Got the look, p.15
Got the Look, page 15
Jack folded the newspaper in half, as if hiding from his own words.
Emilia said, “And I never dreamed that you’d tell it to a newspaper reporter for all the world to see. For the kidnapper to see. How could you do that?”
Although a little voice inside was telling him that he’d done enough for Mia, that he’d done far more than most men would, he suddenly felt as if he were shrinking right before Emilia’s eyes. “I’m sorry,” said Jack, not sure what else to say.
“Do you care about Mia or don’t you?”
“You think I’d be here right now if I didn’t care?”
“Then act like it.” She aimed her key at the lock and opened the store door, then stopped. Her voice took on a slight edge, equal parts anger at Jack and concern for her friend. “I won’t even try to defend the lie she told you, Jack. It was a terrible mistake. But what are you going to do about it now, make her pay with her life?”
Jack watched from the sidewalk as Emilia turned her back and disappeared into the store.
27
He was naked, except for the white bath towel wrapped around his waist. The shower awaited, and the scent of the ocean was still with him. A black wet suit lay flat on the tile floor, not quite dry after last night’s dive. Atop the round kitchen table was a waterproof suitcase, cracked open like a book.
He pushed away from the table, rose slowly, and walked to the stove. The Mexican tiles felt cool beneath his bare feet. The dark panels of tinted glass on his sliding doors were like mirrors in the morning, allowing him to admire his reflection as he crossed the room. The usual adjectives came to mind. Cut. Ripped. He was especially proud of his well-defined abs: six-pack all the way. He worked hard at his body, and the results were obvious. It had started with the rehab—no drugs, no alcohol, no cigarettes—but now it was a lifestyle. He was a walking transformation, tight skin over solid muscle, driven to the brink of obsession. His friends at the gym called him the Machine.
They had no idea.
He removed the whistling kettle from the burner and poured himself a steaming cup of herbal tea. Chamomile with lemon made him sleepy, and he needed rest. Since Mia’s kidnapping, he hadn’t slept for more than four hours at a stretch. Part of it was the sheer excitement of having her around, but mostly it was the paranoia of an attempted escape or suicide. He felt the need to check on her regularly, like a mother with her newborn, which seemed only normal to him. In the last thirty-six hours, however, he hadn’t slept at all—which was not normal. The anticipation of Mr. Salazar’s delivery had kept him awake. Naturally, the drop-off was always the most thrilling part of the game. It raised such intriguing questions. How much ransom would the husband pay? How much was a man’s wife worth to him?
Best of all, what would be the penalty for paying too little?
He returned to the table, teacup in hand. Beside the suitcase was a small tape recorder. He reached for it, then stopped short of hitting the Play button. He’d been listening to the recording since late last night, and he couldn’t bring himself to hear it yet again.
He leaned back in his chair and studied the open suitcase. Ernesto Salazar had selected a fine one indeed, completely watertight and big enough to hold plenty of cash. It was actually larger than the suitcase Drew Thornton had chosen, and that one had held a cool million dollars. Salazar, however, had delivered more than just money. This one also held a tape. Jack and Mia, Jack and Mia, Jack and Mia. How many times could he listen to their inane conversation, their playful banter, the stupid jokes of lovers?
He listened to all of it—not just once or twice, but many times. The part where she said the kitchen countertop felt cold on her bare ass was mildly interesting, almost titillating, but he quickly slapped down that emotion. He wanted to feel nothing but anger, and by breakfast time he’d heard enough. Mia’s husband had made his point. He was married to an adulteress. The handwritten message inside the suitcase left no doubt that the ransom payment had been adjusted accordingly.
What she’s worth, Salazar’s note read.
He drummed his fingers across the tabletop, thinking. So far, he’d played the game straight, going back to his first kidnapping. When that Georgia auto mechanic hocked everything he owned to come up with a nineteen-thousand-dollar ransom, he’d earned his wife’s release, unharmed. But when a multimillionaire like Drew Thornton tried to get off cheap for a measly million bucks, he got exactly what he’d paid for.
