Got the Look (11 page)

I can do that.

One other thing. No FBI, no cops, no private detectives lurking in the background. Whenever more than two people get involved in an exchange, things go wrong. People get hurt. You understand what I'm saying?

Yes.

Be sure you do. This exchange is between the two of us alone. You break the rules, and the one who pays is the one you care for more than anything.

The caller disconnected before he could answer, but Jack had no coherent response anyway. Whether he still cared for Mia wasn't the issue. A slightly different question was stuck in Jack's mind: Even if he did still care, how did the kidnapper know it?

And what made him think Jack cared more than anything?

Jack faced the ocean to gather his thoughts, the moonlight glistening on the gently rolling waves. He took only a moment, then flipped open his cell phone and dialed Andie Henning.

Chapter
14

The e-mail hit on Monday at 8 A. M., sooner than he'd expected. Go downtown to the corner of Miami Avenue and Flagler, it said. Find the bench across from the drugstore. Sit as far to the north end as you can. Then wait.

Jack immediately called Andie Henning with the message. Although the kidnapper had warned him not to call the cops, Jack was taking no chances, especially with such curious instructions: Sit as far to the north end as you can. What was the guy trying to do, line him up for the perfect sniper shot? Jack was glad he'd called in the FBI, if only because he was equipped with a Windbreaker that was actually lined with Kevlar - not to mention a briefcase filled with ten thousand dollars in marked bills, compliments of the U. S. Treasury Department.

Jack was out the door in less than ten minutes, but with the morning traffic, it was almost nine o'clock by the time he parked his car in a downtown lot and walked to the designated intersection. He found the right bench and took a seat on the north end closest to Flagler Street, as instructed. Then he waited. And waited.

There were certainly worse places to while away the morning, but even in downtown Miami, people-watching inevitably turned boring. The old man selling bags of key limes to passing motorists was entertaining for a while, the way the same bag went for a buck to a Chevy, five bucks to a Volvo. At the corner espresso bar, a group of old Cuban men were in the thick of their unending debate over Cuba without Castro. Across the street, a film crew spent a good two hours shooting a commercial with a Latina model, patiently waiting for the perfect gust of wind to send her red dress flying in Marilyn Monroe fashion. Apparently, research had shown that a twenty-year-old goddess with no tan lines was the trick to selling car insurance.

The film crew left around eleven o'clock, and from then on it was just Jack, the key lime salesman, and the usual flow of morning traffic. Music was coming from the nearby electronics store, which evidently owned just one CD. The same old salsa blaring over the speakers, over and over, was getting annoying. By twenty minutes past noon, he was almost happy to see the homeless guy take a seat on the other end of his bench.

The man just sat there, seeming not to notice Jack. He reeked of vomit and urine. His tattered and faded old army jacket was far too warm for the midday sun, but it looked and smelled as though he hadn't removed it since the big south Florida freeze of 1989. His left pant leg was smeared with what could only have been dried feces. Jack's olfactory senses could adjust to nearly anything - his best friend was Theo Knight - but in this case it might take hours instead of minutes. The man started mumbling to himself, then finally managed to put together an audible sentence.

The son has cursed the father, he said in a matter-of-fact voice.

Jack made a conscious decision not to acknowledge him.

Hey, did you hear what I said? the man asked.

Jack glanced over, but the man was speaking to the purely imaginary figure before him, his tone turning harsh. Listen to me! I said, the son has cursed the father!

He was bobbing his head like a plastic toy dog in the rear window of a car. His hands began to shake uncontrollably. The man was obviously angry, but the quivering seemed more like signs of withdrawal from a drug addiction. His face reddened, as if someone had insulted him. He sprang to his feet and pointed an accusatory finger at no visible being, shouting, Yeah, fuck you, too, buddy!

The lunch crowd was streaming down the sidewalk, mostly businesspeople who passed without a word, ignoring him. The man cast a suspicious eye toward all the suits, but eventually his shoulders slumped, and more mumbling poured from his lips. He stayed put, however, his feet planted on the sidewalk. Finally, he faced Jack squarely and said, Hey, move.

Jack looked at him out of the corner of his eye. This time, it appeared that he was indeed speaking to him.

Move it, the man said. I gotta take a piss.

This isn't a bathroom.

I don't give a crap about no bathroom. Some guy gave me fifty bucks to piss right where you're sitting, so move or I'm gonna piss all over you.

What? Jack started to say, but the answer was obvious before he could even ask the question: The homeless guy was a messenger. Jack opened his wallet and said, I'll give you a hundred bucks to describe the person who hired you.

He grabbed the bill. White guy. That's about all I can tell you.

Where did you meet him?

Cardboard city under the I-ninety-five ramp.

When did he hire you?

Last night around midnight. It was dark, man. Didn't get a good look. He just says come here at noon and piss on the bench right where the guy is sitting. The man started to squirm, and he suddenly sounded as if he were in pain. That's all I know, man. Now move so I can piss. I got twelve cans of beer in me.

Jack rose and stepped aside. The man hurried over, unzipped, and then urinated exactly where Jack had been seated. A few passersby glanced over in disgust, but the crowd kept moving. Jack didn't want to stare, but he realized that it probably was no accident that the kidnapper had given him such explicit instructions on where to sit - and equally explicit instructions to the homeless guy on where to relieve himself.

As he finished his business, the homeless man snorted and said, What the hell?

Jack glanced at the bench. Something strange was happening. The urine had brought up colored lettering, like those litmus papers in science class that turned blue or green, depending on whether the liquid was alkaline or acid.

The message read, I'M PISSED.

