A King's ransom

by James Grippando

  “I’d like to speak to a detective,” I said.

  The officer seemed to note my reluctance with some suspicion. “Sure. Wait here.”

  A detective was already on the scene, the guy who’d pulled up in the unmarked car. He was inside with a photographer and videographer. A van from the medical examiner’s office arrived, and a few minutes later an entire forensic team was at work. I waited almost twenty minutes before the detective finally came out the front door.

  “Mr. Rey?” he said as he crossed the lawn. He walked quickly, a rather athletic stride. The sleeves of his wrinkled white dress shirt were rolled up to the elbows, revealing forearms as hairy and muscular as a grizzly bear’s. He wore an open collar with loosened tie, his neck too thick to let him close the top button. I would have bet my father’s ransom that he had been a football star at Miami High about twenty-five years earlier.

  “I’m Nick Rey.”

  I was standing at the front gate. A crowd of rubberneckers had already gathered on the street outside the house. Cars slowed as they passed, and a few had stopped for a longer look. This was quickly becoming prime neighborhood entertainment.

  He introduced himself as Detective Gutierrez and shook my hand. He seemed concerned about the gathering crowd. “Why don’t we go down to the station, where we can talk?”

  “Sure. I’ll follow you.”

  “You can ride with me, if you want.”

  “That’s all right. I can follow.”

  He shrugged as if to say, “Suit yourself.”

  I got into my Jeep, started the engine, and backed out of the driveway, dispersing the pack of gawkers that had gathered behind my vehicle. From the street I took one last look at Jaime’s house, and that image of him twirling from the ceiling fan popped back into my mind. It stayed there for several moments, till I checked the rearview mirror and saw what, for my father’s sake, I had feared most: two news vans with camera crews.

  It was only local, but in today’s world local could quickly become national, national could turn international. Butterflies churned in my stomach as an image flashed through my mind, the kidnappers sitting around a television or computer screen watching Matthew Rey’s son being interviewed about the death of their good buddy, Jaime Ochoa.

  I drove away quickly, wanting no part of that.

  Detective Gutierrez and I talked in his office, joined by his partner, who simply introduced himself as “Henderson.” He was an older detective, skinny, bald-headed, and a man of few words. He was seated on the edge of the lumpy couch cracking pistachio shells, popping the nuts into the air, and catching them in his gaping mouth.

  I told them my concerns about Jaime’s death, how I feared that media leaks could possibly result in retaliation against my father by the kidnappers. Gutierrez seemed somewhat sympathetic, though it wasn’t easy to read the jaded heart of a homicide detective.

  “So let me make sure I got this,” said Gutierrez. “You went to this guy’s house once before. He sicced his dog on you and threw you out.”

  “Basically.”

  “You went there again, and you guys got in a friggin’ knife fight.”

  “That’s oversimplifying, but yeah.”

  “You went there a third time, convinced that Jaime’s the guy who got your father kidnapped. And Jaime ends up dead.”

  “He was already dead when I got there.”

  The skinny guy asked, “Want some nuts?”

  “No, thanks.”

  Gutierrez made a face, seemingly puzzled. “It bothers me that the dog was killed.”

  “I like dogs, too,” I said.

  “No, screw the dog. Hate them Dobermans. What I mean is, it doesn’t really fit with the suicide.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Here’s one scenario. Jaime slits his dog’s throat, then hangs himself. But here’s another scenario. Somebody kills Jaime, meets up with his dog on the way out.”

  I didn’t like the way he was looking at me. The skinny guy was staring at me, no longer popping pistachios. “You’re a suspicious man, Detective.”

  “That’s my job.”

  “Are you saying this definitely wasn’t a suicide?”

  “I’m very interested to hear what the medical examiner has to say.” He jotted a note in the file, then looked at me. “Are you planning on leaving Miami-Dade County anytime soon?”

  “Why do you ask?”

  “Because I don’t want you to leave town. And I’d hate to arrest you on suspicion of murder sooner than I have to, just to keep you here.”

  My mouth fell open. “Hey, I didn’t kill this guy.”

