Arthur Hailey - Evening News

* * *

The young police officer, named Jensen, had listened carefully to Priscilla Rhea who was more confident in reporting for the second time what she had seen. She even remembered two additional details—the color of what she continued to call the "little bus”light tan—and the fact that it had dark windows. But no, she had not noticed a license number, or even if the license plates were New York's or out-of-state.

The officer's first reaction, though he kept it to himself, was of skepticism. Police forces were used to citizens who became alarmed about matters that turned out to be harmless; such incidents happened every day, even in a small community like Larchmont. But the officer was conscientious and listened attentively to all that was said, making careful notes.

His interest began to mount when Erica McLean, who seemed a responsible, rational woman, told him about some splotches on the parking lot that looked like blood. The two of them walked over to inspect. By this time most of the liquid had dried, though there was enough that was moist to reveal it as red to the touch. There was no proof it was human blood, of course. But, Officer Jensen reasoned, it gave more credence to the story, more urgency too.

Hurrying back to where they had left Priscilla, they found her talking with several other people who were curious about what was going on.

One man volunteered, "Officer, I was inside and saw four people leave in a hurry—two men, a woman and a boy. They were in such a hurry that the woman left her shopping cart. It was full, but she just left it.”

"I saw them too,” a woman said.”That was Mrs. Sloane, the TV anchorman's wife. She often shops here. When she left she looked upset—like something bad happened.”

Another woman said.”That's funny. A man came to me and asked if I was Mrs. Sloane. He asked others, too.”

Now several people were talking at once. The police officer raised his voice.”Did anyone see what this lady"—he motioned to Priscilla—"calls a 'small bus,' color light tan?”

"Yes, I saw that,” the first man said.”It pulled into the lot as I was walking to the store. It was a Nissan passenger van.”

"Did you notice the license plate?”

"It was a New Jersey plate, but that's all I saw. Oh, one other thing, it had dark windows—the kind of glass where you can see out, but can't see in.”

"Hold it!” the officer said. He addressed the growing crowd.”Any of you who have more information, and those who've given me some already, please stay. I'll be right back.”

He jumped into the white police cruiser he had parked alongside the supermarket and grabbed the radio mike.

”Car 423 to headquarters. Possible kidnap at Grand Union parking lot. Request help. Description of suspect vehicle: Nissan passenger van, color light tan. New Jersey plates, license unknown. Dark windows, believed one-way glass. Three persons may have been seized by unknown occupants of Nissan van."

The officer's transmission would be heard by all Larchmont police cars as well as those in neighboring Mamaroneck Town and Mamaroneck Village. The headquarters desk officer, through a "hot line”phone, would automatically alert all other police forces in surrounding Westchester County and the New York State Police. The New Jersey State Police would not, at this point, be informed.

Already, at the supermarket, two sirens could be heard rom other approaching police cruisers responding to the request for help.

Nearly twenty minutes had elapsed since the Nissan passenger van's departure.

* * *

Some eight miles away, the Nissan van was about to leave the 1-95 Thruway and enter a maze of streets in the Bronx.

From Larchmont, Luis had made good progress heading south. He had been driving at five miles above the legal speed limit, which most motorists did—a good speed but not fast enough to attract attention from any cruising State Police. Now, Thruway exit 13, an intermediate objective, was ahead. Luis eased into a right-hand lane to take the turn. Both Luis and Miguel had been looking behind for signs of any pursuit. There was none.

Just the same, as they left the 1-95 Miguel urged Luis, "Move it! Move it!” Since the departure from Larchmont, Miguel had been wondering if he had made a mistake in not letting Rafael kill the old woman on the parking lot. She might not have believed the phony story about what she had seen being part of a film. By now she could have spread the alarm. Descriptions could be circulating.

Luis was pushing his speed, going as fast as he could on the roughly paved Bronx streets.

Baudelio, since leaving Larchmont, had several times checked vital signs of their two sedated captives, and all appeared to be well. He estimated that the drug midazolarn which he had administered would keep the woman and boy unconscious for another hour. If it didn't he would give them more, though he preferred not, since it might delay the much more complex medical task needed at the end of this journey.

He had also stanched the bleeding of the older man and applied a dressing to his head. The old man was now stirring, slight moans escaping him as he neared a return to consciousness. Anticipating possible trouble, Baudelio prepared another hypodermic of midazolam and injected it. The stirring and moans subsided. Baudelio had no idea what would happen to the old man. Most likely Miguel would shoot him and dispose of the body in a safe place; during his association with the Medellin cartel, Baudelio had seen it happen often. Not that he cared one way or the other. Caring about other human beings was an emotion he had long since discarded.

Rafael had produced some brown blankets and he and Carlos, with Baudelio watching, wrapped the woman, boy and old man in one each, so that only their heads protruded. In each case sufficient blanket was left folded at the top so it could be turned back to cover the face when the three were removed from the Nissan van. Carlos tied each rolled bundle with a length of cord around the middle so that in transit it would resemble nothing more than a piece of conventional cargo.

Conner Street in the Bronx, which they had reached, was desolate, gray and depressing. Luis knew where he was going; in rehearsals for today they had traveled the route twice before. At a corner with a Texaco station they turned right into a semideserted industrial area. Trucks were parked at intervals, some looking as if they had been there a long time. Few people were in sight.

Luis brought the van to a halt against a long, unbroken wall of an unoccupied warehouse. As he did, a truck that had been waiting on the opposite side of the street pulled across and stopped slightly ahead of the Nissan. The truck was a white GMC with a painted sign, "Superbread,” on either side.

Inquiry would have shown there was no such product as Superbread. The truck was one of a total of six vehicles obtained by Miguel soon after his arrival, employing a fake rental agency as a front. The GMC truck had been used occasionally for the Sloane surveillance duty and otherwise for general use. As with other vehicles in the small fleet, the truck had been repainted several times, the legend on its sides changed too—all of it the handiwork of Rafael. Today the truck was being driven by the remaining member of the group, the woman, Socorro, who jumped down from the driver's seat and went around to open the double rear doors.

At the same time the door of the Nissan van was opened and the rolled bundles, with all three faces covered, were quickly transferred by Rafael and Carlos to the GMC truck. Baudelio, having gathered up his medical equipment, followed.

Miguel and Luis were busy in the Nissan van. Miguel peeled off the dark, thin plastic sheets from the windows; they had been useful for concealment but were now an identifying feature to be disposed of From beneath the driver's seat Luis took a pair of New York State license plates he had put there earlier.