checkbooks and wrapped in brown shipping paper. Torn at every corner, it was held together by multiple straps of clear plastic tape picturing a colorful parrot atop a blue box that read “
I assumed it was from the kidnappers.
Interestingly, it was sent to my house in Coconut Grove, not to my mother in Coral Gables. That made some sense. Alex had told them I was with her during the radio communication in Bogota. Perhaps they’d decided to communicate with me directly, and my father could have given them my address. The thought of his telling them anything lifted my spirits. It meant he was still alive.
I was eager to open the package, but I proceeded with caution. I shook it lightly. Something moved inside. My mood suddenly shifted from curious to macabre. The warnings of Duncan Fitz at yesterday’s court hearing came flooding back to me, the gloomy picture of what dangers my father might face if ever the kidnappers learned that the insurance company had denied coverage and refused to pay. Could someone have tipped them off to the dispute? I suddenly feared that the box might contain some gruesome warning from the kidnappers, something that my father would have given up only after a struggle, something so shocking that he would have begged them to send the package to his son and not his wife.
My hand began to shake. I’d heard of kidnappers sending ears or fingers to the family in the mail, and this box was the perfect size. I closed my eyes and forced myself to bring it to my nose and sniff for strange odors.
I detected nothing, but the contents could have been sealed in plastic. From the kitchen I phoned Alex and told her my concerns.
“Open it,” she said.
“But what if it’s-”
“I think I know what it is. Open it.”
I put the phone down and switched Alex to the speaker. Slowly I peeled away the already torn paper. The box inside was sealed with more tape. I slit it with a kitchen knife, drew a deep breath, and flipped open the box.
“It’s an international pager,” I said.
“I knew it. Those bastards.”
“What? This has to be a good sign. They wouldn’t send me a pager unless they wanted to be able to contact me on a moment’s notice. They must be getting ready to turn Dad loose.”
“That’s what they’d like you to think.”
I was only half listening. “There’s a note here,” I said, already translating in my mind. “They want me to wear the pager at all times. It says they’ll be in touch.”
“It doesn’t say when, does it?”
“No.”
“Of course not.”
“I would assume they’ll call when they’re ready to make the exchange.”
“Stop it, Nick. You’re doing exactly what they want you to do.”
“How do you know?”
“Because I’ve seen it a dozen times. It’s a psychological ploy. They give the family a beeper, and the reaction is always the same: Resolution is near. But the beeper never sounds. You’ll wear it every day, check it every ten minutes, wonder if it’s broken, take it to a repair shop, drive yourself crazy. Finally you’ll get a message, but the number you’re supposed to call will have a few digits missing, which is intentional on their part. You’ll think your father is going to die because the stupid pager didn’t work. It’s all a game for them. It’s how they wear you out, make you pay the big bucks.”
I held the pager in the palm of my hand. I wanted to cling to the idea that my father might soon be released, but the dose of reality from Alex had turned most of my hope to anger. “What should I do with it?”
“Keep it, of course. Just don’t drive yourself crazy with it.”
I wanted to throw it against the wall but calmed myself and took a seat on the barstool at the kitchen counter. “I’m tired of the games on all fronts. The kidnappers, the lawyers, the FBI. It’s wearing me out.”
“I know. You could use a little help. By the way, how’s your search for cocounsel coming?”
Alex and I had talked about the court hearing last night. She knew that the judge had ordered me to find another lawyer. “Fine, I think.”
“I have the name of a pretty good plaintiff’s lawyer for you. Lots of experience suing insurance companies, if you’re still looking.”
“Actually, I may have found someone.”
“Who?”
“I’m thinking about Jenna.”
Silence. I moved closer to the speakerphone. “Hello?”
“Yes, I heard you. Do you think that’s really such a good idea?”
“I don’t have many choices. Yes, she’s my ex-fiancee, but Jenna is still someone I can trust. She’s an excellent lawyer. She had tons of trial experience as a prosecutor, and she’s done strictly civil litigation ever since she moved to Miami.”
“I’m sure she’s competent. I was talking more about your personal history. It can get very complicated, working with someone you used to be in love with.”
“Then I suppose I have nothing to worry about. You said it yourself at that restaurant in Bogota: I was never in love with her.”
“That was before I saw the way you looked at her at Duffy’s.”
I chuckled nervously. “I don’t know what you mean.”
“Yes, you do.”
She had a way of stepping on my tail, no wiggling away. “Alex, I’m just trying to do the right thing here.”
“I think you’re testing my theory.”
“That is so not true.”
“Then, if you think Jenna’s the answer, by all means, go with her.”
“I’m hoping to make a decision tonight.”
“The sooner the better. Just remember one thing, will you?”
“What?”
“Do what’s best for your father.”
Her delivery was mellifluous, but it still felt as if I’d been hit between the eyes. “Of course,” I said. “That’s all this has ever been about.”
“Let me know what you decide.”
“I will,” I said, but there was a click on the line before my response was out. She’d hung up without saying good-bye.
I met Jenna for dinner in Coral Gables at seven o’clock, as planned. She’d chosen an unpretentious Vietnamese restaurant near her office, called Miss Saigon Bistro. It was the kind of place where Mom cooked her own recipes while her grown kids waited tables, dressed in traditional Vietnamese silk wraps. The tasty smells of beef with lemongrass and steamed soybeans greeted us at the door, as did a singing waiter named Richard, who told us that it would be about an hour before he could seat us.
We ordered a couple of Bahamian beers and waited outside. Jenna had walked straight from her office on Alhambra Circle and was still wearing her lawyer uniform. I was sporting what might have been called the casual- chic, I’m-out-of-work-but-my-kidnapped-father-has-ten-million-bucks-stashed-somewhere-in-Nicaragua look. We made small talk for a few minutes, but Jenna seemed to sense that I was eager for her answer.
“I’ve decided to do it.”
“Do you mean it?”
“I wouldn’t kid about something like this.”
“That’s fantastic,” I said, raising my beer in a toast. “Have you cleared it with your firm?”
“To a point.”
“What does that mean?”
“We have a small office. It’s just eight of us. If I spend a substantial amount of time on your case, they
