Got the Look Page 2

  “They’re headed toward the grate,” said the sheriff.

  “What’s that?” asked Andie.

  “There’s a passage to the main tunnel that’s blocked off by a steel grate. After losing a good two dozen divers down there, it seemed wise to bar it off and keep any more from going in.”

  “So the dye is leading your dive team to the main tunnel, where all those people died?”

  Before the sheriff could answer, the on-screen image grabbed their attention. At first, it was little more than a blotch of color against the brownish green limestone. The form was too irregular, too twisted, to be human. Slowly, however, the camera zoomed in, and the parts became a whole.

  “Oh my God,” said Andie, her words coming like a reflex.

  It was a disturbing yet surreal sight. In these flowing crystal waters, the shoulder-length hair seemed to float so peacefully, like a sleeping mermaid’s locks. The woman was unconscious, if alive, her twisted torso pressed against the steel grate by the sheer force of the aquifer’s current. The right leg was caught in the bars that blocked off the entrance to the main tunnel, obviously broken, as it was bending at a severe angle below the knee. She was clothed, but the pants and shirt were torn, and the skin showed numerous scrapes and cuts. It reminded Andie of a drowning victim she’d seen pulled from the Columbia River in her native Washington State, the body having taken a beating as it flowed downstream.

  “That’s Ashley Thornton,” said McClean.

  “You sure?” asked the tech agent.

  “Who else would it be?” said Andie.

  Below, the divers moved in quickly. The videographer continued to film while the others moved into rescue mode. The lead diver immediately began working on her leg, trying to free it from the bars, shooing away the little mustard-colored eels that swarmed around the body like underwater buzzards. The other diver removed his glove to check her pulse, then immediately applied an Air Buddy system to her mouth.

  Andie said, “That Air Buddy won’t do much good if her lungs are full of water.”

  “Gotta try,” said McClean. “Survival time can be greater in water this clear and cold.”

  “It’s still a matter of minutes,” said Andie. “Freshwater goes straight to the bloodstream. Her red blood cells are bursting as we speak. We’re looking at hypoxia or heart attack, if we aren’t already there.”

  More little eels arrived with each passing second, nipping at the divers now, as if testing to see if they, too, were for the taking. The second diver checked the woman’s pulse once more. He looked straight at the camera and shook his head, which did not bode well. Her only hope was CPR, which meant bringing her to the surface immediately, though the divers themselves had to avoid the bends. The diver made a frantic gesture toward the lead diver, who was working feverishly to free the woman’s leg from the bars. The videographer laid the camera on the cave floor and swam over to help.

  The divers were off camera, but the stream of video continued. The crew onboard could see only the sandy floor and the victim’s arm.

  “What is that?” asked Andie as she pointed to the screen.

  The others looked more closely. Something was wrapped around the victim’s wrist. It was a bracelet, though not a piece of jewelry that a woman would wear. It looked more like the plastic identification bracelets worn by hospital patients.

  “Was Mrs. Thornton in the hospital before she was kidnapped?” asked Andie.

  “Not that I know of,” said the sheriff.

  “I think I see some lettering on it,” said Andie.

  The tech agent adjusted the contrast so that the bracelet was easier to examine. The writing came into focus.

  “Can you read that?” said the sheriff.

  “Freeze it,” said Andie.

  The tech agent stilled the frame. “Looks like two words,” he said. “I can probably make them a little bigger and clearer.” He worked with it, and the first letter came into focus.

  “W-r…something,” he said. “Last letter also looks like an r.”

  “Can you bring up the rest?” said Andie.

  He made one more adjustment. Two words appeared. They weren’t perfect, but they were clearly legible.

  “Wrong number,” Andie read aloud.

  The sheriff grumbled. “Wrong number? That son of a bitch. Does he think he’s funny or something?”

  “It’s not a joke,” said Andie, her eyes never leaving the screen. “It’s a message. And I think I know exactly what he’s telling us.”

