A King's ransom

the way one of your bankruptcy lawyers would do just fine on a divorce case.”

“I get your point,” I said.

“You can also bypass private security altogether and rely on the FBI.”

“That’s not really an option. I’m at an impasse with them.” I didn’t elaborate in front of Duncan; the threat from the narcotics agents was best kept to myself.

“I’m sorry you had that experience,” she said. “There are a lot of talented negotiators in the FBI who can be of tremendous help to families when the bureaucracy lets them do their job.”

“It’s pretty clear the bureaucracy’s winning this battle.”

“That’s one of the benefits of private security. I’m totally responsive to you, and to you only. My approach is to tell you everything, each step of the way. I’ll advise you of what to do, explain to you the significance of every little thing the kidnappers do, and offer my best guess as to what they might do in the future. Total honesty and openness is the best approach, as in any other relationship. And, believe me, this is a relationship.”

“Not too long-term, I hope.”

She didn’t smile. “Didn’t the FBI even tell you that much?”

“What?”

“The length of time it normally takes to bring a Colombian kidnapping case to closure.”

“He wanted to wait and see who was involved before making any projections.”

“That makes some sense. But you should be forewarned.”

“Of what?” I asked.

“These guerrilla organizations don’t exactly operate at breakneck speed.”

“How long might it take? Weeks? Months?”

“I’ve had a few relatively quick resolutions. But for the most part we’re definitely talking months.”

“How many?”

“The average case, anywhere from six to twelve.”

“A fucking year?” My astonishment was met with plaintive silence.

“I warned you, I don’t sugarcoat.”

“I prefer it that way. Excuse my profanity.”

“No problem. You’ll hear worse from me before this case is over. Assuming you want me on the case.”

I shot a quick glance at Duncan. He seemed to be as impressed as I was. “Absolutely,” I said.

“Great. Now, it’s been very nice meeting you and Duncan, but I’d like to meet with you and the rest of your family as soon as possible.”

“My sister’s traveling, and we haven’t been in touch with her yet. But I can drive you over to my mother’s house right now.”

“Let’s go.”

We rose to leave, but Duncan stole another minute of Alex’s time. He needed surveillance work for one of his cases and wanted to know if Alex had any suggestions. Right. Ever since his divorce, Duncan seemed to draw personal validation from any attractive woman who would smile and talk to him, even if it was purely business from her standpoint.

I waited at the window and looked down thirty stories on the evening rush hour traffic. It was slowly snaking south on busy Brickell Avenue, an endless chain of fuzzy orange taillights at dusk. People were going home, the same old routine, not knowing how lucky they were to have their routines.

Could this possibly drag on for a year?

So much in a person’s life could change in that much time. Look at me and Jenna, engaged one month, history the next. Could my father physically survive that long in some remote guerrilla camp? He’d survived Vietnam, albeit as a much younger man. What would the emotional scars be like, the effects of prolonged captivity? Not seeing him for that long was unfathomable.

Poor Mom, I thought, the reality sinking in. Poor Dad.

11

For only the second time in my life, I was taking a woman home to meet my mother and desperately wanted them to hit it off. Obviously the circumstances were very different, as were my motivations. Yet, I was strangely reminded of Jenna as Alex and I wove through traffic in my Jeep with the canvas top down. It was a rare comfortable evening in early autumn, without the persistent mugginess that usually lingered in South Florida until almost Halloween. Alex had removed her jacket and pulled her shoulder-length hair back to keep it from blowing in the breeze. Her profile was classic. Whether she was the more beautiful was hard to say, but, no slight to Jenna, she was definitely more intriguing.

“So, how’d you get caught up in FARC?”

We were stopped at a traffic light on Coral Way. Just ahead was the world’s first Burger King restaurant. Decades later it was still there, but everything around it had changed as the new Miami took over the old Miami-“My-ama,” my grandmother used to call it, an era as extinct now as the old notion of a “healthy” suntan. To my left was the original Latin American Cafeteria, where people waited in line outside for a chance to sit at the long, horseshoe-shaped counter and order everything from medianoche sandwiches to milkshakes made with exotic fruits like mamey. At the walk-up cafe across the street stood a group of Spanish-speaking men dressed in guayaberas, traditional Cuban shirts. Espresso served in little plastic cups inspired friendly arguments over beisbol and politicians who were too soft on Castro. Just ahead, the man in the intersection with the big straw hat was hawking bags of limas from the tree in his neighbor’s backyard. It was the Miami I’d grown up with, the cultural mix I liked.

Alex said, “I wouldn’t say I was caught up in FARC. I just joined.”

“Why?”

“The usual burning philosophical issues that propel teenage girls to do anything.”

“Meaning what?”

“My boyfriend was in it.”

“I suppose we’ve all been there on some level. Except that the craziest thing I ever did was sign up for the glee club.”

“Hmm. Not sure which of us was the bigger sucker.”

“True. I got dumped about two weeks after I signed up. How about you?”

“That’s about the size of it.”

“Did he meet someone else?”

“No. He took a bullet in the head.”

For a second I felt like I’d taken the bullet. “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be. He was a drug-addicted worthless piece of trash who didn’t think twice about kidnapping people like your father.”

“Did he ever kill anyone?”

“Yes.”

I hesitated, then asked, “Did you?”

“Why do you want to know?”

“Just thought it might come up with my mother. You know, the natural progression of things. ‘Hello, how are you, ever been a revolutionary?’ ”

She smiled cryptically. “Would it make a difference to you if I had?”

I wasn’t sure it would, but I was beginning to wish I hadn’t asked. “I suppose not. Like you said in Duncan’s office, that was your other life.”

“Exactly.”

The light turned green, and we were flowing with the traffic again. I waited for her to elaborate, but after several moments of silence it was clear that she wasn’t about to. FARC was her other life. That was that. Maybe