To question his judgment and appraisal of the situation might be fatal, but after an agonizing moment of indecision Barbara picked up the phone and with trembling fingers rapidly dialed the New York police department.
She was transferred from Central to a switchboard and within seconds was answering questions in response to the impersonal but strangely reassuring voice of a Lieutenant Vincent Tonnelli.
After logging the time of Mrs. Luther Boyd’s call (six fifty-eight P.M.), Lieutenant Gypsy Tonnelli had ordered into action fifty percent of the provisional equipment and personnel assigned to his task force and had notified Manhattan borough commanders, North and South, Chiefs Slocum and Larkin, that he had placed the remainder of his forces on a standby Red Alert status.
This might have been considered an overreaction to the report of a missing child, but both chiefs had agreed with the Gypsy’s decision.
Because there was something strange and dangerous about the times.
. . The child had gone into the park about six P.M. The parents had learned of her disappearance at approximately six thirty but had waited another half hour to notify the police. Which meant the child had been in the park almost an hour by the time Mrs. Boyd’s call came in. In addition, the department had had a probable visual “make” on the Juggler at five forty-eight at Eighty-third and Lexington, not more than six or eight minutes from where Kate Boyd had gone into the park.
It was the killing day, the killing hour, and they had certain knowledge the Juggler was in a fateful radius of Central Park and Kate Boyd.
In the conference call with the chiefs, Chip Larkin had concluded by saying quietly, “Say a Hail Mary and pour it on, Lieutenant.”
And Chief Slocum had added, “Put a frigging noose around the park, Gypsy, and we’ll pull it up hard and tight.”
At Tonnelli’s headquarters, Sokolsky had dispatched squads and patrolmen from standby pools to the east and west perimeters of Central Park, sealing it off from Seventy-eighth Street north to the borders of Harlem. The squads were to be parked at hundred-yard intervals with dome lights flashing, while the patrolmen would maintain surveillance on sidewalks at fifty-yard intervals until further notice.
Dispatcher Ed Maurer on the switchboard at Sergeant Boyle’s headquarters had dispatched similar units to establish identical cordons from Seventy-seventh Street south to Fifty-ninth and across Fifty-ninth from Fifth Avenue to Central Park West.
Thus, within fifteen minutes of Mrs. Boyd’s call to Lieutenant Tonnelli, these units had been deployed, and from an aerial view, Central Park would appear as a huge black rectangle with its four sides defined by mile-long lines of flashing red dome lights.
Tonnelli said to Sokolsky, “Send the child’s description to the local radio stations. White, blond, age eleven, wearing a red ski jacket.” He had got these details from the child’s mother.
“How about TV?” Sokolsky asked him.
“They’ll pick it up anyway,” Tonnelli said.
“Then why give it to radio?”
“It’s a thousand-to-one chance, but I’m taking it. Some guy driving in the park might just spot the girl. I’d rather keep a lid on it, but we’ve got to give the Boyd child every break we can.”
Lieutenant Tonnelli told Sokolsky to notify Deputy Chief of Detectives Walter Greene that he was leaving headquarters and would be at the Boyds’ apartment within minutes.
She was an attractive lady with style. Lean, rangy body, tawny hair, college, of course, and money-these were Gypsy Tonnelli’s first impressions of Barbara Boyd, who stood waiting for him with Mr.
Brennan under the canopy at the entrance of their building.
After introducing himself, Tonnelli checked the line of squad cars bordering the eastern edge of the park on Fifth Avenue.
“Your daughter went into the park about six? Is that right?”
“She may have fallen or sprained her ankle,” Barbara said. “Or she might have got turned around, lost her way.”
“Yes, of course. Something like that probably happened. But about the time. You said you learned she had gone into the park about six thirty.”
“Make that six thirty-five,” Mr. Brennan said.
“Thank you.” Gypsy Tonnelli looked steadily at Barbara Boyd. “But you didn’t call the police until six fifty- eight, Mrs. Boyd. Which means we’re starting twenty-three minutes late. Mind telling me why?”
After a brief pause, Barbara moistened her lips and said, “Because my husband told me not to call the police.”
“Why would he tell you a thing like that?”
“He simply thought it best we didn’t.”
“He went after your daughter?”
When Barbara nodded, Gypsy Tonnelli felt a stab of exasperation and anger. Civilians, he thought. Fucking civilians. The last thing they needed right now was a hysterical father running around the park, bawling out his kid’s name.
Barbara correctly interpreted his expression and said, “You’ll send your men after him, is that right?”
Sprained her ankle. . Lost her way. . Of course they had no way of knowing that the Juggler might have his hands on their daughter, but he couldn’t control an illogical anger at their innocence.
“Yes, we’ll pick up your husband, Mrs. Boyd. For his sake and the sake of your daughter. If he got in our way, he could be hurt.”
Tonnelli gave her a soft salute and turned toward his car, but she grabbed the sleeve of his topcoat and pulled him about with surprising strength.
“Then take me with you.
“I can’t do that, ma’am. We’ve closed off the park. Now we’re going to search it, tree by tree, bush by bush until we find-”
She interrupted him with a frantic headshake. “
Sweet Jesus Christ, Tonnelli thought wearily. All his Sicilian demons told him that they at last had the Juggler in a trap, but their chances of springing it could be destroyed by this gun-waving hysteric who might fire at shadows, could conceivably wound or kill police officers, but whose actions would surely and certainly warn the Juggler that the police were closing in on him, and with this in mind, he made a quick but reluctant decision.
“Get in the car,” he said to Mrs. Boyd.
Chapter 14
Kate Boyd stopped in the middle of a silent glade glowing softly with moonlight and made a practical attempt to assess and try to find some solution to her problems. She hadn’t heard her Scottie barking for the last several minutes and was praying fervently that he had tired of romping about the park and was now trotting back to Fifth Avenue, where Mr. Brennan would find him and take him up to their apartment.
But Kate, in running after the elusive sound of her Scottie’s barks and yelps, had managed to get herself hopelessly lost; she had the worrisome notion that she had been traveling in a wide circle for at least the last five minutes. If she walked east, that would take her back to Fifth Avenue. If she went south, that would bring her out on Fifty-ninth Street, and from there she could walk to her apartment. But the difficulty was, she wasn’t sure which way was east and which was south. Once on a camping trip, her father had taught her how to find the north star by using the Big Dipper; the handle pointed to it, or the tip of the bowl, she couldn’t remember which. In any event, the information wouldn’t help, because while the pale sky was full of stars, she couldn’t seem to find the Big Dipper.
Then there was something about Orion the Giant. His sword-did it point south? Or was it his belt?
