Got the Look Page 7

  “What is the point?”

  Jack took a seat on the barstool at the kitchen counter. “I talked with Agent Henning today. She and Salazar got a call from Mia’s kidnapper last night.”

  “He tell him to pound sand on the ransom?”

  “Not yet. They wanted confirmation that Mia is still alive, so Salazar asked a proof-of-life question.”

  Theo popped open the soda, chuckling to himself. “What’d he ask? What’s real estate and kisses got in common?”

  “Yes.”

  “You shittin’ me?”

  “Henning says he completely coldcocked her. That wasn’t even close to the question they’d agreed upon.”

  “Course it wasn’t. Pretty much sucks as far as proof-of-life questions go. Anyone who knows anything about real estate could probably figure out the answer to the joke, if they thunk about it long enough. It ain’t like askin’ what’s the inscription inside Ernesto’s wedding band. Something Mia would know but that a kidnapper could never guess.”

  “That’s the issue,” said Jack. “Are we talking about a guy who’s just making bad decisions? Or is he deliberately trying to sabotage the whole rescue?”

  “What do you think?”

  A southeasterly breeze rustled the curtains over the sink. More hot air. “Just for argument’s sake, let’s give him the benefit of the doubt on the proof-of-life question. You say it’s not a very good one, but maybe Ernesto asked it because it was Mia’s favorite joke. He made his money in real estate. Probably he’s the one who told it to her.”

  “Or?”

  Jack chased his scattered thoughts, trying to organize them into words. “Maybe it was his way of telling Mia that he knows about me and her. That he’s known all along.”

  “How’s that?”

  “She told that same joke to me.”

  “When?”

  “Just a few hours before I met her husband. That same night, in fact.”

  “She told you at the snobfest?”

  “No. We were here in the house.”

  “The bedroom?”

  “No. Right here in the kitchen.”

  It was as if an Arctic blast had suddenly cut through the room, displacing the heat. Theo made a slashing gesture across his throat, signaling “cut.” He stepped away from the counter and moved to the center of the kitchen. His gaze swept the room like some kind of electronic eavesdropping detector, over cabinets and counters, around the appliances. Not that he had X-ray vision, but the wheels were clearly turning in his head as he tried to figure out where he would put a listening device if he were bugging this room. Finally, he zeroed in on the ceiling fan suspended over the island. Jack watched, impressed, as his friend stood on a chair and pointed toward the brass plate that connected the fan to the ceiling. It would have been virtually invisible to anyone not looking for it, but a small black nub was protruding from a screw hole in the brass.

  Theo smiled, as if to say Bingo. He yanked out the bug and tossed it on the floor, then hopped off the chair and smashed it to bits.

  “Adios, Señor Salad Bar.”

  Jack was about to say Salazar, but Theo stopped him. “There could be more,” he whispered. “Let’s go outside.”

  Jack followed him to the back patio and closed the California doors behind them. They walked toward the seawall, stopping just short of the fishing boat that Theo docked at Jack’s place. Theo said, “See what you get for being too cheap to install AC, leaving your windows open all day long like that? Looks like Ernesto had one of his boys pay you a visit and wire you for sound.”

  “So, you don’t suspect even for a minute that it could be someone else?” said Jack.

  “That equipment was standard PI shit sold at any spy shop, easy enough for any schmo to install. Perfect for keeping tabs on a wandering spouse. No way the FBI uses that crap.”

  “I wasn’t thinking FBI. I was wondering more about Mia’s kidnapper.”

  “Has to be Salazar. Can’t be a coincidence that his proof-of-life question matches a joke that Mia told you before the two of you hopped into bed.”

  Jack drew a deep breath and let it out. “The thought of him hearing every sound Mia and I made…”

  “Sounds that his wife was no longer making in their own bedroom, mind you.”

  “So she tells me,” said Jack.

  “That’s enough to make a married man extremely angry.”

  “Angry enough to sabotage the rescue of his wife from a kidnapper? I guess that’s the question.”

