Authors: Jay Giles
Time on the Wire (14 page)
As soon as Dennis Casper had stepped into his condo, following the drive from the hospital, he’d called O’Neill at Bureau headquarters. His call had gone to voicemail. He’d also texted O’Neill. Hadn’t received a reply.
Two days later, Casper still hadn’t heard from O’Neill, even though he’d left three more voicemails, four more texts. All variations on: Urgent. Have to talk with you. Let me explain.
Casper knew his only chance at surviving in his job was O’Neill. As a Deputy Director, O’Neill had the authority to smooth things over. He could make Casper’s absence a non-issue, and Casper felt O’Neill owed him that. They’d been friends since they’d worked together in the Boston office. As he paced around his living room, cell in hand, Casper thought twenty years of friendship ought to count for something.
Finally, at 2:00 that afternoon, his cell rang. He didn’t recognized the number, but answered quickly. “Casper.”
“Mr. Casper, this is Denise call—”
He ended the call. He didn’t know any Denise. What use was the Do Not Call Registry if you still got these people calling?
Almost immediately, his phone rang again. Probably the same woman. He looked at the ID, saw the D.C. area code. Bingo.
“Casper.”
“Dennis, what the Hell have you done?” O’Neill demanded.
Casper launched into an impassioned explanation of his heart condition.
“I’m glad to hear the procedure went well,” O’Neill said, “but what I still don’t understand is why you didn’t tell anybody? You disappeared on us, Dennis. Disappeared at a very bad time.”
A trickle of sweat ran down the side of Casper’s nose. “I know, I just didn’t have the opportunity. It happened so fast.”
“Bullshit. From what you just told me, you had to have sent that text about Lohse’s press conference from the hospital. You could have told me where you were, what was happening.”
Caught.
“But I didn’t know when they were operating. I was going to tell you as soon as I knew. They never gave me the chance. Lohse still would have gotten shot. My being in the office wouldn’t have prevented—”
“No one knew where you were,” O’Neill said hotly. “There was no organized response. We looked bad, Denny, the media made us look worse. What you don’t seem to understand is that there are people here demanding your head. Do you remember my saying one more screw up and you’re out on your ass? Do you?”
“Yes.”
“Well, guess what? Around here they view your non-reported absence as a screw-up.”
“But I was—”
“Don’t interrupt me. I had no choice but to convene a disciplinary board to look into this matter. Until you’re notified to appear before the board, you’ll receive pay and benefits, but you’re suspended from doing any work on any matter. Is that clear?”
Casper felt his career slipping away. “I understand,” he said softly. “I’m sorry I let you down, Don.”
The voice on the other end of the line softened. “I hate to see it end like this, too, Denny.” There was a pause. O’Neill seemed to be searching for something to say. “This is just unfortunate. You’d need a miracle—”
Casper seized on that. “Don, what if I solved these matters? I know it’s a long shot, but what if it happened? That would go a long way with the board, wouldn’t it?”
“Might keep you from being dismissed, if that’s what you’re asking. But, I don’t know how it could happen. Officially, you’re off these matters.”
“Unofficially?”
“Anything that happens unofficially, I don’t want to know about.”
Hanna’s office had become the Beck/Lohse war room. Anything that had to do with either matter came to her first. Hanna relished the responsibility but knew it would be short lived.
She’d been copied on an email from Deputy Director O’Neill demoting Casper and naming Matt Shuloff as the new Agent In Charge. Shuloff was to arrive within a week to take charge of the Beck/Lohse matters and institute damage control.
Hanna hadn’t seen it, but Nancy Grace’s show on CNN the previous evening had featured commentary on Beck’s kidnapping, Lohse’s murder. Nancy’s panel of experts had been extremely critical of the Bureau’s efforts on both matters. Office scuttlebutt had it that the ‘I’ word had been used.
No wonder O’Neill was on the warpath. Incompetent. The kiss of death.
Hanna couldn’t do anything about that. Couldn’t do anything about Casper being MIA, but she could work on the one known tie between the Beck and Lohse matters—Joanna Perlman.
Casper had had Amy Selts run Paul Chang’s sketch of Joanna Perlman against the criminal databases and hadn’t come up with anything. Amy was thorough, but unimaginative. Hanna tried a different tact. She’d given the sketch to Sean Konig, a computer support specialist, who’d helped her hack drug cartel databases. Sean was a flake, his approach unorthodox, but for Hanna, he’d been effective. She was counting on that being the case, again.
Hanna picked up the phone, dialed Sean’s extension, got nothing. That didn’t mean he wasn’t there, just that he wasn’t answering. Hanna took the stairs down to his cube on the second floor.
She found him at his computer, head bobbing, earphones in his ears. On his desk was his morning junk food fix: two Hostess Cupcakes, Twinkie, HoHo, and a tall can of Red Bull. Hanna knew that had to tide him until lunch when he’d bring back Mickey D’s or Taco Bell.
