Risk (2 page)

She looked surprised. “I thought you said anything was insurable at the right price.”

He nodded. “That's true, but in your case the right price would be so high that you may as well self-insure and take the risk that you won't have to pay anyone off.”

“So let me get this straight, your company offers policies to cover kidnappings, but you refuse to write one for someone who carries the risk of actually being kidnapped.” She shook her head. “Doesn't make sense to me.”

She was smart, and it made him feel a bit foolish that he'd turned her down.

“But your risk—”

“Is substantial. Yes, you said that.”

He leaned forward to make his next point. “No, you don't understand. You're a statistical
nightmare
.”

She raised her eyebrows at him and he continued.

“You go into jungle areas known to be controlled by paramilitary elements, head into the Indian Ocean where it's known that pirates patrol, and cross the border into Ciudad Juarez, the most dangerous city in the world. How can we possibly insure you? Why do you do it?”

She looked into her glass and back up at him, and he was struck by the gleam in her serious green eyes.

“I love the search. Finding new plants and possibly chemicals. Uncovering the mysteries of the world. It's not likely that I'll find the unexplained in a large city like Miami.”

“I disagree. What about the guy they found eating another man's face off on the causeway? No one's been able to figure out why he did it. They're talking zombie apocalypse. That's a mystery right here in Miami.”

During the last hip hop weekend a young man had been found naked and chewing another's face on the causeway that connected Miami Beach to Miami proper. He'd been shot dead by a police officer and the victim rushed to the hospital. The young man's friends all described the man as a sweet, religious person who rarely dabbled in drugs. After a toxicology report failed to find any drugs in the young man's system, the speculation veered toward his Haitian background and voodoo. Miami's Haitian population was in a state of terror. They all believed that a hougan priest had unleashed an evil demon on Miami, and people were congregating at night to perform the safety and cleansing sacrificial rituals that they believed would hold off the threat.

“I'd love to delve into that one,” Caldridge said, “but it's not what I do. I find plants and chemicals.”

“You like the adventure, that much is obvious,” he said. “But you take terrible risks. Don't you value your life?”

She frowned. “Of course, but I don't want to sit in a lab all day analyzing specimens.”

“Does your family approve of this?” He knew from her application that she was unmarried, but that didn't mean she didn't have parents, siblings.

She gave him a frank look. “I haven't run my personal decisions past my family since I left home at eighteen. They know that I love to travel. I don't tell them the details.”

“What about a relationship? Doesn't that come into play when determining whether you'll risk your life or not?” He was trespassing into private territory with the question, but he was intrigued. What type of man would she love?

She looked down at her wine again, and for a moment he thought that she wouldn't answer. He was ashamed to have asked her and was about to apologize when she took a breath, looked up, and flashed him a knowing, seductive smile. It rocked him, and he hadn't been rocked in months. He felt himself react and wondered at it. The room grew warmer. His hands stopped shaking.

“It hasn't been an issue,” she said, and the smile played around her lips.

The answer spoke volumes, and he revised his opinion of what life would be like with her. His mouth was suddenly dry and he searched for a safer topic.

“Even though we're not writing a policy for you, you should let your family know that your job involves danger.”

“Why?” She gave him a curious look. He took a swallow of his drink. The ice had melted and it was warming, but it managed to wet his parched throat.

“When we write kidnap insurance we do our best to keep it completely confidential. Our acceptance is only through a protected e-mail site, and once the policy is written we store it in the cloud with a company that specializes in cyber security.”

“Why all the precautions?”

“There are professional theft rings that will hack into an insurance company's files and sell the information on the policy riders—usually the jewelry rider—to other thieves. Armed with the address and an exact inventory of goods in the house, the ring then burglarizes the residence.”

A look of understanding came into her eyes. “And with kidnap policies you're afraid they'll target the insured?”

He nodded. “And on a practical level, it's often the family member who gets the first call, and so they should be aware that their loved one has kidnap insurance. And if they don't, they should at least be aware that a fund has been established to pay a ransom.”

She contemplated what he'd said. “So I guess you're telling me that I'm lucky your company is turning me down? I won't have my information stolen.”

“Not exactly. Like I said, we have outstanding cyber security.”

“But who in the company has access to the pass codes? Someone must.”

“Me.”

One of her eyebrows shot up. “You? That's all?”

He nodded. “Oh, and the cyber company, of course, but it's safest to have the information in the fewest hands. I'm the only one who can code the policy to authorize or deny payment.”

She considered him a moment longer before emptying her glass and putting it on the table with a finality that told him that for her the interview was over.

“Thank you for the advice. I'll suggest that the company add a line item to the budget for self-insurance.” She rose, and he rose with her. He didn't want the evening to be over.

“Can I drop you anywhere?” he said. He knew from her application and their conversation that she lived a few miles away, on the south end of the Beach. He was pleased when she nodded.

They stepped out of the restaurant onto a street clogged with cars stuck in a gridlock. Horns honked and a cacophony of music from various open windows and drop tops created a din that made Ryan wince. A nearby car equipped with massive speakers vibrated with each pound of a bass beat. Two young dudes covered in bling and with baggy pants and sideways ball caps pushed a yellow Lamborghini down the middle of the road. Several young women laughed as they watched.

“Hey, baby, great car. Too bad it don't work,” one yelled. The man pushing at the driver's side smiled and shook his head.

“Any of you beautiful ladies drive stick?” he said. “This was the last on the rental lot and I thought it would be easy, but man, was I wrong. Keeps dying on me.”

The women shook their heads.

The man pushing the car shrugged and kept going, trailing honking cars and angry drivers behind him.

