by Jay Giles
Lohse scowled. Gerhardt was his sole resource for shedding light on a pivotal issue of the disappearance: who knew Beck would be in Sarasota?
CHAPTER 30
That evening was Casper’s regular at the health club. He made his way to the men’s locker room, plopped his gym bag on the bench, began changing into his workout clothes. He put his work clothes into the gray metal locker, locked it, grabbed a folded white towel from the stack on the counter, slung it around his neck, walked to the gym.
Casper wasn’t one of those who listened to music or read a magazine as he worked out. For him, this was thinking time. Time to parse out problems and events—personal and professional—plan how to move forward.
Tonight, as Casper started exercising on the elliptical strider, Lohse was on his mind. It was one thing to let Lohse stir things up, it would be quite another to control him. Chance’s comment about going solo hadn’t been off the mark. If a break came, Lohse would move independently. Casper knew that wouldn’t play with O’Neill. He had to maintain a firm grip on this investigation. Beads of sweat began popping out on Casper’s forehead, one ran down the side of his nose. He wiped his face, swung the towel back around his neck. It had been a mistake putting Chance on Lohse. She was too green. She wouldn’t—
There it was again. That burning sensation. Casper absentmindedly rubbed his chest, looked at the distance indicator. He’d only gone a little over a tenth of a mile. He thought about stopping, kept going.
The burning grew stronger. Casper started having sharp headache pains. He stopped, tried to stay still, tried to will the pain away. It only intensified. Casper started to climb off the machine, blacked out, fell awkwardly to the floor.
CHAPTER 31
“Let’s get a coffee,” Lohse suggested the next morning when Miles picked him up. “Is there a Starbucks close by?”
Miles thought for a second. “Closest one would in the Circle. Take us five minutes.”
At Starbucks, the black aproned Barista behind the counter took their order—a venti espresso for Lohse, tall decaf for Miles. When their orders were ready, they carried them to a small round table in the back of the store. Lohse eagerly sipped his Espresso. “I love good coffee.”
Miles, who drank nothing with caffeine, watched in horror. “That’ll give you a jolt.”
Lohse took another sip, oblivious to Miles’ comment. “Back to business,” he said, setting his cup on the table. “We—”
“Wait a minute.” Miles leaned forward, said in a hushed voice. “What about the watchers? Aren’t you concerned we’ll be overheard?”
“No.” Lohse sipped more coffee. “They will not follow us in here. The space is too small, too confining. We are safe to talk.”
Miles was skeptical. “Are you sure?”
Lohse crossed one leg over the other, smoothed the crease in his trouser leg. “These people are not clumsy.” He tapped the side of his head with his finger. “They are in our heads. They have anticipated how each thing—finding the car, for example—will play out. Today, that’s about to change.”
• • •
Hanna buzzed Dottie, Casper’s assistant. “Do you know where he is?”
Dottie’s voice was hesitant. “No, I don’t. I haven’t seen him this morning. Have you tried his cell phone?”
“All I got was voice mail.”
“Well, I’m sure he’ll be in shortly. I’ll have him call you as soon as he arrives,” Dottie assured her.
“Thanks.” Hanna clicked off, puzzled. Casper had wanted to review the task list he’d given her yesterday evening. It was unlike him to blow-off a meeting. Especially one connected to the Beck matter. Casper had focused on the Beck kidnapping almost to the exclusion of all other matters. His sense of urgency seemed to increase with each hour that passed. There had to be some new development in the matter she decided. That had to be were he was.
• • •
Miles drove the Jeep north on SR41, the Tamiami Trail.
“This is the way to the airport,” Lohse said, checking the rear view mirror.
“It’s also the way to the Ringling Museum,” Miles said. “The main museum building has a courtyard. It could be a perfect location.”
“Will the Museum let us use the courtyard?”
“I’m not sure. I know they rent it out in the evenings. I went to a wedding reception there. During the day, I don’t know.” He looked over at Lohse. “I think we sold the Director of the Museum a 500SL.”
Lohse met Miles’ gaze, raised his eyebrows. “How many years ago?”
