Afraid of the Dark js-9

by James Grippando

  … like quitting?”

  She shook her head. “I got a week. I just thought you might like to spend it with the real me.”

  “You’re the best.”

  Jack took her bag. They exited through the pneumatic doors, continued on the sidewalk past the long line at the taxi stand, and stopped at the curb. A cabdriver laid on his horn, which set off the audio version of the domino effect. Traffic was endless, eight lanes of cars and shuttle buses streaming by at something less than cruising speed at Grandpa Swyteck’s nursing home. Somewhere in that mess was Theo, unless he’d gotten fed up and ditched them.

  The horn blasting subsided, and Andie took his hand. “Have you thought about what I asked on Friday?”

  “About what?”

  “Buying us a snowblower,” she said, shooting him a look. “About letting law enforcement do its job.”

  “Yes. I’ve thought about it.”

  Jack wanted to drop it, but Andie seemed determined to secure his agreement that trying to find out what had happened to Neil could be hazardous to his health.

  “Have you been talking to Vince Paulo and Chuck Mays?” Andie asked.

  Theo pulled up to the curb and popped the trunk-Perfect timing. Jack wedged the bag between the golf clubs and spare tire, then climbed into the rear seat with Andie. Theo steered back into the incredibly slow flow of traffic. They might as well have been moving backward.

  “Welcome to the Bob Marley Taxi Company, mon,” said Theo, putting on a Jamaican accent, “where da whole world move like a stroll on the beach.”

  Andie rolled her eyes. “Hello, Theo.”

  “I like the new hair,” he said, glancing in the rearview mirror. “Old hair.”

  “Thanks. Jack was just telling me about his talks with Chuck Mays.”

  “You already told her about-”

  Jack groaned, and Theo caught himself, but it was too late.

  Andie’s expression demanded an explanation.

  “Come on, Andie,” said Jack. “Mays has resources that even the cops don’t have. You know as well as I do that even the FBI turns to guys like him when they really need to find someone.”

  “Then let the FBI turn to him. You don’t need to get involved.”

  “With all due respect to your fidelity, bravery, and integrity,” he said, invoking the slogan on the FBI shield, “I’m not convinced that the FBI is entirely committed to solving this crime.”

  “We think it’s a cover-up,” said Theo.

  “Thank you for translating,” said Andie.

  “So does Chuck Mays,” said Theo.

  “I’m not surprised,” said Andie.

  “So does Shada Mays,” said Theo.

  “Shada?” she said, looking at Jack.

  “She’s alive,” said Jack.

  Andie massaged between her eyes, as if staving off a migraine. “Did Chuck tell you that?”

  “Yes.”

  “And you believe him?”

  “I think so.”

  “She just vanished, is that it?” said Andie. “No reason.”

  “We don’t know the reason,” said Jack.

  Theo wedged his way into the next lane, but traffic was still barely moving. “But we do know that Shada was cheating on her husband when she ran.”

  “What?” said Jack.

  “It’s obvious,” said Theo. “Didn’t you read the memorial plaque at the cemetery? ‘In memory of Shada Mays.’ That’s it. No ‘loving mother and wife.’ Nothing.”

  “That doesn’t mean anything.”

  “Maybe not by itself. For me, the clincher was when Paulo came to Shada’s defense and said the only reason she ran was to escape from the daily reminders of her daughter’s murder. Makes sense, I guess. It’s also the only explanation that makes you feel sorry for a woman who basically abandoned her husband. And what does Mays do? He turns it all around and paints himself as the saint who let her go. A guy with an ego like Chuck Mays doesn’t let go of anything, least of all his beautiful wife. She cheated, and he kicked her ass out the door. Maybe the only reason she cheated was so that he would kick her ass out the door. But the bottom line is the same.”

  “That’s a big leap of logic,” said Jack.

  “Dude, you’re talking to a bartender. You know how many guys I’ve talked to who got that same chip up their ass?”

  Jack blinked, confused. “I think you’re mixing up chips with bugs or shoulders with-”

  “You know what I’m saying,” said Theo.

