Moondogs - Alexander Yates [114]
Monique got up from her bench and stepped forward to introduce herself. She seemed to wince as the man shook her hand, vigorously. “Tickled,” he said. “Delighted. You’re the son?”
She snapped her hand from his grip, and the force of it pulled him off balance and made him take a half step forward. His grin hardly slackened. “Jiff,” he went on, gazing past her, “a pleasure, as it sometimes is, to see you. I’m guessing you’re not the son, either?” Jeff stood as well and crossed his arms tight over his broad chest. “Well hell. It’s too early for police work, but here goes …” he pointed a finger in the air and let its aim drift until it settled on Benicio. “Elimination is the process.”
Benicio stood and spoke with a voice slightly deeper than usual. “Yes, I’m Howard Bridgewater’s son.”
“I’m glad to meet you, son.” They shook hands and became enveloped in a sudden and very strange silence. The policeman’s fingers went limp. He stared Benicio in the face and said nothing. “Sorry,” he finally managed, dropping his hand back to his side. “You just look … let’s say familiar. You look like some people I know. No matter.” He wiped his fingers, which had been sweaty, on his jeans. “I’m Reynato Ocampo,” he said. “I’m the guy who’s going to save your father’s life.”
Monique gasped a little and Jeff uncrossed his arms. “Christ, Reynato, what’s wrong with you? Why would you say that?”
He smiled a bit and raised his small palms in the air—a mock surrender. “Hey, you got me. Zealous, as charged. Sometimes I carry myself away. Let me put it like this—Mr. Howard Bridgewater is a valued resident of Metro Manila, and I’ve been directed to spare no expense in securing his safe recovery. I run an elite task force and the resolution of kidnapping cases is one of our most special specialties. My team and I, we are very good at our jobs. Forgive me if that sounds immodest, I’m just trying to be as accurate as possible—we are really excellent at them. And as of right now, getting your father back is our only job.”
With that he turned abruptly, crossed the station lobby and disappeared through a saloon-style door. He clearly expected them to follow, and they rushed to do so. Benicio glanced at Alice’s notes as they walked and saw that beside Ocampo’s name she’d written nothing but a series of deeply inked exclamation points. “What do you think?” he asked.
“He’s strange.” She gestured to a group of officers and secretaries who’d stopped typing as Reynato passed and were peeping up from their desks as though desperate to watch him but afraid of being caught doing so. “But, good strange.”
Benicio looked back at his father’s self-anointed savior, thinking that Charlie Fuentes was an odd pick to play him in the movies. Reynato was duckfooted and had a bobbing, almost boyish stride. He walked not just like he owned the place, but like he’d thought it up. As though the entire collection of walls, ceiling tiles, telephones and the people who spoke on them were gathered there as a special treat for him. Something to play with. “I’m not so sure,” Benicio said.
Reynato brought them to a conference room with maps pasted across the dusty glass walls and invited them all to take a chair. Once they were seated he paced around the table, asking questions as he went. When was the last time Benicio had spoken to his father? Did Benicio know of any enemies his father might have? Did Howard have any outstanding medical conditions like heart disease, high blood pressure, diabetes, peptic ulcers, acid reflux disease, schizophrenia, priapism, bipolar disorder, chronic cough, and if so was he taking any prescription medications to combat the ailment or ailments? How familiar was Howard with the city? With the country? Did Howard speak Tagalog? Did Howard speak Cebuano or Visayan? Did Howard speak Spanish? Did Howard speak anything other than English?
“Mr. Ocampo,” Monique raised her voice over Reynato