Time on the Wire

by Jay Giles

  “You think that’s what’s going to happen now?”

  “Yes,” Hanna said, voice and face emphatic. “We don’t have that detail, yet. But we will, and when we do, it will amaze you how fast we catch these people.”

  Miles wasn’t so sure. The only seam he saw was the woman—Marike Silber—and so far she’d been flawless. Somehow, he didn’t see her making a mistake now.

  CHAPTER 64

  Cold.

  That’s how Jens Beck had regained consciousness.

  Aware he was cold.

  Shivering, he’d tried to curl up in a ball, couldn’t. His right leg wouldn’t move.

  When Beck had tried opening his eyes to see what was wrong, everything spun crazily. Waves of nausea washed over him. He’d closed his eyes, tried not to throw-up. After three failed attempts, he’d been able to focus, orient himself.

  He’d found himself lying naked on an old mattress a metal shackle around his ankle. Attached to the shackle was a length of heavy chain anchored securely to the floor. Around him, he’d found: a toilet, glass enclosed shower, tub, sink cabinet, walls and floor of beige tile.

  His prison was a bathroom.

  Since his awakening, Beck had gone through the stages of denial, anger, bargaining. He was now deeply depressed.

  His attempts to free himself had been fruitless. The shackle and chain had proven unbreakable. He’d found nothing he could use as a tool or weapon. The room’s only window was glass block, unusable as a way of signaling his plight. Even the room’s light switch had been removed, so Beck couldn’t flash it on and off. He’d investigated everything, found only despair.

  Beck’s world became the five or six feet of real estate the chain would allow. Enough to use the toilet and shower, not enough to allow him out the door to the bedroom.

  He was reduced to spending his time sitting on his mattress, watching a small wall-mounted TV.

  He rarely saw his captors. He might catch a glimpse of someone as he or she left a food tray outside his door. More often, he heard them. Voices—sometimes in German, sometimes in French or English—carried from other parts of the building. Many days, they’d be gone, the whole place silent as a tomb.

  Beck came to dread those days. His meals were infrequent and haphazard, at best. It was a motley assortment of fast food, restaurant leftovers, dry cereal. But at least it was something. When the house went silent, Beck went hungry.

  Today, was one of those days. He’d had nothing to eat since a little cereal early the previous afternoon. Beck grew hungrier as the day wore on. When he heard someone moving about the house, he called out in German and English, “Please, can you bring me something to eat.”

  Beck listened for any sound someone might be bringing him food. Heard none. He always thought he’d die in bed with a younger woman, not from starvation. His stomach rumbled. “Please. Something, anything.”

  The house was silent. Beck sighed despondently, made himself comfortable on his mattress, tried not to obsess about his hunger.

  He must have nodded off. The slam of a door woke him. He heard excited voices in German.

  Bang. Bang. Two explosions reverberated through the house. The voices were gone. A bitter smell hung in the air.

  Beck heard the creak of the bedroom door opening. The blond appeared in the doorway, gun in her hand. He saw a little leap of flame from the barrel, heard another explosion, felt an intense pain in his chest. He grew cold, again. Cold and still.

  CHAPTER 65

  Joe Depekko sat on the back patio of his house on Lido Key, smoking a cigar, taking advantage of a rare break in August’s heat and humidity. From where he sat, Joe could admire his pride and joy—a 40-foot Hatteras Sportfishing yacht tied up on the waterway. An avid fisherman and hunter, Joe like nothing better than to be out on the Gulf in search of game fish.

  He puffed contentedly on his cigar, thinking about buying a new Penn International 50VSW reel when his thoughts were interrupted by gunshots. A thirty-six year card-carrying member of the NRA, Joe knew they were gunshots, not car backfires or any other such nonsense. He stood, quickly walked to the edge of the waterway, peered over at the house on the other side where he thought the shots came from. He looked, listened. Saw, heard nothing.

  “Damn,” he muttered. Threw the remains of his cigar in the canal, stormed into the house, found his wife on the phone.

