Got the Look by James Grippando Read Free Book Online Page A

know what I would do? said Theo.
    Yeah, if you were me.
    I'd stick my head out the window and yell, Yo, bitch! Didn't your mamma ever teach you what goes around comes around?' Every day she was all kissy-faced, acting like you were her one and only. Every night she was probably on the phone telling Ernesto to please wire some more money from Buenos Noches.
    Buenes Aires.
    Whatever. My point is, why should Jack Swyteck be the white knight who mounts up and rushes in to save her?
    Telling the police that she was kidnapped and giving them a copy of the ransom note is hardly rushing in to save her.
    Why do you care enough to even do that?
    I don't know. Why did I spend the first four years of my career worrying that murdering scumbags who made you look like a choirboy might die in the electric chair? I have this sick humane streak that keeps me from wishing death on anyone. Even lying ex-girlfriends.
    That is sick.
    You think?
    Absolutely. But it's one of the many reasons I love you, Jack baby, he said as he planted a big kiss on his friend's cheek.
    Jack wiped it off, then drifted into silence, his thoughts interrupted by the crunching sound of Theo stuffing his mouth with snack food.
    Bistro chip? said Theo, offering the bag.
    Jack shook his head. Bistro chip. What a joke, the way marketing geniuses always attached a name like bistro to foods in need of a little spin. Salty carbs were bistro chips. A sack lunch on a commercial airline was a bistro bag. Goofy, yes, but it had to be one of the oldest games around. Here you go, Socrates, try some of this bistro hemlock.
    No thanks, said Jack.
    Theo sucked the salt from his fingertips one digit at a time. So, getting back to what I was saying before. You buying it or ain't you?
    You mean your theory that Mia faked her own kidnapping?
    No, no. This car, my man. The Marlin mobile.
    Jack grasped the tacky hood ornament - an official Major League Baseball Billy the Marlin bobble head. Think I'll pass. I mean, really: Who needs a chick magnet when I got you?
    Theo crumpled up the empty bag of chips, then unleashed a belch that nearly rattled the headlights. Ain't dat the troot.

    Chapter 8
    Jack didn't call the police. He didn't have to.
    The FBI was looking for him.
    The phone call came two days after the meeting in William Bailey's office. The agent told him only that she wanted to discuss the possible kidnapping of Mia Salazar. Forty-five minutes later, Jack was in a small conference room at the FBI's Miami field office. Special Agent Andie Henning was seated across the table from him.
    Thanks for coming in so quickly, Mr. Swyteck.
    It sounded important, said Jack.
    During the drive up Jack had made a phone call to Gerry Chafetz, his old boss at the U. S. attorney's office, to get the skinny on Agent Henning. Typical of Gerry, the first thing out of his mouth was that Andie Henning was a looker. More to the point, however, Henning was new to Miami, a rising star from Seattle. A Junior Olympic mogul skier until her knee gave out, and a certified scuba diver by the time she was sixteen. Went straight to the FBI out of law school, never practiced. Only the twentieth woman in bureau history to make the Possible Club, a 98-percent-male honorary fraternity for agents who shoot perfect scores on one of the toughest firearms courses in law enforcement. The kudos went on and on.
    And, Jack could almost hear his old boss saying for the third time, did I mention she's a knockout?
    Not that such things mattered. Unless you were straight, male, and over the age of thirteen.
    As you know, Henning said in a businesslike tone, Mia Salazar was kidnapped three days ago.
    Before we get started, I'm curious: How is it that I ended up on the FBI's interview list?
    Mr. Salazar gave us your name.
    He wondered how many colorful adverbs Salazar had squeezed between Jack and Swyteck. Jack backstabbing, wife-stealing, mother-bleeping Swyteck. It's interesting that Mr. Salazar called you. Last time we spoke, he