Alice in Jeopardy: A Novel (5 page)

If anyone is watching the house, he will see the garage doors going up. He will see Alice driving the car in. To anyone watching, Alice seems to be alone in the car. The garage doors roll down again. After a short interval, anyone watching the house will see lights coming on in the living room. He will see the dark-haired woman—Alice again—approaching the windows, looking out at the street, and then drawing the drapes.

In the garage, Wilbur Sloate gets up from where he is lying on the floor in the backseat of the Mercedes, climbs out of the car, and comes around to the hatchback at the rear. He yanks that open, and offers his hand to Detective Marcia Di Luca, one of the sixteen detectives assigned to the Criminal Investigations Division. Marcia’s specialty is communications, but she looks somewhat like a barmaid, wide in the behind, big in the chest, unruly red hair trailing to below her shoulders. She is wearing a tan skirt and a lime green blouse and a nine-millimeter Glock. Looking at Marcia, Alice gets the impression that she wouldn’t particularly like to get in a catfight with her. She gets the impression that Marcia wouldn’t mind shooting someone right between the eyes if the opportunity presented itself.

“What we’re going to do,” Sloate explains, “what
Marcia’s
going to do, as a matter of fact, is place a tap on your phone before that call comes in at noon tomorrow. This way we can listen to and record any calls you get…”

“We call it a Tap and Tape,” Marcia says.

“She’s also going to set up equipment that’ll be able to locate the caller’s phone numbe—”

“We call that a Trap and Trace.”

“And she’ll put in a second line so we can call the captain direct downtown.”

“That’ll be Captain Roger Steele,” Marcia says.

“He’s in charge of the department’s CID.”

Alice nods.

“So, what you can do, ma’am, you can go to sleep now, while Marcia and me get started. No sense you pacing the floor all night, we’re not going to hear from them again till noon tomorrow. Okay?”

“Yes, fine,” Alice says.

“G’night then, ma’am.”

“Good night,” Marcia says, and goes out to the garage for her equipment.

The phone rings
at a little before midnight.

Alice is not yet asleep. She doesn’t know if she should pick up the bedroom extension or not. She throws on a robe and comes out into the living room, where Marcia and Sloate are still working.

“You ready on that trace?” Sloate asks Marcia.

“Nope,” she says.

“What should I do?” Alice asks.

“Let it ring a few more times. Tell her you were asleep,” Sloate says. “We can at least listen and record, get some information that way, do a voice profile later. Tell her you’re selling all your stock. Tell her you’ll have the money tomorrow afternoon sometime. Tell her to take a Polaroid picture of your kids holding tomorrow morning’s edition of the Cape October
Trib.
Tell her to Fed Ex it to you.”

“She won’t do all that.”

“Just keep her talking, see what she has to say for herself.” He sits in front of the wiretap equipment, puts on the earphones. “Go on, pick up,” he says.

“Hello?” Alice says.

“Al? It’s me. Charlie.”

“Charlie?”

“Did I wake you?”

“No.”

“What have you heard?”

Sloate shakes his head, wags his finger at her.

“Nothing,” she says.

Sloate runs his finger across his throat.

For a moment, Alice is puzzled.

Then she understands that he wants her to end the conversation.

“Charlie, I just got out of bed,” she says, “can you excuse me a minute? I’ll call you right back.”

“Sure, honey, I’ll be here.”

She puts the phone back on its cradle.

“Why?” she asks Sloate.

“I wanted to brief you. I don’t want you to tell him anything. Don’t tell him we’re here, don’t tell him a thing, not a single thing. Just say we asked you a few questions downtown and let you go. You didn’t tell us anything about your kids being missing.”

“Charlie’s my best friend. Why can’t I…?”

“
They
may know that, too. Nothing. Tell him nothing.”

“Suppose he wants to come here?”

“Tell him no.”

Alice looks at him.

“You want to see your kids alive again?”

“You’re beginning to sound like
her.
”

“Better call him back,” Marcia says.

“Make it short,” Sloate says. “Tell him you want to keep the line clear, case anybody calls.”

“He’ll smell a rat.”

