“Trust me. I’ve handled a dozen situations like this in the past two years. I know what these people are like. They’re only interested in the money.”
Lt. Jeffrey McKay leaned forward as he spoke and pressed both palms flat against the glass top wrought-iron coffee table separating him from the Shapiros. He sat opposite the young couple in the exquisitely decorated sun room of their home. Only in their late twenties, Bill and Leda Shapiro had already made a fortune through their exceedingly lucrative chain of skate park-cybercafé-pet salon-tea rooms. In fewer than five years, Fancy Flip’s Hotspot o’Tea Rooms had spread rapidly across the midwestern states and also overseas into Scotland and Italy. The Shapiros’ success easily paid for their $5.5 million home in Jolie Vachon, the most prestigious gated community in Charleston.
Their money had also made them a target. Earlier today, the Shapiro family had attended a birthday party at the neighboring estate belonging to Senator Jackson Colby. The party had been for his granddaughter, and the senator had hired extra security beyond that provided at the community gates. In spite of these measures, the Shapiro’s five-year-old daughter Margie had vanished during the party. An extensive search by police and federal agents had revealed two missing entertainers but nothing else. The investigation had expanded outside Jolie Vachon and was still in progress. McKay had been waiting with the parents for the assumed kidnappers’ initial demands. Two long hours had passed so far without any word of Margie.
McKay purposefully made eye contact now with both Shapiros. He continued his reassurance in as sincere and as confident a tone as he could, “Mr. and Mrs. Shapiro, these people are not stupid. Trust me. The absolute last thing they want to do is to hurt your daughter.”
“We do trust you, Lieutenant. And we are extremely grateful,” the missing girl’s mother said quietly.
Like her house’s décor, Leda Shapiro’s voice sounded elegant and feminine to McKay’s ears. Even in the face of her daughter’s abduction, she was fashionably dressed and coiffed. That same sense of style and taste had ensured the success of the pet grooming salon and tea room aspects of her and her husband’s business. However, to an untrained eye, she might have appeared cold and unshaken by Margie’s disappearance. A veteran detective, McKay wasn’t fooled. He saw clear signs of her anguish. The carefully-applied makeup didn’t completely hide the woman’s pallor. Her hands moved constantly also, belying her apparent composure. During their two-hour vigil, she had alternated between applying balm to her lips, smoothing the folds of her designer dress suit, and straightening the silk tassels on the sofa’s embroidered cushions.
Bill Shapiro had kept himself very still and thus far had let his wife do almost all of the talking. Nonetheless, the detective had found the father’s mood easier to read. The former pro-circuit skateboarder and nationally ranked cyberathlete was enraged over his daughter’s plight but was keeping that anger carefully in check. McKay had noted that Mr. Shapiro had kept his scarred hands balled into fists at his sides for the past two hours. The man’s jaw, too, had been tensing continually as he kept grinding his teeth together. A muscle repeatedly ticked on Mr. Shapiro’s neck as well, just above the portion of a red and black tribal tattoo visible over the collar of an expensive black silk buttondown shirt. He had only nodded grimly at McKay’s recent words of reassurance. All of this pointed in the detective’s mind to a father’s helpless rage at the unknown abductors.
McKay looked down at the notepad he held. Neat rows and columns of information filled eight pages but could do little to ease the couple’s current distress. He flipped back to the first page and looked at a photo taped there of a smiling, darkhaired little girl in a party dress. The picture was of Margie Shapiro, taken that very morning at the birthday party. She was obviously happy, having the time of her young life, totally unaware that she would be snatched away from the world that she knew. Even though the seasoned investigator’s experience made him believe the words he had just spoken to the Shapiros, his heart still ached for their daughter. Even if the abductors didn’t want to jeopardize any ransom by hurting Margie, they could still cause her a lot of mental trauma. McKay hoped that little Margie wasn’t too distressed by being forceably taken by the kidnappers.
