Got the Look Read online

  His dark eyes were like burning embers. The anger was just as evident on his lawyer’s face. At that moment, all doubt in Jack’s mind evaporated: They knew everything.

  Bailey shook his head, disgusted. “How could you, Jack?”

  “I swear, I had no idea that—”

  “Save it,” said Salazar. “You’ve insulted me enough.”

  Jack wanted to explain, but who would believe it? His own culpability was secondary, anyway. It seemed bizarre that it should be him, but someone had to stand up for Mia. “I realize that I’m in no position to ask any favors, but hear me out. You have to act under the assumption that the kidnapper is willing to kill her unless you meet his demands. If you’re not going to pay a ransom, that’s fine. But you at least have to call the police.”

  “Why?” said Salazar. “Is there some law that requires a husband to notify them if his wife has been kidnapped?”

  Jack didn’t answer right away, not because he didn’t know, but because he didn’t like the way they’d set this whole thing up, toying with him. “Is this the so-called expert advice you need from me?”

  “I would just like an answer to the question, Mr. Swyteck. As the husband, am I required by law to notify the police?”

  “No, but if you’re not willing to do what it takes to bring her back safely, you should call the police. It’s the moral—”

  “Moral?” he said, his voice rising. “You of all people presume to tell me what’s moral?”

  Jack didn’t want to get into it with Salazar. He looked to the lawyer and said, “William, you know I’m right.”

  “I think you’d better go.”

  The discussion hardly seemed finished, but until Salazar cooled off, things could only spiral downward. “William, I’ll give you a call when my trial adjourns for the day.”

  “Don’t bother,” said Bailey.

  “We have it under control,” said Salazar.

  Jack wanted to slap both of them, tell them that they were playing with a woman’s life. But it seemed pointless. He rose and started toward the door.

  “Señor, aren’t you forgetting something?” said Salazar.

  Jack stopped to see him pointing toward the printed e-mail on the coffee table.

  “I want to know,” said Salazar.

  “Know what?”

  A trace of a smile seeming to crease his lips as he handed Jack the note and he said, “What’s Mia worth to you?”

  Jack locked eyes with him but said nothing. He tucked the note inside his jacket, then turned and left the office.

  7

  It’s a total chick magnet,” said Theo.

  They were cruising past the marina in Coconut Grove, Jack behind the wheel and Theo riding shotgun. For several months, Jack had been trying to find a suitable replacement for a charbroiled hunk of melted metal that had once been a classic Mustang convertible. Theo’s sights were set on a 1966 Rambler Marlin, if only because its current sports-minded owner had quite naturally repainted the body in the official turquoise color of the Florida Marlins.

  “Chick magnet, huh?” said Jack.

  “Absolutely. And did I mention that, if driven regularly, it prevents heart disease and can even reverse the aging process in humans? All for just forty-four hundred bucks.”

  “Not my forty-four hundred bucks.”

  They stopped for a frozen lemonade at Kennedy Park, a tree-filled stretch of green space along Biscayne Bay that was popular with everyone from triathletes to tricyclers. The parking lot was adjacent to the heart trail, so a seat on the hood of the old Rambler with their feet resting on the chrome bumper offered Jack and Theo prime jogger viewing. Unfortunately, it appeared to be geriatric Tuesday, nothing but a steady stream of power-walking blobs of jelly that had somehow taken on human form through the miracle of spandex.

  Their deal was that Jack would test-drive the laugh-out-loud-mobile if Theo would offer his street-smart, psychoanalytical take on Ernesto Salazar. For whatever reason, Theo had a knack for thinking like a dirtbag.

  “It’s obvious,” said Theo.

  “Tell me,” said Jack.

  “Simple. Mr. Salivar doesn’t believe his wife is really kidnapped.”

  “Salazar, not Salivar. You make him sound like a Saint Bernard in a sausage factory.”

