Thursday, December 22nd
Regan Reilly sighed for the hundredth time as she looked
down at her mother, Nora, a brand-new patient in
Manhattan's Hospital for Special Surgery. "And to think I
bought you that dopey crocheted rug you tripped on," she
said.
"You only bought it. I caught my heel in it," the well-
known mystery writer said wanly. "It wasn't your fault I
was wearing those idiotic stilts."
Nora attempted to shift her body, which was anchored by a
heavy plaster cast that reached from her toes to her
thigh.
"I'll leave you two to assess the blame for the broken
leg," Luke Reilly, owner of three funeral homes, husband
and father, observed as he hoisted his long, lean body
from the low bedside armchair. "I've got a funeral to go
to, a dentist's appointment, and then, since our Christmas
plans are somewhat altered, I guess I'd better see about
buying a tree."
He bent over and kissed his wife. "Look at it this way:
you may not be gazing at the Pacific Ocean, but you've got
a good view of the East River." He and Nora and their only
child, thirty-one-year-old Regan, had been planning to
spend the Christmas holiday on Maui.
"You're a scream," Nora told him. "Dare we hope you'll
arrive home with a tree that isn't your usual Charlie
Brown special?"
"That's not nice," Luke protested.
"But it's true." Nora dismissed the subject. "Luke, you
look exhausted. Can't you skip Goodloe's funeral? Austin
can take care of everything."
Austin Grady was Luke's right-hand man. He had handled
hundreds of funerals on his own, but the one today was
different. The deceased, CuthbertBoniface Goodloe, had
left the bulk of his estate to the Seed-Plant-Bloom-and-
Blossom Society of the Garden State of New Jersey. His
disgruntled nephew and partial namesake, Cuthbert Boniface
Dingle, known as C.B., was obviously bitter about his
meager inheritance. After viewing hours yesterday
afternoon, C.B. had sneaked back to the casket where Luke
had found him stuffing rotted bits of house plants in the
sleeves of the pin-striped designer suit the fastidious
Goodloe had chosen as his last outfit.
As Luke came up behind C.B., he heard him whispering, "You
love plants? I'll give you plants, you senile old
hypocrite. Get a whiff of these! Enjoy them from now until
Resurrection Day!"
Luke had backed away, not wanting to confront C.B., who
continued to vent verbal outrage at the body of his less-
than-generous uncle. It was not the first time Luke had
heard a mourner telling off the deceased, but the use of
decaying foliage was a first. Later, Luke had quietly
removed the offensive vegetation. But today, he wanted to
keep an eye on C.B. himself. Besides, he hadn't had a
chance to mention the incident to Austin.
Luke considered telling Nora about the nephew's bizarre
behavior, but then decided not to go into it. "Goodloe's
been planning his own funeral with me for three years," he
said instead. "If I didn't show up, he'd haunt me."
"I suppose you should go." Nora's voice was sleepy, and
her eyes were starting to close. "Regan, why don't you let
Dad drop you off at the apartment? The last painkiller
they gave me is knocking me out."
"I'd rather hang around until your private nurse gets
here," Regan said. "I want to make sure someone is with
you."
"All right. But then go to the apartment and crash. You
know you never sleep on the red-eye flight."
Regan, a private investigator who lived in Los Angeles,
had been packing for the trip to Hawaii when her father
phoned.
"Your mother's fine," he began. "But she's had an
accident. She broke her leg."
"She broke her leg?" Regan had repeated.
"Yes. We were on our way to a black tie at the Plaza. Mom
was one of the honorees. She was running a little late. I
rang for the elevator..."
One of Dad's not very subtle ways of getting Mom to hurry
up, Regan thought.
"The elevator arrived, but she didn't. I went back into
the apartment and found her lying on the floor with her
leg at a very peculiar angle. But you know your mother.
Her first question was to ask if her gown was torn."
That would be Mom, Regan had thought affectionately.
"She was the best-dressed emergency-room patient in the
history of the hospital," Luke had concluded.
Regan had dumped her Hawaii clothes out of the suitcase
and replaced them with winter clothes suitable for New
York. She barely made the last night flight from Los
Angeles to Kennedy, and once in New York had paused only
long enough to drop off her bags at her parents' apartment
on Central Park South.
From the doorway of the hospital room, Luke looked back
and smiled at the sight of the two women in his life, so
alike in some ways with their classic features, blue eyes,
and fair skin, but so different in others. From the Black
Irish Reillys, Regan had inherited raven black hair, a
throwback to the Spaniards who had settled in Ireland
after their Armada had been destroyed in battle with the
British. Nora, however, was a natural blonde, and at five
feet three inches was four inches shorter than her
daughter. At six feet five, Luke towered over both of
them. His once-dark hair was now almost completely silver.
"Regan, I'll meet you back here at around seven," he
said. "After we cheer your mother up, we'll go out and
have a good dinner."
He caught Nora's expression and smiled at her. "You thrive
on the urge to kill, honey. All the reviewers say so." He
waved his hand. "See you girls tonight."
It was a commitment Luke would not be able to keep.
Across town, apartment 16B at 211 Central Park South was
in the process of being decorated for Christmas. "Deck the
halls with boughs of holly," Alvirah Meehan sang, off-key,
as she placed a miniature wreath around the framed picture
of Willy and herself accepting the $40 million lottery
check that had changed their lives forever.
The picture brought back vividly that magical evening
three years ago, when she'd been sitting in their tiny
living room in Flushing, Queens, and Willy had been half
asleep in his old club chair. She had been soaking her
feet in a pail of warm water after a hard day of cleaning
Mrs. O'Keefe's house when Willy came home, really bushed,
from repairing a burst pipe that had sent showers of rusty
water on the newly pressed clothes at Spot-Free Dry
Cleaners down the block. Then the announcer on television
began to read the winning lottery numbers.
I sure look different now, Alvirah thought, shaking her
head as she examined the picture. The brassy red hair that
for so many years she had dyed herself in the bathroom
sink had been transformed by Madame Judith, to a soft
golden red with subtle shadings. The purple polyester
pants suit had long ago been banished by her classy
friend, Baroness Min Von Schreiber. Of course, her jutting
jaw was the same, a product of God's design when he molded
her, but she'd gotten down from a size sixteen to a
trimmer size fourteen. There was no question about it —
she looked ten years younger and a thousand times better
now than in the old days.
I was sixty then and looked like I was pushing seventy.
Now I'm sixty-three and don't look a day over fifty-nine,
she told herself happily. On the other hand, she decided,
looking at the picture, even dressed in that bargain-
basement blue suit and skinny little tie, Willy managed to
look handsome and distinguished. With his shock of white
hair and vivid blue eyes, Willy always reminded people of
the late, legendary Speaker of the House of
Representatives, Tip O'Neill.
