Got the Look (7 page)

They exchanged pleasantries as they rose and left the conference room. Agent Henning escorted him toward the end of the hall, where the receptionist was seated in an encased booth of bulletproof glass. Another set of glass doors separated the secured area from the waiting room, offering Jack a clear view of a man seated alone on the couch.

Right on time, said Andie.

Excuse me? said Jack.

That's Drew Thornton. Ashley Thornton's widower. He comes every Tuesday and Thursday at two o'clock.

The man on the other side of the glass wall couldn't possibly hear their conversation, and he didn't seem to notice Agent Henning standing near the reception booth. Jack asked her, You two have a standing appointment?

No, said Andie. He just shows up twice a week. Sometimes I have absolutely nothing to tell him, but that doesn't seem to faze him. I guess he thinks that so long as he keeps coming, I won't ever let his wife's case get cold.

Jack's gaze shifted back to Thornton, and he stole a more discerning look. He was perhaps a few years older than Jack, but the worry lines seemed carved in wax. His eyes were devoid of any sense of hope, just dark pools of grief. He was sitting on the edge of the couch, elbows on his knees, chin resting on his tightly laced fingers. It was a pensive pose that seemed to be asking What if? What if I'd called the police sooner? What if I'd paid more ransom money? What if I'd taken a little more time to figure out what she's worth?

Andie said, I'm told that Thornton was absolutely devoted to his wife.

Is that so? said Jack.

Met when they were in college. Got married their junior year. This coming June would have been their twentieth anniversary.

It probably wouldn't have happened if his own marriage hadn't tanked, but for a split second Jack almost envied the guy. The pained expression on Thornton's face, however, renewed the surge of pity. This must have been devastating for him, said Jack.

It always is. I wish I could tell you that Ashley Thornton was the final victim. I wish I could say that Mia Salazar will mark the end of this serial kidnapper's run. But that doesn't fit with his psychological profile. Our sense is that he's just getting started.

Unless we stop him.

Yeah, she said, a hint of a smile coming to the corner of her mouth. We. I like the sound of that.

Jack took another look at Thornton, that tragic face of sorrow and regret. He still questioned Salazar's motives in volunteering his attorney for the job, but if the FBI needed a bagman to make its plan work, he had to believe that Agent Henning wouldn't let him do anything too stupid.

Actually, I think I've had enough time to consider your request.

You'll be our deliveryman? said Andie.

Yeah, he said, watching Thornton through the glass. I'll do it.

Chapter
9

Andie Henning and a tech agent planned to spend the entire weekend at the Salazar mansion in Palm Beach. The FBI was expecting a phone call.

No two kidnappings were ever identical, but it was reasonable to anticipate certain parallels between the Salazar case and prior Wrong Number kidnappings. In the Thornton case, the first contact had been by e-mail, much like the e-mail Mr. Salazar received. The kidnapper followed up with a cellular phone call to the Thornton residence less than five days later. If the same pattern held in Mia's kidnapping, Andie wanted to be on location to make the intercept. By early Friday evening, however, she was on her third pot of coffee, and her tech agent was stretched out on the leather sofa, well into his fifth crossword puzzle.

What's an eight-letter word for a recurrent throbbing headache that starts with m and ends with e?

Andie didn't even look up from her magazine. Marriage?

It was a little routine they'd developed to kill the boredom, the techie posing questions and Andie feeding him wise-ass responses. Migraine, he said as he penciled in the correct answer.

Andie tossed her magazine aside, crossed the spacious family room, and stopped at the two-story wall of windows that faced the Intracoastal Waterway. The sun had just set, and the choppy wakes had calmed. A slow parade of boats was returning to the yacht club, and the city lights were aglow to the west. Salazar had made his fortune buying and selling waterfront real estate, and his first acquisition was a choice little peninsula that projected like a golden finger into Biscayne Bay. Having moved from California, he was quick to realize that Miami wasn't like Laguna Beach or other oceanside communities where tier after tier of hillside homes offered ocean views. Florida was as flat as the ocean itself, and only a house that sat directly on the coastline commanded a view of the water. He kept buying through the eighties and nineties, and by his third wife he'd earned enough money to live anywhere in the world.

Mia chose Palm Beach.

More coffee? asked Salazar.

Andie turned, a bit startled to see him standing just a few feet away. It wasn't easy to sneak up on an FBI agent, but the view was that captivating. Or perhaps she was just that tired.

No, thanks, she said. I've had more than enough caffeine.

Salazar cast his gaze toward a sailboat in the channel. You still think he's going to call?

We'll stay here until he does. As long as you want.

He didn't answer. Dusk was turning into night, and the boats along the Intracoastal were suddenly nothing more than a string of colored running lights. Finally, Salazar asked, Why do you think Mia's kidnapper sent a copy of the ransom note directly to the FBI?

It's an interesting move, said Andie.

He looked at her and said, That's an interesting answer.

She nodded, as if to acknowledge that she owed him more. He didn't do that in the Thornton case. We didn't know anything until Mr. Thornton called and showed us the e-mail.

So why did he do it in my case?

Obviously he wants the FBI involved. For some reason, he must have feared that you wouldn't call the police.

His fears were justified. I wouldn't have called you.

Why not?

I've got my reasons. But it's the other question that intrigues me more: Why does the kidnapper want the FBI involved?

