by Jay Giles
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.
CHAPTER 19
“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.”
CHAPTER 20
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.
CHAPTER 21
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.
CHAPTER 22
Gerhardt broke down and cried when Hanna told him about finding the ransom demand in the Mercedes. “It’s all my fault,” he wailed, “I talked him into meeting that woman, he would never have done it otherwise. I will never forgive myself for failing him.”
Hanna’s voice was comforting. “You didn’t fail him, Gerhardt.
You had no way of knowing this would happen. You can’t blame yourself.”
Gerhardt sniffed, dabbed at his eyes with a tissue.
“You have to pull yourself together, we need your help.”
Gerhardt took a couple of deep breaths, dabbed at his eyes, again. “Anything.”
“We need to inform the appropriate people at Mercedes, but we don’t know who those people are. Can you help us with that? Put us in touch with the right people?”
He nodded, sniffed a couple of times, broke back down sobbing.
“What if they won’t pay the ransom? What will happen then?”
“Let’s deal with that if and when it happens. What we have to focus on now is alerting the right people.”
The sobs became greater, his shoulders shook. Hanna waited.
Between sobs, he gasped out a word at a time. “They. Are. All. On.
Vacation. Hard. To. Reach.”
“They can’t all be on vacation,” Hanna said.
His head bobbed up and down. “Europeans vacation the month of August.”
Hanna knew of the custom. She’d heard companies literally closed, management and workers alike, going on holiday. Surely, they couldn’t shut down a company the size of the Mercedes’ parent, Daimler AG? “There has to be someone running the company.” She placed the phone directly in front of Gerhardt. “Time is of the essence. Find that person.”
He stared at the phone, pulled himself together, consulted his address book, began making calls. His first two went to voice mail. His third began a pin-ball game that bounced him from one Mercedes executive to another. Finally, his face lit-up, he conversed in German for over twenty minutes, hung up abruptly.
“Wait,” Hanna said hurriedly. “I need to talk to that person.”
Gerhardt seemed surprised. “There is no need,” he said defensively. “I have spoken with Dieter Albrecht, a senior executive director for Daimler AG, the person with responsibility for things like this.”
“Things like what? Kidnapping?”
“Yes. Threats against the company. Extortion. Blackmail.
Coercion. Kidnapping. I didn’t realize how often Mercedes has been the target of criminals. The threats became so significant, in fact, that some years ago, the board of directors authorized the creation of a shadow arm of the company to counter criminal activities. This is not widely known even within the company, but it exists. Thank goodness. Now that Albrecht has been informed about Jen’s disappearance, he will take forceful action.”
Hanna didn’t like the turn this had taken. “We don’t need Albrecht acting independently, we need coordination.”
Gerhardt’s gaze turned troubled, darted to the phone. “It’s too late.”
CHAPTER 23
In the Ritz Carlton room Joanna Perlman had once occupied, Casper watched a tech, down on his hands and knees, use a piece of sticky paper to lift a blond hair off the carpet by the bed’s headboard.
He held it up for Casper to see. Casper peered at it closely, had the tech bag and label it. If the hair belonged to Perlman, it was the only trace of her that remained in the room.
The crime scene team had searched meticulously for fingerprints, found the room startlingly clean. The obvious items—door knobs, faucets or phones—Casper assumed Perlman would wipe. But he’d had hopes for the more obscure, overlooked places—closet hangers, shower curtain, curtain pulls. Nothing. The bathroom had been particularly pristine. They hadn’t found a single hair in either the shower or sink drains.
That could have been due to the diligence of the Ritz Carlton’s housekeeping staff. But more likely, it meant Perlman was a pro.
They’d had similar results with the Mercedes Perlman had driven. They’d found no prints, blood, hair, or foreign residue.
Walger had remarked to him he’d never seen a car so clean.
The cashier’s check Perlman had given Mercedes proved to be another dead end.
Casper had retrieved it from the check clearing system, found it had been issued by a New York bank on an account that had been opened three months earlier. The address, phone number, and social on file for the account turned out to be false. The balance in the account had been $100.
He’d run a background check on Gerhardt. Found nothing. His people had interviewed the parking meter police who had placed the tickets on the car. Learned zip.
His cell rang. He looked at the ID. Chance. Lifted the cell to his ear. “Give me some good news.”
“We’ve found the person at Daimler. His name is Dieter Albrecht.”
“Did you talk to him?”
“I didn’t. Mr. Gerhardt talked to him in German.”
“Give me the gist.”
“Albrecht won’t authorize paying the ransom. He’s sending someone to work with us,
instead.”
Casper’s anger flared. “Work with us? As a liaison? A negotiator?
What?”
CHAPTER 24
After returning from his session at the FBI, Miles had gone for a long run. It was now a little after 11:00 a.m. and he had less than a mile to go to get in his twenty. He wasn’t tired. His breathing was shallow, his stride long and loose. His mind was alert, active, focused on preparations for the trip he and three companions would be taking in two months to Machu Picchu, the lost Peruvian city of the Incas. It would be a long, strenuous climb over the Andean Plateau to reach the ruins in the Urumba Valley. In preparation, Miles was alternating long runs with long walks carrying a 60-lb. backpack.
He sprinted the last hundred yards to his front door, clicked his running watch to record his time, walked around the parking lot to cool down. Inside, he could hear his phone ringing. He ignored it, continued to walk. The machine must have picked it up, he didn’t hear the ringing on his next loop. But when he looped around again, it was ringing. Somebody was determined to talk to him. Curious, he used his key, unlocked the door, went inside, grabbed the phone.
“This is Miles.”
“Miles, it’s Larry,” he said in that voice that couldn’t possibly belong to anyone else. “How quickly can you get to the dealership?”
Miles looked at the LED readout on the phone. It told him he had six messages.
“Larry, did you call me earlier?”
“Yeah, bunch of times. Listen, Miles, it’s important you get here as fast as possible.”
“I’m not scheduled to work until—”
“Doesn’t matter. I need you here. Right now.”
“Sure, Larry. Quick shower and I’ll be there.” Miles hung up, stripped off his running clothes, headed for the shower. It had to be the Joanna Perlman business. That was the only thing out of the ordinary that had happened lately. The FBI must have leaned on Jarsman for some reason and he’d freaked.