Poor Willy, she sighed. What bad luck that he feels so
rotten. Nobody should be stuck with a toothache during the
Christmas season. But Dr. Jay will fix him up. Our big
mistake was to get involved with that other guy when Dr.
Jay moved to New Jersey, Alvirah thought. He talked Willy
into getting a dental implant even though it hadn't worked
last time, and it's been killing him. Oh, well, it could
be worse, she reminded herself. Look what happened to Nora
Regan Reilly.
She had heard on the radio that the suspense author, who
happened to be her favorite writer, had broken her leg the
evening before in her apartment in the very next building.
Her high heel had caught in the fringe of a rug, Alvirah
mused — the same kind of thing that happened to Grandma.
But Grandma wasn't wearing high heels. She had stepped on
a wad of bubble gum in the street, and when the fringe of
the rug stuck to the bottom of her orthopedic sneakers,
she went sprawling.
"Hi, honey." Willy was coming down the hall from the
bedroom. The right side of his face was swollen, and his
expression was instant testimony to the fact that the
troublesome implant was still killing him.
Alvirah knew how to cheer him up. "Willy, you know what
makes me feel good?"
"Whatever it is, share it right away."
"It's knowing that Dr. Jay will get rid of that implant,
and by tonight you'll be feeling much better. I mean,
aren't you better off than poor Nora Regan Reilly, who'll
be hobbling around on crutches for weeks?"
Willy shook his head and managed a smile. "Alvirah, can I
never have an ache or a pain without you telling me how
lucky I am? If I came down with the bubonic plague, you'd
try to make me feel sorry for somebody else."
Alvirah laughed. "I suppose I would at that," she agreed.
"When you ordered the car, did you allow for holiday
traffic? I never thought I'd be worried about missing a
dentist appointment, but today I am."
"Of course I did," she assured him. "We'll be there long
before three. Dr. Jay squeezed you in before he sees his
last patient. He's closing early for the holiday weekend."
Willy looked at his watch. "It's only a little after ten.
I wish he could see me this minute. What time is the car
coming?"
"One-thirty."
"I'll start to get ready."
With a sympathetic shake of her head, Alvirah watched her
husband of forty-three years disappear back into the
bedroom. He'll be feeling a thousand percent better
tonight, she decided. I'll make some nice vegetable soup
for dinner, and we'll watch the tape of It's a Wonderful
Life. I'm glad we delayed our cruise until February. It
will be good to have a quiet, at-home Christmas this year.
Alvirah looked around the room and sniffed appreciatively.
I love the smell of pine, she thought. And the tree looks
gorgeous. They had placed it right in the center of the
floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking Central Park. The
branches were laden with the ornaments they'd accumulated
over the years, some handsome, some battered, all
cherished. Alvirah pushed back her large, round glasses,
walked over to the cocktail table, and grabbed the last
unopened box of tinsel.
"You never can have too much tinsel on the tree," she said
aloud.
Three more days until Christmas, twenty-six-year-old
Rosita Gonzalez thought, as she waited for Luke Reilly
behind the wheel of one of the Reilly Funeral Home limos,
standing near the hospital's Seventy-first Street
entrance. Mentally she reviewed the presents she had
bought for her five- and six-year-old sons, Bobby and
Chris. I haven't forgotten anything, she assured herself.
She so wanted them to have a good Christmas. So much had
changed in the last year and a half. Their father had
left — not that that was any loss — and her ailing mother
had moved back to Puerto Rico. Now both boys clung to
Rosita as if they were afraid she would somehow disappear
too.
My little guys, she thought with a rush of tenderness.
Together, the three of them had picked out their Christmas
tree last night and would decorate it tonight. She had the
next three days off, and Mr. Reilly had given her a
generous Christmas bonus.
Rosita looked in the rearview mirror and straightened the
driver's cap over her waterfall of dark curly hair. It
sure was a stroke of luck when I got the job at the
funeral home, she thought. She had started working part-
time in the office, but when Luke learned that she
moonlighted as a limo driver, he told her, "You can have
all the extra work you want here, Rosita." Now she
frequently drove for funerals.
There was a tap on the driver's window. Rosita looked up,
expecting to see the face of her good-natured boss.
Instead she found herself locking eyes with a vaguely
familiar countenance, which, for the moment, she could not
place. She opened the window a few inches and was rewarded
with a belch of cigarette smoke. His head darting forward,
her unexpected visitor identified himself in staccato
tones: "Hi, Rosie, I'm Petey the Painter. Remember me?"
How could I forget? Rosita wondered. A mental image of the
brilliant chartreuse shade he'd painted the main viewing
room of the Reilly funeral home in Summit, New Jersey,
flashed through her mind. She remembered Luke Reilly's
reaction when he saw it. "Rosita," Luke had said, "I don't
know whether to laugh, cry, or throw up."
"I'd throw up, Mr. Reilly," had been Rosita's advice.
Needless to say, Petey the Painter's services had no
longer been requested nor required in any of the three
Reilly funeral homes.
Petey had gratuitously added bright yellow to the moss-
green paint Luke had selected, declaring that he thought
the place needed a little livening. "Relatives of dead
people need cheering up," he'd informed them. "That green
was really depressing. I had a little extra yellow paint
in my car, so I threw it in for free." On his way out,
he'd asked Rosita for a date, which she'd promptly
declined.
Rosita wondered if he still had flecks of paint in his
hair. She looked at him, but couldn't tell. A cap with
earmuffs covered every inch of his head and shaded his
narrow, bony face. His wiry frame was encased in a dark-
blue storm jacket. The turned-up collar of the jacket
grazed the graying stubble that shaded his chin.
"Of course I remember you, Petey," she said. "What are you
doing here?"
He shuffled from foot to foot. "You look great, Rosie. Too
bad your most important passengers never get to feast
their eyes on you."
The reference, of course, was to the fact that Rosita
sometimes drove the hearse in funeral cortèges.
"You're funny, Petey. See you." She began to raise the
window but was stopped by Petey's hand.
"Hey, it's freezing out. Can I sit in the car? I need to
ask you something."
"Petey, Mr. Reilly will be here any minute."
"This will only take a minute," he explained.
Reluctantly, Rosita threw the lock that opened all the
doors. She had expected him to go around and get in beside
her in the front seat. Instead, in a lightning-fast
motion, he opened the back door of the vehicle and slid
in.
Thoroughly annoyed with her intruder, she swiveled her
head around to face him in the back of the limo, whose
tinted windows shielded anyone seated there from the view
of the outside world. What she saw took her breath away.
