A King's ransom

by James Grippando

  “I’m sorry, I-”

  “Like hell, sorry. I don’t give a damn if you’re sorry.”

  The nurse appeared, having overheard the shouting. “Maybe we’ve had enough photographs for one morning.”

  “We’ve had enough Matthew, that’s what we’ve had enough of. Who invited you here anyway? Go away. Get out of my yard, out of my house, out of my sight!”

  I couldn’t move, neither my mouth nor my feet.

  “Go!” she screamed.

  The nurse took my elbow, and I rose from the chair. Grandma folded her arms angrily across her bosom and looked away. I didn’t know what to say, so I didn’t say anything.

  My mind was awhirl as I walked alone to my Jeep. Her confusion had made it impossible to talk about thekidnapping, but strangely, the outburst had made me realize the true purpose of my visit. I hadn’t come to tell Grandma about my father. I was hoping she might tell me something about him.

  I drove away with the sinking sense that there was plenty to tell.

  Friday at lunchtime was a standing date with my buddy J. C. for basketball, and I needed to blow off some steam.

  We met at Jaycee Park in the Gables, an outdoor court that J. C. fancied his home turf, given the similar-sounding name. Not to brag, but I was bigger and quicker than J. C., and whenever my outside shot was on, he couldn’t stop me with a bazooka. Today I was firing up air balls.

  We finished around one o’clock. J. C. had to get back to the office. As it was, he was one of the few stockbrokers I knew who would duck out for basketball before the market closed, but such was the level of commitment from a guy who’d told his clients to buy Heinz simply because he liked ketchup.

  He toweled off his sweaty head at courtside and packed up his athletic bag. “Not your day, huh?”

  “Obviously not. The last time I lost three straight to you, I had a broken wrist from a skateboarding accident.”

  “Sour grapes,” he said, then chugged his Gatorade.

  Normally another witty comeback would have been in order, but my heart wasn’t in it. I was thinking about my trip. “You mind checking in on my mother while I’m gone?”

  “Sure. Be glad to.”

  “Thanks.”

  He glanced at his watch, and I knew he was already late. We’d played longer than usual today, a nice gesture on his part to try to lift me out of the dumps.

  He laid a hand on my shoulder, looking at me with concern. “Have a safe trip. I mean that.”

  “I will.”

  He turned and headed for his car. I stayed behind and rested at the picnic table beneath a shady royal poinciana tree. For a moment I was actually at peace, watching a giggling four-year-old on the swing set nearby, her toes pointed and aiming for the sun. Every third or fourth pump she’d throw her head back until her long, curly hair almost touched the ground.

  Halfway through my Gatorade, I heard a voice behind me. “Hello, Nick.”

  I turned, surprised to see FBI Agent Huitt. “What are you doing here?”

  “It’s a public park.”

  “You don’t look dressed for the monkey bars. How did you know I was here?”

  “It’s Friday lunch, isn’t it? Basketball’s your routine. You know how easy it is to find people when they live their lives in routines. It’s one of the things kidnappers look for when choosing their victims. I’m sure your consultant has explained all that to you.”

  I wasn’t sure how he knew about Alex. I didn’t answer. He seated himself across from me at the picnic table, meeting me at eye level.

  “Consultants are full of all kinds of information and advice, aren’t they?”

  “I suppose.”

  His gaze tightened. “Have you given any thought to what you and I talked about?”

  “There’s nothing to think about. My dad’s not a criminal.”

  “Maybe he is, maybe he isn’t. What I’m telling you is, he got mixed up with the wrong people. I’m giving you a chance to unscramble the egg.”

  “Sorry. I just don’t see it the way you do.”

  “Maybe it’s because you won’t open your eyes.”

  “I don’t like the way you operate. My father’s been kidnapped, and the FBI won’t help unless I snoop around his business and try to find something to incriminate his partner. You haven’t given me a shred of evidence to raise my suspicions about my dad, his partner, or anyone in any way connected to Rey’s Seafood Company. Pardon the pun, but you’re on a fishing expedition. And I’m not biting.”

  He drummed his fingers on the table and nodded, but not in agreement. “I know your consultant. Alex is good, as far as she goes. But she’s steering you wrong here. I’m sure she’s told you not to worry about the FBI. She’s probably gone so far as to say you don’t even need us.” He leaned across the table, looked me straight in the eye. “Let me tell you something, Nick. You need us. More than you think. More than Alex knows. A lot more.”

  He rose and said, “We’ll be in touch.”

  I watched as he cut across the park to his car. He walked in a perfectly straight line, eyes straight ahead. He didn’t even notice the cute little girl on the swing, didn’t return her wave as he passed her, probably didn’t even hear her say hello to him. The hard ass routine was evidently no act. Being a jerk came naturally.

  I grabbed my bag from the picnic table and walked to my Jeep.

  20

  Mom and I had a quiet dinner at home. She didn’t ask much about my visit with Grandma, and I didn’t tell her about my meeting with Agent Huitt. The last thing I wanted to do was add to her worries the night before my flight to Bogota.

