married lessened his sense of shame, but it only added to the embarrassment of being duped for so long. Agent Henning moved on before he could say more.
Anyway, in light of all this, we're taking a new strategy with Mrs. Salazar's kidnapping. That's the reason you're here.
What can I do? asked Jack.
We want someone to deliver a much smaller amount of cash. Say, ten thousand dollars. It's not ransom money. It will be characterized as a down payment for some proof that Mia Salazar is still alive.
Proof-of-life money?
Yes, except that our objectives are much broader than that. One, we want to prolong negotiations, keep Mrs. Salazar alive as long as possible. Two, we want to negotiate a drop-off on our own terms, where we can hopefully learn more about our kidnapper. And three, in hopes of hitting the home run, the bills will be marked. Maybe he'll take the dough and sprinkle a few bread crumbs around town that will enable us to track him down.
You want me to be a bagman?
Not a very flattering term, but basically yes.
Why me?
Like I said, Mr. Salazar recommended you.
As his attorney, said Jack. It was as if the proverbial lightbulb had suddenly switched on.
Yes. As his attorney. The way she said it, she seemed to sense that this attorney-client relationship had something more to it. But Jack was not yet inclined to elaborate.
Let me talk to Mr. Salazar and get back to you, said Jack.
I hate to rush you, but we do need an answer soon. Naturally, time is of the essence.
I understand.
We're not trying to make a cop out of you. On the contrary, we want the delivery to be made by someone who has no discernible connection to law enforcement. Mr. Salazar has chosen not to do it personally. His attorney is a credible substitute.
Was it his idea or yours to bring me into this?
His. But I did assure Mr. Salazar that we'll do everything in our power to protect you.
He can only hope it's not enough, thought Jack, the figurative lightbulb glowing ever brighter. Thanks. I'll let you know as soon as I can.
They exchanged pleasantries as they rose and left the conference room. Agent Henning escorted him toward the end of the hall, where the receptionist was seated in an encased booth of bulletproof glass. Another set of glass doors separated the secured area from the waiting room, offering Jack a clear view of a man seated alone on the couch.
Right on time, said Andie.
Excuse me? said Jack.
That's Drew Thornton. Ashley Thornton's widower. He comes every Tuesday and Thursday at two o'clock.
The man on the other side of the glass wall couldn't possibly hear their conversation, and he didn't seem to notice Agent Henning standing near the reception booth. Jack asked her, You two have a standing appointment?
No, said Andie. He just shows up twice a week. Sometimes I have absolutely nothing to tell him, but that doesn't seem to faze him. I guess he thinks that so long as he keeps coming, I won't ever let his wife's case get cold.
Jack's gaze shifted back to Thornton, and he stole a more discerning look. He was perhaps a few years older than Jack, but the worry lines seemed carved in wax. His eyes were devoid of any sense of hope, just dark pools of grief. He was sitting on the edge of the couch, elbows on his knees, chin resting on his tightly laced fingers. It was a pensive pose that seemed to be asking What if? What if I'd called the police sooner? What if I'd paid more ransom money? What if I'd taken a little more time to figure out what she's worth?
Andie said, I'm told that Thornton was absolutely devoted to his wife.
Is that so? said Jack.
Met when they were in college. Got married their junior year. This coming June would have been their twentieth anniversary.
It probably wouldn't have happened if his own marriage hadn't tanked, but for a split second Jack almost envied the guy. The pained expression on Thornton's face, however, renewed the surge of pity. This must have been devastating for him, said Jack.
It always
Anyway, in light of all this, we're taking a new strategy with Mrs. Salazar's kidnapping. That's the reason you're here.
What can I do? asked Jack.
We want someone to deliver a much smaller amount of cash. Say, ten thousand dollars. It's not ransom money. It will be characterized as a down payment for some proof that Mia Salazar is still alive.
Proof-of-life money?
Yes, except that our objectives are much broader than that. One, we want to prolong negotiations, keep Mrs. Salazar alive as long as possible. Two, we want to negotiate a drop-off on our own terms, where we can hopefully learn more about our kidnapper. And three, in hopes of hitting the home run, the bills will be marked. Maybe he'll take the dough and sprinkle a few bread crumbs around town that will enable us to track him down.
You want me to be a bagman?
Not a very flattering term, but basically yes.
Why me?
Like I said, Mr. Salazar recommended you.
As his attorney, said Jack. It was as if the proverbial lightbulb had suddenly switched on.
Yes. As his attorney. The way she said it, she seemed to sense that this attorney-client relationship had something more to it. But Jack was not yet inclined to elaborate.
Let me talk to Mr. Salazar and get back to you, said Jack.
I hate to rush you, but we do need an answer soon. Naturally, time is of the essence.
I understand.
We're not trying to make a cop out of you. On the contrary, we want the delivery to be made by someone who has no discernible connection to law enforcement. Mr. Salazar has chosen not to do it personally. His attorney is a credible substitute.
Was it his idea or yours to bring me into this?
His. But I did assure Mr. Salazar that we'll do everything in our power to protect you.
He can only hope it's not enough, thought Jack, the figurative lightbulb glowing ever brighter. Thanks. I'll let you know as soon as I can.
They exchanged pleasantries as they rose and left the conference room. Agent Henning escorted him toward the end of the hall, where the receptionist was seated in an encased booth of bulletproof glass. Another set of glass doors separated the secured area from the waiting room, offering Jack a clear view of a man seated alone on the couch.
Right on time, said Andie.
Excuse me? said Jack.
That's Drew Thornton. Ashley Thornton's widower. He comes every Tuesday and Thursday at two o'clock.
The man on the other side of the glass wall couldn't possibly hear their conversation, and he didn't seem to notice Agent Henning standing near the reception booth. Jack asked her, You two have a standing appointment?
No, said Andie. He just shows up twice a week. Sometimes I have absolutely nothing to tell him, but that doesn't seem to faze him. I guess he thinks that so long as he keeps coming, I won't ever let his wife's case get cold.
Jack's gaze shifted back to Thornton, and he stole a more discerning look. He was perhaps a few years older than Jack, but the worry lines seemed carved in wax. His eyes were devoid of any sense of hope, just dark pools of grief. He was sitting on the edge of the couch, elbows on his knees, chin resting on his tightly laced fingers. It was a pensive pose that seemed to be asking What if? What if I'd called the police sooner? What if I'd paid more ransom money? What if I'd taken a little more time to figure out what she's worth?
Andie said, I'm told that Thornton was absolutely devoted to his wife.
Is that so? said Jack.
Met when they were in college. Got married their junior year. This coming June would have been their twentieth anniversary.
It probably wouldn't have happened if his own marriage hadn't tanked, but for a split second Jack almost envied the guy. The pained expression on Thornton's face, however, renewed the surge of pity. This must have been devastating for him, said Jack.
It always
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