For a moment she thought it was a joke. Surely that
couldn't be a gun Petey was holding?
"Nobody's going to get hurt if you do what I tell you,"
Petey said soothingly. "Just keep a nice, calm look on
your pretty face until the King of the Stiffs gets here."
A weary and preoccupied Luke Reilly emerged from the
elevator and walked the short distance to the door of the
hospital, barely noticing the Christmas decorations
adorning the lobby. He stepped outside into the raw,
cloudy morning and was glad to see his limo waiting near
the end of the driveway.
In a few strides, Luke's long legs brought him to the car.
He knocked on the window of the passenger side, and a
moment later was turning the handle of the back door. He
was inside and had closed the door behind him before he
realized that he was not alone in the backseat.
Luke's unerring memory for faces, coupled with the sight
of paint-flecked boots, made him realize instantly that
the man sitting opposite him with the gun in his hand was
none other than the idiot who had turned his viewing room
into a psychedelic nightmare.
"In case you don't remember me, I'm Petey the Painter. I
worked for you last summer." Petey raised his
voice. "Start driving, Rosie," he ordered. "Turn right at
the corner and pull over. We're making a pickup."
"I remember you," Luke said quietly. "But I prefer seeing
you with a paintbrush instead of a gun. What's this all
about?"
"My friend will explain when he gets in. Nice comfortable
car you got here." Again, Petey raised his voice. "Rosie,
don't try any funny stuff like running a light. We don't
want no attention from the cops."
Luke had barely slept the night before, and his mind was
blurry. Now he felt somehow detached from reality, as
though he were dreaming or half asleep, watching a movie.
He was alert enough, however, to sense that this unlikely
kidnapper might never have held a gun before, which
actually made him twice as dangerous. Luke knew he could
not take the chance of throwing himself forward in an
attempt to overpower his captor.
Rosie turned the corner. The car had not quite stopped
when the front passenger door opened and another man
joined them. Luke's mouth dropped: Petey the Painter's
partner in crime was none other than C. B. Dingle, the
disgruntled nephew of the late Cuthbert Boniface Goodloe.
Like Petey, C.B. was wearing a cap with earmuffs that fit
loosely over his balding head, and a bulky, nondescript
storm jacket that covered his butterball-shaped torso.
C.B.'s round, pale face was half covered by a dark, bushy
mustache that had not been present at his uncle's wake the
day before. Wincing, he pulled off the fuzzy disguise and
addressed Luke.
"Thank you for being on time," he said cordially as he
patted his lip. "I don't want to be late for my uncle's
funeral. But I'm afraid you're not going to make it, Mr.
Reilly."
Where are they taking us? Rosita agonized as, following
C.B.'s instructions, she turned right on Ninety-sixth
Street and headed for the FDR Drive north. She had seen
C.B. at the funeral parlor only yesterday, had met him a
couple of times before when he came to the funeral home
with his uncle, who kept changing his mind about the plans
for his last farewell.
Irrationally, she almost smiled, remembering that Cuthbert
Boniface Goodloe had stopped in only last month to inform
Luke that the restaurant he had chosen for a reception
after his funeral had been closed down by the Health
Department. She had driven Mr. Reilly, Goodloe, and C.B.
to the Orchard Hill Inn, which Mr. Reilly had suggested as
a replacement. Mr. Reilly told her later that Goodloe had
painstakingly studied the menu, eliminating the most
expensive items from his guests' future selections.
That day C.B., as usual, had been practically kissing his
uncle's butt, which obviously had done him no good.
Yesterday afternoon the viewing room had been filled with
shocked but grateful members of the Seed-Plant-Bloom-and-
Blossom Society of the Garden State of New Jersey — a
group commonly known as the Blossoms — whose goal to
spruce up every nook and cranny of New Jersey had just
received a much needed million-dollar shot in the arm. The
buzz was that Goodloe's dying words to his nephew had
been, "Get a job!"
Had C.B. gone crazy? Was he dangerous? And what does he
want with me and Mr. Reilly? Rosita wondered as, even
inside her gloves, her fingers turned to ice.
"Head for the George Washington Bridge," C.B. ordered.
At least they were going back to New Jersey, Rosita
thought. She wondered if there was any hope of appealing
to C.B. to let them go.
"Mr. Dingle, you may know I have two little boys who need
me," she said softly. "They're five and six years old, and
their father hasn't supported or seen them in over a
year."
"My father was a crumb too," C.B. snapped. "And don't call
me Mr. Dingle. I hate that name."
Petey had overheard. "It's a dumb name," he agreed. "But
your first and middle names are even worse. Thank God for
initials. Mr. Reilly, can you believe C.B.'s mom saddled
him with a name like Cuthbert Boniface, in honor of her
sister's husband. And then, when the old geezer passes
away, he gives just about everything to the stupid
Blossoms? Maybe they'll name a new strain of poison ivy
after him."
"I spent my whole life pretending to like those stupid
names!" C.B. said angrily. "And what do I get for it?
Career advice three seconds before he croaks."
"I'm sorry about all that, C.B.," Luke said firmly. "But
your problems have nothing to do with us. Why are we here,
or more precisely, why are you and Petey in my car?"
"I beg to differ — " C.B. began.
Petey interrupted: "I really like that expression. It
sounds so classy."
"Shut up, Petey," C.B. snapped. "My problem has everything
to do with you, Mr. Reilly. But your wife is going to have
a million ways to make it up."
They were halfway across the George Washington Bridge.
"Petey, you tell Rosie where to turn. You know the way
better than I do."
"Take the Fort Lee exit," Petey began. "We're going
south."
Fifteen minutes later, the car pulled onto a narrow road
that led down to the Hudson River. Rosita was on the verge
of tears. They reached an empty parking area at the
river's edge, facing the skyline of Manhattan. To the left
they could see the towering gray span of the George
Washington Bridge. The heavy stream of holiday traffic
crossing back and forth on its two levels only increased
Rosita's sense of isolation. She had a sudden terrible
fear that C.B. and Petey might be planning to shoot them
and throw their bodies into the river.
"Get out of the car," C.B. ordered. "Remember we both have
guns and know how to use them."
Petey aimed his revolver at Luke's head as he and Rosita
reluctantly left the familiarity of the car. He gave the
weapon a quick twirl. "I watched reruns of The Rifleman
doing this," he explained. "I'm getting real good at
twirling."
Luke shuddered.
"I'll be your escort," C.B. told him. "We have to hurry. I
have a funeral to make."
They were forced to walk along the shore, past a deserted
marina, to where a dilapidated houseboat, its windows
boarded up, was anchored at the end of a narrow dock. The
boat rocked up and down, as the river lapped restlessly
against its sides. It was obvious to Luke that the worn
and aging craft was sitting dangerously low in the water.
