“Nothing for me, thank you,” said Alicia.
Jack hadn’t expected Vince to bring his wife to their meeting, but it made sense. Jack had the advantage of being able to read Vince’s expressions. Alicia leveled the nonverbal playing field.
“Eat something,” said the waitress. “You’re too thin.”
It was standard banter between strangers in a deli like Grunberg’s, but Alicia didn’t quite know how to respond.
Vince said, “You do seem to have lost a couple pounds, honey.”
“I’m the same weight I’ve always been.”
“I’m not so sure about that,” said Vince.
It occurred to Jack that the only way for Vince to have gained that impression was through the sense of touch. There was something to envy in a married man who knew his wife’s body so thoroughly. Jack wondered if he could have done the same with Andie.
Alicia caved and ordered a bowl of matzoh ball soup, barely enough to make the waitress tuck the lunch ticket into her apron and leave them alone.
“Again, I wanted to say I’m very sorry about Neil Goderich,” said Vince. “This is not an official police visit, but I did want to give you my thoughts on the man who killed your friend.”
Jack helped himself to a pickle from the platter on their table. “I’m all ears.”
“First, from what I’ve learned, it seems obvious that the killer was not blind.”
Jack did a double take, then glanced at Alicia. She leaner closer to Vince and took her husband’s hand.
“I didn’t know anyone had suggested the killer was blind,” said Jack.
Vince laced his fingers with his wife’s. “The same goes for the man who killed Jamal Wakefield. Definitely not the work of a man without sight.”
Again Jack glanced at Alicia, but she cast her eyes downward as she gently stroked the back of her husband’s hand.
“No one would dispute that,” said Jack.
“Which is what makes the case of Ethan Chang so interesting,” said Vince. “The medical examiner won’t say what killed him, but it was a toxin that entered his body through the top of his foot. The mall security tape captures a highly suspicious moment of contact.”
“Yes, I’ve seen it.”
“Then you know,” said Vince. “Someone pretending to be blind jabbed Ethan Chang with his walking stick.”
“How do you know he was posing, as opposed to really blind?”
“Generally speaking, blind guys don’t have that good of an aim.”
Brilliant question, Swyteck. “I guess you got me there,” said Jack.
“It’s not just that,” said Alicia. “Tell him.”
Vince drew a breath, then let it out. “If you think about it, someone went to a lot of trouble to orchestrate the death of Ethan Chang. If Chang had information about a secret detention site that someone would kill to keep secret, the easiest thing would have been to put a bullet in the back of his head. Instead, the killer pretended to be blind and jabbed him with his stick. You have to ask yourself: Why?”
Jack considered it. “No good reason comes to mind.”
“He’s jabbing me,” said Vince, his voice tightening. “There is no doubt in my mind that this is the work of McKenna’s killer. Which makes him the same guy who took away my sight. He’s jabbing me with the stick he gave me.”
Jack didn’t know how to respond, but the reasoning was far from flawed. “So this is personal,” said Jack.
“Isn’t it for you?”
Jack didn’t have to answer.
Alicia touched her husband’s shoulder, and Jack noted their silent communication, the connection between them. It wasn’t overdone, but it was constant in one form or another—the hand-holding; the gentle touches; the way they sat so close to each other, with shoulders, elbows, and forearms brushing together. It didn’t bother Jack, except for the way it served as such a vivid reminder that he and his fiancée—sighted couples all over the world, for that matter—were moving into the digital world of texting and tweeting, the complete loss of communication through physical contact. Vince and Alicia had what Jack and Andie had lost, in spades.
The gift of blindness. The curse of sight.
“Excuse me for a minute,” said Alicia. She squeezed Vince’s hand as she rose, as if the unsaid words were passing from her hand to his. They had an understanding. This was the predetermined point in the conversation where Alicia was supposed to leave, and she was keeping her end of the agreement. This would be between Jack and Vince, and no one else. She gave him a kiss and left the table. When the click of her heels on the tile floor faded, Vince spoke.
“Chuck Mays knows where Shada lives. She’s in London.”
“I just read in today’s paper that he’s about to be arrested for killing her.”
“That’s a plant,” said Vince. “I fed that story to my contacts in the media.”
“Why?”
“Shada promised to come out of hiding if Chuck needed her. The media coverage about his impending arrest on murder charges will hopefully make her think it’s time.”
“How did he find her?”
“His supercomputers. I can’t tell you the methodology.”
“Have you told the FBI?”
“No. And I’m not going to.”
“Why not?”
“I believe there’s a cover-up surrounding Jamal Wakefield that reaches all the way back to McKenna’s murder. I believe it relates to black sites, and I believe the U.S. government is involved on some level.”
“Neil would have agreed with you,” said Jack.
“Do you?”
Jack suddenly heard Andie’s voice in his head, chiding him for even entertaining such wild conspiracy theories. “I don’t know,” said Jack. “But let me run wild with that thought for a second. Has anyone considered the possibility that Shada works for the government?”
“I’m betting that Shada knows something about the cover-up and who’s involved in it. Chuck wants to know what Shada knows, and he doesn’t trust any government to get that information out of her without also getting her killed.”
