chapter 37

J ack walked across the parking lot from the mobile command center to the fast-food restaurant. He was in search of caffeine. He found mostly testosterone.

Law enforcement had taken over the entire restaurant and surrounding property, and the SWAT members were in the dining area, waiting for the green light. Jack had bumped up against plenty of machismo before, as few Miami courtrooms were large enough to hold the average trial lawyer’s ego. But there was simply nothing quite like the collective bravado of a tactical team in full gear. It was a bizarre thought-and one that seemed unnerving to no one in the room but Jack-but in a matter of minutes, one of these guys might be pumping hollow-point ammunition into a man’s skull. The outcome depended entirely on the words Jack chose, the nuances of his tone of voice, the way he steered his next telephone conversation with Falcon. His job suddenly seemed even more overwhelming.

Jack passed by the coffee machine and went straight to the restroom. He stood at the sink, splashed cold water onto his face, and then took a good look at the man staring back at him from the mirror. He needed a shave, for sure. He removed the bandage, and there was some purple swelling around the cut at his right temple, where Falcon had said hello with the butt of his pistol. There wasn’t much other color to his skin. The worry lines appeared to be carved in wax, the stress written all over his face. It reminded him of the time his father had signed Theo’s death warrant and Jack went running into the bathroom to throw up. “Damn, you look worse than I do,” Theo had told him when he arrived at the penitentiary. It was no joke. When it came to matters of life and death, Theo seemed to have a leg up on everybody. Jack hoped that was still the case.

“Hang in there, buddy.” Jack was speaking aloud, but in his mind, he heard Theo talking.

Jack dried his hands and started toward the door. It opened before he got there, and a plainclothes officer entered. Jack recognized him as Detective Barber from the night they’d found a woman’s body in the trunk of Falcon’s car. Jack said a quick hello, then excused himself and tried to pass. Barber closed the door and leaned back against it, blocking Jack’s way.

“You used to work with Gerry Chafetz, didn’t you?” said Barber.

It seemed like an odd time for small talk, but Jack went along. “He was my supervisor at the U.S. Attorney’s Office, back when I was a prosecutor.”

“Chafetz and I rode together when he was on the force. I called him after you and I talked the other night. He speaks highly of you.”

“That’s nice to hear.”

They stood in silence, each sizing up the other. Jack knew that this had to be about more than his old boss. “Is there something you and I need to talk about, detective?”

“Chafetz tells me that you can be trusted.”

“I like to think that’s true.”

Barber narrowed his eyes, as if to press his point. “I had a private conversation with Paulo this morning. Did he mention it to you?”

“No.”

“I need some information from Falcon, but Paulo tells me that you’re the one doing most of the talking.”

“It’s not my choice, but that seems to be the way Falcon wants it.”

Barber nodded slowly, as if Jack’s version were consistent with what Paulo had told him.

Jack said, “What are you trying to find out?”

Barber hesitated, seeming to weigh in his mind whether it was enough that Jack’s former boss had vouched for his integrity. Either it was, or Barber had run out of options. “I need to know why the mayor’s bodyguard was snooping around Falcon’s car on Thursday night.”

“You mean the night the woman was murdered?”

“That’s exactly what I mean.”

“What does the mayor have to say about that?”

“Haven’t discussed it with him yet.”

“Why not?”

“Couple reasons. Can’t really share them with you. Except for one, which you may have already figured out.”

“What’s that?”

“Oh, I’m sure you’ve heard by now how upset the mayor is that Vincent Paulo is heading up this hostage negotiation. How afraid he is that Paulo is going to get his daughter involved.”

“Oh, yeah,” said Jack. “This morning I got a police escort straight to the mayor’s car. He made it absolutely clear that Paulo is not his first choice.”

“See, that’s so very interesting to me.”

“How do you mean?”

“Because I know for a fact that it was a phone call from Mayor Mendoza to Chief Renfro that got Vince Paulo assigned to this case in the first place.”

Jack needed a few seconds to process that one. “How do you know that?”

“I’m a detective, okay?” That seemed to be all the explanation that Barber cared to offer.

Jack said, “Why would the mayor pretend that he doesn’t want Paulo in charge if he was the driving force behind the assignment?”

Barber gave a slow, exaggerated shrug, as if to say “Good question.” “Figure out a way to make your client tell us what the mayor’s bodyguard was doing down by the river the other night. Maybe we’ll get the answer.”

Jack considered it, then checked his tired expression in the mirror one last time. “Yeah,” he said quietly, “maybe.”

chapter 38

O n his way out of the restaurant, Jack stopped at the doughnut bar. He was hungry, and there was plenty to choose from. In Miami, doughnuts were to doughnut bars what sea turtles were to turtle soup. There were pastelitos, warm and flaky Cuban pastries with guava and other fillings that Sara Lee never dreamed of. Some had ham or ground beef inside, and the sweet crust with salty meat produced a surprisingly tasty combination. There were capuchinos, which were not misspelled cups of coffee but delicate sponge-cake cones drenched in sweet syrup. The empanadas and croquetas smelled pretty amazing, too, though not nearly as good as the ones Jack’s abuela made. The bottom line was, not a plain old doughnut to be had. Perhaps it was a trend. Jack had read in the New York Times or somewhere that cupcakes were now all the rage in New York precincts. Those guys still had a long way to come.

Jack grabbed a coconut pastelito and stepped outside to make a call. Talking things out always helped him think. His abuela told him that he got that from his mother. Even though Jack had never known his mother-she’d died in childbirth-he was quite confident that Ana Maria Fuentes Swyteck’s favorite sounding board had been nothing like Theo Knight. With Theo held hostage, however, Jack turned to his father to help him brainstorm. Jack wasn’t sure if the former governor could help, but Falcon had told Jack to call him. If nothing else, it might help Jack lie more convincingly if he could at least say, truthfully, that he had indeed spoken to Harry Swyteck.

“You know me,” said Jack. “I’ve never been a good liar.”

“Then you should give up defense work and go back to being a prosecutor.”

What else could he expect from a former police officer? “That’s a real belly-buster, Dad.”

“Sorry. I can hear the tightness in your voice. My bad attempt to loosen you up a little for your own good.”

“I appreciate that.”

“Have you spoken to your grandmother?” asked Harry.

“No.”

“You should try to take a minute and do that. Your name is all over the television. She’s going to be worried sick about you.”

“I’ll try. Can you call her for me, tell her I’m doing all right?”

“Are you?”

“What?”

“Doing all right?” said Harry.

Jack didn’t answer right away. “I’m doing better than Theo. Right now, that’s the test.”

“Well, it must seem absurd to hear me say this, but your friend Theo is definitely a survivor.”

He was right. It seemed beyond absurd, coming from the man who’d signed Theo’s death warrant. But Jack didn’t want to rehash that history. “I need your help.”