Time on the Wire

by Jay Giles

  “I don’t go outside between 11:00 and 3:00, I wear my hat whenever I’m outside, and I use the cream you recommended.”

  Wasserman’s beard moved as he smiled. “Good. You’re still on the same blood pressure medications?”

  Casper ticked them off. “Norvasc, Lisinopril, and Hygroton.”

  Prior to his trip to the ER, he hadn’t been aware that one of the side effects of these medicines was extreme sun sensitivity. The more you took—and Casper took a lot—the more sensitivity you experienced. For Casper, with his fair complexion, it was a nightmare. He could be inside and burn from the sunlight coming in a window.

  Wasserman looked at Casper’s chart. “Your blood pressure is 210 over 120?”

  The nurse had noted it when she’d taken his vitals.

  “What had it been?”

  “Oh, close to 400.”

  “Take your shirt off, please.”

  Casper did. Wasserman put on what looked like giant magnifying glasses and began inspecting the skin on Casper’s head, shoulders, back. He ran his fingers over spots, his touch surprisingly soft and gentle. “Where are the spots you mentioned?”

  Casper showed him. Two of the spots were nothing. The third, on the top of his ear, was skin cancer.

  Wasserman took off that spot, one on the neck, and a mole on Casper’s back that looked like it was changing. As he worked, he said, “This blood pressure medicine is working? You’re not having angina, are you?”

  Casper stiffened. “When I exercise, I sometimes get a little burning sensation in my chest,” he said hesitantly.

  “Have you told your cardiologist?”

  “I don’t have one.”

  “Who prescribed your blood pressure medicines?”

  “My GP in New York.”

  Wasserman finished the mole, took off his magnifying glasses, moved around the table to face Casper. “What you’re describing is indicative of a blockage. You need to be seen by a cardiologist.” He pulled a prescription pad and pencil from his lab coat pocket, wrote something, tore it off, handed it to Casper. “This is the number for Dr. Gouch’s group. They’re excellent. I’ll see you again in three months. Good day, Mr. Casper.” The big man stepped gracefully out the door, shutting it gently behind him.

  Casper sat there stunned. He couldn’t have heart problems. Not now. Not when he needed to concentrate on the Beck kidnapping. Slowly, he put his shirt back on, made his way out to the lobby, booked his follow-up appointment.

  By the time he reached his car in the parking garage, he’d decided Wasserman had been wrong. What he was feeling couldn’t be heart. Sure, he’d had the burning sensation when he’d been on the elliptical strider at the gym, but it hadn’t stopped him. He’d gone six miles. If he had heart problems, how could he go six? He put the slip of paper with Gouch’s number in his wallet, got out his Blackberry, texted Chance. Status of Beck matter?

  On his drive back to Bureau headquarters, a few musical notes from his cell let him know he’d received a text. After he’d parked the car, he read: Search started for Perlman. On way to Marin interview.

  Casper remained sitting in the car, tapped out a text message to O’Neil about the kidnapping: Promising new matter, today. High-level Mercedes executive kidnapped. Looks like what I’ve been waiting for.

  O’Neil replied: A quick resolution would be impressive.

  CHAPTER 16

  It was almost 4:30 as Hanna drove her yellow Mini Cooper with the black and white checked top to the address she had for Miles Marin.

  It was a scenic ride, much of it down Longboat Key’s main road—Gulf of Mexico Drive. On either side, were expensive condos and houses with carefully tended grounds. Every now and then, between the buildings, she’d catch a glimpse of the blue waters of the Gulf of Mexico.

  After six months in Sarasota, Florida still felt exotic to her. She’d grown up in Boston, the youngest of three children. Her father was a CPA, her mother a violinist with the Boston Pops. Hanna inherited her father’s gift of numbers, none of her mother’s music ability. She was intensely competitive—she had to be to hold her own with her two brothers. That competitive drive had served her well. She’d graduated third in her class at Wharton with a degree in international finance, gotten her CPA. After 9-11, she’d joined the FBI, graduated fifth in her class at the Academy, and worked at Bureau headquarters on white collar crime.

  Hanna’s experience in Washington hadn’t been good. She’d been treated as the girl and given menial tasks. When an opportunity for a financial analyst/field agent became available in the Sarasota office, she’d jumped on it. Already, she’d investigated construction bid rigging, tracked the movement of drug money through Florida banks, handled two bunko matters, and now, a kidnapping.

  At the northern tip of Longboat, she crossed the bridge to Anna Maria. On her left, a mile-long stretch of public beach gave way to a motley collection of honky-tonk structures—rentals units, souvenir shops, pizza places, bars. She slowed the Mini, watched for Marin’s house number.

  His address indicated he was on the beach side of the street. Hanna didn’t see his house number on her first drive by. Or her second. On her third pass, she decided it had to be a square lime-green, cinder-block building with a large sign at the roofline that read Capt. Blackie’s Seafood Grille and Tiki Bar and featured the countenance of a bearded pirate holding up a martini glass. Cute.

  The parking lot was empty, with the exception of an older Jeep parked by the building. Hanna parked next to it. Near the front of the Jeep, a green and white striped awning fluttered over a heavy wooden door. As Hanna walked the short distance to the doorway, she was aware of the smell of the Gulf, the sound of the surf, the grit of sand under the soles of her shoes. This place was right on the water, waves breaking just fifty feet away. Hanna rang the bell, took her Bureau ID from her purse.

  The door opened halfway, revealing a tall man with kind brown eyes, an amused grin on his face. His black hair was stylishly cut, worn brushed back. He had on a tee-shirt, cargo shorts, and was holding a spatula. “Can I help you?”

  “I’m looking for a Mr. Miles Marin.”