  “So she wasn’t the perfect wife,” said Jack. “It doesn’t really matter.”

  “It does matter.”

  “He’s right,” said Andie. “It matters.”

  Jack did a double take. Andie had been curiously silent since the conversation had turned to adultery.

  “It matters how?” asked Jack.

  “You said it yourself: You think someone is trying to cover up the fact that Jamal Wakefield was in a secret detention facility when McKenna was murdered. That gives you one motive for two murders: first Jamal, and then Neil.”

  “Don’t forget about Chang,” said Theo.

  “Okay,” said Andie. “Throw him in there, too. It all breaks down if Shada was cheating on her husband.”

  Jack made a face, not comprehending. “What am I missing here?”

  “Good grief,” said Andie. “Don’t you get it? Chuck Mays had reason to kill Jamal-or to have him killed-even after he found out that Jamal didn’t kill his daughter.”

  “Why?”

  “Dude!” shouted Theo. “Jamal was banging his wife!”

  They fell silent, and Jack suddenly felt stupid. It wasn’t the kind of thing he normally missed. Andie took his hand.

  “Jack, this is why you need to stop playing detective. You’re a smart man, but you’re grieving. You were too close to Neil to see all the possibilities.”

  Jack glanced out the window. “How long has the FBI known?”

  “Known what?”

  His gaze turned back to Andie. “That Shada Mays was cheating on her husband. And that she’s still alive.”

  “You know I can’t answer that question.”

  “This isn’t idle curiosity,” said Jack. “We’re talking about Neil.”

  “It doesn’t matter who we’re talking about. I can’t tell you what the FBI knows.”

  “Then I’ll make you a deal,” said Jack. “Let me know when you can tell me. That’s when I’ll stop playing detective.”

  Chapter Forty-five

  British Airways Flight 208 from Miami landed at Heathrow as scheduled. By ten thirty A.M. London time, Shada emerged from the sausage grinder that was the immigration chute and ducked into a public restroom. Ten minutes later, she was dressed like a Westerner.

  Returning to her neighborhood wearing a hijab and carrying a suitcase wouldn’t have been smart. There were religious laws against Muslim women traveling alone, and there were men in Somaal Town who took it upon themselves to enforce them. The hijab had been a charade anyway, simply a disguise to make Shada unrecognizable while in Miami. Maysoon Khan had never dressed that way in London.

  The tube ride from the airport was over an hour, and Shada was so sleepy that she nearly forgot to change lines at the Holborn Station. The final leg of the trip home took her to Bethnal Green, and she could walk to her apartment from there.

  Northeast London had been overcast and chilly when she’d left six days ago, and it was even colder this morning. Or maybe it just felt that way after the warmth of Miami. She walked briskly, her suitcase on wheels clicking at each crack in the sidewalk behind her. Every half block or so she glanced over her shoulder, back toward Somaal Town, where gangs had been known to crack skulls just to protect their turf. Even in daylight Shada checked for trouble sneaking up from behind. Her own neighborhood, up around Wadeson Street, was only slightly better, though a steady increase in trendy clubs and restaurants like Bistroteque and Bethnal Green Working Men’s Club drew crowds from all over the city.<
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  Shada climbed the front stairs to her building, dug the key from her purse, and entered the apartment. It wasn’t much warmer on the inside. She left her bag at the door and walked straight to the thermostat to crank up the heat. Hunger pangs growled in her belly, but instead of going to the kitchen she went to her small study and switched on the computer. It was something she and Chuck had in common, this obsession with information. The PC took a moment to boot up, but finally the screen blinked on and brightened the room, bathing her in the blue light of her digital desktop. She jumped onto the Internet and went to the home page for the Miami Herald.