"Take a look at the ice that's starting to form out there.
You can't be planning to put us on that thing in this
weather," Luke protested.
"In summertime it's real nice," Petey boasted. "I take
care of it for the guy who owns it. He's in Arizona for
the winter. His arthritis is something awful."
"This isn't July," Luke snapped.
"Sometimes you get bad weather in July too," Petey
responded. "One time there was a real bad storm, and — "
"Shut up, Petey," C.B. growled irritably. "I told you, you
talk too much."
"You would too if you painted rooms all by yourself twelve
hours a day. When I'm with people, I like to talk."
C.B. shook his head. "He drives me nuts," he said under
his breath. "Now be careful getting onto the boat," he
told Rosita. "I don't want you to slip."
"You can't do this to us. I've got to go home to my boys,"
Rosita cried.
Luke could hear the note of hysteria in Rosita's voice.
The poor kid is scared stiff, he thought. Just a few years
younger than Regan and supporting two children on her
own. "Help her!" he barked.
Petey used his free hand to grasp Rosita's arm as,
fearfully, she stepped down onto the deck of the swaying
vessel.
"You're very good at influencing people, Mr. Reilly," C.B.
complimented. "Let's hope you're as successful for the
next twenty-four hours."
Petey unlocked the door of the cabin and pushed it open,
releasing a dank, musty smell into the cold outside air.
"Whew," Petey said. "That stink'll get you every time."
"Move it, Petey," C.B. ordered. "I told you to get an
Airwick."
"How thoughtful," Rosita said sarcastically as she
followed Petey inside.
Luke glanced over at the Manhattan skyline, then looked
upriver to the George Washington Bridge, taking in the
little red lighthouse underneath. I wonder if I'll ever
get the chance to see all this again, he thought, as C.B.
pressed the gun in the small of his back.
"Inside, Mr. Reilly. This isn't the time for sightseeing."
Petey turned on the dim overhead light as C.B. closed the
door behind them.
On one side of the small, shabby space was a seating area
consisting of a Formica dinette table surrounded by a
cracked, imitation-leather banquette; directly opposite
was a matching couch. The furniture was all built-in
units. A small refrigerator, sink, and stove were adjacent
to the table. Luke knew that the two doors to the left
probably led to a bedroom and whatever passed for a
bathroom.
"Oh, no," Rosita gasped.
Luke followed her stare, and with dismay realized that two
sets of chains were bolted to the walls in the seating
area. They were the kind of hand and ankle restraints
commonly used to restrain criminal defendants in
courtrooms. One set was next to the couch, the other near
the banquette.
"You sit here," Petey directed Rosita. "Keep me covered,
C.B., while I put her bracelets on."
"I got everybody covered," C.B said emphatically. "You're
over here, Mr. Reilly."
If I were alone, I'd take my chances and try to grab his
gun, Luke thought angrily, but I can't risk Rosita's life.
An instant later, he was sitting on the banquette,
chained, with Rosita opposite him on the couch.
"I should have asked if either one of you cares to use the
facilities, but now you'll just have to wait," C.B. said
cheerfully. "I don't want to be late for my uncle's
funeral. After all, I am the chief mourner. And Petey
needs to get rid of your car. When we come back, Petey'll
bring stuff for your lunch. I won't be hungry, though. My
uncle paid for my meal today, remember, Mr. Reilly?"
C.B. opened the door as Petey turned out the light. An
instant later the door slammed shut, and Luke and Rosita
could hear the grating of the key turning in the rusty
lock.
Trapped in the shadowy darkness of the swaying boat, they
both remained silent for a moment as the reality of their
precarious situation hit both of them.
Then Rosita asked quietly, "Mr. Reilly, what's going to
happen to us?"
Luke chose his words carefully. "They've already told us
they're looking for money. Assuming that's all they really
want, I promise it will be paid."
"All I can think about is my kids. My regular baby-sitter
is away until next week, and I don't trust the girl who's
filling in. Her Christmas dance is tonight. She didn't
want to work at all today, but I begged her to. She
expects me home by three."
"She wouldn't leave the boys alone."
"You don't know her, Mr. Reilly — she won't miss that
dance," Rosita said with certainty, a catch in her
voice. "I've got to get home. I've just got to get home."
Regan opened her eyes, groggily sat up, swung her legs
over the edge of the bed, and yawned. Her bedroom in her
parents' apartment on Central Park South was as
comfortably familiar as the one in the family home in New
Jersey in which she'd been raised. Today, though, she did
not take time to appreciate the charming ambience of the
peach-and-soft-green color scheme. She had the sensation
of having slept a long time, but when she looked at the
clock, she was glad to see it was only a few minutes
before two. She wanted to phone the hospital and see how
her mother was doing, then catch up with her father. She
realized that beyond the fact that she was feeling the
effects of the news about her mother's accident and the
hurried red-eye flight, she was filled with undefined
anxiety. A quick shower might help me clear my mind, she
thought, and then I'll get moving.
She put in a call to La Parisienne, the local coffee shop,
and placed her usual breakfast order: orange juice,
coffee, and a toasted bagel with cream cheese. This is
what I love about New York, she thought. By the time I get
out of the shower, the delivery boy will be ringing the
bell.
The strong spray of hot water felt good on her back and
shoulders. She quickly washed her hair, stepped out of the
shower, wrapped herself in a robe, and rolled a towel
around her head.
Ten seconds later, her face glistening with moisturizer,
she answered the door for the delivery boy. She was glad
he pretended not to notice her appearance. In his job,
he's seen it all, she thought. But he did produce a sunny
smile when she gave him a generous tip.
Moments later, the bagel unwrapped, the coffee cup in her
hand, she phoned her mother's room. She knew the nurse had
to be there, but no one picked up. The ringer is probably
turned off, she thought. She hung up and dialed the
nurses' station on that floor.
What seemed like several minutes passed as she waited for
her mother's nurse to come to the phone. It was a relief
to hear the friendly, professional, and reassuring voice
of Beverly Carter. She had come on duty this morning, just
as Regan was leaving. Although they had spoken only
briefly, Regan had instantly liked the slim, fortyish
black woman, whom the doctor had introduced as one of
their finest private nurses.
"Hi, Beverly. How's my mother?"
"She's been sleeping since you left."
"I've been sleeping since I left," Regan laughed. "When
she wakes up, tell her I called. Have you heard from my
father?"
"Not so far."
"I'm surprised. But he did have that funeral. I'll give
him a call. Tell my mother she can always reach me on my
cell phone."
