Authors: Jay Giles
Time on the Wire (10 page)
With the Ringling Museum lined up, Miles called Agent Chance. “Hi, it’s Miles Marin,” he said when she picked up. “Thought you’d like to know we’ve arranged to hold the press conference in the courtyard at the Ringling Museum.”
“What time?” Chance wanted to know.
“Ten tomorrow morning. Mr. Lohse is making arrangements to contact the media now.”
Miles thought he heard the sound of pencil on paper. “Has he said how he sees this thing happening? I’m not sure we’re all on the same page about how this press conference will be conducted.”
Lohse hadn’t given him any indication of how he wanted it to go, but Miles could guess. “I think he wants to make a personal appeal to the kidnappers. Tell them he needs to speak personally to Beck.”
“That’s fine. I just want to be clear that his statement is in support of the Bureau’s investigation of this matter. Agent Casper doesn’t want it to appear that Mr. Lohse is operating independently from the FBI.”
Miles stood, paced while she talked. “How about if Agent Casper starts off talking about the FBI’s investigation and he introduces Lohse as a representative from Daimler who wants to make a plea to the kidnappers? Would that be okay with Agent Casper?”
“Let me talk to him about that and I’ll be back in touch.”
“Sure.” Miles rang off, walked outside his office, looked three doors down, where the office housing Lohse still had its door closed. Miles got a bottle of water from the break room, carried it back to his office, pulled up his email. He wasn’t halfway through the backlog when Lohse appeared in his doorway. Miles waved him to a seat, filled him in on his conversation with Chance. “She’s going to make sure Casper’s in agreement,” he finished, “but I think we have the FBI on board.”
Lohse nodded. “Our public relations people are on board, as well. We will be the lead item on the news tonight.”
• • •
Lohse watched the rear view mirror as they drove from the dealership to the Gulf Beach. He was confident he’d see the silver minivan, mildly surprised when he didn’t.
The gas station trick had been too obvious, he decided. They’d switched cars. They’d probably switch again tonight, have a new car in play tomorrow. He continued to watch the mirror the rest of the drive to the Gulf Beach. Couldn’t spot the new vehicle. The longer he watched, the more it bothered him. “Come in for a minute,” Lohse said when Miles pulled the Jeep up in front of Lohse’s room at the Gulf Beach.
“Sure.” Miles turned off the engine, followed Lohse to the door. “You want to talk about tomorrow?” Miles asked.
“Not right now,” Lohse said over his shoulder as he got the computer bag from the closet. He unzipped the bag, took out one of the guns, handed it to Miles. “Carry this with you at all times. I think the best place to keep it is in the pocket of a sport coat. In a hurry, you can put your hand in your pocket, point, pull the trigger, shoot thru the fabric.”
Miles nodded, hoped it wouldn’t come to that.
Lohse reached back into the bag, pulled out a bullet-proof vest. “Wear this from now on, too.”
Miles took it, was surprised by how light it was.
“Go on, put it on,” Lohse told him.
Miles stripped off his shirt, put on the vest.
“A little big,” Lohse commented. “But it will do.”
Miles put his shirt back on, tucked it in his pants.
“Much of my afternoon will be spent talking with the P.R. people,” Lohse said as he put the computer bag back in the closet. “Also, I want to talk to Gerhardt, see if there’s more to be learned from him. Why don’t you and I regroup in the morning, say around 8:00?”
“I don’t mind staying, I can—”
“Thank you, these are things I can accomplish alone. I’ll see you in the morning.”
“Fine by me. I’ve got some training to do, so you won’t be able to reach me. That okay?”
Lohse nodded.
“See you then.” Miles let himself out, got in his car, left. Back at his place, he changed into walking clothes, shoes. As he headed out on his walk, the straps of the heavy backpack cut into his shoulders. He was carrying 60 lbs. plus the newly added weight of Lohse’s handgun. He adjusted the backpack so it rode more comfortably on his shoulders. His plan was to walk ten miles—five out, five back. On the Peru trip, he might have to carry more weight farther.
