Authors: Jay Giles
Time on the Wire (4 page)
As they walked to her car from the restaurant, Beck contemplated his good fortune. He’d won the tournament this morning and was on his way to this beautiful woman’s hotel room for an afternoon of sex.
The anticipation of it, along with a mild wine buzz, had him giddy. It had been a while since Beck had been with a woman. It had been even longer since he’d been with one who had Joanna Perlman’s looks and body. He pictured her slowly peeling off her clothes, her firm, flawless body beneath. He imagined her lovemaking would be aggressive, perhaps, even kinky. He could almost feel her lips on his, the brush of her nipples against his skin, the touch of her hands holding him, stroking him. His face flushed, his heart beat faster.
She handed him the keys when they reached the car. He opened her car door, closed it once she was settled. When he took his seat behind the wheel, she had her cell phone to her ear. “Room service,” she said. “This is Ms. Perlman in room 1124. I’d like to have two bottles of Krug’s Clos du Mesnil taken to my room within ten minutes.” She paused, listening. “That’s acceptable.” She lowered the phone from her ear, turned it off, looked over at him. “I should have asked if you like champagne.”
Beck looked left and right on Gulf of Mexico Drive, let a car go by, pulled out of the Gulf Beach drive, before answering. “Love it. Thank you for ordering.” He let the car accelerate to the speed limit of forty-five, held it there.
She watched him adjust the mirrors, turn up the air conditioning. “You seem comfortable in this car. Is this the model you drive?”
“Actually, I drive a Maybach,” he told her, glad to have something to talk about to fill the time to the hotel. “Prior to the Maybach, I drove a Mercedes SL55 AMG—the one with the supercharged 5.5-liter 24-valve V8 engine. A wonderful driving machine.” He glanced over at her. “Did you select this for yourself?”
Her eyes became hooded, her lips contemptuous. “I would never have picked a red car with a white interior.”
“A little garish, I must agree.”
“Doesn’t matter. I’m sure the agency will sell it after I drive it back to New York.”
Beck nodded as he slowed the car, navigated around St. Armand’s Circle. The Circle, with its upscale shops, reminded him of the boutiques in Florence, Italy.
Pedestrians milled about the stores, occasionally darting across the street, provoking a cacophony of horns. Beck gave them plenty of room. He didn’t need a mishap to ruin his afternoon.
Past the Circle, Beck turned onto Ringling Causeway. The Causeway would take him directly to the Ritz Carlton. Five minutes later, as they turned into the Hotel’s driveway, Perlman pointed to a parking garage entrance to her right. “Why don’t you park in there. It’s less public than going through the lobby.”
Beck nodded and turned into the garage.
Perlman continued to direct him, indicating an aisle of cars to her left. “Go this way. At the far end, there’s an elevator.”
Beck followed her instructions, saw the elevator and saw a close parking space, nosed the car in, turned off the engine. He exited the car, opened Perlman’s door for her. She took his arm as they walked to the elevator. Again, he began to feel exited.
As they walked, Beck noticed man in a green Hawaiian shirt holding a brown paper grocery bag waiting by the elevator. Perlman guided Beck closer to the elevator, in front of the man. He thought that a little rude. He also thought it odd that the elevator button wasn’t lit.
Beck’s thoughts were interrupted by a sharp sting at the back of his neck. Before he could turn to confront the cause, his vision became blurry, his knees weak. He was unconscious before he sagged to the floor.
Gerhardt expected Beck to return from his lunch precisely at 2:30. The woman had asked for an hour and, knowing Beck, that’s all she would be given. Gerhardt was so sure this would be the case, he had scheduled a conference call with one of the Mercedes Truck Group agencies for 3:00.
Gerhardt looked at his watch. At the front door. At Beck’s schedule for the afternoon. At his watch—2:31. At the front door. Still unopened. He stood, paced from the kitchenette to the door and back. At 2:35, he not only paced to the front door, he opened it, headed for the restaurant. Beck, no doubt, had been held up at luncheon. Gerhardt would extract him from this awkward situation, get him back on schedule. In the restaurant, however, he saw only a table of three women. Beck was not there.
The maitre d’, menus tucked under his arm, approached him. “Table, sir?”
