Got the Look (9 page)

You can't be the only person in Seattle with a mixed background.

No, but I figure, why put up with the bullshit? I remember once at U-dub - University of Washington - I went to this powwow on campus. Talk about awkward. The women all looked at my green eyes and treated me like just another horny white chick looking for her big brown Indian stud.

Interesting.

Of course, they were basically right. But it still bothered me that they thought it.

Jack's mouth opened, but he didn't say anything.

Are you blushing? she said, seeming to enjoy the fact that she'd knocked him slightly speechless.

Jack shrugged it off and smiled, but he was thinking about the Cuban mother he'd never known, the half-Cuban boy who didn't eat a plantain until his sophomore year in college. They were talking about Andie, however, and he didn't want to one-up her with his story of a twenty-three-year-old mother who died in childbirth and an alcoholic stepmom who destroyed all the letters that his abuela mailed from Cuba. I can probably relate to your situation more than you'd imagine, he said, leaving it at that.

The waiter checked on them again and then retreated inside. Andie stirred another packet of sweetener into her cup. The conversation turned to business, and Jack gave her the whole story without interruption, including Theo's theory that Salazar might have killed his wife and staged the kidnapping.

Andie gave it some thought, then shook her head. It's a stretch.

Why do you say that?

Like I told you from the start, the exact wording of the kidnapper's demand has never been made public. It's this kidnapper's signature - pay what she's worth' - and we didn't want a flood of copycats using it. For Salazar to be able to fake a kidnapping and use that exact same language in a ransom note would mean that he somehow had access to police details of the previous ransom demands.

Hey, imagine that. A leak in law enforcement.

She nodded and gave a little smile. I hear you. I just don't think so in this case.

Is Mia's kidnapping really that similar to the Thornton case?

I can't share everything with you. But there are some important differences. Here, the ransom demand went to Mr. Salazar and to the FBI. Last time, it went only to Mr. Thornton. The use of the Internet phone to avoid tracing didn't happen in the Thornton case.

None of these differences raise red flags for you?

There are too many other important similarities.

So you think it's purely a coincidence that the husband finds out his wife is cheating and then she disappears?

No more of a coincidence than if her lover suddenly finds out she's married and then she disappears.

Jack coughed on his latte foam. Wait a minute. Am I on some kind of list that I should know about?

Let me put it this way. You're pretty much on the same list Mr. Salazar is on.

I'm not sure how to take that.

I'm not saying you're a suspect. I'm not barking up your tree or Salazar's, but we haven't ruled anything out completely.

Fair enough, said Jack, though he knew the reality. Whether the cops admitted it or not, everyone was a suspect until they were ruled out. Especially the two male corners of a love triangle.

Andie set her empty coffee cup aside, seeming to shift gears slightly. I'm not just asking this out of idle curiosity, but I would like to know. How did you feel about Mia?

You mean before or after I found out that she was married?

Let's start with before.

I thought we were close.

Were you in love with her?

Maybe. I was definitely more excited about her than anyone else I've dated since my divorce.

How do you feel about her now?

How do you think I feel?

If the kidnapper sent you the same note - pay what she's worth - would you do the same thing Mr. Salazar is doing?

Not at all.

You'd pay a ransom?

I didn't say that. Salazar is playing a very dangerous game. It's his prerogative to decide whether he wants to pay. But he shouldn't be toying with the kidnapper in a way that could get Mia killed.

Now you understand my frustration, said Andie. The FBI can only advise in these situations. It's like when the cops say don't pay a ransom, and the family does it anyway. We can't force Salazar to conduct his negotiations any certain way.

Yeah, but at some point the FBI has to step up and say, hey, bucko, you're being a jerk, and we're not gonna let the victim be the one who suffers.

True. And that's why you should stay involved.

What do you mean?

I think you still care about Mia. And I think Salazar knows that you still care about her.

Then you're both wrong.

Hey, I'm a cop, but I'm still a woman. You can't fool me or yourself about these things. The feelings we have for other people are rarely rational.

Jack averted his eyes. What does this have to do with anything?

I want you to deliver the proof-of-life payment.

You do?

I'll admit, I was dead set against it when I first found out about you and Mia. But Salazar made it clear that he's not going to let me use an undercover FBI agent. So if you don't do it, I'm afraid he'll try and do it himself. Or worse, maybe even send one of his boys to screw things up.

Maybe the same guy who bugged my kitchen.

Exactly. The more aspects of this negotiation and delivery that I can take out of Salazar's hands, the better it'll be for everyone. Especially Mia.

Jack finished his coffee, thinking. Last week, when I saw Mr. Thornton sitting in your lobby all broken up over his dead wife, I was all for helping out any way I could. But Salazar's proof-of-life question changes things. At best, he's being cute. At worst, he's trying to get somebody hurt. I'm just not sure.

I understand. Either way, I need Salazar out of the way. I wouldn't ask just anyone. But as a former prosecutor, you must have some bone in your body that still wants to help catch bad guys.

Yeah, I suppose. Counterbalanced, of course, by a healthy survival instinct. When do I have to decide?

The kidnapper said he'd follow up with instructions. Could be any day. Could be any minute.

Jack's fingers drummed across the tabletop, but the answer wasn't coming any faster. He looked at Andie and said, I'll sleep on it, knowing that sleep was not in the cards that night.

Chapter
12

Jack left Perricone's and had clear sailing till the traffic light changed at Miami Avenue. To his left was the official welcome to Key Biscayne, a big marquee with a life-size plastic dolphin. It was once a shark, not so many years ago. Jack imagined it dressed in pinstripes and asking Have you been injured? - a fitting tribute to the many wealthy lawyers who called the island home.

