“It hasn’t been an issue,” she said, and the smile played around her lips.
The answer spoke volumes, and he revised his opinion of what life would be like with her. His mouth was suddenly dry and he searched for a safer topic.
“Even though we’re not writing a policy for you, you should let your family know that your job involves danger.”
“Why?” She gave him a curious look. He took a swallow of his drink. The ice had melted and it was warming, but it managed to wet his parched throat.
“When we write kidnap insurance we do our best to keep it completely confidential. Our acceptance is only through a protected e-mail site, and once the policy is written we store it in the cloud with a company that specializes in cyber security.”
“Why all the precautions?”
“There are professional theft rings that will hack into an insurance company’s files and sell the information on the policy riders—usually the jewelry rider—to other thieves. Armed with the address and an exact inventory of goods in the house, the ring then burglarizes the residence.”
A look of understanding came into her eyes. “And with kidnap policies you’re afraid they’ll target the insured?”
He nodded. “And on a practical level, it’s often the family member who gets the first call, and so they should be aware that their loved one has kidnap insurance. And if they don’t, they should at least be aware that a fund has been established to pay a ransom.”
She contemplated what he’d said. “So I guess you’re telling me that I’m lucky your company is turning me down? I won’t have my information stolen.”
“Not exactly. Like I said, we have outstanding cyber security.”
“But who in the company has access to the pass codes? Someone must.”
“Me.”
One of her eyebrows shot up. “You? That’s all?”
He nodded. “Oh, and the cyber company, of course, but it’s safest to have the information in the fewest hands. I’m the only one who can code the policy to authorize or deny payment.”
She considered him a moment longer before emptying her glass and putting it on the table with a finality that told him that for her the interview was over.
“Thank you for the advice. I’ll suggest that the company add a line item to the budget for self-insurance.” She rose, and he rose with her. He didn’t want the evening to be over.
“Can I drop you anywhere?” he said. He knew from her application and their conversation that she lived a few miles away, on the south end of the Beach. He was pleased when she nodded.
They stepped out of the restaurant onto a street clogged with cars stuck in a gridlock. Horns honked and a cacophony of music from various open windows and drop tops created a din that made Ryan wince. A nearby car equipped with massive speakers vibrated with each pound of a bass beat. Two young dudes covered in bling and with baggy pants and sideways ball caps pushed a yellow Lamborghini down the middle of the road. Several young women laughed as they watched.
“Hey, baby, great car. Too bad it don’t work,” one yelled. The man pushing at the driver’s side smiled and shook his head.
“Any of you beautiful ladies drive stick?” he said. “This was the last on the rental lot and I thought it would be easy, but man, was I wrong. Keeps dying on me.”
The women shook their heads.
The man pushing the car shrugged and kept going, trailing honking cars and angry drivers behind him.
“What a circus,” Ryan said.
They watched the show as they waited for the valet to bring his car. He drove a hybrid. It had the advantage of imparting a certain eco cachet without the cost of a sports car, which was the ride of choice on the Beach. It was also highly rated and carried no risk of the frequent repairs that a sports car would require. When it came, they strapped in and he started south. He noticed that she kept an eye on the sideview mirror, watching behind them.
“I read in your application that you’re an ultra marathon runner,” he said. “I suppose you could run all the way to Key West without trouble. Have you ever done the Keys 100?”
She smiled at him. “Not yet, but I’d love to.” She flicked another glance at the sideview mirror and he saw her stiffen.
“We’re being followed,” she said.
At first he didn’t believe he’d heard her right. “I beg your pardon?”
“The silver Porsche. It’s following us.” She kept her attention on the sideview mirror while she answered. He checked out the back. One car separated them from the Porsche. It drove in the right lane, and other than the fact that it was flashy and expensive, it seemed unremarkable.
“What makes you think it’s following us?”
“You’ve taken four turns and it has also.”
He shrugged. “I’m headed to South Beach. It’s Friday night. Probably everyone else is too.”
She gave him a look filled with patience. “Mr. Ryan—”
“Call me Sebastian,” he said.
“Sebastian,” she said. “If they were merely headed south they wouldn’t have kept up with the winding route that you’re taking. They would have simply shot down Collins. It’s much more direct. We’re being followed. Any idea why?”
He snorted. “No. If anyone’s following us, then perhaps they’re following you. You’re the one with the risky job and looking to purchase kidnap insurance.”
“I’m in your car,” she said.
“So that means they saw you get in.”
He was having a hard time believing the conversation. Her application had given him no hint that she suffered from paranoia, though now that he thought about it, it was entirely possible that she was affected with post-traumatic stress disorder.
“I’m an analyst for an insurance company. The most dangerous thing that I do all day is compute the statistical probability of claim loss versus premium gain.”
“Have you insured anyone dangerous lately?”
“You,” he said. His voice was a little strident, he noted, but her insistence that they were being followed made him edgy.
“You just turned me down.”