  “Puh-lease,” said Theo. “How about angry enough to feed her to the fishes and make it all look like a kidnapping?”

  “In that case, maybe I was right after all.”

  “Yup. Maybe the person who bugged your kitchen is the kidnapper.”

  Jack looked toward the bay, considering it. “I think I need to have a talk with Agent Henning.”

  11

  The sweep of Jack’s house turned up no new bugs. FBI tech agents searched for transmitting devices with a spectrum analyzer. They looked behind walls and ceiling tiles with a thermal imaging camera. Phone and cable lines were tested with a time-domain reflectometer. They even checked the electrical wiring with a Fluke multimeter. Their assortment of gadgets sounded like a Dr. Seuss catalog, and Jack was beginning to wonder when it would be time for the Whoville rammer-jammer rectal thermometer.

  “Who’s gonna sweep to see if the FBI planted any bugs of their own?” said Theo, standing in the driveway.

  “Don’t be so paranoid.”

  “Don’t be so naive,” said Theo.

  Jack leaned against Theo’s car, thinking. Once a criminal defense lawyer, always a criminal defense lawyer. “Know anybody with the right toys?”

  “Yup,” said Theo.

  “Bring him through tonight.”

  “Will do, boss.”

  Agent Henning was staying at the Salazar estate in Palm Beach, her center of operation until the kidnapping was solved or until Mr. Salazar kicked her out, whichever came first. By eight thirty she was supposed to head to Jack’s place, but he didn’t want her to show up in the middle of Theo’s reinspection. Distrusting the FBI was one thing, but letting them know the exact level of your distrust was quite another. So Jack offered to save her the drive over to Key Biscayne and meet on the mainland for coffee. They agreed on Perricone’s, near the Brickell Avenue financial district.

  Perricone’s Marketplace and Cafe was a slice of old Miami by way of New England. Like so much of Miami’s history, the house that originally sat on the property had been destroyed. In lemons-to-lemonade fashion, a visionary restaurateur bought himself an eighteenth-century barn in Vermont; moved the hand-hewn beams, walls, and floor planks to Miami; and then, piece by piece, rebuilt the homey atmosphere of a long-lost My-amma. The front half was a gourmet market, and out back, overlooking a park, was a screened-in dining area beneath a forest of sprawling oaks. No one would ever guess that a coastline crowded with high-rise condominiums was just a couple of short blocks to the east. Add good food at decent prices, and in Jack’s book Perricone’s was one of the most welcome Yankee transplants to south Florida since Jackie Gleason.

  But the Great One still used better beans to make his coffee.

  “Sorry I wasn’t able to make it back in time for your house sweep,” said Andie.

  They were outside at a corner table, alone, as every other patron had opted for inside seating with air-conditioning. “No problem,” said Jack. “Getting to Miami can be a bear even on weekends.”

  “I’m still getting used to that. I’ve only been here a few months.”

  “Not like Seattle, is it?”

  “Seattle and Miami are actually a lot alike.”

  “Yeah. Must be the mountains.”

  “I’m serious. Both are these geographic paradises tucked away in a corner of the lower forty-eight states. Both have their share of ethnic tensions. And they both get way more than their share of lunatics. You think it was pure coincidence that Te
d Bundy started in Seattle and ended in Florida?”

  “Never thought of it that way,” said Jack.

  “See, you learned something.”

  She had a nice smile, and she seemed more relaxed than the last time they’d met. She was dressed more stylishly, too. Perhaps it was the Palm Beach influence. In any event, Jack was getting a fuller appreciation of the initial report from his old boss that Henning was a “real looker.” The raven black hair and amazing green eyes made for a striking, exotic beauty.

  “So, Jack, what did you want to talk to me—”

  “So, what brought you to Mi—”

  They were talking on top of each other, and they both stopped in midsentence. Hers was clearly a business question. Jack’s wasn’t, which embarrassed him a little. This isn’t a date, Swyteck.