“You mean killed by a government agent?”
“More likely, killed by law enforcement incompetence. Someone in some agency failing to keep her whereabouts secret, which means that Shada could end up like Ethan Chang or Neil Goderich.”
“Obviously, you have a plan,” said Jack.
“I do,” said Vince. “But let me be clear. I couldn’t care less about terrorists who were held in black sites. My only goal is to find the man who killed McKenna. And who did this to me.”
“How are you going to do that?
“It’s just like Chuck told you: We pool information—including what Shada knows. Which means the next step is London.”
“What makes you think Shada will even talk to you?”
“I lost my sight trying to save her daughter. Shada will talk to me.”
“But she ran from her life before, and she ran from Chuck when he saw her at the cemetery. She obviously didn’t want to talk to anybody. Especially her husband and his best friend.”
“First of all, Shada and I were always good with each other. I warned Chuck for years that he was going to lose her if he didn’t stop being such a jerk of a husband, and Shada knows that. Chuck and I agree that if there’s anybody she’ll talk to, it’s me. Second of all, Chuck’s not going with me to London.”
“Not going?”
“No,” said Vince. “With all this talk about a possible arrest, he doesn’t want it to look like he’s fleeing the country.”
“You just told me that the story was a plant. And even if it wasn’t, Chuck Mays doesn’t strike me as the kind of guy who worries about appearances.”
Vince smiled. “True enough. Which leads me to the real problem: There’s this little thing about an arrest warrant out of the Old Bailey. Ten years ago, Chuck was pretty careless about what he smoked and where he smoked it. If he sets foot in the U.K., he’s going straig
ht to the slammer.”
“So your wife is going with you?”
“Do you see Alicia sitting at this table?”
“No, but—”
“Look,” said Vince, “what I do with my own badge is my business, but my wife is also a cop. She understands that I have a score to settle. She also understands that I can’t let her throw her badge away watching me settle it.”
Jack measured his words, not wanting to insult Vince. “You’re going . . . alone?”
“No. Even with Sam, that would be an ambitious trip.”
It was clear where this was headed, and Jack wasn’t sure how to react. “You want me?”
“It was Alicia’s idea. She thinks that having a criminal defense lawyer around will keep me from stepping too far out of bounds.”
“What do you think?” asked Jack.
“I agree with Chuck: After what happened to Neil Goderich, I think this criminal defense lawyer has almost as much skin in the game as I do.”
Jack paused. Vigilante was the last word Jack would have used to describe Neil. But that didn’t lessen Jack’s need to find his friend’s killer.
“When do you leave?” asked Jack.
“This evening. Chuck is covering all expenses—airfare, hotels, meals. It won’t cost you a dime.”
Jack thought about Andie. Something told him that he should talk it over with her. Something told him that he shouldn’t.
What would Neil do if the tables were turned?
“Guess I’d better make my sandwich to go,” said Jack, flagging their waitress. “I need to pack.”
Chapter Forty-seven
Are you sure you don’t want me to go with you?” asked Andie.
Jack checked on his grandfather before heading to the airport, and it was the third time Andie had asked the same question since entering the nursing home. At least she’d stopped trying to unpack his bags.
“I’m sure,” said Jack.
“Go where?” Grandpa Swyteck asked.
Jack did a double take. Andie was seated in the armchair, and Jack was standing at Grandpa’s bedside, but Jack thought he had fallen asleep after Wheel of Fortune.
“Jack is going to London,” said Andie.
“Of course he is,” said Grandpa. “That’s where they all ran off to.”
Jack had no idea what he was talking about. Too often that was the case anymore. “And then I’m going to Prague,” said Jack. “I want to look up your mother’s family. The Petraks.”
The older man’s brow furrowed into little steps of confusion, as if he were struggling to make a connection between Prague and family. Jack’s gaze shifted back to Andie.
“I’m glad you’re staying,” Jack said quietly. “Even with Theo’s friend as bodyguard, it’s important that one of us be close by.”
“I suppose,” said Andie.
“He’s still there, you know,” said Grandpa, following up on his original thought. “Still in Britain.”
Jack almost asked who, but he caught himself, recalling the neurologist’s advice: Just roll with it. “Still there? Wow.”
“No, I’m wrong about that,” said Grandpa. “He left for the South of France in 1940. A town called Agde, I think.”
“South of France,” said Jack. “Sounds nice.”
“Nice, yeah,” Grandpa said, scoffing. “If you’re a Nazi.” Then he fell silent. He wasn’t making much sense today, but Jack wished he would keep talking, as Andie picked up her thread of the conversation.
“I don’t have a good feeling,” she said, shaking her head. “I respect Vince and all he’s accomplished as a cop. But the fact remains: He is blind. And you’re . . . well, you’re Jack.”
“What does that mean?”
“I’m just saying. This could be dangerous.”
“Way too dangerous!” Grandpa shouted. “That’s what everyone told him. And even if he pulled it off, any fool would know there would be payback in the long run. The Germans don’t just take things lying down.”