“We’re not being followed.” His voice was flat. Now all he wanted was to get to South Beach and off-load her. The whole conversation was too weird.
“Turn right at the next intersection,” she said.
“That’s not the way to your house.”
“I’m proving to you that we’re being followed. Turn right. If they do also, then that’s turn number five. No way is that a coincidence.”
“Fine,” he said. He flicked on the turn signal and turned right. After a moment he glanced into the rearview mirror. The Porsche appeared.
Now he was becoming nervous. His hands began to sweat. The last thing he needed was to be caught up in her chaotic life.
“I’ll drive to the police station.”
She gave him another patient look, which sent a flash of annoyance through him.
“I wouldn’t recommend that,” she said.
Of course you wouldn’t, because you’re used to this level of craziness.
He had the thought but didn’t say it out loud. Instead he said, “Why not? I realize that you’ve been through kidnappings and hijacking and God knows what else, but let me give you a tip—most of us law-abiding citizens go to the police when we’re in trouble.” He realized that he sounded like a pompous asshole, but his hands were sweating on the wheel and he was getting more agitated every minute.
“If you go to the police,” she said, “they’ll leave, yes, but then just return, and the next time you may not see them.”
“I won’t see them because they’re following you, not me.” He turned onto Alton and continued south. After a second the Porsche appeared.
“Fine. Pull over,” she said. “I’ll get out. I don’t need you t
o lead them directly to my house.”
He shot her a glance. “I don’t want to leave you alone.”
Now she looked aggravated. “I’ll be okay. Just pull over.”
He flipped on the turn signal and pulled to the corner. She opened the door and leaned into him.
“Thank you for an interesting evening. Good luck with the police.”
She angled out of the car, closed the door, and headed down a side street at a rapid pace. He watched her turn the next corner, then he pulled back into traffic, but kept flicking his eyes to the rearview mirror. The Porsche stayed with him while he drove to the police station. As he double-parked in front of the building, a man in the passenger seat stared at him as the Porsche drove past. He was heavyset, with a receding hairline. Ryan stepped off the curb and glanced at the license. The car had a dealer plate, and he noted the number.
Gotcha, he thought.
HALF AN HOUR later Ryan was back in his car and frustrated. The frazzled and already exhausted police politely informed him that they wouldn’t waste their time writing a report about a car that did nothing more than ride on the same road as Ryan’s. They suggested that he return if the car’s inhabitants actually did something illegal.
He pulled into the small parking lot off the alley behind his condominium building. The building had six units in a U-shaped courtyard configuration. He beeped the car locked and strode toward the back entrance, which opened directly into a breezeway that connected the parking lot to the interior courtyard. He jogged up to the second floor put the key in the lock and swung his door open.
A hand pushed him from behind and he flew, face-first, into the living room. He landed on the hardwood floor and grunted when the air was forced out of his lungs. Someone grabbed a fistful of his hair and slammed his head against the table’s leg. The pain that shot through his head made him groan again. He clutched his keys in his right fist and considered trying to roll over and punch the attacker in the head, but the grip on his hair was tight and his cheek was pressed into the floor.
“Pay up or die.” The attacker hissed the words at his ear. The lights were off and the room dark, but Ryan could see the muzzle of the gun the man held to his face. Beyond the gun barrel he made out the shape of his front door, still hanging open.
Before he could answer he saw the flash and heard the reports of gunshots. The man released Ryan’s hair with a yell and scrambled across the room and around the sofa.
“Ryan, it’s Emma Caldridge. Run!”
Ryan rolled over and regained his footing. The room spun as the blood rushed from his head, but he ran through the door into the hallway.
She was plastered against the wall and waved him down the stairs, then pounded after him. She shot past him to the breezeway exit, used her hips to push on the bar that opened the door, and ran backwards, facing the building’s rear wall while holding a pistol in both hands that she aimed at the second floor windows. He stumbled behind her, swallowing his fear and wondering just when his life had gone haywire.
He ran to his car then, fumbling with the key to beep the doors open, and they tumbled into the seats.
“Reverse out of here and leave through the alley. The Porsche is parked out front.”
“Are you sure it was the Porsche?” he said.
“I’m sure. Head south, curve around to Alton again and then go north.”
Ryan directed his attention to driving, put the car in gear and backed out of the parking spot. In his haste he hit the gas too hard and the tires squealed as he swung around. He shifted into drive, glanced at her and stared. She was leaning forward with her hands held below the dashboard and reloading the gun.
“You need to get a head start on a Porsche,” she said. “You’ll never outrun it in this car.”
“I’m not going to outrun anything in this traffic. Can you call the police?”
She nodded. “Just get some distance between us and the Porsche while I do.” She glanced in the sideview mirror and straightened. “Here they come. Hit it.”
