Two Little Girls in Blue by Mary Higgins Clark Page A

Sommers raced to get it. “We’ll go around Columbus Circle,” he said to the agent who was driving, “and park on Tenth around Sixtieth Street.”
    *   *   *
    It took Franklin Bailey ten minutes to reach and enter the Duane Reade store. When he came back out, he was holding a small package in one hand and a phone in the other, but they could no longer hear what the Pied Piper was telling him. As Sommers watched, Bailey got into a car and was driven away.
    Inside Duane Reade, Mike Benzara, a Fordham/Lincoln Center student and part-time stock clerk, was walking by a cash register. He stopped when he saw a cell phone lying amidst the gum and candy displayed on the counter. Pretty fancy phone, he thought as he handed itto the cashier. “Too bad it isn’t finders, keepers,” he joked.
    â€œThat’s the second one today,” the cashier said as she took it from him and dropped it into the drawer below the register. “Dollars to donuts this one belongs to that old guy who was dragging those suitcases. He no sooner paid for the garbage bags and phone he just bought than the phone in his pocket rang. He asked me to give the number of the new one to whoever was calling him. He said his glasses were too blurred for him to read it.”
    â€œMaybe he’s got a girlfriend and doesn’t want his wife to find her number when she’s going over the bills.”
    â€œNo. It was a guy he was talking to. Probably his bookie.”
    â€œThere is a sedan outside waiting for you,” the Pied Piper had instructed Bailey. “Your name is displayed on the window of the passenger side. You need not be afraid to get in. It is car 142 of the Excel Driving Service. It has been reserved in your name and prepaid. Be sure to take the suitcases from the carrier and have the driver place them in the backseat with you.”
    Excel driver Angel Rosario pulled up to the corner of Fifty-ninth Street and Tenth Avenue and double-parked. The old guy dragging a luggage cart and trying to look in the windows of the cars parked at the curb had to be his passenger. Angel jumped out. “Mr. Bailey?”
    â€œYes. Yes.”
    Angel reached for the handle of the cart. “I’ll open the trunk, sir.”
    â€œNo, I must get something out of the bags. Put them in the backseat.”
    â€œThey’re wet,” Angel objected.
    â€œThen put them on the floor,” Bailey snapped. “Do it. Do it.”
    â€œOkay. Okay. Don’t have a heart attack.” In his twenty years of driving for Excel, Angel had had his share of kooky passengers, but this old guy was a definite worry. He looked like he was about to have a heart attack, and Angel didn’t intend to contribute to it by arguing. Besides, there might be a good tip if he was helpful, he reasoned. Even though Bailey’s clothes were soaked, Angel could tell they were expensive, and his voice had a classy tone, not like his last passenger, a woman who argued about being billed for waiting time. She had sounded like a buzz saw in action.
    Angel opened the rear door of the car, but Bailey wouldn’t get in until the suitcases had been unsnapped from the cart and hoisted onto the floor. I ought to put the cart on his lap, Angel thought as he folded it and tossed it into the front passenger seat. He closed the door, ran around to the driver’s side, and got in. “The Brooklyn Museum, right, sir?”
    â€œThat’s what you’ve been told.” It was both a question and an answer.
    â€œYeah. We’re going to pick up your friend and bring him back with you to the Pierre Hotel. I warn you. It’sgonna take a long time. There’s a lot of traffic, and with the rain, the driving is lousy.”
    â€œI understand.”
    As the car started, Franklin Bailey’s new cell phone began to ring. “You have met your driver?” the Pied Piper asked.
    â€œYes. I’m in the