Danielle Steel - Vanished

“The mob boss from Queens?” Tom Armour looked startled. “You hang out with a nice bunch of guys, Miss Ritter.”

“I wrote a nice piece on him, and he liked it. He said if I ever needed a favor, to call him. So I did.”

“You called Caproni? Why?” He was impressed once again by her courage. Tony Caproni was one of the most dangerous men in New York, but also one of the most powerful in his own world.

“I wanted to know if he'd heard anything, if he knew anybody who knew anybody who …maybe someone in the underworld, so called, knew who really kidnapped the kid, or … I don't know, I just figured it was worth it.”

“And? He came up dry, I assume. The FBI tried the same tactic. They tried all the informants, all their underworld contacts, and they got nothing.”

“So did Tony, the first time he called.” She put the pickle down and grabbed Tom's arm. “He called me tonight. All he gave me was the name of a guy and his phone number and told me to call him.”

Tom stopped eating and watched her. “Did he know anything?”

“Someone … he doesn't know who …paid him fifty thousand dollars to plant the toy and the pajamas. He doesn't want to testify, but if we promise him amnesty, he will. He's scared, Tom. He's scared to death, but he feels sorry for Charles, and he says he'll do it. He also said he thinks the kid is alive, and he wants to speak up before something happens.”

“Holy shit … oh my God …give me his number.” She pulled it out of her handbag, and he picked up his phone, and then he looked at her. “This isn't a setup, is it? You use this in the papers, and I'll kill you.”

“I swear. It's for real.” And for reasons he never knew, he believed her.

Judge Abraham Morrison rapped his gavel and called the court to order at exactly ten-fifteen the following morning. Tom Armour was looking particularly bright-eyed in a starched white shirt and a dark blue suit and a new tie, and he had actually gotten up fifteen minutes early to shine his shoes. He liked to look his best at the end of a trial when it really mattered. And Charles was looking very sober in banker's gray and a tie of his father's.

“Well be hearing closing arguments today, ladies and gentlemen,” the judge explained to the jury. They had been staying at the Chelsea Hotel for the past month, and it had to be wearing thin. Some of them were beginning to look very peaked.

But as the judge spoke to them, Tom Armour stood up and asked to approach the bench, which he did, in the company of Bill Palmer.

“What is it, Counsellor?” the judge asked him with a frown, in an undertone.

“New evidence, Your Honor, and a bit of a problem. May I see you in chambers?” The judge looked anything but happy. They were almost ready to wrap it up, and now they were talking about new evidence. What the devil did that mean?

“All right, all right.” He waved them in, and they were there until eleven-thirty, arguing with each other and the judge. He was perfectly willing to let the man testify, but he was not willing to give him amnesty. If what he said was true, planting the pajamas in Charles Delauney's home was a federal offense, and he probably had additional knowledge about the kidnappers that he was concealing.

“I say, arrest him,” Palmer said, hands down.

“I can't violate my source,” Armour told him.

“What if he's lying?”

“What if he isn't? If he planted the pajamas and the bear, then Delauney's not guilty.”

“For chrissake. Who is this guy?” Palmer almost shouted.

“I can't tell you till we come to an agreement.”

The judge looked miserable by the time he'd heard them both out, and he was anything but happy with the deal they finally came to.

“I'll give you forty-eight hours to check this out, to find out if it's bogus or not. Use the FBI, the Marines, the army. I don't give a damn what you do, but see if you can't get me more than this. And I won't promise the man anything. Check it out, find out what's going on. But in forty-eight hours, you'd better be back in this courtroom with evidence, or I'm citing you for contempt, and I'm throwing your hot tip in jail. You got that?”

“Yes, sir. Thank you.” Tom Armour was beaming. He had two days to work a miracle, but maybe Bea's friend would help him.

“Are you amenable to a two-day recess, Mr. Palmer?” the judge asked.

“Do I have a choice?” Palmer looked annoyed but resigned. He'd been all prepared to give it his best shot with his closing.

“Not really.” The judge smiled at him, and Tom laughed.

“Then I agree, don't I? This better be good. Personally, I think it's all a crock. Delauney's guilty as hell, the lousy Commie bastard.”

“Don't talk about my client like that,” Tom Armour said sternly.

“Then don't take people like him as clients.”

The three men walked back into court, and the judge explained to everyone that there was possible new evidence and court was adjourning for a two-day investigation. Court would reconvene again on Friday. He thanked everyone for being there, and court was duly recessed, as Tom whispered to Charles and explained what had happened. And as soon as he stood up again, he signaled to John Taylor.

“Can I see you for a minute? We need help.”

“Sure.” Officially, the way things had worked out, John was there to help the prosecution. But he was actually there to help all of them, by finding Teddy.

“Can we go somewhere quiet for a few minutes?” He left Charles then, to be taken back to jail, and followed Taylor to an empty office.

“What you got?”

“I'm not sure. But I think it's a good one.” He explained the source to him, and what the man had said. “He's scared out of his mind. He took the dough from whoever left it for him, and he's an accessory now, or at the very least he'll get an obstruction of justice. He's got a record an arm long, the guy's on parole, and he's scared shitless to come forward.”

“At least he's not dumb. Who is he? Maybe I know him.”

“You probably do. But you've got to guarantee me amnesty for the guy if I tell you.”

“I can't guarantee you shit, Armour. But I can guarantee you I'm gonna kick your ass if you don't share what you've got with me. We're not just protecting your client's ass here. We're looking for a four-year-old boy, who may or may not be dead by now, and if he isn't, he's in one hell of a lot of dan-

“I know that, dammit. But you can't blow my source. He also thinks the boy is still alive. You've got to promise me you're not just going to go and nail him.”

“I'm not going to nail him. I want to talk to him. If you want, you can come with me. Who is he?” Armour was still worried he was going to get the guy in trouble.

“His name is Louie Polanski,” Tom said hesitantly, praying Taylor wouldn't bust him.

“Louie? Louie the Lover? Hell, Louie and I go back years. I sent him to the joint fifteen years ago when I was a kid myself … I saved his life. His mob buddies were trying to kill him then, and we gave him a nice cozy cell and protection for about five years. He loves me.” John Taylor was actually grinning.

“Are you serious?” Tom looked startled by the story.

“He'll talk to me. I swear it.” And when Tom called Louie again, he was waiting by the phone, and he agreed to meet with Tom Armour and John Taylor.

They met at one o'clock in an Italian restaurant in Greenwich Village, it was run by the mob and had been a speakeasy for years, and Taylor knew it well, although it was new to Tom Armour. The man they met was short and obese, bald, and sweating profusely. He was a nervous wreck when he talked about what he'd done, but he actually seemed genuinely pleased to see John Taylor.