Next, Regan dialed the funeral home. Austin Grady, the
second in command at "Reilly's Remains," as Regan and her
mother dubbed the funeral homes, answered. His initial
greeting, as usual, was suitably subdued.
"Austin, it's Regan."
The somber tone turned jolly. "Regan, hello."
Regan was always amazed at the way Austin could switch
gears so rapidly, his demeanor of the moment dictated by
the demands of his job. As Luke had observed, he was
perfectly suited to this line of work. Like a surgeon, he
was able to disassociate himself from surrounding
emotions.
"Is my father there?" she asked.
"No, I haven't spoken to him since he called early this
morning to send for a car. Your poor mother," he
commiserated in a most upbeat tone. "What's going to
happen next? And I know your father was really looking
forward to the trip to Hawaii. I understand she tripped on
a new rug you bought her in Ireland."
"Yes," Regan said quickly, guilt about her purchase
washing over her again. As her best friend, Kit, always
said, "Guilt is the gift that keeps on giving."
"Austin, my father told us he was going to be there for a
funeral you were having today. Didn't he show up at all?"
"Well, no, but the service went beautifully. The old guy
had been planning it for years. Your father probably
realized he didn't really need to come." Austin
chuckled. "Right now the mourners are all enjoying a free
lunch across town. The deceased left the bulk of his
estate to the Blossoms. They're all at the restaurant, and
they look like one happy group. They inherited enough
money to buy sprinkling cans for every plant in the state
of New Jersey."
"Lucky them," Regan said.
"Your father has a 3:30 dentist's appointment on his
schedule. I don't think he'll miss that."
"Thanks, Austin." Regan hung up and dialed Luke's cell
phone. After several rings his voice mail came on. As she
listened to her father's voice telling the caller to leave
a message, her sense that something might be wrong
deepened. Her father hadn't been heard from in hours, even
to inquire about her mother. She left a message for him to
call her.
She sipped her coffee and thought for a minute. I can't
just sit here, she decided. She glanced at the clock. It
was now 2:35. She called the dentist's office to confirm
that her father had not canceled his appointment.
"Please ask him to wait for me," Regan said to the
receptionist. "I'm leaving the city in a few minutes, and
it shouldn't take me more than an hour to get there."
"Will do," the receptionist promised.
Regan hurriedly dressed and dried her hair. After Dad has
his appointment, we can do the errands together, she
thought. Then we'll drive back to the city to see Mom.
But even as she pulled on her coat and ran down to grab a
cab, Regan somehow knew that that wasn't what she would be
doing this afternoon.
How long had he and Rosita had been locked up in the dark,
chilly houseboat? Luke had no sense of time. It seemed
like hours. They could have left the light on, he thought
angrily.
After C.B. and Petey the Painter took off, Luke had tried
to reassure Rosita. "Trust my hunch," he told her. "When
those jerks come back, they'll tell us what they want. And
when they get it, they'll let us go."
"But we can identify them, Mr. Reilly. Do you really think
they can be that stupid?"
"Rosita, probably nobody else could be that stupid, but I
believe it of that pair. It won't be long before we're
missed. Don't forget, my daughter's a private
investigator, and she'll have everyone looking for us."
"Just as long as someone takes care of my kids. I'm so
afraid that ditzy baby-sitter will dump them with someone
they don't know. My little guy, especially, is painfully
shy."
"If there's one thing I'm sure of, it's that when Regan
realizes we're missing, she'll check on your kids."
They hadn't spoken for a while. It was only about ten feet
across the cabin to the built-in couch where Rosita was
chained. Had she dozed off? Luke wondered. The lapping of
the water against the sides of the boat made it impossible
to hear any sound of movement from her.
"Rosita," he said softly.
Before she could answer, a thud on the deck startled both
of them. The sound of the key grating in the lock
dispelled Luke's hope that whoever was outside might be a
potential rescuer.
The door opened. A somber trickle of light and a blast of
cold air preceded Petey and C.B. into the cabin.
"How are our campers doing?" C.B. asked jovially as Petey
snapped on the overhead light. "I hope you're not
vegetarians. We bought ham and cheese sandwiches." Both
men were carrying grocery bags.
It was with mixed emotion that Luke noted how small the
bags were. Either they were planning to have them out of
here in a short time, or there would be frequent take-outs
from the local fast-food outlets in Edgewater.
"Either one of you want to go to the can?" Petey asked
solicitously.
Luke and Rosita both nodded.
"Ladies first," Petey said. He released Rosita's hand and
ankle shackles. "You can close the door, but don't get any
stupid ideas. Besides, it don't have a window."
Rosita looked at Luke. "Could you lend me a dollar for the
attendant?"
When it was Luke's turn inside the tiny cubicle, he
considered his options and realized he had none. Even if
he could overpower Petey when he was refastening the
chains, C.B. would be standing with his gun trained on
Rosita. I have to play along with them, he thought.
While Luke, Rosita, and Petey ate their sandwiches, C.B.
sipped coffee. "I'm full," he said, looking at Luke. "That
restaurant you suggested wasn't bad. The veal parmigiana
was the best I've had in ages. Although I'm surprised I
could digest my meal, having to look at those nerds from
the Blossom Society. It was only the thought of you two
back here that got me through."
"You could have brought me back some veal parmigiana,"
Petey griped. "I think this rye bread is a little stale.
And he didn't put enough mayo on mine." He peered over at
Luke's sandwich. "Let's switch halves."
Luke grabbed the second half of his sandwich and took a
big bite out of it. He laid it back down on the wax
paper. "Be my guest." Luke was inordinately pleased to see
the disappointed look on Petey's face.
Petey looked at Rosita. "No dessert for the boss. You can
have his Twinkies."
"I'd rather choke," Rosita snapped.
"Now that we're one big happy family, let's get down to
business." C.B. crushed his empty coffee cup and stuffed
it into the deli bag.
"Be careful, the pickles are still in there," Petey
protested.
C.B. groaned and dumped the contents of the bag on the
scarred Formica table.
"Don't get mad," Petey said. "I wasn't at some fancy
lunch. I feel like I've been on a bus all day. Once I
dumped the car at Kennedy, I had to take a bus to the Port
Authority. Then I hadda wait for another bus to Edgewater.
Then I hadda wait for you at the bus stop. You were too
cheap to let me take a cab. You've been riding in a nice
warm car all day — "
"Shut up!"
But Petey wasn't finished. "I had my four dollars ready to
pay when I crossed the George Washington Bridge. Then when
I'm waiting in a long line to hand it over, I discover
there's an E-Z Pass on the floor of the car. I stuck it
back up on the windshield and switched lanes fast. Some
jerk almost plowed into me. He starts honking his horn
like a crazy person. Then I saved you more money when I
went over the Triborough Bridge. You should have noticed
that E-Z Pass when you rode up front. I'm surprised at
you."