A quick check in the rearview mirror confirmed what she’d said. The Porsche had turned into the alley and was accelerating toward them. Ryan hammered the gas pedal and the car moved out, but at a painfully slow pace that made the contrast between the two cars abundantly clear. The alley ended at a cross street, and he swung left, nearly clipping the rear bumper of a vehicle parked at the alley’s entrance. He went a block and halted at a stop sign at Collins, where a line of cars was cruising in the slow fashion common on a Friday night on the Beach. Everyone wanted to see and be seen and speed ruined the effect.
Ryan shot through at his turn and watched the Porsche heading toward him, three cars back. He kept moving through the blocks, stopping at the end of each and sweating and cursing under his breath as he did.
“I’m calling the police,” Caldridge said.
She placed the gun in the car’s foot well and pulled a phone out of her back pocket. “What do you think they want from you?”
“They said ‘Pay up.’ ” His eyes kept flicking between the road and the rearview mirror. The Porsche was shooting through each block, barely stopping at the intersections. He could hear its engine roar with each acceleration, and the aggressive sound was grating to his ears.
“Pay up on a policy?” she asked.
“Or just pay up with my wallet.” At the next intersection the Porsche turned right and disappeared from sight. His relief was instantaneous and profound. “They’re gone,” he said.
She looked into the sideview mirror before speaking into the phone. He listened as she explained the situation to the police dispatcher, confirming that she was in a car and moving. “We’ll be right there,” she said, then hung up. “Police station. Now. They said there’s a mob on Fortieth and shots fired and between that and the gridlock, so it will take them half an hour to come to us.”
“The Porsche is gone. It’s rented from a dealer. Maybe it’s unconnected to the robbery. Just someone in town for hip hop. You know how crime spikes. Maybe you’re wrong and the Porsche is not after me.” He inhaled a deep breath. It seemed like the first he’d taken in minutes.
Caldridge shook her head. “I’m not wrong. The Porsche is after you. I don’t know why they turned off, but that’s not the point. They’ll be back.”
“No, they—” Before he could complete the sentence he saw the Porsche coming on from the left. She saw it too.
“They went around the block.” She had the gun back in her hand but still kept it low, below the window line. Ryan had reached the road’s end. All that was before them was the marina, and beyond that, the sea. He turned right and headed toward Fifth. Behind them he saw the Porsche moving in fits and starts as it tried to maneuver around some slower traffic. It shot to the right and once again disappeared from sight.
“I hate it when they disappear,” he said.
“They have to know that we’re heading toward the police station. They’ll try to cut us off.”
Ryan swallowed. What she said made sense. He drove through the clogged streets and thought about how surreal the whole evening had become.
Fifth Street was one of the main arteries that fed from a causeway connecting Miami proper to South Beach. It ended at Ocean Drive, where the cruising traffic would turn and begin its slow march north, with the drivers and passengers gawking at the sidewalk scene. It was four lanes wide, separated by a median strip. Ryan caught a light and started forward. He would need to cross all four lanes in order to continue moving north and to the police station.
The Porsche took that option away. He saw it in the corner of his eye. It barreled toward them at a speed that made it clear it wouldn’t stop, no matter what the color of the light. Ryan peeled off to the left, off the north-south street and heading west on Fifth and to the causeway. The Porsche was one car back and to their right.
“He’s herding
you to the causeway. We can’t let him do it,” Caldridge said. Ryan thought she sounded remarkably calm under the circumstances.
“Why not? We can hit it to Miami and go to the station once we’ve crossed the bridge.”
She kept her eyes on the mirror while she shook her head. “That’s far too risky. Once on the causeway there’s nothing but water on either side. They’ll drive us off the road and into it. But I suppose it’s not as though we have a choice.”
She was right. They were stuck on Fifth, hemmed in by traffic and being funneled onto the causeway. They crossed onto it and Ryan saw the water appear to his right.
“Got any statistics on those who drown when their car hits the water?” She asked the question while never taking her eyes off the sideview mirror, and again Ryan was struck by her calm. He swallowed and tried to answer her with equal calm.
“Florida has the highest number of vehicular drowning deaths,” he said. “Once in the water, the vast majority of those die.” He swallowed and watched behind him as the Porsche veered back and forth as it attempted to pass the cars that blocked them. She flicked him a glance.
“Not sure I really needed to hear that after all. If we go in, the trick is to wait until water completely fills the car. When the pressure on the outside and the inside is the same, you’ll be able to open the door. Or you can lower the windows now.”
Ryan hit the button and his window went down. Caldridge did the same.
“Tell me who else you insure, besides the hip hop mogul,” she said.
“Everyone. Diplomats, CEOs, celebrities. We’re the biggest insurer in the world.”
Ryan maneuvered around a slow moving van but got hung up behind a pickup truck. The Porsche had moved one car ahead.
“Can you access the records from home?”
He surged ahead of an ancient Crown Vic and accelerated past a motorcycle. The Porsche gained two cars. Now only the Crown Vic and the motorcycle separated them.
Risk Page 2