Got the Look (12 page)

They had decided against the wire, but at a minimum, it had seemed prudent to equip the jacket with a tiny Global Positioning System tracking chip that would allow the FBI to monitor his movements wherever he went.

Not much we can do about that.

Andie kept walking. Crenshaw, you're nearest the courthouse. Go inside, flash your badge, flex your muscle - do whatever you gotta do to make them turn off their machines and let Swyteck pass.

Let's not overreact, said Crenshaw. So what if the security guards get all excited about Swyteck's Kevlar Windbreaker or GPS locator? That doesn't necessarily send a message to the kidnapper that he called the FBI.

You want to explain that one to a sociopath? We have to assume he's watching Swyteck at all times. Come on, Pete. I need you on this. Get moving.

Chapter
15

Once the tallest building south of the Washington Monument, the eighty-year-old courthouse was quite possibly the only architectural gem in Miami that would have looked just fine in the nation's capital. It was a quintessential government building, an imposing limestone skyscraper with massive fluted columns and Doric capitals, signatures of the neoclassic revival design. Visitors had to climb not one but two long tiers of gray granite steps made smooth by decades of foot traffic. Jack gobbled up the first tier quickly, then slowed about halfway up the second - and not because he was tired.

On the other side of the glass entrance doors was a team of security guards with metal detectors. His Kevlar vest was certain to raise some eyebrows, to say nothing of his GPS locator. And if they opened the briefcase well, it wasn't illegal to carry that much cash, but it wouldn't exactly lower the guards' antennae. He didn't have much choice, however. The caller had told him to enter through the south side and exit through the north. Turning away would only fuel the kidnapper's paranoia. Jack's only hope was that the FBI was on top of things and that he could pass through smoothly.

A steady stream of visitors, employees, and lawyers dressed in suits entered through the center revolving glass door. Jack jumped behind a team of reporters from a local news station, figuring that the courthouse guards might be too preoccupied with the cameras and other gear to notice him. The layout was no different from airport security, an X-ray machine to one side and the metal detector beside it, like the frame of a doorway. Jack watched as the camera crew got the full treatment - bags opened, equipment X-rayed, bodies searched with the handheld electronic wand. For a moment, Jack considered leaving, certain that they were going to detain him and that the kidnapper would go ballistic.

Next, the guard called.

Jack stepped forward and placed the briefcase full of cash on the conveyer belt. To his relief, the guard didn't pop it open. He just pushed it through the X-ray machine.

Step through, please, he told Jack.

This was the hard part. Jack held his breath, but it didn't help. The alarm sounded the moment he entered the metal detector, and a shrill chirping noise echoed off the stone arches of the cavernous lobby.

Step over here, please, the guard said without expression.

Jack did as he was told, putting his arms up and feet apart. He started working up explanations in his head, but they all waxed hollow. Don't volunteer anything, he told himself. Just answer their questions and maybe you'll get through.

The guard waved the handheld wand from his shoulders to his feet. It made no sound at all. Nothing was detected. You're clear, said the guard, still stone-faced.

The words didn't quite register for Jack. He didn't move.

I said you're clear. This time, the guard gave a little jerk of the head, as if telling him to move on. At that moment, Jack knew: Somebody from the FBI had indeed made a phone call. And someone else had turned off his electronic wand. Relieved, Jack grabbed his briefcase and started across the lobby. He glanced back once to see the guard hassling a seventy-year-old Latin woman. Another juror/terrorist for sure. The wand was back in working order.

The north entrance to the courthouse was directly across the rotunda, but it was nowhere near as busy. Jack exited through the revolving door and continued down the granite steps. As the kidnapper had said, a vending machine for the Miami Tribune was on the corner. Jack fished a quarter from his pocket and put it in the slot. About half the newspapers had already been sold, and he reached to the bottom of the stack. True to the kidnapper's word, an envelope was lying facedown on the bottom. Jack let the vending door slam shut, opened the envelope, and read the typed message inside.

It read: Kwick-e Copy Center, south of Flagler on First Street. A computer has been rented in your name. And yes, you can run now. I would if I were you.

Jack tucked the message in his pocket and ran as fast as he could, around the west side of the courthouse. He made a sharp left on Flagler Street and then headed east. The crowded sidewalk was slowing him down, so after about a hundred yards he took to the street. On a dead run, he covered the final two blocks going against traffic, trailing behind a death-defying messenger on a twelve-speed bicycle. He spotted the Kwick-e Copy Center just around the corner and ran inside.

I'm Jack Swyteck, he said, catching his breath as he reached the counter.

The desk attendant appeared to be about six months out of high school, undoubtedly years ahead of Jack in computer expertise. She removed her headset, and Jack could hear the rap music blaring from her headphones. What did you say? she asked.

He flashed his driver's license. Do you have a computer reserved for me?

She checked the name against her list. Yup. Pod number three. It's yours all day.

Jack thanked her and went straight to his assigned space. The computer center was compartmentalized into a dozen different workstations, each separated by chest-high dividers that offered some degree of privacy. Jack laid his briefcase on the desktop and pulled up a chair on wheels. The PC was already running, but the monitor was off. With a flip of the power switch, the screen flickered and then came into focus. The desktop was already opened to a word-processing program. Someone had obviously been there earlier, typed a message, and then switched off the monitor. The same message was now before Jack's eyes. It read: CD beneath your chair. Insert it. Put on the headphones. Watch and listen.

Jack reached under the chair. His fingertips found a plastic jewel box taped to the bottom. He pulled off the tape, opened the case, and inserted the CD into the D: drive. The computer hummed as it processed the new data. Jack watched the hourglass on the screen, his mind awhirl. He knew this had to be it. The answer to the question - the proof that Mia was alive.