  2

  Yale Law School. Four years of defending Florida’s death-row inmates. A respectable stint as a federal prosecutor, and then back to private practice, where he handled Miami’s most captivating murder trial in years. After all those accomplishments, the colorful career of Jack Swyteck—the son of Florida’s former governor—had taken a curious turn.

  “It’s a battle between neighbors,” Jack told his best friend, Theo Knight.

  “It’s a fight over a penis,” said Theo.

  Jack winced. “I prefer to call it artistic differences.”

  “Over a penis.”

  “Well, yeah, if you want to be crude about it.”

  “No, if I wanted to be crude, we’d be talking about a rock-hard, fourteen-inch—”

  “Okay, okay. Will you help me or not?”

  Theo smiled. “Course I’ll help ya, buddy. I’m always there to help.”

  It was odd, but Theo had a way of making it seem almost normal to be discussing a rock-hard penis in the context of Jack’s newest case. Theo was Jack’s “investigator,” for lack of a better term. Whatever Jack needed, Theo went and got it, whether it was the last prop plane out of Africa, a full confession from the loser who torched Jack’s convertible, or an explanation for a naked corpse found in Jack’s bathtub. Jack never stopped wondering how Theo came up with these things. Sometimes he asked; more often, he simply didn’t want to know. Theirs was not exactly a textbook friendship: The Ivy League son of a governor meets the black high school dropout from Liberty City. But they got on just fine for two guys who’d met on death row, Jack the lawyer and Theo the inmate. Jack’s persistence had delayed Theo’s date with the electric chair long enough for DNA evidence to come into vogue and prove him innocent. It wasn’t the original plan, but Jack ended up a part of Theo’s new life, sometimes going along for the ride, other times just watching with amazement as Theo made up for precious lost time.

  At four o’clock Friday afternoon they were inside the public-hearing chamber at Coral Gables City Hall. It was Jack’s job to present an argument to the all-powerful board of architects, a group of mostly well-meaning volunteers who held the final say on whether any proposed structure was in keeping with the city’s strict aesthetic standards and, more important, with the personal whim of the board’s most arrogant members. Jack’s client had placed a seventeen-foot statue in his backyard in Gables Estates, an exact duplicate of the David in Florence, Italy. Well, not quite an exact duplicate. Experts have long noted that, perhaps because the artist realized that his statue would stand high on a pedestal and be viewed from below, Michelangelo intentionally made the right hand much larger than the left so that, to the viewer’s eye, it would appear anatomically proportionate. For reasons that could hardly qualify as artistic, Jack’s client took this “big hand” anomaly to its inevitable twenty-first-century, Viagra-crazy, size-does-matter cultural extension. (What did women always say about guys with big hands?) The end result was a David that, if reduced proportionately to a man of average height, would sport a fourteen-inch penis.

  The neighbor complained.

  Jack was on the case.

  Theo, naturally, was loving it.

  Of course, Jack could readily appreciate the opposition. He had no interest in owning a David with a Goliath-sized penis, and he probably wouldn’t want it in his neighbor’s yard, either. But his client had dug in his heels, and it was Jack’s job to convince the board of architects that it was a homeowner’s
God-given right to erect whatever he wanted, no pun intended. He also knew that he didn’t have a chance in hell of winning. So he might as well have fun.

  “Ladies and gentlemen,” he said, addressing the twelve staid board members, “thank you for your time on this matter. If you’ll indulge me for a moment, I thought we’d begin our presentation with a song. Not just any song, but the official state song of Florida, ‘Old Folks at Home,’ or perhaps better known simply as ‘Suwannee River.’ It will be sung a cappella by my distinguished and surprisingly musical assistant, Mr. Theo Knight. Theo, if you please.”

  The chairman leaned toward his gooseneck microphone and said, “Mr. Swyteck, this is highly irregular.”

  “We’ll be quick, I promise. Theo, from the top.”

