“No, gracias,” she said.
As the waiter turned and tended to the next table, it suddenly occurred to her why he had spoken to her in Spanish. She was clutching her purse tightly, and protruding from it was a thick file. It was plainly marked: LA CACHA, CASO NUMERO 309. La Cacha, Case Number 309.
The waiter must have noticed the Spanish wording on the file. Or maybe not. Paranoia was getting the best of her. She didn’t exactly look Swedish, for heaven’s sake. Even so, she turned the folder around so that the label was concealed against her bosom. She continued to clutch it tightly, hopefully. Almost as an afterthought, as if for support, she reached into her purse and clutched an old white nappy. It was just a piece of cloth, but it was rich with personal history and years of struggle.
Finally, she spotted a beautiful young woman at the revolving doors. Her pulse quickened. She rose and peered through the crowd for a better look. The young woman climbed the marble stairs, and the prospects looked even more promising.
The old woman started toward her, weaving through a human obstacle course. A group of pilots and flight attendants wheeled their baggage toward the reservation desk. She bumped into one of them and was nearly knocked to the floor. The man stopped to help her, but she was in too much of a hurry to wait for his assistance. She quickly collected herself, forced her way across the lobby, and then froze in her tracks.
She made direct eye contact with the young woman, who also came to a sudden halt.
The old woman had never been more certain of anything in all her years. It was definitely her.
There was a moment of confusion, a flurry of activity as another tour bus unloaded in front of the hotel. Yet another group of tourists trooped across the lobby. The never-ending flow of guests raced toward the long and disorganized line at the reservation desk. She pushed forward, trying to keep an eye on the young woman, of whom she suddenly lost sight.
“Alicia!” she shouted.
Still no sight of her.
“Alicia Mendoza!”
The old woman hurried through the crowd, but she saw only strange faces. People were starting to stare, as if something was wrong with her. Breathless, she could go no farther. From the top of the stairs, she spotted Alicia racing toward the revolving door. Her instincts told her to give chase, but it was pointless. In utter desperation, she reached inside her handbag, grabbed a tube of lipstick, and hurled it down from the top of the steps. It flew across the lobby, and, like a dart finding the bull’s-eye, hit Alicia squarely in the back.
Alicia stopped.
The women exchanged glances from afar. Then Alicia saw the tube on the floor and picked it up.
She seemed to recognize it as her own.
The old woman was about to climb down the stairs, hopeful that Alicia would speak to her. Before she could move, however, Alicia hurried through the revolving door. The old woman could only stand and watch helplessly through the plate-glass window as Alicia ran across the parking lot, jumped in her car, and even burned a little rubber in her haste to get away.
chapter 51
I n downtown Miami, construction sites were outnumbered only by traffic jams. Jack passed seven or eight of the former before he was ensnarled in the latter. He left his car in a loading zone near Flagler Street and hoofed it down the sidewalk. After a couple of wrong turns, he came to the construction site that marked the way to the people-mover station where he and Zack were supposed to meet.
No city on earth had more skyscrapers in the works than Miami-not New York, not Tokyo, not even Hong Kong. Many would eventually be built; just as many, if not more, would develop no further than the weedy construction site that served as the landmark for Jack’s destination. The downtown people-mover was an elevated tram that ran on rubber tires and a concrete track. As Jack climbed the stairs to the station’s platform, he had an unobstructed view of a vacant lot surrounded by a chain-link fence. Most of the fencing was covered with a green nylon mesh, but the long stretch facing the street had been transformed into an architectural gallery of sorts, with impressive drawings of a future seventy-story multi-use facility. The sign at the gate boasted that sixty percent of the condominium units had already been sold. The big question was, “To whom?” Miami was to condo speculation what Las Vegas was to roulette wheels, and Jack figured that many of those units had been bought in bulk by the type of investor who would stash away his money at an institution shrouded in secrecy, like the Greater Bahamian Bank amp; Trust Company, all with the help of a man like Riley.
When Jack arrived, however, there was no sign of Riley. Zack was leaning against the lighted billboard by his lonesome-all seven feet of him.
“Where’s Riley?” said Jack.
“Sorry,” said Zack as he stepped toward him. “You may be Theo’s best friend, but any lawyer makes me nervous. After the way you were talking on the phone, I half-expected you to show up with the cops in tow. I left Riley behind.”
Images of that vat of boiling oil suddenly resurfaced in Jack’s brain. “Where?”
“Back at the hangar. He’s cool, okay? Frankly, he’s glad to be out of the Bahamas. So long as the guys who are out to get him don’t know he’s out of the Bahamas.”
“Who’s out to get him?”
“I’m not sure. Somebody showed up at his house yesterday morning, pulled a gun, and told him to keep his trap shut about Falcon’s box. I pressed Riley pretty hard on it, but honestly, I’m not sure that he even knows who it was.”
“Not everyone in the islands follows the Swiss model of ‘know your customer.’ I’m not so sure the Swiss even follow it. Bank secrecy has more exceptions than rules.”
“I wouldn’t know about that. But if you grew up where Theo and me did, you know this much: nobody sings like a scared canary.”