The thing that weighed heaviest on him at the moment was Lohse. Why had he been so insistent Miles start wearing this vest, carrying a gun?
Casper woke in a hospital bed. The pain in his chest gone. His gaze took in the greenish-blue curtain drawn around his bed, the monitor hanging from the ceiling that charted his vital signs, the wall clock that told him the time was 1:09. Beyond the curtain, he heard groans and screams, the sounds of people talking, things being rolled by on wheels.
He’d but put in a hospital gown, electrodes stuck to his chest. He traced their wires, found they led to a playing card sized box on a Velcro belt loosely wrapped around his waist. The belt felt like a huge lump underneath him. Casper squirmed, raised his hips, tried to shift the belt to a more comfortable position. He had his rear end up in the air, his hands under the sheet adjusting belt and gown, when the curtain was pushed aside.
A young Asian woman with a flat face and small features, dressed in blue scrubs and holding a clipboard and cell phone, stepped in. “Oh, you’re awake,” she said indifferently. She stepped back out, pulled the curtain closed.
Casper watched the minute hand of the clock go forty ticks, before a second doctor pushed the curtain aside, stood at the foot of his bed, studied his chart. Like the Asian woman, this one looked as if he was still in high school. He was slight in stature, had short brown hair gelled up into little spikes, a faint stubble beard, and was listening to an iPod. He wore a white lab coat over blue/green scrubs. Casper watched his hands as he flipped through the pages on the clipboard. He had big hands, with long fingers, no rings. His movements were rhythmic, fluid. He finished with the chart, cast his gaze to Casper, took his earbuds out, dropped them in his lab coat pocket. “I’m Dr. Kirby,” he said in a high-pitched scratchy voice. “I’ll be your cardiologist.”
You? You’re just a punk kid.
Kirby broke the news like a machine gun. “You’ve got an irregular EKG, elevated cardiac enzymes, abnormally high blood pressure, shortness of breath, and chest pain. There’s no doubt you’ve got blockages. We’re going to do an angiogram to see where the blockages are and then an angioplasty to eliminate them. The Cardiac Cath lab is booked right now, so we won’t be able to do your procedure until tomorrow. Don’t worry, between now and then, we’ll be monitoring your condition. If it changes, I’ll be notified and we’ll scramble an emergency team. Any questions?”
Casper’s head was spinning. “How many of these angio-whatevers have you performed?”
“Couple of thousand.”
“Isn’t there someone more experienced who could see me?”
“Dr. Gouch, head of our group, has done fifteen thousand. Maybe more.”
“When will he be back?”
“After you’re dead, Mr. Casper, unless we proceed. You need this procedure immediately. I may not have as many procedures under my belt as Gouch, but I’m a product of the video generation.” He held up his hands, wiggled his thumbs as if he were operating a joystick, grinned broadly. “I’ve got the magic touch.”
That afternoon, Lohse arrived at the hotel bar half-an-hour before he was due to meet Gerhardt. He had a beer, studied the other people in the room. By the time Gerhardt joined him, he was comfortable they were vacationers.
“Is there news?” Gerhardt asked as he took his seat.
“Sadly, no,” Lohse reported. “Although, I have had on-going discussions with the FBI and arranged for a press conference, tomorrow.”
Their waiter came by the table. Gerhardt ordered a beer. Lohse, a second one.
“Before I hold that conference,” he continued, “I need to know some things from you, Gerhardt.”
Gerhardt leaned forward in his seat. “About Jens, yes?”
Lohse kept his face relaxed, neutral. “No, Gerhardt, about you.”
Gerhardt’s eye widened in surprise. “Me?”
“Why are you still here, Gerhardt? Why haven’t you gone home?”
Gerhardt sat back, his eyes unfocused, his mouth slack. His head shook slightly, as he answered. “Because Jens is here. I am here for him. Why would I leave? I couldn’t be of any use to him.”
The waiter brought their beers. Gerhardt quickly picked his up, took a long drink.
