Two Little Girls in Blue (35 page)

Everything was going according to plan.

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

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

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

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

“Where did Clint Downes go?” Realto snapped.

“How do I know?”

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

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

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

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

“His girlfriend, Angie?” Realto asked.

“Yeah, that nutcase.”

“When was the last time you saw Clint?”

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

“Did Angie go with you?”

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

“When was the last time you saw her?”

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

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

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

“Could you see what color hair he had?”

“Dark brown. Short.”

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

Even before Martinson continued, Agent Carlson was sure that the name he was going to hear was Clint Downes.

Across the table, a suddenly sobered Gus Svenson was telling Tony Realto, “I hadn't been out to dinner with Clint for months. Then I ran into Angie at the
drugstore. She was buying a bunch of stuff like a vaporizer and cough drops for a kid she was minding who was sick. And I . . .”

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

“The
kids
were crying?” Realto snapped.

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

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

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

“Did you believe him?”

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

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

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

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

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

“That's what I think, too.”

They went back into the office where Gus was sitting. “Gus, by any chance did Clint have a lot of cash with him when you went out?”

“Nah. He let me pick up the check both nights.”

“Do you know anyone else who might have given him a ride somewhere today?”

“No.”

The sergeant from the Danbury police who had visited the cottage at the golf club had been making his own inquiries. He walked into the office in time to hear the last question. “Clint Downes was driven by Danbury Taxi to the Continental Airlines drop-off at LaGuardia,” he said. “He got there about five thirty.”

Only two hours ago, Walter Carlson thought. We're tightening the net on him, but will we be fast enough to close it before it's too late for Kathy?

A
t the police station in Hyannis, the desk sergeant, Ari Schwartz, listened patiently to David Toomey's irate protest that there had been no theft in the parking lot of his motel. “I've worked at the Soundview for thirty-two years,” Toomey declared vehemently, “and I'm not going to let that conniver, who doesn't even have the brains to take care of a sick kid, lie to Sam Tyron about a car seat that she never owned being stolen.”

The sergeant knew and liked Toomey. “Dave, take it easy,” he said soothingly. “I'll talk to Sam. You say your night manager swears the woman didn't have a car seat in the car?”

“Absolutely.”

“We'll make sure that the record is corrected.”

Somewhat mollified by the promise, Toomey turned to go, then hesitated. “I really worry about that little boy. He was one sick kid. Would you mind phoning over to the hospital and see if he's a patient, or if maybe he was treated in the emergency room? His name is Steve. The mother is Linda Hagen. I could do it, but they'll pay a lot more attention if the call comes from you.”

Schwartz did not let the flash of irritation he felt
show on his face. It was nice of Dave Toomey to be concerned about the kid, but, on the other hand, checking it out was going to be difficult. The mother could have taken the child to any one of a dozen urgent care centers on the Cape. He could have pointed that out to Dave, but instead he made the call to the hospital.

No pediatric patient by that name had been admitted to the hospital.

Anxious as he was to get home, Toomey was still reluctant to go. “There's something that bothers me about her,” he said, as much to himself as to the sergeant. “If that was my grandson, my daughter would be frantic with worry.” He shrugged. “I'd better mind my own business. Thanks, Sarge.”

*   *   *

Four miles away, Elsie Stone was turning the key in the door of her white frame house. She had taken Debby home to Yarmouth but turned down the offer to stay for dinner with her daughter and son-in-law. “I'm feeling my age,” she said cheerfully. “I'll go on home, heat up some of my vegetable soup, and enjoy it while I'm reading the paper and watching the news.”

Not that the news is something you want to see, she thought as she turned on the foyer light. But much as that kidnapping makes me heartsick, I do want to see if they're any closer to catching those terrible people.

She hung up her coat and went straight into the den to turn on the television. The anchorman on the six-thirty news was saying, “An unnamed source has revealed
that the FBI are now operating under the assumption that Kathy Frawley may still be alive.”

“Oh, praise God,” Elsie said aloud. “Lord, let them find that poor little lamb.”

Turning up the sound of the television so as not to miss a word, she went into the kitchen. As she poured her homemade vegetable soup into a bowl and put it in the microwave, she realized that the name “Kathy” was running through her mind.

“Kathy . . . Kathy . . . Kathy . . .” What was it? she wondered.

“S
he was there,” Margaret cried as Steve held her tightly. “I saw the crib they kept the twins in. The mattress smelled of Vick's, just as Kelly's pajamas did when we got her back. All those days, they were so near, Steve, so near. That woman who bought the clothes the night I bought the birthday dresses is the one who has Kathy now. And Kathy is sick. She is sick!
She is sick!”

Ken Lynch, a rookie cop from the Danbury police force, had driven Margaret home and was surprised to see that the block was thick with media trucks. His hand under her arm, he had rushed her into the house, past Steve who was holding the door open for them. Now feeling helpless, he stepped through the archway and entered the living room. There, he stopped and turned.

This must be the room where the babysitter was on the phone and heard one of the twins cry out, he thought. Then, as his eyes darted around, absorbing all the details so he could share them with his wife, he saw the dolls on the floor in the center of the room. Identical baby dolls, covered by the same blanket, their fingers touching. A child's table and chairs in front of the fireplace was set for a tea party. Two identical teddy bears sat at the table, facing each other.

“Mommy, Mommy.”

From upstairs he heard the excited cry, then the sound of feet rushing down the uncarpeted steps. He watched as Kelly threw herself into Margaret's arms. Feeling uncomfortably like a voyeur, Ken could not resist studying the anguish on the mother's face as she hugged her daughter to her.

That has to be the pediatrician who's staying with them, he thought, as an older woman with silver hair hurried down the stairs.

Margaret put Kelly down and knelt beside her, her hands on Kelly's shoulders. “Kelly,” she said softly, “have you been talking to Kathy again?”

Kelly nodded. “She wants to come home.”

“I know, darling, I know she does. I want her to come home, too, just as much as you do. Do you know where she is? Did she tell you?”

“Yes, Mommy. I told Daddy. And I told Dr. Sylvia. And I told you. Kathy is in old Cape Cod.”

Margaret gasped and shook her head. “Oh, sweetheart, don't you remember, when you were in bed with me this morning, I was the one who talked about Cape Cod. That's where you heard about it. Maybe Kathy told you she was at some other place. Can you ask her now?”

“Kathy is very sleepy now.” With an injured look, Kelly turned and walked past Officer Lynch. She sat down on the floor by the dolls. As Lynch stared, transfixed, he heard her say, “You
are so
on old Cape Cod.” Then, though he strained to hear, he could not make sense of the gibberish she was whispering.