Danielle Steel - Fine things

Bernie called the police at ten o'clock, and they were sympathetic, but not overly worried. Like Bill, they felt sure that Chandler would eventually show up. “Maybe he had a few too many,” they suggested. But at eleven o'clock, when he was near tears, they finally agreed to come and take a report from him, and by then Grossman was getting worried.

“You still haven't heard?” The police were still there.

“No, I haven't. Do you believe me now?”

“Christ, I hope not.” He had been describing to the police what Jane had been wearing, and Nanny was quietly sitting in the living room with him in her dressing gown and slippers. She looked extremely proper and she had a calming effect on him, which was fortunate because half an hour later the police discovered that the license plate he'd taken down was of a car that had been stolen that morning. It was serious now. At least to Bernie. To the police it was exactly what Bill had predicted. Child stealing and no more, a misdemeanor and not a felony and they didn't even give a damn about the fact that he had a criminal record an arm long. They were more upset about the stolen car, and they put an APB out for it, but not for his daughter.

He called Grossman at midnight with that bit of news, and the moment he hung up, the phone rang. It was finally Chandler.

“Hi there, pal.” Bernie almost got hysterical when he heard his voice. The police were gone, and here he was, alone. And Scott had his daughter.

“Where the hell are you?”

“Janie and I are just fine.”

“I asked you where you were.”

“Out of town for a spell. And she's just fine, aren't you, sweetheart?” He chucked her under the chin a little roughly as she stood shivering in the phone booth with him. She had only brought a sweater and it was November.

“What do you mean out of town?”

“I wanted to give you enough time to get the money together, pal.”

“What money?”

“The five hundred thousand bucks you're going to give me to bring little Janie home. Right, sweetheart?” He looked down at her again, but he didn't really see her. “In fact, little Janie even thought you'd like to throw in that fancy watch you were wearing today, and I think that's a great idea. You might even want to throw in another one for my friend here.”

“What friend?” Bernie was frantically thinking and getting nowhere.

“Never mind. Let's talk about the money. How soon can you get it?”

“Are you serious?” Bernie's heart was pounding.

“Very.”

“Never…. My God, do you know how much money that is? It's a goddamn fortune. I can't get you that kind of money.” There were suddenly tears in his eyes. He had not only lost Liz. He had lost Jane. Possibly forever. And God only knew where she was or what they would do to her.

“You'd better get me that money, Fine, or you're not going to be seeing Janie. I can wait a long, long time. And I figure you want her back eventually.”

“You're a rotten sonofabitch.”

“And you're a rich one.”

“How do I find you?”

“I'll call you tomorrow. Stay off your phone and don't call the cops or I'll kill her.” She stood staring at Scott with terrified interest as he said that but he didn't notice. He was concentrating on his conversation with Bernie.

“How do I know you haven't killed her already?” The thought terrified him, it was more than he could bear as he said the words. He felt as though there were a hand squeezing his heart.

At his end, Chandler Scott shoved the phone into her face. “Here, talk to your old man.” She knew enough not to tell him where she was. She wasn't even sure herself. And she had seen their guns, and knew they meant business.

“Hi, Daddy.” Her voice sounded so little and she started to cry the minute she got on the phone. “I love you…. I'm okay. …”

“I'm going to bring you home, sweetheart…whatever it takes … I promise …” But Chandler Scott didn't let her answer. He ripped the phone away and promptly hung up on Bernie.

He dialed Grossman with trembling hands. It was twelve-thirty by then. “He's got her.”

“I know he's got her. Where is he?”

“He wouldn't tell me. And he wants half a million dollars.” Bernie sounded breathless, as though he'd been running, and there was an endless silence.

“He kidnapped her?” Grossman sounded stunned.

“Yes, you asshole. Isn't that what I told you …I'm sorry. What the hell do I do now? I don't have that kind of money.” He knew only one person who might, and he wasn't even sure he did, and certainly not available in cash, but he would try it.

“I'll call the police.”

“I already did that.”

“This is different.” But it wasn't. They were no more impressed than they had been an hour before. As far as they were concerned, it was a private matter, between two men, wrestling over one child they both felt they owned, and the police didn't want to get involved. He probably didn't mean it about the money.

And all through the night. Nanny Pippin sat there with Bernie, pouring tea, and eventually a brandy. He needed it. He was as white as a sheet. And at one point, between phone calls, she looked him directly in the eye and spoke to him as she would have a frightened child.

“We'll find them.”

“How do you know that?”

“Because you're an intelligent man, and right is on your side.”

“I wish I were sure of that, Nanny.” She patted his hand, and he dialed Paul Berman in New York. It was almost five o'clock in the morning, and Berman said he didn't have the money. He was aghast at what had happened. But he explained that he didn't ever keep that much cash. He would have to sell stocks, and he owned them all jointly with his wife. He would need his wife's permission to sell and he would also lose a fortune if he sold because the market was rotten. He explained that it would take time if he could even do it. And Bernie knew he wasn't the answer.

“Did you call the police?”

“They don't give a damn. Apparently 'child stealing,' as they call it, is no big deal in this state. The child's natural father can do no wrong.”

“They ought to kill him.”

“I will if I find him.”

“Let me know what I can do to help.”

“Thanks, Paul.” And he hung up.

He called Grossman again after that. “I can't get the money. Now what?”

“I have an idea. I know an investigator I've worked with.”

“Can we call him now?”

There was only a fraction of a second of hesitation, but basically Bill Grossman was a decent guy, just a great deal too trusting. “I'll call him.” He called back five minutes later and promised that the investigator would be there in half an hour. And so would Grossman.

It was three o'clock in the morning as the group assembled in Bernie's living room. Bill Grossman, Bernie, the investigator, who was a heavyset, ordinary man in his late thirties, a woman he had brought whom Bernie couldn't figure out, and Nanny in her dressing gown and slippers. She served tea and coffee to everyone. And she brought Bernie another brandy. She decided that the others didn't need one. They were going to have to stay sober, if they were going to find Jane for them.

The investigator's name was Jack Winters, his associate, the woman, was his wife and her name was Gertie. They were both ex-narcs, and after years of working underground for the San Francisco police, they had decided to open their own business. And Bill Grossman swore that they were terrific.

Bernie told them everything he knew about Chandler Scott's past, his relationship with Liz, his arrests, his time in prison, and his relationship, or lack of it, with Jane. And then he gave them the license plate of the stolen car, and sat back looking at them in terror.