Follow the Sharks Read online

  “You didn’t see him today, then?”

  “No.”

  “That’s all we know, Eddie. I’m sorry.”

  “Oh, man…”

  “The police are confident they’ll find him, or he’ll turn up. Try not to worry.”

  “Yeah. Right.”

  “There’s nothing you can do.”

  “I feel as useless as tits on a rooster, know that? I can’t stand sitting around waiting for something to happen. Not my style.”

  “Are you home?”

  “Such as it is.”

  “Stay there. Maybe E.J.’ll call you. At least, if anybody hears anything they’ll know where to reach you.”

  “Make sure I know, will you?”

  “I will.”

  “You’re the only one who will.”

  But I didn’t hear anything, not that night and not all day Sunday. I talked to Sam a couple of times, pretending not to get his hints that Jan would like me to be there to hold her hand. He told me that Inspector Basile had contacted the State Police and the FBI. He didn’t know what, if anything, they would do. Feeling the need for a little hand-holding myself, I tried Sylvie’s number, but she either wasn’t home or wasn’t answering. So I went to bed. The next day was Monday, and then, at least, I could go to my office and feel useful.

  I wondered who was going to do E.J. Donagan’s paper route in the morning.

  6

  I WAS ON MY first cup of coffee and staring at the accumulation of weekend mail on my desk when Julie, my secretary, buzzed me.

  “It’s a woman. Claims it’s urgent. Wouldn’t give her name,” she said over the intercom. “Do you want to take it?”

  “Sure,” I said. I pressed the blinking button on my telephone console and said, “Brady Coyne.”

  “Mr. Coyne,” came a female voice. “One moment, please.”

  I heard a click and a few seconds of static, and then a man’s voice began to speak. It sounded unnaturally deep and slow, as if it had been recorded at forty-five and was being played back at thirty-three. Something like that, I quickly realized, was what in fact had been done.

  “This is the only communication you will receive from us, Mr. Coyne,” growled the voice. “For the sake of the boy, please listen carefully and follow precisely the instructions I will give you. Please note down what I am about to say. The details are important. I will repeat it only once. I will now allow you one minute to assemble paper and pen.”

  I buzzed Julie, who picked up the line. “Julie, listen to this and make notes, please.”

  “What…?”

  “I’ll explain later.”

  “All right, then, Mr. Coyne,” came the voice again. “I trust you are ready. First, please be assured that the boy is with us and that he is fine. He will be returned unharmed once our transaction is satisfactorily completed. This will assure you that I am telling you the truth.” There was a click, and then I heard E.J. Donagan’s voice. It was unmistakably his. “This is E.J. I’m fine. The Red Sox won today. Dwight Evans hit a homer. I miss my mother.”

  I heard Julie breathe, “Oh, my God!”

  “We choose to deal with you, Mr. Coyne,” resumed that deep, slow voice, “because you have the reputation for being sensible and discreet. For the sake of the boy, we trust that is true. We will want one hundred and fifty thousand dollars in used bills as follows. Please note this down carefully. First, one-thousand hundreds. Second, six-hundred fifties. Third, one-thousand twenties. We will examine these bills to verify that they have been marked in no way and that they do not have consecutive serial numbers. These bills must be tied into ten-thousand-dollar bundles and put into a large green plastic trash bag. Knot the top securely. Lock it into the trunk of your white BMW. Drive to the bowling alleys on Route 2 in Cambridge tomorrow night. That’s Tuesday night. Be there at nine o’clock. Wear a suit and tie. Go upstairs to the lounge. Sit at the bar. Order Wild Turkey on the rocks with two olives. Wait for instructions. Be alone. We will know what’s going on. If there are any police around, if there’s any effort to follow you, or to interfere in this transaction, you will not see the boy again. Please believe me.

  “This message will now be repeated in its entirety one time. Make sure every detail is followed. You will not hear from us again.”

  There was a click, a moment of static, and again the voice began, “This is the only communication you will receive from us, Mr. Coyne.” I listened to it all again. When it was over, I said into the telephone, “Julie?”

  “I’m here,” she said. “Is that what it sounds like, Brady?”

