Lost Friday Read online

  I trudged into the bathroom and took a piss while I listened to Romano go on about how we had really hit in on the head with this one. Yawning, I said, “You need to take it down a thousand, boss. Every newsman in the country is going to jump on this. Our scoop isn’t going to last long.”

  “That’s exactly why you need to stay ahead of this thing,” Romano said, true-to-form.

  I’d thought of that myself while I was writing the stories—I’d written two—but I hadn’t come up with another angle yet. What happened next, however, alleviated the need for that.

  “Do you have the TV on?” Romano asked.

  “No.”

  “Turn it on. CNN’s lead story is about your story.”

  I thought: no shit? I looked at the clock. The paper couldn’t have been on the street for more than a few minutes, and the networks had already jumped on it. I searched for the remote, but was immediately distracted by some thunderous pounding on my front door. I had barely stepped toward it when it sounded again.

  “Hold on!” I shouted, wondering who could be such an asshole at 4:30 in the f’ing morning. I opened the door, recognizing one of the FBI agents from the previous day.

  All business, he said, “Mister Pappas?”

  “Good guess, J. Edgar. What’s up?”

  “I’m Special Agent Cormier. This is Special Agent Donnelly. You need to come with us. We’ve heard from the kidnappers.”

  I know Romano said something as I put the phone down, but I don’t remember what it was.

  * * * * *

  Cormier and Donnelly whisked me across town to the Robelles’ house, where about a dozen cars were already parked outside. The first rays of sun hadn’t even begun to bend over the horizon, but it may as well have been daylight with all headlights blasting away from every direction. The blipping blue and red lights made the scene surreal, like strobes on a dance floor, painting flashes of movement in alternate colors. Inside, Roy was standing in the living room with three suits, all of which I again recognized from the day before. He was jabbing a finger in the air at all of them, and I heard the words, “When pigs fly.”

  Officer Johnson came over and whispered, “The Chief wants you to hang tight until he gets to you.”

  With that, Johnson put on his guard-dog look and took a position. Clearly, I wasn’t going anywhere. The first floor of the house was full of more suits and Sea Beach police officers, with everyone grouped in clusters, seemingly waiting for something to happen. “What’s going on?” I asked out of the corner of my mouth.

  Johnson said, “I think this is turning into a giant pissing contest, and the Chief is about to throw everyone’s ass the hell out of town.”

  “Can he do that?”

  Johnson glanced at Roy, who at that very moment was jabbing his fat finger toward the Robelles’ front door instead of the suits’ noses. Even from across the room I could see a vein popping in his forehead. Johnson said, “I don’t know if he can or not, but I wouldn’t want to mess with him right now.”

  The three suits Roy was arguing with all started moving, but one of them jabbed a finger back at Roy and said angrily, “We’ll let a judge decide.”

  Roy said, “Tell me if I need to be there. I’ll be sure to wear a nice shirt.”

  The suits and their comrades filed out the door, and, from what I could tell, only Roy, his men, and me were left in the house. Roy ambled over, and said, “Did they ask you any questions on the way over?”

  He meant Cormier and Donnelly. I just shook my head.

  “Did they ask you to do anything?”

  Wondering why Roy was being such a control freak, I said, “All I know is what they told me, which is that we heard from the kidnappers. Where are the Robelles?”

  He stabbed me with a look that told me instantly that he didn’t know how much to reveal. After a thousand interviews with people who didn’t want you to know something, you learn how to smell it, and I’d smelled it from Roy a couple of times now. “The Robelles took the kids and left.”

  “Left for where? I thought we heard from the kidnappers.”

  “We did. They’re outside the boro limits.”

  “The kidnappers?”

  Roy shook his head. “No, Sherlock, the Robelles.”

  I couldn’t put two-and-two together. Roy was acting squirrelly, too squirrelly for a man with his normally cool head. “Okay, Roy, what’s going on here?”

  Roy gave me the eyeball. “They’ve been here, Johnny. They’ve been back.”