He sometimes wondered how his life would have changed had he put his trial skills toward plaintiff's personal injury work. It could have been the end of his money troubles. Your vintage Mustang convertible goes up in flames? No problem. Buy two more. Your marriage crashes and burns? Not to worry. Nothing that a thousand-dollar-an-hour divorce lawyer can't handle. But it just wasn't his style to juggle countless slip-and-fall cases while fervently hoping for a grieving mother to come through the door with a quadriplegic toddler who had been pushed into the street by Donald Trump, run over by a speeding FedEx truck, and then diagnosed with the flu by a drunken ER physician. Then again, trying to snag referrals from a guy like William Bailey wasn't really Jack's style either. If there was a silver lining to the Mia disaster, it was the quick death it had delivered to his idiotic pursuit of the golden handcuffs - or as Theo had put it, yanking up the FYN.

Stopped at the red light, he dialed Theo from his cell. Your friend still there? said Jack.

What? Theo shouted.

Is your electronics guy still at my house checking for bugs?

Jack heard music and laughter in the background. Theo said, Oh yeah, he's still here. Brought a few of his friends over, too. Jack Daniel, Mr. Bacardi

Great, thought Jack.

He overheard Theo say something like Come on, baby, I'm talking on the phone here. Jack didn't even bother asking. He just said good-bye and disconnected. The traffic light changed, but he didn't make his turn. Instead, he cut across three lanes to the I-95 North on-ramp, and he didn't plan on stopping until he reached Palm Beach.

It was time to pay a visit to Mia's best friend.

Jack had never met Emilia Varnal, but he had her cell number. Whenever Mia had to cut a date short or cancel plans unexpectedly, her usual excuse was that she was helping her friend Emilia through a postdivorce funk. On more than one occasion she'd actually called on Emilia's cell phone to tell Jack how much she missed him. In hindsight, Jack realized that it wasn't because she'd forgotten her own phone or because her battery was dead. She was simply minimizing the number of calls to him from her own number, avoiding a paper trail that her husband might uncover.

Jack dialed Emilia's number and caught her at what sounded like a crowded cocktail party. It wasn't an ideal time for her to talk, but Jack persisted. I need to speak with you, he said. It's about the kidnapping. It's urgent.

That seemed to change her tune. I'm at the Breakers Hotel, she said. I can slip away to meet you for a few minutes in the lobby.

I'll see you there at nine, said Jack.

The Breakers Hotel was a Palm Beach landmark, a well-restored architectural gem that smacked of history, opulence, and (hey, it was Palm Beach) attitude. Its impressive towers, ornamental stonework, and iron balconies were inspired by the Villa Medici in Rome, and the grand entrance evoked the style of the Italian Renaissance. A string of black limousines was in front by the valet stand. Jack self-parked and entered the lobby behind a group of socialites who looked as though they'd just cleaned out the Chanel Shop on Worth Avenue. He was starting to feel like the proverbial brown pair of loafers in a black-tie world, his blue jeans and T-shirt having barely met the dress code at Perricone's for his meeting with Andie Henning. Casual could be chic, he kept telling himself, but for some reason the theme song from The Beverly Hillbillies was playing in his mind as he crossed the lobby.

Jack? he heard a woman say.

He turned and knew immediately that it was Emilia. She looked as he'd imagined her. Though not as pretty as Mia, she had a certain refinement about her. The emerald-and-diamond necklace around her neck seemed to suggest that she'd made out well in the divorce.

They took a seat on a Louis XVI-style couch near the fireplace, away from the crowd. Emilia was on the edge of her seat, not because she was hanging on Jack's every word, but because she seemed in need of another week or so on phase one of the South Beach Diet to squeeze into the black satin dress she was wearing. They exchanged pleasantries - how it was nice to finally meet, too bad about the circumstances - and then Jack turned the conversation to Mia.

The FBI wants me to help with the kidnapping, he said. I can't get into the details. But it's important, and I have to make a decision about what I'm going to do.

So you called me?

Yeah, he said, struggling with how best to put it. I don't know if it makes a difference or not. I just felt this sudden need to know He offered a look that made it completely unnecessary to say more.

Mia was in love with you, she said, her tone soft and sincere. You do know that, don't you?

All I know is that she lied to me.

She set her half-empty champagne flute on the marble-topped end table. You have to understand Mia's side of it. If she told you she was married, there was a chance that you might get angry or spiteful, run straight to her husband, and tell him everything. You might even have blackmailed her, for all she knew. I warned her that a married woman should never sleep with an unmarried man. You have to make sure that the other person has as much to lose as you do.

Interesting theory.

I read it in Cosmo.

I must have missed that issue.

It took a moment, but she seemed to catch on that he was being facetious. Never mind that, she said. All rules and every bit of logic went straight out the window when she met you. This wasn't a fling. From the very start, she was pretty much head over heels. Don't get me wrong. It isn't like you stole her from Ernesto. She stopped loving him a long time ago.

If that's the case, she should have divorced him and then gone looking.

It's not that easy for her.

It's never easy for anybody.

No, you don't understand the relationship.

You're right. I don't. Why don't you help me out there?

She glanced down the hall, toward the noisy cocktail party in the ballroom, as if debating whether she had time to explain. The simple truth is she couldn't leave Ernesto.

No. That's not the way it works. If she didn't leave him, it's because she wouldn't, not couldn't.

She shook her head. Where'd you learn that, law school? Domestic Relations one-oh-one? Try living in the real world.