  “I’m afraid so. Did you get all of it?”

  “Of course. It’s in shorthand.”

  “Bring it in here, then, so we can check the details.”

  A moment later she came into my office, and except for the horror on her face she was still the green-eyed Irish beauty I had hired twelve years earlier. She sank onto the sofa. I moved from behind my desk to sit beside her.

  “You never told me…”

  “I would have, Julie. I’m sorry. I didn’t know I was going to get this call.”

  “What has happened?”

  As I recounted the story, Julie’s eyes filled with tears. She had a two-year-old daughter. It wasn’t hard to imagine what was going through her mind. My own sons were in college, and I had no trouble identifying with Jan and Eddie Donagan.

  When I finished, Julie said, “So what now?”

  “I want you to get Sam Farina on the phone for me. Then type up the transcript of that telephone call.”

  She nodded.

  “Tell me,” I said. “What exactly did the woman who called say? Can you remember her exact words?”

  “She just asked for you. She said, ‘May I speak with Mr. Coyne, please?’ I said, ‘May I ask who’s calling?’, of course, and she said, ‘This is urgent. I must speak with Mr. Coyne.’ So I buzzed you.”

  “Did you notice anything about her voice? Any accent? Young, old, or what?”

  Julie frowned. “Youngish, I’d say. Mature, you know, but young. Kind of a low voice. You’d probably call it sexy.”

  “From the little she said to me, yes, I’d call it sexy. Anything else about it?”

  “Well, maybe a hint of a Boston accent. When she said, ‘Mr. Coyne’ to me it came out ‘Mistah.’ The way we all talk around here.”

  I smiled and nodded. “Anything else?”

  She shrugged. “No. She didn’t say that much.” Julie frowned and shook her head slowly. “Oh, those poor people. What’s going to happen?”

  “I don’t know. I just don’t know.”

  There were eight of us in Sam Farina’s living room that afternoon. Besides Sam, Jan, Josie and me, Eddie was there, perched uncomfortably on the edge of one of the kitchen chairs that had been dragged out to accommodate us all. The Winchester cop, Basile, was flanked by two other men. One was a sturdy, white-haired guy who looked like he pressed weights. Basile introduced him as Inspector Bill Travers of the State Police. The other was a skinny little olive-skinned FBI agent with a face like a tomahawk named Marty Stern. Stern wore heavy horn-rimmed glasses, which he would nervously grab from his face and wave around in the air when he talked. Stern seemed to be running the show. He spat out questions like a prosecutor.

  “How’d they know you drove a BMW?” he said to me, after he had read over the transcript of the telephone conversation I had handed to him.

  “I don’t know.”

  “You drink Wild Turkey usually?”

  “Whatever.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “It means I drink whatever there is. I do prefer bourbon.”

  “With olives in it?”

  “Never.”

  “Why you figure they called you?”

  “It’s no secret Brady’s my lawyer,” said Sam.

  “I asked him,” said Stern, whipping the glasses off his nose and stabbing at me with them.

  “It’s no secret I’m Sam�
��s lawyer,” I said with a smirk. “Where are you headed with this, anyway?”

  Stern sighed. “Be kinda nice to know who called you, huh?”

  “Sure.”

  “That’s where I’m headed.” He sighed again. “It’s gotta be somebody who knows you all, who knows that Coyne was here Saturday, is how I figure it. Dontcha think?”

  He looked around at all of us. Then he answered his own question. “The answer is, I’m right.” He jammed his glasses back onto his face, pushing them onto the bridge of his nose with his forefinger. He studied the transcript I had given him. “Okay,” he said after a minute. “Two things. First, we get the boy back. First priority. We do nothing to screw that up. Second, we catch them.” He peered at Sam. “Can you raise this kind of money?”

  Sam nodded. “Just about. A hundred and fifty grand is just about what I can raise in twenty-four hours.”

  “Like they knew that, too, huh?”

  Suddenly Eddie pounded his knee with his fist. “Jesus Christ! Can we just get on with it, huh? Brady didn’t kidnap E.J. Neither did Sam. Why don’t you cut the bullshit. This is ridiculous.” He got up from his chair and glared down at the diminutive FBI agent. “How the hell are we gonna get E.J. back? Ain’t that what we’re supposed to be doing here? Let’s get him back first. Then we can worry about catching these guys.”

