Read Afraid of the Dark Online
Authors: James Grippando
J
ack could smell the rain approaching. He was standing outside Club Inversion on the onlookers’ side of the yellow line of police tape. A breeze kicked up and blew Neil’s hat off. Jack picked it up.
“Investigators better hurry,” said Neil. “Gonna rain.”
The downpour in Coconut Grove was definitely headed their way. Maybe it was all the cops around, but Jack was reminded of the time Vince Paulo had shown him how the smells that warned of rain in Miami were as poignant as the sight of thunderclouds over the Everglades. Jack closed his eyes, breathing in the hint of rain—and trying to comprehend the turn of events. But when he opened his eyes, the Miami-Dade Police and Miami Beach Police perimeter control were still on the scene. Investigators were still combing over the vehicle that had given up Jamal’s foot and ankle bracelet. A media van was even pulling up. It was all real.
It wasn’t a dream.
Neil got the attention of a Miami-Dade officer on the other side of the tape, a woman in uniform. “Hey, can you find Detective Burton?”
Burton was the homicide detective handling the Lincoln Road Mall investigation. Obviously Miami-Dade PD had picked up on a possible connection between the two deaths and called out Burton.
“I’m sure the detective is busy,” said the cop.
“I spoke to him on the phone,” said Neil. “He told me that he would meet us here.”
“Who are you?” she said.
Neil told her, and the words made Jack feel as if the world had been turned upside down: “We’re the lawyers for the victim.”
The victim.
He and Neil exchanged glances, as if they were feeling the same sense of flip-flop and disconnect.
“I’ll see if he’s here,” the cop told them.
Jack’s gaze swung back toward the rental car. It was parked at the curb on the other side of the four-lane street. Traffic was light at this hour on a Sunday, but perimeter control wouldn’t let Jack close enough to see exactly what the investigators were doing. Blood samples were definitely being collected from the trunk.
“What do you think happened?” asked Neil.
“I sure as hell don’t think he ran,” said Jack.
“Trapped animals do it,” said Neil. “They’ll chew off their own feet to get free.”
“He’s not a mink.”
Jack felt the first raindrop. He looked up to the sky, which was growing darker by the minute. The investigators moved faster, kicking into another gear to beat the weather.
“Do you think he’s alive?” asked Neil.
“Not if he didn’t get medical attention.”
“That was one of the first things I asked Detective Burton. Unfortunately, not a single emergency room in the county treated that kind of injury last night.”
“The loss of blood has to be tremendous.”
“But not necessarily fatal,” said Neil.
“Are you a doctor, or do you just play one on TV?”
“A few years ago I took my daughter hiking in New Mexico to a place called Sky City. It’s what the Spaniards thought was the Seven Cities of Gold. Our guide told us that when they enslaved the local Indians, each adult male had a foot severed to keep him from running. I can’t imagine they rushed to the emergency room in the sixteenth century.”
It was an interesting story, but Jack was staying with his gut instinct. “Somebody killed him.”
“Why?” asked Neil.
“Clearly, it was someone who didn’t want the body to be recovered. Otherwise, they would have just put a bullet in his head and let the police find him still attached to the ankle bracelet.”
“That makes no sense,” said Neil. “Why leave a foot behind that allows for a positive identification, but take the body?”
Jack thought about it. “It only makes sense if they needed to keep him alive for a while. If you cut these Omnilink bracelets, an alarm goes off. Cops would have immediately come looking. Whoever did this needed to take him someplace alive and took extreme measures to make sure the police wouldn’t track them down.”
“Take him why?”
“So that they could get something out of him.”
Neil seemed to catch his drift. “Torture and interrogate?”
“You got it,” said Jack. “Maybe pick up where they left off in that secret detention facility in Prague. Get the information they couldn’t get out of him three years ago.”
“And then what?”
“This time they kill him,” said Jack. “Just like they killed McKenna.”
“Shit,” said Neil. “With that kind of follow-up interrogation, it’s no wonder the CIA doesn’t want to talk about that secret site.”
“Be careful with that,” said Jack. “We’re pretty sure it’s not a CIA site.”
“Okay, a secret site operated by a private security firm that was hired by the Department of Defense.”
“I’m even having my doubts about that. A severed foot. What does that remind you of?”
It took a few moments, but Neil had a thought. “That serial killer in Canada. Remember all those severed feet in sneakers that kept washing up on the beaches of the Georgia Straits in British Columbia?”
Jack hadn’t even thought about that, but Neil had defended several serial killers over the years, so it was no wonder that his mind had gone there.
“I was thinking more along the lines of organized crime,” said Jack.
“That was a severed horse head in
The Godfather
, not a foot.”
“I’m talking real life. It was the discovery of a severed foot in a vacant lot that finally unraveled the mystery of how Joseph Massino got rid of three captains in one night to become the undisputed boss of the Bonanno crime family.”
“How do you know that?”
“It’s one of the FBI’s proudest moments. You keep forgetting I’m engaged to an undercover agent.”