  A little tingle raced up my spine. There was something he wasn’t telling me. Surely he knew that having the resources and manpower of the FBI, CIA, NSA, ATF, freaking NASA, and any other federal agency with initials, had to be more effective than conducting this investigation literally on his own, but he’d just gotten done throwing all out of those guys out of the house. Roy wasn’t that stupid.

  Tapping the side of my nose, I said, “The nose knows, Roy, and there are too many other noses nosing around this thing. One of them is bound to smell that you’re hiding something. They have jurisdiction here, and you’re going to get yourself relieved of command—or worse—if you keep fucking with these guys.”

  Roy nodded solemnly. “Come with me,” he said lowly. “I can explain everything.”

  * * * * *

  Inside Roy’s F-150, I wondered again why I was such an important element in his thinking. He didn’t say much, just drove, and I watched the sun come up over the horizon. We pulled up to a house a few minutes later—Roy’s house, it turned out—and I could tell his mind was whirring away at about a hundred miles an hour. Inside, Mrs. Mulroney greeted us promptly, dressed in a fuzzy blue bathrobe. She kissed Roy on the cheek and turned to me.

  “Bacon and eggs?” she asked without even asking who I was.

  I said, “Yes ma’am. That would be fine.” She turned away, dropping a mug of steaming coffee in front of me without asking if I wanted any. Her demure smile told me what kind of person she was, and I knew Roy had done well in life.

  Roy poured himself some coffee. “Have you seen today’s Asbury Park Press?”

  I remembered that the paper hadn’t even been delivered yet when I’d left my house with Cormier and Donnelly. “No.”

  Roy dropped a newspaper on the kitchen table, and Mrs. Mulroney stopped what she was doing and turned my way. I took the hint and sat down. The first thing I noticed was that the paper was thin, very thin, like a Tuesday edition and not at all like a Sunday edition, which is what it should have been. I figured maybe this was only part of the paper, and I started scanning the headlines looking for my stories. As I said, I’d written two, the first being where I revealed that we’d been visited by what I’d coined futuristic terrorists. The second story focused specifically on David Robelle’s disappearance. Both of them were leads, and should have been plastered all over the front page. One of my stories was there, all right, at least it had my byline, but I don’t know where the headline came from, nor did I remember writing it.

  Roy’s eyes, as well as Mrs. Mulroney’s, were glued to me. “Check the date,” Roy said.

  I did, and a queasy feeling came over me again, a feeling that was becoming all too regular an occurrence. It read Wednesday, November 3rd. “This date is a month from now,” I observed, a fact of which Roy was very aware.

  “I think they’re trying to warn us,” he said.

  Mrs. Mulroney dropped a plate on the table as I read the story I’d supposedly written—or would write, is probably a more accurate way of expressing it. Roy was at the counter, waiting patiently for me to finish reading. “This is supposedly what happens?” I asked.

  He shrugged. “If you wrote it, I guess it is.”

  It was an odd response. I wasn’t sure how to take it.

  I picked at the eggs and nibbled on a warm biscuit, pushing aside what could have been a very delicious breakfast had my stomach not been churning like a washing mac
hine. I reread the article, while Roy gazed woodenly at the ocean breaking about fifty yards off his back porch. The writing certainly had my style; it certainly could have been mine. I put the paper down. “So this hasn’t happened yet,” I concluded.

  Eyeing me sharply, “And I don’t intend to let it,” Roy said.

  Chapter 7… The Doodle

  Romano said, “I don’t remember reading or editing any of this.”

  Roy’s eyes were stones. “Maybe it’s a fake. You know, one of those gag newspapers.”

  I didn’t think so, and, giving the pages a scrupulous once over, Romano said, “I don’t know. Everything in here looks pretty legit.”

  “You say none of these articles are in your databank?”

  “We’re still checking our network,” Romano replied, “but so far, zilch.”