  Stern slowly removed his glasses. “Sit down, Mr. Donagan. Please. Sit down.” He leaned forward and stared at Eddie through narrowed eyes. Eddie returned his stare for a moment, then slowly took his seat. “Just let me worry about this.”

  “Why should you worry?” muttered Eddie. “E.J. ain’t your kid.”

  “Because I’ve been through this before and you haven’t, that’s why. Because if we don’t think about catching them then every crazy out there will think kidnapping is a neat way to make a quick couple of bills. Better’n megabucks, huh? So I’m worried about E.J., yes. And all the rest of the kids out there.”

  “We’ve only got until tomorrow night.”

  Stern nodded. “Right. So here’s what we do. We’ll put a man in the bar at the bowling alley. We’ll have someone follow Coyne, keep track of the bag of money. We’ll tap into all the phones at the bowling alley. Also,” he added, glancing at me, “your office phone. And here, too. Some point they’ve gotta tell you what to do next. And some point, you gotta transfer that bag of money. We find out what we can, try to keep tabs on ’em, and as soon as we get the boy back we move in.” He poked his glasses at Travers, the State Policeman. “Can you give me some Travers nodded. “Sure. No problem.”

  “Okay. One in the bar. One in a car in the parking lot. Another one to tail him when he leaves the alleys, assuming they make the transaction somewhere else. Okay?”

  “Okay,” said Travers.

  “Get ’em together. We’ll brief ’em tomorrow. We’ll put a woman in the bar. They won’t expect a woman.”

  “I don’t know,” I said. “The guy who called was pretty specific about me not being followed. If they pick up on it—”

  “I agree,” said Eddie. “I don’t want to risk—”

  “Trust me,” said Stern.

  “Why?” said Eddie. “Why the fuck should we trust you?”

  Stern turned his head to look at Eddie. His smile resembled that of a coral snake. “Because, Mr. Donagan, I’m in charge and I know what I’m doing. And you don’t have any idea what you’re talking about.” He turned to look at Jan, and his tone softened. “I know you’re scared and worried. Believe me, I understand how it is. I’ve been through it. I promise you we’ll do nothing to jeopardize the safe return of your son. But once we get him back, we want to do everything we can to catch the lousy bastards who are doing this. You want that, don’t you?”

  “I just want him back,” whispered Jan.

  “Me too,” said Eddie, “and I think all this is just going to screw it up. It’s too risky. Let’s just give them their money. If they think we’re not doing what they said…”

  “They’re pros,” said Basile, speaking for the first time. “But so are we.”

  “It ain’t a goddam game,” Eddie answered, his voice rising. “Christ! You talk like this was some kind of a game you wanna see if you can win. This is my kid you’re playing with.”

  “Leave it to us, will you?” Stern glanced at Travers and Basile, who nodded.

  “Yeah, okay. We’ll leave it to you pros. But I’m warning you…”

  “Don’t,” said Travers. “Don’t warn me, Mr. Donagan.”

  “Eddie,” said Jan. “Please.”

  Eddie suddenly shoved his chair back and stood up. “Fine,” he said loudly. “Good. Okay. You take care of it. I’m getting out of here. I’m gone. Just remember,” he added, sweeping his hand to include all of us, “if anything goes wrong you’ve all got it on your consciences. All of you.”

  Eddie left the room and a moment later we heard the front door slam.

  “He’s very upset,” said Jan. She got up and moved to follow him.

  “Let him go,” said Sam. But Jan disappeared out the door.

  “It doesn’t matter,” said Stern. “That’s about it for now, anyway. Okay?”

  He looked from one to the other, and we all nodded. We started to stand, in preparation to leaving, when Jan came back into the room. Eddie was with her, scowling. He looked directly at me. “I’m gonna stick it out,” he said. He glanced at Stern. “But I don’t like it.”

  Stern twitched his shoulders, indicating exactly how much he cared what Eddie thought, and said, “All right, then. You get the money, Mr. Farina, and we’ll all meet back here at six tomorrow.”

