A King's Ransom (44 page)

That didn't mean I was an idiot. The stop at my mother's house had been to pick up my father's Smith & Wesson.

I walked slowly across the front lawn in the darkness. With each step, the coarse St. Augustine crabgrass crunched beneath my feet. A car passed at the intersection a half block away, howling-drunk teenagers hanging out the open windows as they ran the stop sign. The noise faded as quickly as it had come, leaving me in what seemed to be an even darker and lonelier silence. At the paved walk I turned and started toward the front door, my shadow from the streetlight reaching far ahead of me. My heels clicked, and then the soles scratched like sandpaper as I climbed the final cement steps. I raised my hand to knock, then stopped. The house seemed too quiet.

I shook it off and knocked three times.

I waited and listened. No lights switched on, I heard no footsteps inside. I knocked again, slightly harder. Again there was no response. Jaime's car was in the driveway, but it was possible that a friend had taken him out for the night. Then I realized why the silence was so troubling.

Not even the dog barked.

The first time I'd visited, Sergeant had practically answered the door herself and nearly eaten me alive on the way out. The second time, she was chained in the yard but barked at my presence. This time, I'd driven up to a perfectly quiet house in a rather noisy Jeep, walked across the lawn, and knocked twice on the front door. It seemed strange that I'd gone unnoticed. Very strange.

I knocked once more, this time with the base of my fist. I pounded hard, and with the third deep thud the door swung open. I stepped back, startled, but no one was there. Evidently it hadn't been completely closed. The mere force of my knock had pushed it open.

I stepped to the open doorway and said, Jaime?

I heard nothing. I glanced again at the car in the driveway, thinking it odd that if someone had taken Jaime out on Friday night that they would have taken his dog with them.

I stuck my head inside the dark foyer, just enough to see inside. Jaime, it's -

I froze in midsentence. From the other end of the hall, at the entrance to the kitchen, Sergeant was staring me in the face, eyes wide open. She wasn't growling, wasn't blinking. She wasn't even breathing. The dog's body was sprawled across the kitchen floor in a crimson pool of blood.

My instincts told me to run, but I found my feet moving me in the opposite direction, into the house, down the hall, toward the lone light in the kitchen and the grim smell of death. It had been just five hours since Jaime had sent me an e-mail offering to show me where my father had gone. The very sight of his dog lying dead on the floor drew me inside for the answer I feared.

I stopped at the kitchen and gasped.

Jaime was hanging by the neck, twirling slowly round and round at the end of a rope that was fastened to the ceiling fan.

At first I couldn't move, stunned by the ghastly sight of this strangely elongated body. The toes seemed to reach in futility for the floor. The chin pointed toward the ceiling, yanked upward by a rope so taut that his bulging eyes had nearly popped from the sockets. The whole hideous sight just kept turning with the blades of the paddle fan right before my eyes, as if on display.

Murder was my first thought, but then I remembered how Jaime was so afraid of prison that he would have stabbed me to death to avoid ending up like his brother, abused while incarcerated. He was cowardly enough to kill himself. But why would he have killed his dog, too? Then it hit me. This wasn't just an escape. This was Jaime's exit, something he'd wanted me to see. The e-mail had said that he knew where my father was. He'd invited me over to show me.

Death was what he'd shown me. Gruesome deaths - a slit throat, strangulation.

I nearly fell against the doorframe, sickened by the perverse and tortured message that I now knew he was sending me.

They're going to kill my father, I realized, almost too weak to stand.

Chapter 65

An ambulance arrived in minutes. The Miami-Dade police weren't far behind.

I'd told the 911 operator that Jaime was already dead, but apparently she'd thought that paramedics would be better judges. I waited outside as they rushed in, the police just a few steps behind them. The paramedics came out with no body on the gurney, and I presumed correctly that their lifesaving work was over before it had started. In seconds the whole yard was surrounded by yellow police tape. Two more police cars pulled up, one marked, the other unmarked, both with swirling blue lights that gave the dark house the strange glow of the aurora borealis.

A uniformed officer asked to take my statement. I hesitated. I was still concerned about Jaime and the insurance scandal making the newspapers. For all I knew, the kidnappers were Jaime's buddies, and they might take it out on my father if they were to hear that Jaime was dead.

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.

Chapter 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 times 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 baA+-o, 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.