Somewhere in Zack’s sentence was a more familiar cliché, but Jack got the drift. “What did you get out of Riley so far?”
“First off, your boy Falcon set up the safe deposit box and did all the paperwork himself.”
“We knew that. His signature specimens were on file with the bank.”
“Yeah, but here’s something you didn’t know. He did all this years ago, probably before he started living on the street. And here’s something else. Falcon never even opened the box.”
“You mean after he put the two hundred grand in it.”
“No. I mean never.”
“How can that be?”
“That’s what I asked Riley. But he says Falcon just rented the box sight unseen. Never put a thing in it.”
“Then how did the money get there?”
“According to Riley, some other guy shows up about two months later. He’s got a key and a power of attorney signed by Falcon to let him open the box. Now, we don’t know what he did when he opened the box, but Riley says the guy came with a briefcase.”
“Big enough to hold two hundred thousand in cash?”
“Yup. He used the name Bernard Sikes. Totally bogus identity, of course.”
“So this guy Sikes, or whatever his real name is, puts two hundred thousand dollars cash in an empty safe deposit box rented by Falcon. That’s what you’re telling me?”
“You got it.”
“Why?”
Zack shrugged. “Hell if I know. Why don’t you ask Falcon?”
“I just might do that. But obviously there has to be more to the story. There was two hundred thousand in the box when Theo and I went there. I took ten thousand for Falcon’s bail. So who came after me and took what was left? Riley?”
“No,” said Zack. “He swears he didn’t.”
“Sikes?”
“Uh-uh. Riley says it was a woman. An old woman at that. The way Falcon set things up with the bank, three people were authorized to access the box. Falcon, Sikes, and the woman.”
“She got a name?”
“Marianna Cruz Pedrosa.”
Jack searched his mind for some recognition, but there was none. “Have the Bahamians tracked her down?”<
br />
“This is where it gets interesting. I didn’t hear this from Riley, but I was talking to a buddy on the Bahamian police about this.”
“And?”
“As you can imagine, there are more than a few women by this name in the world. But the local cops have checked all kinds of databanks and computer lists, and one woman has really caught their interest.”
“Why?”
“A woman named Marianna Cruz Pedrosa went missing over twenty-five years ago. She was a university professor in La Plata, Argentina, back in the mid-seventies. She and her husband were taken from their home in the middle of the night. No one ever heard from them again. It’s like they just vanished.”
Jack fell silent for a moment. “No,” he said finally, “I’ll bet they disappeared.”
“Vanished. Disappeared. Same thing.”
“Not exactly,” Jack said, as the pieces to Falcon’s puzzle finally started to fall into place.
chapter 52
V ince was not getting the response he wanted from the headquarters. He was listening to Chief Renfro on speakerphone, and she didn’t like the idea of Vince-with or without Swyteck-approaching the motel in any kind of swap for the injured hostage. Vince was prepared to make a host of arguments to the contrary, but he was a lone voice. The mobile command vehicle was starting to feel less like the nerve center of negotiations and more like a SWAT staging area. Sergeant Chavez, two members of his tactical team, and his best sniper were standing near the door, as if waiting for the chief to say “Go.” The Miami Dade Police Department had its negotiator in the room, but if body language meant anything, she was actually standing behind the MDPD’s SWAT leader. The MDPD director himself-the local equivalent of the county sheriff-was participating by conference call, and he was siding completely with Chief Renfro.
“Look,” said the director, “the guy has already shot two officers, killed one. It appears that he’s wounded one hostage. It makes no sense to send in a negotiator with a civilian in the hope that a known killer has suddenly lost his itchy trigger finger.”
“We’re not sending anybody in,” said Vince. “The deal is that he puts the injured girl outside the door. Then Swyteck and I go and get her. We never set foot inside the motel room.”
Chavez said, “I like the first part of that plan. When he opens the door and lays the girl on the stoop, that’s our chance to take him out.”
Renfro said, “What’s the likelihood of success on that shot?”
Chavez deferred to his lead sniper, who answered in a thoughtful monotone and without any sense of arrogance. It was simply the best judgment from a highly trained professional who fully understood the gravity of his work. “Subject in the open doorway. Girl on the ground. He’ll probably be moving quickly, perhaps even erratically, since we are dealing with an agitated and clinically paranoid subject. Definitely won’t be standing still. Second story of the apartment building directly across the street offers the clearest line of sight. Distance is just about one hundred yards. Slight angle should have only minimal adverse impact on bullet trajectory. We do have rain and wind to contend with. Unless this rainstorm turns into a hurricane, I’d say we’re close to a sure thing here.”
Renfro said, “I don’t want to wing him now. Last thing we need is for him to go back inside and tear into those hostages like a wounded animal.”
“Understood,” said the sniper. “I’m talking about a kill shot to the head.”
Vince said, “Nothing’s a sure thing. Any attempted takeout brings a chance of dead hostages.”
“We breach at the crack of the sniper fire,” said the director. “If the shot doesn’t take him out, we will.”
“No offense,” said Vince, “but that won’t do much good, unless your team can fly faster than one of Falcon’s speeding bullets.”
