Authors: Jay Giles
Time on the Wire (6 page)
Miles chose to dress for his first visit to the FBI. He wore a black blazer, white shirt open at the collar, gray slacks, cordovan loafers. At precisely, 8:00, he gave his name to the attendant at the front desk, told her he was there to see Agent Chance.
To his surprise, she came to get him almost immediately, walked him through security. Miles cleared the metal detector, grinning.
“You look like the cat that swallowed the canary,” Hanna said as they walked down the hall.
“That’s because I know the location of Joanna Perlman’s Mercedes.”
Hanna stopped. “You do?”
“Yeah, in the middle of the night I remembered Perlman made a big deal about TeleAid.”
Hanna looked blank.
“That’s Mercedes’ help service. This morning, I called them, had them do a GPS track on the car.”
“And?” Hanna asked excitedly.
“It’s on St. Armand’s Circle, right by Tommy Bahamas,” Miles said, naming the upscale clothing store and restaurant.
“Come with me,” Hanna said, already walking down the hall.
“Agent Casper needs to hear this immediately.” They took the elevator up to the third floor, Hanna knocked on a closed door.
Miles heard a muffled, “Come in.”
Hanna opened the door, ushered Miles in. The man behind the desk was on the phone. He waved them to have a seat, continued talking. Judging by the what was being said, the call was winding up.
Miles used the time, glanced around. The window curtains were tightly drawn. Casper had a band-aid on the top of his ear, was wearing a long-sleeved shirt. A wide-brimmed felt hat sat on the credenza behind him.
Sun-o-phobe.
Miles also noticed there were no family photos, no knickknacks, no mementos in the office. As soon as this guy can get away from here, he’s gone.
“Sorry,” Casper said cradling the receiver. He looked at Agent Chance.
“Miles—Mr. Marin—is here to put together a composite of Joanna Perlman. As soon as he arrived, he informed me he knows the location of the car.”
Casper’s gaze darted from Hanna to Miles.
“It’s parked on St. Armand’s Circle,” Miles said easily. “I drove past it on my way here.”
Casper’s eyes narrowed. “You just spotted it on your way here?”
Miles explained Tele-Aid one more time.
As he listened, Casper’s expression became determined. “They want us to find that car.” He stood, said to Hanna, “You take Mr.
Marin down to Paul. I’ll get Milt’s team going, alert Chief Bayer.
Come back here, we’ll go to the scene.”
Hanna nodded, stood. Miles d as well.
Casper reached across the desk to shake Miles’ hand. “Mr.
Marin, the Bureau appreciates your help.”
“My pleasure. Like to see you catch this woman.”
“Oh, we will,” Casper said as he picked up the phone.
Miles and Hanna left, rode the elevator down to two, where she introduced him to the Bureau’s sketch artist, Paul Chang, a young Asian man with spiky hair, wearing trendy, narrow black-framed glasses that accentuated his Chinese features.
“Have a seat. We’ll get started,” Chang said as Hanna departed.
Over the next hour, the two of them worked on the composite of Perlman. The process was more rigorous than Miles had imagined.
When Chang was finished, Miles thought the likeness was remarkable and said so.
Chang shrugged off the compliment. “She has a classic face.
Look in any woman’s magazine and she’s the face in the ads. We’d have better luck if she had a less cover girl look.”
Chang walked him two doors down the hall and handed him off to Susan Selts, an older, round-faced woman with graying black hair, who Chang introduced as a database administrator.
Selts wore her glasses on a string around her neck. She tucked a strand of hair back over her ear, put her glasses on, looked at Chang’s sketch, sighed. “God, to have cheekbones like that.” She scanned Chang’s sketch into the computer, organized the review of file photos starting with those that best matched the sketch.
Miles saw hundreds of women’s photos, recognized one, a former high school girlfriend serving six-to-ten for assault. The woman who had called herself Joanna Perlman, however, was nowhere to be seen.
“My guess is this woman doesn’t have a record,” Selts said as they wrapped up their search. “They may have used her because she was a fresh face.”
“So what happens now?” Miles asked.
“We’ll circulate the composite to police organizations,” she said, “get them looking for her. You never know. She could get stopped for speeding, be recognized as wanted, and suddenly the whole complexion of the investigation changes.”
Miles was skeptical.
“Believe me, it happens. Think America’s Most Wanted,” Selts said as she walked him to the reception area.
As he left the building, Miles felt a little dejected. He’d looked forward to working with the FBI, didn’t want his involvement to be over.
On the ride to St. Armand’s Circle, Casper looked over at Hanna. “Have you run a background check on Marin?”
Hanna met his gaze. “No. He didn’t seem to merit it.”
Casper’s gaze returned to the road. “He does now. He could be the prototypical Good Samaritan in finding this car or he could be in on it. I’d like to be sure which.” Casper slowed as they approached the Circle.