C.B.'s eyes bulged. "You used the E-Z Pass? You moron! I
took it off so they wouldn't be able to track us. Now they
can check and find out where it's been used."
"Really?" Petey looked awestruck. "I'll be darned. What
will they think of next?" He turned to Luke and
Rosita. "C.B. is so smart. He reads a lot of detective
novels. I never had much chance to read. Mr. Reilly, I
know he really likes your wife's novels. I think one of
them is even autographed."
"When you release us, I'll get him another one. And when
is that going to happen?"
Petey reached for a pickle. "Explain our plan, C.B. It's
so good. In a few days we're going to be on a beach
somewhere with a million dollars in our suitcase."
C.B. interrupted Petey. "I'm telling you for the last
time, Petey. Keep your mouth shut!" He pulled Luke's and
Rosita's cell phones from the leather pouch where he had
stashed them. "Mr. Reilly, it's nearly 4:30. We're going
to get in touch with your family and tell them we want a
million dollars cash by tomorrow afternoon."
Rosita gasped. "A million dollars?"
Petey piped in. "He's got viewing rooms all over New
Jersey, and his wife sells a lot of books. Hey, C.B.,
maybe we should ask for more."
C.B. ignored him.
"I can guarantee my family will pay you the money," Luke
said carefully. "But it's Thursday afternoon of Christmas
weekend. I don't know how they'd be able to get it by
tomorrow."
"Believe me, they can," C.B. said. "If they want to."
"He read it in a book," Petey volunteered. "Banks do
things for important people, like opening their doors at
all hours. And you're a real important person."
"But my wife is in the hospital," Luke protested.
"We know that. Where do you think we picked you up?" C.B.
asked. "Now — who do you want us to call?"
"My daughter. She just got in from California. She'll get
you the money." He gave them her cell phone number: "310-
555-4237."
Petey started scribbling the number on a piece of paper he
had torn off the brown deli bag. "Say that again"
Luke repeated the number slowly.
C.B. turned the phone on and began dialing.
"That implant came out smooth as silk," Dr. Jay assured
Alvirah. "I have Willy on oxygen now. I'd like you to wait
a little while before you take him home. He's still
groggy."
"That laughing gas really knocks Willy out," Alvirah
commented. "But he sure was looking forward to it. He's
been in such misery."
"Well, give him a couple of days, and he'll be good as
new. The prescription for antibiotics should clear up his
infection." Dr. Jay's pleasant, bespectacled face broke
into a smile. "He'll be able to enjoy the Christmas
holiday. I know I'm looking forward to it." He looked at
his watch. "I have one more patient, and then I'm on
vacation."
"Any big plans?" Alvirah queried with her usual genuine
interest in the comings and goings of her fellow
creatures.
"My wife and I are taking the kids skiing in Vermont."
"Nice," Alvirah said, shaking her head. "When we won the
lottery, I made a list of all the things I've always
wanted to do in this lifetime. Skiing was one of them. But
I haven't gotten around to it yet."
She did not miss the alarmed expression on Dr. Jay's
face. "I bet you think I couldn't do it," she challenged.
"Alvirah, I've known you long enough. Nothing you do would
surprise me."
Alvirah laughed. "Don't worry. I won't crash into you on
the slopes just yet. If the weather reports are right
about a storm, you should have some great skiing."
"If it does hit, we'll already be there. We're leaving
tonight." Dr. Jay looked at the door. "He's never late,"
he murmured more to himself than to Alvirah, then
said, "I'll check on Willy and start to wrap things up
around here."
As the doctor left the waiting room, Alvirah admitted to
herself that she really had been worried about Willy —
more worried than she had allowed herself to realize.
Willy has always been so healthy, she thought. I won't
even let myself consider that something could be seriously
wrong with him. She was so deep in thought that the
ringing of the office bell startled her. That must be the
patient Dr. Jay is waiting for, she reasoned. She jumped
up to answer the door as a buzzer released the lock.
Alvirah immediately knew that the slender, dark-haired
young woman who came into the waiting room was not the
patient Dr. Jay was expecting. She had clearly heard him
say that "he" was never late.
She quickly sized up the newcomer — around thirty, very
attractive, wearing a handsome suede jacket, jeans, and
boots; obviously preoccupied. She smiled fleetingly at
Alvirah as she looked at the empty reception desk.
"Everybody except Dr. Jay has gone home already," Alvirah
volunteered cheerily. "He's waiting for his last patient."
Alvirah could see that the look of concern on the young
woman's face immediately deepened.
Dr. Jay appeared at the doorway. "Hi, Regan. Where's your
father? He's holding up my vacation."
"I was hoping to hook up with him here," Regan said.
"Well, he should be along any minute. I expected him half
an hour ago."
"It's so unlike my father to be late."
"There's a lot of traffic out there," Dr. Jay said with a
wave of his hand.
The expression on Regan's face, however, remained clearly
troubled.
"Is anything wrong?" he asked her.
Regan walked closer to the doctor and lowered her voice, a
useless exercise, since Alvirah Meehan could hear a mouse
sneeze from three rooms away. "It's been kind of crazy,"
she began, and briefly explained about her mother's
accident.
That's who she is! Alvirah thought: Nora Regan Reilly's
daughter. Of course! I thought she looked familiar. She's
a private investigator, just like me. Only she has a
license. Alvirah sat up straight and cocked her head,
praying they didn't move into Dr. Jay's private office.
"I thought I'd help my father do some shopping this
afternoon after he saw you," Regan was saying. "Because we
were planning to go to Hawaii, we don't have a Christmas
tree or any food in the house."
I love Hawaii, Alvirah thought.
"What worries me," Regan continued, "is that I can't reach
my father on his cell phone, and he hasn't called my
mother since he left her room at the hospital this
morning. And now he isn't here. None of this is like him."
Her voice was forlorn.
Uh-oh, Alvirah thought. She's right. Something's wrong.
"Well, let's wait and see," Dr. Jay said
reassuringly. "He'll probably be here any minute. If he
isn't, with all that happened today, it must mean that he
simply forgot. He's obviously got a lot on his mind. I'm
sure there's a logical explanation."
He looked over at Alvirah. "Willy should be ready to go in
about fifteen minutes."
"Take your time," Alvirah said, grateful that Willy wasn't
ready yet to walk out the door. She watched as Regan
restlessly crossed to the window, looked out at the
parking area, then sat in the straight-backed chair
opposite the couch.
After a moment, Alvirah leaned forward. "I just want you
to know that I've read every one of your mother's books
and I love them. I was so sorry to hear about her
accident. I can see you're worried about your father, but
take my word, when something happens to a wife, husbands
are useless. They forget everything."