The Salazar situation was far more tricky. In some ways, this was business, and a deal was a deal. He’d promised to let Mia go if her husband paid what she was worth. Arguably, Salazar had done just that. You almost had to respect the guy.
He finished his tea with two more swallows. He didn’t need to listen to the audiotape again to convince himself that he’d made the right decision last night. He hadn’t acted rashly. Sending the audiotapes with an anonymous note to Eddy Malone at the Tribune had been the smart thing to do. Now it was time to call Jack Swyteck.
He rose and poured himself another cup of tea. This was no time to rush things.
He wanted to find the exact right words.
28
Nothing quite lit up the little orange lights on a telephone like having your name linked to a sex scandal in the morning newspaper. Jack got the full effect as he entered his office.
“You have twenty-seven messages, Mr. Swyteck.” Dani Gilbert was on spring break from Yale, filling in for Jack’s regular secretary, who was on vacation. She had the trifecta—brains, beauty, and personality—which had earned her everything from an internship with a prominent U.S. senator to the role of Ophelia in a critically acclaimed production of Hamlet. Yet she was mature enough to realize that being a secretary was no walk in the park. Jack and Dani’s father were friends from way back, and Jack figured that her one-week stint at Jack Swyteck, PA, was Mark’s way of ensuring that his daughter would decide never to become a criminal defense lawyer and would instead choose a more stable career path—like acting.
“Thanks,” he said as he took the stack of messages. “But do me a favor, okay? Stop calling me Mr. Swyteck. I keep thinking my dad’s here.”
“Sorry. I put them all in alphabetical order, except that one on top with the gold paper clip. It requires your immediate attention.”
Jack noticed that the “urgent” message was from Theodopolis Knight III—Chief Justice, Florida Supreme Court.
“Uh, Dani. Theo Knight is not the chief justice of the Florida Supreme Court.”
She shrank with embarrassment, a total overreaction, as if she’d just hiccuped in the middle of her own wedding vows. “I’m so sorry, sir. He said that’s who he was, I swear. Who is he?”
“He’s—” Jack stopped himself. She was trying so hard to be a good secretary, alphabetized messages and all. Even a minor reprimand might crush that amazing youthful spirit. “He’s actually an associate justice,” said Jack. “Minor mistake. Don’t worry about it.”
“Thank you,” she said, breathing a sigh of relief. “But in that case, probably the second message in that stack is most important. There’s an FBI agent who wants to see you immediately. Andie Henning. It’s Andie a woman, not a man. Don’t you think that’s odd?”
This, coming from a young woman who called herself Dani. “Only if you do,” said Jack.
“She went across the street for coffee,” said Dani. “She said to call her and she’d pop back in as soon as you returned. You want me to give her a ring?”
“Sure. I’ll wait in the conference room.”
The conference room, despite its name, was only occasionally used for conferences. It also served as Jack’s library, computer room, and lunchroom. Every now and then Jack even slept there. At the perfunctory one-man annual partnership meeting, it served as the boardroom. And on one special occasion, Mia had interrupted his late-night trial prep with a bottle of wine in hand and officially christened it “the playroom.”
Five minutes later, Dani was showing Andie into the conference room. Andie was talking before Jack could even say hello.
“Ernesto paid a ransom last night,” she told him. That had not been in Malone’s newspaper article, and it explained why Andie had dropped in for a face-to-face discussion. Jack had to reel in his surprise as she gave him the short and sanitized version, the one reserved for non-FBI.
“How much did he pay?” asked Jack.
“I couldn’t tell you even if I knew.”
“Is it enough to get her released?”
“I can’t discuss the details with you. In light of this morning’s newspaper article, I just thought you should know that he did pay something.”
“Please, don’t feed me that police-ears-only party line. We both know that he did it to save face, not to save her.”