  “All I asked was if you plan on going anywhere.”

  I paused. The last thing I needed was to have my trip to Colombia screwed up. “I’ll be here for a while.”

  He seemed to look right through me, as if he sensed I was lying. “Can you wait here just one sec?”

  “Sure.”

  He got up and left, leaving his office door open. I watched him through the open blinds as he wound his way through the maze of workstations. Finally he disappeared down a hallway.

  “Where’s he going?” I asked.

  “He’ll be right back.”

  Skinny was back to popping pistachios. I was nervous, starting to sweat. Was I a suspect? What was all this stuff about not leaving town? And where the heck did Gutierrez go?

  A chill hit me as I suddenly remembered how police sometimes operated. They might not have sufficient probable cause to make an arrest on the main charge, so they keep you from fleeing the jurisdiction by arresting you on a lesser one. To that end, my shoving Jaime’s arm down the disposal would give them plenty of fodder. A case of self-defense could be easily converted to simple battery. Gutierrez was probably on the phone with an assistant state attorney right now.

  “Could I have some water, please?”

  “Sure.”

  Skinny got up and went for it. Just as soon as he was out of sight, I made my move.

  I popped from my chair, flew out the door, turned the corner, and broke for the exit. I was out the double doors in a flash, quickly crossing the parking lot to my Jeep. I jumped in, fired the engine, and was back on the road as fast as I could get there without squealing the tires.

  Cruising down the expressway, I dialed Alex on my cell phone.

  “Where are you?” she asked.

  “Headed for the airport.”

  “What? The flight’s not for another twelve hours.”

  “I’m taking the one at midnight.”

  “Why?”

  “Don’t ask.”

  “What’s going on?”

  “Pack your bag and stop by my house. The key’s under the pot on the porch. My bag’s already packed and on the bed. Passport’s inside. I’ll meet you at the international terminal.”

  “What’s the sudden hurry?”

  “Just go, please, or we’ll miss our flight. I’ll tell you everything in the air.”

  I hung up and punched the accelerator up to the speed limit, not a mile per hour more. As hurried as I was-and the way my luck was going-this was definitely no time to be stopped for speeding.

  66

  The door opened and the light switched on. After hours of total darkness, it was like staring into the sun. Matthew shielded his eyes as Cerdo came toward him.

  It was a ritual that preceded each meal without much regularity. Based upon the hunger pangs and strain on his bladder, Matthew had guessed that visits came anywhere from four to ten hours apart. It seemed longer, naturally, when you were seated in a dark room chained to a bedpost. The boredom was enough to have driven a weaker man mad. He came to appreciate little things, like when Cerdo forgot to put the towel under the door. It was supposed to block the sounds and deprive the prisoner of even a crack of light from the hallway. Just that little sliver could make such a difference, some connection to reality. Without it, all he had was the occasional prance of footsteps above him, presumably from a higher floor. At ti
mes he could hear water rushing through pipes in the wall. Every now and then he’d hear muffled voices in the hallway. And once-only once-he’d heard a woman scream, the crack of a gunshot, and then silence.

  He’d tried to convince himself that he’d dreamt it.

  “Vamos. El bano,” said Cerdo as he unlocked the chains.

  A bathroom break, and it was surely welcome. Matthew’s joints popped as he rose. He’d never thought of himself as particularly arthritic, but those weeks in the cold, damp mountains hadn’t done his knees any good.

  As his eyes slowly adjusted, he noticed a second teenage guard standing in the doorway. With that baby face, it seemed almost absurd, the way he was aiming an AK-47 at Matthew’s chest.

  “Manos arriba,” he said.

  Matthew raised his arms. They didn’t seem to care if Matthew saw their faces, but they took pains to prevent him from seeing the configuration of the hallways and lay of the building outside his dark room. Each time he ventured to the bathroom, they reapplied the blindfold. This time, however, the kid had done a sloppy job. It was too high across the bridge of his nose, and although the right eye was covered, Matthew still had about half his line of sight from his left.