“He’ll smell a rat if you don’t call back pretty damn soon,” Sloate says.

Alice picks up the receiver and begins dialing.

“Hello?”

“Charlie?”

“Yes, hi. What happened with the cops?”

“They asked me a lot of questions, and then let me go.”

“What kind of questions?”

“Well, you know, Rosie told them all about the kids being gone…”

“Yeah, so?”

“I told them they were mistaken. They said, Okay, it’s your funeral, lady, and let me go.”

“Were those their exact words?”

“More or less. Charlie, I hate to cut you short, but I want to keep the line free. In case they call again.”

“You haven’t heard from them again, huh?”

“Not yet.”

“That’s strange, don’t you think?” he asks.

“Well, they said noon tomorrow.”

“Even so.”

“Charlie, I really have to—”

“I know, okay. Call me if you need me, okay? Do you want me to come over?”

“No, I don’t think that would be smart. They may be watching the house.”

“Right, right.”

“Charlie…”

“I’m gone. Talk to you later.”

Alice hangs up.

“Okay?” she asks Sloate.

There is an edge to her voice.

“Fine, ma’am. You did just fine.”

“I hope you know what you’re doing,” Alice says.

“We know what we’re doing, ma’am.”

“I hope so. Because if anything happens to my kids…”

“Nothing will happen to your kids.”

She looks him dead in the eye.

The look says, Nothing had
better
happen, Detective Sloate.

“Good night,” she says, and goes off to bed.

At 8:45
A.M.
,
Rosie Garrity is still watching television, hoping to hear something about the kidnapping.

There was nothing on last night until she went to bed at eleven, and there’s nothing on this morning, either, not on WSWF, anyway. WSWF is Cape October’s own Channel 36, the “SWF” in the call letters standing for Southwest Florida. Rosie starts surfing the cable channels, one after the other, figuring a kidnapping always gets covered on the cable shows, but there’s nothing there either.

She’s beginning to wonder if whoever she spoke to at the police yesterday has taken any action on the case—Sloane or Slope or something like that, said he was a detective. Because if he was just sitting on this thing instead of
doing
something about it, why, he should be reported to a superior officer for disciplinary action, these were two innocent little kids out there. She is just about to dial the police again, when the phone rings, startling her. She picks up at once, thinking this might be Detective Sloane wanting further information.

Instead, it is Alice Glendenning.

“Hello, Mrs. Glendenning,” she says. “Have you heard anything further from that black woman?”

“No, nothing yet,” Alice says. “Rosie, the reason I’m calling…” She suspects that she is going to be bawled out for having called the police. But then Alice says, “I don’t think you should come in today,” and Rosie immediately believes she’s about to be fired.

“Why not?” she asks defensively.

“Because my children are gone, and I want to be alone here when that woman calls, if she calls.”

Alone.

She has just told Rosie that she is alone.

Which means the police have
not
contacted her, as that Detective Sloane said they were going to do, which means the police are most certainly being derelict in their duty.

Well, we’ll just see about that, Rosie thinks.

“I understand, Mrs. Glendenning,” she says. “Just call me if there’s anything you need, okay?”

“I will, Rosie. Thank you.”

But there is something odd in her voice, something cool and distant. Rosie wonders just what the hell is going on here.

“Good-bye now,” she says.

She hangs up, and immediately begins searching the Cape October-Fort Myers-Sanibel directory under
GOVERNMENT AGENCIES
.

When the phone rings
at 9:10
A
.
M
., Detective Marcia Di Luca says at once, “I’m not ready here yet, Will.”

Alice can only think they’ve been working here all damn night, and she’s still not ready. Alice can only think her children’s fate is in the hands of Keystone Kops.

Sloate is putting on the earphones.

“I don’t think it’s her again, so early,” he says. “But if it is, just let her talk, hear what she has to say.”

The phone is still ringing.

“Shall I pick up?” Alice asks.

Sloate hits some buttons on his recording equipment. Reels begin spinning.

“Go ahead,” he says.

Alice picks up the phone.

“Hello?”

“Alice?”

A woman’s voice. She recognizes it at once. Aggie Barrows, her assistant.