“I’m not saying I disagree, but I am curious to know why you think that.”
“I talked to William Bailey this morning. The only thing those jokers care about is how it might impact Ernesto’s playboy reputation if it came out that his wife was cheating on him.”
“Bailey told you that?”
“Basically. Even Mia’s best friend told me that Salazar tried to hit on her. As far as I can tell, the guy must be an egomaniac. And now he’s just doing image control. After seeing that streaming video of Mia’s torture, he probably started to worry about how his continued refusal to pay a ransom might play in the newspapers. So he paid one.” Jack ran a hand through his hair, exasperated. “He doesn’t give a shit about Mia. There’s no doubt in my mind about that.”
He paused, giving Andie an opportunity to disagree. But she didn’t.
Her voice softened as she said, “That’s why I’m here talking to you, and not to him.”
“We have to do more than just talk,” said Jack. “If Salazar didn’t pay enough ransom, this creep will kill her, just like he killed Ashley Thornton.”
“The best thing we can do right now is go full speed ahead with our efforts to figure out who the kidnapper is. If we act fast enough, maybe we can find him before he has the chance to harm Mia. That’s what I’m here for. I need your help. Sit down, please.”
The adrenaline wanted him to keep pacing, but he forced himself to take a seat opposite Andie. “What do you need from me?”
“I’m trying to find out something about Mia. It’s extremely personal. Something I think that only a man who has been intimate with her could tell me.”
That rules out her husband, Jack thought, but he kept the snipe to himself.
Andie asked, “Do you have any reason to believe that Mia was the victim of a sexual assault?”
“You mean other than the CD we got from the Kwick-e Copy Center?”
“I mean in her past. Before you met her.”
The question didn’t shock him, but it was the first time anyone had come right out and asked, and it forced him to confront something he’d wondered about for quite a while. “Mia has a scar on her leg. Inside the right thigh. I noticed it the first time we were in bed together. She said it was from a tattoo removal, but I didn’t believe her.”
“Did you talk about it?”
“She didn’t want to.”
“So you just dropped it?”
“That night I did. She slept over, but we didn’t do anything. She asked me just to hold her. So I did.”
“Did it ever come up again?”
“I made a few remarks here and there, probably for a couple of weeks afterward. I didn’t push it, but if she felt like talking, I wanted her to know that I was willing to listen. She just never seemed to want to go there. And honestly, after that first night, she seemed very comfortable with what we were doing. As far as intimacy goes, I mean.”
“I’m not sure I’m understanding you. Are you saying that you do or you don’t think she was ever the victim of a sexual assault?”
“I don’t know. Why are you asking?”
“I really can’t say,” she said.
It obviously hadn’t been her intention, but given the context, her coyness was telling him plenty. Jack just had to read between the lines more closely. “You think there’s some connection, don’t you? This kidnapping has a link to her past. Is that the FBI’s theory?”
“Look, Jack, if I could tell you more, I would.”
“Does your suspect have a name yet?”
“Can’t tell you.”
“How did you focus on him?”
“Can’t tell you that, either.”
“He must be a scuba diver, right?”
She averted her eyes, but his persistence seemed to be breaking down her barriers—albeit slowly. “Naturally, any cop in an investigation of this nature and with a brain in her head would be looking for a scuba diver who is a known sexual offender.”
Jack narrowed his eyes, thinking. “There has to be more to it. Something that would make the FBI zero in on a guy as an actual suspect. I’ll bet it’s his MO, isn’t it?”
She didn’t answer, but Jack immediately noted the absence of a denial.
“So,” said Jack, “you found a sex offender who knows how to scuba dive, and his modus operandi bears some resemblance to that of a kidnapper whose ransom demand reads ‘Pay me what she’s worth.’ That’s impressive work, Agent Henning.”
“It’s highly confidential at this point.”