  We ate in the kitchen, a break with family tradition. When I was growing up, we always ate dinner in the dining room. That empty space at the head of the table-Dad’s space-was something Mom didn’t want to see. We sat on barstools at the granite counter, both of us picking at a tuna casserole one of her friends had brought over.

  “You and Alex all ready to go?” she asked.

  “We’re ready.”

  “I figured as much. I’m sure she’s done this many times.”

  “Too many.”

  Mom sipped her sparkling water. Her obstetrician had told her to cut out the caffeine, so San Pellegrino with lemon was now her drink of choice. “She doesn’t think you’ll be in the way, does she?”

  “No.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Why would I be in the way?”

  “You’re another person she has to worry about.”

  “We’ve been over it a dozen times. Alex has told me what to wear, how to act, who to talk to, who not to talk to. She’s handpicked our hotel, she’s rented a car so we don’t have to jump into taxis with strangers. Yesterday she sat down with me for an hour, going over what’s safe and what’s not safe. She even drew maps of the exact routes we’ll travel. She used to live in Bogota. As long as I’m with her and listen to what she says, I’ll be fine.”

  Mom didn’t answer. It was her last shot at keeping me home, a feeble one at that. I decided to change the subject.

  “Did Dad have a sister?”

  She looked up from her plate, a little taken aback by the question. “What?”

  “This morning Grandma told me he had a sister.”

  “Your grandmother has Alzheimer’s.”

  “I know. But she even showed me an old photograph of a girl about five or six.”

  “Did she look like his sister?”

  “Not especially.”

  “Could have been anyone, then.”

  “So he didn’t have a sister?”

  “None that he’s ever mentioned to me. None that anyone’s ever mentioned, including your grandmother for the twenty-five years I knew her before she started slipping.”

  “Strange. She confuses me for Dad. Now she’s created a missing daughter.”

  “She’s probably thinking of your sister.”

  I thought for a second as I buttered a slice of bread. “When’s the last time s
he saw Lindsey?”

  “A long time, I suppose. But maybe your father planted some ideas in her head about Lindsey separating herself from the family.”

  “That’s possible, I suppose.”

  “More than possible. For heaven’s sake, your father has been missing for almost two weeks and we still haven’t even talked to Lindsey. We don’t even know where she is.”

  “That was the weirdest part with Grandma this morning. She totally blew a gasket when I asked her where this missing daughter was. She lashed out at me-at Dad, in her mind-for even asking the question.”

  Mom poured herself more water. “She’s a very confused woman right now.”

  “Yeah,” I said, almost speaking to myself. “I’m pretty confused, too.”

  The telephone rang. Mom and I exchanged glances, and then I rose to answer. It was Alex.

  “What’s up?” I said.

  “Bad news, I’m afraid.”

  “Did something happen to my father?”

  “No, not that. Not directly anyway.”

  Mom was ashen. She’d heard my question. I covered the mouthpiece and told her Dad was fine, then continued with Alex. “What is it, then?”

  “I’m afraid I won’t be going to Bogota.”

  “Have you spoken to the kidnappers? Did they reschedule?”

  “No. The meeting’s still on, as scheduled.”

  “I don’t understand. Are you saying you want me to go alone?”

  “It’s- The insurance company pulled me off the case.”

  “Why?”

  “I can’t get into that with you. I’m just calling to let you know I won’t be accompanying you on your trip.”

  “So who’s the replacement?”

  She paused, seeming to struggle. “There is none.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “I’m sorry, Nick. The insurance company is denying coverage on your claim.”

  I gripped the phone, not quite comprehending. “We have no negotiator?”

  “No.”

  “And the ransom will be paid by. .?”

  “By you. This is what I’m telling you. There is no coverage. No negotiator, no ransom. All of it-denied.”

  “How can this be?”

  “I can’t elaborate. I wasn’t even supposed to call you. The insurance company is sending you official notice in accordance with the terms of the policy.”

  “Well, isn’t that big of them? In less than forty-eight hours I’m supposed to talk to my father’s kidnappers by shortwave radio from the top of some hill in Bogota that I’ve never even heard of. Where the hell does this leave me?”

  “I can’t answer that.”

  “Someone needs to answer it. This has to be a mistake.”

  “It’s not a mistake.”

  “Who can I talk to?”

  “I would suggest the company’s general counsel. The lawyers made the final call.”

  My heart sank. I was hoping that this was some kind of administrative screw-up. Not likely if the lawyers had already approved the decision.

  “Come on, Alex. There has to be something we can do.”

  “Believe me, I’ve done everything in my power. I truly hope you have better luck than I did.”

  “So that’s it? You’re bowing out?”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “What about my father?”

  “Good-bye, Nick.”

  I couldn’t even speak. The line clicked, and the dial tone hummed in my ear. Finally I turned at the sound of my mother’s panicky voice.

  “What just happened?”

  I looked at her, stunned. “I wish I knew,” was all I could say.

  PART TWO

  21

  I reached Miami International Airport at 6:00 A.M., two hours before my flight.

  Even if I’d known how to contact the kidnappers, I wouldn’t have dared to reschedule our first meeting. I’d done my homework, I was prepared psychologically, and logistically everything was set. With or without insurance, I was going to Bogota. End of story.