  “Hang up,” he told her heatedly.

  She covered the mouthpiece with her hand, frowned at him. “What is wrong with you?”

  “I need the phone. I just heard gunshots.”

  She took her hand away, “Stella, I’ll have to call you back.”

  Joe grabbed the phone from her hand, dialed 911. “Give me the police.”

  CHAPTER 66

  Following dinner, Miles took Hanna to The Blind Lemon, an intimate jazz club with a small dance floor. Joanye Nash was singing with the Billy Tiles Trio—bass, piano, guitar—all mellow jazz.

  They were shown to a table, a waitress came to take their drink order, departed.

  “Don’t tell me,” Hanna said, “you and the owner went to Fiji together.”

  Miles shook his head ruefully. Over coffee at Arthur’s, Arthur himself had arrived at their table, ostensibly to ask how they liked their grilled salmon over asparagus with fruit salsa. Assured it was delicious, Arthur began regaling Hanna with stories about Miles. Hanna had particularly liked one about Miles taking a bath in an African lake and being chased out, naked, by an angry Hippo. Just thinking about it, make her laugh.

  “You know you can’t believe anything Arthur told you. He makes up most of it, exaggerates the rest.”

  Hanna eyed him skeptically. “Who could make up stuff like that?”

  “The man’s completely bonk—”

  “I could give him a lie detector test.” Hanna teased. “I have access to the equipment, you know.”

  Miles grinned, unfazed. “Arthur would beat your machine. A custom’s official in Kenya tried to appropriate our stash of toilet paper. Arthur convinced him that he was a representative of the Kenyan government sent to tempt custom’s officials, uncover the corrupt ones.”

  “And the custom’s guy bought that?”

  “He did, thank God. I hate to think of that trip without toilet paper.”

  Hanna laughed, her eyes sparkling.

  A new song started. Miles stood, held out his hand. “Care to dance?”

  The two of them stayed on the floor song after song. Hanna felt herself relax, felt Miles’ body pressing against hers, felt the touch of his lips as he whispered endearing things in her ear. This could be the start of something.

  When Joanye announced they were taking a break, they headed back to their table. Hanna took a quick drink of her tonic with lime, heard her cell ring from inside her bag.

  Miles must have seen the look of concern on her face. “Anything wrong?” He asked.

  “I have to take this.” Hanna snapped open the phone, lifted it to her ear.

  “Chance.”

  “This is Duty Officer Landrum, Agent Chance. Officers are at the scene of double homicide. One of the victims has been identified as the missing Mercedes executive—Jens Beck.”

  CHAPTER 67

  Lido Key was a small island enclave of upscale homes located between St. Armand’s Key and the mainland and connected to both by the Ringling Causeway. Miles drove the Causeway from St. Armand’s, turned right onto the key.

  “Go straight,” Hanna told him. “Turn left at the stop sign. It’ll be on our left as soon as we cross the waterway.”

  The house wasn’t difficult to spot. Parked in front were two Sarasota police cruisers, the FBI crime scene truck, and two bureau cars. The house was an older ranch, the stucco painted light pink, the roof done in white tile. The landscaping overgrown. A two-car garage on the right, entryway and large picture window in the center, two smaller casement windows to the left. Light streamed from the windows and the open front door. Investigators walked back an
d forth from their vehicles to the house.

  Miles parked the Jeep, started to get out. Hanna reached over, grabbed his arm, stopped him. “You can’t go in.”

  “Even if I promise to keep my hands in my pockets at all times?”

  Hanna couldn’t help smiling. “Not even if you do the whole cross your heart and hope to die bit. This is an active crime scene. No civilians. Not even you.”

  “I could—”

  Hanna shook her head firmly. “I’d suggest you head home. There’s no telling how long I’m going to be, no reason for you to wait.”

  “I don’t mind,” Miles said nonchalantly.

  “Okay,” she said as she climbed out of the Jeep. “But if you decide you want to leave, feel free to go. I’ll get one of the crew to take me home.”