Regan smiled slightly. "I hope you're right. I'm going to
try calling him again." She pulled out her cell phone and
dialed. "No answer," she said. "I'll try the hospital."
Let him be there or have called, Alvirah prayed as Regan
spoke to her mother's nurse.
Regan put down the phone. "My mother is still asleep,
which is good. My father hasn't called, which isn't." She
stood up and once again walked to the window.
Alvirah wanted to say something comforting, but she knew
there was nothing to be said. Had something happened to
Luke Reilly?
Nearly twenty minutes later he was still not there.
"Okay, Alvirah, you can collect your patient," Dr. Jay
said as he came down the hall, his hand under Willy's arm.
"Hi, honey," Willy said feebly.
"Take him home and let him sleep it off," Dr. Jay
instructed. "And have a great holiday." He turned to
Regan: "Any word?"
"Dr. Jay, I think it's obvious my father isn't going to
make it today. I'll call a cab to take me to the house.
I'm sure I'll catch up with him there."
"Don't you live here in Summit?" Alvirah asked, but didn't
wait for an answer. "I know you do. It says so on the book
jackets. We've got a car and driver outside. We'll drop
you home. Come on, Willy."
Before she could protest, Regan found herself sitting next
to Alvirah in the backseat of a sleek, black limo. Willy,
his legs stretched out, his eyes shut, was leaning back on
the opposite seat.
"I've taken driving lessons three times in the last three
years," Alvirah explained. "The instructors always found
excuses to pass me off on someone else." She laughed. "I
can't blame them. You wouldn't believe all the parking
cones I've flattened."
Regan smiled. She instinctively liked Alvirah and realized
now that she had heard her name somewhere before. As the
car pulled onto the main road, she said, "I feel as though
I know you from somewhere. Your name is familiar."
Alvirah beamed. "I know you're a private investigator, and
I guess you could say I'm kind of in your business. I've
accidentally been around when the police needed help. Then
I've written about what happened for the Globe. I'm what
you might call 'a roving crime correspondent.'"
"Roving isn't the word," Willy volunteered, without
opening his eyes. "Alvirah's always at full throttle,
looking for trouble."
Regan laughed. "My mother sent me a couple of your
columns. She enjoyed them and thought I'd be interested in
the cases. She was right." Alvirah's coat was open. Regan
leaned over. "Is that your famous pin with the hidden
microphone?"
"I never leave home without it," Alvirah said proudly.
Regan reached into her pocket. "I'm going to try my
father's office."
But there was nothing new: Austin Grady still hadn't heard
from Luke.
With a sigh, Regan clicked off the phone.
For the next five minutes, Alvirah did a running
commentary on the Christmas decorations of the various
houses they passed. Finally Regan said, "That's our house
up on the left."
"Oh, lovely," Alvirah breathed, craning her neck to get a
better look. "A lot nicer than the houses I used to clean,
I'll tell you that."
It was obvious that no one was home. The Reilly house,
unlike its neighbors, was in total darkness.
The long driveway extended to the garages at the rear of
the house. The chauffeur stopped at the walk that led to
the front door.
"Let me go in with you while you check your messages,
Regan," Alvirah said, a note of concern in her voice.
Regan knew what Alvirah meant. If there had been an
accident, there might be a call on the machine. "I'll be
fine, Alvirah. I can't thank you enough. You need to get
Willy home."
Reluctantly Alvirah watched Regan go up the steps and
disappear into the house. The car began to move slowly
down the driveway. They were just turning back onto the
street when the soft ring of a cell phone made Alvirah
look around quickly. I don't have mine with me, she
thought. Then she spotted it. The phone Regan had been
using was on the seat next to her, its green light
flashing.
I'll answer it, she thought. I bet it's her father. She
picked it up and flipped it open.
"Hello," she boomed happily.
"Regan?" The voice was deep and raspy.
"I'll get her," Alvirah said, as she yelled for the driver
to go back. "Is this her father?"
"It's a message from him."
"Oh, good," Alvirah shouted.
As Alvirah jumped out of the car and ran up the walk, she
did not hear C.B.'s comment to Luke: "Whoever answered
your daughter's phone has a voice like a foghorn."
Fred Torres hung up his uniform and closed the door of his
locker with a decisive snap. "That's it for two weeks,
Vince," he said to his partner. "It's anchors away for
me."
"I wish I were going sailing in the Caribbean," Vince
Lugano said as he pulled on a sweater. "While you're on
deck with a beer in your hand, I'll be putting together a
fire engine and a dollhouse."
The tiny lines around Fred's dark brown eyes crinkled when
he smiled. "You love every minute of it," he said.
"I know I do," Vince agreed, looking with affection at the
man who had become his best friend since they were sworn
in as police officers in Hoboken, New Jersey, six years
ago.
Fred was twenty-eight years old, just under six feet tall,
lean and muscular. His olive complexion, dark hair, and
general good looks made him the perfect target for well-
meaning friends who just happened to have an available
sister or cousin. He was about to begin his final term at
Seton Hall Law School after the holidays.
Vince, the same age as his partner, was two inches taller
and twenty pounds heavier, with sandy hair and hazel eyes.
He had never been interested in anyone except his high-
school sweetheart, whom he married five years ago.
"What time do you leave?" Vince asked.
"I've got an eight o'clock flight tomorrow morning."
"You'll be at Mike's party tonight?"
"Sure."
"See you there."
Fred had intended to drive straight home to his apartment
in a small brownstone at the south end of town. But he
impulsively stopped when he turned the corner that led to
his street and spotted the dazzling array of poinsettias
in the flower-shop window. It won't take that long, he
assured himself as he went in and selected a plant. He had
met Rosita Gonzalez at a party a month ago, and they'd
gone out to dinner together a couple of times since. He
had invited her to the party tonight, but she didn't have
anyone available to baby-sit.
As he got back in the car, he smiled, thinking of her and
remembering the night they had met. They both had arrived
at that party at the same time. He had parked behind her.
She had been driving a glistening black limousine. As they
walked up the steps together, he introduced himself and
said, "You certainly arrive in style."
"Wait till you see what I go home in," Rosita had
joked. "Among my activities, I drive a limo. One of the
guys I work with will be dropping off my car and taking
this one."
When the party ended, Fred had walked her out to her
twelve-year-old Chevy. "Just call me Cinderella," she said
with a smile.
She seemed so young, with her long, dark hair and
infectious laugh, that it was hard for him to believe that
she was the mother of two little boys.
"Does Cinderella have a phone number?" he asked.