  “You found him.”

  Hanna held up her ID so he could see it. “I’m Agent Chance with the FBI, and I need your help answering a few questions.”

  “Sure,” the man said and opened the door wider for her to come in.

  Hanna stepped in, her gaze taking in the space. She’d expected a run down beach bar, what she saw was a sophisticated Manhattan-style loft apartment.

  Marin held up the spatula. “I’m in the middle of cooking something. You mind talking in the kitchen?”

  “Not at all,” Hanna said and followed him to a kitchen where something was simmering in a wok on a Viking range.

  “Plenty here for two if you’re hungry,” he offered.

  Hanna wasn’t particularly hungry, nor would she have accepted food on duty; however, she was curious. It smelled delicious, looked awful. “What is it?”

  He grinned. “A high-protein meal, mostly soy, noodles, lot of organic seasonings. It’s a dish I learned in Morocco, although I make it without the goat meat.”

  Hanna’s nose wrinkled involuntarily.

  His grin broadened. “Yeah, I didn’t much care for goat, either.”

  This wasn’t the way Hanna had planned for this interview to start. She cleared her throat, “If it’s all right, I’ll just ask you a few questions while you continue.”

  “Ask away.”

  Hanna pulled a pad of paper and a pen from her purse. “I understand you recently sold a car to a Joanna Perlman?”

  Miles made a face as he spooned the contents of the wok onto a plate. “Oh, boy. I knew that woman was trouble.”

  “How so?” Hanna asked.

  “Let’s go into the dining room.” He turned off the gas burner, indicated the direction with a nod of his head. Hanna followed him to a room off the kitchen that overlooked the beach. When they were seated, he told her a sto
ry of Perlman’s offer to buy the most expensive car on the lot in exchange for a meeting with Beck.

  “So the last you saw of her was when she picked up the car?”

  Miles nodded. “Yeah, she was going to meet Beck for lunch.” He finished the last of his meal, put his plate to the side, leaned forward.

  “So what happened? Why are you here?”

  “Beck and Joanna Perlman left together after their lunch and haven’t been seen since. His assistant Mr. Gerhardt reported him missing.”

  Miles sat back in his seat. “Maybe they just went off somewhere together. She was pretty attractive.”

  Hanna shook her head. “We don’t think so. Gerhardt said they were due to fly out today, and he’s insistent that Beck would never have missed the flight.”

  “You think he’s been kidnapped?”

  “That’s why the FBI is involved, yes. It would help us if you could look at our photo databank of women matching this Joanna Perlman’s description.”

  “So Joanna Perlman wasn’t really Joanna Perlman?”

  Hanna shook her head. “I talked to the real Joanna Perlman in New York. She’s never been to Sarasota, was pretty freaked out about all this.”

  “I’ll bet.”

  “Mr. Marin, could—”

  “Miles.”

  “Miles, could you be at our offices at 8:00?”

  “Sure,” Miles said agreeably.

  Hanna handed him a card with the address of the Bureau office.

  “I’ll look for you at 8:00.” Hanna closed her notebook, stowed it in her purse, stood. “Thanks for your time and your help, Miles.”

  Miles stood. “Sorry, I couldn’t interest you in dinner.”

  “My loss. I didn’t expect Capt. Blackie’s to specialize in Moroccan cuisine.”

  He smiled good-naturedly. “I should never have left the sign up.

  You wouldn’t believe the number of people who think this is still a restaurant or want to stop in for a drink.”

  “So this was a restaurant?”

  “Yeah, Capt. Blackie’s was a great tourist hang out until it got clobbered by a hurricane five, six years ago. Caved in the whole front of the place, the roof fell in, about the only thing left undamaged was the wall facing the street, and of course, the Capt. Blackie’s sign.

  The owner, Eduardo Perez, was a good customer of mine at Mercedes. Ed’d rebuilt the place twice before after storms and just wasn’t up to doing it again. He sold it to me for $200,000. That’s a sweetheart price for beachfront property, even if it was a pile of rubble.”

  Hanna had been looking around as he talked. The wall facing the beach was all tinted glass. In front of the window wall, the living room was filled with an eclectic mix of furniture. Hanna could see a long black leather sofa, some interesting looking side chairs. On one sidewall was a huge TV screen, on the other an equally large map of the world.

  Miles must have seen her looking at the map. He smiled, walked over to it. “You might enjoy this.” Hanna followed him. The map was six-feet tall, at least ten-feet wide, marked with different color push pins. “Each of these pins mark a spot I’ve traveled.”

  He pointed a pin at the top of Africa. “That’s where I picked up tonight’s dinner recipe.” He pointed to another pin off the coast of Thailand. “Great place for scuba diving. You would not believe all the varieties of brightly colored fish.” He pointed to two other pins.

  “These mark the start and end of the Great Wall of China. We walked the length of it.”

  “So all these pins are places you’ve been?”

  “The red ones, yes. The silver ones are places I’m researching.”

  Hanna nodded. “What was your favorite trip?”

  He pointed to a pin in Tanzania. “I’d have to say it was celebrating New Year’s Eve at the top of Mount Kilimanjaro. It was a spectacular climb, and the view from the top was breathtaking.”

  “So how often do you get to go on trips like that?”

  He laughed. “Not as often as I’d like.”

  Hanna watched him as he talked. He was animated, articulate, caught up in sharing something he enjoyed. Sure, he was a sales guy, so he was outgoing. Most guys wilted when they learned Hanna was FBI. Not this one. Hanna hadn’t expected a car salesman to be this dimensional, this interesting.

  In fact, on her ride back to the office, she decided he’d been hitting on her.

  CHAPTER 17

  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.

  CHAPTER 18

  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.