Twist

Conroy drew his head back. "Kidnapped? Gail?"

"There was a phone call an hour ago," Catherine said through her tears. "I couldn't reach you. I... I called the police. They said not to, but--"

"Catherine, are you sure about this kidnapping? Gail's been known to--"

Catherine pushed away from him. "Owen! What do you mean?"

He took her by the hand and began to lead her toward the house. A man in a tie and shirtsleeves stood in the doorway, watching them. "I only meant, darling, that if it were a prank--"

"I'm afraid we can't take that chance, Doctor Conroy," the man in the doorway said.

"And we are...?" Conroy asked.

"Lieutenant Francis Petroski, sir. I'm with the police hostage and negotiation unit."

The two men shook hands. "I quite appreciate your caution, Lieutenant," Conroy said. "I didn't mean to sound disbelieving. This is just all so... well, unbelievable."

"Yes, sir." Petroski led the way to the Conroy's living room. It was a large enough space that it wasn't crowded, even with five other policemen. Two young patrolmen stood by the bay window, leaning forward as if waiting to be told to do something. Two plainclothes detectives stood in a far corner with cell phones to their ears, evidently involved in the same conference call. Another detective sat on a couch typing on a laptop computer that sat on a coffee table. On one side of the computer was a large reel-to-reel tape recorder, on the other side was the Conroys' telephone.

"We have had a chance to do some initial inquiries just in the last half hour, sir," Petroski said after making brief introductions. "A couple of witnesses have reported seeing your daughter get into a white van a few blocks from her junior high school about an hour after school let out."

"Stepdaughter," Conroy corrected distractedly. "But Gail knows better than to do something like that. I've told her often enough."

Petroski nodded. "We are, of course, considering the possibility that someone she knows is involved."

Conroy turned to hug his wife again. As he patted her hair, Petroski said, "Your wife has been unable to reach you by your cell phone, sir."

"Yes. I didn't have it with me today." He smiled apologetically. "I often lose the thing. It's one with a pager and voice mail, too, so without it, I'm completely out of touch. Subconsciously, I suppose I don't like to be interrupted while driving."

"And it takes an hour for you to drive home?"

Conroy's eyes narrowed. "Yes, sometimes. It depends on traffic. Today, I left the office at about 4:15." He glanced at a wall clock, which read 5:27. "You can check with my receptionist, if you like."

"We've already spoken to her, sir," Petroski answered blandly.

Catherine, who had been frowning, now spoke. "The call was frightful, Owen. This horrible man called, and said he'd taken Gail."

Petroski flipped through a small notebook. "As you recalled it for us, Mrs. Conroy, the man said, 'We've got your daughter, and it will cost you to get her back.'"

"Yes, that's what I said," Catherine shot back sourly.

"The caller told your wife, "Petroski said to Conroy as he put away the notebook, "that he would call back at six thirty with instructions for a payoff."

"Payoff!" Conroy repeated the word as though it were a curse.

"As you can see, Sergeant Marcon is getting set to trace the phone call. We don't have much time, sir, so I'd ask you to bear with me as I go over how you should handle the call."

"What do you mean, handle the call?"

"There are two things we want to get out of the kidnapper when he calls." Petroski counted the points off on his fingers. "First is where he's calling from, and to do that you need to keep him on the line as long as possible. Second, we want to get as much information out of him as we can, and there are a couple of ways to do that. If you'll have a seat, sir, we can get started."

Owen let out a deep breath, looked at Catherine, and kissed her on the forehead. "She'll be fine, dear," he said softly, then, to Petroski, "Let's get started."

At twenty-three past six, the phone rang. The two detectives who had been having a conference call when Conroy arrived snatched up their cell phones again and immediately began whispering into them. Sergeant Marcon hit one key on the computer keyboard, pressed a button on the tape recorder, and nodded to Petroski. Petroski slipped a set of headphones on, looked at Conroy, and pointed to the telephone.

All this took less than two seconds. Conroy took a deep breath and picked up the phone, cutting off the second ring. "Hello?" he said in a low voice, his eyes fixed on the revolving reels of the tape recorder.

The only sound in the room came from one of the detectives, who moved into the front hall to continue a whispered conversation over his phone. Petroski, who had been staring at Marcon's computer screen while listening on the headphones, turned his head slowly to look at Conroy, who stood, motionless and expressionless, with the phone at his ear.

After several seconds, Conroy jerked his body slightly, then set the receiver down gently on the base of the phone. He sat down heavily in an armchair and pressed his fist against his lips.

"What is it?" Catherine cried, kneeling down in front of her husband and grabbing his hands. "What did they say?"

"Play it back, Marcon," Petroski said in a tight, slow voice, as he continued to stare at Conroy.

Marcon rewound the tape, pressed another button and flipped a switch. Immediately, the sound of Conroy saying "Hello" filled the large room.

As Marcon reached for the volume control, a young man's voice came from the recorder. "Hey, Doc, I'm calling for Lenny. We're set for delivery tomorrow at 3 p.m. at your office parking garage. Eight kilos of horse at the usual price, right?" There was a moment of silence before the voice continued. "Oh, right, it's probably dinner time. Yeah, sorry about calling you at home like this, but you haven't been answering your cell phone. Hey, if there's any problem, you know how to get hold of us."

The tape continued past the clicks as first the caller, then Conroy, hung up.

All six cops were staring at Conroy, who was staring at the tape recorder.

Catherine looked frantically between Conroy and Petroski. "I don't understand, Owen. What horse is he talking about?"

When Conroy made no move to reply, Petroski tossed the headphones onto the coffee table. "It's slang for heroin," he said. "Dealing drugs wouldn't provide a rival with a motive for kidnapping, would it, Doctor?"