  Hanna crossed the street, walked up to the front porch, signed the crime scene book. She looked around, spotted one of Walger’s techs. “Randy,” she called out. The tech, an older man with short gray hair wearing an FBI Forensics jacket, looked her way. Hanna waved him over. “Do you know the first responders?”

  Randy pointed at a set of uniformed officers. “They interviewed the neighbor who heard the gun shots.” He turned and pointed to two officers by the front door. “Those two investigated the house and saw the body through the window.”

  Hanna nodded. She’d want to talk to them later. First, she wanted to get a look at the bodies. “Do you have an extra pair of gloves?”

  “Yep,” he said as he dug the gloves out of his bag.

  Hanna snapped on the gloves, stepped into the living room. It was a good sized room, large enough to hold a large sofa, a recliner, two tall cabinets of knick-knacks, and, under the picture window, a large console TV. The room was done in shades of green: pale green walls, mottled green and beige carpet, dark green drapes. On the walls were two elaborately framed, somewhat garish, seaside scenes.

  The dead man was sitting on the floor, legs spread in a V, back against the right living room wall, his head slumped on his chest. A smear of blood ran down the wall behind him. It was easy to imagine the bullet slamming him against the wall, blood oozing out as he slid down to his present position.

  He had light brown hair, a stubble beard. In his right hand was a set of car keys. He was wearing an expensive tropical shirt with a pattern of green and tan palm fronds, beige shorts, and sandals. The color of his shirt went surprisingly well with the room’s décor.

  “Milt,” Hanna said, looking around.

  “Yeah.” The reply came from another room. A moment later, Walger appeared.

  “What do we know about him?” Hanna asked.

  Walger looked down at the body, pushed his glasses up on his nose. “Name’s Tom Ruhl. Has a U.S. Passport, a French driver’s license. Shot at extremely close range. Hasn’t been dead more than a couple of hours. The more interesting one’s back here.” He nodded his head for Hanna to follow.

  Hanna and Miles followed Walger to the bathroom off the guest bedroom.

  Hanna stood in the doorway, looked in, saw a skinny, naked man. Mentally, she compared the dead man’s face to the pictures she’d seen of Beck. It was him. Techs were busy working on the body. One was putting evidence bags on Beck’s hands, the other examining where the bullet exited his back.

  “Probably shot by someone standing right about where you are,” Walger said.

  “He was probably sitting there and slumped over when he died.”

  Hanna took a step forward, bent down to look at Beck closely. The bullet had struck him in the center of the chest. There wasn’t much blood near the entry wound, most had flowed from the exit wound.

  She turned her attention to the shackle around his ankle. “Where do you get a shackle and chain like that?”

  Walger looked over at her, shrugged. “My guess would be over the internet. Someplace that sells bondage gear.”

  “Just Google S & M, huh?”

  “It could have been that easy.”

  Though appalling, the shackle and chain indicated to Hanna they’d planned to keep him alive. Might have even released him. She stood. “Milt, I’m going to need to know if both these men were killed with the same gun.”

  He frowned thoughtfully, took a deep breath. “I can tell you now—from a cursory examination—the wounds are very similar. My guess is someone came in, shot the man in the living room, came back here, shot Beck. He couldn’t escape. Look at his face.”

  Hanna bent down, studied Beck’s face this time, straightened up. “Fear.”

  Walger shook his head sadly. “Hell of a way to die.”

  “What have you processed so far?” Hanna asked.

  “We’re still working on the bodies. Got the whole house to do. One of those long nights.”

  It was almost 5:30 a.m., when they finished, sealed up the scene. Hanna was surprised to see Miles’ Jeep still parked at the curb. She walked over, found him alert, watching what was going on. “You didn’t need to wait for me. You should have gone home.”

  Miles didn’t seem fazed. “No, it was good I stayed. I overheard some of your team talking about what they found inside.” His gaze found Hanna’s, held it. “It makes me even more determined to help you catch his woman.”

