Ed McBain - Alice in Jeopardy

“You’re barking up the wrong tree. She loves my kids.”

“Does her jailbird husband love them, too?”

“I’m telling you you’re mis—”

“What does she do, your sister?”

“She works in a bank. She’s straight as an arrow. Look, I really don’t like the direction—”

“It wasn’t her on that phone, was it?”

“No. Of course not.”

“Mrs. Garrity said you told her the woman sounded black…”

“Well, she might have been black, yes.”

“Does your sister have a Southern accent?”

“No.”

“You said she lives in Atlanta.”

“Yes, but she moved there to marry Rafe. She’s originally from upstate New York, same as me.”

“Rafe. Is that his name?”

“Rafe Matthews, yes. My sister is Carol Matthews.”

“When’s the last time old Rafe was in jail?”

“He got out two years ago.”

“Been driving a truck since?”

“Yes.”

“When he’s not in jail, is what you said.”

“Yes.”

“But you don’t think he’d kidnap your kids, is that it?”

“Of course not!”

“Me, I don’t trust anybody who’s done time. My own brother done time, I wouldn’t trust him. Let’s give your sister a call.”

“Why?”

“Find out where old Rafe is.”

“Why?”

“Man might be in Florida, who knows? Georgia’s not all that far away, you know.”

“Rafe doesn’t have a blue car.”

“Maybe the lady who called you does. Is Rafe playing around?”

“I don’t know. I don’t think so. My sister loves him.”

“That ain’t always insurance. Let’s call her, okay, say hello. Would you like a drink? I have bourbon.”

“No.”

“Calm you down a little?”

“I’m calm.”

“You don’t seem calm.”

“I’m just scared, is all. If anything happens to my kids…”

“Nothing’ll happen to them. Just tell your sister you were thinking about her, decided to call. Don’t mention the kids being missing,” he says, and hands Alice the phone.

She dials Carol’s number, and waits. One of her nephews picks up. Either Michael or Randy, she can’t tell which.

“Hi, honey,” she says, “this is Aunt Al. What’re you doing up so late?”

“Watching TV,” he says.

“Your mama know that?”

“Oh sure.”

“Who’s this I’m talking to?”

“Randall.”

“How’re you doing, Randall?”

“School sucks,” Randall says.

Eight years old.

“Is she there?”

“Yeah.”

“Could you get her for me, please?”

“Sure, just a sec,” he says.

She waits.

“Hello?”

“Carol, hi, it’s me.”

“Hey, Alice, how are you, honey?”

“Fine, fine, just thought I’d check in.”

“I’m glad you did. It’s getting kind of lonely up here.”

“How come?”

“Rafe’s off on a long one. I kind of miss him stompin around. How are the kids?”

“Fine, just fine.”

“Did Jamie get the Myst book I sent him?”

“The what ?”

“The Myst book.”

“What’s a mist book?”

“The video game. Myst. M-y-s-t. It’s a little booklet Randall found very useful in deciphering Myst. ”

“Oh. No, it hasn’t arrived yet.”

“I sent it United Parcel, Jamie should be getting it any minute now.”

“No, not yet.”

“How is he, Alice?”

“He’s fine.”

“Is he… honey, is he talking yet?”

“No, not yet.”

“Poor darling.”

“Yes.”

“Why don’t you bring him up here for a while? Being with the boys might work wonders.”

“Maybe so. Maybe when school lets out.”

“I’d love to have him here, Alice.”

“Thanks, sweetie, I appreciate that.”

There is a silence on the line.

“When did Rafe leave?” Alice asks.

“Two days ago. What’s today?”

“Wednesday.”

“So he left Monday.”

“Where’s he off to this time?” Alice asks.

“Down your way, actually, was the first stop. Then it’s over to Louisiana, Texas, Oklahoma, Arkansas, and back home.”

“You say he’s down here now?”

“Probably been and gone by now.”

“Here? In Cape October?”

“No, did I say the Cape? He was heading for Jacksonville. Then Tallahassee and Mobile. I think is what he said.”

“Have you spoken to him?”

“What do you mean?”

“Well… has he called you?”

“He never calls when he’s on the road. He drives practically day and night, all he has time to do is sleep and grab a bite to eat. Anyway, he should be home by the weekend.”

“That’s good.”

There is another silence, longer this time.

“Honey?” Carol says. “Is something wrong?”

“No, no. What could be wrong?”

“You sound… I don’t know… funny.”

“I’m just tired. I had a long day.”

“You selling many houses down there?”

“Oh, scads.”

“Maybe I’ll come buy one.”

“Be a good idea.”

“Honey, I got to go now,” Carol says. “I hear Michael screaming about something. We’ll talk soon.”

“Right,” Alice says.

There is a click on the line. She hands the phone back to Sloate.

“Where is he?” Sloate asks.

“Mobile by now.”

“Was he here on the Cape?”

“No. Jacksonville. Mr. Sloate, I don’t think he came here to steal my kids. My sister would kill him, he ever did something like that.”

“How about one of his jailbird pals? You think he might have mentioned to one of them that there’s this beautiful widow in Florida, has two kids, and has just come into two hundred and fifty grand?”

“You’re scaring me, Mr. Sloate.”

“I don’t mean to be doing that. I’m just trying to figure out who could’ve got it in his head that kidnapping your kids might be a way to get at those big bucks you’re supposed to’ve come into. Which you haven’t come into yet, by the way. But they don’t know that, do they?”

“No, they don’t.”

“Come on, let’s take you home. Get this thing rolling. Find out who these damn people are,” he says, and rises briskly from behind his desk.

If anyone is watching the house on Oleander Street, he will see only a dark-haired woman driving a black Mercedes ML320 up the street. He will see the car pulling into the driveway and stopping to wait for the garage doors to go up. The dark-haired woman is Alice herself. The Mercedes is the car supplied to her by Lane Realty, one of the perks of being a real estate broker.

If anyone is watching the house, he will see the garage doors going up. He will see Alice driving the car in. To anyone watching, Alice seems to be alone in the car. The garage doors roll down again. After a short interval, anyone watching the house will see lights coming on in the living room. He will see the dark-haired woman — Alice again — approaching the windows, looking out at the street, and then drawing the drapes.

In the garage, Wilbur Sloate gets up from where he is lying on the floor in the backseat of the Mercedes, climbs out of the car, and comes around to the hatchback at the rear. He yanks that open, and offers his hand to Detective Marcia Di Luca, one of the sixteen detectives assigned to the Criminal Investigations Division. Marcia’s specialty is communications, but she looks somewhat like a barmaid, wide in the behind, big in the chest, unruly red hair trailing to below her shoulders. She is wearing a tan skirt and a lime green blouse and a nine-millimeter Glock. Looking at Marcia, Alice gets the impression that she wouldn’t particularly like to get in a catfight with her. She gets the impression that Marcia wouldn’t mind shooting someone right between the eyes if the opportunity presented itself.