“I didn’t come here to hand you a bill. If anything, I came because I felt like I was the one who owes you.”
“Owes me what?”
She lowered her eyes and said, “An apology. For the way I acted at Duffy’s the other night.”
“You had a right to be mad.”
“No. I should never have opened my mouth and accused you of playing games. Whatever is going on between you and your ex-fiancee is your business.”
“There’s nothing going on between me and Jenna.”
“That’s not the point. I was letting my personal feelings get in the way.”
She caught me in mid-sip, and I nearly choked. “You mean for me?”
“No, I mean for Duffy’s beer and popcorn. Yes, of course for you, dummy.”
“When you say personal feelings, do you mean. .”
“I’m not head over heels, okay? We’ve simply been spending a lot of time together lately, and-and would you please stop being so obtuse?”
“I just had no idea.”
“I wasn’t exactly trying to make it obvious, given our professional relationship.”
“I’m sorry, I just didn’t think that. . you know, you and me.”
“Now you’re lying.”
I wasn’t accustomed to this kind of directness, but in a way it was refreshing. “Okay, so maybe I was sensing a little something. But there’s nothing to apologize for.”
“That’s where you’re wrong. Your father was kidnapped, and I offered to help. It’s totally unprofessional for me to inject anything else into that equation.”
“Maybe you should let me be the judge of that.”
“No.”
I waited for her to elaborate, but she didn’t. “That’s it?” I asked. “A simple no?”
“What more is there to say? You have my word that I won’t send any more confusing signals.”
I nodded, though the present signals were plenty confusing. “If that’s the way you want it.”
“I’ve thought about it all week. On principle, I refuse to back down and dump your case. I won’t let any insurance company dictate my client list to me.”
“I can respect that.”
“Then I’m sure you’ll understand that the only way I can be effective is if we agree to keep things strictly professional.”
I was speechless. Here was an intelligent, beautiful woman confessing a vague but potentially romantic interest in me, and I’d been too wrapped up in my own world to recognize the signs. To be sure, a kidnapping could have made any man oblivious. My fear, however, was that the real hang-up was still Jenna.
“I can live with that,” I said.
“Good.”
“But if you’re sticking with me on principle, you need to be aware that this is going to be a dogfight. From what the lawyers at my firm said yesterday, they might even accuse me of being a co-conspirator in the fraud.”
“I’m not worried about that. I’ve checked you out.”
“What does that mean?”
“Exactly what I said. You’re not the type to scam an insurance company.”
“I’m glad you think so. But the way the ransom demand matched the policy limit right down to the last dollar, I’d probably be suspicious of you if the tables were turned.”
“Did you make that list I told you to make?”
“List?”
“Anyone who would have known your father’s travel plans and who might have known he had insurance.”
“I’ve mulled it over in my head, but I can’t say I’ve physically made a list.”
“Let me help you. Did your father pay for the policy out of his own pocket, or did he get it through his company?”
“I believe he bought it himself.”
“The reason I ask is because insurance is the kind of thing he might have discussed with his partners. Oftentimes employees try to get their company to pay for it.”
“You’re suggesting that Guillermo might have set him up?”
“I’m saying that his partners might have known about the insurance. It’s up to you to figure out if they set him up.”
“I’ll look into it,” I said.
“I recommend it. Highly.”
“Why?” I asked, half kidding. “Did you check out Guillermo, too?”
She smiled thinly, almost imperceptibly. Then she put on her sunglasses and turned her gaze toward the joggers across the street, as if she’d said enough.
I watched her, intrigued. One minute she was direct and assertive, bold enough to bare her feelings. The next she was a mysterious cipher pointing me toward Nicaragua. It was possible that she’d targeted Guillermo purely as a matter of deductive reasoning. I couldn’t help but wonder, however, if something more was behind her suggestion-something that for some reason she wasn’t telling me.
“I’ll definitely check it out,” I said, staring at her nebulous reflection in my tall, empty glass.
31
Monday morning was perfect for windsurfing. Sunny and eighty degrees, surf temperature almost as high, a steady breeze from the southeast. Not bad, considering that at least fifty million Americans to the north were already scuffle deep in fallen leaves and wiping frost off their pumpkins. I strapped the board atop the roll bars on my Jeep, drove to Biscayne Bay, and took off.
Key Biscayne is an island southeast of downtown Miami, and the relatively flat, shallow bay waters off the causeway that link it to the mainland are practically in the shadows of the office towers on Brickell Avenue. As I skimmed across the waves, chances were excellent that several of my colleagues at Cool Cash were peering out the window from thirty stories up, wishing they were that lucky guy windsurfing out on the bay. I could have waved. Or flipped them the bird. It seemed like a fitting way to begin my suspension.