“Two. Three, maybe.”
“Maybe, we can offer him a new model at no charge.”
Miles turned into the long driveway that led to the Ringling Museum of Art, the Aislo Theater, the restored Ringling residence. “If you can pull that kind of stuff out of your bag of tricks, it could help.”
They parked, paid their admission fee, headed into the Museum. As they walked though the galleries, Lohse barely looked at John Ringling’s collection of art, not even the giant paintings by Rubens.
They walked through five gallery rooms before they reached a door that let them out to the extensive courtyard.
“What do you think?” Miles asked.
Lohse’s eyes took it all in: the sculpture, the plantings, the large patio area. “Excellent. It’s inviting—open and spacious—yet it’s a controlled environment.” He pointed with his hand, “We can set up a stage and podium there, mount surveillance cameras in those trees right—”
“Or we can set up a camera, photograph people as they come through one of these doors.”
“Even better.” He glanced around. “There aren’t other ways to get out here without going through the museum?”
Miles shook his head.
Lohse walked out to the center of the patio, stood there, surveying the area. “Do you think people touring the museum would come out and watch?”
“It’s possible.”
“My one concern now is that this is too secluded, too much of a trap. I don’t want to scare them away.”
“In that case, the other place you might consider is the showroom of the dealership. It’s not this grand, but it does make a statement that says Mercedes.”
Lohse nodded, paced around, mulled it over. “Let’s look at the dealership.”
Miles got back on the Tamiami Trail, heading south, “Take us about half an hour to get there,” he said, looking over at Lohse.
“Next gas station on this side of the street, pull in,” Lohse told him after watching his side mirror for a few minutes.
Miles changed lanes, turned in a Shell station, pulled up to the pump.
“Don’t look,” Lohse quickly cautioned him. “Be natural. Do what you normally do when you get gas.”
“Okay.” Miles got out of the car, worked the pump, went inside, paid.
“Now, let’s go to the dealership,” Lohse said after Miles returned to the car, started the engine.
Miles eased the Jeep back into traffic. “What’d you see back there?”
“Driving to the Museum, I noticed a silver minivan behind us. It was behind us when we left, too. Our stop for gas was unexpected, the driver had no choice but to pass us. We’ll see if he picks us up, again.”
“If he does, do you want me to try and get close, see if you can get a look at these people?”
“No. We might spook them,” Lohse said as he intently watched the mirror.
“There,” he said excitedly, “they just pulled out of that parking lot, they’re behind us again, three cars back.”
Miles checked the rearview mirror. He couldn’t see much but the car directly behind them.
“Just keep driving normally,” Lohse instructed.
Miles did as he was told, deviating only to check his mirrors more frequently. He got a brief look at the silver minivan, but heavily tinted windows kept him from seeing inside. The minivan’s driver must have known what he was doing. He stayed several cars bac
k, closed the distance only when they approached busy intersections. Miles thought he might lose him in the congestion around Sarasota Memorial Hospital, but the minivan slipped through a yellow light, stayed several cars back. When they reached the Mercedes dealership, Miles pulled in and the minivan drove on.
“He’ll find a spot to watch us from across the street,” Lohse said, seemingly unconcerned.
“Doesn’t that drive you crazy, knowing he’s right there, watching?” Miles asked as he parked the car.
“I like having him where I can see him. I want to get to know his patterns. If his behavior is predictable now, we can anticipate what he’ll do later with a higher degree of success. That gives us an advantage.”
They got out of the car, walked to the dealership’s front door. “There’s someone here you should meet,” Miles said as they went inside. He led Lohse back to Jarsman’s office, introduced him. Lohse was cordial, thanked Jarsman for his help and Miles’ cooperation. Jarsman, however, seemed ill at ease, intimidated by Lohse’s presence.
Miles took Lohse back to the showroom. “What do you think?”
Lohse studied the space. “It feels small, closed in. The other space is better.”
“If we moved all the cars out, would that help?”
Lohse shook his head. “No, even with them gone, the space feels too tight, too trap like.”
“So what do we do next?”
