Vincent Paulo hated Sunday nights. Always had. It was the thought of Monday morning that dragged him down. Tonight, however, the culprit was Saturday night-the fallout from what had happened yesterday evening at Lincoln Road Mall, to be exact.
“Are you coming to bed?” asked Alicia.
It was almost eleven, and he was seated in a rocking chair on the screened-in porch, facing their backyard. Crickets made their music in the bushes. Water gurgled from the fountain in the garden. Vince was on his third beer since the Miami Heat had fallen hopelessly behind in the third quarter of the LeBron James show.
“In a little while,” he said.
His wife waited, and he sensed her concern. Finally, her footsteps trailed away to the kitchen, and Vince returned to his thoughts.
Actually, when Vince was a little boy, it wasn’t just Sunday nights that he’d hated. Bedtime in general was a problem. Vince was afraid of the dark. He would lay awake for the longest time-for hours, it seemed, the covers pulled over his head, too scared to make a move. “Just close your eyes and go to sleep,” his mother would say. But Vince couldn’t do it. The Scooby-Doo night-light was of some comfort. But closing his eyes would have meant total darkness, and it was in that black, empty world that monsters prowled.
Ironic, he thought, that he now lived in that world-and that it was indeed a monster who had put him there.
Over the past three years Vince had tried not to think about the day he’d lost his sight, or at least not to dwell on it. Hindsight could eat you up, even on the small stuff. Going blind was definitely not small stuff. How many people could say, If only I hadn’t opened that door, I would never have lost my eyesight? Of those, how many could actually live with the result-truly live with it, as in live a happy life. Vince was determined to be one of those people.
There had been major adjustments, to be sure. For a time, he’d given up active duty completely to teach hostage negotiation at the police academy. Of all the skills that made a talented negotiator, sight was not chief among them. He was still a good listener, with sharp instincts, common sense, and street smarts. He could still intuit things from a hostage taker’s tone of voice over the phone, or from a mere pause in the conversation. In fact, losing his sight had seemed to strengthen those other, more important skills. Proof of that had come just a few months after his return to work, when, in his first job as a blind negotiator, he’d talked down a homeless guy from a bridge. That feat paled in comparison to the subsequent crisis that had put him in the national spotlight. A delusional and well-armed gunman took four people hostage in a motel and demanded to speak with the mayor’s daughter. One of those hostages was Theo Knight-Jack Swyteck’s best friend. And now Swyteck was returning the favor by defending Jamal Wakefield.
You’re welcome, asshole.
Alicia came up behind him and slid her arms around his shoulders. “Why are you so quiet tonight?”
He took a long pull from his beer bottle, as if to tell her that he was in no mood to talk.
“Mind if I join you?” she asked, but he didn’t answer.
“I’ll get a couple more beers,” she said.
“I’m good,” he said.
“Then I’ll get one for myself,” she said as she started toward the kitchen.
It was hard for Vince to imagine life without Alicia, even if he had broken off their relationship after the accident. They’d reunited and then married only after Vince was convinced that there was no pity in those beautiful eyes he could no longer look into. At the first sign that she had stood by him out of sympathy, he would relieve her of that obligation and move on with his life. And he would be happy. That was a solid place to be, emotionally, and it had taken him many months-years-to get there.
The apprehension of Jamal Wakefield had sent him tumbling back to square one.
“I brought you a frosted mug,” she said.
“I said I was good,” he told her.
He heard Alicia put the mug on the coffee table and settle into the rocking chair beside him. “Knock the Biggest Loser-sized chip off your shoulder, Vince.”
She was right, and he knew it. “Sorry.”
“Apology accepted.”
Somewhere in the yard, bullfrogs croaked in the night. A cool breeze through the screen felt good on his face. Alicia reached over and touched his hand, which felt even better.
“Are you going to make me drag it out of you,” she said, “or are you going to tell me how your meeting went with Detective Lopez?”
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.
“Vince, I-”
“Don’t say it,” he told her.
Alicia reached out and laced her fingers with his. “I love you,” she said.
Vince let out another deep breath. “That’s the best news I’ve heard all day.”