James Grippando - Born to Run

She sat quietly with her hands folded in her lap as she gazed down at the floor. Jack took a moment to size her up. She was younger than his grandmother, but he could see how Theo had mistaken her for Abuela. Both were attractive, elderly women with dark eyes and olive skin that seemed younger than their years. She had the delicate features of a former beauty, but her hands were those of a working woman. At bottom, however, it wasn’t her beauty or her subtle resemblance to Abuela that gnawed at Jack. There was a deeper familiarity-a distinct sense that he had seen her somewhere before.

“Is something wrong?” she said.

“No, sorry.” Jack was staring, but he couldn’t help it. She was definitely familiar. “Would you like some coffee?”

“No, thank you.”

She was leaning on the arm of the chair with her elbow, as if she were too tired to sit up straight, and her left leg was restless and shaking uncontrollably. She seemed nervous. Maybe even a little scared.

Finally, she looked up into Jack’s eyes.

More than a little scared.

“You’re in a lot of danger,” she said.

Jack had heard some interesting first lines from people in that chair, but this one was up there with the best of them.

“Can you tell me why?”

She shifted uncomfortably. “I had a lawyer once. He did a will for my late husband and me. If I’m your client, you can’t tell anyone what I tell you. Not even the police. Is that right?”

“That’s the way it normally works.”

“Am I your client?”

“You are now. Talk to me.”

“I think I know who killed that young reporter in Washington-Chloe Sparks. And,” she said, swallowing a lump in her throat, “I think you may be next.”

“Whoa,” said Jack. That last part had hit a little too close to home. “What’s the killer’s name?”

“I can’t tell you his name.”

“That’s okay. But what do you say we back up a little and you at least tell me your name?”

She took a breath, and let it out. “Sofia.”

“Good. A beautiful name.”

“Grazie.”

“You’re Italian?”

“From Sicily.”

“Is that where the killer is from?”

“No.”

“Would I be wrong if I guessed he was Greek?”

She showed surprise. “How would you know that?”

“I’ve been doing a little investigating of my own. Chloe’s sister and I tracked that down after we figured out that Chloe and I got the same curious message from an anonymous source.”

“I still can’t tell you his name.”

“How do you know he killed Chloe Sparks?”

“I’ve known him a long time,” she said, then thought better of it. “No, I knew him a long time ago. We talked recently.”

“He told you that he killed Chloe Sparks?”

“No. In fact, he denied it.”

“You don’t believe him?”

The anguish was all over her face. “I wanted to. I’ve always wanted to. But I’ve known better for a long time, and I definitely know better now. He told me he was in contact with her about President Keyes. He was trying to sell her newspaper a story. It didn’t work out. Now she’s dead.”

“You assume he killed her.”

“He’s desperate for money-a lot of money. The only way he can raise it is to sell what he knows about President Keyes. Once the secret is out, he can’t sell it. Somehow, Chloe Sparks must have figured out what he was trying to sell her before she had to pay him for it. That was a fatal mistake. Then he tried to sell the same information to you.”

Jack processed her words, thinking it through. “So if he thinks I also figured it out without paying for it, then-”

“Then you’re next on his list.”

Jack took it a step further, wondering if that was what had happened to Paulette Sparks.

“Are you on the list?” he asked.

She massaged away the tension between her eyes. “I have even bigger problems.”

Jack took another good look at her. It was a safe bet that she hadn’t slept much last night. “Are you running from someone?”

She didn’t answer. She didn’t have to.

Jack said, “Have you thought about going to the police?”

“No!”

“It’s just a suggestion,” said Jack. “Can we at least talk it out?”

“I can’t go to the police.”

“Why not?”

“I just can’t. That’s not possible.”

“What if you were to tell me the killer’s name and then I went to the police?”

“No.”

“I have a friend in the FBI.”

“Absolutely no !”

Jack paused, confused. “The man killed Chloe Sparks. You think he might kill me. You look scared to death. Why are you protecting him?”

“It’s not him I’m protecting,” she said.

“Have you done something wrong, too?”

“No,” she said, almost laughing in frustration. “This is not about me.”

Jack leaned forward and looked her in the eye. “Are you afraid of him?”

Again, she was silent. Then suddenly she rose and said, “I’ve told you everything I can. You know the danger. Now please take care of yourself.”

“Sofia, you are an important witness, and you seem like a good person. I can help you get protection. I’ve done this many times before.”

She closed her eyes, struggling, then opened them. “You have no idea how complicated this is.”

“You’re right. I don’t. But let’s agree on this. We won’t do anything today. For now, we’ll just make you safe. You look like you could use some sleep. Do you have friends or family to stay with in Miami?”

“No one.”

“Do you have a hotel?”

She shook her head. “I rode the train all night from New York. I came straight from the station.”

He noticed that she had no luggage, but the heavy winter coat suddenly made sense.

Really on the run.

Jack helped with her coat, then grabbed a business card from his desk and wrote an address on the back.

“There’s a boutique hotel about three blocks that way,” he said, pointing. “The San Pietro. My out-of-town clients stay there and love it. Use my name. Tell the manager to bill it to my account.”

“I can’t do that.”

“Please. It’s right on the corner of Alhambra. A pink Mediterranean-style building with a barrel-tile roof and bougainvillea vines climbing up the walls. It will remind you of Sicily.”

That brought a smile-just a hint of one, but Jack could see that, trapped deep inside, was a beautiful smile that could have lit up a room.

“Thank you,” she said, as she surprised him with a kiss on the cheek.

“You’re welcome,” he said, and he showed her to the door.

Jack caught up with Theo for lunch at the Royal Castle.

Northwest Seventy-nine Street and Unity Boulevard was Theo’s old neighborhood, a hardscrabble part of town where deadly race riots had made Liberty City synonymous with violence in the 1980s. Over the years, crime had shut down or driven away scores of mom-and-pop businesses, but Royal Castle hamburgers-palm-sized patties with pickles, onions, and mustard-have been served at the same location for over half a century. The orange bubble letters on the windows and vintage sixties posters on the white tile walls were a nice touch of nostalgia, though the world’s last existing Royal Castle restaurant did not have a spotless past. It had taken a civil rights protest march to bring down the sign on the counter that had once proclaimed WHITES ONLY. Theo’s great-uncle Cy had been one of the first persons of color to sit himself down on one of ten chrome stools at the red-and-white counter, and he’d been coming for lunch every Friday since.