Time on the Wire

by Jay Giles

  Gerhardt, usually in firm control, felt like a puddle of emotions. “My business associate, Mr. Beck, Jens Beck, has disappeared.”

  CHAPTER 10

  “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.”

  CHAPTER 11

  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.”

  CHAPTER 12

  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.”

  CHAPTER 13

  Hanna started to reach for her cell.

  “You can call from my office if you’d like,” Childs offered pointing to a door behind the registration counter. “Down the hall, second door on the right.”

  “Thanks,” Hanna said, pleased to have a little privacy. In Childs’ office she used the phone on Childs’ large mahogany desk, had information connect her.

  “Belgravia and St. James.” The receptionist said so fast it almost came out as one word.

  “Joanne Perlman, please”

  “Who’s calling?”

  “Hanna Chance.”

  A commercial for a beauty cream started playing. A melodious husky-voiced woman was saying she looked ten years younger.

  Under her voice was a soothing music track. The soothing music and announcer stopped abruptly.

  “Perlman.”

  “Ms. Perlman, this is Hanna Chance. I’m a FBI agent assign—”“FBI? Why are you calling me?”

  “Ms. Perlman, have you visited Sarasota, Florida recently?”

  “No. Why?”

  “You didn’t buy a Mercedes here in Sarasota in order to meet Jens Beck?”

  “You’ve got the wrong person.”

  “You’ve been in New York all week?”

  “Yes.”

  “Can you verify that?”

  “Absolutely. What’s this about? You’re beginning to frighten me.”

  “Someone, calling herself Joanna Perlman and saying she was from your agency, is a person of interest in one of our investigations.

  Ms. Perlman, have you been the victim of identity theft?”

  “No.” Perlman’s voice was high, anxious. “What did she have of mine? What did she do?”

  “At this point, all I can say is that this woman posed as you and we’re looking for her. Let me give you my name and number.”

  Hanna rattled it off. “Thanks for your help.”

  “Wait—” she heard Perlman say before she rang off. Hanna felt for her. The call had to be unsettling.

  Again, she dialed information, had them connect her.

  “Mercedes Benz of Sarasota.” This receptionist had a perky ring to her voice.

  “This is Agent Hanna Chance of the FBI, I need to speak to Mr. Miles Marin, please.”

  “I’m sorry, he’s gone for the day. Can someone else help you?”

  “It’s important I speak with him. Do you know where he can be reached?”

  “I’m sorry, we’re not allowed to give out home numbers.”

  “Then you better connect me with your boss.” With a click, Hanna was on hold. No commercial this time. It was a PBS station playing something symphonic Hanna couldn’t identify.

  “This is Larry Jarsman. I’m the owner of the dealership. How can I help you?”

  Hanna identified herself, again, explained her need to talk to Miles Marin.

  Jarsman gave her Marin’s address, phone number, and a bit of advice. “You won’t be able to reach him. He’s running.”

  “Running?”

  “You know, exercising. He goes on long runs.”

  “Good to know, Mr. Jarsman. What else can you tell me about Mr. Marin?”

  Jarsman didn’t answer immediately. Hanna sensed he was choosing his words. “Miles is different; he’s his own person,” he said finally. “But he’s a good person. You must need his help, because I know Miles, and he sure as hell hasn’t done anything wrong.”

  Hanna heard the conviction in Jarsman’s squeaky voice. “Thank you, Mr. Jarsman. The Bureau appreciates your cooperation,” she said and rang off. She dialed the number Jarsman had given her. It rang three times, went to voice mail.

  “This is Miles. You know what to do.”

  Hanna didn’t leave a message. She replaced the receiver in the cradle, returned to the outer office, shared what she’d learned with Casper and Bayer. As she finished, she held up the slip of paper with Marin’s address. “How far is this?” She asked Bayer.

  Bayer stepped forward for a better look, squinted. “That’s not on Longboat, not in my jurisdiction. It’s on Anna Maria Island, should be before you hit Cortez Road and the bridge over to Bradenton. Take you fifteen minutes.”

  Hanna’s gaze shifted to Casper.

  “Why don’t you talk to Marin,” he said after glancing at his watch. He took a card from his wallet, handed it to Gerhardt. “If you should hear from Mr. Beck or anyone about Mr. Beck, call me at that number. We may be in touch with more questions as the investigation continues.”

  Gerhardt nodded.

  He’ll be by the phone 24/7 Hanna thought.

  “Quint, we’ll keep you in the loop on this. Thanks for getting us involved so quickly.” Casper reached for his hat. If he left now, it would take him forty-five minutes to get to his appointment. It wouldn’t do to be late.

  CHAPTER 14

  The woman who had posed as Joanna Perlman was dressed in tennis whites, hair hidden by a white visor. She sat at a wrought iron table in a snack area adjacent tothe tennis courts, her racket on the chair next to her, a bottle of blue Gatorade on the table in front of her. From where she sat, she could easily watch the comings and goings of the Gulf Beach office. She raised a small portable phone to her ear. “They’re leaving
now.”

  She heard a soft Ping sound, before the man said, “You’re sure it’s the police?”

  “Definitely.”

  “Then we’re ahead of schedule. That’s good. Ping Go ahead and leave.”

  “Okay.” She hung up, watched the car drive off, stood, brushed off her rear end. That chair had been hard, uncomfortable, and her derriere had been on it far too long. She walked leisurely to her car, drove off.

  CHAPTER 15

  An hour after leaving the Gulf Beach, Casper sat perched on the edge of a doctor’s examination table. The examining room was just big enough for the table, a single chair, sink, and cabinet. On the walls were framed drawings of Florida shore birds. Blinds were drawn over the room’s lone window.

  There was a quick knock and the door opened. A burly, stoop-shouldered man in a long white lab coat entered and quietly closed the door behind him. He had disheveled brown hair, a bushy brown beard, intelligent brown eyes. In his beefy hand was a manila folder that contained Casper’s file. “How are we today, Mr. Casper?” He asked, not looking at Casper, but at his file.

  “I’ve got a couple of spots I’d like you to look at, Dr. Wasserman,” Casper said.

  Wasserman put the chart down, began washing his hands in the sink. Casper had first been seen by the Dermatologist eight months earlier in the Doctor’s Hospital ER. Casper had acute sun poisoning.

  His condition was so bad Wasserman, who wasn’t taking new patients, agreed to treat him.

  “You’ve been staying out of sun?” Wasserman turned off the tap with his elbow, dried his hands.