Got the Look (5 page)

Andie glanced at the dissected lung and said, So, you're confident that this is a case of death by drowning?

As confident as I can be.

Andie thought for a moment, saying nothing.

Dr. Feinstein said, Are you okay?

Yeah, said Andie. It must be the odor that just got to me.

What she wanted to say was that she was embarrassed for a moment, put off by the way her own job almost forced her to stand beside a corpse and feel nothing but clever about slapping on a label like death by drowning. It was never that impersonal for her.

I guess what you're saying, Doctor, is that some sick bastard brought Ashley Thornton down into this cave, tied her to a steel bar, and then swam away and left her in the dark with no air tank. He left her there alive.

He glanced at Ashley's face. I'm afraid so.

Thanks, Doctor, she said, the words slow, agonizing death continuing to resonate in her mind as she left the autopsy room.

Chapter
6

With all the personal distractions, Jack was glad to be in trial. A lawyer in trial was like a woman in labor. People generally didn't expect you to drop everything and run to the phone in the middle of it all.

Hello, this is God speaking. Is Mr. Swyteck available?

Sorry, sir, he's in trial.

Oh, don't bother him then. Just this little matter of his mortality we need to address. Ask him to call Me when he's finished, please.

People often said that William Bailey had more money than God. Apparently he had a greater sense of urgency as well. Jack was outside the courtroom, sipping water from the drinking fountain, when one of Bailey's personal assistants tracked him down.

Mr. Swyteck, Mr. Bailey must speak with you immediately.

Jack straightened up and wiped a drop of water from his chin. His secretary had undoubtedly given Bailey the standard He's in trial response by telephone, and one of Bailey's fetch boys was promptly dispatched to the courthouse on a mission.

Tell Mr. Bailey that I'm in trial, and that I'm working over the lunch hour.

My apologies, sir. But Mr. Bailey told me not to take no for an answer. He and Mr. Salazar are expecting you. It has to do with Mrs. Salazar.

Mrs. Salazar. Strangely enough, somewhere in the cavernous hallways of the old courthouse, Jack could have sworn that a fat lady was singing. All right, Jack said with resignation. As long as I'm back by one P. M.

Alive.

At ten minutes past noon Jack was fifty-one stories above downtown Miami, though he hardly noticed the amazing view of cruise ships and the Port of Miami from the corner office of BB&L's managing partner. William Bailey was standing behind his desk, his arm resting atop a globe so old that Prussia was still a country. His most important client was seated at the far end of the leather couch, opposite Jack, who was in the winged armchair. Ernesto Salazar was a distinguished Latino with jet-black hair (dyed, of course) and the dark, piercing eyes of a shrewd negotiator. He was wearing an Armani suit, Gucci shoes, a Rolex wristwatch, and a deep scowl that Jack assumed was intended exclusively for him.

My wife's gone missing, said Salazar in a somber voice.

Jack looked at Bailey, then back at Salazar. Nearly ten days had passed since Jack had met Mia's husband, and it was not yet clear that they knew about him and Mia. Before the conversation inevitably moved in that direction, however, Jack wanted some details. How do you mean, missing?

Bailey said, She's been kidnapped.

The word hit him with surprising impact. Under Cupid's Rules of Love and War (Idiot's Edition), he technically shouldn't have given a damn. But he did. Kidnapped? By whom?

We have no idea, said Bailey.

Have you called the police?

No, said Salazar. Like many wealthy South American families, the Salazars are no strangers to the threat of kidnappers. Rarely does it make sense to turn to the police in these situations.

I can understand your view. But often there are good reasons to call the police.

That's one of the reasons we called you, said Salazar. Your advice.

I'll help in any way I can. Jack paused to measure his words, as this seemed like the appropriate time to clear the air on his unwitting adultery. Mr. Salazar, there's something I should probably -

Hold that thought, said Bailey. I know you have to be back in trial by one o'clock, so please just let Mr. Salazar lay out the pertinent facts. We need your criminal-law expertise on one very specific point. Is that all right with you?

Sure, said Jack.

Thank you, said Salazar. Basically, I don't have a lot of information at this point. My wife went out last night with one of her girlfriends. I was dead tired. At around ten thirty, I went to sleep. When I woke up this morning, she'd already gone out for her run.

What time was that? asked Jack.

About seven.

What did you do?

Nothing, just then. But three hours later, she still wasn't home. I dialed her cell phone - she always carries it with her when she runs - and got no answer. Then I called her friend Emilia, but she didn't know anything. That's when I started to get worried.

Jack couldn't help noting the absence of any emotion in Salazar's voice. Some people reacted that way to a crisis, but Jack wasn't sure about Salazar. Then what did you do?

I searched the house, the yard, the garage. Didn't see anything. That's when I decided to check my computer.

Your computer?

Yes. My e-mail. I had a bad feeling about this. I had a sense that someone might have a note for me.

You mean a ransom note?

Of course. Like I said, my family has been touched by kidnapping before. My uncle, when he was on business in Brazil, to be precise.

I'm sorry to hear that, said Jack. Did you find anything on the computer?

This, said Bailey as he stepped forward and handed Jack a printed e-mail. We already checked out the source. It was a text message sent with a stolen wireless service. No way to trace it back to any specific person.

Jack would have expected no less. He read to himself, quickly but carefully. The message was short and to the point:

PAY ME WHAT SHE'S WORTH. Further instructions to follow.

That's it? said Jack.

That's the entire message, said Salazar. Ever seen anything like it?

Jack laid the paper flat on the coffee table in front of him. He read it again and said, Can't say that I have. Then again, I prosecuted only two ransom cases at the U. S. attorney's office, and the kidnappers I defended on death row were never after money.

Ever heard of anything like it?

No. Often it takes kidnappers time to formulate a demand, particularly if they're politically motivated. But when the objective is purely monetary, the number is usually pretty specific. Sometimes unrealistic, but specific.

Sounds like a hoax to me, said Bailey.

Could be, said Jack. But until you can find out one way or the other, you need to make some threshold decisions. Number one, are you going to call the police?

No police.

Then you'll have to decide who your point person will be. The note says that instructions will follow. Presumably someone will have to communicate with the kidnapper on your behalf.

I think William should do that, said Salazar.

Your lawyer is a good choice, if he's willing.

I chose him as a friend, not as a lawyer, said Salazar, his tone taking on something of an edge.

Even better, said Jack. The other thing to consider is the ransom. The demand is open-ended, so you should start thinking about how much you're willing to pay.

That's easy, said Salazar. It says pay what she's worth. I pay nothing.

I think what you're trying to say is that you've made a decision not to pay a ransom. Families do that. But just to be clear, that doesn't mean your wife is worth nothing. It means that -

No, I said precisely what I meant.

Jack did a double take. You're saying that your wife is worth nothing?

Is there something wrong with your hearing, Mr. Swyteck?

No.

Then why is this so hard for you to grasp? I pay what she's worth. Salazar moved to the edge of the couch, leaning toward Jack as he spoke in a coarse voice that was just above a whisper. Mia was cheating on me. She's worth nothing.

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.

SeA+-or, 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.

Chapter
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.