Chapter 83
GARY SONEJI/MURPHY watched, and his mind wandered. His mind traveled all the way back to the perfect Lindbergh kidnapping.
He could still picture Lucky Lindy. The lovely Anne Morrow Lindbergh. Baby Charles Jr. in his crib, up in the second-story nursery of the farmhouse in Hopewell, New Jersey. Those were the days, my friends. Fantasy days at their best.
What was he actually watching in the much more banal here and now?
First, there was the pair of FBI goonigans in a black Buick Skylark. A male and a female goonie, to be precise, who were on stakeout duty. They were certainly harmless enough. No problem for him there. No challenge whatsoever.
Next, there was the modern high-rise building where agent Mike Devine still lived in Washington. The Hawthorne, it was called. After Nathaniel, of the dark, brooding heart? Rooftop pool and sun deck, garage parking, concierge service around the clock. Very nice digs for the ex-agent. And the FBI goons were watching the building as if it might sprout wings and fly away.
A few minutes past ten o’clock that morning, a Federal Express deliveryman entered the chichi apartment building.
Moments later, dressed in the Federal Express uniform and carrying actual packages for two tenants in the Hawthorne, Gary Soneji/Murphy pushed the buzzer for 17J. Avon calling!
When Mike Devine opened the door, Soneji sprayed him with the same strong chloroform potion he’d used on Michael Goldberg and Maggie Rose Dunne. Fair is fair.
Just like the two children, Devine crumpled onto the wall-to-wall carpeting in his foyer. Rock music played from inside the apartment. The inimitable Bonnie Raitt. “Let’s Give Them Something to Talk About.”
Agent Devine woke up after several minutes. He was woozy and had double vision. All of his clothes had been stripped off. He was totally confused and disoriented.
He was propped up in the bathtub, with cold water halfway to the rim. His ankles were handcuffed to the faucet handles.
“What the f*ck is this?” His first words came out slurred and sloppy. He felt as if he’d had about a dozen highballs.
“This is an extremely sharp knife.” Gary Soneji/Murphy bent over and showed off his Bowie hunting knife. “Watch this graphic demonstration. Focus those big blurry blue eyes of yours now. Fo-cus, Michael.”
Gary Soneji/Murphy barely nicked the former agent’s upper arm with the knife. Devine cried out. A dangerous-looking three-inch cut opened up instantly. Blood flowed into the cold, swirling bathwater.
“Not another peep,” Soneji warned. He brandished the knife, threatening Devine with another nick. “This isn’t exactly the Sensor razor from Gillette or the Schick Tracer. More like scratch and bleed. So please, be careful.”
“Who are you?” Devine attempted to speak again. He was still slurring badly. “Whoreyou?” he said.
“Please allow me to introduce myself, I am a man of wealth and taste,” Soneji said. All right, yes, he was giddy with success. The prospects for his future were shining so bright again.
Devine was even more confused now.
“That’s from ‘Sympathy for the Devil.’ The Stones? I’m Gary Soneji/Murphy. Excuse the tacky delivery-boy uniform, the rather crude disguise. But I’m in sort of a hurry, don’t you know. It’s a pity, because I’ve been wanting to meet you for months. You rascal, you.”
“What the hell do you want?” Devine struggled to maintain some of his authority, in spite of the very dicey circumstances.
“Cut to the chase, hmmmm. Okay, good. Because I am seriously rushed. Now. You have two very clear choices. ONE—I’ll have to cut off your penis here and now, put it in your mouth as a convenient gag, and then torture you with little flesh cuts, hundreds of cuts, starting with the face and neck, until you tell me what I need to know. All right so far? Am I being clear? To repeat—choice number one: painful torture leading inevitably to exsanguination.”
Devine’s head involuntarily leaned back away from the looming madman. His vision was clearing, unfortunately. His eyes, in fact, were wide open. Gary Soneji/Murphy? In his apartment? With a hunting knife?
“SECOND OPTION,” the madman continued to rant in his face. “I am going to get the truth from you right now. Then I’ll go get my money, wherever you’ve stashed it. I’ll come back and kill you, but nicely—no theatrics. Who knows, you might even manage to escape while I’m gone. That’s doubtful, but hope springs eternal. I have to tell you, Michael, that’s the option I’d choose.”
Mike Devine was clearheaded enough to make the correct choice, too. He told Soneji/Murphy where his share of the ransom money was. It was right there in Washington.
Gary Soneji/Murphy believed him, but then, who could really tell about these things. He was dealing with a police officer, after all.
Gary paused at the apartment door on his way out. In his best Arnold Schwarzenegger/Terminator voice, he said, “I’ll be back!”
Actually, he was feeling exceptionally good about things today. He was solving the goddamned kidnapping himself. He was playing policeman, and it was kind of neat. The plan was going to work. Just like he’d always known it would.
Cool beans.