A half block north on Miami Avenue, Andie Henning stepped away from the espresso bar and merged into the flow of pedestrian traffic. She spoke into the microphone clipped to her collar, appearing no different from at least a dozen other businesswomen who were talking on their hands-free cell phones while walking to their office. Except that Andie was connected to her surveillance team in the field.

What's he doing now? asked Andie.

Homeless guy just took a piss, came the response.

What?

No kidding. Swyteck gave him some money, and the guy took a piss right where he was sitting.

You're saying that Swyteck paid the guy to urinate?

That's what it looks like. Hell, give a guy a briefcase full of money, you never know what he's gonna do.

Andie stopped at the crosswalk. She couldn't imagine why Jack would pay a homeless person to urinate on the bench. They'd decided against fitting up Jack with a wire for fear that the kidnapper might have some electronic equipment in place to detect it. In light of this, however, Andie wished they hadn't been so cautious.

What's happening now? she asked.

Believe it or not, it just keeps getting weirder. Either Swyteck has an unhealthy fascination with human waste, or there's something else of interest on that bench.

Can somebody zoom in for a look?

I can't but Wait. Rooftop post says he sees something. Some kind of lettering, like a message.

Still bizarre, thought Andie. But it was starting to make sense. Sounds like our homeless guy is some kind of messenger.

Yeah. Total loser, from the looks of him. I'd say he was picked at random.

Follow him after he leaves. Let's pick him up for questioning. Indecent exposure.

Not sure that's a federal crime.

Make it one, she said.

Roger.

Jack was still staring at the message on the bench, waiting for something more to appear. But those two simple words seemed to be the full extent of the message: I'M PISSED.

The homeless guy pulled up his zipper. For another fifty bucks, I'll shit on your shoes.

No, thanks anyway, pal. But don't go anywhere for a minute.

You telling me what to do, asshole?

Just stay put.

The man's eyes narrowed, and after about ten seconds he seemed on the verge of an explosion. He raised his arms to the sky, as if he were about to proclaim something of biblical importance, then shouted, The son has cursed -

Yeah, yeah, said Jack. Heard you loud and clear the first time, chief.

Are you Jack Swyteck? another man asked. He was a short Latin guy with a completely gray mustache that belied his jet-black toupee. He was standing on the sidewalk in front of the electronics store, a cordless telephone in hand.

Who wants to know? asked Jack.

Didn't give a name. Just said he wanted to talk to the guy outside the store named Jack Swyteck.

Smart move, Jack thought. No way law enforcement could have been prepared to trace a call coming into a randomly selected business establishment. Yeah, thanks, I'm Swyteck, he said as he reached for the phone.

The guy pulled back. Not so fast. Your friend said you'd give me fifty bucks if I let you use my phone.

Jack reached into his wallet and gave him three twenties. The store owner didn't offer any change. Jack took the phone. Swyteck here.

I'm still pissed, the caller said. It was that same mechanical-sounding voice of Mia's kidnapper.

What are you talking about?

You'd think that if the FBI was going to watch, they'd at least have the brains to rotate out the agents every hour or so, or at least change clothes. Four hours is a long time for a hot-dog vendor to work straight through, never going for a cup of coffee, never going to the bathroom, never budging from the hot-dog cart. He's got FBI written all over him.

Jack glanced at the cart on the corner. He hadn't realized that it was manned by an undercover FBI agent, but obviously the kidnapper had a sharp eye. Jack didn't see any upside to arguing the point, so he launched into the backup plan he and Andie had worked out in advance. Look, I never called the FBI. I did exactly what you said: no cops. If they're here, it's because they're following me. Not because I called them.

Or because your client called them.

Jack had to think for a second or two, then realized that by your client the caller meant Salazar. No, Ernesto wouldn't do that.

Yeah, sure.

Look, I don't know how this happened, but I'm sorry.

Sorry doesn't solve it, does it? The FBI is still here. So that leaves just one thing to do.

Please, don't take it out on Mia.

We gotta lose em, Swyteck.

Jack felt a slight sense of relief. Whatever you say.

Here's the drill. Turn around and go two blocks to the Miami-Dade County Courthouse. Enter the building through the south entrance. Go straight through the lobby and come out the north exit. Go down the north steps, and there's a vending machine for the Miami Tribune on the corner. Put in your quarter and reach inside. Go all the way to the bottom of the stack. The message is in an envelope underneath the last newspaper. You got it?

Yeah.

Now go! Don't run, but you'd better walk fast. I could change my mind about all this.

Andie was coming up on Miami Avenue when she spotted Jack across the street. He was walking at a brisk pace, headed away from his original location. He's on the move, she said into her microphone.

We got it, the rooftop post responded.

I'm in pursuit, said Andie.

The lunchtime crowd was at its peak, making it difficult to travel in a straight line. With vendors hustling everything from jewelry to sugarcane, from ferrets to sunglasses, the sidewalks along Flagler Street could feel like a Union Square flea market, but with a Latin beat. Andie wove her way through pedestrians, around street musicians, over a homeless guy who obviously had no trouble sleeping through all the commotion.

Can't see him, said Andie, working her way up a crowded sidewalk. Where's he now?

Crossing to the north side of Flagler Street. Looks like he may be headed for the courthouse.

Andie's pace quickened. That's not good. If he goes inside and gets stopped by security, it's sure going to look as though Jack called in law enforcement - which is exactly what the kidnapper told him not to do.

They don't routinely open briefcases. The money inside should just show up on X-ray as a bunch of typical lawyer papers.

Yeah, but they'll detect the Kevlar lining for sure. Possibly the GPS.