Sean had three screens open on his computer. One was an online video game chat room, one was a speed metal music portal, the third Interpol’s criminal database.
Paul Chang’s sketch appeared on the left side of the screen, photo after photo flashed on the right as the computer program searched for a match. Sean was only half-heartedly watching the changing photos on the screen. He yawned, peeled the wrapper off a Cupcake, bit into to get to the crème center, washed it down with a swig of Red Bull, stuffed the rest of the Cupcake in his mouth.
“Anything yet?” Hanna asked from behind him.
Startled, Sean got crumbs down the wrong pipe, went into a choking fit.
“Easy, Sean, all I want is a an update.”
He reached for his drink, tried to wash the Cupcake down, blew Red Bull out his nose.
Hanna patted him on the back. “You okay?”
Sean’s choking intensified. He gasped for air. Tried to talk. Couldn’t. Resorted to pointing at the screen.
The flashing faces had stopped. They had a match.
Miles woke at 8:00 the next morning. A night in his own bed had done wonders. Although his chest was still tender, every muscle in his body no longer screamed in pain when he moved. He showered, shaved, had breakfast. Emboldened by his new-found feeling of energy, he phoned the Gulf Beach, told them he’d like to come by for Lohse’s things.
“We were sorry to hear of his death,” the girl on the phone said. “If the Gulf Beach can assist you during this time of bereavement, let us know.”
“Thanks,” Miles told her.
His next call was to Larry Jarsman at Mercedes. Anne, the receptionist, put him right through.
“Miles, good to hear from you. What a mess. How you doing?” Jarsman asked in his squeaky voice.
“I’m on the mend, Larry, thanks for asking. I’m calling to see about coming back to work.”
“Yeah, what a shame about that guy. Who’d have thought a pro would let himself get killed like that?”
Miles flashed back to the mudslide at Mt. Xtappu. Skill and preparation hadn’t saved him that day. Fate had favored him. Lohse hadn’t been so fortunate. “He was a good man, Larry, a pro. None of that matters when your time’s up.”
“Well listen, whenever you feel up to it, come in. It’ll be good to have you back.”
“Larry, can I ask a favor?” Miles explained his Jeep was in the Bureau’s lot.
“Not a problem. I’ll have someone get it to you.”
“Really appreciate it,” Miles said before he hung up.
An hour and a half later, his doorbell rang. He looked out the peephole, saw Juan, one of the car jockeys. Miles swung open the door, Juan handed him the keys. Behind Juan, another car jockey, Derek, waited in a white M-class.
“Hey, Miles, we’re going to start calling you Timex,” Derek called over his shoulder, “’cause you take a licking and keep on ticking.” Juan jumped into the M-class, and Derek squealed out of the parking lot.
Miles grinned. Just what he needed—a street name from the car jockeys. He got in the Jeep, drove south on Gulf of Mexico Drive to the Gulf Beach. He stopped at the hotel’s office, picked up a key to Lohse’s room. He drove to the unit, used the room key to let himself in. He closed the door, paused there a moment, let his gaze scan the room.
It looked no different than it had when he and Hanna had stopped by for Albrecht’s phone number. The bed was neatly made. Closet and dresser drawers were closed. Drapes partially open. Papers on the desk appeared not to have been moved.
Get to it, Miles thought. He started with the closet, took out the contents, placed hem on the bed. He checked each dresser drawer, removed what he found. He did the bathroom last.
When everything was on the bed, he sorted it. There was ammunition, but no gun. Lohse must have been carrying when he was shot. Miles left it the ammunition in the computer bag, carried it out to the Jeep. The clothes he bundled up. The toiletries he pitched.
He gave the room one final look before he exited, he drove back to the office, dropped off the key.
Miles took the clothes to St. Vincent de Paul, carried them in. He’d been careful not to strain his chest, but it began aching as he got back in the Jeep. He’d pushed the envelope. So the rest of the day he took it easy. From his sofa, he got in touch with his three traveling companions and they worked on the plans for Machu Picchu. But as much as he enjoyed talking about the upcoming trip, Miles had to admit he wasn’t totally there.
He was more interested in going after the woman who’d shot him.
Dieter Albrecht powered up the ketch’s twin diesels, navigated out of the crowded Marina. Once he was in open water, he cut the engines, hoisted the sails. The weather couldn’t have been better. Picture-perfect blue sky. White, puffy clouds. Brilliant, warm sunshine. Light steady wind. Albrecht trimmed his sails accordingly, brought the ketch tighter into the wind.
He stood behind the wooden ship’s wheel, his hands on the spokes. He felt each swell as the vibrations traveled from the hull, to the wheel, to his fingers. Now and then, as the ketch plowed ahead, he felt bow spray on his hands and face.