  “You want my opinion, then shut up and listen.” Theo set his frozen lemonade atop the turquoise hood and ripped open a bag of chips. “Here’s the thing. You got a gorgeous younger woman married to a fifty-something-year-old multimillionaire. Let’s assume it was no lie when Mia said she and her husband stopped having sex. Imagine how totally ripped this dude is when he finds out she’s bopping a hotshot lawyer. Hubby says, Beat it, bitch, you’re outta here. She’s gotta be looking at the short end of a prenup if he divorces her. So she fakes her own kidnapping to con him out of some ransom money.”

  “You honestly think that’s what happened?”

  “Doesn’t matter. I’m telling you what must be going through Salad Bar’s mind.”

  “Salazar, moron.”

  “Yeah, what you said. Anyways, he was acting way too cool at your meeting to be thinking she’s really kidnapped. Nobody’s got that much ice water in his veins.”

  “But what if Salazar does? What if he’s so ticked off at his wife for cheating on him that he actually hopes the kidnapper slits her throat?”

  “Ah, the Journey conundrum,” said Theo.

  “What journey?”

  “Journey. Depending on who you talk to, one of the best or worst rock bands of the 1980s. One man’s Sting is another man’s Air Supply. Know what I mean?” He started singing “All Out of Love.”

  Jack blinked hard, incredulous. “What the hell does that have to do with anything?”

  “You and Salazar are both looking at the exact same situation—a married woman goes missing after cheating on her husband. You see a kidnap victim in peril. He sees a conniving bitch with a plan. The Journey conundrum.”

  “Sounds like a bad title for a Ludlum novel. But focus for a minute, would you please? Aren’t we overlooking an obvious third possibility?”

  Theo nodded. “When Alcazar found out that you and his wife be doing the nasty, he killed her, and now he’s trying to make it look like she got kidnapped.”

  “By Alcazar I assume you mean Salazar.”

  “Alcazar, Salazar, whoever. A man by any other name would still think with his dick.”

  That was Jack’s thought entirely, but hearing Theo put it to Shakespeare only drove home the point. “Pretty logical way to look at it. Like you say, nobody’s got that much ice water in his veins.”

  “Unless he’s trying to cover his own ass.”

  “I guess that’s what bugs me about Salazar’s reaction to the kidnapping. When people choose not to call the cops it’s usually because the kidnapper told them not to or because they’re afraid that law enforcement might try to talk them out of paying a ransom. Here, Salazar is thumbing his nose at the kidnappers, and he still decided not to dial nine-one-one. That’s a really dangerous situation if you’re a kidnap victim.”

  “On the other hand, it’s a nifty little tap dance if you killed your wife and want it to look like a kidnapping.”

  Jack spooned out the last of his frozen lemonade. “So, if you were me, you’d go to the police? Is that what you’re saying?”

  “Depends. If you think maybe Salazar killed his wife, then yeah, go to the police.”

  “What if I don’t think he killed her? What if she really is kidnapped and Salazar is just being a hard-ass to spite her or teach her a lesson?”

  “You want to know what I would do?” said Theo.

  “Yeah, if you were me.”

  “I’d stick my head out the window and yell, ‘Yo, bitch! Didn’t your mamma ever teach you what goes around comes around?’ Every day she was all kissy-faced, acting like you were her one and only. Every night she was probably on the phone telling Ernesto to please wire some more money from Buenos Noche
s.”

  “Buenes Aires.”

  “Whatever. My point is, why should Jack Swyteck be the white knight who mounts up and rushes in to save her?”

  “Telling the police that she was kidnapped and giving them a copy of the ransom note is hardly rushing in to save her.”

  “Why do you care enough to even do that?”

  “I don’t know. Why did I spend the first four years of my career worrying that murdering scumbags who made you look like a choirboy might die in the electric chair? I have this sick humane streak that keeps me from wishing death on anyone. Even lying ex-girlfriends.”

  “That is sick.”

  “You think?”

  “Absolutely. But it’s one of the many reasons I love you, Jack baby,” he said as he planted a big kiss on his friend’s cheek.

  Jack wiped it off, then drifted into silence, his thoughts interrupted by the crunching sound of Theo stuffing his mouth with snack food.

  “Bistro chip?” said Theo, offering the bag.