“Mr. Goderich?” the Miami-Dade detective said.
Detective Burton surprised them, having approached from behind. Jack felt a few more raindrops as they shook hands, and it was now falling steadily enough for droplets to bead on Burton’s clean-shaven head.
“Any news?” asked Neil.
“Only bad, I’m afraid,” said Burton. “We found the body.”
Jack knew it was coming, but the news still hit him like a punch to the gut. “Where?”
“Everglades National Park. Near a canoe launch.”
It was like another body blow, but Jack kept his reaction to himself.
“I’m headed there now,” said Burton. “I’ll keep you posted.”
Jack watched as the detective ducked under the yellow tape and walked toward his car. The rain was coming hard enough to trigger a few umbrellas. Investigators were scrambling to protect the scene with sheets of plastic.
“We should go, too,” said Neil.
“Didn’t you hear the location of the body?” said Jack.
“Of course. I was standing right here.”
“Everglades National Park near a canoe launch. That’s the same place they found Shada Mays’ car after she disappeared.”
“Wow, that’s interesting.”
“It’s more than interesting,” said Jack, and he was speaking his thoughts as quickly as they came to him. “Police suspected that Shada was tracking her daughter’s killer when she vanished. Supposedly, Shada had some e-mail or other communications with him over the Internet. The cops’ theory was that the killer was Jamal, and when Shada pushed too hard to get him to turn himself in, Jamal killed her, dumped her body in the Everglades, and tried to made it look like a suicide.”
Neil had a pained expression, as if he wanted to follow Jack’s reasoning, but wasn’t quite with him. “So somebody cuts off Jamal’s foot and dumps his body where McKenna’s mother disappeared. Why?”
“Not just somebody,” said Jack. “I think we’re talking about McKenna’s killer. The same guy who killed Shada when she started closing in on him. The same guy who killed Jamal as soon as he got out of jail and—maybe—picked up on the trail Shada was following.”
“Could be,” said Neil. “Unfortunately, we don’t have a client anymore. So I’m not sure what we can do about it.”
“I know what I want to do,” said Jack.
“What?”
“I’m going to have another talk with Chuck Mays.”
I
t was Monday evening when Jack returned to the Mays estate on Tahiti Beach in CocoPlum.
For nearly two days, his phone calls to Chuck Mays had gone unanswered, and an unannounced visit seemed too confrontational. Finally, a secretary called from MLFC headquarters late Monday afternoon to say that Mr. May’s would be jet-lagged but expecting Jack at his house around nine
P.M.
Jack rang the doorbell and waited.
“In the backyard,” said Mays, his voice crackling over the intercom speaker at the entrance. “I’m making s’mores.”
S’mores?
Jack didn’t verbalize his thoughts, but his expression was caught on a security camera, and Mays’ voice crackled again on the speaker.
“Don’t act like you don’t fucking like them, Swyteck.”
An Eagle Scout couldn’t have said it better.
The door unlocked with an automated
click
, which Jack took as his invitation to enter unescorted. The rear of the house was a wall of windows, and from the foyer Jack could see all the way through to the backyard. Beyond the patio, on a finger of land that protruded into the moonlit waterway, a campfire glowed in the darkness. The sliding-glass door was unlocked, and Jack followed the path of stepping-stones around the pool and through the garden to find Chuck Mays seated on a log before a crackling fire. It was a cool night for Miami, but it was still south Florida, which meant that Mays was wearing hiking shorts, flip-flops, and a T-shirt that said,
1f u c4n r34d th1s, u r34lly n33d 2 g3t l41d.
If you can read this, you really need to get laid.
The speed with which he’d decoded it troubled Jack.
Damn, I miss Andie.
Mays handed him a skewered marshmallow, seeming to sense that Jack had solved the riddle. “S’mores are the next best thing,” he said.
A light breeze was blowing in from the water, but it was still too warm for a jacket. As Jack removed his, the wind shifted and the smoke overcame him, sending Jack scrambling to the other side of the campfire, where he could breathe.
“S’mores were McKenna’s favorite when she was a little girl,” said Mays. He stuffed the toasted marshmallow between two graham crackers and waited for the chocolate to melt. Jack found a hot spot above some glowing embers and held his marshmallow over it. Mays stuffed the gooey treat into his mouth, chewing roundly.
“So tell me what’s on your mind, Jack.”
It seemed absurd to discuss Jamal under these circumstances. More precisely, it
would have
seemed absurd, if it hadn’t felt so choreographed. This was all staged, of course—Mays taking the steam out of a potential confrontation by holding a fireside chat with his mouth full of McKenna’s favorite childhood snack.
“Jamal is on my mind,” said Jack. “I’m trying to figure out who cut off his foot, tortured him to death, and then dumped his body less than two hundred yards from where your wife disappeared in the Everglades.”
“You’re on fire,” said Mays.
“What?”
“Your marshmallow is burning.”
