“I won’t need much,” Jeanne reassured him. “I already have a powerful eight-watt handheld radio that should do just fine.”
“Really?” Brian questioned. “That’s all? These people are pulling down multimillion-dollar salaries. They’ve surely been talked into expensive, elaborate alarm systems.”
“No doubt, but expense aside, they all use the same technology, transmitting wirelessly to their base station or receiver. All I’d have to do is figure out the frequency and then swamp it.”
“I don’t understand, but I’m going to trust that you do,” Brian said.
“I do,” Jeanne affirmed.
Within just a few minutes they were able to cross Central Park, and ten minutes later had reached Manhattan Memorial Hospital on Park Avenue. To Brian’s relief, it was obvious that Charles Kelley was still on-site, which he admitted had been a minor concern. His Maybach was parked in a no-parking zone right in front of the hospital’s main entrance where patients were either dropped off or picked up, the same way it had been at MMH Inwood the day Emma had died. As an added confirmation, the same overweight chauffeur-cum-bodyguard was leaning up against the vehicle’s passenger-side fender. As Brian cruised by, he could see that the man was smoking just like he’d been doing on their first interaction, looking as cocky as ever.
“That’s encouraging.” He pointed out the car. “There’s Kelley’s Maybach.”
“Where?” Jeanne asked, turning around to look behind. There were cars all over the place, most double-parked with their hazard lights on.
“It’s the limo right smack-dab in front of the hospital where there’s supposed to be no waiting,” Brian said. “You didn’t see it? It’s the only Maybach.”
“The cars all look the same to me,” she said as she continued scanning the area. “Oh, now I see it. The one with the chauffeur.”
“Yes, that’s it.” He continued up Park Avenue for several blocks before making a U-turn. After passing the hospital again while heading in the opposite direction, he made yet another U-turn. A block away from the Maybach, he pulled over to the curb at a fire hydrant and turned off the Subaru’s motor. “Now we wait.”
Jeanne used her phone to check the time. “It’s perfect timing,” she pointed out. “It’s after five, when executives begin to head home to their mansions.”
He nodded. “Have you ever seen Charles Kelley?” he asked.
“Not that I know of,” Jeanne said.
“He’s got some height,” Brian recalled, the man’s image seared in his memory. “Sandy-colored hair and very tall. He’ll stand out when he appears.”
“I suppose this is a good car to follow someone without them knowing,” she said.
“It’s perfect,” Brian agreed. “Completely nondescript.”
“Do you think they’ll figure out they are being followed?”
“It depends on the level of professionalism of the driver,” he said. “Kelley’s chauffeur, who is probably doubling as a bodyguard, didn’t impress me, which will lessen his index of suspicion. A true professional has to think that at every minute the worst can happen. I imagine for us, if there is to be a problem, it will be when we get off the main roads, especially if Kelley lives in a particularly isolated area. The key thing is always to have a few cars between you and your mark if possible.”
“That makes sense.”
Timing turned out to be near perfect, and they didn’t have long to wait for Kelley to appear. The chauffeur, whom they could see over the roofs of the intervening cars, suddenly stiffened, adjusted his hat — which had been tilted back on his head — and threw away his cigarette. In the next instant they got a very brief view of the tall, sandy-haired Kelley as he emerged from the hospital and in a blink of an eye disappeared from view, presumably ducking down into his limo. Brian responded by starting the car, saying, “Here we go.”
He pulled out into the traffic but slowed as he neared MMH Midtown, to the chagrin of the yellow cab behind him. In a fit of displeasure and horn blowing, the cab pulled out from behind Brian and passed him, briefly slowing down as he came abreast to give Brian the finger before speeding off. The reason Brian was slowing was to make sure Kelley’s car pulled away from the curb before the Subaru arrived at the hospital entrance.
“We’ve got to stay close until we’re relatively sure where Kelley is heading,” Brian said.
“I understand.” Jeanne nodded her head.
Once the Maybach was clearly traveling north, Brian picked up speed to catch up. After going four or five blocks he added: “I guess we can eliminate South Jersey because they would have gone in the opposite direction toward the Lincoln Tunnel.”
Jeanne didn’t answer. She was holding on as best she could. To stay close to Kelley’s car, Brian was driving aggressively.
It wasn’t until they crossed over the Robert F. Kennedy Bridge and connected with the Long Island Expressway that he was reasonably sure where they were going. At each major freeway intersection, Brian had rapidly closed the gap between the Subaru and Kelley’s Maybach to a single car, but then had dropped back again when it was apparent Kelley was not turning.
“So, we’re heading to Long Island,” Brian announced, ostensibly relaxing and allowing as many as four cars between them. Jeanne eased up on the death grip she had on the passenger handle on the Subaru’s dash.
Forty minutes later they turned off the Long Island Expressway onto Community Drive. It was an area he was familiar with to an extent, having assisted the Great Neck Police Department on occasion.
“Now I have a more specific idea of where we are going,” Brian said. “I’d guess Kings Point. It’s certainly appropriately ritzy. Now it gets touchy. We’re going to have to close the gap.”
Luckily there was still considerable traffic, but it dwindled the farther out on the peninsula they drove. By the time they got to Shore Drive in Kings Point, the Subaru and the Maybach were alone. Since the road was relatively straight, Brian let a considerable distance intervene, and slowed when he saw the Maybach’s brake lights go on before it turned off the road into a gated driveway. By the time Brian and Jeanne arrived, the wrought-iron gate was closing. He slowed to a crawl and stopped briefly. Looking through the gate, they could see a massive, relatively new, faux-Mediterranean home.
“It looks like an impregnable oasis,” she commented.
Around the property was a reinforced concrete wall at least eight feet high whose top was embedded with shards of glass. Above the wall were coils of razor wire. “Appropriately enough, it looks more like a prison from out here than a home,” Brian scoffed. “But I doubt it is as impregnable as it looks. The name of the road is encouraging.”
“How so?” Jeanne asked.
“I’ll show you in a second,” he said. “Now that we have the address, let’s check it out with Google Maps’ satellite view.”
After driving ahead for a hundred yards, they pulled over to the side of the road. Most of the homes were hidden behind high walls, fences, or vegetation. Brian got out his phone and used Google Maps to bring up the area on his screen. Jeanne leaned over so she could see as well.
“As I remembered, Shore Drive is literally a road along the shore, bordering Long Island Sound,” he said while he zoomed in on the image of Kings Point, New York. He then pointed off to the right out of the car window. “All these houses along this side of the road are shorefront.”
“Got it.”
Returning his attention to the phone, Brian zoomed in more and used his finger to point. “And here’s Kelley’s house. Do you see it?”
“In all its glory. Rather large, I’d say.”
“It is, and quite impressive. It’s also encouraging for our purposes. It’s got a swimming pool, a guest-house-cum-garage, and a tennis court with what appears to be a basketball hoop. Obviously, Mr. Kelley thinks of himself as quite an athlete. And look at the size of the pier with a cabana at the end. Pretty fancy.”