  We were in Romano’s office at the Press headquarters in Neptune. Roy was wearing jeans and the same flannel overshirt he’d been wearing since the day before; Romano sported baggy sweatpants, and some weekend stubble. Outside, the newsroom was buzzing despite the fact that it was eight o’clock on a Sunday morning. Reporters from other Gannett newspapers were helping themselves to any open desks until our own people checked back in on Monday. Thinking of the article I’d supposedly written, I wondered if any of them wouldn’t return.

  Romano got up and walked to the coffeemaker, dropping the newspaper that hadn’t been printed yet on his desk. From a distance, I read the headline again: Teachers Missing! Mentally, I found myself alternating between a state of fear and sense of fascination. According to my story, two teachers from Sea Beach Regional High School, Scott Reemer and Allison Kovar, had turned up missing, both reappearing a day later with no recollection whatsoever of where they’d been—sort of individual Lost Fridays, if you will. I picked up the paper and scanned my article again: lots of words, but nothing that couldn’t have been summarized in two sentences. Reporters did that: taking a story where there weren’t a lot of details, then saying the same thing thirty different ways. It meant there weren’t many facts to relate, and, as such, there wasn’t a lot of depth to the piece. Usually, I tried not to write that kind of story. Indeed, Romano usually busted balls if a story like that crossed his desk, but he must have had inches to fill. Now, looking back on something I hadn’t written yet, I said, “Do you think there’s a possibility that the two teachers—”

  “Are David’s teachers?” Romano shot in, anticipating my question. “Goddamn man, let’s find out.” He moved so fast it was like a wind blew through the room. Ten minutes later we had our answer as one of the weekend guys poked his head in, and said, “It’s confirmed, boss. Both of them have David Robelle in their class.”

  Sure, it was all related, but I wondered if the teachers’ disappearance and David’s disappearance were directly connected.

  From his spot in the corner of the office Roy said, “If they can access the newspaper, they already know we’ve violated their ransom demand.”

  That meant we could never see David again, but neither Romano nor I said anything.

  Roy came over, and held the paper in his hand. “They’re trying to tell us something through the newspaper.”

  “Why?” I asked.

  “That’s what we need to find out.”

  * * * * *

  “There are a couple of things I don’t understand,” I said as I nibbled on my second breakfast of the morning. Romano had sent out for breakfast sandwiches, one of which he was inhaling, but my stomach didn’t feel much better than it did at Roy’s house. Deep in thought, Roy was wearing a trail in Romano’s carpet, ignoring me. I gave him his space, noticing how everyone outside the office was stealing glances at us and then looking away. I figured I had that terrorist look again.

  “I said…” I said in a loud voice this time, to get Roy’s attention, “... there are a couple of things I don’t understand.” That got his attention all right, but I was getting a little concerned with Roy acting like a one-man task force. I mean, I was still wondering why he’d thrown all those federal agents out of the Robelles’ house. And why were the Robelles themselves outside the town limits? So I asked him.

  “Because as far as we know, the only people who’ve been abducted are from within the town’s borders. I don’t know if putting the Robelles outside those borders would prevent them from being plucked away again, but I figure it’s worth a shot. We need them here.”

  “Don’t you think we need some help?” I asked boldly. “I mean, we don’t have the resources of the federal government. They have—” Roy put up his hand, stopping me. I expected Romano to jump in, but one thing I’d discovered about Romano was that, as big a pain in the ass as he was, he had great instincts and knew when to shut the fuck up and let something happen. I guess this was one of those times.

  “C’mon, Roy. You’re asking me to put my faith in you, but I don’t understand what you’re trying to do. I’m surprised the feds haven’t taken over already.”

  He’d heard that from me before, and it still rankled him, which was fine because that was exactly my intent. I noted that Romano had slyly picked up a handheld tape recorder.

  Romano said, “We’re under no obligation here, Chief. You want Johnny to continue as your spokesman, you’re gonna have to bring us in on whatever you’re thinking. Otherwise, we’re gonna need to talk about the other side of this. You don’t think those agents are talking, and that your lack of cooperation isn’t already being questioned? This is my back yard, Chief. I’m not gonna get scooped on this.”