  Jack shook his head. Bistro chip. What a joke, the way marketing geniuses always attached a name like “bistro” to foods in need of a little spin. Salty carbs were bistro chips. A sack lunch on a commercial airline was a bistro bag. Goofy, yes, but it had to be one of the oldest games around. Here you go, Socrates, try some of this bistro hemlock.

  “No thanks,” said Jack.

  Theo sucked the salt from his fingertips one digit at a time. “So, getting back to what I was saying before. You buying it or ain’t you?”

  “You mean your theory that Mia faked her own kidnapping?”

  “No, no. This car, my man. The Marlin mobile.”

  Jack grasped the tacky hood ornament—an official Major League Baseball “Billy the Marlin” bobble head. “Think I’ll pass. I mean, really: Who needs a chick magnet when I got you?”

  Theo crumpled up the empty bag of chips, then unleashed a belch that nearly rattled the headlights. “Ain’t dat the troot.”

  8

  Jack didn’t call the police. He didn’t have to.

  The FBI was looking for him.

  The phone call came two days after the meeting in William Bailey’s office. The agent told him only that she wanted to discuss the possible kidnapping of Mia Salazar. Forty-five minutes later, Jack was in a small conference room at the FBI’s Miami field office. Special Agent Andie Henning was seated across the table from him.

  “Thanks for coming in so quickly, Mr. Swyteck.”

  “It sounded important,” said Jack.

  During the drive up Jack had made a phone call to Gerry Chafetz, his old boss at the U.S. attorney’s office, to get the skinny on Agent Henning. Typical of Gerry, the first thing out of his mouth was that Andie Henning was a looker. More to the point, however, Henning was new to Miami, a rising star from Seattle. A Junior Olympic mogul skier until her knee gave out, and a certified scuba diver by the time she was sixteen. Went straight to the FBI out of law school, never practiced. Only the twentieth woman in bureau history to make the “Possible Club,” a 98-percent-male honorary fraternity for agents who shoot perfect scores on one of the toughest firearms courses in law enforcement. The kudos went on and on.

  “And,” Jack could almost hear his old boss saying for the third time, “did I mention she’s a knockout?”

  Not that such things mattered. Unless you were straight, male, and over the age of thirteen.

  “As you know,” Henning said in a businesslike tone, “Mia Salazar was kidnapped three days ago.”

  “Before we get started, I’m curious: How is it that I ended up on the FBI’s interview list?”

  “Mr. Salazar gave us your name.”

  He wondered how many colorful adverbs Salazar had squeezed between “Jack” and “Swyteck.” Jack backstabbing, wife-stealing, mother-bleeping Swyteck. “It’s interesting that Mr. Salazar called you. Last time we spoke, he said he had no intention of involving the police.”

  “He didn’t call us,” said Henning. “The kidnapper sent a copy of the ransom note to the FBI. When we called Mr. Salazar to discuss our plan with him, he told us to call his attorney, Jack Swyteck.”

  “But I’m not his attorney.”

  “Mr. Salazar says you are.”

  Jack could have set her completely straight, but his instincts as a criminal defense lawyer told him not to volunteer too much information until he had a better understanding of where Agent Henning’s investigation was headed. “Mr. Salazar and I obviously have a few things to clarify,” said Jack. “In the interest of keeping this conversation moving forward, what exactly did he tell you I was empowered to do as his attorney?”

  “Deliver the ransom.”

  “Now I’m thoroughly confused. Again, when I last spoke to Mr. Salazar, it was my understanding that there wasn’t going to be a ransom payment.”

  “There isn’t. Not from him, anyway. It’s our money.”

  “The FBI’s?”

  Agent Henning leaned forward, her hands folded atop the table. “Mr. Swyteck, I want to be as frank with you as possible about our strategy. Since you’re a former prosecutor, I hope I have your assurance that this conversation isn’t going to find its way into the newspapers.”

  “Of course.”

  “The kidnapping of Mrs. Salazar isn’t the first of its kind. The ransom note, which you’ve seen, is a signature of sorts for a serial kidnapper. For lack of a better label, we call him the “Wrong Number Kidnapper.”

  “You mean like dialing the wrong phone number?”

