The Trophy Wife (6 page)

The nightgown was tight on her and seemed a better fit for the extra slim figure of the woman. The plaid pattern was unflattering. But then Emily realized that she wasn't wearing any underwear. She had been attacked in the shower and wrapped in the shower curtain. That was probably how she had been carried from the house, passed around “like a sack of mail” and transported to the cellar. The ill-fitting nightgown, she saw, was a gesture of kindness. The woman could just as easily have left her in the shower curtain, or even worse, stark naked.

Slowly, Emily circled the walls, looking for a door in the paneling that might lead into another room. Maybe a furnace room or a workshop with a tool bench. But there was none. In fact, the barrenness of the area made it a perfect prison cell. There was nothing that could be used as a weapon. No window or opening that might be used to escape, or even to signal to the outside world. Nothing but blank walls. She looked up at the ceiling and remembered that, in her first house, the tiles had pushed up into the space between the drop ceiling and the wooden rafters that the ceiling was hung from. Maybe there was an escape route above the ceiling tiles. She had to find a way out in case her situation became desperate.

Emily tested the steadiness of the folding chair and then used it to climb up next to the table. Again, the room began to roll, and she pressed her palms against the walls to steady herself. The simple exertion of climbing up one step had brought back the drug-induced dizziness. Slowly, she raised one hand and pushed against the tile that was directly overhead. It lifted easily.

She gripped the edge of the opening and climbed from the
chair to the table, raising her head into the darkness above the ceiling. She was looking down a channel between two rafters, dimly lit by leaks in the lighting fixtures. The metal framing that supported the ceiling hung down a foot, so there might be enough space for her to crawl up into the narrow area between rafters. But she didn't know whether the framing would support her weight. And the channel appeared to lead nowhere, dead-ending against the concrete foundation behind the wall.

Suddenly, a hand grabbed her ankle and began pulling her leg off the table.

“Now aren't you a curious little bitch.” It was a man's voice, dripping in smart-ass sarcasm. “What I can see of you looks sweet as candy. Let's get you down here where I can get a look at the other end.”

Emily spun awkwardly on one foot and lost her already precarious balance. She felt herself falling and clutched onto the ceiling framing. For an instant, she was hanging by her fingertips, being dragged down by the hands, which were now locked around both ankles. Then her fingers broke free and she began to fall.

She crashed into the table, which toppled under her, spinning her sidewise toward the hard, concrete floor. An arm caught her under her shoulders and then another under her legs. She found herself looking into a dark, swarthy face with a leering smile.

“Very nice. Very nice indeed. Top and bottom.”

She struggled to get out of his grasp and get her feet on the floor, but he held her tightly. “Now what the fuck were you doing up there? Tryin' to get away? That would make us very angry. Besides, there's nothin' up there for you. Just termites and cockroaches.” He carried her toward the bed. “Now down here, there's me. And I can do lots of nice things for you.” He dropped her from a height so that she bounced on the mattress. “No reason why you should be lonely while you're stayin' here.”

His hair was dark and wavy, held precisely in place by a light dab of hair cream. The shadow of a black beard showed
through closely shaved skin. He was dressed in a colorful, open-collar sport shirt, with enough chains around his neck and dangling into curly chest hair to anchor a good-size freighter. His slacks were dark with pin stripes and his shoes buffed to a mirror finish. He was handsome, maybe even exciting to the kind of woman who finds violence exciting.

The menace oozed from his eyes, which were enjoying the fear that must be obvious in her eyes. It radiated from a smile that found it hard to contain its delight in her helpless predicament. This was a man who enjoyed pain, particularly when he was inflicting it. He seemed perfectly at ease in a situation where he was towering over a helpless victim.

He reached down and began undoing the top button of her gown.

Emily shuddered. “Get away from me.”

“Just a little feel … for starters.” He was leaning closer, the smile narrowing into a leer.

“Get away!” She kicked out, driving her bare foot against his leg and sending him toppling away. He regained his balance and started back to her, his hand raised in a massive fist.

