Jack wondered about the origin of that expression-“cold as hell”-but that was a debate better had over beers. “Theo, why don’t you see if you can steal us some hot coffees from that restaurant we passed on the way over here?”
“Like that’s gonna help.” Theo did another one of his little huffs, trying to make his breath steam. This time, it worked-barely-which set Theo off like a boy in his first snowfall. “Did you see that? We’re in Miami, it technically ain’t even winter yet, and my breath steamed!”
Jack was tempted to say something about the expulsion of hot air, but he let it go. “Theo, how about that coffee?”
He finally took the hint. When his friend was out of earshot, Jack said, “Look, detective, I’m willing to help you out here. But why don’t you just call me later on tonight, unless there’s something you really need to ask me right now.”
Detective Barber glanced toward the abandoned car. The examiners were getting ready to lift the body onto a gurney. “Just one thing I’d like to know,” he said, his gaze turning back toward Jack. “Where’s your client?”
It sounded like a stupid question, but the detective’s expression said otherwise. Jack said, “Are you telling me that’s not Falcon in the trunk of that car?”
Detective Barber shook his head.
Jack said, “I didn’t want to touch anything, so we didn’t move the body. He was all wrapped up in blankets from the cold. I guess we didn’t get that good a look. I just assumed-”
“Don’t beat yourself up,” said the detective. “With the victim’s face bashed in that bad, about all you could do was assume. At least until we got here.”
“You’re sure it’s not him?”
“Not unless he had a sex change in the last couple days.”
Jack felt a rush of panic. “It’s not-”
“Alicia Mendoza? No, no. If that were the mayor’s daughter, we’d have every media van in the tri-county area upon us by now. This is a much older woman, fiftysomething, maybe sixties. I suspect she’s another one of Miami’s homeless. Falcon probably found her all snug and warm in his favorite spot, freaked out, and let her have it.”
“You have a murder weapon?”
“We suspect it was the lead pipe found next to the car. Traces of blood and human hair on it. It would take something substantial like that to account for the blunt trauma. Your boy literally bashed her face in.”
“He’s not my boy,” said Jack.
“No, that’s true,” Barber said, smiling. Then he chuckled. “He’s just your client.”
“What’s so funny?” said Jack.
“No offense, counselor. But something deep inside my jaded cop existence takes perverse pleasure in the fact that a criminal defense lawyer called the cops to report a murder committed by his own client.” He was chuckling again. “Sorry. I just can’t help myself.”
Jack could already hear the Swyteck jokes coursing through the hallways of the Miami-Dade Criminal Justice Building. In these situations, there was only one comeback. “How do you know my client did it?”
The detective’s smile faded. “I think we can safely assume-”
Jack held up his hand, stopping him. “One erroneous assumption per crime scene, please.”
“Oh, come off it, Swyteck. In another two hours, we’ll have enough physical evidence against your client to fill an entire crime lab.”
“But you still may not have my client.”
“We’ll find him.”
Jack leaned closer, as if to make it clear that he wasn’t kidding around on this point. “When you do, be sure you remind him to call me.”
Suddenly, someone near the river was shouting at the top of his voice. Both Jack and the detective turned to check out the commotion. It was a combination of words and wailing, loud but utterly incomprehensible. The detective said, “Looks like we got a friend of the victim. Excuse me, Swyteck.”
Jack stayed put as the detective headed toward the river. He watched only long enough to make sure that the screamer wasn’t his client. It wasn’t. Jack turned away from the police tape and started back toward the footpath in search of Theo.
“Hey, mon. You Falcon’s lawyer?”
Jack turned at the sound of the Jamaican’s voice. He was dressed in blue jeans and an old hunting jacket, with thick smears of black grease amid the blotches of camouflage. The boots were in even worse condition, and they were both for the left foot. His tangled dreadlocks were tucked up into a bulging knit cap atop his head. It probably wouldn’t have looked quite so strange if he hadn’t wrapped it in aluminum foil.
“Who are you?”
“They call me the Bushman.”
“Do you know Falcon?”
The man’s eyes darted back and forth. He gestured frantically with both hands, telling Jack without words to keep his voice down. Whoever this guy was, he appeared to be even more paranoid than Falcon. “Falcon and me is friends,” he said, then stopped himself. He seemed eager to tell Jack more, but it was equally clear that he wanted to get away from the crowd. He jerked his head, a movement so quick that it bordered on spastic, but he was merely signaling Jack to follow him back toward the bridge. They walked until the Jamaican seemed comfortable with their distance from the crime scene.
“Do you know where Falcon is?” said Jack.
“He’s running.”
“Running from what?”
The Jamaican glanced back toward the cops, but he said nothing.
“Did Falcon kill that woman?” asked Jack.
The Bushman grimaced and stomped his foot, as if he’d just bitten into a sourball the size of a melon. “Shhhhhhhh,” he said, putting his finger to his lips.
Jack lowered his voice to a raspy whisper. “I’m his lawyer. You can tell me why he’s running.”
“He runs cuz he scared, mon.”
“Scared of the police?”
The Bushman scoffed so bitterly that he made a spitting sound. “He’s not scared of no police. He’s scared of her.”
“Who is she?”
He didn’t respond. Jack sensed that he knew the answer, but he just wasn’t ready to share it. Then Jack noticed the necklace around the Jamaican’s neck. It was identical to the one Falcon had worn-the one with the key to the safe deposit box on it. “Hey, that’s an interesting necklace you’re wearing. Where’d you get it?”
“Falcon gave it to me.”
“He gave it or-” Jack checked his words, not wanting to shut down the conversation by coming across as too accusatory. “Or did you borrow it?”
“I don’t borrow nothin’, mon. He gave it to me. For protection.”
“Protection from what?”
The Jamaican’s gaze drifted back toward the crime scene. “Dat’s what I’m trying to tell you. Falcon says we all need protection. From her, mon.”
“The dead woman? Who is she?”
The Bushman leaned closer, cupping his hand to his mouth as he whispered, “She the Mother.”
“Mother? You mean like a bad motha’?”
“No. She’s their mother.”
“Whose mother?”
His voice became so soft that Jack could barely hear him. “Of the Disappeared, mon.”
“She’s the mother of the disappeared?” said Jack, confused.
A look of horror came over the Jamaican’s face, as if he could scarcely believe that Jack had uttered the words aloud. Jack said, “What does that mean-she’s the mother of the disappeared?”
The Jamaican stepped away in obvious fright, balling his necklace tightly into his fist and clutching it against his chest. “No, you can’t have it! Get your own protection! Dis one is mine!”
