“Probably not,” I said. “But think about it. If your kid were in danger, wouldn’t you pull every string you had?” In the kitchen, Mrs. Dunning slammed a muffin tin hard enough to shake the glass in the French doors.
“You’re right. I would,” Parker said with a nod. “Can we at least both agree that the deputy mayor is one rabid bitch?”
“Now, on that one,” I said with a laugh, “I’m with you one hundred percent.”
AT 3:55, DONALD Dunning sat down at the Chippendale desk in the study. On it were chess sets chiseled in marble, leather-bound books, antique tin soldiers, a seashell inlaid with gold. But his eyes, along with everyone else’s, were locked squarely on the phone.
It rang at the stroke of four. It was a different number from the first call, a 718 area code this time.
Dunning wiped his sweating hands on his slacks before he lifted the receiver.
“This is Donald Dunning. Please tell me what I have to do to get my son back. I’ll do whatever you want,” he said.
“You mean except for calling the police when I told you not to?” the calm voice from the first call said. “Put them on the line. I know they’re there. Try to fool me again, and I’ll FedEx you a piece of Jacob in a biohazard bag.”
Dunning’s face went a shade of white I’d never seen before. His lips moved silently. I nodded to him that it was okay as I took the phone from his shaking hand.
“This is Mike Bennett. I’m a detective with the NYPD,” I said. “How’s Jacob? Is he okay?”
“We’ll discuss Jacob in due time, Mike,” the kidnapper said. “Did you hear that officious blowhard? His son’s life lies naked in my bare hands, and he thinks he can still give orders?”
“I think Mr. Dunning is just upset because he misses his son,” I said as I took out my notepad. “You’re obviously holding all the cards. All we want to know is how we can get Jacob back.”