Lohse watched him. He was nervous, agitated. Of course, he was the type who was probably nervous and agitated most of the time. “Most people would have gone home by now. It may be, as you say, out of loyalty. Or it may be that you don’t want to leave because it could cost you your share of the money.”
Gerhardt’s head shook more violently. “No, you are wrong. Very wrong. I resent the accusation I would betray Jens.”
Lohse leaned forward so he face was close to Gerhardt’s. “I’ve investigated enough kidnappings to know how they are put together, how they work. There are things about this one that tell me it is an inside job. My problem, Gerhardt, is that when I look for who that insider might be—I see only you.”
The blood drained from Gerhardt’s face. “I am innocent, Wernher, and now I am frightened. Because you, the expert, are going after the wrong man.”
Lohse wasn’t about to let up. His face intense, his gaze locked on Gerhardt’s, he said deliberately, “If I find you lied to me, I will make your life a living hell. Last chance, Gerhardt. Talk.”
Gerhardt nodded, his eyes wide, his lower lip trembling. “I thought I would be able to assist you as I had Jens,” he said with as much dignity as he could muster. “I see I was wrong, I am of no use. I will leave tomorrow.” Gerhardt stood, walked stiffly away.
Lohse watched him go, unconcerned about Gerhardt’s hurt feelings. He finished his beer, stood, left money on the table, returned to his room.
Once inside, he took a seat on the couch, began concentrating the silver minivan. He’d expected to be followed. What he hadn’t expected was a vehicle change while he and Marin were at Mercedes. Granted, they probably realized they’d been spotted. But he hadn’t responded by trying to lose them, chasing them down, or calling the police. There had been no threat to the kidnappers, no action to prompt the change.
More importantly, the kidnappers had no idea how long he planned to be at Mercedes. Why take the time to change vehicles, the risk of losing him? The purpose of surveillance was to learn where he was staying so they could keep an eye on him, contact him at their convenience. Why jeopardize that?
They wouldn’t. Unless they already knew where he was staying.
Lohse stood, paced back and forth, one side of the room to the other. Again, this pointed to an insider. Twice Lohse had confronted Gerhardt and twice his read of the man led him to believe Gerhardt was guiltless. The same was true of Marin. Although he’d made the call to set up the meeting between Beck and Perlman, Lohse didn’t see Marin as a criminal. Lohse read him as a good square, someone who would do the right things for the right reasons.
If it wasn’t Gerhardt or Marin—who?
Most men facing a heart procedure would be contemplating their mortality. Not Casper. Uppermost in his mind was the investigation. He retrieved his Blackberry from the drawstring plastic bag that held his possessions, sent Chance a text. Away on urgent matter. Beck update? He pressed send, kept the phone in his hand, his gaze on the small screen, sure an immediate reply would be forthcoming.
• • •
Hanna was gathering her things for a meeting with the Bureau staffers tapped to handle video at the press conference when, out of the corner of her eye, she saw Casper’s message pop up on her monitor.
She clicked it open. Read it. Frowned. What was more urgent than the Beck matter? She wrote an immediate reply. Lohse scheduled press conference ten am tomorrow at Ringling Museum. You’re to speak. When will you be in office?
His response was almost instantaneous. Unsure. You may have to handle.
Now Hanna was really puzzled. For Casper not to be in charge at the press conference, something big had to be happening. She wondered if an arrest in the Beck matter was imminent and she wasn’t being involved. Her phone rang, interrupting her paranoia. She hit speaker.
“Hey, Hanna. It’s Josh. We’re all here. You coming?”
“Be there in a minute,” she said and texted Casper. Off to IT meeting. Your appearance needed at conference. Advise.
When she returned an hour later, she found another cryptic text. Send all latest on Beck matter. May be out of touch next 24.
What was he up to?
• • •
Cut off from the world by the greenish-blue curtain, Casper had little to do but think, play with his phone. After Hanna’s responses stopped, he decided to text O’Neill. Staging a press conference using the Mercedes guy as a prop. Could blow the matter wide open.
