That's so weird. As you were leaving, I sensed someone was watching us.
Might have been someone from your law firm, but whoever it was has a pipeline to the general counsel for Quality Insurance.
That's because the GC is also a partner in our New York office.
Kind of incestuous, isn't it?
Tell me about it. So Maggie Johans called you?
Yeah. Wanted to know what the hell I was doing fraternizing with the enemy.
What did you tell her?
That I didn't agree with the company's decision to deny coverage, and that I intended to continue helping you on my own terms.
Damn, Alex. You should have said you were pumping me for information, setting me up for their benefit.
Is that what you would have done?
I thought for a second, then said, No, but I still feel terrible. Quality Insurance has to be a huge source of business for you to lose.
Don't worry about that.
I do worry. If helping me is going to cost you an entire book of business, that's a debt I can't ever repay.
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.
Chapter 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 & 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.