Lopez was the unit supervisor of the Crime Scene Squad at Miami Beach Police Department, and he was working the suspicious death on Lincoln Road Mall. Vince’s meeting with him had lasted almost an hour that morning, while Alicia was in church.
“Dead guy’s name is Ethan Chang,” said Vince. “A twenty-nine-year-old ex-pat who was living in Prague.”
“What was he doing over there?”
“No idea. Probably chasing Czech fashion models.”
“Probably the same reason he went to Miami Beach last night.”
“Only if he works fast. He flew into MIA yesterday and was ticketed on a return flight to Prague tonight.”
As if on cue, the rumble of a jet at thirty thousand feet cut through the night sky. Vince waited for the distant noise to fade away completely, then said, “He had pictures of Jamal Wakefield with him.”
“Pictures?”
“He had a cell phone, too. Jack Swyteck’s number was in the call history.”
“He talked to Swyteck before he died?”
“Turns out Swyteck was at a sidewalk cafe about fifty feet away when the guy dropped dead on Lincoln Road Mall. Detective Lopez took his statement last night.”
“Is Swyteck a suspect?”
“No. His story is that an anonymous informant called him yesterday and told him to meet at eight o’clock on the mall. The guy promised to bring Swyteck some photographs to support Jamal Wakefield’s alibi.”
“What alibi?”
Vince told her, and he took the long pause as a sign of her incredulity. Finally, Alicia said, “So the photographs show that Wakefield was held in some kind of a detention facility in Prague when McKenna was murdered?”
“I’m sure that’s what Swyteck will argue in court.”
“Exactly what did Lopez tell you is in the pictures?”
“It’s definitely Jamal. He’s handcuffed. He looks tired and scared. But there’s no way to tell where he is or when the photos were taken.”
“Does he look like Jamal Wakefield from Miami, or like Khaled al-Jawar from Somalia?”
“Clean shaven, like Jamal. But he didn’t have long hair and a beard when he arrived in Guantanamo. So these photographs could have been taken when he was in Gitmo-after the murder.”
“Could have been? Or were?”
“Were,” said Vince. “Definitely were, if you ask me.”
“Are they ruling his death a homicide?”
“Toxicology report will take a few weeks. But they found a suspicious mark on his ankle. So, unofficially, yeah. Lopez is going with foul play. Probably will call in Miami-Dade Homicide.”
Alicia couldn’t help chuckling. “What’s the theory-somebody jabbed him with a poison-tipped umbrella a la James Bond?”
Vince didn’t answer.
“You’re joking, right?” she said.
He turned in his chair and removed his sunglasses, as if to look her in the eye. “Do I look like I’m joking?” he asked, his tone taking on an edge. “Is there anything about this that should strike me as remotely funny?”
“Vince, come on.”
“No, I’ve kept my head about this for three years. I’ve been upbeat. I’ve been positive. I’ve done all the things that make people say they admire me right before they go home and tell their wife, ‘Thank God I’m not Vince Paulo.’ ”
“They don’t say that.”
“Yes, they do, Alicia. And I’m okay with it. Most of the time. But not right now. Jamal Wakefield is back, he’s got himself a couple of smart lawyers, and they’ve cooked up a really clever alibi. How do you expect me to act?”
“I don’t expect anything. I’m just a little worried about you.”
“Of course you are. Everybody is. The blind guy gets sad, and it’s because all blind people are depressed. The blind guy gets angry, and it’s because all blind people are bitter. Why can’t I have the same emotions everybody else has? Why does everyone assume that if there’s a smile on my face, it’s fake, and if there’s no smile on my face, it’s because I hate my life? I hate Jamal Wakefield-that’s what I hate. And there is nothing wrong with my wanting to nail the son of a bitch who butchered McKenna Mays and left me like this.”
He felt her touch again, but he pulled his hand away.
“Vince, I don’t think I like what I’m hearing.”
“Then go to bed,” he said as he reached for his cell phone.
“Who are you calling?”
“Jack Swyteck,” he said, dialing.
“Vince, don’t. You’ve been drinking.”
He kept dialing.
“It’s after eleven,” said Alicia.
Vince ignored her. On the third ring, Swyteck answered his cell.
“Swyteck, it’s Vince Paulo.”
Jack hesitated, obviously caught off guard. “How are you, Vince?”
“Been better. I know it’s late, but there are a couple things I just need to get off my chest.”
“Okay,” said Swyteck, some trepidation in his voice. “I’m listening.”
“None of this would be an issue if we didn’t know each other. But you and I have some history, so it needs to be said.”
“You’re right. That history, as you say, is one of the reasons I’ve been so reluctant to get involved. And I didn’t want to rush into making ridiculous accusations against the U.S. government about black sites. I’ve gone back and forth on this, but there’s too much tipping the other way, Vince. Even Chuck Mays seems to have his doubts, and now we have Mr. Chang suddenly silenced. I’m taking the case. I was actually going to call you.”
“When? After the opening statement?”
“I don’t want this to become personal.”
“Funny,” said Vince, “but the only time people say that is when they know it already is.”
The lawyer didn’t answer.
Vince said, “Chuck Mays told me about the conversation he had with you at his house yesterday morning.”
“I figured he would. I know you two are friends.”
“But friends don’t always agree,” Vince said. “You understand what I’m saying?”
“I think I do.”
“Well, let me spell it out for you. You mentioned Chuck as a reason for taking the case. If, in any way, Chuck conveyed some concerns about indicting the right man, I want you to know that I don’t share his doubts.”
“That’s your view.”
“If you want to get literal about it, you might say it was my last view. I was the one who found McKenna in her room. I was holding McKenna in my arms when she tried to look up and told me who did it. But all that will come out at trial.”
“It will, which is why I don’t think this conversation is-”
“No, you need to hear what I have to say. You go ahead and represent Jamal Wakefield. I don’t care. The truth is, I want him to have a good lawyer. Because I want him convicted, and I don’t want him filing appeals for the next ten years claiming that his counsel was ineffective. I want the conviction to stick.”
“I understand.”
“No, you don’t understand, Swyteck. You can’t possibly understand. I want it to stick, and I will do what it takes to make it stick. Count on it.”
Vince hung up, and it was only then that he realized how tightly he was squeezing the phone. He breathed in and out, then massaged the pain between his eyes.