  The waiter brought them two lattes, then disappeared. Andie waited for him to leave, then asked, “You really want to know why I came to Miami?”

  “I wasn’t trying to be nosy or anything.”

  “It’s fine. Basically, I needed a change.”

  “Good career move, I imagine.”

  “Not really. I was doing fine in Seattle. The ASAC was my former supervisory agent, and we had a great relationship.”

  “Just wanted something different?”

  “It’s hard to explain. Most people can’t relate.”

  “To someone with a job like yours, you mean?”

  “No. To a half-Indian girl who was adopted and raised by white parents. Don’t get me wrong. My parents are great people, and I’m not some head case walking around with a chip on her shoulder. I just felt like it was time to move on, that I should find a place where I didn’t even have to think about fitting into one culture or the other.”

  “You can’t be the only person in Seattle with a mixed background.”

  “No, but I figure, why put up with the bullshit? I remember once at U-dub—University of Washington—I went to this powwow on campus. Talk about awkward. The women all looked at my green eyes and treated me like just another horny white chick looking for her big brown Indian stud.”

  “Interesting.”

  “Of course, they were basically right. But it still bothered me that they thought it.”

  Jack’s mouth opened, but he didn’t say anything.

  “Are you blushing?” she said, seeming to enjoy the fact that she’d knocked him slightly speechless.

  Jack shrugged it off and smiled, but he was thinking about the Cuban mother he’d never known, the half-Cuban boy who didn’t eat a plantain until his sophomore year in college. They were talking about Andie, however, and he didn’t want to one-up her with his story of a twenty-three-year-old mother who died in childbirth and an alcoholic stepmom who destroyed all the letters that his abuela mailed from Cuba. “I can probably relate to your situation more than you’d imagine,” he said, leaving it at that.

  The waiter checked on them again and then retreated inside. Andie stirred another packet of sweetener into her cup. The conversation turned to business, and Jack gave her the whole story without interruption, including Theo’s theory that Salazar might have killed his wife and staged the kidnapping.

  Andie gave it some thought, then shook her head. “It’s a stretch.”

  “Why do you say that?”

  “Like I told you from the start, the exact wording of the kidnapper’s demand has never been made public. It’s this kidnapper’s signature—‘pay what she’s worth’—and we didn’t want a flood of copycats using it. For Salazar to be able to fake a kidnapping and use that exact same language in a ransom note would mean that he somehow had access to police details of the previous ransom demands.”

  “Hey, imagine that. A leak in law enforcement.”

  She nodded and gave a little smile. “I hear you. I just don’t think so in this case.”

  “Is Mia’s kidnapping really that similar to the Thornton case?”

  “I can’t share everything with you. But there are some important differences. Here, the ransom demand went to Mr. Salazar and to the FBI. Last time, it went only to Mr. Thornton. The use of the Internet phone to avoid tracing didn’t happen in the Thornton case.”

  “None of these differences raise red flags for you?”

  “There are too many other important similarities.”

  “So you think it’s purely a coincidence that the husband finds out his wife is cheating and then she disappears?”

  “No more of a coincidence than if her lover suddenly finds out she’s married and then she disappears.”

  Jack coughed on his latte foam. “Wait a minute. Am I on some kind of list that I should know about?”

  “Let me put it this way. You’re pretty much on the same list Mr. Salazar is on.”

  “I’m not sure how to take that.”

  “I’m not saying you’re a suspect. I’m not barking up your tree or Salazar’s, but we haven’t ruled anything out completely.”

  “Fair enough,” said Jack, though he knew the reality. Whether the cops admitted it or not, everyone was a suspect until they were ruled out. Especially the two male corners of a love triangle.

  Andie set her empty coffee cup aside, seeming to shift gears slightly. “I’m not just asking this out of idle curiosity, but I would like to know. How did you feel about Mia?”

  “You mean before or after I found out that she was married?”

  “Let’s start with before.”

  “I thought we were close.”

  “Were you in love with her?”

  “Maybe. I was definitely more excited about her than anyone else I’ve dated since my divorce.”