“Mike!” the woman's voice came from the floor above. “What's going on down there?”

“Nothin'!” he snapped in a voice that sounded like a shotgun blast. His fist slowly dropped and he looked up toward the door at the head of the stairs. “Just bringin' her the paper cups.”

When he turned back to Emily, his mouth was a tight line of anger. But he let it relax into a beatific smile. “You really ought to be nice to me, lady. In a coupla days, after these guys—whoever they are—get their money, we'll get a call tellin' us to get rid of you. That's the way it always is. Smart guys don't send the one they kidnapped back to pick 'em out of a lineup and these guys are smart. Damn smart. So when that call comes, I'm goin' to be the only thing between you and a burned-out hole where your brains used to be. You'll be throwin' yourself at me, begging me to do anything to you except stick a gun in your mouth.”

The woman called down again. “Mike, what's keeping you?”

Emily's terrified eyes followed him up the steps and lingered after he had closed the door behind him. “Oh, Christ,” she prayed out loud. “Who is he? How does he fit into this?” She pulled herself to her feet, smoothing out the nightgown as if he might still be watching. She saw the stack of paper cups that he had apparently been told by the woman to bring down to her. “God, please. Don't let her send him on her errands.” She picked up the cups and carried them into the bathroom. Her tongue was like glue from her fright. She was desperate for a sip of water.

W
ALTER HAD TO SEE
Angela. He drove his own car so that he could park near her apartment and used the keys to the front door and elevator that she had given him. She opened the door the instant he tapped and welcomed him into a sympathetic embrace.

“You poor dear, you must be going crazy …”

“It's been tough,” he admitted. “Damn tough. I've been up all night trying to figure how to handle this.” He followed her inside, through the small kitchen where she picked up the coffee pot, to the dining area where the table was already set with cups and saucers and a plate of toast.

“I don't think I can swallow,” Walter said. But she was already pouring the orange juice.

Angela slid into the chair across from him. “What happened? How did you find out?”

He told her about his arrival at home, remembering his uneasy feeling when he saw the garage door open with no light turned on. “It was so unusual. I guess I knew right away that something was wrong. But I figured, maybe a friend had had an accident … that she had gone to help and lost track of the time. I never figured …” Walter closed his eyes, trying to fight back the tears.

She reached across and covered his hand with hers. “Of course not. How could you even imagine such a thing.”

He described his instant fear when he found a strange man waiting in his living room. Then he told the story of the bizarre scene in which the man calmly explained that his wife had been kidnapped. “We're sitting across from each other having a civil conversation about Emily being dragged from her bedroom. I was helpless. Not just because of the gun. But the son of a bitch didn't know any more than I did. I mean, he didn't know what had happened … or why.”

“Did you believe him? That he didn't know anything?”

Walter thought. “Not at first. But I guess I did come to believe him. I mean, you'd have to see him. This guy was definitely not a gangster. He kept wishing me well, and trying to convince me that he wasn't part of any crime. ‘Just a citizen reporting a crime,' is what he kept telling me.”

“That's bullshit,” Angela said. “He knew damn well he was being paid to deliver a ransom note.”

“But what difference would it make,” Walter snapped in sudden anger. “What was I supposed to do? Knock him down and sit on him while I waited for the police. I couldn't take chances with Emily's life. Christ, they could kill her and bury her in a cellar …”

“Of course, of course,” Angela was already consoling. “You couldn't take any chances.”

Walter drank the coffee from trembling hands. Then he drew a deep breath to steel himself. “The problem is that the bank is involved. What the kidnappers want is a transfer of bank funds.”

Angela didn't seem to understand.

“The bank has a policy,” he explained. “Like the government. We don't bargain for hostages. We thought that someone … probably terrorists … could kidnap someone at the bank and demand something as ransom. Not just money. Some kind of monetary action.”

Her eyes widened. “Like dump some country's currency. Like an Arab country telling you to wreck Israel's economy.”