“Why? It seems to me that if you have a suspect, it’s time to tell the world his name. Get his face plastered on television, issue a be-on-the-lookout, get everyone into the hunt.”
“Going public might jeopardize some important leads we’re following up. We’re not ready to release any information yet. Not even to you. I’m sorry I can’t answer your questions.”
“Fine. Let’s scrap my questions. I’d be just as happy to hear you answer your own questions. Tell me: Do you think Mia was the victim of a sexual assault?”
“I can’t…” She stopped herself, as if it suddenly seemed pointless to continue the game. “All right, Swyteck. I’ll tell you what I think. If you ask me, it’s an either-or situation. Either she was the victim of a sexual assault before she was married…”
“Or?”
“Or she was the victim after.”
Their eyes locked, and Jack tried to read as much from her expression as he possibly could. “Do you mean by a stranger, or are we talking spouse abuse?”
She didn’t answer.
Jack said, “That’s the real reason you’re talking to me and not Salazar, isn’t it? You still haven’t ruled him out.”
Again there was no answer, but Jack didn’t really need one. He said, “I assume the focus of your investigation shifts dramatically, depending on which way your either-or situation cuts.”
“Very definitely.”
“So, you would really like me to tell you where Mia got her scar.”
“Yes, I would.”
“All I can say is, I wish I knew.”
“I wish I believed you.”
Jack was taken aback. “Hey, I’ve got nothing to hide here.”
“Really?”
“Yes. Really.”
She folded her hands atop the table and leaned forward slightly, as if sizing him up. “You seem like such a smart man. A nice enough guy, too. But your ostrich imitation is getting pretty hard to swallow.”
“What are you talking about?”
Her voice tightened, and the words came faster. “You dated a woman for two months, slept with her, apparently fell in love with her. The first time she spent the night, you ended up just holding her, no sex, because you found a scar on her leg. But as we sit here today, you can’t even venture a guess as to whether she was ever the victim of sexual assault, even though her scar obviously has some history to it, or she would never have lied to you about what caused it. And to top it all off, as recently as this morning you still expected a half million readers of the Miami Tribune to believe that you didn’t know Mia was married. So I say this with all sincerity and with the best of intentions. I hope you are trying to hide something here, Swyteck. Because if you’re not, it has to be a living hell to go through life so positively clueless.”
Jack felt his body heat rising, but with cops you always had to be careful. They sometimes angered you just to see your reaction. “What’s this all about?”
She took a deep breath, then shook it off. “Sorry. That was a good bit more personal than intended.”
“You think?” he said, doing nothing to mask his incredulity.
“I said I was sorry.”
Jack considered it, then said, “Apology accepted. I guess we can still be friends.”
She smiled just enough to keep it light, then almost chuckled.
“What?” asked Jack.
“Your ‘friend’s’ remark. It reminded me of a line from a book I read, or maybe it was an old movie. How men and women could never really be just friends.”
“You think that’s true?”
“Let me put it this way. Perhaps my remarks were out of line, but I’m not going to pretend I didn’t mean it. You really can be…I don’t know. Frustrating. Take that as a little friendly advice.”
“I was just being nice with the friends thing, okay, Henning?”
“Great,” she said, rising. “Sounds like we finally understand each other.”
They shook hands, a little firmer than usual, as if each was sending a message that kicking the other’s ass would be no problem at all. Jack led her from the conference/bed-/lunch-/playroom, and Andie thanked Jack’s secretary as they reached the reception area. Jack opened the door for her.
Andie said, “Call me when you’re ready to pluck that head from the sand, will you?”
She seemed to be teasing, but it wasn’t entirely clear. Everything about her was puzzling now, and Jack wondered if he was finally seeing the real Andie Henning—or if it was all just a calculated change in FBI strategy.
“I’ll be in touch,” said Jack. “But only if you promise to call me as soon as you have anything on Mia. Salazar’s ransom payment has to prompt a response of some kind. One way or the other, I want to know.”
