Silent Night by Mary Higgins Clark Page A

a question they were all frantic to ask.
    When the squad car pulled up behind the surveillance van, Shore made one last appeal. “If I keep my mouth shut . . .”
    Folney answered, “I suggest you start right now Jack. Get in the van.”

14

    P ete Cruise had been about to call it a day. He’d discovered where Cally Hunter lived when he tried to interview her after she was released from prison, and now he was hoping her brother would show up. But there’d been nothing to watch for hours except the on-again-off-again falling snow. Now at least it seemed to have stopped for good. The van that he knew was a police van was still parked across the street from Cally’s apartment, but probably all they were doing was monitoring her calls. The likelihood of Jimmy Siddons suddenly showing up at his sister’s house now was about the same as two strangers having matching DNA.
    All the hours of hanging around Hunter’s building were a waste, Pete decided. From the time he’d seen Cally come home shortly before six, and the two detectives stop in around seven, it had been a big nothing.
    He’d kept his powerful portable radio on the whole time he waited, switching between the police band, his station, WYME, and the WCBS news station. No word of Siddons at all. Shame about that missing kid.
    When the ten o’clock news came on WYME, Pete thought for the hundredth time that the anchor in that slot sounded like a wimp. But she did have some real emotion when she talked about the missing seven-year-old. Maybe we need a missing kid every day, Pete thought sarcastically, then was immediately ashamed of himself.
    There was a lot of activity in Hunter’s building, people coming and going. Many of the churches had moved up the midnight services to ten o’clock. No matter what time they schedule them, some people will always be late, Pete thought as he saw an elderly couple hurry from the building and turn up Avenue B. Probably heading for St. Emeric’s.
    The woman who had brought Hunter’s kid home earlier was coming up the block. Was she headed for Hunter’s apartment? Cally planning to go out? he wondered.
    Pete shrugged. Maybe Hunter had a late date or was going to church herself. Obviously, today wasn’t theday to get the story that was going to make his name as a reporter.
    It’ll happen, Pete promised himself. I won’t always be working on this lousy ten-watt station. His buddy who worked at WNBC loved to ride Pete about his job. A favorite put-down was that the only audience for WYME were two cockroaches and three stray cats. “This is station Why-Me,” he’d joke.
    Pete started his car. He was just about to pull out when a squad car raced down the block and stopped in front of Cally’s building.
    Through narrowed eyes, Pete observed three men emerge. One he recognized as Jack Shore crossed the street and got into the van. Then in the light from the building entrance he could make out Mort Levy. He didn’t get a good look at the other one.
    Something was breaking. Pete turned off the engine, suddenly interested again.
    *   *   *
    While she waited for Mort Levy, Cally took Gigi’s Christmas presents from their hiding place behind the couch and set them in front of the tree. The secondhand doll’s carriage didn’t look that bad, she decided, with the pretty blue satin coverlet and pillowcase. She’d put the baby doll she’d picked up for a couple of dollars last month in it, but it wasn’t nearly as cute as the one thatshe’d wanted to buy from the peddler on Fifth Avenue. That one had Gigi’s golden-brown hair and was wearing a blue party dress. If she hadn’t been looking for that peddler, she wouldn’t have seen the wallet, and the boy wouldn’t have followed her, and . . .
    She put that thought aside. She was past feeling now. Carefully, she stacked the presents she’d wrapped