  The gun barrel in his back prodded him forward. He stepped into the hall, then purposely bumped into the wall, so as to mislead his guards into thinking that he couldn’t see. Cerdo put him back on track, straight down the hallway that led to the bathroom.

  Matthew made a mental note of everything they passed. Hallway was three feet wide. Doors on both sides, about thirty feet apart. They were numbered like apartments. At each end of the hall was a table and chair, guard posts.

  Cerdo grabbed his shoulder, and Matthew stopped. A blindfolded prisoner passed before him, an old woman, someone he’d never seen before. A man with a pistol led her to room number eleven, opened it, put her inside, and locked her in.

  Cerdo gave him another nudge, and Matthew continued down the hall. Some of the doors had slots for food trays, as in prison. He heard whispering as they passed room number fifteen, and Cerdo gave a shout.

  “?Silencio!”

  The whispering ended. Matthew shuddered. He’d walked this way before, blindfolded, never imagining this. It was exactly what Cerdo had described in the van, what Emilio had translated. This was a hostage hotel.

  Cerdo opened the bathroom door and pushed him inside. “Dos minutos,” he said.

  Two minutes to empty his bladder, before another “guest” would arrive.

  67

  I never thought I’d be so glad to reach Colombia.It was four o’clock in the morning when we went through customs. A long line of bleary-eyed passengers proceeded through the airport checkpoints. Unlike the shakedown for travelers leaving the country, inspections for incoming passengers at El Dorado International Airport were random. Visitors pressed a button as they exited. If it came up green, they sailed through; red, their bags were searched. At this hour most of the stations were closed. Alex and I were twentieth in a slow-moving line.

  I had nearly fallen asleep standing up when she nudged me. “See that guy over there?” she asked in a voice barely above a whisper.

  I followed her eyes toward a man standing near a closed newsstand on the other side of the gate.

  “He’s a legal attache,” she said.

  “A what?”

  “An FBI agent. That’s what they’re called abroad. That guy’s definitely with the bureau’s office in Bogota.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Positive. I dealt with him six months ago in another kidnapping case.”

  The line inched forward, and we took a step closer. “What do you think he’s here for?”

  “You.”

  “Me?” I said, startled.

  “Keep your voice down.”

  “How would they even know I was here?”

  “Same way they knew the last time. The wire transfer.”

  “You think I’m in for another hassle about the money, like they did at Miami?”

  “I think it’s one of two things. It could be that the FBI evaluated what you told them and want to help you nail Quality Insurance.”

  “What’s the other possibility?”

  She cupped her hand to my ear, making sure no one could possibly overhear. “He’s here to execute an arrest warrant. For the murder of Jaime Ochoa.”

  “Oh, boy.”

  “That’s an understatement.”

  “What do we do?”

  “I don’t think he’s spotted us yet, so stop acting like you know me. Let me go through first. I’ll strike up a conversation with him. As soon as you clear, break for the exit. Don’t run, but be quick. Remember where my friend Pablo left his Vega for us last time?”

  “I think so.”

  “It should be in the same spot, or thereabouts. Go straight to it, I’ll meet you there.”

  I stepped out of line and let the two passengers behind us get between me and Alex, creating some distance. One was a guy so big he could have blocked the sun. I stood directly behind him with my head down, trying not to let the legal attache spot me. Slowly the line worked its way to the checkpoint. Alex went through without a hassle, as did the woman behind her. The big guy hit the button. The light flashed red, and they pulled him aside for a bag inspection. Alex was already on the other side, headed directly for the agent. I hit the button and prayed. It was green. I stepped through, presented my passport, and made a quick left at the gate.

  Alex was all grins as she approached the agent, as if they were old friends. He was clearly uncomfortable, but Alex poured it on. I was moving fast through the terminal, bag in tow, my chin to my chest to minimize the chance of being recognized. I felt the urge to run but didn’t. Still, with each step my stride widened, and I could feel myself gaining momentum. I sensed I was breaking free. This was actually going to work!

  “Nick Rey?” someone called.

  Instinctively I stopped cold, and we locked eyes. I didn’t recognize the man’s face, but I had the distinct sense that these legal attaches traveled in pairs.

