Arthur Hailey - Evening News

Salaverry nodded eagerly. He seemed relieved.

Miguel added, "I am doing you this service in return for your obtaining the money promptly.” He touched the pressboard wallet.

”Thank you. You understand I have no wish to be unreasonable . . .”

"I understand. But stay home tonight.”

"Oh, I will.”

* * *

From the UN building, Miguel crossed First Avenue to the United Nations Plaza Hotel. On the main floor he went to a pay phone near the newsstand.

He tapped out the memorized digits for a call to Queens. When a voice answered, he knew he was connected with a fortress-like private house in the Little Colombia district of Jackson Heights. Miguel spoke briefly, avoiding use of names, gave the number of the pay phone from which he was calling and then hung up.

He waited patiently by the phone; on two occasions when other people approached, he pretended to be using it. After seven minutes it rang. A voice confirmed that it was speaking from another pay phone. The call would not be traced or overheard.

Speaking softly, Miguel stated his requirements. He was assured they could be met. A contract was arranged, a price of six thousand dollars agreed. Miguel gave Salaverry's apartment address and explained that the name "Plato” would ensure admittance. He emphasized, "It is to be done tonight and must appear to be a murder-suicide.”

His instructions, he was promised, would be carried out precisely.

* * *

Miguel arrived at the Third Avenue rendezvous point a little less than an hour from the time he had left. Moments later Luis brought the hearse to the curb. Getting in, out of the rain, Miguel told Luis, "We go now to the funeral place—the same one as before. You remember?”

Luis nodded and, soon after, turned east toward the Queensboro Bridge.

At times, when news was quiet, a network news organization was like a slumbering giant.

It operated at considerably less than a hundred percent utilization and a substantial number of its talented people had what was referred to in the trade as "down time"—meaning they were not actively at work.

Which was why, when a major news event occurred, there were experienced hands who could be—as another trade phrase went—"grabbed and fired up.”

On Friday morning, one day after the Sloane family kidnapping, the firing-up process had begun as the special task force headed by Harry Partridge, with Rita Abrams as senior producer, began assembling within CBA News headquarters.

* * *

Rita, who had reached New York from Minnesota late the night before, came in to the newly assigned task force offices at 8 A.m. Harry Partridge, having spent the night in a luxury suite provided by the network at the Inter-Continental Hotel, joined her soon after.

Wasting no time, he asked, "Any new developments?”

"Zilch on the kidnap,” Rita answered.”But there's a mob scene outside Crawf's house.”

"What kind of mob?”

The two were in what would be the group conference room and Rita leaned back in a swivel chair. Despite the brevity of her vacation, she seemed refreshed, her usual vitality and drive restored. Nor had she lost the quirky cynicism which those who worked with her enjoyed.

”These days, everyone wants to touch the hem of an anchorman. Now that they've learned his address, Crawf's fans are pouring into Larchmont. Hundreds of them, maybe thousands. The police are having trouble coping and they're setting up road barriers.”

"We have a camera crew on site?”

"Sure have. They camped out all night. I've told them to stay in place until Crawf leaves for work. By then, I'll have another crew out to replace them.”

Partridge nodded his approval.

”It makes sense to assume the kidnappers, and therefore the action, have moved on from Larchmont,” Rita said, "but I think we should protect ourselves by being around for a couple of days in case anything fresh breaks. That is, unless you have other ideas.”

"Not yet,” he said; then added, "you know we've been given pretty much a blank check where talent is concerned?”

"I was told last night. So I've asked for three producers to begin—Norman Jaeger, Iris Everly and Karl Owens. They'll be here soon.”

“Great choices.” Partridge knew all three well. Their abilities were among the best in CBA News.

”Oh, I've allocated offices. Do you want to see yours?”

Rita led the way around five adjoining offices which would constitute the task force operating base. Network news departments were perpetually in a state of flux, with temporary projects being created and disbanded, so when need arose, required accommodation could usually be found.

Partridge would have an office to himself, as would Rita. Two other offices, already jammed with desks, would be shared by the additional producers, camera crews and support staff, some of whom were already moving in. Partridge and Rita exchanged greetings with them before returning to the fifth and largest office, the conference room, to continue planning.

”What I'd like,” Partridge said, "is to have a meeting as soon as possible with everyone who'll be working with us. We can allocate responsibilities, then begin work on a spot for tonight's news.”

Rita glanced at her watch: 8:45 A.M.

”I'll set it up for ten o'clock,” she said.”Right now I want to find out more about what's happening at Larchmont.”

* * *

"In all the years I've lived here,” the Larchmont police sergeant said, "I've never seen anything like it.”

He was speaking with FBI Special Agent Havelock who had emerged from the Sloane house a few minutes earlier to survey a throng of spectators outside. The crowd had been growing in size since dawn and now packed the sidewalks in front of the house. In some places they spilled onto the road where police officers were trying, not too successfully, to control the crowd and keep passing cars moving. Otis Havelock, having stayed in the house overnight, was concerned that Sloane, who was inside getting ready for work, might be mobbed on his way out.

Clustered by the front gate were television crews and other reporters. As Havelock appeared, TV cameras swung toward him amid shouted questions:

"Have you heard from the kidnappers?”

"How's Sloane holding up?”

"Can we talk to Crawford?”

"Who are you?”

In response Havelock shook his head and waved his hands dismissingly.

Beyond the press group, the crowd appeared orderly, though Havelock's appearance had increased the buzz of conversation.

The FBI man complained to the police sergeant, "Can't you people keep this street clear?”

"We're trying. The Chief has ordered barriers. We'll stop traffic and pedestrians, except for those who live on the street, then we'll try to clear these others out. It'll take at least an hour. The Chief doesn't want anyone hassled, not with all those cameras around.”

"Any idea where these people are from?”

"I asked a few,” the sergeant said.”They mostly drove in from outside Larchmont. I guess it's seeing all that excitement on TV, and wanting a glimpse of Mr. Sloane. The streets around are full of their cars.”

Rain had begun to fall, but it didn't seem to discourage the watchers. Instead they put up umbrellas or huddled in their coats.

Havelock returned to the house. Inside he told Crawford Sloane, who looked tired and gaunt, "When we leave, it will be in two unmarked FBI cars. I want you in the second. Crouch down in the back and we'll drive away fast.”

"No way,” Sloane said.”There are media people out there. I'm one of them and I can't sail by as if I were the President.”

"There may also be someone out there from the people who seized your wife and family.” Havelock's voice sharpened.”Who knows what they might try, including shooting you? So don't be a damn fool, Mr. Sloane. And remember I'm responsible for your safety.”