“Let’s use the phones and make some calls.” He looked around. “Is there a spare office I can use?”
Miles showed him to one.
“You call and arrange for the Museum space for tomorrow morning at 10:00,” Lohse said as he settled into a chair, reached for a phone. “I’ll contact our public relations people.”
Miles headed to his office to make his call. Getting the Museum wasn’t going to be easy. But, hey, if it was easy, it wouldn’t be a challenge. And there wasn’t anything Miles liked better than a challenge. “I’ll get it booked,” he said confidently.
• • •
Tom Ruhl got out his cell phone, pressed in a number. “It’s Tom,” he said when the man on the other end picked up.
“Where are you?”
“Parked across from the Mercedes dealership. They went to the Ringling Museum, now here.”
“Ping Did they spot you?”
“I’m pretty sure they did. Driving down 41, all of a sudden they pulled in for gas. It had to be to see if we were following them.”
“Good, what are they Ping doing now?”
“Hard to say. They could be here awhile. We were thinking of heading back. No reason to follow them anymore, is there?”
“No. You’ll see him when he gets back to the Ping hotel.”
He ended the call, looked over at the Silber in the passenger seat. “We can head back.”
Ruhl had met her at a film festival party in Cannes. He was there as a distributor, Silber there as eye candy, dressed in a tight, red-sequined dress that plunged to her waist. They’d bumped into each other at the bar. After initial eye contact, Silber had rubbed her body against Ruhl’s, her breasts pressing against his chest, her lips just inches from his. For Ruhl, it was as if she’d lit a fuse. Drinks forgotten, they’d left immediately.
Ruhl never thought one woman could satisfy him. He was certain in a week he’d be tired of her, kick her out. But Silber surprised him. She enticed him with something he’d never had in a woman before: Brains.
Ruhl quickly discovered that beneath her sensual exterior was a razor-sharp mind. Silber had an angle on everything. Better still, she didn’t care whether it was legal or illegal. To Ruhl, who used the import business he’d inherited from his father as a cover for illegal sales and scams, she was the first woman he saw as an equal rather than as a sex toy. Without Silber’s connections, they could never have pulled off the Beck kidnapping.
There was only one problem with Silber. She was high maintenance. One of the reasons Ruhl had agreed to be part of the kidnapping was to keep her from getting bored and leaving him. He looked over at her. She had her head back on the seat rest, eyes closed. There was a slight smile on her face. He wondered whether he’d miscalculated.
CHAPTER 32
With the Ringling Museum lined up, Miles called Agent Chance. “Hi, it’s Miles Marin,” he said when she picked up. “Thought you’d like to know we’ve arranged to hold the press conference in the courtyard at the Ringling Museum.”
“What time?” Chance wanted to know.
“Ten tomorrow morning. Mr. Lohse is making arrangements to contact the media now.”
Miles thought he heard the sound of pencil on paper. “Has he said how he sees this thing happening? I’m not sure we’re all on the same page about how this press conference will be conducted.”
Lohse hadn’t given him any indication of how he wanted it to go, but Miles could guess. “I think he wants to make a personal appeal to the kidnappers. Tell them he needs to speak personally to Beck.”
“That’s fine. I just want to be clear that his statement is in support of the Bureau’s investigation of this matter. Agent Casper doesn’t want it to appear that Mr. Lohse is operating independently from the FBI.”
Miles stood, paced while she talked. “How about if Agent Casper starts off talking about the FBI’s investigation and he introduces Lohse as a representative from Daimler who wants to make a plea to the kidnappers? Would that be okay with Agent Casper?”
“Let me talk to him about that and I’ll be back in touch.”
“Sure.” Miles rang off, walked outside his office, looked three doors down, where the office housing Lohse still had its door closed. Miles got a bottle of water from the break room, carried it back to his office, pulled up his email. He wasn’t halfway through the backlog when Lohse appeared in his doorway. Miles waved him to a seat, filled him in on his conversation with Chance. “She’s going to make sure Casper’s in agreement,” he finished, “but I think we have the FBI on board.”
Lohse nodded. “Our public relations people are on board, as well. We will be the lead item on the news tonight.”
