Page 80 of The Furies

“No, they always call from a blocked number, which means I have to answer every time the phone rings. I’m getting tired of people trying to sell me stuff.”

“Have you been given instructions for the transfer of the money?”

“Not yet, but they told me to have it ready in cash.”

That was useful. An electronic transfer would have been harder to trace. I knew someone who could do it, but by the time he’d found the end account, the funds would already have been dispersed. But hard cash meant the extortionists would be forced to come into physical contact with the ransom. It would leave them momentarily vulnerable.

“Won’t the bank be suspicious when you ask for your money in bills?”

“Not if they’ve ever had to deal with the medical profession. Have you seen how much doctors charge? Some of them make the Office look like probity personified. Does this mean that you’ll help me?”

“Being straight with you, I don’t want to, but I’m not sure I could look myself in the mirror if I didn’t. I do have one more question.”

“Go ahead, ask.”

“If these are the same men who tortured you, they may have been sent by the Office in an effort to establish once and for all whether you have the money your husband stole from them. My question is, do you?”

She held my gaze.

“No, I do not.”

And I couldn’t tell if she was lying.

CHAPTER X

Pantuff and Veale cruised past Sarah Abelli’s Freeport home, but her car wasn’t in the drive. A cat sat on one of the front windowsills, radiating resentment at being left out in the cold. Pantuff thought that Veale would probably have killed it were he alone, and it was lucky for the animal that it hadn’t been in the house when they broke in. Veale had spoken in the past of his apprenticeship harming animals, and Pantuff had only recently been forced to warn him against setting spiders alight because he was convinced it made the room smell strange. Pantuff didn’t like seeing animals in pain, only women. In his opinion, this qualified as a redeeming feature.

“I wonder where she is,” said Veale.

“Getting our money, if she has any sense. We could call her and find out.”

Pantuff wished there was somewhere nearby—a Starbucks, ideally, where a man might remain for hours without being rousted—in which one of them could have sat in order to keep an eye on the house, but the only Starbucks was on Main Street, surrounded by outlet stores. The Abelli residence was on Durham Road, way over on the far side of I-295, with no coffee shop in sight. Even stopping nearby for too long was likely to attract the attention of a neighbor or passing cop, which was why they had barely slowed as they gave the house the once-over. Out here in the boonies, people were too nosy for their own good. This was one of the reasons Pantuff hated small towns. The other reason was that he just hated small towns. He and Veale had also briefly scouted the woods behind the house, but couldn’t find a spot that allowed them to get a good vantage point without attracting attention from people walking their dogs on the trails. Some days, you just couldn’t catch a break.

“Let’s call the bitch,” said Pantuff. “I feel like lighting another fire under her.”

* * *

SARAH ABELLI AND I went back over events in both Maine and Massachusetts. I asked her to tell me again about the men who had abducted and tortured her, this time concentrating on every aspect she could recall of their speech and appearance: height, weight, hair color behind the masks, whether they were left- or right-handed, and any distinguishing markings she might have registered, such as scars or tattoos. By the end, I had more to go on, but not much. I then made her recall what she could of the days preceding, and immediately following, the burglary, in case the men involved might have been keeping tabs on her and she’d spotted them, even if she wasn’t aware of doing so. Again, we didn’t come up with a lot, but Sarah thought she’d seen an old blue Chrysler LHS two days in a row, once at the Maine Mall and again at the Freeport Medical Center by the end of Durham Road. She remembered it because her father had driven the same model until his death, and she couldn’t look at one without thinking of him. I made a note to check if the medical center had a surveillance camera, but even if it did, I doubted I’d be able to gain access to the footage: doctors didn’t like private investigators examining the comings and goings of their patients.

“I don’t suppose you were watching your rearview mirror on your way here?” I said.

She bristled slightly.

“My husband was a mobster,” she said. “We spent our lives looking in the rearview mirror. I took precautions. I wasn’t followed.”

This I could accept.

“What now?” she said, as I closed my notebook.

“There’s not much we can do until you hear from them again, and they tell you how the exchange is going to work. If they’re professionals, they’ll be very cautious. That could mean a moving drop—you open the car window as you drive by a certain location, dump the money, and keep going—with one of them watching you for the last couple of miles from another vehicle, just in case you’ve decided to play it clever, and the other waiting at the drop point to pick up the money. You won’t be told the location until you’re actually driving, and then only a few minutes before you reach it, so it can’t be staked out in advance.”

“But if I do that, how do I know I’ll get Kara’s things back?”

“You don’t,” I said, “and if your instincts are right, you never will, or not all of them. If you paid once, they may decide that you’ll pay again.”

“Well, fuck that.”

But it was said more in desperation than defiance. She wanted her daughter’s possessions returned safely, and her instincts told her this was now looking less and less probable, no matter how much money she paid.

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