  I’d represented enough insurance companies to know that I wasn’t about to resolve a coverage dispute overnight, so I didn’t even try. I did call Duncan Fitz, however, and told him exactly what Alex had said. He seemed like the right person to get things moving in my absence. Since Quality Insurance was a major client of Cool Cash, he couldn’t be adversarial and browbeat them into reversing their position. But Duncan felt confident that he could at least make an inquiry and elicit a more detailed explanation of their about-face. We agreed to powwow when I got back and figure out where I stood.

  I checked in at the crowded international terminal, then found a seat and killed some time reading a Spanish-language magazine called Semana. One of the things Alex had told me was to blend into the Colombian culture while traveling. I left my Sports Illustrated and John Grisham novels at home. Another piece of advice was never to let go of my travel bag. I kept it right at my side. Interestingly, the baggage tag was still on it from the last time I’d checked it on a flight home from La Guardia to Miami International. “MIA” the airport abbreviation read, which in this context struck me as ironic. I wondered if I would end up MIA-missing in action.

  The bag was filled with maps and travel books, things I didn’t dare pull out in public and effectively announce to the world that I was a naive American tourist traveling alone to Colombia. I’d already read all of them several times anyway. The travel hype made Bogota sound vaguely like Miami, sophisticated in some segments, crude and violent in others. It boasted futuristic architecture and old colonial churches, world-class museums that showcased everything from pre-Columbian to contemporary art. It was a vibrant mix of all things Colombian-culturally diverse, an intellectual center, its busy streets a forum for the daily clash between rich and poor, pack mules and Porsches. There was no shortage of great restaurants either. It seemed like a city I might have actually liked to visit under different circumstances, save for one glaring statistic: Every hour someone got killed. Some deaths were accidents, but as many as eight a day were homicides-more, if you counted at least a portion of the twenty-five hundred annual deaths from “unknown causes.” The confirmed homicides alone added up to an annual murder rate higher than that in Miami, New York, Atlanta, and Los Angeles combined.

  I turned my thoughts back to restaurants.

  Forty minutes before the flight, the airline made the first boarding call. First class only. The entire waiting area started toward the gate. That was another tidbit Alex had shared.

  “Don’t expect South Americans to queue up like a bunch of Brits,” she’d said. “Wherever you are-airport, movie theater, bus station-act like you’re on the Titanic and they’re loading the last lifeboat.”

  When in Rome, I figured. I joined the mob at least twenty minutes before my row would officially be called for boarding.

  Through the crowd, an attractive Latina woman caught my eye. She was standing at the check-in counter, her travel bag draped over her shoulder. She wore a stylish, short-waisted leather jacket and jeans that fit extremely well. Her face was partially hidden beneath the broad rim of a felt hat, but what little I caught of her profile was promising. She finished with the airline attendant, then turned and shot me a discreet sideways glance. I definitely wasn’t looking for it, but even my travel book had mentioned that there was more to Colombia’s beauty than just countryside.

  She started walking toward me, pushing through the semblance of a line, and then it registered. The long hair had been tucked up beneath the hat, and I hadn’t recognized her.

  “Alex?” I said.

  “Surprise.”

  “What are you doing here?”

  “I’m going with you.”

  Wow, I thought. Duncan works fast. “What happened?”

  Clearly she didn’t want to talk in the crowd. Neither did I. We gave up our places in line and moved to an open space near the finger-smudged window that looked out on our Boeing 767.

  “Did the in
surance company change its tune?” I asked.

  “No. They’re denying your claim. I had a long chat with their general counsel after you and I talked yesterday evening. My sense is that they’re never going to change their minds.”

  “Then why are you here?”

  “Because I think you’re getting a raw deal.”

  “I’m glad someone sees it my way.”

  “ It’s hard for me, as a professional to see it any other way. It’s unethical what the insurance company did to you, pulling out just hours before your flight leaves for Colombia.”

  “How are you handling this with them?”

  “I still need to think that through. I figured I’d get you through this first go-round with the kidnappers and then sort things out.”

  “I’d like to be able to pay your normal fee, but now that I’m without insurance, I’m worried about how I’m going to cover the ransom.”

  “For now let’s just say this trip is a freebie. We’ll figure out something. Maybe you can give me some free legal services someday.”

  “Thank you.”

  “No problem. All I ask is two things. One, from this moment forward, you don’t utter the word ‘insurance.’ ”

  “Done. What’s the second thing?”

  She smiled wryly. “Try not to embarrass me in my home country.”

  “How would I embarrass you?”

  “You’re a gringo. You’ll find a way. Just remember the advice I gave you yesterday: No se puede dar papaya.”

  “I looked that up in my phrase dictionary, and it still doesn’t make sense to me. It means, ‘You can’t give papaya.’ ”

  She shook her head, still smiling. “It’s an expression, genius. It means, ‘Don’t let your guard down, don’t give anyone a chance to take advantage of you.’ ”

  “Good advice.”

  “Come on. Let’s get back in line.”

  We started back toward the mob. Even the pushing and shoving at the gate seemed to be less of a hassle with Alex on my team. My spirits were up, and with the challenges ahead, I sorely needed the boost.