“And the guy says he didn’t see or hear anything out of the ordinary before, at, or after Tony’s departure. There is one little wrinkle though. The rec place closes at nine, but it’s about nine-thirty or so when the employees get out of there, lock up. Tonight they spotted Tony’s cycle still in the parking lot, thought it strange. It was the only cycle in the lot.
“They decided the boy hadn’t been able to get it started, had left it. They put it inside the building for overnight. No one bothered to look it over. We’ve got it now. One of our people checked it out. It purrs like a small tiger.”
Shayne used the thumb and forefinger of his right hand to tug the lobe of his left ear as he reconstructed aloud: “Judge Littrel said his son was due home for dinner at six-thirty, but the boy doesn’t make it and his bike is still at the rec place. Was he hit in the parking lot? Damn funny somebody didn’t see a killing in a parking lot of a public place at six o’clock in the evening. It’s light and you figure there are people around.
“There’s another angle too. It was three-and-a-half hours later when I found the body, and I doubt it had been on the hood of my car long. People were coming in and leaving the club in a pretty steady stream while Lucy and I were there. Somebody would have spotted the body, howled. So I’m making it this way: Tony Littrell was kidnaped, killed later, then his body dumped on my car just a few minutes before Lucy and I walked out of the Purple Duck.”
Gentry nodded and said sourly, “Doc is pretty sure about his preliminary finding, figures it will hold officially in the morning. Death caused by a blow from a blunt instrument against the back of the skull. What we need is motive! Why was the boy killed? In a fight? Or did some other kid have a beef against him? Was it an accident? Was it deliberate?”
He was interrupted by the short ring of his phone. He yanked up the receiver, scowled. His stomach rumbled as he listened, then he said testily, “Phillips, we’ve all got problems! I’m not in to anyone. Not at midnight, for God’s sake!”
Gentry slammed the phone together and mumbled, “Kooks. Some old nut been calling in all night, wants me, claims he saw a cadaver being hauled around town, wants to tell me about it, been driving Phillips up the wall with his calls, says—”
The phone interrupted him again. He jerked the receiver to his ear. “Phillips, I told you to—” He broke off the words, listened hard.
Shayne watched Gentry’s face darken, saw the cigar stub tilt higher. Gentry’s eyes became stilts. He put the phone together slowly this time, said from deep thought, “That was Anderson in Missing Persons. He’s got kind of an odd thing going. Earlier tonight he had two reports on missing kids, teenagers. Both girls.
“One is a Lisa English, daughter of Lawrence English, city planning coordinator. She failed to come home for dinner from a stop at the Urbandale Library, and hasn’t been heard from since. The other is Christina Jacobson, daughter of Barbara Jacobson, the mayor’s personal secretary. The kid went bike riding after dinner, disappeared.
“And now Anderson just god a third call. It was from Jason Bundy of the city attorney’s staff. His wife’s son, Jack Caulkins, seems to have dropped from sight. He was supposed to be home at nine, hasn’t shown. They know the boy was playing chess with an ex-school teacher friend earlier tonight, but he left the teacher’s place around eight. Then — nothing.”
Gentry paused, bit hard on the cigar stub. “Got the connections?” he said after a few heartbeats. “Three teens — and all offspring of city employees.”
“And the Littrell boy, Will,” Shayne said bluntly.
“Mike, what the hell is going on?” the chief rasped.
VI
Shayne found out what was going on early the next morning. A ransom demand for one million dollars from the City of Miami was received by the mayor.
“Fantastic!” breathed the mayor, shaking his head. “I’m having trouble, Mr. Shayne, believing this is happening. Forgive me.”
Shayne sat in a leather barrel chair placed directly in front of the mayor’s polished desk. The only items on the desk were a telephone, a yellow legal pad, a ballpoint pen, the ransom note and its envelope.
The mayor sat in a huge, black leather chair behind the desk. He was cocked forward on his elbows, a thin, impeccably dressed man with shiny skin and troubled eyes. He scowled at Shayne.
“All right,” he said abruptly, his voice suddenly level. He was in command of his emotions again. “We are confronted, Mr. Shayne, with three kidnaped children, frightened parents, and a demand for one million dollars in cash.”
There may have been a fourth, I’m told. The son of Judge Littrel. That, of course, is speculation. There is no mention of the boy in this note.
“However, Mr. Shayne, I called you in, because both Judge Littrel and I have a deep feeling that all four cases are related. The police are doing all they can — but… Well, Judge Littrel especially wants you. He insists on hiring you, and personally, I’m enclined to agree with him. Officially, I’m sure the police and public agencies will do all they can. Still, they are public…” He let it hang.
Shayne picked up on it. “You feel I might be able to do more in a private capacity?” When the Mayor nodded, Shayne went on, “I really feel the police are in a better position to handle it.”
The mayor interrupted him. “Nevertheless, both Judge Littrel and I want to hire you. We want police involvement at a minimum. You are the best in town, we understand. We have,” he emphasized, “already decided.”
“I’ll do all I can, of course,” Shayne stated.
“Good,” The mayor said, obviously relieved. “Here is the note we received.” He pushed it across the desk to Shayne, who quickly scanned it.
The note had been penciled in crude block letters. It might have been the printing of a kindergartener: “We have three kids. Want $1 million. Cash. Wednesday, 4 P.M. You bring. Flamingo Park. We’ll be watching. These kids can die!”
“There’s a death threat in that note, Mayor,” Shayne reminded him grimly, “and already there’s one dead kid down at the morgue. Put it together. Someone has been planning, someone had these kids spotted, their habits catalogued, someone made a sweep. Someone knew when to find the English girl leaving the library, young Littrel leaving the recreation center, the Jacobson girl out bike riding, and the Caulkins boy leaving a chess game. You add it that way, mayor, and you’ve got a pretty damn tight package.”
“And?”
“What I’m saying,” Shayne continued, “is that this is a police matter already. They generally allow a free hand to private individuals in a kidnapping case — until the freedom of the victim is secured — or his death.”
The mayor drew a breath. “I had hoped to keep this quiet for a few hours.”
“The only way you can keep this kind of plot quiet, Mayor,” Shayne said gruffly, shifting impatiently in his chair, “is with the cooperation of the media. Too many people are involved. Parents, friends…” He waved a hand. “Anyway, I’m inclined to feed everything we’ve got to the police and the media. If we clam up, the kidnapers are likely to think some hanky-panky is taking place. They don’t ask us to keep it quiet. They seem to want publicity.”
Grimly, Shayne continued, “I think this may be the first time out for the kidnapers. Take the ransom note. One of your people, Mayor, comes to work a little early, finds the note propped on a wash basin in a public lavatory. Somebody had to walk into this building this morning, put the note there. That’s taking a chance…”
Shayne waved an arm. “It’s popular now, but I don’t believe a pro would risk that kind of exposure if it was unnecessary — and it was unnecessary since you have a telephone. Why expose yourself making delivery of a ransom note when all you have to do is use the U.S. mail or pick up a telephone?”