“Yes, Aggie,” she says.

“Did you forget your nine o’clock?”

“My…?”

“With Mr. Webster.”

“Oh Je—”

“He’s here now. What shall I tell him? Are you coming in?”

“Let me talk to him, Agg.”

She waits.

“Hello?”

“Mr. Webster, hi, I’m
so
sorry.”

“That’s all right,” he says. “What happened?”

“I broke my ankle.”

“Well, that’s a new one,” he says.

“I really did,” she says. “I got knocked down by a car yesterday afternoon.”

“I’m sorry to hear that,” he says.

“I’m in a cast. I should have called you, I know, but what with the hospital and all…”

“Hey, that’s all right, we can do it another time.”

“I hope so.”

There is a silence on the line.

“Is… everything else all right?” he asks.

Sloate glances up from his recording equipment.

“Yes, I’m fine, thanks,” Alice says. “I really am very sorry about this.”

“Long as it wasn’t anything I said yesterday.”

“No, no, I really did have an accident.”

“I thought maybe I’d been out of line.”

“No, no, not at all.”

“None of my business, after all.”

“That’s okay, really. I took no offense.”

“I hope not. So how shall we leave this? Will you call me? Shall I look for another broker?”

“I wish you wouldn’t do that, Mr. Webster…”

“Webb.”

“I’d love to find a home for you here on the Cape, I really would. But it may be a few days before…”

“I have some other business to take care of down here, anyway. Why don’t we just play it by ear? Just call me when you think you’ll be up and around again.”

“Well, I’m able to walk now,” she says. “It’s just…”

It’s just my children have been kidnapped, you see. It’s just I have two detectives here in the house with me right now, one of them listening to every word you and I are saying. It’s just that in less than three hours, a woman is going to call here again to tell me what I have to do next if I ever want to see my kids alive again. It’s just all that, Mr. Webster, Webb, it’s just I am going out of my mind with fear and anxiety, that’s all it is, Webb.

“I have your number,” she says. “I’ll call you.”

“Please do,” he says, and hangs up.

She looks at the receiver. She places it back on its cradle.

“Sounds like a nice fellow,” Sloate comments.

“Yes,” she says.

“How you doing with that?” he asks Marcia.

“Getting there,” she says.

Sloate looks at his watch.

“You’ve got two and twenty-five,” he says.

“Thanks a lot,” she says dryly.

“Just thought I’d remind you.”

There is between them the easy banter of two people who have worked together for a very long time. It is almost like a good marriage, Alice realizes. Sloate isn’t going to start yelling at her if she doesn’t have her equipment set up in the next two hours and twenty-five minutes, and Marcia is not going to have a hysterical hissy fit if she doesn’t come in under that deadline. Sloate seems confident that she will have the job done in that time. And she seems confident that she will not fail him. As he takes off the earphones, he nods assurance to Marcia, and she looks up from where her rather delicate hands—Alice notices for the first time—are twirling dials and throwing switches, and she winks at him to let him know the situation is completely under control here.

Alice wonders if it really is.

There was a time
...

Alice was twenty-two years old, and just completing NYU’s film program. Her idea was to become a famous director. That was before she met Edward Fulton Glendenning. Eddie was twenty-four, a graduate student in the business school. They met in University Park, on a bright afternoon in June.

She was sitting on a bench, crying.

He appeared out of the blue.

Tall and slender, crew-cut blond hair glistening in the spring sunshine, cherry trees in bloom all up and down the side streets surrounding the school. She saw him through the mist of her tears, standing suddenly before her.

“Hey, what’s this?” he said, and sat, and took her hands in his.

His hands were soft. Delicate. She looked into his face, into his eyes. A narrow fox face, with a slender nose and fine high cheekbones, nearly feminine in its elegance, as sculpted as a Grecian mask, the eyes a pale blue, almost gray. She allowed him to hold her hands. Her hands were clasped between his own two hands, slender, a pianist’s hands with long tapering fingers, everything about him so beautifully exact.

He offered her a handkerchief.

He asked her why she was crying.