  7

  I ARRIVED AT THE route 2 bowling alleys a little after eight-thirty. The green plastic trash bag, heavy with stacks of bills, was locked in the trunk of my BMW. I circled the building a couple of times, searching fruitlessly for a place to leave the car. I finally found a spot next door in front of an abandoned gas station. I hoped that the State Police officer who was stationed somewhere outside had seen me.

  I locked up and went inside. The summer leagues were in full swing. The place echoed with the din and clatter of bowling balls rumbling down the wooden lanes and crashing against the pins, the lusty shouts of the bowlers, and the clank and whirr of the automatic pinsetting machines.

  I found the bar upstairs. The Kegler’s Eleventh Frame Lounge. It was dimly lit, with deep maroon carpeting and heavy dark wood paneling and furniture. Against the far wall was an L-shaped bar. A giant-screen TV over the bar showed in silent pantomime the Red Sox tilting, as the sportswriters liked to say, against the Orioles. When I stepped into the room the bowling noises behind me subsided into a low hum.

  I found a seat at the bar and looked around. One of the couple of dozen people in pastel bowling shirts sitting around drinking draft beer was supposed to be a State Police officer. I didn’t know which one. A woman, I assumed. I felt out of place in my suit and tie. I didn’t know what I was getting into, and I desperately wanted the reassurance that I was not alone in this caper. At a corner table a chunky gray-haired woman sat alone. As my gaze settled on her I sensed that she had been watching me. Her eyes seemed to deflect off me to the television. I stared at her for a minute, hoping to catch her eye, to promote a quick wink or slight nod that would confirm what I hoped was true. She seemed intent on the efforts of Oil Can Boyd to extricate himself from a nasty bases-loaded situation. It occurred to me that if things had worked out differently, it could have been Eddie Donagan out there on the Fenway Park mound getting shelled by the Orioles on a muggy summer evening.

  The bartender had a florid face and a receding hairline. He ceremoniously passed a rag over the bar in front of me. I lifted my elbows for him.

  “What’ll ya have?”

  “A Wild Turkey on the rocks. With, ah, two olives.”

  “You shitting me.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Two olives?”

  “Yeah. Of course. Two olive
s.”

  He rolled his eyes and moved to the other end of the bar. I saw him whisper something to one of the men sitting there. They both looked my way, grinning.

  On the television Eddie Murray lined a hit into center field. I swiveled around to check the gray-haired police lady. Her table was empty.

  “Here ya go. Wild Turkey. On the rocks. Two olives. You want a little cocktail onion, maybe, in there too? How’s about a Maraschino cherry? Twist of lemon? Wedge of lime?”

  “Just the olives. Thank you.”

  He shrugged and moved down the bar to resume his conversation. There was a constant movement of people in and out of the lounge. They seemed to come in, order a beer, wait for their turn to bowl, leave with half-empty glasses on the tables, then return several minutes later to resume their places. I couldn’t figure out how they remembered which were their own beers.

  I sat there on the stool, one elbow on the bar, my Wild Turkey in my hand, half turned so that I could watch the room. I was waiting. I didn’t know what for. The gray-haired lady came back in, accompanied by two other women. One of them was slender and blonde and wore jeans so tight as to defy all the logical possibilities of bending and stretching to roll a bowling ball. I thought it would be interesting to watch her try. The other lugged around a bosom that must have made her bowling technique unusual. All three women glanced my way and seemed to smile at me. I wondered if they knew that I had two olives in my bourbon.

  The Red Sox changed pitchers. I smoked a Winston and sipped my drink. It was five of nine. Nothing was happening. It occurred to me that maybe the kidnappers had discovered that I had allies in there with me and that the phones were tapped, and had decided to change their plans. There was nothing I could do but wait.

  I finished my drink and swiveled back to the bar. The red-faced bartender said, “’Nother?”

  “Please.”

  “Two olives, right?”

  “Of course.”

  A group of half a dozen men entered the lounge and bore down on the bar. They stopped beside me, and one of them said, “You mind moving down a couple?”