “¡’Canalla! I know of no Double-Seven.”
Angelo hit her hard, so that blood ran from her nose and the corner of her mouth. Juanita’s head drooped. He seized her hair, holding her face up while he repeated, “Who’s the guy who phoned you from the Double-Seven?”
She answered thickly through swollen lips. “Maricón, I will tell you nothing until you let my little girl go.”
The broad had spirit, Tony Bear conceded. If she had been built differently he might have amused himself breaking her in other ways. But she was too scrawny for his taste—no hips worth a damn, half a handful of ass, and little peanut tits.
Angelo drew back his arm and punched her in the stomach. Juanita gasped and doubled forward as far as her bonds allowed. Beside her,
Estela, who could see and hear, was sobbing hysterically. The sound annoyed Tony Bear. This was taking too long. There was a quicker way. He beckoned a second bodyguard, Lou, and whispered. Lou looked as if he didn’t like what he was being told, but nodded. Tony Bear handed over the cigar he was smoking.
While Lou stepped out past the partition and spoke in an undertone to Angelo, Tony Bear Marino glanced around him. They were in a basement with all doors closed, eliminating the chance of sounds escaping, though even if they did it wouldn’t matter. The fifty-year-old house, of which this was part, stood in its own grounds in a high-class residential district and was protected like a fortress. A syndicate which Tony Bear Marino headed had bought the house eight months ago and moved the counterfeiting operation in. Soon, as a precaution, they would sell the house and move on elsewhere; in fact, a new location was already chosen. It would have the same kind of innocuous, innocent-appearing background as this one. That, Tony Bear sometimes thought with satisfaction, had been the secret of the long, successful run: frequent moves to quiet, respectable neighborhoods, with traffic to and from the center kept to a minimum. The ultra-caution had two advantages—only a handful of people knew exactly where the center was; also, with everything buttoned down, neighbors weren’t suspicious. They had even worked out elaborate precautions for moving from one place to the next. One of them: wooden covers, designed to look like household furniture, which fitted over every piece of machinery, so to a casual watcher all that was happening was a domestic move. And a regular house moving van, from one of the organization’s outwardly legit trucking companies, was brought in for the job. There were even stand-by arrangements for an emergency, extra-fast trucking move if ever needed.
The fake furniture gimmick had been one of Danny Kerrigan’s notions. The old man had had some other good ones, as well as proving a champion counterfeiter since Tony Bear Marino brought him into the organization a dozen years ago. Shortly before that time, Tony Bear heard about Kerrigan’s reputation as a craftsman, and that he had become an alcoholic, skid row bum. On Tony Bear’s orders the old man had been rescued, dried out, and later put to work—with spectacular results.