As teenagers, J. C. and I had gone out on the bay every Saturday, a couple of thirteen-year-old studs in our own minds. Our not-so-secret desire was to meet that girl in the opening credits of Miami Vice, the one in the skimpy bikini whose board is knifing through the water at thirty miles an hour when she arches that incredible body, throws her head back, soaks her long blond hair in the bay, and keeps right on going. The bay was a great escape from school, the world, the hassles of being a teenager-and from my father. Finding my own passion on the water was a convenient way of telling him that the disastrous fishing trip we’d taken together was going to be our first and last. At age twelve I’d seen a side of him that I never wanted to see again. So I decided I’d never be alone with him again, at least not in a setting where he was not just my father but the captain of the ship. A drunken captain of the ship.
Seeing him that way had been bad enough. What he’d done that day changed us forever.
As I packed my equipment back onto my Jeep, I realized that the old wounds were very much a part of the pain and personal strife that had been brought on by the kidnapping.
“Lemonade, friend?”
I turned at the sound of the man’s voice. It was Nate, a cheery old guy who in the past twenty years had peddled his frozen lemonade cart up and down the bicycle path enough times to circle the globe. Business today was so slow that he couldn’t break a twenty, so I let him keep the change. That was only fair. He didn’t recognize me, but J. C. and I probably owed him at least a hundred bucks for all the frozen lemonades he’d let us put on our tab.
I climbed into my Jeep and was about to start the engine when another voice startled me.
“Can we talk, Nick?”
He was right beside my Jeep, but with the sun shining directly in my eyes I wasn’t a hundred percent sure on the ID. “Agent Nettles?” I said, squinting.
“In the flesh.”
Nettles had been the initial FBI agent assigned to my father’s case. I hadn’t heard from him since the narcotics arm of the FBI had seemingly taken over. “What’s there to talk about?”
“Your father’s case, of course.”
I released the parking brake, letting him know that I was
leaving. “Look, you were much nicer than the drug agents who interrogated me, but I’m giving you the same answer I gave them. I think it’s wrong for the FBI to tell me they won’t help my father unless I play spy and help your narcotics agents pin some unspecified crime on his business partner.”
“I agree with you.”
That took me by surprise. “Then why did Agent Hard-Ass give me the ‘come to Jesus’ speech?”
“Not every cowboy who thinks he talks for the entire FBI actually talks for the entire FBI.”
“Are you saying that the FBI is now willing to help, no conditions?”
“When your father comes home, you can bet that Agent Huitt will have a good long talk with him. But it’s my job to get him home, regardless of whether you or anyone else in your family agrees to cooperate in any future investigation against anyone.”
“Why the sudden reversal?”
“Let’s just say there was an internal disagreement. We finally straightened it out.”
“Or maybe it’s just the old good-cop/bad-cop strategy. I wouldn’t bow to threats from Agent Huitt, so you politely insinuate yourself back into the kidnapping negotiations, work closely with our family, and snoop around while you’re at it.”
“That’s not what this is about.”
“Why should I believe you?”
“What choice do you have?”
We locked eyes for a moment, until the sun shining behind him finally forced me to look away. If I hadn’t had Alex in my camp, I might have jumped at the offer. But I had to remember that this was the same guy who’d stonewalled me when the FBI had “declined” the State Department’s invitation to work on my father’s kidnapping.
“I’ll think about it,” I said, then started up my Jeep and drove away.
I spent the rest of the afternoon at my house in Coconut Grove, then headed over to my mother’s for dinner. Since the kidnapping, I’d made a point of dropping by at least once a day to see her, and tonight she was in the mood to cook. Hearts of palm salad and grilled salmon with dill sauce beat the heck out of a cold bologna sandwich, so who was I to stop her?
I let myself in and found a note on the refrigerator saying that she was at the grocery store. Mom was a great cook but not a great planner. It seemed that no meal was complete without an emergency run to Gardner’s Market for some missing ingredient. I helped myself to a soda, flopped on the couch with the newspaper, and turned straight to the “Americas” section of the Miami Herald. Before the kidnapping I used to skim right past it, but now I had a keen interest in the Colombian Army’s latest clash with guerrillas or the most recent bombing by paramilitary forces.
I heard Mom’s car pull up, the dull thud of a closing car door, the click of her heels coming up the sidewalk. It sounded as if she were running. The front door flew open. She burst inside and slammed it shut. I turned to see her with her back against door, clutching her bag of groceries.
“Someone followed me home,” she said in a nervous voice.
“What?”
She quickly headed for the kitchen. I followed. Her hands were shaking as she dropped the bag of groceries on the counter.
“A man in a blue car. I swear, he tailed me all the way from Gardner’s.”
“Did you recognize him?”
“No. Never saw him before.”
I had a quick thought. “Could it have been Agent Nettles from the FBI?”
“No. This man was white.”
Could have been Huitt, but in her state of near panic, now wasn’t the time to tell her about the bullies in the FBI’s narcotics squad. “Is he still out there?”
“I don’t know. I ran inside.”
“What kind of car was it?”
“I can’t say. Maybe a Ford. Do you think it could be a messenger for the kidnappers?”
Before I could answer, there was a knock at the door.
“Don’t answer it!” my mother said.
For thirty seconds we didn’t move. Another knock followed, harder this time. I looked at Mom and said, “Wait here.”
“Nick, no.”
