"Hello, Hamilton," Stephano said, fidgeting even more.
"Been listening in the next room," Jaynes said with a smile. "And I'm suddenly wondering if you're being truthful."
"Of course I am."
"Of course. Look, ever heard the name Eva Miranda?"
Stephano repeated it slowly, as if totally confused by it. "Don't think so."
"She's a lawyer in Rio. A friend of Patrick's."
"Nope."
"Well, see, that's what bothers me, Jack, because I think you know precisely who she is."
"I've never heard of her."
"Then why are you trying to find her?"
"I don't know what you're talking about," Stephano said rather weakly.
Underbill spoke first. He was looking directly at Stephano, but he spoke to Jaynes. "He's lying."
"He certainly is," said Oliver.
"No question about it," Warren added.
Stephano's eyes darted from voice to voice. He started to say something, but Jaynes showed him his palms. The door opened, and one more comrade from the Underbill-Oliver-Warren school walked in just far enough to say, "The voice analysis shows sufficient proof of lying." His announcement over, he withdrew immediately.
Jaynes picked up a single sheet of paper and summarized from it. "This is a story appearing in a Rio paper this morning. It tells of the kidnapping of a Mr. Paulo Miranda. His daughter is Patrick's friend, Jack. We've checked with the authorities in Rio. No ransom demand. Nothing from the kidnappers." He slid the paper in the direction of Stephano, but it stopped out of his reach.
"So where is Mr. Miranda?"
"I don't know. I don't know what you're talking about."
Jaynes looked at the other end of the table.
"Still lying," Underbill said. Oliver and Warren nodded their agreement.
"We had a deal, Jack. You would tell us the truth, and we would drop the charges against you. And, as I recall, we agreed not to arrest your clients. Now what I am supposed to do, Jack?"
Stephano was looking at Underbill and Oliver, who seemed ready to pounce on his next utterance. They, in turn, stared coldly at him, missing nothing.
"She knows where the money is," Stephano said in resignation.
"Do you know where she is?"
"No. She fled Rio when we found Patrick."
"No sign of her?"
"No."
Haynes looked at his truth squad. Yes, he had stopped the lying.
"I agreed to tell you everything," Jack said. "I did not agree to do anything else. We can still look for her."
"We didn't know about her."
"Too bad. If necessary, we can review our agreement. I'll be happy to call my lawyer."
"Yes, but we've already caught you lying."
"I'm sorry. It won't happen again."
"Lay off the girl, Jack. And release her father."
"I'll think about it."
"No. You'll do it now."
THE BEACH HOUSE was a modern tri-level in a row of seemingly identical structures along a freshly developed strip of the Coast. October was off-season. Most of the houses appeared to be empty. Sandy parked behind a shiny generic four-door with Louisiana plates, a rental car, he presumed. The sun was low on the horizon, inches off the top of the flat water. The Gulf was deserted; not a boat or a ship could be seen. He climbed the steps and followed the wraparound deck until he found a door.
Leah answered his knock with a smile, a short one forced through because she was at heart a warm person, not given to the dark mood swings which now plagued her. "Come in," she said softly, and locked the door behind him. The living room was large and vaulted, with glass on three sides and a fireplace in the center.
"Nice place," he said, then caught a delicious aroma floating in from the kitchen. He had skipped lunch, thanks to Patrick.
"Are you hungry?" she asked.
"Starving."
"I'm cooking a little something."
"Wonderful."
The authentic hardwood floors creaked a little as he followed her to the dining room. On the table was a cardboard box, and beside it were papers neatly arranged. She had been working. She paused by the table and said, "This is the Aricia file."
"Prepared by whom?"
"Patrick, of course."
"Where has it been for the past four years?"
"In storage. In Mobile."
Her answers were short, and each gave rise to a dozen quick questions Sandy would have loved to throw at her. "We'll get to it later," she said, and dismissed it with a casual wave.
In the kitchen, there was a whole roasted chicken on the cutting board by the sink. A pan of brown rice mixed with vegetables was steaming on the stove. "It's pretty basic," she said. "I find it hard to cook in someone else's kitchen."
"Looks delicious. Whose kitchen is this?"
"It's just a rental. I have it for the month."
She sliced the chicken and directed Sandy to pour the wine, a fine pinot noir from California. They sat at a small table in the breakfast nook, with a splendid view of the water and the remains of the sunset.
"Cheers," she said, raising her glass.
"To Patrick," Sandy said.
"Yes, to Patrick." She made no effort to address her food. Sandy stuffed a large slice of chicken breast into his mouth.
"How is he?"
He chewed rapidly so he wouldn't disgust this delightful young woman with a mouthful of food. A sip of wine. Napkin to the lips. "Patrick's okay. The burns are healing nicely. A plastic surgeon examined him yesterday, and said that no grafts will be necessary. The scars will be with him for a few years, but they will eventually fade. The nurses bring him cookies. The Judge brings him pizza. No less than six armed men guard him around the clock, so I'd say Patrick is doing better than most capital murder defendants."
"This is Judge Huskey?"
"Yes, Karl Huskey. Do you know him?"
"No. But Patrick spoke of him often. They were good friends. Patrick told me once that if he was captured, he hoped it would happen while Karl Huskey was still the Judge."
"He's retiring soon," Sandy said. What fortunate timing, he thought.
"He can't hear Patrick's case, can he?" she asked.
"No. He'll recuse himself very soon." Sandy ate a much smaller piece of chicken, still eating alone because she had yet to touch her knife and fork. She held the glass of wine near her head, and looked at the orange and violet clouds on the horizon.
"I'm sorry. I forgot to ask about your father."
"No word. I talked to my brother three hours ago, and there's still no word."
"I'm very sorry, Leah. I wish I could do something."
"And I wish I could do something. It's frustrating. I can't go home, and I can't stay here."
"I'm sorry," Sandy said again, because he could think of nothing better to offer.
He continued his meal in silence. She played with her rice and watched the ocean.
"This is delicious," he said, twice.
"Thanks," she said with a sad grin.
"What does your father do?"
"He's a university professor."
"Where?"
"In Rio. At the Catholic University."
"Where does he live?"
"In Ipanema, in the apartment I grew up in."
Her father was a delicate subject, but at least Sandy was getting answers to his questions. Maybe it helped her to talk about him. He asked more questions, all very general and all far away from the kidnapping.