The SWAT leader spoke up. “You’d be surprised how quickly we can move. We’ve been studying the blueprints. There’s a maid-ser vice hallway that runs directly behind the rooms on this eastern wing of the motel. We can cut through the back wall. It’s just sheet rock on studs. Conservatively speaking, we should be able to position a team as close as two rooms away without Falcon ever knowing we’re there.”
“If he hears you cutting through walls, it’s disaster,” said Vince.
“He won’t hear us.”
“And what if he comes to the door with a hostage in tow?”
“Then we’ll respond accordingly,” said Chavez.
“What does that mean?”
“It means we’ve done this before. We adapt.”
Vince could have debated that point, but he knew when he was outnumbered. In truth, he didn’t totally disagree with the strategy. He hoped it was because they were right. He feared that it was because of the way things had gone so horribly wrong the last time, his disastrous face-to-face confrontation with that monster who had stolen a five-year-old girl, and then stolen Vince’s eyesight.
“You on board, Paulo?” asked the chief.
Vince didn’t answer right away.
“Paulo, you with us?”
“Yeah,” he said without much enthusiasm. “I’m all in.”
“Good,” said Renfro. “Then proceed as planned. Tell Falcon to bring the girl to the door, and give him every assurance that you and Swyteck will come and pick her up. Any questions?” The mobile command center was silent. “Excellent,” said Renfro. “Good luck, team.”
Vince ended the call. The SWAT members headed toward the door. Chavez was the last to leave. He stopped on his way out, laid a hand on Vince’s shoulder. “Look at the bright side, Paulo. Falcon won’t live long enough to know you lied to him.”
Vince couldn’t tell if it was a bad joke or if Chavez was just being a total jerk. He gave him the benefit of the doubt by simply not responding. He turned, walked the familiar path back to his chair, and was about to take a seat when he heard radio squelch in his headset. He adjusted the earpiece, and the voice came clear.
“Sergeant Paulo, you there?”
Vince didn’t recognize the speaker. “Paulo here. Who’s this?”
“Officer Garcia, perimeter control.”
“Go ahead.”
“Got a little situation here at Biscayne and Seventeenth.”
Rookies, thought Vince. He couldn’t imagine why it took the lead negotiator to handle perimeter control, but he wasn’t too harsh in his response. “I’m sure it’s nothing you can’t handle, Garcia.”
“Actually, sir, it’s a little complicated. There’s someone here who insists on seeing you.”
“Who is it?”
“Wouldn’t give me a name, says it wouldn’t mean anything to you anyway. But she says she can definitely be of help to you.”
Vince was tired, stress was high, and this interruption seemed so inane that he was on the verge of losing his temper. “Tell her we don’t need any help, thank you.”
“She says she knows who Falcon is.”
“She does, does she?”
“Yeah. I hear your skepticism. I didn’t put much credence in it either, and I wasn’t even going to bother you with it. Except that she has something that she wants to give you.”
“What is it?”
The cop paused, as if taking care not to be overheard by any bystanders. “Looks to be about two hundred thousand dollars. Cash.”
The rookie suddenly had Vince’s undivided attention. “Bring her in right away,” said Vince. “Tell her that I’d be delighted to speak with her.”
chapter 53
A licia made it from downtown Miami to Coconut Grove in record time. The last time she’d been in such a hurry to reach 311 Royal Poinciana Court, she was seventeen years old, it was three a.m., and her fake ID had worked like a charm on South Beach. This afternoon, the circumstances could not have been more different. The charming Mediterranean-style villa was no longer where she lived, of course, though she’d probably heard it from her parents a thousand different times, a hundred different ways, that it
felt so much more like home whenever she came to visit. She understood that sentiment perfectly. This old house was where she’d grown up. It was filled with memories of birthday parties, sleepovers, after-school snacks, skinned knees, girl talk, and boy troubles. It was like a giant box filled with all the hopes and dreams that marked her journey from daddy’s girl to womanhood. She’d scored a thousand soccer goals in the yard with her father as goalie. She’d practically killed her mother in the living room for trying to “fix” her hair five minutes before her prom date arrived. It was a cliché to say that not every house was a home, but this one brimmed with the kind of endless love and inevitable parental overkill that an only child could either understand or endure. For a moment, Alicia felt like she was a kid again as she sat directly across the kitchen table from her mother.
Another part of her, however, felt more like a cop.
“Why the oh-so-serious expression?” her mother said.
Alicia was a tangle of emotional knots, and the words seemed trapped inside her. She laid her handbag atop the table, the lipstick tube concealed from her mother. She reached inside, removed her wallet, and opened it. The billfold was empty.
Her mother could not contain her disapproval. “Alicia, how many times have I told you never to go around without a dollar to your name?”
“Mom, please.”
“You should always have a little cash. What if you had a flat tire or an emergency?”
“If there’s an emergency, I have a fully loaded nine-millimeter pistol. Mom, can you please just listen?” It was a tone she rarely used with her parents, and her mother was clearly taken aback.
“Okay,” her mother said quietly. “I’m listening.”
Alicia reached into the photo section of her wallet and removed a colorful piece of paper currency that was pressed behind plastic. She laid the bill on the table between them, facedown. “Do you know what this is?”
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