He stared at the two figures standing behind Margie in the photograph and wondered if that could even be possible. A costumed man and woman knelt on either side of the little girl, hugging her gently with white-gloved hands. They were smiling broadly beneath their colorful wigs and gaudy makeup. McKay shuddered. These two were the missing party entertainers. Probably just minutes after the party photographer snapped this photo, the kidnappers had made their move and lured the little girl outside. They had left no signs of a struggle. Their gloves prevented them from leaving fingerprints. The makeup hid their real appearance. Their costumes let them pass through security at the estate and at the gates without any trouble whatsoever. It had been the perfect crime.
McKay studied the white faces of the two kidnappers, trying to imagine what each person looked like underneath. A cold feeling traced his spine like someone ran an icecube up his back. He shuddered. Clowns had always scared him a little, but this photo of two of them grinning and crouching on either side of their innocent victim nearly unnerved him.
One of the agents monitoring the Shapiros’ computers and phone lines suddenly hissed, “It’s them! Putting them on speaker!” Other agents bustled about their stations, clicking buttons and turning dials, tracing and recording everything that was happening.
McKay tensed. Across from him, Leda Shapiro tried to rub balm on her lips with hands that now visibly shook. At her side on the sofa, Bill Shapiro sat up straight and actually bared his tightly clenched teeth.
A jolly-sounding voice suddenly filled the sunroom. “Hiya, Shapiros! It’s me, Dr. Funny Bones! Don’t worry about Little Margie! She’s havin’ a blast right here with Mr. Chippy! At least, for now anyway! But if you grown-ups don’t play by the rules, then who knows what might happen!”
A horn honked. Something squeaked. There was a crash and a hiss. Then, the incredible sound of a little girl laughing and shouting.
Leda Shapiro started quietly crying into one of the delicate embroidered pillows. Bill Shapiro slammed both balled fists down onto the coffee table, shattering the glass and badly lacerating his hands. Agents rushed over to minister to his cuts. McKay sat quietly and unmoving, his skin crawling as he listened to the sounds coming through the speaker phone.
On the other end, somewhere, five-year-old Margie Shapiro was yelling between fits of giggles, “Do it again, Mr. Chippy! Please do it again! Please! Tell him to do it again, Dr. Funny Bones! Please tell him! Again! Again!”
Then, a horn honked, two clowns laughed loudly, and then there was a dial tone.
Dr. Funny Bones had hung up.
Lt. Jeffrey McKay leaned forward as he spoke and pressed both palms flat against the glass top wrought-iron coffee table separating him from the Shapiros. He sat opposite the young couple in the exquisitely decorated sun room of their home. Only in their late twenties, Bill and Leda Shapiro had already made a fortune through their exceedingly lucrative chain of skate park-cybercafé-pet salon-tea rooms. In fewer than five years, Fancy Flip’s Hotspot o’Tea Rooms had spread rapidly across the midwestern states and also overseas into Scotland and Italy. The Shapiros’ success easily paid for their $5.5 million home in Jolie Vachon, the most prestigious gated community in Charleston.
Their money had also made them a target. Earlier today, the Shapiro family had attended a birthday party at the neighboring estate belonging to Senator Jackson Colby. The party had been for his granddaughter, and the senator had hired extra security beyond that provided at the community gates. In spite of these measures, the Shapiro’s five-year-old daughter Margie had vanished during the party. An extensive search by police and federal agents had revealed two missing entertainers but nothing else. The investigation had expanded outside Jolie Vachon and was still in progress. McKay had been waiting with the parents for the assumed kidnappers’ initial demands. Two long hours had passed so far without any word of Margie.
McKay purposefully made eye contact now with both Shapiros. He continued his reassurance in as sincere and as confident a tone as he could, “Mr. and Mrs. Shapiro, these people are not stupid. Trust me. The absolute last thing they want to do is to hurt your daughter.”
“We do trust you, Lieutenant. And we are extremely grateful,” the missing girl’s mother said quietly.
Like her house’s décor, Leda Shapiro’s voice sounded elegant and feminine to McKay’s ears. Even in the face of her daughter’s abduction, she was fashionably dressed and coiffed. That same sense of style and taste had ensured the success of the pet grooming salon and tea room aspects of her and her husband’s business. However, to an untrained eye, she might have appeared cold and unshaken by Margie’s disappearance. A veteran detective, McKay wasn’t fooled. He saw clear signs of her anguish. The carefully-applied makeup didn’t completely hide the woman’s pallor. Her hands moved constantly also, belying her apparent composure. During their two-hour vigil, she had alternated between applying balm to her lips, smoothing the folds of her designer dress suit, and straightening the silk tassels on the sofa’s embroidered cushions.