  “No. Nothing to do with that. His ransom notes put the onus on the family to place a value on their loved ones. Rather than demand a specific sum of money, he consistently uses the language ‘Pay what she’s worth.’”

  “I saw that in the Salazar e-mail.”

  “What you haven’t seen is the consequence of paying too little. In other words, of choosing the ‘wrong number.’”

  “Are you saying he’s killed before?”

  She nodded. “Ashley Thornton. Married to Drew Thornton in Ocala.”

  “The woman who died in the aquifer?”

  “Yes.”

  “I read about that. Horrible. But I didn’t know it was the same kidnapper.”

  “Not many people do. We’ve tried very hard to keep the ‘pay what she’s worth’ ransom demand out of the media. It’s the only way to be sure we aren’t dealing with copycats or crackpots.”

  “Did Mr. Thornton refuse to pay a ransom?”

  “Hardly. He paid a million dollars. Wasn’t enough. Less than twenty-four hours after the cash was delivered, we found Mrs. Thornton’s body in a cave beneath the Santa Fe River. A plastic bracelet around her wrist said, ‘Wrong number.’”

  “What would have been the right number?”

  “That’s the big question. A million dollars is a big ransom.”

  “So this guy doesn’t care how much you pay. It’s never enough.”

  “That’s what we thought at first. But we pieced something interesting together through VICAP. It turns out that eight months ago, in north Georgia, the wife of a twenty-five-year-old auto mechanic was kidnapped. He got the same note: Pay what she’s worth. The guy sold his truck, hocked everything he owned to scrape together nineteen thousand dollars. His wife was returned a day later, completely unharmed.”

  “Whoa,” said Jack.

  “Yeah, no kidding. By that standard, Mr. Salazar would have to come up with about forty million dollars.”

  “Now I understand why he refuses to pay.”

  “Really?” she said, her interest seeming to rise. “There have been verified ransom payments as high as sixty-five million dollars.”

  “I’m sure there have been.”

  “So, are you suggesting that forty million is way too much ransom money, period? Or do you know something about Mia that compromises her worth, to use the kidnapper’s term?”

  “I’m not sure what I meant, to be honest with you.”

  She paused, as if expecting hi
m to say more. “You sure?”

  He considered it, then said as much as he thought was appropriate. “You should probably ask Mr. Salazar that question.”

  “I will,” she said as she penciled a little notation on her yellow pad.

  Part of Jack wanted to speak up, but the words caught in his throat. That he hadn’t known Mia was married lessened his sense of shame, but it only added to the embarrassment of being duped for so long. Agent Henning moved on before he could say more.

  “Anyway, in light of all this, we’re taking a new strategy with Mrs. Salazar’s kidnapping. That’s the reason you’re here.”

  “What can I do?” asked Jack.

  “We want someone to deliver a much smaller amount of cash. Say, ten thousand dollars. It’s not ransom money. It will be characterized as a down payment for some proof that Mia Salazar is still alive.”

  “Proof-of-life money?”

  “Yes, except that our objectives are much broader than that. One, we want to prolong negotiations, keep Mrs. Salazar alive as long as possible. Two, we want to negotiate a drop-off on our own terms, where we can hopefully learn more about our kidnapper. And three, in hopes of hitting the home run, the bills will be marked. Maybe he’ll take the dough and sprinkle a few bread crumbs around town that will enable us to track him down.”

  “You want me to be a bagman?”

  “Not a very flattering term, but basically yes.”

  “Why me?”

  “Like I said, Mr. Salazar recommended you.”

  “As his attorney,” said Jack. It was as if the proverbial lightbulb had suddenly switched on.

  “Yes. As his attorney.” The way she said it, she seemed to sense that this attorney-client relationship had something more to it. But Jack was not yet inclined to elaborate.

  “Let me talk to Mr. Salazar and get back to you,” said Jack.

  “I hate to rush you, but we do need an answer soon. Naturally, time is of the essence.”

  “I understand.”

  “We’re not trying to make a cop out of you. On the contrary, we want the delivery to be made by someone who has no discernible connection to law enforcement. Mr. Salazar has chosen not to do it personally. His attorney is a credible substitute.”