  Theo took a moment, as if getting into role. He was an imposing man with the brawn of a linebacker and the height of an NBA star, sort of a cross between the Rock and a young Samuel L. Jackson on steroids. His prison time came as no surprise to anyone, but that bad-boy image served him well. He could flash a friendly smile or a menacing glare, and either way you got the message that he took crap from no one.

  For this little number, Theo rounded his shoulders, head down, as if he’d been out in the field picking cotton since sunrise. Then he sang in a baritone voice that filled the old stone chamber, using the exact plantation dialect that Stephen Foster had penned:

  Way down upon de Suwannee Ribber,

  Far, far away,

  Dere’s wha my heart is turning ebber,

  Dere’s wha de old folks stay.

  “Mr. Swyteck, please,” said the chairman, groaning.

  “Keep singing, Theo. Go straight to the chorus.”

  Theo took it up a notch, his voice louder and fuller.

  “All de world am sad and dreary,

  Eb-rywhere I roam;

  Oh, darkeys, how my heart grows weary—”

  “Stop right there,” said Jack. “Did I hear you right? Give me that last line one more time, please.”

  “Oh, darkeys, how my heart grows weary,

  Far from de old folks at—”

  “Okay, stop.” Jack canvassed the board but said nothing more. He simply let those lyrics lie exactly where Theo had dropped them, right on their inflated heads, draped over this distinguished deliberative body like an itchy blanket. Everyone felt the discomfort, but they were drowning in the seas of political correctness, not sure how to handle this one.

  Finally, Jack voiced his incredulity. “‘Oh, darkeys’? ‘Oh, darkeys’? Now, there’s a state song fer ya. Don’t you think?”

  A volley of awkward glances bounced across the dais. Finally, the chairman crawled out from under that figurative blanket, stroking his gray handlebar mustache as he spoke. “Mr. Swyteck, what exactly is your point?”

  “Glad you asked, Mr. Chairman. We’re here today arguing whether a homeowner can place a statue on his own property, the original of which is an undisputed masterpiece that stands in a museum and is seen by millions of people every year. And the reason for this feud is that one extremely wealthy neighbor might someday look out the back window of her ten-million-dollar waterfront estate and be offended. At the same time, we have an official state song about darkeys, and nobody says a word. Do you think maybe—just maybe—this might be a classic case of money talks and much ado about nothing?”

  Jack continued for several more minutes, and they seemed mildly intrigued by his creativity. In the end, however, Michelangelo himself couldn’t have reshaped their sense of good taste and decency with a hammer and chisel. The statue was voted down twelve to zero. At least for the time being, Coral Gables would remain “the City Beautiful.”

  Twenty minutes later, Jack and Theo were at the other end of Miracle Mile, laughing over a couple of beers at Houston’s. The happy-hour crowd was just beginning to arrive, so there were still a few open stools at the bar. They drained the first round quickly, and then Theo ordered two more drafts.

  “Sorry you lost the case,” said Theo. “Still think my straw hat and a little ‘Zippity Do Dah’ could have made the difference.”

  “Not that important, anyway.”

  “Right. Sort of a pissant case for a hotshot lawyer like yourself, isn’t it?”

  Jack selected a tortilla chip and gathered up some fresh salsa. “William Bailey asked me to take it as a favor for one of his clients.”

  Theo made a face, clearly disapproving. William Bailey was the managing partner of Bailey, Benning, and Langer, Miami’s oldest, largest, and most self-important law firm. It was no secret in the legal community that BB&L was looking for a real trial lawyer to head its litigation department.

  “They’re getting their hooks in you, Jack buddy. Take a few cases, get to know their clients. Next thing you know, you got a nice corner office, two dozen young lawyers think Mr. Swyteck’s shit don’t stink, and your FYN is off the charts.”

  “My FYN?”

  “Your fuck-you number. The amount of money you need to have stashed away in order to walk up to the stuffed prick who signs your paycheck and say, ‘Fuck you, buddy, I’m outta here.’ Miami’s highest FYN gots to be a partner at Bailey, Benning, and Langer.”