“Exactly,” Walter said. “We knew we were open to blackmail so we adopted a very strong and well-publicized policy:
No dealing with kidnappers or extortionists
. Christ, I spearheaded the policy. What I'm supposed to do is inform the chairman that my wife has been taken. The board will relieve me temporarily of all responsibilities and notify the police.”

“But, Emily …” Angela was interrupting when Walter slammed his fist down on the table. “The policy regards Emily as already dead,” he said. “We don't bargain for her. We put the police onto her killers.”

“Walter, these aren't terrorists. These are kidnappers who want money for your wife. You've got to do what they want.”

He nodded. “I know. Especially with us. I mean, it would look like I wanted it to happen. Jesus, people might even think that I had something to do with her disappearance. You and I … we could never be seen together.”

“Dammit, Walter,” Angela snapped. “This isn't about you and me.”

“I know. I've got to think about the bank. I suppose Hollcroft would see it was one incredible act of loyalty if I put bank policy ahead of my own wife.”

Angela was shocked into a speechless moment. Walter looked puzzled at her reaction to his analysis. Finally she managed, “Is that what you were up all night thinking about? How your wife being kidnapped might affect your chances of being chairman?”

“I've been considering every possibility. I've been churning it over and over again.”

Angela jumped up, throwing her napkin angrily at her chair. “For God's sake, Walter, there's only one thing you have to consider. Not the bank. Not what anyone might think. The only issue is Emily's life.”

“I know! I know!” Walter snapped back. “But it's a consideration. If I don't turn this over to Jack Hollcroft. I could lose everything. Not just Emily. But you. And my whole future.”

“Walter, listen to me. I said I'd have you under any terms,” Angela said factually. “That includes after the board fires you for violating their damn antiterrorist policy, although I don't think they would have the guts to fire someone for trying to save his wife. But I
couldn't have you
if you just … turned your back on her. For the love of God, Walter, it's going to be hard enough to get into another woman's bed even after you've given her everything. But if you … let her die …” Angela was suddenly crying, her clenched fist pressed against her mouth to stifle her sobs.

Walter stood up. “I'm not going to let her die. I'll work this out,” he promised her, laying a comforting hand on her
shoulder. “I've got to get to the bank and work this out.” He reached back to the table and finished the coffee in his cup. Then he kissed her cheek and headed for the door.

Angela stared after him. She felt very sorry for Mrs. Walter Childs. The present one, and any in the future.

Andrew Hogan, InterBank's security director, returned Walter's call just a few minutes after 7:00
A.M.
“Mr. Childs. Andrew Hogan here. I just came in and your message was on my voice mail.”

“Andrew, I wonder if you could join me in my office for a few minutes.”

“Sure! What time's good for you?”

“Right now,” Walter said.

Andrew Hogan's job as director of security paid him vastly more money than he had ever imagined possible. He had been an up-through-the-ranks New York City police officer who had made it to the department's top uniformed rank. When he retired, it was simply to change into civilian clothes and walk across the hall to become police commissioner.

But while good police work had been the key ingredient in advancing through the ranks, Hogan had quickly learned that it was not the most important talent of a good police commissioner. He had learned that pointing his finger at a criminal operation could be a career-limiting move unless he first found out who the patrons of the criminal operation were.

He had come down hard on the practice of lending city garbage trucks to private sanitation firms because many of the private outfits were mob-related. Too late did he find out that the payoff for the trucks went to the ranking officers in the sanitation union. The result was a garbage collectors' strike. He also made the mistake of landing on schoolteachers who falsified their hours. Both the teachers' union and the Board of Education demanded his resignation.

The job, he was told by a well-meaning politician, was really intended as the grease between the city's minority population and the uniformed officers who tried to enforce the law. It had nothing to do with white-collar crime, which was
the foundation of the city's economy or, God help us, with the financial interests of public officials. “You're the most popular cop in the history of the city,” he was reminded. “Just make speeches. Don't try to clean up anything.”