• • •
Lohse watched the rear view mirror as they drove from the dealership to the Gulf Beach. He was confident he’d see the silver minivan, mildly surprised when he didn’t.
The gas station trick had been too obvious, he decided. They’d switched cars. They’d probably switch again tonight, have a new car in play tomorrow. He continued to watch the mirror the rest of the drive to the Gulf Beach. Couldn’t spot the new vehicle. The longer he watched, the more it bothered him. “Come in for a minute,” Lohse said when Miles pulled the Jeep up in front of Lohse’s room at the Gulf Beach.
“Sure.” Miles turned off the engine, followed Lohse to the door. “You want to talk about tomorrow?” Miles asked.
“Not right now,” Lohse said over his shoulder as he got the computer bag from the closet. He unzipped the bag, took out one of the guns, handed it to Miles. “Carry this with you at all times. I think the best place to keep it is in the pocket of a sport coat. In a hurry, you can put your hand in your pocket, point, pull the trigger, shoot thru the fabric.”
Miles nodded, hoped it wouldn’t come to that.
Lohse reached back into the bag, pulled out a bullet-proof vest. “Wear this from now on, too.”
Miles took it, was surprised by how light it was.
“Go on, put it on,” Lohse told him.
Miles stripped off his shirt, put on the vest.
“A little big,” Lohse commented. “But it will do.”
Miles put his shirt back on, tucked it in his pants.
“Much of my afternoon will be spent talking with the P.R. people,” Lohse said as he put the computer bag back in the closet. “Also, I want to talk to Gerhardt, see if there’s more to be learned from him. Why don’t you and I regroup in the morning, say around 8:00?”
“I don’t mind staying, I can—”
“Thank you, these are things I can accomplish
alone. I’ll see you in the morning.”
“Fine by me. I’ve got some training to do, so you won’t be able to reach me. That okay?”
Lohse nodded.
“See you then.” Miles let himself out, got in his car, left. Back at his place, he changed into walking clothes, shoes. As he headed out on his walk, the straps of the heavy backpack cut into his shoulders. He was carrying 60 lbs. plus the newly added weight of Lohse’s handgun. He adjusted the backpack so it rode more comfortably on his shoulders. His plan was to walk ten miles—five out, five back. On the Peru trip, he might have to carry more weight farther.
The thing that weighed heaviest on him at the moment was Lohse. Why had he been so insistent Miles start wearing this vest, carrying a gun?
CHAPTER 33
Casper woke in a hospital bed. The pain in his chest gone. His gaze took in the greenish-blue curtain drawn around his bed, the monitor hanging from the ceiling that charted his vital signs, the wall clock that told him the time was 1:09. Beyond the curtain, he heard groans and screams, the sounds of people talking, things being rolled by on wheels.
He’d but put in a hospital gown, electrodes stuck to his chest. He traced their wires, found they led to a playing card sized box on a Velcro belt loosely wrapped around his waist. The belt felt like a huge lump underneath him. Casper squirmed, raised his hips, tried to shift the belt to a more comfortable position. He had his rear end up in the air, his hands under the sheet adjusting belt and gown, when the curtain was pushed aside.
A young Asian woman with a flat face and small features, dressed in blue scrubs and holding a clipboard and cell phone, stepped in. “Oh, you’re awake,” she said indifferently. She stepped back out, pulled the curtain closed.
Casper watched the minute hand of the clock go forty ticks, before a second doctor pushed the curtain aside, stood at the foot of his bed, studied his chart. Like the Asian woman, this one looked as if he was still in high school. He was slight in stature, had short brown hair gelled up into little spikes, a faint stubble beard, and was listening to an iPod. He wore a white lab coat over blue/green scrubs. Casper watched his hands as he flipped through the pages on the clipboard. He had big hands, with long fingers, no rings. His movements were rhythmic, fluid. He finished with the chart, cast his gaze to Casper, took his earbuds out, dropped them in his lab coat pocket. “I’m Dr. Kirby,” he said in a high-pitched scratchy voice. “I’ll be your cardiologist.”