  CHAPTER 68

  Marike drove through the night. She stopped in Gainesville for coffee and gas, continued driving north on I-75. The sky was just beginning to lighten in the East as she approached Atlanta.

  She found a rest stop, freshened up in the ladies room. In the lobby, she used an Atlanta phonebook, looked up the Atlanta Ritz Carlton’s number, called, reserved a room.

  An hour later, she registered under the name Inger Bloomstrom, was shown to her room. Once she’d settled in, Marike called the Ritz Carlton’s Salon to make an appointment for a styling. The receptionist offered an opening at 4:00 that afternoon. Marike took it.

  Changing her appearance wasn’t necessary, but it was prudent. Although she’d been careful, she knew there were people in Sarasota who had seen her, who might have given her description to the police.

  She’d given this considerable thought. She didn’t want to try and color her hair, herself. Box dyes always looked fake. Neither did she want to have a salon colorist do it. It raised too many questions. Why would a natural blond have her hair darkened?

  What was she trying to hide? No, better to leave it blond, have it cut short.

  When she described what she wanted to Thom, the young, black stylist, with large diamond stud earrings, he didn’t bat a mascaraed eyelash. Hand on hip, he said: “Honey, with your cheekbones, you can pull off that look.”

  Marika watched in the mirror as Thom snip snip snipped. With each flash of his scissors, the transformation became more complete. When he was finished, he looked at her reflection in the mirror, grinned broadly. “Taking off all that hair took ten years off your age. You young and foxy, sugar.”

  Marike studied her reflection. He was right, it did make her look younger, less formal. If she dressed down, it would complete the transformation.

  She paid, gave him a large tip, went shopping. She found a GAP, Banana Republic, bought what clothes she needed, dropped them off in her room, headed back out again. This time, she had the doorman get her a cab, had the cab take her to a computer store, where she bought a Dell laptop.

  CHAPTER 69

  Mervyn Grayling was a thin, distinguished looking man who wore his silver hair brushed back, sported a pencil-thin moustache, and carried a silver-handled walking stick. He dressed in well-tailored charcoal gray suits, always wore a white shirt, striped tie. He had a quick wit, a quicker smile.

  Women over fifty-five found him irresistible. Who could blame them?

  Mervyn looked like the leading man from a 1940’s movie. When he turned on the charm, women melted. Mervyn was fond of telling his buddies he got laid more often than his two grandsons.

  He was seventy, looked sixty, had no intention of retiring. His job was where he met women. Mervyn was a realtor. />
  Today, however, was not a day he was going to score. His clients were Jean and George Wells from Syracuse. George owned a plumbing parts company, seemed flush. Flush enough Mervyn was showing them some of the better places on Siesta and Longboat. Jean seemed smitten with Mervyn, but he was careful to show her no interest. He found her unattractive, her husband intimidating. George looked like he could swing those ham size mitts, box a person’s ears good.

  Mervyn was at his professional best. “This next apartment,” he told George, “has oversize rooms, ample closets, beautiful sun-set views.” He opened the door, was assaulted by the smell. “Oh, my,” he said and quickly drew the door closed.

  CHAPTER 70

  Dieter Albrecht poured himself a drink, carried it into the salon, settled into a comfortable chair. He looked at his wristwatch, waited a minute to make his call at precisely the regular time. He dialed the phone, heard the familiar voice answer, said: “Maggie, it is Dieter. Is doctor available?”

  Traditionally she would answer: “Let me tell him you’re calling, Mr. Albrecht. It will just be a moment.” Tonight was different. “I’m afraid he can’t come to the phone Mr. Albrecht,” she said apologetically. “I can tell you that Alma—”

  Albrecht was first surprised, then annoyed. He didn’t want to hear her tripe. He wanted to talk to the doctor. “Maggie, I need to speak with doctor. It is very important. Will you get him to the phone, please.”

  “I can’t,” she sputtered, “he’s with a patient who is violent. He must not be interrupted. You’ll have to speak with him another time.”