She told him she’d spent all day yesterday editing hundreds of feet of film, and marking the strips with Roman numerals to differentiate this go-round from the earlier strips marked with Arabic numerals, and one of the other girls on her team— “There are five of us altogether,” she said. “We have to do this fifteen-minute film as our final project…”

One of the other girls came in this morning, and reedited everything she’d already done, messing everything up, getting the sound all out of synch, and replacing the Roman numerals with Arabic numerals all over again because she didn’t know what Roman numerals
were
!

“Can you believe it?” Alice said. “She’s twenty-one years old, she’s from Chicago, that’s not a hick town, and she’s never heard of a Roman numeral in her
life
! She thought it was some kind of secret
code
! Can you believe it?”

“Amazing,” Eddie said.

“I know. How can anyone be so…?”

“You. I mean you. Amazing.”

He was still holding her hands, she noticed.

“You’re so very beautiful,” he said.

“Oh sure,” she said.

“Oh sure,” he said.

They were married six months later.

The two detectives who
drive into the bus loading area at Pratt Elementary at 9:30 that Thursday morning are looking for a man named Luke Farraday. Like Sloate and Di Luca, they work for Cape October’s Criminal Investigations Division, and they have been sent here by Captain Roger Steele, who wants them to find out whatever they can about the blue car that supposedly picked up the Glendenning kids yesterday afternoon.

The two detectives are named Peter Wilson Andrews and Julius Aaron Saltzman. Saltzman is very large, standing at six-four in his bare feet, and weighing a good two hundred and twenty pounds when he’s watching his diet. He is wearing a little blue-and-gray crocheted yarmulke fastened to the back of his head with bobby pins, this because he is very proud of his Jewish heritage and will take the slightest opportunity to discuss the impending American holocaust if nothing is done to stop the tide of anti-Semitism in this nation. Saltzman is what Andrews would call a Professional Jew, more or less, in that his Jewishness seems to dictate every move he makes and every word he speaks.

Andrews is perhaps five feet eight inches tall, very short for any cop but especially for a detective, where promotions often depend on brawn rather than brain. He is what one might generously call a redneck. In fact, he drifted down here to Florida after working on a tobacco farm in Tennessee, where his neck and his arms did grow very red indeed and then brown from hours of laboring in the hot sun, until he decided there had to be a better life somewhere for a red-blooded (and red-necked) American boy like himself.

Andrews found that better life here on the Cape, where first he worked as a bouncer in a strip joint on the Trail south of the airport, and then joined the police force as a uniformed rookie earning $28,914 a year. He is now a full-fledged detective in the CID, working with Saltzman, and thanking his lucky stars for his partner’s size and raw power every time they go up against some redneck like Andrews used to be, carrying a sawed-off shotgun or a machete or even a pool cue.

They find Farraday in the school cafeteria. He tells them he came in half an hour ago after supervising the unloading of the buses, and he is just now lingering over a cup of coffee before heading home. What he does, he explains to them, is come in early in the morning to unload the buses, and then goes home until it’s time to come back in the afternoon, when the kids are boarding the buses again. There’s not much for Farraday at home. His wife died three years ago, he tells them. He’s alone in the world, he tells them.

Farraday is wearing bifocals and a hearing aid, a man in his mid-sixties, one of a breed who come down here to retire and then discover that they have all the time in the world to do nothing but play golf and push a shopping cart up and down the aisles of a supermarket. They finally take jobs as cashiers in souvenir shops, or bank guards, or—as is the case with Farraday here—guards at school crossings or bus-loading areas, anything to keep them busy, anything to make them feel useful again. There is nothing like early retirement to make a person feel dead.

The detectives have got to be very careful here.

They have been cautioned by Steele that they are not to indicate in any way, manner, or form that a kidnapping has taken place. The Glendenning woman was warned that if she notified the police, her kids would be killed. Apparently, she is none too happy that the police are already on the job, but that’s the way the little cookie crumbles, lady, and if you want your children back you don’t go to a lawyer or a private eye. You go to professionals who know how to do the job. Though, to tell the truth, this is the first kidnapping Saltzman or Andrews has ever caught.