“No,” Gerhardt said with a shake of his head. “I am looking for my associate, Mr. Beck. He dined here earlier, yes?”
“With a lady, I believe. You missed them, though.” He looked at his watch. “They left, oh, ten minutes ago.”
“Thank you.” Gerhardt tried to reconcile what he’d heard with the behavior he’d expected. He couldn’t. “This lady? She was attractive, yes?”
“Extremely.”
“And they left together. Not just at the same time. Correct?”
“That’s what it looked like.”
“Again, thank you.” Gerhardt turned, walked out of the restaurant, fuming. Beck had obviously gone somewhere with this woman. Gerhardt didn’t mind the dalliance. What he minded was not being informed. The entire afternoon schedule would have to be rearranged. He had no idea when Beck would return. His brow furrowed.
Gerhardt went to his room, splashed water on his face. Looking at his own reflection in the bathroom mirror, he tried to calm himself by concentrating on what he could control. It took him ten minutes of intense thought, but when he returned to Beck’s suite, he was his usual stoic self. He cancelled everything for the afternoon, saying only that Beck, unused to the hot, humid Florida summer weather, was suffering from heat fatigue. Calls finished, Gerhardt picked up Rethinking Military History by Jeremy Black, a book he had begun on the flight over and lost himself in the details of battle strategy.
At 7:35, Gerhardt looked up from his book. He was beginning to get hungry. Had Beck been there, the two of them would have gone to dinner together.
Tonight, his book would have to keep him company.
He ate at the Gulf Beach restaurant, returned to his room, watched the news, and began to pack. Their flight to New York left at 11:00 the following morning. As he painstakingly folded his clothes, Gerhardt theorized Beck would spend the night with the woman and return in time for the flight. He thought about packing Beck’s clothes for him, but decided against it. Let him pack his own clothes. He deserved that aggravation for what he’d put Gerhardt through.
The following morning at 9:00, Gerhardt—shaved, showered, dressed, breakfasted, packed, checked-out, and thoroughly annoyed—stood by their rental car, expecting Beck to arrive at the last second.
But as the minutes ticked past the agreed upon departure time, Gerhardt’s anger turned to worry. In all the years Gerhardt had been with Beck, they had never missed a flight.
Gerhardt watched as people drove up, got out of their cars, went to their rooms. He saw people in tennis garb walking to and from the courts. A waiter carrying a tray of room service food walked by.
At 9:30, frantic, Gerhardt could no longer contain himself. He went to the Gulf Beach registration desk, blurted to the young woman on duty that he absolutely had to speak with the hotel manager. The clerk on duty picked up the phone and in hushed tones Gerhardt couldn’t hear informed the manager she had a distraught guest at the desk. Distraught got the attention of the manager, Lou Childs. He was there in less than a minute, introducing himself, pumping Gerhardt’s hand. “How may I be of assistance?”
Gerhardt, usually in firm control, felt like a puddle of emotions. “My business associate, Mr. Beck, Jens Beck, has disappeared.”
“Hold on. When you say he disappeared, tell me exactly what happened.” Childs was sure this was a misunderstanding. Sure once he learned the details, he could pinpoint the confusion, lift this guest’s worries. After all, Childs was a master at handling guest concerns. He’d spent fifteen years in the Hyatt organization, before being recruited to manage the Gulf Beach Tennis Resort. At Hyatt, he’d adeptly calmed the concerns of high government officials and high rock stars.
However, as Gerhardt’s story poured out in excruciating detail, Childs’ confidence began to ebb. Worse, he began imagining the consequences of a foreign national disappearing from his hotel. A healthy percentage of the Gulf Beach’s business came from European vacationers, European business meetings. Fear could stop that flow of business. And if the business slowed it would certainly put a ding in Childs’ career.
Childs took a deep breath. This wasn’t something he could handle by himself. “Luisa,” he said to the desk clerk, “get me the Longboat Key police on the phone.”
Police Chief Quentin Bayer responded to the call. Bayer took pride in Longboat Key’s low crime rate, and if there was something major—a disappearance that could be a potential murder or kidnapping—he wanted to hear about it first and first hand.