  “How do you feel about her now?”

  “How do you think I feel?”

  “If the kidnapper sent you the same note—pay what she’s worth—would you do the same thing Mr. Salazar is doing?”

  “Not at all.”

  “You’d pay a ransom?”

  “I didn’t say that. Salazar is playing a very dangerous game. It’s his prerogative to decide whether he wants to pay. But he shouldn’t be toying with the kidnapper in a way that could get Mia killed.”

  “Now you understand my frustration,” said Andie. “The FBI can only advise in these situations. It’s like when the cops say don’t pay a ransom, and the family does it anyway. We can’t force Salazar to conduct his negotiations any certain way.”

  “Yeah, but at some point the FBI has to step up and say, hey, bucko, you’re being a jerk, and we’re not gonna let the victim be the one who suffers.”

  “True. And that’s why you should stay involved.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I think you still care about Mia. And I think Salazar knows that you still care about her.”

  “Then you’re both wrong.”

  “Hey, I’m a cop, but I’m still a woman. You can’t fool me or yourself about these things. The feelings we have for other people are rarely rational.”

  Jack averted his eyes. “What does this have to do with anything?”

  “I want you to deliver the proof-of-life payment.”

  “You do?”

  “I’ll admit, I was dead set against it when I first found out about you and Mia. But Salazar made it clear that he’s not going to let me use an undercover FBI agent. So if you don’t do it, I’m afraid he’ll try and do it himself. Or worse, maybe even send one of his boys to screw things up.”

  “Maybe the same guy who bugged my kitchen.”

  “Exactly. The more aspects of this negotiation and delivery that I can take out of Salazar’s hands, the better it’ll be for everyone. Especially Mia.”

  Jack finished his coffee, thinking. “Last week, when I saw Mr. Thornton sitting in your lobby all broken up over his dead wife, I was all for helping out any way I could. But Salazar’s proof-of-life question changes things. At best, he’s being cute. At worst, he’s trying to get somebody hurt. I’m just not sure.”

  “I understand. Either way, I need Salazar out
of the way. I wouldn’t ask just anyone. But as a former prosecutor, you must have some bone in your body that still wants to help catch bad guys.”

  “Yeah, I suppose. Counterbalanced, of course, by a healthy survival instinct. When do I have to decide?”

  “The kidnapper said he’d follow up with instructions. Could be any day. Could be any minute.”

  Jack’s fingers drummed across the tabletop, but the answer wasn’t coming any faster. He looked at Andie and said, “I’ll sleep on it,” knowing that sleep was not in the cards that night.

  12

  Jack left Perricone’s and had clear sailing till the traffic light changed at Miami Avenue. To his left was the official welcome to Key Biscayne, a big marquee with a life-size plastic dolphin. It was once a shark, not so many years ago. Jack imagined it dressed in pinstripes and asking Have you been injured?—a fitting tribute to the many wealthy lawyers who called the island home.

  He sometimes wondered how his life would have changed had he put his trial skills toward plaintiff’s personal injury work. It could have been the end of his money troubles. Your vintage Mustang convertible goes up in flames? No problem. Buy two more. Your marriage crashes and burns? Not to worry. Nothing that a thousand-dollar-an-hour divorce lawyer can’t handle. But it just wasn’t his style to juggle countless slip-and-fall cases while fervently hoping for a grieving mother to come through the door with a quadriplegic toddler who had been pushed into the street by Donald Trump, run over by a speeding FedEx truck, and then diagnosed with the flu by a drunken ER physician. Then again, trying to snag referrals from a guy like William Bailey wasn’t really Jack’s style either. If there was a silver lining to the Mia disaster, it was the quick death it had delivered to his idiotic pursuit of the golden handcuffs—or as Theo had put it, yanking up the FYN.

  Stopped at the red light, he dialed Theo from his cell. “Your friend still there?” said Jack.

  “What?” Theo shouted.

  “Is your electronics guy still at my house checking for bugs?”