Jack yanked it out of the fire, and the flaming mess dropped like red-hot lava onto his foot, just above the shoe leather. Jack jumped up and let out a yelp, then smothered the flame with his jacket. It had burned through his sock, and he was sure the skin would blister. Mays roared with laughter, and Jack decided not to say what he was thinking.
Mays looked at him and said, “No, I’m not.”
“You’re not what?” said Jack.
“You think I’m enjoying this.”
Jack felt chills. He was dead-on.
The guy really is a genius.
“Truth is,” said Mays, “I haven’t enjoyed a damn thing in three years.”
Jack couldn’t imagine ever being friends with Mays, but it was impossible not to feel sorry for a man who’d lost so much. Even though Jack knew he was risking a punch in the nose, he could think of only one response.
“Jamal didn’t kill your daughter.”
Mays narrowed his eyes, and Jack braced himself for that punch.
“I guess we’ll never know,” said Mays.
“I think his killer is the same person who killed your wife. And I think whoever killed your wife also killed your daughter.”
The fire hissed, and the last remnants of Jack’s marshmallow burst into flames on a charred log.
Jack continued. “Technically, the attorney-client privilege survives the death of a client, but there are things about his detention in Prague that would have come out at trial, and that Jamal wanted you to know. For one, Jamal’s interrogators threatened to kill McKenna if he didn’t talk.”
That drew a slight reaction—enough for Jack to discern that it was the first time Mays had heard it.
“What did they want to know?” asked Mays.
“The questions were all about the work he was doing for you. Project Round Up, to be specific.”
“I don’t talk about that.”
“Neither did Jamal—which got him killed. So tell me: Why would someone in Prague interrogate him about Project Round Up?”
No response. A burning log shifted, sending sparks fluttering upward like a swarm of fireflies.
“Does it have to do with national security?” Jack asked. “Rounding up terrorists?”
Mays stared into the fire, apparently unwilling even to consider the question.
“I know much more than you think I do,” said Jack, though he was careful not to use Andie’s name. “I know that the FBI seized Jamal’s computers after McKenna was murdered, and that they found encrypted messages that related to terrorist organizations.”
Mays leaned forward, poking at the ashes with his stick. “I don’t know anything about that.”
“Did you know his father was a recruiter for al-Shabaab?”
“I wouldn’t know al-Shabaab from shish kebab.”
“You didn’t answer my question.”
“Nobody told me anything about his old man until after Jamal was indicted for murder.”
Jack hesitated, but this was getting frustrating. “We’re tap dancing here,” said Jack, “so let me just say it straight: I don’t believe you.”
“I don’t care.”
“You will. Because I’ve got a theory, and I think it’s a good one. Like everyone else in your business, you want to be the go-to guy for technology and homeland security.”
“Is that a crime?”
“No. But it’s not merely patriotic. It’s profitable. I think you and Jamal were working on a supercomputer that could find and tap into encrypted messages between suspected terrorists. I think Jamal was using his father to get access to those messages so that you could test your decoding algorithms. Maybe Jamal even pretended to be sympathetic to his father’s cause. That’s what got him on somebody’s terrorist watch list. That’s what got him abducted and taken to a black site in Prague for interrogation. And that’s why his father was willing to help him when he ran to Somalia.”
Mays mocked him with a round of slow, hollow applause. “You’ve given this a lot of thought, haven’t you?”
“Am I right?”
“Not even close. But let me know when you sell the movie rights. I’ll pop the popcorn for you.”
“I can handle that on my own,” said Jack. “But there’s something else you can help me with.”
“Yeah, there’s something you can help me with, too,” Mays said, his hand moving up and down in a vulgar gesture.
Jack ignored it. “After your wife disappeared, a Miami-Dade homicide detective questioned Jamal’s mother. He told her that Shada was following her own leads, trying to find McKenna’s killer. She had some online communications—possibly with the killer himself. Do you know anything about that?”
“Nope.”
“The cops thought it was Jamal she was in contact with, but I don’t believe it was. Like I said, I think there are three victims here—McKenna, Shada, and Jamal—but only one killer. I’d love to get my hands on those online communications.”
“I can’t help you there.”
Jack could have recited the man’s résumé to dispute it. “Here’s the thing,” said Jack. “If your supercomputers can search eight billion files in an instant—which is what you told me yours can do—then you most certainly
can
help me. What you’re telling me is that you
won’t
.”
“Same bottom line,” said Mays.
Jack rose. He knew that Mays was the key to any computer-related evidence involving his wife, but it was clear that tonight was not going to be the breakthrough. He just needed to plant the right seed.
“You’re right: McKenna’s killer remains unpunished, free to kill again. Same bottom line.”
Jack grabbed his jacket and headed back toward the house, feeling a surprising chill in the night air as he distanced himself from the fire.
“Swyteck,” said Mays.
Jack stopped and turned. He was halfway through the garden.
“You got a few more minutes?” asked Mays.
Jack shrugged. He had all night, if that was what it was going to take. “Sure. What’s up?”
Mays pushed himself up from his seat on the log and started toward him on the footpath. “There’s something I want to show you.”