I walked to the window and pulled the drapes away from the window frame only far enough to peer out. A blue Ford was parked across the street. Just the sight of it had my blood boiling-the nerve of this creep to follow my mother home. My dad had a Smith amp; Wesson revolver in the bedroom, but I had a sense that the ax handle he’d always kept hanging behind the refrigerator might set a more proper tone.
“Call the police,” I said.
She picked up the phone. I grabbed the ax handle and started for the back door.
“Where are you going?”
“I can’t just open the door and let him in. I’ll walk around to the front and confront him.”
“Please, wait for the police.”
“How dangerous can he be? He rang the doorbell.”
“So did the Boston Strangler.”
“I’ll be right back.”
Over my mother’s pleas I opened the door and stepped out, ax handle gripped firmly. I hurried across the back patio, turned at the corner of the house, headed up the side yard, and stopped at the front of the garage. From there I could see the Ford across the street. I could hear it, too. The motor was running. I took another step forward and looked across our front lawn. A short guy in a baseball cap was standing on our front porch. He was smaller than me, a good thing. I approached with as much bravado as I could muster and stopped at the base of the steps.
“What do you want?” I asked pointedly.
He nearly jumped. I’d caught him by surprise. “Are you Matthew Rey?”
“No. I’m his son. Who are you?”
He reached inside his shirt.
“Don’t move!” I shouted.
In a flash he threw something that hit me in the chest. He leaped off the porch and sprinted across the lawn. I tried to catch him, but I’d gotten a slow start and this kid was lightning. In a matter of seconds he was inside his car. The motor was already running. He slammed it into gear and squealed away.
I tried to get the license plate number but missed it. I walked back to the front porch and found what he’d thrown at me. It was an envelope stuffed with papers. I opened it and immediately realized what had just happened. The guy was a process server. Someone must have told him that we’d try to avoid accepting service of court papers, so he’d planned a sneak attack.
My shock turned to anger as I saw the caption in black and white: Quality Insurance Company v. Matthew Rey, it read.
They were suing my father. Even more infuriating, two separate subpoenas commanded my father and me to appear in Miami-Dade circuit court at nine o’clock tomorrow morning for an emergency hearing. The gall. Dad was in a jungle held captive for ransom by Colombian guerrillas, and they had an emergency.
I flipped to the last page to see who the lawyer was, though this kind of legal maneuvering left little doubt as to the perpetrator. Still, it nearly sent me spinning to see the name and address of my own law firm in the signature block and, above the signature line, the familiar scrawl of my supervising partner, Duncan Fitz.
“You son of a bitch,” I said quietly. “I’ll give you an emergency.”
I folded up the papers and went back inside the house.
32
It was less than two hours till sunset, and they’d been marching since dawn. Joaquin and two others led the way through the jungle thicket with machetes, followed by three more guerrillas armed with AK-47s. The three Colombian prisoners were next, the young mother and father first, then the Flea Man. Close behind them were three more armed guards and the Japanese couple, the newest prisoners. Two more guerrillas followed with Matthew and the Swede. Four guerrillas brought up the rear, the best shooters in the bunch.
Their shooting skills were no secret. Yesterday afternoon they’d trotted out the prisoners to watch their target practice, not just to show off but to make their point. If any of them were thinking about an escape, they’d have to outrun a team
of sharpshooters who could blow a Coke bottle off a stump at a distance of a hundred meters. The demonstration wasn’t exactly a lift to anyone’s spirits, but Matthew sensed that the Swede had been especially demoralized. Jan had been dispirited and crankier than ever since their talk at the river, when Matthew had made it clear that he wanted no part of an attempted escape. Of course Matthew had kept their discussion to himself, but strangely enough the guards seemed to have picked up on Jan’s mood and were watching him more closely. Perhaps the guerrillas were experienced enough to sense when a prisoner was plotting an escape.
Or, Matthew feared, maybe they’d overheard him and Jan talking.
“Stop here,” shouted Joaquin.
The human chain came to a halt. The guerrillas dropped their packs and began to make camp. It was a suitable place. Firm ground, not the swampy mosses they’d struggled through for the past hour. A thick canopy of trees overhead concealed them from sight. There were plenty of dead branches around for a fire, though it wasn’t essential that they make one. It was noticeably less chilly here than at their other camp. All day long they’d climbed and descended along narrow mountain paths, but the net result was a slightly lower altitude. One of the guerrillas was in shirtsleeves, but that was a little crazy, a machismo thing.
The guards barked out orders in Spanish, and the prisoners were broken into three groups. Matthew and the Swede found a couple of large rocks to sit on beneath a tree.
Jan asked, “Interesting, the way they always keep you and me together.”
“We’re easier to guard this way.”
“But look how they break up the lot of us.”
“Seems logical. The Japanese couple is married, the Spanish speakers are with the Spanish speakers, and you and I speak English.”
“It has nothing to do with language, fisherman. Both the Colombian men speak English. You and I are the troublemakers. That’s why we’re together.”
“Is that something you figured out by yourself?”
“Yes. And the sooner you figure it out, the better off you’ll be.”
A King's ransom Page 18
