Jack ran to his grandfather’s room.
It was creepy the way the message had referenced Pio Nono, and Jack feared it was a threat-aimed not just at him, but also at the man who had been shouting those words at the top of his voice.
“Are you okay?” he asked as he rushed toward the bed.
Grandpa was breathing but was out like a light, his mouth wide open. Ativan, Jack presumed-one of the anti-anxiety medications made famous by the Michael Jackson homicide, better known in nursing homes as the day-shift relief drug: Load up the patient at lunchtime, chart him as “nonresponsive” through sunset, and let the night shift deal with him. Jack would have a word with the prescribing doctor later.
He pulled up a chair beside the bed, retrieved the number from his cell history, and returned the call. After two rings there was a voice on the line.
“Got your attention, I see.”
“Who is this?” asked Jack.
“Someone you need to talk to.”
“How did you know I was in the middle of a conversation about Pio Nono when you texted me?”
“I heard you,” the man said, his scoff crackling over the line. “Is there any other way?”
For all the concern over confused residents wandering out of the building, Sunny Gardens wasn’t nearly vigilant enough about checking visitors. “Are you in the building?”
“That’s enough questions. Just shut up, relax, and listen. I’m not calling to threaten you or blackmail you. I’m calling to help.”
“Help me what?”
“Defend Jamal Wakefield.”
An aide knocked and entered to clear away Grandpa’s lunch tray, making enough noise to wake anyone who wasn’t overmedicated. Jack stepped into the bathroom for privacy, closed the door, and turned on the exhaust fan to cover his voice.
“How are you going to help?” asked Jack.
“I know things.”
“What kind of things?”
The man paused, then said, “I know where Jamal was when McKenna Mays was murdered.”
Jack gripped the phone even tighter. “Where?”
“Exactly where he said he was.”
Yesterday’s court hearing had been closed, so the alleged black site in the Czech Republic was not yet public information. Jack wasn’t going to supply the answer for him. “And where would that be?” he asked.
“Prague,” the man said. “In a warehouse two kilometers from the airport, to be exact.”
It was the kind of detail that added credibility; not even Jamal had known the exact location. “Are you telling me that my client was in a detention facility at the time of the murder?”
Silence. But Jack could tell that he was still there. “How do you know where Jamal was?” asked Jack.
There was another stretch of silence, and Jack wasn’t sure if he had a liar, a crank, or just a reluctant witness.
“How do you know?” said Jack.
Finally, an answer: “I’m the guy who took him there.”
Jack’s heart nearly skipped a beat. “Listen, we need to meet. If you’re still anywhere near this building, I can do it now.”
“Now is not good.”
“I’ll come to you,” said Jack.
“Not now.”
“Don’t play games.”
“It’s not a game. Problem is, I don’t have the photographs with me. You’re definitely gonna want them.”
“You have actual pictures that show where Jamal was?”
“What do you think, Abu Ghraib is the only place they had a camera?”
This was starting to sound too good to be true. Then again, it wasn’t so long ago that photographs of naked prisoners stacked into human pyramids, men on dog leashes, and other forms of abuse at Abu Ghraib prison in Iraq would have seemed unimaginable.
“You name the time and place,” said Jack. “I’ll be there.”
“Tonight. Eight o’clock. Go to any of the cafes by the Lincoln Theatre and sit outside on the mall. When I’m convinced that you came alone, I’ll find you.”
“See you then,” said Jack, but the caller was already gone.