Two Little Girls in Blue (37 page)

Cars began to arrive and depart from the motel parking lot. With any luck, I'll see Clint before he gets too near to Angie's room, he thought. I've got to talk to him first.

An hour later, his patience was rewarded. A sedan drove slowly around the parking lot, up one row and down the other, then pulled into the vacant spot near
Angie's van. A heavyset figure climbed out. In an instant, the Pied Piper was out of his car and positioned by Clint's side. Clint spun around, his hand reaching for his jacket pocket.

“Don't bother to pull out a gun,” the Pied Piper said. “I'm here to help you. Your plan won't work. You can't drive around in that van.”

He watched as Clint's startled look was replaced by one of cunning understanding. “You're the Pied Piper.”

“Yes.”

“With all the risks I took, it's about time I met you. Who are you?”

He didn't have a clue, the Pied Piper realized, and now it's too late. I have to see it through. “She's in there,” he said, pointing to Angie's room. “You have to tell her that I came up here to help you get away. What car are you driving?”

“I helped myself to it. The people who own it are at the movies. I'm safe for a couple of hours.”

“Then get her and the child in that car and get out of here. Make arrangements for them as you see necessary. I'll follow you and then I'll take you to my plane. I'll drop you off in Canada.”

Clint nodded. “She's the one who ruined it all.”

“Not yet, she hasn't,” the Pied Piper assured him. “But get her out of here before it's too late.”

T
he taxi driver who had driven Clint to LaGuardia Airport was in the Danbury police station.

“The guy I picked up at the service road of the country club had a real small bag,” he told the FBI agents and the police chief. “He paid with his credit card. Gave me a lousy tip. If he had money, I sure didn't see it.”

“Angie must have taken off in the van with the ransom money,” Carlson said to Realto. “He's got to be planning to meet her.”

Realto nodded.

“He gave no indication of where he was going?” Carlson persisted. It was a question he'd asked the driver before but still was hoping against hope that maybe he'd spark some response that would be useful.

“Just to leave him at the Continental drop-off. That's all he said.”

“Did he use a cell phone at all?”

“No. And didn't say one word to me except to tell me where to go.”

“All right. Thank you.” Frustrated, Walter Carlson looked at the clock. After Lila Jackson went to the house, Clint knew that it would be only a matter of time
before we got to him, he thought. Was he meeting Angie at LaGuardia? Or did he take another cab, maybe to Kennedy, and get on an overseas flight? And what about Kathy?

Carlson knew that Ron Allen, the FBI agent in charge of the Bureau's operations at LaGuardia and JFK, was directing the investigation at both airports. If Clint was listed as a passenger on any plane leaving from either one of them, he would be sure to find out soon.

Fifteen minutes later, the call came from Allen. “Downes took the six
P.M
. shuttle to Boston,” he said, crisply. “I've alerted our guys to look for him at Logan.”

“W
e've got to try to keep her awake,” Sylvia Harris said, not bothering to conceal the anxiety in her voice. “Put her down, Margaret. Hold her hand. You, too, Steve. Make her walk with you.”

Her lips white with fear, Margaret obeyed. “Come on, Kelly,” she urged. “You and Daddy and Kathy and I love to take a walk together. Come on, darling.”

“I . . . can't. . . . No . . . I don't want . . .” Kelly's voice was fretful and sleepy.

“Kelly, you must tell Kathy that she has to wake up, too,” Dr. Harris urged.

Kelly's head was drooping on her chest, but she began to shake it in protest. “No . . . no . . . no more. Go away, Mona.”

“Kelly, what is it?” Help me, God, Margaret thought. Let me break through to Kathy. That woman, Angie, must be the one Kelly called “Mona.” “Kelly, what is Mona doing to Kathy?” she asked desperately.

Stumbling between Margaret and Steve, half carried by them, Kelly whispered. “Mona's singing.” Her voice trembling, off-key, she sang, “No . . . more . . . Old Cape Cod.”

“I'
m afraid they're going to think I'm just one of those people who want to get their names in the paper,” Elsie Stone confided to her daughter. She was holding the telephone in one hand and the
Cape Cod Times
in the other. On the television screen, pictures of the Frawley twins were being shown over and over again. “The woman told me the child was a boy, but I'm convinced she's a girl. And Suzie, as God is my witness, I swear that child was Kathy Frawley. I mean, she had a hood on, and it just showed some dark brown hair, but looking back, I knew there was something phony about the hair. You know what I mean, like when you see a bad dye job like your uncle Ray has. And when I asked her name, she said it was Kathy, but then I could see the scowl that woman gave her, and the kid looked real scared and said it was Stevie.”