  “I’m not selling out.”

  “I hears you saying it, man. But you dance long enough with anybody, you end up begging for the pooty.”

  Theo was about to say more, then stopped, his gaze suddenly fixed toward the entrance. Jack turned to see a striking brunette walk toward the hostess. She wasn’t dripping with sexuality like so many of south Florida’s walking billboards for plastic surgery. She was captivating on a more intriguing level, dressed in a black Chanel suit with an open collar, only a hint of cleavage, the jacket cut just sharply enough to suggest that a pretty amazing body went along with that classic face.

  “Good,” said Jack, “she’s here. That’s the woman I wanted you to meet.”

  “That’s Mia? You’re dating her?”

  “Yeah. Better than eight weeks now.”

  For the first time in ten years, Theo was speechless.

  “What’s wrong?” said Jack.

  “You didn’t tell me she was gorgeous.”

  “Maybe I didn’t think it was all that important.”

  “Yeah, right. And maybe I’ll be elected governor of Utah. How do you go two months seeing a woman like that and not give me an eyeful?”

  “You always made excuses. I figured you had no interest in meeting her.”

  “I just didn’t want to have to pretend I liked some loser who’d probably end up dumping you anyway. But damn, Jack. Didn’t know you had it in you.”

  “Is it my imagination, or did you somehow manage to insult me thirty-six different ways in just three sentences?”

  “No, man, it’s a compliment. How old is she? Twenty-five?”

  “Older than she looks. So don’t look at me like I’m robbing the cradle.”

  “Rob away. Got no problem with that. Except…”

  “Except what?”

  “I was just thinking. She looks the type who’d go for a rich lawyer.”

  “What are you saying now? The regular Jack Swyteck isn’t good enough for her?”

  “I would never say that.” He gave Jack an assessing look, then asked, “Would you?”

  Jack’s mouth opened, but the words took a little longer. “Do you honestly think I’m courting a white-shoe law firm because I’m trying to impress a woman?”

  “All I know is that the old Jack Swyteck wouldn’t go near a place like Bailey, Benning, and Langer. Now you’re doing William Bailey personal favors, representing his client in a dumb-ass dispute before the hoity-toity Coral Gables Board of Architects. And surprise, surprise. That sudden change of heart coincides with the arrival of a bombshell named Mia.”

  Jack exaggerated his indignation, just being funny. “I’ll have you know that she happens to like this average Joe for who he is.”

  “How do you know that?”

  “Because it was her su
ggestion that I defend my client’s statue of David on the grounds that a fourteen-inch penis is not large.”

  Theo’s beer nearly came through his nostrils. “Right. You two had sex yet?”

  That was a far more complicated question than Theo could possibly have imagined. “I’m not one to kiss and tell,” said Jack.

  Theo nodded. “Obviously it was with the lights off. Things always seem enormous when you can’t see them, like when your tongue’s going crazy trying to work out what feels like a fucking Cadillac stuck between your molars, but in reality it’s just this teensy-weensy shred of—”

  “Yeah, yeah. Got your point. Thanks, pal.”

  “Don’t mention it.”

  Jack caught Mia’s eye across the bar. She gave Jack a little wave and a smile, then started toward him. As she approached, Jack couldn’t help but notice that each time they got together, he felt happier to see her. His mind started to compute what that might mean, but he quickly shook it off, trying instead to enjoy the moment. Because it was indeed special.

  Twice in the span of ten minutes, Theo Knight had been stunned into silence.

  3

  Jack was lighting candles. Four on the coffee table, six on the mantel, a dozen more placed strategically around the room. He stepped back to admire the warm glow.

  Candles, he thought. I’m actually lighting candles. The last time he’d done that, a hurricane was barreling down on Miami, and his Cuban grandmother was on her knees praying aloud to Santa Barbara and San Lázaro. This evening, however, Abuela was nowhere to be found. There was no power outage. Nor was it anyone’s happy birthday.