  Shada wasn’t technically a news junkie, but she had followed the local news in Miami daily since McKenna’s death. The Internet made that a snap even from London. Most days were the same: nothing about McKenna. Until recently. Out of the blue, she’d read about the return and arrest of Jamal Wakefield. Each day since had brought new developments-often several breaking stories in a span of hours. The latest headline jarred her:

  Data-Mining Pioneer Is Prime Suspect in Wife’s Disappearance

  Shada knew immediately what the story meant, and the feelings of guilt and regret almost made her dizzy. But she read on:

  Three years after his wife’s disappearance, Miami businessman Charles “Chuck” Mays, a pioneer in the personal information industry, is the focus of a criminal investigation. According to sources at the Miami-Dade Police Department, Mays could face charges of first degree murder.

  A sick feeling welled up in Shada’s throat. She forged ahead, skimming over the part about how Chuck became a millionaire, her hand shaking on the mouse as she read about McKenna’s death and then about her own disappearance:

  Six months after her daughter’s death, Mrs. Mays’ kayak was found floating upside down in the Florida Everglades, less than a mile from her parked car. An empty bottle of sleeping pills was in the front seat. “Clearly someone was trying to make it look like suicide,” said Miami-Dade homicide detective Jim Burton, but her body was never recovered.

  For nearly three years, police theorized that Mrs. Mays and her daughter were killed by the same man. Jamal Wakefield, a U.S. citizen and alleged “enemy combatant” of Somali descent, lived under an assumed identity at the Gitmo detention facility until January of this year, when he was transferred to Miami and charged with McKenna’s murder. Just one day after his release on bail, Wakefield was brutally murdered, his body found less than a mile from where Mrs. Mays had disappeared in the Everglades.

  “We still believe Wakefield killed McKenna Mays,” said Detective Burton. However, new evidence has led police to suspect that Mrs. Mays was killed by her husband.

  Shada scrolled down, but the story offered no clue as to the nature of the “new evidence,” concluding with a quote she would have expected from Chuck: “ ‘The charge is total bull-.’ ” Clicking on links to “related stories” pulled up nothing but earlier postings that she had read before.

  Shada sat perfectly still, her face aglow in the warm light of the computer screen. The words she had written to Chuck at her daughter’s grave replayed in her mind: “I promise I won’t let anyone blame you for what happened to me. Or for what I made them believe happened.”

  Now what?

  There was no clear answer. She owed Chuck, but was now the time to honor her promise? Or later, if and when he was formally charged? Her head hurt too much to think about it.

  Shada closed out the Web page. She thought about going to bed, but her information addiction kicked into another gear. Unopened e-mails beckoned. It took her ten minutes to get through the ones under her main identity. Then she switched to another screen name-one that allowed her to be the person she wasn’t. Seven messages, one for each day Shada had been gone. The first had hit just a few hours after Shada had left for Miami. The most recent was from last night. All were from the same woman. A lonely woman whom Shada had met only in cyberspace. They had been exchanging instant messages for almost a month, but of course Shada had told her nothing about her trip out of the country. Shada knew her only as kitty8. kitty8: Hi cutie. kitty8: Miss u. kitty8: Where r u? kitty8: r u playing hard to get? kitty8: Been thinking about u soooo much. kitty8: Do u have any clue what u r passing up?

  The string of messages ended with a playful threat: Last chance. kitty8 n88ds a FB.

  Shada smiled. She’d sent enough text messages and IMs to know that “8” was code for oral sex, and that “FB” in this context was a kind of buddy, not “Facebook.” A photograph was attached, and upon opening it, Shada had to catch her breath. She’d worked hookups online before, but this was one of those rare instances where the photograph actually lived up to the “as advertised” hype. And it left no doubt as to the kind of buddy that kitty8 needed.

  Shada typed a short reply-Let’s meet!-and hit SEND. The message was on its way.

  And kitty8 was in the bag.

  Chapter Forty-six

  The lunch crowd was thinning as Jack settled into a booth at Grunberg’s Deli in downtown Miami.

  “I’ll have the Reuben,” Jack told the waitress.

  “Same,” said Vince.