  Bang. Lid down, nails in the coffin. Romano hammered it home for me. Big, hairy cojones, I thought.

  Roy took off his hat and ran his fingers through his hair. “The paper?” he said, pointing to it on Romano’s desk.

  I nodded, urging him on.

  “It didn’t go to the Robelles. It came to me, at three o’clock this morning while I was lying in bed staring at the ceiling. I heard it land on my doorstep.”

  “Wait a minute,” I said. “Those two FBI agents were at my door an hour-and-a-half later, and they already knew we’d heard from the kidnappers. Did that come from you?”

  Roy said, “Not a chance,” but I could see he wanted to say more.

  “What are you trying to tell me, Chief?”

  “The FBI guys had been tipped, and probably all the other federal people had been as well. That’s why they were already at the Robelles’ house when you got there.”

  I simply assumed that the paper had appeared at the Robelles’ house. “Tipped by whom?” I pressed.

  Roy answered in a steely voice, “All I know is those agents got a call from someone claiming to be one of the kidnappers, stating further that they were at the Robelles’ residence.”

  “But, why?”

  “My house was being watched, and whoever delivered this paper had to get those FBI pukes out of the way so they could drop this paper on my doorstep.”

  “The FBI was watching you? How do you know?”

  Roy just made a face. “Gimme some credit, Johnny. Besides, that’s what these guys do.”

  “So, the FBI doesn’t know about the paper.”

  “Not unless they heard it from the caller—which I doubt. The only people who know about it are in this room.”

  Roy’s implication was clear: he didn’t want us to blab about it. “And how did you end up at the Robelles’ house?” I asked.

  “The agents called me when they got there and found out the house was empty. They didn’t know the Robelles were somewhere else and thought they’d been kidnapped too.”

  Having sat there listening patiently, “That means the bad guys are among us,” Romano concluded.

  “At least one of them is,” Roy responded.

  I slumped into a chair, and said, “Fuck.”

  Romano said, “It could be anyone.”

  “And that’s why I want this town shut down,” Roy went on. “We need
to know who belongs here, and who doesn’t. With all these strangers in town, we could never find that out.”

  Now it made some sense. “You said the kidnappers are trying to tell us something,” I said, hanging it out there for him.

  Roy pulled a piece of paper from his pocket. It was just a plain old piece of paper, legal pad yellow, with a lot of notes and doodles all over it. “Sometimes, when I can’t figure things out, I write things down. It helps me put things in order.”

  “That’s probably true about a lot of people,” I responded as I watched Romano pick up another sandwich.

  “Sometimes I doodle,” Roy went on.

  “Uh-huh,” I said. Sometimes I doodled too.

  “So last night after dinner, I was making some notes and doodling in front of the TV. Look at this doodle over here.”

  I did, and a fire alarm went off inside my head. I reached into my jacket, which I’d flung across a chair, and extracted my notepad, the notepad I carried with me everywhere I went. Flipping furiously, I stopped at about the eighth page. It had doodles on it. I compared my doodle to Roy’s doodle, and it was virtually the same.

  Chewing loudly, Romano said, “Well I’ll be damned.”

  The color drained from Roy’s face. He looked at me with narrow eyes, and said, “It looks like you’re in on this, too.”

  “In on what?” Romano asked.

  Roy pointed to the paper. “Turn to page nine.”

  I did, noting nothing in particular except that a month from now some new freeholders would be elected in Ocean County. There were several ads on the page, I noticed, thinking suddenly that I might want to take note of the lottery numbers that came out that day.

  Roy said, “Check out the dentist’s ad on the bottom right.”

  I did, and there sat our doodles, inside the ad as part of the logo.

  Romano said, “Well, fuck me sideways. I think we need to talk to…” Romano looked at the ad. “… Doctor Behari.”

  Roy looked at my notepad. “Has anyone else seen that?”