“I’ll run him as soon as I get back to the office,” Hanna said. She gazed out the window, watching the stores and shoppers, as the car made it slow arc. “There it is.” She pointed down a side street. On the left, a block down on the corner, was Tommy Bahamas—clothing store on the ground floor, restaurant and bar on the second.
Casper signaled his turn, found a parking space. He turned off the ignition, reached around to the back seat for his hat.
The two of them exited the car, walked quickly to Mercedes. It was parked directly in front of the door to the restaurant, two parking tickets tucked under the windshield wiper. Casper pulled them off, read, “Seven yesterday evening. Nine this morning.”
Milt Walger, the crime scene supervisor joined them. A short, slightly built man, he surveyed the scene from behind thick glasses, stored what he observed in a near photographic memory, processed it with a keen, analytical mind. He used his index finger to push his heavy aviator-style glasses up on his nose. “Can I start?”
Casper, who had found the shade of a tree, nodded. “Have at it.”
He glanced over his shoulder at the store, saw there were windows on this side of the building. “I’ll be inside watching,” he said to Walger. “If you find anything, let me know.”
Inside the store, the Tommy Bahamas men’s and women’s tropical clothing was elegantly displayed on racks, shelves, and occasionally, pieces of furniture. In the center of the shop was a large square sales counter and cash register. Casper walked between racks of clothes to the window, looked out.
Hanna stood by the car, watched Walger’s techs begin dusting the outside of the car. They paid particular attention to the door handles and trunk lid. “Clean,” a tech told her.
“Then pop the door,” Hanna told him, snapping on a pair of gloves. “There’s a envelop on the passenger’s seat and I want to know what’s inside.”
When the tech had the door open, she reached in, carefully picked up the white number ten envelop by its corner. It was an ordinary-looking envelope, with no exterior markings. Hanna held it by her gloved thumb and forefinger as she marched it into the store.
Walger, pushing his glasses up on his nose, trailed a step behind her.
Casper watched them enter the store. “Put it on here on the counter,” he directed.
“Yo, dude,” said the store manager, shaking his long, bleached hair out of his eyes. He struck a pose in his Tommy Bahamas’ outfit—tropical shirt featuring parrots worn tails out over beige linen slacks, woven sandals. “I don’t know what you think you’re doing.
This is a place of business.”
Casper looked around the store, didn’t see a customer. “Guess we’ll have to take your word for that.” He flashed his badge. “Unless you want to go downtown for obstructing justice, allow us to do our work.”
The sales guy gave his head a shake, sent his hair flying.
“Whatever,” he sneered before slouching away.
Hanna placed the envelop on the counter. “Who wants to do the honors?”
“You found it, you open it,” Walger offered.
She held out her hand. He put a scalpel in it, much the way a nurse would with a surgeon.
Hanna used the knife to slit open the envelop. Using the tips of her fingers, she slowly extracted a tri-fold sheet of paper.
“Open it,” Casper ordered.
Hanna carefully unfolded the first fold, then the second.
Casper on her left, Walger on her right, leaned forward to get a better look.
“Congratulations. You found the car. To find Jens Beck alive, have Mercedes wire $50-million dollars to this numbered Cayman account: CAY345A-7477Y-3858CWT. When the money reaches the account, Beck will be released unharmed. To find Jens Beck dead, simply disregard these instructions. The choice is yours. Make it fast. There will be no more communications from us.”
“Jeez, Louise.” Walger said under his breath. “Fifty big ones.”
“Is that like a real ransom note?” A voice said from behind the three agents. All three turned at once.
The sales guy knew he’d stepped in it. “Not that it’s any of my business,” he said, hands up, backing away.
The agents returned to the ransom demand, all three scrutinizing it.
Casper took charge. “Hanna, see what you can find out about this numbered account.”
Hanna got a pen and paper from her shoulder bag, jotted down the number, double checked to make sure she’d copied it right.
Casper watched her. When she finished, he handed the note to Walger. “Milt, get this dusted for prints and in a plastic sleeve. Let’s get the car on a flatbed, take it to the shop where we can really go over it.” His gaze shifted back to Hanna. “Take my car back to the office, I’m going to go with Milt. Call me on my cell if you find out something about the account.” He started to go, stopped. “And contact Mercedes, get the ball rolling there.”
Tommy Bahamas’ restaurant was located on the second floor above their clothing store. A small second-floor balcony offered outside seating and a perfect view of, among other things, the red Mercedes parked by the curb below. A man and a woman sat at one of the tables, shopping bags on the ground by their feet, drinks in front of them. Marike Silber, the blond woman who had called herself Joanne Perlman, had her shoes off, her feet up on the empty chair next to her. She was drinking a frozen Daiquiri. The man with the phone to his ear, Tom Ruhl, had a Belvedere.
“They’ve found the envelope,” Tom said quietly.
