bench. Something strange was happening. The urine had brought up colored lettering, like those litmus papers in science class that turned blue or green, depending on whether the liquid was alkaline or acid.
The message read, I'M PISSED.
A half block north on Miami Avenue, Andie Henning stepped away from the espresso bar and merged into the flow of pedestrian traffic. She spoke into the microphone clipped to her collar, appearing no different from at least a dozen other businesswomen who were talking on their hands-free cell phones while walking to their office. Except that Andie was connected to her surveillance team in the field.
What's he doing now? asked Andie.
Homeless guy just took a piss, came the response.
What?
No kidding. Swyteck gave him some money, and the guy took a piss right where he was sitting.
You're saying that Swyteck paid the guy to urinate?
That's what it looks like. Hell, give a guy a briefcase full of money, you never know what he's gonna do.
Andie stopped at the crosswalk. She couldn't imagine why Jack would pay a homeless person to urinate on the bench. They'd decided against fitting up Jack with a wire for fear that the kidnapper might have some electronic equipment in place to detect it. In light of this, however, Andie wished they hadn't been so cautious.
What's happening now? she asked.
Believe it or not, it just keeps getting weirder. Either Swyteck has an unhealthy fascination with human waste, or there's something else of interest on that bench.
Can somebody zoom in for a look?
I can't but Wait. Rooftop post says he sees something. Some kind of lettering, like a message.
Still bizarre, thought Andie. But it was starting to make sense. Sounds like our homeless guy is some kind of messenger.
Yeah. Total loser, from the looks of him. I'd say he was picked at random.
Follow him after he leaves. Let's pick him up for questioning. Indecent exposure.
Not sure that's a federal crime.
Make it one, she said.
Roger.
Jack was still staring at the message on the bench, waiting for something more to appear. But those two simple words seemed to be the full extent of the message: I'M PISSED.
The homeless guy pulled up his zipper. For another fifty bucks, I'll shit on your shoes.
No, thanks anyway, pal. But don't go anywhere for a minute.
You telling me what to do, asshole?
Just stay put.
The man's eyes narrowed, and after about ten seconds he seemed on the verge of an explosion. He raised his arms to the sky, as if he were about to proclaim something of biblical importance, then shouted, The son has cursed -
Yeah, yeah, said Jack. Heard you loud and clear the first time, chief.
Are you Jack Swyteck? another man asked. He was a short Latin guy with a completely gray mustache that belied his jet-black toupee. He was standing on the sidewalk in front of the electronics store, a cordless telephone in hand.
Who wants to know? asked Jack.
Didn't give a name. Just said he wanted to talk to the guy outside the store named Jack Swyteck.
Smart move, Jack thought. No way law enforcement could have been prepared to trace a call coming into a randomly selected business establishment. Yeah, thanks, I'm Swyteck, he said as he reached for the phone.
The guy pulled back. Not so fast. Your friend said you'd give me fifty bucks if I let you use my phone.
Jack reached into his wallet and gave him three twenties. The store owner didn't offer any change. Jack took the phone. Swyteck here.
I'm still pissed, the caller said. It was that same mechanical-sounding voice of Mia's kidnapper.
What are you talking about?
You'd think that if the FBI was going to watch, they'd at least have the brains to rotate out the agents every hour or so, or at least change clothes. Four hours is a long time for a hot-dog vendor to work straight through, never going for a cup of coffee, never going to the bathroom, never budging from the hot-dog cart. He's got FBI written all over him.
Jack glanced at the cart on the
The message read, I'M PISSED.
A half block north on Miami Avenue, Andie Henning stepped away from the espresso bar and merged into the flow of pedestrian traffic. She spoke into the microphone clipped to her collar, appearing no different from at least a dozen other businesswomen who were talking on their hands-free cell phones while walking to their office. Except that Andie was connected to her surveillance team in the field.
What's he doing now? asked Andie.
Homeless guy just took a piss, came the response.
What?
No kidding. Swyteck gave him some money, and the guy took a piss right where he was sitting.
You're saying that Swyteck paid the guy to urinate?
That's what it looks like. Hell, give a guy a briefcase full of money, you never know what he's gonna do.
Andie stopped at the crosswalk. She couldn't imagine why Jack would pay a homeless person to urinate on the bench. They'd decided against fitting up Jack with a wire for fear that the kidnapper might have some electronic equipment in place to detect it. In light of this, however, Andie wished they hadn't been so cautious.
What's happening now? she asked.
Believe it or not, it just keeps getting weirder. Either Swyteck has an unhealthy fascination with human waste, or there's something else of interest on that bench.
Can somebody zoom in for a look?
I can't but Wait. Rooftop post says he sees something. Some kind of lettering, like a message.
Still bizarre, thought Andie. But it was starting to make sense. Sounds like our homeless guy is some kind of messenger.
Yeah. Total loser, from the looks of him. I'd say he was picked at random.
Follow him after he leaves. Let's pick him up for questioning. Indecent exposure.
Not sure that's a federal crime.
Make it one, she said.
Roger.
Jack was still staring at the message on the bench, waiting for something more to appear. But those two simple words seemed to be the full extent of the message: I'M PISSED.
The homeless guy pulled up his zipper. For another fifty bucks, I'll shit on your shoes.
No, thanks anyway, pal. But don't go anywhere for a minute.
You telling me what to do, asshole?
Just stay put.
The man's eyes narrowed, and after about ten seconds he seemed on the verge of an explosion. He raised his arms to the sky, as if he were about to proclaim something of biblical importance, then shouted, The son has cursed -
Yeah, yeah, said Jack. Heard you loud and clear the first time, chief.
Are you Jack Swyteck? another man asked. He was a short Latin guy with a completely gray mustache that belied his jet-black toupee. He was standing on the sidewalk in front of the electronics store, a cordless telephone in hand.
Who wants to know? asked Jack.
Didn't give a name. Just said he wanted to talk to the guy outside the store named Jack Swyteck.
Smart move, Jack thought. No way law enforcement could have been prepared to trace a call coming into a randomly selected business establishment. Yeah, thanks, I'm Swyteck, he said as he reached for the phone.
The guy pulled back. Not so fast. Your friend said you'd give me fifty bucks if I let you use my phone.
Jack reached into his wallet and gave him three twenties. The store owner didn't offer any change. Jack took the phone. Swyteck here.
I'm still pissed, the caller said. It was that same mechanical-sounding voice of Mia's kidnapper.
What are you talking about?
You'd think that if the FBI was going to watch, they'd at least have the brains to rotate out the agents every hour or so, or at least change clothes. Four hours is a long time for a hot-dog vendor to work straight through, never going for a cup of coffee, never going to the bathroom, never budging from the hot-dog cart. He's got FBI written all over him.
Jack glanced at the cart on the
Similar Books