This tells us that he wants some level of notoriety. The guy's not a media hound who plays to the newspapers, but he wants to be noticed and respected by law enforcement. And he's probably trying to make a statement of some kind through his ransom demands - kidnapping the wife and then telling the husband to pay what she's worth. At least that's the psychological profile we've constructed so far.

That scares me, he said.

That's understandable.

People with motives other than money always scare me, he said, his expression deadpan.

It does complicate the equation.

He looked away, staring at nothing. As if the situation weren't complicated enough already.

She sensed that he was finally ready to open up a little. Mr. Salazar, is there something you should be telling me?

He stepped away from the window and turned toward the fireplace. A large painted portrait of Mia hung over the mantel, but he didn't look at it. The other day you asked about delivering a proof-of-life payment to the kidnapper. You obviously didn't realize it, but I was being somewhat facetious when I told you to call Jack Swyteck.

He did act rather puzzled when I talked with him. He didn't even seem to know whether he was actually your attorney.

That's because he's not my attorney.

What is he then?

My wife's lover.

Andie caught her breath. When you told me Mia was having an affair, I didn't realize it was with Swyteck. Are you sure about this?

No question about it.

That explains a few things. I thought Swyteck was acting strange, but I figured it was because he suspected or maybe even knew about Mia's affair. Never did he let on that it was him.

I don't think it's something he's particularly proud of.

There's no room for pride here. Your wife has been kidnapped. I need to know everything there is to know. That goes for you as well as him.

I think that's finally been resolved. Swyteck and I talked after you met with him. We agreed that you should know the whole story, and that I should be the one to tell you.

That's fine and dandy, Ernesto. But damn it, why are you just now getting around to it?

I needed time to think it over.

Think what over?

Whether I still want Swyteck to deliver the proof-of-life payment.

Andie scoffed. Do you seriously think that's still on the table after telling me that he slept with your wife?

It actually makes perfect sense. Swyteck feels like he owes me something, so I'll let him be the delivery boy. If he succeeds, he can have the peace of mind that comes with making amends for his indiscretion. If he fails and ends up on a slab in the morgue - well, it's not like I've lost a friend. It's a classic win-win situation.

In your mind, perhaps. But from my standpoint, it changes everything.

I'm not doing your plan any other way.

What are you saying, it's Swyteck or nobody?

Precisely, said Salazar. I'm certainly not going to put one of my friends in danger.

We'll use an FBI agent. That's the safest way.

I thought we already dismissed that idea.

No question, the kidnapper is more likely to go along with the plan if it's obvious to him that the delivery person is not law enforcement. That's how Swyteck's name came up in the first place. But we have convincing undercover agents.

I don't want the FBI. Like I said: Swyteck or nobody.

Then I say nobody. I don't like the personal history here.

That's really too damn bad, said Salazar, his voice taking on an edge. I'm in control, not you.

Excuse me? she said.

When that kidnapper calls, I'll be doing the talking. And I'm going to tell him that my attorney, Jack Swyteck, will deliver ten thousand dollars in exchange for some proof that Mia is alive. It can be my ten thousand dollars, and you can stay out of it. Or it can be the FBI's ten grand, and you can have your finger right on the pulse. It's up to you.

Andie studied his expression. Behind the dark, piercing eyes surged a controlled sense of anger - barely controlled. Mr. Salazar, just how disappointed would you be if something did go wrong with Swyteck's delivery?

I would never wish any harm on anyone.

Why do I doubt that? thought Andie.

The telephone rang. Immediately, the tech agent sprang from the sofa and checked the monitor in front of him. Could be him. It's a voice over Internet Protocol.

Andie wasn't expecting that from a conventional phone, but she was conversant enough in techspeak to understand that the digitized signal was being compressed into an IP packet that moved between gateways from the caller's computer to a telephone. Can you trace it back to him?

The phone continued to ring as they spoke, a reminder that there was no time to think.

I'll try, the tech agent said. But he'll be long gone before we even get beyond the servers. They stood mute through a fourth and fifth ring. Somebody needs to answer, the tech agent said as he pulled on his headphones.

Salazar shot Andie a look and said, My rules.

Andie could only watch in silence as he answered on the seventh ring. His clipped hello was met by a stretch of dead air that seemed much longer than it actually was. Andie listened through her own set of headphones, waiting. Finally, a response came.

You alone? The voice was distorted by a mechanical device. It sounded as if the caller were talking underwater - an eerie coincidence in light of what had happened to Mrs. Thornton.

Is this who I think it is? said Salazar.

Another delay, but Andie figured that this one was due to the Internet transmission. Yeah. Your wife's new best friend. That's what you were thinking, right?

Salazar paused, seemingly mindful of the key point Andie had repeated over and over again in their hour-long coaching lesson: Don't get agitated; think before you speak. I was hoping you'd call, said Salazar.

Hey, I aim to please.

What do you want?

Andie grimaced: a little too quick to the bottom line. Her tech agent was communicating by keyboard with the tracers in the field, trying furiously to narrow down the origin of the voice transmission. Andie caught Salazar's eye and made the stretch gesture.

You know what I want, said the caller.

What she's worth? said Salazar.

Not a penny less.

That's fine, said Salazar. I have a very exact number in mind.

Good. Then we can get down to business straightaway.

Not so fast. I want to know if my wife's still with us.

All you need to know is that if you don't pay, she's dead.

We have to do better than that. I want proof that she's alive.

The threesome waited, but the response was slow in coming. The tech agent adjusted his volume control, and for a moment Andie feared that the connection had been lost.