Albrecht loved the feel of the boat, the chop of the water, the snap of the sails. He wore an old polo shirt, shorts, boating shoes, and to protect himself from the sun, an Australian outback hat with a wide, floppy brim. Albrecht hadn’t shaved since he’d started his vacation. His beard was full. He knew he bore a striking resemblance to Ernest Hemmingway.
An hour out of the Marina, Albrecht secured the wheel, went below, picked up the phone and dialed a Swiss exchange.
“Mayfield Clinic,” a female voice answered.
Albrecht knew the voice well. “Maggie, it is Dieter. Is doctor available?”
“Let me tell him you’re calling, Mr. Albrecht. It will just be a moment.”
Albrecht was placed on hold, subjected to chamber music.
“Mr. Albrecht,” the doctor’s voice was deep, confident. “Good to hear from you.”
“Tell me, how is Alma? Any change?”
“There are encouraging signs, Mr. Albrecht. She is responding to the treatment we have prescribed. But as we have discussed, this will be a long rehabilitation. That said, I can assure you she is happy, comfortable, well cared for. Nurse told me, just yesterday she smiled at her, recognized her. That is a very good sign. A year ago, I would not have thought we would make such progress so quickly.”
“That is comforting to hear, doctor. Thank you for your time, I will call again next week.”
Albrecht put down the phone, reached for his glass, drank. Every week, for almost five years, the same conversation. Platitude. Platitude. Platitude. Indication of progress. Platitude. Platitude.
It was a dance they both entered into willingly, neither wanting to say what both knew: Alma Albrecht would never recover. She would spend the rest of her days institutionalized at the Mayfield Clinic. The charade of progress—she smiled, she recognized nurse—provided a shadow of hope.
Albrecht started to go topside, stopped when he heard the chuck-ata, chuck-ata of the fax machine. The machine spewed out a cover letter and Heather’s rewrite of his release. He read it twice, decided she’d given it the right corporate tone, faxed back his approval. On her cover page, was the media distribution list for the release. He smiled at the number of places she was contacting. By tomorrow, news the ransom was being paid would be everywhere.
Two golf carts, each carrying two golfers, drove 100-yards from the tee. The carts stopped, the foursome fanned out searching for their balls. The golfers walking in that stooped, creaky fashion common to older men. Marike, waiting for a traffic light on Gulf of Mexico Drive, watched the golfers until the light changed. She turned, drove toward the high-rise condominiums that extended in a line down the Gulf on the far side of the course.
She had an appointment with a real estate agent to see a unit at the address she’d found in Tom’s notebook for Robert. Marike drove to the building’s visitor parking, left her car, met the agent in the building’s well-appointed lobby.
“Hi, I’m Courtney,” the agent said, extending her hand. She was young, eager, blond, with a high-pitched voice. She had on white Capri pants, a pink blouse with the collar turned up, white sandals that slapped when she walked. An excess of gold jewelry completed her ensemble.
Marike, in contrast, wore a simple, elegant sleeveless black dress, gold hoop bracelets on her left wrist. “Inger Bloomstrom, good to meet you.” She shook Courtney’s hand, took the information packet handed her.
Courtney slap, slap, slapped her way from the main lobby to a separate elevator lobby. “You are just going to fall in love with this unit. It is soooo cute.”
Marike tuned out Courtney’s irritating chatter, concentrated on the building. The lobby door had been unlocked but would undoubtedly be locked after hours. There was a doorway from the main lobby to the elevator lobby. In the elevator lobby, Marike saw another door that led directly outside. Those doors would be locked, as well. She didn’t see any surveillance cameras.
“This is the south tower lobby,” Courtney cooed as they waited for the elevator. It arrived, the doors opened, they entered. “Four units to a floor, twelve floors. Sale prices range from $900,000 to about $3,000,000. This unit,” she glanced at her sheet, “is a steal at a “$1,800,000.”
The elevator reached eight, and they exited. After some trouble with the lock, Courtney got the door open. Marike walked in.
“Isn’t it dreamy,” Courtney said from behind her.
Dreamy wasn’t the word Marike would have chosen, but the view, the rooms, the amenities, were luxurious. Marike made a quick tour, returned to the large living area. “It’s nice. Not as high up as I’d like, but nice.” She headed for the door.
“Let’s take a look at the rest of the complex.”
They saw the pool, party room, library, exercise area, finished where they’d started in the main lobby. “At the price they’re asking, this unit won’t last,” Courtney said. “If you want it, we should make an offer, right now.”
“I’ll think about it,” Marike said dismissively. “Thank you for showing it to me.”
“If you’d like to see some other—”
“Another day, perhaps.” She offered her hand to Courtney, who seemed somewhat crestfallen. “I’ll be in touch.”
From her car, Marike watched Courtney drive off. She walked to the outside entrance to the South Tower, found what she was looking for: an intercom phone and a list of residents. Robert’s last name was Ruhl.