  Vince had called that morning to suggest they talk. Jack hadn’t visited Grunberg’s in years, but it had been one of Neil’s favorites, which made it the first place to come to mind when Vince had asked, “Where do you want to eat?” Real Jewish delis were becoming somewhat of a dinosaur in Miami. Jack could remember bygone places like Wolfie’s, Pumpernik’s, and Rascal House-sticky and shopworn institutions that were last refurbished when The Honeymooners was live on television, where the food was plentiful but never really outstanding. The experience was the draw. As Neil used to say, the hamantaschen were passable and the macaroons were okay, but there was strange comfort in knowing that perhaps it was a long-dead relative who’d left that stuffed cabbage leaf wedged beneath your booth.

  “Nothing for me, thank you,” said Alicia.

  Jack hadn’t expected Vince to bring his wife to their meeting, but it made sense. Jack had the advantage of being able to read Vince’s expressions. Alicia leveled the nonverbal playing field.

  “Eat something,” said the waitress. “You’re too thin.”

  It was standard banter between strangers in a deli like Grunberg’s, but Alicia didn’t quite know how to respond.

  Vince said, “You do seem to have lost a couple pounds, honey.”

  “I’m the same weight I’ve always been.”

  “I’m not so sure about that,” said Vince.

  It occurred to Jack that the only way for Vince to have gained that impression was through the sense of touch. There was something to envy in a married man who knew his wife’s body so thoroughly. Jack wondered if he could have done the same with Andie.

  Alicia caved and ordered a bowl of matzoh ball soup, barely enough to make the waitress tuck the lunch ticket into her apron and leave them alone.

  “Again, I wanted to say I’m very sorry about Neil Goderich,” said Vince. “This is not an official police visit, but I did want to give you my thoughts on the man who killed your friend.”

  Jack helped himself to a pickle from the platter on their table. “I’m all ears.”

  “First, from what I’ve learned, it seems obvious that the killer was not blind.”

  Jack did a double take, then glanced at Alicia. She leaner closer to Vince and took her husband’s hand.

  “I didn’t know anyone had suggested the killer was blind,” said Jack.

  Vince laced his fingers with his wife’s. “The same goes for the man who killed Jamal Wakefield. Definitely not the work of a man without sight.”

  Again Jack glanced at Alicia, but she cast her eyes downward as she gently stroked the back of her husband’s hand.

  “No one would dispute that,” said Jack.

  “Which is what makes the case of Ethan Chang so interesting,” said Vince. “The medical examiner won’t say what killed him, but it was a toxin that entered his body through the top of his foot
. The mall security tape captures a highly suspicious moment of contact.”

  “Yes, I’ve seen it.”

  “Then you know,” said Vince. “Someone pretending to be blind jabbed Ethan Chang with his walking stick.”

  “How do you know he was posing, as opposed to really blind?”

  “Generally speaking, blind guys don’t have that good of an aim.”

  Brilliant question, Swyteck. “I guess you got me there,” said Jack.

  “It’s not just that,” said Alicia. “Tell him.”

  Vince drew a breath, then let it out. “If you think about it, someone went to a lot of trouble to orchestrate the death of Ethan Chang. If Chang had information about a secret detention site that someone would kill to keep secret, the easiest thing would have been to put a bullet in the back of his head. Instead, the killer pretended to be blind and jabbed him with his stick. You have to ask yourself: Why?”

  Jack considered it. “No good reason comes to mind.”

  “He’s jabbing me,” said Vince, his voice tightening. “There is no doubt in my mind that this is the work of McKenna’s killer. Which makes him the same guy who took away my sight. He’s jabbing me with the stick he gave me.”

  Jack didn’t know how to respond, but the reasoning was far from flawed. “So this is personal,” said Jack.

  “Isn’t it for you?”

  Jack didn’t have to answer.

  Alicia touched her husband’s shoulder, and Jack noted their silent communication, the connection between them. It wasn’t overdone, but it was constant in one form or another-the hand-holding; the gentle touches; the way they sat so close to each other, with shoulders, elbows, and forearms brushing together. It didn’t bother Jack, except for the way it served as such a vivid reminder that he and his fiancee-sighted couples all over the world, for that matter-were moving into the digital world of texting and tweeting, the complete loss of communication through physical contact. Vince and Alicia had what Jack and Andie had lost, in spades.