Damnit, either there was a death penalty or there wasn’t. A kidnaper was the lowest form of animal life, even lower than a narcotics peddler—and Byrnes had particular reason to despise any and all pushers. And if anything was going to stop the crime of stealing another man’s child, the death penalty was that deterrent. Kidnaping, by its very nature, was usually a premeditated crime. Careful planning went into the actual snatch, careful psychological manipulation went into the demands made of the parents, the slow torture of uncertainty. Byrnes would rather have seen all murderers get off with prison sentences. For whereas the thin line of premeditation separated many second-degree homicides from first-degree homicides, there was very rarely a kidnaping case in which the entire filthy crime was not thoroughly and fastidiously premeditated.
“Anywhere along here, sir?” the patrolman asked.
“What’s that up ahead?” Byrnes asked.
“Looks like a light, sir.”
“Pull up over there.”
“Yes, sir.”
The patrolman eased the car to a stop. Byrnes got out and walked to where Hawes and Kronig were squatted close to the ground.
“Cotton,” Byrnes said. “Kronig. How are you?”
“Fine, Lieutenant,” Hawes said.
“Making a cast,” Kronig said. “Looks like it’s gonna be a good one.”
“Good. Those bastards call again?”
“Not that I know of, Pete,” Hawes said. “I’ve been outside quite a while.”
“Where are the rest of the men?”
“Carella and Parker are up at the house. I think Meyer broke for dinner.”
“Okay,” Byrnes said. “I put in a call to the Chief of Detectives, and he may be out.”
“May?” Kronig said, surprised.
“He’s up to his ears in this income tax thing that broke yesterday. He’s been waiting for a long time to clap that hoodlum behind bars.”
“Still, a kidnaping…” Kronig began.
“The trouble with most crimes,” Byrnes said, “is that they don’t respect any other crimes. Nothing gets priority. In any case, if the Chief shows up, I’ll be—” and he stopped talking.
A figure was coming up the road. In the darkness, the men saw only a hulking shape against the sky. Byrnes’s hand slipped inside the flap of his coat. Nearly all of the detectives on the 87th—with the exception of a few who were left-handed and a few who were stubborn—wore their holsters clipped to the left side of their belts during the winter months. This eliminated the necessity of delay in unbuttoning a coat, and whereas a cross-body draw was slower than a straight one, there were very rarely any wild-West theatrics which necessitated a split-second edge. On the other hand, a cop could be dead in the time it took him to unbutton his coat far enough to reach his gun. The figure came closer as Byrnes’s hand tightened on the butt of the .38.
“That you, Loot?” a voice called into the darkness.
Byrnes recognized the voice as Parker’s. His hand relaxed. “Yeah, what is it?”
“Nothing. Carella was just asking a while ago whether you got here or not. How’s the squad? I’ll bet things are jumping.”
“They’re jumping, all right.” Byrnes turned his attention back to Kronig, and then his eyes scanned the ground, coming to rest on two large boulders near the edge of the cut-off. He walked to the rocks, knelt by them and then said, “Can you bring that light here a minute, Cotton?”
“What is it, Lieutenant?”
“Unless I’m mistaken…”
The light swung over to illuminate the boulders.
* * * *
In the living room, the telephone rang.
“I’ll get it,” King said, moving toward the phone.
“Wait a minute!” Carella shouted. He picked up the headphones attached to the wiretap equipment and then turned to Cameron. “Mr. Cameron, get on the trunk line. If this is the kidnaper, tell them to start tracing immediately. Okay, Mr. King. Answer it.”
King picked up the phone. “Hello?”
“King?”
Carella nodded at Cameron. Instantly, Cameron picked up the receiver of the trunk line telephone.
“This is Mr. King,” King said.
Into his phone, Cameron said, “Hello? We’ve got him on the phone now. Get started.”
“All right, King, listen. We don’t care whose kid this is, you got that? We heard the radio, and we don’t care. He’s still alive and well, and we still want that money. You get it by tomorrow morning or the kid won’t see the sun go down.”
“You want… ?” King started, and there was a sharp click on the line.
Carella ripped off the earphones. “Forget it, he’s gone. Damnit, I was afraid this would happen.” He went to the phone and began dialing.
“What happened?” Cameron asked, hanging up his phone.
Diane, puzzled, looked at her husband. “Is… is Jeff all right?”
“Yes. Yes, he’s fine,” King said.
“Hello, Dave,” Carella said, “this is Steve. Can you get me the lieutenant right away?”
“You’re sure he’s all right?” Diane asked, staring at King.
“Yes, damnit, he’s fine!”
“I’ll tell Reynolds,” she said, and she started for the kitchen.
“Diane!”
“Yes?”
“They… they want me to pay the ransom. They know they’ve got Jeff, but they still want me to pay. They want me to…”
“We’ll do whatever they say,” Diane said. “Thank God Jeffs all right.” And she left the room. King stared after her, a frown on his forehead.
“What?” Carella said into the phone. “Well, how long ago did he leave, Dave? I see. Then he should be here by now. I’ll check outside. How’s it going back there? Murder, huh? Okay, thanks, Dave.” He hung up. “I’m going outside, see if I can scare up the lieutenant. If that phone rings, don’t answer it,” Carella said. He took his coat from the hall closet. “Detective Meyer should be back soon. Do whatever he says.”
“About this new demand,” King said. “I think—”
“I want to talk to the lieutenant first,” Carella said, and he rushed out of the house.
“That guy knew we’d try to trace the call,” Cameron said. “That’s why he got off the line so fast.”