Bill Shapiro had kept himself very still and thus far had let his wife do almost all of the talking. Nonetheless, the detective had found the father’s mood easier to read. The former pro-circuit skateboarder and nationally ranked cyberathlete was enraged over his daughter’s plight but was keeping that anger carefully in check. McKay had noted that Mr. Shapiro had kept his scarred hands balled into fists at his sides for the past two hours. The man’s jaw, too, had been tensing continually as he kept grinding his teeth together. A muscle repeatedly ticked on Mr. Shapiro’s neck as well, just above the portion of a red and black tribal tattoo visible over the collar of an expensive black silk buttondown shirt. He had only nodded grimly at McKay’s recent words of reassurance. All of this pointed in the detective’s mind to a father’s helpless rage at the unknown abductors.
McKay looked down at the notepad he held. Neat rows and columns of information filled eight pages but could do little to ease the couple’s current distress. He flipped back to the first page and looked at a photo taped there of a smiling, darkhaired little girl in a party dress. The picture was of Margie Shapiro, taken that very morning at the birthday party. She was obviously happy, having the time of her young life, totally unaware that she would be snatched away from the world that she knew. Even though the seasoned investigator’s experience made him believe the words he had just spoken to the Shapiros, his heart still ached for their daughter. Even if the abductors didn’t want to jeopardize any ransom by hurting Margie, they could still cause her a lot of mental trauma. McKay hoped that little Margie wasn’t too distressed by being forceably taken by the kidnappers.
He stared at the two figures standing behind Margie in the photograph and wondered if that could even be possible. A costumed man and woman knelt on either side of the little girl, hugging her gently with white-gloved hands. They were smiling broadly beneath their colorful wigs and gaudy makeup. McKay shuddered. These two were the missing party entertainers. Probably just minutes after the party photographer snapped this photo, the kidnappers had made their move and lured the little girl outside. They had left no signs of a struggle. Their gloves prevented them from leaving fingerprints. The makeup hid their real appearance. Their costumes let them pass through security at the estate and at the gates without any trouble whatsoever. It had been the perfect crime.
McKay studied the white faces of the two kidnappers, trying to imagine what each person looked like underneath. A cold feeling traced his spine like someone ran an icecube up his back. He shuddered. Clowns had always scared him a little, but this photo of two of them grinning and crouching on either side of their innocent victim nearly unnerved him.
One of the agents monitoring the Shapiros’ computers and phone lines suddenly hissed, “It’s them! Putting them on speaker!” Other agents bustled about their stations, clicking buttons and turning dials, tracing and recording everything that was happening.
McKay tensed. Across from him, Leda Shapiro tried to rub balm on her lips with hands that now visibly shook. At her side on the sofa, Bill Shapiro sat up straight and actually bared his tightly clenched teeth.
A jolly-sounding voice suddenly filled the sunroom. “Hiya, Shapiros! It’s me, Dr. Funny Bones! Don’t worry about Little Margie! She’s havin’ a blast right here with Mr. Chippy! At least, for now anyway! But if you grown-ups don’t play by the rules, then who knows what might happen!”
A horn honked. Something squeaked. There was a crash and a hiss. Then, the incredible sound of a little girl laughing and shouting.
Leda Shapiro started quietly crying into one of the delicate embroidered pillows. Bill Shapiro slammed both balled fists down onto the coffee table, shattering the glass and badly lacerating his hands. Agents rushed over to minister to his cuts. McKay sat quietly and unmoving, his skin crawling as he listened to the sounds coming through the speaker phone.
On the other end, somewhere, five-year-old Margie Shapiro was yelling between fits of giggles, “Do it again, Mr. Chippy! Please do it again! Please! Tell him to do it again, Dr. Funny Bones! Please tell him! Again! Again!”
Then, a horn honked, two clowns laughed loudly, and then there was a dial tone.
Dr. Funny Bones had hung up.
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