Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine. Vol. 125, No. 3 & 4. Whole No. 763 & 764, March/April 2005
- Автор: Dean David, Dempsey Timothy F.
- Год: 2005
- Язык: английский
- Год: Dell Magazines
- ISBN: ISSN 1054-8122
- Жанр: Другие детективы
Электронная книга - «Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine. Vol. 125, No. 3 & 4. Whole No. 763 & 764, March/April 2005». Краткое содержание книги:
He retreated to his bedroom, noticed that his wife, Sheila, was still sleeping, and quietly slipped into their bathroom, closing the door behind him. He ran the shower to get the hot water up while he brushed his teeth. He just needed a quick rinse, having showered and shaved the night before. He dried himself hurriedly, slipped into a pair of sweatpants, and threw on a T-shirt, preparing himself for round two.
Back to David’s room. “Seven twenty-one, Son; boat sails in thirty-nine minutes.”
“All right, all right, I’m up.” That was easy. Knock on Connie’s door. No reply. Crack the door again. The lump had not budged; there were no indications that it harbored any signs of life. He leaned over and shook it. “Connie, thirty-eight minutes to liftoff.” Nothing, not a stir. He dug at the quilt trying to locate her head, pulled the quilt back and saw the mass of unkempt, tangled, and knotted blond hair. Her face must be in there somewhere. He brushed the hair back till he found it, smiled at how peaceful she looked, then all but yelled, “C’mon, Connie, it’s time to get up. Let’s go.” She half opened her eyes, barely uncovering her baby blues behind the narrow slits.
“Uumpf,” she said, but that was enough for Fred.
He bounded down the stairs, let the dog out into the fenced-in backyard, and walked up the front driveway to retrieve his Newsday. Back inside, he checked to assure that all the bodies were stirring. David was in the shower and Connie was pounding on the door telling him to hurry up. Good. Everything was normal. He put the coffee on, grabbed some cereal, a bowl, and some milk, and sat at the breakfast table to look at the paper. Starting at the back, he checked the football scores first and scanned some of the articles, happy that the Jets had won the Sunday-night game, during which he had fallen asleep. He flipped the paper to the front, just as David and Connie entered the kitchen. He glanced up at the digital clock on the microwave and said, “Nine minutes to liftoff.”
Both kids groaned at the same time. Connie said, “Dad, don’t you ever get tired of annoying us?”
He laughed, grabbed his “World’s Greatest Dad” mug of coffee, and headed up the stairs, dropping a quick and curt “Morning” to Sheila as he passed her on the stairs. Out of the sweats and T-shirt and into a golf shirt and khakis in no more than a minute. God, he loved casual dress. Since they’d stopped insisting on suits in the office, a good ten minutes of his time had been freed up every morning. He looked in the mirror and ran his hand through his thinning hair, bounded down the stairs, poured the rest of his coffee into an Amazon.com travel cup, and added some hot coffee from the pot to top it off. “C’mon, kids, let’s go, time to move out. It’s eight-oh-two; we’re two minutes late; let’s get the lead out.”
Sheila was standing by the coffee machine. She had turned the TV on and she was watching the Today show. He leaned down to kiss her goodbye and he could see that she was upset. “What’s wrong?” he said.
“It’s happened again.”
“What’s happened again, Hon?”
“A fourteen-year-old girl. Kidnapped right out of her own bedroom.” She looked up with tears in her eyes, then glanced across the room at her thirteen-year-old daughter. “Fred, she lives out on the Island, on the North Fork, just an hour or so from here. Oh God, Fred, this is so frightening. I don’t care what you say, I want a house alarm. I don’t care what it costs. I’m calling today. I’m going to have one installed as soon as possible.”
“Okay,” he said. “Whatever you want. But we gotta go.”
After dropping the kids at school, Fred parked at the train station, ran up the stairs to the platform just as the 8:22 was pulling in. Boy, that was close, he thought, knowing this was the last train that could get him into the office by nine-thirty, about as late as he could be without suffering the stares. Happy to get a window seat, he booted up his laptop and went over his charts, assured himself that the numbers were right, and prepared his remarks. He would have to tell his manager that he’d missed last month’s quota, but just by a few thousand dollars. He would more than make it up this month.
After the ten-o’clock staff meeting, during which he took his punishment in stride, he spent the day on the phone, calling customers, checking with suppliers, and bantering with his secretary. He lunched at his desk and worked straight through until six. He left the office disappointed that he had not gotten a new order, had not started the month off with a bang.
“Screw it,” he said out loud as he entered Penn Station. Rather than run for the 6:30, he stopped for a quick beer and then settled into a corner seat on the 6:56. He looked through the evening Post, read about the kidnapping. The girl had gone to bed around ten. Her parents were sure her light was out and she was in bed sleeping when they went to bed after the eleven o’clock news. When they went to wake her in the morning, her bed was empty. There was no real sign of a struggle, but her window was open, and there was mud all over her window sill and on her white carpet. Outside her window, the flowerbed had been trampled. He closed the paper, closed his eyes, and nodded off for about ten minutes, waking magically just as the conductor called out the Huntington Station.
As he was driving to pick up David from lacrosse practice, his cell phone rang. He looked at the caller ID and saw it was home. Sheila must need milk, he thought, knowing he was risking a ticket as he answered it, saying, “Shea Stadium.” He laughed out loud as Sheila sighed disgustedly. He was the only one who thought his tired and worn-out joke was still funny.
“Fred, where are you?”
“I’m on 110, Hon, don’t worry. I didn’t forget about David; I’m almost to the field.”
“David’s home. I went and picked him up early. Fred, you have to get home right away. Hurry, please!” There was a sense of urgency in her voice that alarmed him and then the line went dead. He did a quick, illegal U-turn and sped home, going through red lights and stop signs as if they weren’t there. In the six minutes it took him to reach his block, his heart had started racing and he was sweating and anxious, afraid that something terrible had happened. As he turned the corner, he saw a late-model black sedan parked in his driveway. He picked up his cell phone and dialed 911 as he cautiously walked up the path to the front door.
“What is the nature of your emergency, please?”
“I don’t know,” he said, “something is wrong at my house. Just hold the line for a second; I’m going in.”
“Sir, maybe you shouldn’t go in... Do you want police or fire assistance?”
“I don’t know,” he yelled, “just hold on for one second while I find out!” He opened the door and saw two men in dark suits standing in his kitchen. One of them was gray-haired and balding, early fifties, close to Fred’s age. The other was much younger, around thirty or so. He wore dark sunglasses that were unable to disguise the anger in his face. Seated at the table were his wife and his two children, all of whom looked absolutely terrified. Connie had clearly been crying. He spoke into the phone, “Police. Seventeen Elm, and hurry, please.”
The older one walked over, reached out his hand, and showed him a badge. “That won’t be necessary, sir; we’re with the FBI.”
“What’s going on?” Fred stammered.
“We’d like you to come with us, sir. We’d like to ask you some questions.”
“What about?” He was mystified.
“You might not want to discuss this in front of your family, sir.”