That wasn’t ego on Bayer’s part. A veteran of twenty-two years of police work, he knew how a case started often determined the outcome. The faster the initial response, the better the chances of collecting evidence, tracking perpetrators, and securing a conviction. Nobody faulted you for moving fast, either. It was inaction that got you in trouble. So Bayer responded as if he was being timed. He moved quickly, talked quickly, acted quickly. A snap decision to Bayer was better than a considered decision.
And a snap decision was exactly what he made after impatiently listening to Gerhardt’s litany of trouble. “There’s normally a waiting period,” Bayer said grimly, “before a person can be reported miss—”
Gerhardt’s eyes rolled back, his face registering disbelief.
Bayer was quick to add, “But I’m going to dispense with the waiting period. I’ll get an APB out on your associate immediately.” His gaze shifted to Childs. “Seal off his room, don’t let anybody in, especially the cleaning people.”
Childs turned to the desk attendant. “Luisa, call housekeeping.”
She immediately picked up the phone, began issuing instructions.
Bayer watched her for a moment, took a deep breath. “I’m also going to call in the FBI. If this is a kidnapping, they’ll need to be involved.” He looked at Childs. Childs’ shoulders sagged. “I understand.”
“I’ve worked with the agent in charge for Sarasota. He’s a veteran. Knows what he’s doing. The sooner we can get him involved the better.”
Childs nodded unenthusiastically.
Bayer took his cell phone from his belt, pressed the directory button, searched, found what he wanted, pressed the enter button, lifted the phone to his ear. “This is Longboat Key Police Chief Quentin Bayer. I’ve got a potential kidnapping. Let me speak to Agent in Charge Casper.” Bayer glanced at his watch, looked out the picture window at the sky, put his hand over the phone’s bottom of the phone, said to the group, “He may not be able to—”
Casper had picked up. “Dennis, it’s Quint. I’m at the Gulf Beach on Longboat. We’ve got a missing German national.” He listened for a moment. “From the looks of it, yes.” He listened some more, looked over at Gerhardt. “You’ll want to talk with his business associate.” More listening. “I know you don’t, but you may want to make an exception this time. Okay, great. See you.” Bayer hit the phone’s end button, said to the group. “He’s on his way.”
Agent in Charge Dennis Casper could have kissed the phone following Bayer’s call. Not that he hadn’t had important matters to work on during his nine-month tenure as Agent in Charge of the Sarasota Bureau, but he’d been waiting for a high-profile case. He knew a kidnapping—especially that of a foreign national—would garner the attention of his higher ups in the Bureau.
Casper was a big man, six three, two fifty, broad in the shoulders, flat in the gut. Under thinning light blond hair, he had a broad Nordic face with blue eyes that would rival Paul Newman’s, a chin that would rival Jay Leno’s.
He swung his desk chair around, double checked an afternoon appointment on his laptop’s electronic calendar. Plenty of time to get this investigation started, keep his appointment. He stood.
Grabbed his hat. Headed out the door. He picked up speed as he strode down the hall. Stopping only at the doorway four down from his.
“Agent Chance,” he said to the woman inside, saw her look up from the stack of computer printouts. “We have a potential kidnapping. Let’s go.” Casper didn’t wait. He headed to the elevator.
Even with her long legs, Hanna Chance had to race to catch up with him. At five eight, she had a swimmer’s lanky frame, fluid movement. Her naturally-curly, reddish-brown hair, bounced as she ran. She had an oval face, shinning green eyes, lips that always seemed ready to smile, dimples that appeared when she did. Her expression was intelligent, determined. “What do we know about this?”
“Very little,” Casper said as they got on the elevator and rode down three floors. “Call came in from Chief Bayer on Longboat.The vic is German. His business associate reported him missing."The elevator doors opened on the ground floor. Casper exited, walking quickly, Chance in his wake. “Bayer’s waiting for us at the Gulf Beach.” He glanced over at Chance. “You know where that is?”
She nodded.
“Good. We’ll take two cars. I may need to go directly to another meeting.”
“Fine,” Chance agreed hurriedly.
Casper held the parking garage door for her. Once inside, Hanna headed left, Casper right to his car. He used his remote, unlocked the white Chrysler 300 with dark tinted windows. As Agent in Charge, Casper was entitled to a Bureau car, but he preferred his own. He got in, started the engine, made his way out of the garage.
