Two Little Girls in Blue Read Online Free PDF Page B

airborne, Lucas could not shake off the persistent worry that was plaguing him.
    He felt certain he had missed something, but figuring out just what—that was the problem. Grabbing the kids had been easy. The babysitter only remembered that whoever had come up behind her smelled of perspiration.
    She got that one right, Lucas thought with a brief grin, as he flew over Newport. Angie should stick Clint’sshirts in that washing machine of hers every time he peels one off.
    The washing machine.
    That was it! Those clothes she was washing. Two sets each of identical shirts and overalls. Where did she get them? The kids had been wearing pajamas when they grabbed them. Had that stupid airhead gone shopping for twin outfits that would fit three-year-olds?
    She had. He was sure of it. And soon some clerk out there would start putting two and two together.
    Icy with rage, Lucas involuntarily yanked back on the yoke, forcing the nose of the plane to rise nearly perpendicular to the earth below. His anger increased when he realized what he had done, and he quickly tried to level off. His action was too late, however, and the plane entered a stall. His heart beating faster, he pushed the nose down, recovered his air speed, and averted the stall. Next thing, that stupid broad will probably take the kids to McDonald’s for a hamburger, he thought frantically.

10

    T here was no way to put a good face on delivering the latest communication from the kidnapper. On Monday evening, Walter Carlson received a phone call and went into the living room where Margaret and Steve Frawley were sitting side by side on the couch. “Fifteen minutes ago, the kidnapper called the network during the CBS Evening News,” he said, grimly. “They’re replaying that segment now. It has the same tape of the twins’ voices they played this morning on Katie Couric, with an addition.”
    It’s like watching people being thrown into a cauldron of boiling oil, he thought, as he saw the agony on their faces at the sound of a childish voice protesting, “We want to go home . . .”
    â€œKelly,” Margaret whispered.
    A pause . . .
    Then the wailing of the twins began.
    Margaret buried her face in her hands. “I cannot . . . cannot . . . cannot . . .”
    Then a harsh, obviously disguised voice snarled, “I said eight million. I want it now. This is your last chance.”
    â€œMargaret,” Walter Carlson interrupted, his tone urgent,“there is a bright spot here. The kidnapper is communicating with us. You have proof that the girls are alive. We are going to find them.”
    â€œAnd are you going to come up with an eight-million-dollar ransom?” Steve asked bitterly.
    Carlson did not know whether to raise their hopes yet. Agent Dom Picella, heading a team of agents, had spent the day at C.F.G.&Y., the global investment firm at which Steve was a new employee, interviewing Steve’s co-workers to learn if any of them knew of someone who resented Steve, or who perhaps had wanted the job Steve had been hired to fill. The firm had recently suffered bad publicity because of insider trading accusations, and Picella had learned that a board of directors meeting had been hastily scheduled with conference call links to directors all over the world. The rumor was that the company might offer to put up the ransom money for the Frawley twins.
    â€œOne of the secretaries is a world-class gossip,” Picella told Carlson late that afternoon. “She says the firm has egg on its face for some of the fast stuff it pulled. It just paid a whopping five-hundred-million-dollar fine imposed by the Securities and Exchange Commission and has gotten tons of bad press. Her guess is that paying the eight-million ransom gives C.F.G.&Y. better publicity than if they hired a slew of PR agencies to whitewash their image. The board meeting is scheduled for eight o’clock