And now, as he found himself driving to her house, Fred
wondered if this was such a good idea. There was more
traffic than he had expected, and he hadn't begun to pack
for his trip. He admitted to himself that showing up at
her house might be sending Rosita the wrong message. He
had no intention of getting too involved with anyone at
this point. For the foreseeable future, he wouldn't have
enough time to devote to a relationship — especially one
that involves kids, he thought.
Rosita lived in a modest garden-apartment complex not far
from Summit. The shortest day of the year was yesterday,
Fred thought. I can believe it. At 4:30 it was completely
dark. He parked in a visitor's space, went up the path,
shifted the festively wrapped plant to one hand, and rang
the bell of Rosita's ground-floor unit.
Inside the apartment, seventeen-year-old Nicole Parma was
in a state of near hysteria. At the sound of the chimes,
she rushed to the door. "Your mother probably forgot her
key," she yelled to Chris and Bobby, both of whom were
sitting cross-legged in front of the television set.
Neither one of them looked up. "Mommy never forgets her
key," six-year-old Chris said matter-of-factly to his
younger brother. Only eleven months apart in age, they
could pass for twins.
"But Mommy said she'd be home by now," Bobby said, his
voice low and troubled. "I don't like Nicole. She won't
play with us like Sarah does." Sarah was their regular
baby-sitter.
Forgetting all of Rosita's warnings about not opening the
door until she knew who was on the other side, Nicole
flung it open. Fred did not miss her look of acute
disappointment when she saw him standing there.
"Is Mrs. Gonzalez home?" He took a step back, not wanting
to suggest that he would make any attempt to enter unless
invited.
"No, and I expected her over an hour ago!" The answer was
almost a wail.
"It's Fred!" Chris shouted, jumping up.
"Fred!" Bobby echoed.
Both boys were at the door, crowding past Nicole to greet
him.
"That's Mommy's friend!" Chris told her. "He's a
policeman. He arrests people."
"Hello, you two." Fred looked back at Nicole. "I just
wanted to drop this plant off for the boys' mother."
The boys were pulling at Fred's jacket.
"I can tell it's all right if you come in," Nicole
said. "Rosita should be here any minute."
"Mommy better be here soon," Chris volunteered as Fred
stepped inside. "Nicole's freaking out. She's got to get
ready for her dance tonight and doesn't want to look
ugly 'cause she lovvvvves her boyfriend. Ha ha ha,
Nicole."
If looks could kill, Fred thought, as the young girl
glared at Chris.
"You brat! I told you to hang up the phone when I was
talking before."
"Kissy, kissy, see you later, I can hardly wait." Chris
made a loud smacking sound with his lips.
"Kissy, kissy," Bobby repeated, mimicking his brother's
sing-song tone.
"Come on, guys," Fred said. "That's enough." He saw the
tears shining in Nicole's eyes. "You're running late, I
guess."
"Really late," she confirmed, as her mouth quivered and
the tears began to roll down her cheeks.
"Hasn't Rosita called?"
"No. I tried her cell phone, but there was no answer."
"She must be on her way home." The same impulse that had
made him stop at the flower shop elicited the next words
from his mouth: "Look, I've got some time. I can wait with
the kids." He started to pull out his police ID. "You can
see the boys know me."
Chris ran over to an end table and picked up a framed
picture. It was a group shot taken at the party where Fred
and his mother had met. "There he is!" he cried, pointing
at the photograph and running over to Nicole. "That's him
in the back row."
Nicole barely glanced at Fred's ID or at the good-times
snapshot before she was out the door, one arm already in
the sleeve of her coat.
"She's a pain," Chris observed. "All she did was talk on
the phone with her boyfriend. Yuck."
"She wouldn't play checkers," Bobby said quietly.
"She wouldn't?" Fred said, his voice suitably
incredulous. "I love to play checkers. Let's find a place
to put Mommy's plant, then we'll see if you two can beat
me. Red or black?"
When Regan opened the door, Alvirah waved the cell phone
at her. "The call you've been waiting for!" she said
breathlessly.
Regan grabbed the phone. "Dad?"
Without hesitation, Alvirah stepped inside and closed the
door. I just want to make sure everything's all right, she
told herself. But an instant later, judging by the look on
Regan's face, she was certain that something was very,
very wrong.
Instead of the voice Regan had been expecting to hear, she
was chilled by a curt command, "You'll talk to him in a
minute. Get rid of whoever is with you."
This isn't the police or a hospital calling, Regan
thought. She made a snap decision to let Alvirah stay. Not
that she would have had much choice. Alvirah's two feet
were practically glued to the marble floor. But the
concern in her eyes made Regan glad for her
presence. "Thank you, Alvirah," she said loudly. "I won't
keep you." She reached past her and noisily opened and
closed the door.
That guy doesn't want anyone else to overhear what he's
telling Regan, Alvirah thought. Yanking open her coat, she
quickly unhooked the sunburst pin that she always wore,
turned on its tiny hidden microphone, and handed the pin
to Regan.
Regan's eyes widened at first, and then she nodded,
realizing what Alvirah intended. "Let me talk to my
father," she said as she held the sunburst pin next to her
ear and the earpiece of the phone.
"Not so fast," the gruff voice snapped. "I've got a list
of demands."
In the houseboat, Petey nodded his approval. "Kind of like
a top-ten list," he whispered to Luke, with a friendly
punch to his manacled arm.
C.B. glared at him.
"Sorry."
C.B. continued. "You must have one million dollars in cash
by tomorrow afternoon. It must be in one-hundred-dollar
bills, in a duffel bag. At six o'clock on the dot, and I
mean on the dot, be in your car driving into Central Park
at the Sixth Avenue entrance. You will receive a phone
call telling you where to leave the money. Do not call the
police if you want to see your father and his cutie-pie
chauffeur again. Once the money has been received and
counted, you'll get a call about where to pick them up."
"I want to talk to my father now," Regan demanded.
C.B. walked over to Luke and held the phone to his
ear. "Say hello to your little girl. And tell her she'd
better do as she's told."
It was with heartsick relief that Regan heard Luke's calm
voice. "Hi, Regan. We're both okay so far. Your mother
will know where to get the money quickly."
Before Regan could answer, C.B. pulled the phone
away. "That's enough from you. It's Rosita's turn." He was
at her side. "Say hello to Regan."
The words rushed out of Rosita's mouth. "Take care of my
boys."
Again C.B. didn't give Regan a chance to respond. "Okay,
Regan Reilly," he said. "We've got a date. Six o'clock
tomorrow. Right?"
"I'll be there," Regan said. "But I have to talk to my
father and Rosita again before I drop that money." Trying
to keep the mounting fury out of her voice, it was her
turn to ask, "Right?"
"You've got it, Regan." The line went dead.