Point of Balance by J.G. Jurado Read Free Book Online

sorely neglected—but I am a neurosurgeon in a private clinic. I spend my days surrounded by snobs who chat about such things. I am fond of watches, although I can’t afford much in that way. And I knew the limited-edition Audemars Piguet on that man’s wrist cost more than half a million dollars. It wasn’t a showy watch. The expense came with the handmade inside, which had more than three hundred moving parts. But its titanium case and foreign brand name would go unnoticed by anyone who didn’t know what a doodad like that was worth, which was the whole idea.
    Juanita brought coffee and gave my companion a smile, which he returned, revealing a row of nuclear-white teeth. He reminded me of that Scottish actor who plays Obi Wan in the new Star Wars movies.
    â€œ Gracias, señorita linda ,” * he said in Spanish.
    Juanita blushed at the compliment and slipped behind the counter. The man followed her with his eyes until she was back in place, and fitted the iPad’s headphones over his ears.
    â€œThe coffee here is excellent, don’t you think?” he said, raising his own cup.
    His posh accent and appearance, straight out of the pages of Town & Country , were unyielding. I could not believe this was the man who had killed Svetlana and sent those texts. I was perplexed but also mad as can be. I balled up my fists under the table.
    â€œWho are you? Did my father-in-law send you?” I said, knowing how absurd the words sounded before they were out of my mouth.
    â€œThe hardware dealer? Don’t make me laugh, Dave.”
    There wasn’t a shred of laughter in his corpselike eyes.
    â€œTell me where my daughter is, or I’ll call the cops this second,” I said, raising my voice despite myself.
    He leaned over the table slightly and frowned.
    â€œDave, if you raise your voice once more, I’ll have no choice but to give our hostess the same treatment I gave Svetlana,” he said, nodding toward the counter. “We’ll have to leave here and resume this conversation in a cramped car, rather than this warm, roomy diner, out of the rain. We’ll all lose out, especially Juanita’s children. Do I make myself clear?”
    He said his piece in a cut-glass tone as devoid of feeling as that of a waiter reciting the day’s specials. That ice-cold poise was hideous.
    For a second I was lost for words, my throat constricting.
    â€œWell, what do you say?”
    â€œI won’t raise my voice.”
    He smiled. It wasn’t a real smile. There was no light in it, no feeling. His face muscles merely rearranged themselves. Very different from the deceptive and perfectly contrived rictus he had given Juanita. More authentic, too.
    â€œThat’s more like it, Dave. You may call me Mr. White.”
    His hand reached across the table again, and this time I had no choice but to shake it. It was strong and cold to the touch.
    â€œWhat do you want from me? Money? I don’t have much, but it’s all yours. Just tell me where Julia is.”
    â€œDave, Dave, Dave. Do I look like I’m short of cash?”
    â€œNo, I guess not.”
    â€œAnd even so . . . You want to fob me off with a few bucks, like the conscience money you drop into that homeless guy’s jar on Kalorama Circle, when you step down from your Lexus?”
    I was frozen stiff. Occasionally, we went to a shopping mall where a panhandler in a 76ers cap would bum around with a sign that said “War Vett.” I often gave him change, because I liked him.
    â€œYou know nothing about me,” I said, offended.
    â€œYou are in error, Dave. I know all about you, more than youdo yourself. I know your every trait, your every feature. You are the orphan who made it. The whiz kid with the Johns Hopkins scholarship. ‘A natural talent for medicine,’ the Pottstown Gazette said. You’ve come a long way since you were a newspaper boy in small-town Pennsylvania,