“Mom,” Suzie broke in. “Are you sure you're not getting carried away?” She looked at her husband and shrugged. They had waited to have a late dinner after they put Debby to bed. Now, the loin lamb chops on her plate were cooling, and Vince, her husband, was making a slashing motion across his neck, meaning she should cut it short.

Vince was genuinely fond of his mother-in-law, but he did say that Elsie had a tendency to “reiterate again.”

“I mean, I don't want to make a fool of myself, but just suppose . . .”

“Mom, I'm going to tell you what to do, then I'm going to hang up and sit down before Vin has a heart attack. Call the Barnstable police. Tell them
exactly
what you told me, then leave it in their hands. I love you, Mom. Debby had a wonderful time with you today, and the cookies she brought home are heaven. Goodbye, Mom.”

Elsie Stone kept the receiver in her hand as she debated what to do. Should I call that tipster number or the police? she wondered. They're probably getting a lot of crank calls on the tipster phone.

“If you do not wish to make a call, please hang up.” The buzz of the computer voice was the catalyst that strengthened Elsie's resolve. “I wish to make a call,” she said. She pushed the Off button, waited a moment, pushed the Talk button and dialed information.

When another computer voice asked for the city and state, she said hurriedly, “Barnstable, Massachusetts.”

“Barnstable, Massachusetts, is that right?” repeated the mechanical voice.

Suddenly aware that if what she had to say had bearing on the Frawley case, then it was very important to get it to the right people quickly, she snapped, “Yes, that's right, and for heaven sake why do I have to waste my time with you?”

“Business or home?” the computerized voice asked.

“The Barnstable Police Department.”

“The Barnstable Police Department, is that right?”

“Yes. Yes. Yes.”

After a pause, a human operator's voice asked, “Is this an emergency, ma'am?”

“Put me through to the police station.”

“Right away.”

“Barnstable Police, Sergeant Schwartz speaking.”

“Sergeant, this is Mrs. Elsie Stone.” Elsie's diffidence was a thing of the past. “I am a waitress at McDonald's near the mall. I am almost certain I saw Kathy Frawley there this morning and this is why.” She then began to recount the events of that morning.

At the police station, they had been talking about the breaking news in the Frawley situation. Now as Sergeant Schwartz listened, he was comparing Elsie Stone's story with David Toomey's annoyed account of the nonexistent theft at the Soundview Motel.

“The child said her name was Kathy and then corrected herself and said it was Stevie?” he verified.

“Yes. And all day it's been bothering me, until I really studied the newspaper picture of those darling little girls and saw their picture again on television. It's the same face. I swear on my immortal soul, it was the same face, and she said her name was Kathy. I just hope you don't dismiss me as a crank.”

“No, Ms. Stone. I'm not dismissing you as a crank. I'm calling the FBI immediately. Please stay on the line. They may want to talk to you.”

“W
alter, this is Steve Frawley. Kathy is on Cape Cod. You've got to start looking there.”

“Steve, I was about to phone you. We know Downes took the shuttle to Boston, but when he rented a car he asked for a map of Maine.”

“Forget Maine. Kelly has been trying to tell us since yesterday that Kathy is on Cape Cod. What we missed is that she wasn't just saying ‘Cape Cod.' She was even trying to sing that song, ‘Old Cape Cod.' That woman the twins call Mona is singing it to Kathy now. Believe me.
Please
believe me.”

“Steve, take it easy. We'll tell our guys to put out a special bulletin to the Cape, but I have to tell you, we know that an hour and a half ago, Clint Downes was standing at the window of the rental agency in Logan Airport and asking for a map of Maine. We're learning more about the girlfriend, Angie. She was brought up in Maine. We think she may be hiding out there with friends.”

“No. The Cape! Kathy is on the Cape!”

“Hold on, Steve. There's a call I've got to take.” Carlson put Steve on hold, answered the other call, then listened silently for a minute. After hanging up, he
got back on with Frawley. “Steve, you may be right. We have an eyewitness who claims to have seen Kathy this morning in a McDonald's in Hyannis. As of now, we're concentrating the search in that area. An FBI plane is picking up Realto and me in fifteen minutes.”

“We're coming, too.”

When Steve hung up the phone, he rushed back into the living room where Margaret and Dr. Sylvia were forcing Kelly to walk back and forth with them. “Kathy was seen on Cape Cod this morning,” he said. “We're flying there now.”