  For an instant neither of us moved. I tried to read his expression, tried to discern whether he’d come to help me or arrest me. I couldn’t tell for sure, but he didn’t look friendly.

  On impulse, I ran for it.

  “Stop!”

  I ignored him, just kept running at full speed. I glanced back, and he was right on my tail. Just ahead, between me and the exit, were a janitor with a mop and a bucket, and a five-meter stretch of glistening wet floor. I kicked into another gear and leaped across it. Just as I made it to the revolving doors, I heard a shout, a thud, and painful groan behind me. I glanced back to see a disheveled FBI agent sprawling across the floor and showing the world the bottoms of his shoes. Luckily, he wasn’t quite the long-jumper I was.

  I burst through the door, ran past the taxis that Alex had warned me not to take. I followed the sidewalk to the parking lot, sprinting as fast as I could. A car suddenly cut in front of me and slammed on the brakes. I tried to stop but couldn’t. My bag flew, and I ended up on the hood.

  “You idiot!” I shouted, then froze.

  It was Alex. “Get in!”

  “How’d you get the car so fast?”

  “You went the long way, dummy. Now, get in!”

  I hurried to the passenger side and was barely inside before Alex squealed the tires. We flew past the taxis, past the airport entrance, past a breathless FBI agent who was hobbling toward a bench, holding his aching back.

  We took a circuitous route to the apartment, just in case we were being followed. We finally arrived around 6:00 A.M., certain that we’d beaten whatever tail they might have tried.

  Before going upstairs, I had Alex stop at a pay phone. I desperately needed sleep, but first I needed to call home. I’d expected to get my mother, but Jenna answered.

  “Nick, where are you?”

  “Bogota.”

  “Jeez, your mom’s a wreck. I’ve been here with
her all night. Why didn’t you tell us?”

  “I couldn’t call till I got here. Just in case somebody asked, I wanted Mom to be able to say she didn’t know where I was.”

  “Well, believe me, they’re asking. This Detective Gutierrez won’t leave us alone. It’s crazy, but I think he has you pegged for murdering Jaime Ochoa.”

  “Don’t worry about that. The guy hanged himself.”

  “No, he didn’t. Somebody killed him.”

  “What?”

  “What I’m hearing from Gutierrez, somebody forced him up on the kitchen chair, probably at gunpoint, and then tied a rope around his neck and hung him from the ceiling fan. Something about ligature marks around his wrists. It looks like his hands were untied after he was dead so it would look like suicide.”

  That didn’t totally shock me, but I hated to think that lawyers I had once respected might have taken the cover-up this far. “This just keeps getting worse.”

  “It didn’t help matters much when your mother told Gutierrez that you stopped by the house to pick up your father’s gun on your way over to see Ochoa.”

  “Oh, my God.”

  “And now the way you raced out of town, that doesn’t look so good either.”

  “It’s not like I want to be here.”

  “Nick, I know I don’t have to ask you, but. .”

  “No! He was dead when I got there.”

  She paused, as if relieved to hear me say it. “I know you have a lot on your mind. But when you get home, I hope you can prove it.”

  “I can’t believe this.”

  “I’ll find a criminal defense lawyer while you’re away. I’ll get a good one, I promise.”

  I lowered my head, closing my eyes in disbelief. “Thanks.”

  I was about to hang up, then said, “Hey, Jenna?”

  “Yes?”

  “Get a really good one.”

  68

  Even the rain seemed black. Sunday was my third predawn climb to the summit of Monserrate and definitely the darkest, even darker than the fog had made our last visit. It wasn’t a downpour, more a steady drizzle that soaked you to the core. The grass and mosses along the way were weighted down, saturated. Stones in the path that normally aided climbers with their footing were slippery and treacherous, shining wet in the beams from our flashlights. The temperature dropped a few degrees with the ascent, but I was sweating beneath a rain poncho that didn’t breathe. The good news was that lousy weather lessened our chances of being stopped by bandits. The last thing I needed was to have our radio stolen minutes before the most important communication with the kidnappers.