James Grippando - A King's ransom

“I just remembered catching my heart in my throat when you mentioned Jaime. For all we know, he was Joaquin’s uncle or cousin or whatever. Telling him that Jaime was dead might have been the very thing that triggered his anger.”

“He was bound to find out sooner or later. Better that I presented it as a suicide, rather than let him leap to the conclusion that you killed him, the same way the police did.”

I went to the refrigerator for a bottled water. I was trying to stay focused on my father and deal with one problem at a time. Soon, however, I’d have to clear my own name back home.

“Do you think I killed him?”

She coughed and said, “What?”

“You heard me. Do you think I killed Jaime?”

“Of course not.”

“Why not? After all, the guy turned my father over to kidnappers.”

“I didn’t say you didn’t have motive.”

“Then how can you answer my question so quickly and say ‘Of course not’? Why wouldn’t I kill him?”

She was half smiling. “Because you have much more self-restraint than I do.”

“Thanks. I think.”

Her expression turned serious. “You’re not the only one who had motive, you know. Maggie Johans had motive, too. So did a lot of people at Quality Insurance, people who stood to lose plenty if Jaime started to name names. The police will realize that.”

“I hope you’re right.”

“I know I’m right.”

I saw no doubt in her eyes, only a reassuring blend of confidence and sincerity. “Thanks.”

A knock on the door broke the silence. “Visitors?” I asked, confused.

“Let me check.” She rose quickly and went straight to her room. In seconds she was back with gun in hand. It was the first time I’d seen her react so defensively, a sure sign that I wasn’t the only one feeling the tension.

Standing to the side of the door, she asked in Spanish, “Who is it?”

“Father Balto.”

It sounded like his voice, and he was the only person to whom Alex had given our address. She opened the door cautiously, leaving it chained.

“Are you alone?”

“Yes. May I come in, please?”

She peered into the hallway through the opening, then removed the chain and let him in.

His black raincoat was wet with the early-evening drizzle. Alex took it and left it on the hall tree with his umbrella. He greeted me kindly as we gathered at the kitchen counter.

“I have a message from Joaquin,” he said.

I caught my breath. “Good or bad news?”

“Good, I believe. He will take the deal.”

“Seriously?”

“One point five million, simultaneous exchange. On one condition,” he said, raising a finger to make his point. “The son delivers the ransom.”

“No,” said Alex.

“How can we say no?”

“I don’t like it,” she said. “I would have expected him to make us wait, sweat a few days. That was too fast on the turnaround. Makes me nervous.”

“That’s Joaquin,” said the priest. “I said it before. He’s very volatile.”

“Which means that we can’t keep pushing his buttons,” I said. “He’s cut the ransom in half. He’s giving us a simultaneous exchange. We have to give him something.”

“That doesn’t mean we should give him you ,” said Alex.

“He said this is his final offer,” said the priest.

“Kidnappers always say that.”

“Maybe this time he means it,” I said.

She hesitated. I could see in her eyes that she didn’t want to go out on that limb, telling me that Joaquin didn’t mean it, only to have my father’s death on her own hands.

“If you go,” she said, “I’m going with you.”

“How about it, Father?” I asked.

He shrugged, struggling. “Technically, he didn’t say you had to come alone. He just wants the son to deliver the ransom.”

“Then it’s settled.”

Father Balto placed his cell phone on the counter. “Joaquin asked that I give you this. From here on out, your instructions will be by cell phone.”

Alex reached for it, but the priest stopped her. “You can join in the delivery of the ransom, but I think he’s expecting to speak directly with the son.”

She stepped back warily. “I don’t like this, Nick.”

“Nobody does, least of all my father.” I took the phone and tucked it into my pocket. “But none of us has a choice.”

Father Balto and I shared his umbrella on the short walk down the street to the drugstore. I had no conception of the traceability of long-distance calls from Bogota to Miami, but I didn’t want to learn the hard way. The last thing I needed was to lead the FBI’s legal attaches to the apartment. I closed myself in a phone booth in the back of the drugstore and dialed Jenna. I wanted to tell her what had been happening, but she seemed more eager to tell me something.

“I found you a lawyer. A sharp former prosecutor named Jerry Houlihan.”

“I’ve heard good things about him.”

“I was hoping you’d approve. Your mom and I authorized him to start working right away. The police executed a search warrant on your Jeep today.”

“They what?”

“They found your father’s gun under the front seat.”

I could have clubbed myself with the phone. “Damn. I put it there when the police got to Jaime’s house and ended up going straight to the airport from the police station. Couldn’t very well take it on the plane with me.”

“Nick?”

“What?”

“Why did you take a gun with you to Jaime’s house?”

“Because he invited me there, and I didn’t know what to expect. Hell, the last time I went there, he pulled a knife on me. You know all about that.”

“I don’t know as much as you think. You and Jerry have to talk soon. He keeps asking me questions that I can’t answer.”

“I’ll try to call him tomorrow.”

“Try hard, please. I don’t mean to downplay the kidnapping, but this is serious. They could charge you with murder.”

“Don’t get discouraged, all right? And tell my mom not to worry either. We’ll straighten the whole thing out when I get home. Could be soon.”

“Is something about to happen with your father?”

“Definitely.”

“You think it could finally be over?”

“One way or the other, yes. It could be over.”

She paused, as if she didn’t like the sound of that. “Be careful, okay?”

“I will.”

“This is really scaring me.”

“Me, too,” I said, my voice fading.

The call came at midnight, the distinctive chirping of a cell phone on the end table. I nearly jackknifed in response, launching my tired body from a comfortable slumber on the couch. Alex came running from the bedroom. I flipped open the receiver, swallowed the lump in my throat, and answered.

“ Hola .”

He didn’t answer right away, but I recognized the voice as soon as he began. “We’ll do this in English, but I’ll only say it once. So listen good. Understand?”

Alex sat right beside me on the couch, her ear close enough to listen.

“Yes,” I answered.

“Five-thirty tomorrow evening. Be at Cementerio Central.”

“The cemetery?”

“Don’t interrupt! Go to the grave of Gonzalo Jimenez de Quesada. Bring the money and the cell phone. Wait in front of the monument. I’ll call you. Don’t be late.”

“Wait, what grave?”

“I told you I’d say it once.” The line clicked.

“Damn it! What grave!” I clutched the phone tightly, shaking it in frustration.

“Don’t worry, I got it,” said Alex.

“You sure?”

“It’s probably the largest monument in the cemetery. He’s the founder of Bogota.”

“Why would Joaquin send us there?”