As he made the twenty-minute drive from the Bureau’s office in downtown Sarasota to the Gulf Beach Hotel and Racquet Club on Longboat Key, Casper felt a sense of exhilaration. This was the case that would reclaim his rightful place at the Bureau.
Just a year ago, he’d been the Bureau’s Northeastern Regional Director, responsible for 400 employees in 14 field offices. His next posting should have been Deputy Director in Washington. Casper certainly had the resume for it. A veteran of twenty-seven years service, his personnel file was filled with commendations. He’d graduated first in his class at the FBI Academy, had become the youngest Agent in Charge in Bureau history, and had received special recognition from the Director for his work on the Carswell racqueteering probe, the Lavidge and Budd kidnappings, and the Munoz drug cartel investigation. All overshadowed by one unfortunate incident.
Casper had been lead agent in the investigation of a terrorist sleeper cell in Newark, New Jersey. The intensive six-month surveillance of the five Iranians, a Saudi, and two Jordanians—code named Jersey Boys—should have led to El Quida higher-ups. But the only communication to the cell was via encrypted emails traced to a Syrian, Mohammed Fouad, living in New York City. Casper, believing they’d obtained all the intelligence available, made the decision to take Fouad and the members of the cell into custody.
At 9:00 on the evening of October 8th, his 12-agent task force surrounded the five-story brick tenement where the cell lived. As four agents approached the building’s front door, an older-model black Cadillac pulled to the curb. Four black gang members dressed in oversize white tee shirts, baggy jeans, ball caps tilted at crazy angles got out of the car, pulled weapons, began firing. All four agents went down. Two dead, two badly injured. In the ensuing firefight, three gang members and a bystander were killed.
The members of the cell escaped. Casper learned later the Caddy had arrived to pick up a gang member who lived in the building. When the car’soccupants saw FBI jackets, they mistakenly assumed the FBI was there to arrest him. Fatefully bad timing.
For the Bureau, it was another post 9-11 black eye. Initially, the press hyped the deaths, especially the bystander—a 57-year-old man sitting on his stoop drinking a beer. When news broke about the sleeper cell’s escape, the story escalated and turned ugly with the press questioning the Bureau’s competence.
In Washington, a board of inquiry was convened and Casper called to testify. Although the board found he had acted correctly, the public needed to see accountability. Casper took the hit.
“We’re bumping you back to running a field office,” Deputy Director O’Neill, Casper’s superior, mentor, and friend, had informed him. “It can go two ways from here, Denny. Something else bad happens, your career with the Bureau is finished. I won’t be able to help you. But if you catch a high-profile case and close the matter successfully, I can get you right back on track.”
As Casper parked his car in front of the Gulf Beach office, his gut told him this was that high-profile case, this would be his ticket back to the big time. Confident of success, he put on his hat, exited the car, walked quickly into the office. Inside, he shook hands with Bayer, who introduced him to Gerhardt and Childs. Introductions finished, Casper moved as far from the windows as possible. “Agent Chance should join us momentarily. I’d like her to hear this.”
When she arrived, Casper made introductions, said to the Chief.
“How do you read this, Quint?”
Bayer rubbed his jaw, thoughtfully. “The restaurant maitre d’ told Mr. Gerhardt that Beck left with a woman Mr. Gerhardt has identified for us as Joanna Perlman. There are two ways this could play out. Either Beck and the woman have gone off and are consensually together somewhere or she lured him away and we have a kidnapping on hands.”
“He knew we were flying out this morning,” Gerhardt blurted out. “He would not have missed that flight.”
Casper saw fear in Gerhardt’s eyes. This was the man who knew Beck best and he was beside himself. “He didn’t try to call you?
Leave a voice mail?”
Gerhardt’s expression became defensive. “No. Nothing.”
“What do you know about this woman he met?” Hanna asked.
As Gerhardt relayed the story of Perlman buying the car to gain an audience with Beck, Casper became convinced this was a kidnapping.
“Agent Chance,” Casper said when Gerhardt had finished. “Call this advertising agency in New York and find out about Joanna Perlman. Call Mercedes. Talk to this Miles Marin.”
