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Authors: William G. Tapply
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myself, I tried Sylvie’s number, but she either wasn’t home or wasn’t answering. So I went to bed. The next day was Monday, and then, at least, I could go to my office and feel useful.
I wondered who was going to do E.J. Donagan’s paper route in the morning.
6
I WAS ON MY first cup of coffee and staring at the accumulation of weekend mail on my desk when Julie, my secretary, buzzed me.
“It’s a woman. Claims it’s urgent. Wouldn’t give her name,” she said over the intercom. “Do you want to take it?”
“Sure,” I said. I pressed the blinking button on my telephone console and said, “Brady Coyne.”
“Mr. Coyne,” came a female voice. “One moment, please.”
I heard a click and a few seconds of static, and then a man’s voice began to speak. It sounded unnaturally deep and slow, as if it had been recorded at forty-five and was being played back at thirty-three. Something like that, I quickly realized, was what in fact had been done.
“This is the only communication you will receive from us, Mr. Coyne,” growled the voice. “For the sake of the boy, please listen carefully and follow precisely the instructions I will give you. Please note down what I am about to say. The details are important. I will repeat it only once. I will now allow you one minute to assemble paper and pen.”
I buzzed Julie, who picked up the line. “Julie, listen to this and make notes, please.”
“What…?”
“I’ll explain later.”
“All right, then, Mr. Coyne,” came the voice again. “I trust you are ready. First, please be assured that the boy is with us and that he is fine. He will be returned unharmed once our transaction is satisfactorily completed. This will assure you that I am telling you the truth.” There was a click, and then I heard E.J. Donagan’s voice. It was unmistakably his. “This is E.J. I’m fine. The Red Sox won today. Dwight Evans hit a homer. I miss my mother.”
I heard Julie breathe, “Oh, my God!”
“We choose to deal with you, Mr. Coyne,” resumed that deep, slow voice, “because you have the reputation for being sensible and discreet. For the sake of the boy, we trust that is true. We will want one hundred and fifty thousand dollars in used bills as follows. Please note this down carefully. First, one-thousand hundreds. Second, six-hundred fifties. Third, one-thousand twenties. We will examine these bills to verify that they have been marked in no way and that they do not have consecutive serial numbers. These bills must be tied into ten-thousand-dollar bundles and put into a large green plastic trash bag. Knot the top securely. Lock it into the trunk of your white BMW. Drive to the bowling alleys on Route 2 in Cambridge tomorrow night. That’s Tuesday night. Be there at nine o’clock. Wear a suit and tie. Go upstairs to the lounge. Sit at the bar. Order Wild Turkey on the rocks with two olives. Wait for instructions. Be alone. We will know what’s going on. If there are any police around, if there’s any effort to follow you, or to interfere in this transaction, you will not see the boy again. Please believe me.
“This message will now be repeated in its entirety one time. Make sure every detail is followed. You will not hear from us again.”
There was a click, a moment of static, and again the voice began, “This is the only communication you will receive from us, Mr. Coyne.” I listened to it all again. When it was over, I said into the telephone, “Julie?”
“I’m here,” she said. “Is that what it sounds like, Brady?”
“I’m afraid so. Did you get all of it?”
“Of course. It’s in shorthand.”
“Bring it in here, then, so we can check the details.”
A moment later she came into my office, and except for the horror on her face she was still the green-eyed Irish beauty I had hired twelve years earlier. She sank onto the sofa. I moved from behind my desk to sit beside her.
“You never told me…”
“I would have, Julie.
I wondered who was going to do E.J. Donagan’s paper route in the morning.
6
I WAS ON MY first cup of coffee and staring at the accumulation of weekend mail on my desk when Julie, my secretary, buzzed me.
“It’s a woman. Claims it’s urgent. Wouldn’t give her name,” she said over the intercom. “Do you want to take it?”
“Sure,” I said. I pressed the blinking button on my telephone console and said, “Brady Coyne.”
“Mr. Coyne,” came a female voice. “One moment, please.”
I heard a click and a few seconds of static, and then a man’s voice began to speak. It sounded unnaturally deep and slow, as if it had been recorded at forty-five and was being played back at thirty-three. Something like that, I quickly realized, was what in fact had been done.
“This is the only communication you will receive from us, Mr. Coyne,” growled the voice. “For the sake of the boy, please listen carefully and follow precisely the instructions I will give you. Please note down what I am about to say. The details are important. I will repeat it only once. I will now allow you one minute to assemble paper and pen.”
I buzzed Julie, who picked up the line. “Julie, listen to this and make notes, please.”
“What…?”
“I’ll explain later.”
“All right, then, Mr. Coyne,” came the voice again. “I trust you are ready. First, please be assured that the boy is with us and that he is fine. He will be returned unharmed once our transaction is satisfactorily completed. This will assure you that I am telling you the truth.” There was a click, and then I heard E.J. Donagan’s voice. It was unmistakably his. “This is E.J. I’m fine. The Red Sox won today. Dwight Evans hit a homer. I miss my mother.”
I heard Julie breathe, “Oh, my God!”
“We choose to deal with you, Mr. Coyne,” resumed that deep, slow voice, “because you have the reputation for being sensible and discreet. For the sake of the boy, we trust that is true. We will want one hundred and fifty thousand dollars in used bills as follows. Please note this down carefully. First, one-thousand hundreds. Second, six-hundred fifties. Third, one-thousand twenties. We will examine these bills to verify that they have been marked in no way and that they do not have consecutive serial numbers. These bills must be tied into ten-thousand-dollar bundles and put into a large green plastic trash bag. Knot the top securely. Lock it into the trunk of your white BMW. Drive to the bowling alleys on Route 2 in Cambridge tomorrow night. That’s Tuesday night. Be there at nine o’clock. Wear a suit and tie. Go upstairs to the lounge. Sit at the bar. Order Wild Turkey on the rocks with two olives. Wait for instructions. Be alone. We will know what’s going on. If there are any police around, if there’s any effort to follow you, or to interfere in this transaction, you will not see the boy again. Please believe me.
“This message will now be repeated in its entirety one time. Make sure every detail is followed. You will not hear from us again.”
There was a click, a moment of static, and again the voice began, “This is the only communication you will receive from us, Mr. Coyne.” I listened to it all again. When it was over, I said into the telephone, “Julie?”
“I’m here,” she said. “Is that what it sounds like, Brady?”
“I’m afraid so. Did you get all of it?”
“Of course. It’s in shorthand.”
“Bring it in here, then, so we can check the details.”
A moment later she came into my office, and except for the horror on her face she was still the green-eyed Irish beauty I had hired twelve years earlier. She sank onto the sofa. I moved from behind my desk to sit beside her.
“You never told me…”
“I would have, Julie.
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