is. I wish I could tell you that Ashley Thornton was the final victim. I wish I could say that Mia Salazar will mark the end of this serial kidnapper's run. But that doesn't fit with his psychological profile. Our sense is that he's just getting started.
Unless we stop him.
Yeah, she said, a hint of a smile coming to the corner of her mouth. We. I like the sound of that.
Jack took another look at Thornton, that tragic face of sorrow and regret. He still questioned Salazar's motives in volunteering his attorney for the job, but if the FBI needed a bagman to make its plan work, he had to believe that Agent Henning wouldn't let him do anything too stupid.
Actually, I think I've had enough time to consider your request.
You'll be our deliveryman? said Andie.
Yeah, he said, watching Thornton through the glass. I'll do it.
Chapter 9
Andie Henning and a tech agent planned to spend the entire weekend at the Salazar mansion in Palm Beach. The FBI was expecting a phone call.
No two kidnappings were ever identical, but it was reasonable to anticipate certain parallels between the Salazar case and prior Wrong Number kidnappings. In the Thornton case, the first contact had been by e-mail, much like the e-mail Mr. Salazar received. The kidnapper followed up with a cellular phone call to the Thornton residence less than five days later. If the same pattern held in Mia's kidnapping, Andie wanted to be on location to make the intercept. By early Friday evening, however, she was on her third pot of coffee, and her tech agent was stretched out on the leather sofa, well into his fifth crossword puzzle.
What's an eight-letter word for a recurrent throbbing headache that starts with m and ends with e?
Andie didn't even look up from her magazine. Marriage?
It was a little routine they'd developed to kill the boredom, the techie posing questions and Andie feeding him wise-ass responses. Migraine, he said as he penciled in the correct answer.
Andie tossed her magazine aside, crossed the spacious family room, and stopped at the two-story wall of windows that faced the Intracoastal Waterway. The sun had just set, and the choppy wakes had calmed. A slow parade of boats was returning to the yacht club, and the city lights were aglow to the west. Salazar had made his fortune buying and selling waterfront real estate, and his first acquisition was a choice little peninsula that projected like a golden finger into Biscayne Bay. Having moved from California, he was quick to realize that Miami wasn't like Laguna Beach or other oceanside communities where tier after tier of hillside homes offered ocean views. Florida was as flat as the ocean itself, and only a house that sat directly on the coastline commanded a view of the water. He kept buying through the eighties and nineties, and by his third wife he'd earned enough money to live anywhere in the world.
Mia chose Palm Beach.
More coffee? asked Salazar.
Andie turned, a bit startled to see him standing just a few feet away. It wasn't easy to sneak up on an FBI agent, but the view was that captivating. Or perhaps she was just that tired.
No, thanks, she said. I've had more than enough caffeine.
Salazar cast his gaze toward a sailboat in the channel. You still think he's going to call?
We'll stay here until he does. As long as you want.
He didn't answer. Dusk was turning into night, and the boats along the Intracoastal were suddenly nothing more than a string of colored running lights. Finally, Salazar asked, Why do you think Mia's kidnapper sent a copy of the ransom note directly to the FBI?
It's an interesting move, said Andie.
He looked at her and said, That's an interesting answer.
She nodded, as if to acknowledge that she owed him more. He didn't do that in the Thornton case. We didn't know anything until Mr. Thornton called and showed us the e-mail.
So why did he do it in my case?
Obviously he wants the FBI involved. For some reason, he must have feared that you wouldn't call the
Unless we stop him.
Yeah, she said, a hint of a smile coming to the corner of her mouth. We. I like the sound of that.
Jack took another look at Thornton, that tragic face of sorrow and regret. He still questioned Salazar's motives in volunteering his attorney for the job, but if the FBI needed a bagman to make its plan work, he had to believe that Agent Henning wouldn't let him do anything too stupid.
Actually, I think I've had enough time to consider your request.
You'll be our deliveryman? said Andie.
Yeah, he said, watching Thornton through the glass. I'll do it.
Chapter 9
Andie Henning and a tech agent planned to spend the entire weekend at the Salazar mansion in Palm Beach. The FBI was expecting a phone call.
No two kidnappings were ever identical, but it was reasonable to anticipate certain parallels between the Salazar case and prior Wrong Number kidnappings. In the Thornton case, the first contact had been by e-mail, much like the e-mail Mr. Salazar received. The kidnapper followed up with a cellular phone call to the Thornton residence less than five days later. If the same pattern held in Mia's kidnapping, Andie wanted to be on location to make the intercept. By early Friday evening, however, she was on her third pot of coffee, and her tech agent was stretched out on the leather sofa, well into his fifth crossword puzzle.
What's an eight-letter word for a recurrent throbbing headache that starts with m and ends with e?
Andie didn't even look up from her magazine. Marriage?
It was a little routine they'd developed to kill the boredom, the techie posing questions and Andie feeding him wise-ass responses. Migraine, he said as he penciled in the correct answer.
Andie tossed her magazine aside, crossed the spacious family room, and stopped at the two-story wall of windows that faced the Intracoastal Waterway. The sun had just set, and the choppy wakes had calmed. A slow parade of boats was returning to the yacht club, and the city lights were aglow to the west. Salazar had made his fortune buying and selling waterfront real estate, and his first acquisition was a choice little peninsula that projected like a golden finger into Biscayne Bay. Having moved from California, he was quick to realize that Miami wasn't like Laguna Beach or other oceanside communities where tier after tier of hillside homes offered ocean views. Florida was as flat as the ocean itself, and only a house that sat directly on the coastline commanded a view of the water. He kept buying through the eighties and nineties, and by his third wife he'd earned enough money to live anywhere in the world.
Mia chose Palm Beach.
More coffee? asked Salazar.
Andie turned, a bit startled to see him standing just a few feet away. It wasn't easy to sneak up on an FBI agent, but the view was that captivating. Or perhaps she was just that tired.
No, thanks, she said. I've had more than enough caffeine.
Salazar cast his gaze toward a sailboat in the channel. You still think he's going to call?
We'll stay here until he does. As long as you want.
He didn't answer. Dusk was turning into night, and the boats along the Intracoastal were suddenly nothing more than a string of colored running lights. Finally, Salazar asked, Why do you think Mia's kidnapper sent a copy of the ransom note directly to the FBI?
It's an interesting move, said Andie.
He looked at her and said, That's an interesting answer.
She nodded, as if to acknowledge that she owed him more. He didn't do that in the Thornton case. We didn't know anything until Mr. Thornton called and showed us the e-mail.
So why did he do it in my case?
Obviously he wants the FBI involved. For some reason, he must have feared that you wouldn't call the
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