If she's alive.

The screen flickered yet again, and he put on the headphones.

The flickering stopped, and Jack found himself staring at seventeen inches of blackness. Nothing. He adjusted the brightness, but to no avail. Maybe something had gone wrong with the computer. Maybe this was the kidnapper's idea of a joke. A minute later - it seemed much longer - a message in large white letters began to scroll across the screen.

Question: What do real estate and a red-hot branding iron have in common?

The black screen and white letters suddenly disappeared, and the CD switched to streaming video. It was a close-up of Mia's face. She was conscious, staring straight into the camera. Jack's heart pounded as he looked into her eyes, those amazing eyes that were red and tired and wide with fear. Something in the back of his mind was telling him to look away, but he didn't dare miss anything. Then, without any warning, Mia's face became almost unrecognizable as she let out a bloodcurdling scream that nearly rattled Jack's headphones, a scream unlike any Jack had ever even imagined, let alone heard, in his lifetime. It continued for an insufferably long time, tears streaming down her contorted face, her voice straining for some relief. Her cries of agony never came to a discernible end, but the video suddenly ended. Her image was gone, the editor having cut away from her suffering, as if satisfied that he'd made his point. The screen went black, and more white letters scrolled across the screen.

Answer: Location, location, location.

Jack had instinctively covered his nose and mouth with both hands. His breathing was in gasps, like a man on the verge of hyperventilation. That was their proof of life - a sick monster's perversion of a cute joke about kisses and real estate. There was no denying that the woman on the screen was Mia. The pain on her face was real. The horror in her screams was too real, almost more than he could handle.

But it wasn't over. Another string of words appeared on-screen, and Jack read the rest of the message.

Keep your paltry ten thousand. Stop stalling. Pay me what she's worth.

The screen went black. Jack fell back in his chair, then drew a deep breath and pushed himself away from the computer, taking extra care not to touch anything else.

He was certain that Andie Henning and her forensic team would want to take a very good look at Kwick-e computer pod number 3.

Chapter
16

The copy center remained a secured crime scene the entire afternoon. A yellow line of police tape stretched across the storefront, though pod number 3 was naturally the forensic team's primary focus. The computer, keyboard, and surrounding area were checked for fingerprints. Hair and fiber specialists collected specimens, everything from microscopic traces to the electrical tape that held the CD jewel box to the chair bottom. Computer experts checked the hard drive for technological clues that the kidnapper might intentionally or unintentionally have left behind. A senior agent interviewed the homeless guy, but he added nothing to what he'd already told Jack on the street. The interview of the desk attendant yielded only a general description of a white male over thirty years of age, around six feet, medium build. A baseball hat and sunglasses concealed his hair and eye color. He had dressed like a homeless guy, apparently wearing the same costume in both the copy center and the homeless shanty. The one thing she did remember was that the man paid cash to rent pod number 3 in the name of Jack Swyteck.

In a separate pod, Andie debriefed the real Jack Swyteck for almost ninety minutes before sending him home.

Forty-five minutes later, Andie was in the audiovisual lab of the FBI's Miami field office, analyzing the digital images and voice recording of Mia Salazar. A technical agent was seated at his desk in front of a wall of electronic equipment. Andie stood and watched over his left shoulder as he played with various zooms, color adjustments, slow motion, volume control, and other functions. Paul Martinez, Miami's special agent in charge (SAC), peered over the tech agent's other shoulder.

Tough not to tear your eyes away, even without sound, said Martinez.

No one disagreed. The tech agent had digitally separated and muted Mia's screams to see if background noises could be detected.

Anything? asked Andie.

The tech agent was wearing headphones, but he was relying more on a sight check of the needles on his instruments to detect extraneous sounds that might be picked up and amplified. Certain sounds could offer clues as to the victim's whereabouts.

We may have something around ten to fifteen decibels, he said.

What would be in that range? asked Andie.

Normal conversation is around sixty. So this could be anything from a squeaky mouse to a herd of charging elephants two hundred yards away.

But you do hear something?

No promises, Andie. Could be static. I really need to clean this up and work with it to give you a definitive answer. Maybe by tomorrow morning.

No chance of something before the joint task force meeting this evening? she said, hopeful.

As soon as I have something, I'll let you know.

Andie thanked him, and then she and the SAC left him to do his work alone. The task force meeting was scheduled for 6 P. M. The idea was to enhance cooperation between the FBI and various state and local law enforcement agencies. Andie was named task-force coordinator, not only because she was a field agent held in high regard by the FBI's elite Critical Incident Response Group, but also because of her hands-on experience with the Wrong Number Kidnapper in the Ashley Thornton case. This evening, it would be Andie's job to bring everyone up to date and coordinate further strategies.

You ready for tonight's meeting? asked Martinez. They were walking down the hallway toward his office. Martinez had once been a collegiate star in the eight-hundred-meter run and was now an aspiring triathlete in the over-forty club. A simple walk down the hall with him felt like a miniworkout, a good bit faster than the usual office stroll.

I will be, said Andie.

They stopped outside the SAC's office. Martinez leaned against the door frame, his hands in his pockets. Andie, I know that the CD was terribly disturbing to watch, but whatever that monster did to Mrs. Salazar is not your fault. You realize that, right?

Yeah, I do, she said without heart.

Hey, I'm serious. Asking for proof of life was good strategy. Don't second-guess that.

I had a bad feeling about it from the moment Mr. Salazar surprised me with that location, location, location riddle. I still can't believe I got sandbagged like that.