“What a circus,” Ryan said.

They watched the show as they waited for the valet to bring his car. He drove a hybrid. It had the advantage of imparting a certain eco cachet without the cost of a sports car, which was the ride of choice on the Beach. It was also highly rated and carried no risk of the frequent repairs that a sports car would require. When it came, they strapped in and he started south. He noticed that she kept an eye on the sideview mirror, watching behind them.

“I read in your application that you're an ultra marathon runner,” he said. “I suppose you could run all the way to Key West without trouble. Have you ever done the Keys 100?”

She smiled at him. “Not yet, but I'd love to.” She flicked another glance at the sideview mirror and he saw her stiffen.

“We're being followed,” she said.

At first he didn't believe he'd heard her right. “I beg your pardon?”

“The silver Porsche. It's following us.” She kept her attention on the sideview mirror while she answered. He checked out the back. One car separated them from the Porsche. It drove in the right lane, and other than the fact that it was flashy and expensive, it seemed unremarkable.

“What makes you think it's following us?”

“You've taken four turns and it has also.”

He shrugged. “I'm headed to South Beach. It's Friday night. Probably everyone else is too.”

She gave him a look filled with patience. “Mr. Ryan—”

“Call me Sebastian,” he said.

“Sebastian,” she said. “If they were merely headed south they wouldn't have kept up with the winding route that you're taking. They would have simply shot down Collins. It's much more direct. We're being followed. Any idea why?”

He snorted. “No. If anyone's following us, then perhaps they're following you. You're the one with the risky job and looking to purchase kidnap insurance.”

“I'm in your car,” she said.

“So that means they saw you get in.”

He was having a hard time believing the conversation. Her application had given him no hint that she suffered from paranoia, though now that he thought about it, it was entirely possible that she was affected with post-traumatic stress disorder.

“I'm an analyst for an insurance company. The most dangerous thing that I do all day is compute the statistical probability of claim loss versus premium gain.”

“Have you insured anyone dangerous lately?”

“You,” he said. His voice was a little strident, he noted, but her insistence that they were being followed made him edgy.

“You just turned me down.”

“We're not being followed.” His voice was flat. Now all he wanted was to get to South Beach and off-load her. The whole conversation was too weird.

“Turn right at the next intersection,” she said.

“That's not the way to your house.”

“I'm proving to you that we're being followed. Turn right. If they do also, then that's turn number five. No way is that a coincidence.”

“Fine,” he said. He flicked on the turn signal and turned right. After a moment he glanced into the rearview mirror. The Porsche appeared.

Now he was becoming nervous. His hands began to sweat. The last thing he needed was to be caught up in her chaotic life.

“I'll drive to the police station.”

She gave him another patient look, which sent a flash of annoyance through him.

“I wouldn't recommend that,” she said.

Of course you wouldn't, because you're used to this level of craziness.

He had the thought but didn't say it out loud. Instead he said, “Why not? I realize that you've been through kidnappings and hijacking and God knows what else, but let me give you a tip—most of us law-abiding citizens go to the police when we're in trouble.” He realized that he sounded like a pompous asshole, but his hands were sweating on the wheel and he was getting more agitated every minute.

“If you go to the police,” she said, “they'll leave, yes, but then just return, and the next time you may not see them.”

“I won't see them because they're following you, not me.” He turned onto Alton and continued south. After a second the Porsche appeared.

“Fine. Pull over,” she said. “I'll get out. I don't need you to lead them directly to my house.”

He shot her a glance. “I don't want to leave you alone.”

Now she looked aggravated. “I'll be okay. Just pull over.”

He flipped on the turn signal and pulled to the corner. She opened the door and leaned into him.

“Thank you for an interesting evening. Good luck with the police.”

She angled out of the car, closed the door, and headed down a side street at a rapid pace. He watched her turn the next corner, then he pulled back into traffic, but kept flicking his eyes to the rearview mirror. The Porsche stayed with him while he drove to the police station. As he double-parked in front of the building, a man in the passenger seat stared at him as the Porsche drove past. He was heavyset, with a receding hairline. Ryan stepped off the curb and glanced at the license. The car had a dealer plate, and he noted the number.

Gotcha, he thought.

H
ALF AN HOUR
later Ryan was back in his car and frustrated. The frazzled and already exhausted police politely informed him that they wouldn't waste their time writing a report about a car that did nothing more than ride on the same road as Ryan's. They suggested that he return if the car's inhabitants actually did something illegal.

He pulled into the small parking lot off the alley behind his condominium building. The building had six units in a U-shaped courtyard configuration. He beeped the car locked and strode toward the back entrance, which opened directly into a breezeway that connected the parking lot to the interior courtyard. He jogged up to the second floor put the key in the lock and swung his door open.

A hand pushed him from behind and he flew, face-first, into the living room. He landed on the hardwood floor and grunted when the air was forced out of his lungs. Someone grabbed a fistful of his hair and slammed his head against the table's leg. The pain that shot through his head made him groan again. He clutched his keys in his right fist and considered trying to roll over and punch the attacker in the head, but the grip on his hair was tight and his cheek was pressed into the floor.

“Pay up or die.” The attacker hissed the words at his ear. The lights were off and the room dark, but Ryan could see the muzzle of the gun the man held to his face. Beyond the gun barrel he made out the shape of his front door, still hanging open.

Before he could answer he saw the flash and heard the reports of gunshots. The man released Ryan's hair with a yell and scrambled across the room and around the sofa.

“Ryan, it's Emma Caldridge. Run!”

Ryan rolled over and regained his footing. The room spun as the blood rushed from his head, but he ran through the door into the hallway.