Jack didn’t know how to “just roll” with this one. He stayed on track with Andie. “Would you feel better if I was going with Theo?”
“No,” she said. “Definitely not.”
“Now I remember,” said Grandpa. His finger was in the air, as if the lightbulb had come on. “He went back to Liverpool. Is that far from where you’re going?”
“Not too far.”
“Good. Go see him.”
“I’m sorry. See who, Grandpa?”
“The general, of course. And when you see him, kick his ass. You hear me? You kick General Swyteck’s ass for me!”
General Swyteck? Alzheimer’s or not, Grandpa suddenly had Jack’s complete attention. Even the neurologists had told him that people with Alzheimer’s could have solid memories of the distant past.
“Is there really a General Swyteck?” asked Jack.
“No!”
“Then why—”
“Nono!
“Grandpa, why did you say—”
“Pio Nono! Pio Nono!”
Jack’s heart sank. More ranting about the pope was not a good turn of events.
“Harry!” Grandpa shouted, calling for Jack’s father. “Harry!”
The nurse entered the room, her tone soothing. “Harry is not here, Joseph.”
“Harry!” he shouted, swinging his fists at the nurse. She tried to get out of the way, but Grandpa landed a punch squarely to her chest, then another to her shoulder. Jack grasped his hands, and the nurse pushed the red panic button on the wall.
“No, no! Pio Nono!”
“Grandpa, it’s okay,” said Jack.
The old man shouted even louder. It pained Jack to watch, pained him even more to think that his question about General Swyteck had brought about the outburst.
The nurse’s aides raced into the room. Two large men went to the bed, one coming between Jack and his grandfather, the other positioning himself at the opposite rail. Jack backed away.
“It’s best if you wait in the hallway,” the nurse told him.
“I’m not going anywhere,” said Jack.
She persisted, but Jack wasn’t listening. Even with the Alzheimer’s, Jack wondered if there was some thread of truth running through Grandpa’s confusion over the Petraks, Czech Jews, and now this mention of a General Swyteck.
“Please, sir,” the nurse said, “wait in the hall.”
“I’m staying,” said Jack.
“But—”
“No buts,” said Jack, and then he reached for the little bit of Yiddish he’d learned from his friend Neil. “I’m here for my zeyde.”
Chapter Forty-eight
Chuck Mays spent Monday evening alone at his computer, surfing the Internet. The dark side of the Internet.
Peer-to-peer (P2P) file trading was nothing new in the digital world. For years, software has allowed complete strangers to connect online to search for shared files on the computers of others. Any content that can be distributed digitally can be downloaded directly from “peers” on the same network. Most people shared music or video, which grabbed the attention of the music industry in a big way. Lawsuits over illegal trading of copyright-protected material shut down Napster in 2001, but the battle continued. Of greater interest to guys like Chuck Mays was the fact that, on the most popular peer-to-peer networks, roughly two-thirds of downloadable responses with archival and executable file extensions (especially responses to movie requests) contain malware—viruses, worms, Trojan horses—that turn personal information on a home computer into the cyberspace equivalent of an unlocked and unattended vehicle with the keys in the ignition and the motor running. P2P was a virtual smorgasbord for identity thieves.
And for all kinds of criminals.
Mays tried another P2P program and entered his password. The usual self-serving disclaimer popped up:
This program enables access to the Gnutella file-sharing network, which is comprised of the computers of its many users. There is no central server for t
he files that populate Gnutella. We cannot and do not review material, and we cannot control what content may exist in the Gnutella.
Mays scrolled through the legal mumbo jumbo, then stopped at the italicized words at the bottom of the page: “Be advised that we have a zero-tolerance policy for content that exploits children.”
It almost made him laugh. Yeah, and Big Tobacco has zero tolerance for sales of cigarettes to minors.
His sardonic smile faded. It was time to get down to business. Mays was no stranger to the darkest doors in P2P, and with just a few choice keystrokes—abbreviations for words that should never be linked together in the English language—he was knocking on an old standby. With a click of the mouse, a menu popped up on his screen. A list of files followed, digital content that network peers were offering for trade. Bloody Hairbrush Spanking caught his eye, but he’d seen that one before, and it was tame compared to what he was trying to find. He typed in a query—AV/IF/IB—and waited.
A P2P chat room was a lively marketplace, and for the next several minutes, Mays stared at his screen and watched this trader link up with that trader right before his eyes. It took a little imagination, but for him, the bartering harkened back to the Roman forum. Much of it was legal. An unknown quantity was patently illegal, but no one seemed to worry about getting caught. The typical trader who flouted copyright laws was basically of the mind-set that there was no reason to pay for something that could be downloaded for free. Traders in this chat room came from a different place entirely. No matter how much money was in your bank account, you couldn’t go on Amazon and buy this kind of content. You couldn’t even buy it at pornstars.com. These weren’t girls gone wild. These were girls gone missing.
Mays’ computer chimed. His query of AV/IF/IB—Asian virgin in the front or in the back—had drawn a quick response. It was from someone who called himself Mustang.
Afraid of the Dark Page 23