“Ping Excellent. Did they bring anyone from Mercedes along?”
Tom looked across at his companion. “Anyone from Mercedes down there?”
Marike took another peek over the balcony railing, shook her head.
“No,” Tom said into the phone.
“That’s too bad. Ping It might have sped things up. Keep watching,” the man said and rang off.
Hanna took the elevator up to third floor, as she exited she could hear her admin, Amy, hacking, that dry smoker’s cough. Hanna strode down the hall, stopped at her cube.
Amy was shuffling papers with a finesse and speed that seemed to defy the arthritis in her yellowed fingers. She looked up with her usual wry grin. “Must be a juicy case to get our friendly ghost to go out in the sun two days in a row.” She started hacking, again.
Hanna waited until the fit passed. “It’s a kidnapping—a Mercedes executive. We just found the ransom note. They want $50-million.”
Amy popped a Nicorette in her mouth. She had a two pack a day habit. “What’s he got you doing?”
Hanna sighed, “Right now, its mostly background. Call Susan Selts. Have her do a background on Miles Marin.”
Amy grabbed a piece of paper and pencil.
Hanna spelled the last name for her and said, “See if you can buy me a couple of uninterrupted hours.”
“I’m on it.”
Hanna closed the door of her office behind her, placed the piece of paper with the numbered account by her phone. She knew most of the numbering protocols for Cayman accounts, but this was one she didn’t recognize. Her first call would be to Lyman Marleybone, the Cayman commissioner of banking.
“Lovely Hanna,” he said when they finally connected. “I thought you had forgotten me, I have not heard from you in so long.”
“Lyman, you know you’re my favorite Cayman banking commissioner.”
Lyman chuckled. “That’s because I am the only Cayman banking commissioner.”
It was an old joke between them. “But it is still good to hear from you, child. How may I be of service?”
“This account,” she read him the letters and numbers, “turned up in one of our investigations. I’m not familiar with it. Is it a new bank?”
“Hanna, what are we talking here?”
“Kidnapping, Lyman. They may be using this account.”
She could hear him clucking his tongue. Who did that anymore?
“A most unfortunate business. Well, your numbers indicate an account with Cayman Wealth and Trust. This is a newly opened bank run by Liam Delaney, a good Irishman who has the brogue to prove it. Mr. Delaney is very secretive, very uncooperative, I’m afraid.”
“So he wouldn’t tell us who opened this account?”
“Not even with all your considerable charm, Hanna.”
“How about the weight of the FBI?”
“He’ll laugh.”
“Any pressure you can apply?”
“I’m doing what I can. You’re not the only organization interested in Mr. Delaney. I don’t, as yet, have enough to cause the Governor to take action.”
There was a rap on Hanna’s door.
“Listen, Lyman, gotta go. We’ll talk soon. Bye.”
The door opened enough for Susan Selts to stick her head in.
“Okay to talk?”
Hanna waved her in.
Susan quickly settled in Hanna’s visitor’s chair, holding a manila folder on her lap. She blew a wisp of gray hair out of her eyes. “I was kind of shocked when Amy said you wanted me to run Miles Marin.
He seemed nice enough when I met him this morning.”
Hanna braced herself for the worst. It wasn’t like Susan to rush upstairs with information.
“Seemed like this might be an urgent matter, so I thought you’d want to know quick—he’s clean.”
Hanna realized she’d unconsciously been holding her breath. She let it out.
“I checked our database, military, Interpol. Nothing. I finally got something doing a Google search.” She stood, thrust the manila folder at Hanna. “Here.”
Hanna took the folder, thanked her. Inside was a feature article from The Sarasota Herald-Tribute, dated almost a year ago.
A photo showed Miles and a woman wearing a cross around her neck, leaning on a cane and standing in front of an open-air clinic.
Below the photo, the headline read: Local Man Braves Nicaraguan Rain Forest To Help Nun. The story recounted the perils of Miles’ 110 mile journey to deliver emergency medical supplies to Sister Meg, an American doctor from Texas.
Hanna found the first part of the story intriguing , the later part informative. She learned Miles’ parents had fled Castro, settled in Miami. Miles had grown up in Little Havana, the youngest of three children. He’d attended the University of Florida on a baseball scholarship and graduated with a degree in Marine Biology and a ranking as the one of the top collegiate pitching prospects. Drafted by the Chicago White Sox, Miles spent three seasons with their AAA farm team. Although he had a 100-mph fastball and threw a decent slider, he never developed the curveball needed to pitch at the Major League level. After his contract was sold to the Minnesota Twins, Miles called it a career and took a job with the Woods Hole Ocean Life Institute. Two years later, he left the Institute so he’d have more time for travel. The article also went on to say Marin was 36 years old, unmarried, and had lived in Sarasota for the past six years.
Hanna put down the article, put together a quick email summary for Casper, moved on to the bigger challenge—contacting Mercedes.