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“Yes.”
“Okay. Hang on a minute.”
The scratch of a small speaker held near the phone; Terry’s voice then, difficult to make out but identifiable: “Daddy? They told me to answer the questions about what I said when you showed me the new pool and what you usually call me—I said, ‘I see you’ve stocked it for me,’ and you call me ‘Baby’ even though I’ve asked you not to. They told me to say they haven’t hurt me and it’s true, they haven’t, but it’s dark and just miserable and please get me out of here. They don’t—”
The tape-machine was heard to click off; the kidnaper’s voice said calmly, “You don’t need to hear the rest of it. It satisfy you she’s alive?”
“Only satisfies me she was alive when you made tape,” the Co
“I’m very much aware of that, Mr. Co
The Co
“Sure, Mr. Co
There was a pause; it made Oakley smile grimly. Adams had played it just right. He gave it just enough time and then said, with the proper grudging surrender in his baritone, “Yes. Unmarked small bills.”
“That’s just dandy. Now I’ll tell you what you do with it. You pack it up in a small old suitcase—the nondescript kind that won’t attract attention in a bus station. No five-hundred-dollar Vuitton luggage, understand? Borrow it from somebody in the bunkhouse if you have to. Tomorrow morning at six you get in your car and put the suitcase on the seat beside you and drive out to the state highway. Drive down through Sonoita and take the back road past Elgin and Canelo, up to Patagonia. Take the dirt road south from Patagonia toward Harshaw and Washington Camp. You know where that is?”
“I’ve been there a few times.”
“Good. When you get past Harshaw you slow down to fifteen miles an hour and hold that speed all the way to Washington Camp. You’ll have your right-hand window rolled down and the suitcase handy on the seat beside you and when you see a mirror flashing sunlight in your eyes from the trees at the side of the road you’ll toss the suitcase out. Don’t slow down or stop. Don’t speed up. Just keep going down the road at the same speed until you get through Washington Camp. A mile or two the other side of Washington Camp you’ll come to a state picnic ground at the side of the road. There may be people picnicking there and there may not be. Either way, pull into the picnic ground and sit in the car until somebody contacts you. It will either be Terry or somebody who’ll tell you where to find her. Now, here’s the important thing. Time your arrival so that you leave Harshaw on the road to Washington Camp at exactly seven thirty, on the button. If you reach Harshaw early wait there till seven thirty and then start, and keep a steady fifteen miles an hour all the way to the picnic ground. That’ll get you to the picnic ground just before eight o’clock. Have you got it?”
“Yes.”
“What kind of car will you be driving?”
“White Cadillac two-door.”
“What year model?”
“This year.”
“Okay. If anybody’s in the car with you or we spot any official cars or airplanes or choppers you can forget all about Terry.”
“Understood. I haven’t informed police.”
“Smart.”
Beyond the kidnaper’s voice Oakley heard the faint rushing woosh of a jet plane going by, on the tape—a sound like ripping cloth. The kidnaper said, “You may have to wait a little while at the picnic ground. Don’t get nervous. We’ll check out the money and if it’s okay a signal will be passed and somebody will make contact with you. Allow at least two hours before you hit the ceiling. You’ll get your daughter back if you keep your head.”
Click.
Oakley switched the machine off and looked up. Orozco stood by the end of the desk, looming, a big loose brown man who sagged front and back.
Oakley said, “What about the trace?”
“They’re still working on it.”
“It’s taking them long enough.”
“I was fixin’ to call back and find out,” Orozco said. “There’s something fu
“What’s that?”
“There’s no pay phones on this local circuit. And what kind of kidnaper would use a private phone?”
“It could have been long distance. Direct-dial from a pay phone.”
“You’d have heard the coins drop and the operator give him the toll charges.”
Oakley scowled at him. “That’s so. What are you getting at?”
“I du
Oakley reached for the glass by the phone and sipped. Earle’s whiskey was a hundred proof, nine years in bond. He sat back and stuck one of Earle’s H. Upma
“Yeah.” Orozco’s big fleshy face was thoughtfully creased. “Yeah. Listen, maybe—”
The phone rang. Oakley made a grab for it and barked into it; afterward his expression changed and he handed the receiver to Orozco. Orozco lifted it to his ear and talked and listened. When he hung up he said, “There wasn’t any phone call.”
“What?”
“No record of a call to this number on the computer.”
“They’re nuts. These God damned incompetent computers—”
“No. Wait a minute, Carl. Suppose it came from a wiretap.”
“A what?”
“A phone they hooked up to the wire someplace. Usually when you tap a wire you just co
From the back of the room Frankie Adams said dryly, “That’s great. You’ve made a discovery that deserves three Eurekas and an Edison light bulb. Now all you need to do is follow every phone wire in the southwest from one end to the other until you find one that’s got holes in the insulation where they spliced into it. Give that man a great big hand, folks.”
Without dignifying Adams’ raucous commentary by replying, Orozco rewound the tape and switched it on again. He said, “What time did the call come in?”
“Twelve thirty-eight,” Oakley said. “I wrote it down.”
The tape scratched. “Yes?” “Co
Oakley’s eyes widened; he said softly, “Sure. The jet.”
Adams complained, “What the hell are you talkin’ about now?”
“Of course,” Orozco observed, “it might have been a private jet or a commercial air liner, but probably it was one of them Air Force trainers from Davis Monthan up at Tucson. I don’t expect they’d give out flight-plan information to just anybody but I know somebody on the Tucson police force that owes me a favor. They’ll give the information to him.”
“Then get at it,” Oakley said. His glass was empty; he went out into the corridor. Frankie Adams trailed him to the bar. “How about explaining it to me?”