“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.
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