He hit send.
Mistake.
When Miles arrived at Gulf Shores the following morning to pick up Lohse, he had the front section of the morning’s Herald-Tribune in hand. He found Lohse in his room, speaking in German on the phone. Miles took a seat, waited.
Lohse walked around, gestured as he talked. “Sorry,” he said to Miles when he finished the call. “That was my director, he wanted a progress report.”
“Was he upset?”
Lohse grimaced. “Yes and no. Dieter knows how these things go, that there is only so much I can do. Still, he is concerned we have not made contact with these people. I told him I have hopes for our conference this afternoon.”
Miles held up the paper. “Did you see this? You got great coverage.” The headline read: “Mercedes Exec Kidnapped.” Under the headline was a four-color photo of Beck with a caption that read: “Jens Beck, shown accepting the winner’s trophy at the Gulf Beach Arthritis Foundation Tennis Classic, disappeared this past Tuesday. A ransom note was allegedly found in a new Mercedes parked by St. Armand’s Circle.” Shown in the story’s continuation on page five was Lohse’s picture. A bold-face callout next to the picture read: “Wernher Lohse, sent by Mercedes to negotiate Beck’s release, will hold a news conference at 10:00 p.m. in the Ringling Museum courtyard.”
Lohse smiled ruefully. “It should be good coverage. I had over 30 PR people working on this.”
“I’d say they delivered for you,” Miles said admiringly. “I don’t know how the kidnappers can miss this.”
“Actually, I’m told by the PR people that television coverage is more important than the paper. They did well there, too. We were the lead item on the evening news.” He poured himself some coffee from a room service carafe. “Let’s hope they were watching.” He held up the carafe. “Coffee?”
Miles shook his head. “So what do we do now?”
“I think I owe the FBI a phone call.” Lohse cradled his cup in his big hands, sipped his coffee. “They weren’t mentioned at all, which was unintended and is unfortunate. I’m going to have to do some major—as you American’s say—sucking up to smooth things over.” He dialed Casper’s number, listened. “Voicemail.”
“Try Chance,” Miles suggested.
Lohse nodded. Tried her direct line. Nodded to Miles that she’d picked up. “Good morning. Werhner Lohse calling.” He listened a moment. “Yes, I have seen it. And no, that was not my intent. I believe in the spirit of cooperation, truly I do.” That was followed by an assortment of yeses, several I understands, and an occasional no. Finally, the concern on Lohse’s face lifted. “Thank you for being understanding. I can assure you that you will have no trouble at the press conference.” He winked at Miles. “I will be a model citizen.” He hung up, said to Miles, “Casper’s out of the office on other matters. We’ll be working with her.”
Miles looked at this watch. It was already 8:45 a.m. “Before it’s showtime, could you let me in on exactly what you want to accomplish at the press conference. I’m still having trouble believing the kidnappers will be foolish enough to attend.”
Lohse made a face. “I don’t think them foolish. Brazen, perhaps.” Lohse turned contemplative. “They have been quite ingenious, so far. But they have made the assumption Mercedes will pay the ransom without contact or proof of life. This press conference will challenge that assumption, force a dialogue.”
“What if it doesn’t work? What if there isn’t any dialogue?”
The corners of Lohse’s mouth turned down. “Then we know Beck is dead.” He took a sip of his coffee. “I believe, however, there will be dialogue. Once they know that is the only way they will receive money for Beck, they will make contact. But this isn’t a game of Clue. My predicting it’s Colonel Mustard in the library with a candlestick would be pure speculation, not good investigation. It is better that we watch how events unfold, plan our strategy accordingly. Of this much I am certain; the next forty-eight hours are crucial.”
Miles started to ask how, but the phone interrupted him. Lohse picked it up, listened for a moment, said to Miles, “My director, again. This could go a bit.”
Miles never got to ask his question. Twenty-four hours later, he’d be sorry he hadn’t.
