“Soon. I promise. They just want to have a few experts, you know, comb over it for clues….”
“I see.” She smiles. Her eyes twinkle.
“Experts?” Ms. Stone chuffs. Her eyes never twinkle. They burn like flares at a car wreck. “Hah! Who? That idiot from the state police? The slob on TV yesterday?”
“No, ma'am. Mr. Slominsky went back to-”
“Who then? That goody-two-shoes Ceepak?”
Stone sits. Betty paces to the window.
“Tell me, Ms. Stone,” she says while she stares out at the ocean, “did Reggie actually say he was going to marry you?”
“Again, I refuse to answer any questions-”
“He would've left you, you know. Eventually. It would only be a matter of time.” She's staring out the window like she sees herself a few years back. “Reggie was always looking for someone younger. He liked his girls young. Did you know that? The younger the better….”
“Well then, if I were interested, that would certainly give me an advantage over you, wouldn't it?”
Meow. Hiss.
“Ladies? Let's try to remember why we're here, okay?”
“Why we're here?” Ms. Stone snorts at me. “I am only here because you and your friends stormed into a restaurant where I was simply attempting to-”
The door opens.
The chief and Ceepak march in. The chief has a xerox of the fax.
“It's Squeegee,” the chief says. “Please sit down.”
Betty slips demurely into the chief's big rolling chair. She has one of those Sally Field attempting-to-be-brave looks on her face.
“Does she need to hear this?” Ashley's mother pulls rank. You can tell she considers this matter a private, family-members-only type deal. I think Betty also regards Ms. Stone as a nympho-floozy, law degree or no.
“We might need her assistance as chief counsel of Hart Enterprises … to help us meet the kidnapper's financial demands,” Ceepak says. “However, if you'd be more comfortable….”
“No. Fine. Let her stay. Read it.”
The chief has on these reading glasses he's never let anybody see him wear before.
“Okay. It's words he cut out of old magazines … pieced together….”
“Like in the movies?” Ms. Stone sighs, unable to not butt in.
The chief ignores her and reads.
“I HAVE YOUR DAUGHTER. YOU WILL PAY ME TEN MILLION DOLLARS AT NOON TOMORROW OR I WILL KILL ASHLEY WITH THE SAME GUN I USED TO KILL HER FATHER.”
Ashley's mother gasps.
“He's confessing to the murder?” Ms. Stone sounds amazed. “I don't believe it. What an imbecile. Who's giving him his legal advice?”
“I … I don't have ten million dollars,” Betty says. Her voice is faint. “Reginald only paid me an allowance … ten million dollars … I don't have ten million dollars….” She closes her eyes.
The chief turns to Stone. “Harriet Ashley Hart, however, does. You told us her father left her everything? In his will?”
“Yes, but….”
“We need to probate that will. Immediately.”
“Impossible.”
“Judge Erickson is standing by.”
I know that probate is something a court does to prove a will is valid. But when the will involves billions and billions of dollars, dozens of companies, tons of real estate and airlines and shopping malls-I guess they usually like to take their time.
“We don't have much time,” Ceepak says. “Noon tomorrow. A little over twenty-four hours.”
“I'm sorry,” Ms. Stone says, “but-”
“The bank is going to help,” Ceepak says to Betty. “We contacted Don Nelson from First Federal. He's helping us pull together the actual cash.”
Ashley's mom nods.
“Thank you,” she says.
I'm wondering if we're going to use a suitcase stuffed with twenty-dollar bills like you always see when someone gets kidnapped on TV. If we do, I hope the suitcase has wheels. Ten million dollars probably weighs a ton. We might need a truck, like Saddam Hussein's kids did when they robbed the Iraqi Central Bank.
“Mr. Hart's executor is Arnold Bloomfield,” Ms. Stone says, still stuck on the will. “I don't know if….”
“We've already contacted Mr. Bloomfield,” the chief says. “He's on his way. Corporate jet.”
“I see. But surely you don't intend to give this criminal, this murderer ten million dollars-”
“We intend to do whatever it takes to ensure Ashley's safety,” Ceepak says.
“You just make sure Ashley has complete access to her entire inheritance,” the chief instructs her. “Understood? Or do you want another Hart to die this weekend?”
“No. Of course not.” Sounds like our reluctant attorney is finally on board. “We'll make the necessary transfers.”
“We've called the FBI,” the chief says.
Betty nods.
“Of course.”
“Kidnapping is a federal crime.”
“I know.”
“They'll help us figure out how to handle the ransom drop.”
“Do we know if this man has … hurt Ashley?”
“No, ma'am,” Ceepak says. “We do not. But, ma'am?”
“Yes?”
“I won't let him.”
Ceepak doesn't say how he's going to stop Squeegee from hurting Ashley. But no one doubts him.
“Chief Cosgrove?”
One of the State CSI guys sticks his head in the door. I recognize him from the crime scene, even though he's not wearing his hairnet today.
“What've you got?”
“This fax? We tracked down the number.”
“Yeah?”
“Came from the Sea Spray Hotel.”
“The front desk?”
“No, sir. One of their in-room fax machines.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
I'm starting to think our friend Squeegee has fried one too many brain cells. He's not being too savvy about this whole ransom demand deal.
The Sea Spray Hotel is like only six blocks up the street from police headquarters-right on Beach Lane.
And doesn't he know every fax machine in the world prints the sender's phone number up on the top of the page in what they call a header, unless you program it not to?
Guess they didn't have in-room fax machines at The Palace Hotel when he and Red were squatting there. Hope Mr. Mendez remedies that when he takes over.
We're racing up Beach Lane. I'm doing about 60 m.p.h. on a road that's mostly used for bike riding, jogging, and pulling kids around in little red wagons.
Ceepak slips a fresh clip of ammo into his Smith amp; Wesson, the same pistol Squeegee's probably packing. Chances are slim Squeegee will bump into Ceepak in the lobby of the Sea Spray. After all, the fax came in about a half-hour ago, while we were all down at Chesterfield's. But Ceepak wants to Be Prepared, just in case he sees Squeegee running down the beach and has a chance to pop him in the leg and slow him down.
We're one of four cop cars that simultaneously scream up to the canopied entranceway of the Sea Spray.
“Room 162!” the chief says. “Now! Move! Go! Move!”
Ceepak takes the lead, and seven cops follow. Pistols come out of holsters. Radios burble with static.
The Sea Spray is one of our biggest hotels-probably five hundred rooms. This is where businesspeople come for conventions and seminars so they can sit in conference rooms and stare out at the ocean when the PowerPoint presentations get boring.
The lobby is wide and extremely green, like a carpeted football field.
“Room 162?” Ceepak says to the lady behind the concierge desk.
She gapes and gawks. I think she's sort of in shock. Usually, she helps people book restaurant reservations and deep-sea fishing expeditions. Her typical day doesn't involve many heavily armed SWAT teams asking for directions.
“Room 1-6-2?” Ceepak says again.
Other people in the lobby have started to notice our weapons. I suspect panic is soon to follow.
The concierge points to her left.
“First floor,” she says. “Go to the elevators, turn right.”
“Danny?” Ceepak says over his shoulder, as we run past a stand of potted palms.