James Grippando - The Pardon

When they got back to the townhouse, Gina retreated right to her bedroom. She flopped onto the bed an escaped into a rerun of “Lifestyles of the Rich and Famous.”

Cindy left her suitcase by the door and went straight to the kitchen. The so-called snack on the airplane had been about as appetizing as boiled lettuce. She quickly microwaved herself some french fries, then opened the refrigerator in search of ketchup.

“Gina,” she called out, “where’s the Heinz?”

Gina didn’t answer.

“Oh, well,” Cindy said, shrugging. Balancing the plate of fries in one hand and a Diet Coke in the other, she headed for the living room. She grabbed the remote control as she sat on the couch and flipped on the television.

The lead story on every local evening-news broadcast was the same. She was just in time to catch the south Florida version, the hometown approach to the breaking story of how, “in a shocking development, the grand jury investigation into the murder of Eddy Goss had now targeted murder suspect Jack Swyteck.”

She stared dumbfounded at Jack’s face on the television screen, framed by an imposing graphic of the scales of justice. “Oh, my God,” she muttered. She punched the buttons on the remote control and flipped frantically from one channel to the next, as if trying to watch them all at once. She couldn’t believe it, even after hearing it straight from the mouth of every news anchor in the city. After ten minutes she’d had enough, since coverage on every station had degenerated to “live and exclusive” interviews with virtually every publicity hound in town who claimed to “know” Jack Swyteck. She switched off the set in disgust. Not one of these people knew Jack the way she did. He was no killer.

Her hands were shaking as she sank into the couch. She wasn’t sure what to do. Should she just let him know she was back in town-if he needed a friend? She wondered why, indeed, she was back in town. Had it really been necessary to call off the photo shoot in Italy? She probably could have laid down a few ground rules with Chet and gotten the job done-unless, of course, her relationship with Jack had subconsciously drawn her back to Miami.

She glanced at the phone. Talking to him wouldn’t be good enough. Not after the blowup they’d had when they were last together. She needed to see him. She grabbed her purse from the coffee table. “I’ll be back later,” she shouted up the stairway, then hurried out the door.

The sun had set and the streetlights had popped on by the time Cindy reached Jack’s house. Even when she’d lived there, she’d never liked driving up alone after dark. Jack professed to like landscaping, but what he really meant was that he liked foliage of any kind, and lots of it. His “lawn” was a thick blanket of bromeliads, bushy ferns, and practically anything else that didn’t look like a weed. Large, bushy palms and leafy ficus trees were scattered everywhere, creating an array of menacing shadows. It was enough to make any twenty-five ear-old blonde in blue denim shorts and sleeveless white shell a bit on edge. At night the scene always made her feel a bit like Dorothy in the land of Oz contending with the talking apple trees.

Anxiety propelled her to the front door in a matter of seconds. The porch light flipped on before she could knock, and the door swung open.

Jack stood in the doorway, looking perplexed. “Cindy, what are you doing here?”

“I saw the story on the news. I thought you might need to talk.”

“You’re too much,” he said, opening his arms. She stepped forward to accept his embrace. “After you left I wanted to call you and tell you how sorry I was, but I felt like such a jerk.” He held her tighter and looked into her eyes. “Can you forgive me?”

“Let’s try to forget that ever happened,” Cindy said. “I felt terrible about what I said, too.”

“No, no, you were right,” he protested, “I totally lost it. But-” he shook his head in confusion. “What happened with Italy?”

She slipped from his embrace and gave him a look of concern. “That’s not nearly as important as what’s happening to you.”

His spirits soared. Just an hour ago, after having watched the six o’clock news, he’d thought it would be a very long time before he’d ever feel happy again.

“I guess you know all about the grand jury investigation,” he said, still not quite believing the turn of circumstances.

She nodded.

“Do I need to tell you I didn’t do it?”

She looked into his eyes. “I know you didn’t.”

He went to embrace her again, but his attention was diverted by a car pulling into his driveway. It was a police car-not one but two in fact. And inside the lead car was Detective Lonzo Stafford.

“I’ve got to talk to these guys,” Jack said to Cindy as he gestured for her to go inside. At first she hesitated, but then she entered the house.

Stafford trudged up the path and took Cindy’s place on the porch. His blue blazer was even more wrinkled than usual, his necktie was loosened, and a few extra lines seemed to have appeared in his tired old face. He’d clearly been working some long hours, but the gleam in his gray eyes made it equally clear that he thought his hard work was about to pay off.

“Got a warrant here, my friend. Time for a little search party.”

Jack sighed, relieved that it wasn’t an arrest warrant. “You won’t find a murder weapon here,” he assured the detective. For a moment, Jack felt like leading him right to his footlocker and the old.38. A simple ballistics test would prove it wasn’t involved in the Goss shooting. But the gun was never registered in Florida, a problem in itself, and possessing it would only prove his familiarity with the same type of weapon the newspapers said had killed Goss. Jack figured the less grist the detective had for wild conjecture, the better.

Stafford glanced over his shoulder to make sure the other officers couldn’t hear him. “Do you think I’m stupid enough to get a warrant to look for a murder weapon?” he asked contemptuously. “Then I’d have to tell the jury we looked for it and didn’t find it, wouldn’t I, Swyteck? Besides,” he said smugly, “I don’t need to find the gun. Not since Ballistics determined a silencer was used to kill Goss. Not since that mechanic down at Kaiser pulled a silencer out of your convertible.”

“A mechanic did what? ”

Stafford smiled wryly. “You’ll hear all about it soon enough, counselor. Right now,” he said with a wink as he flashed the warrant in Jack’s face, “baby needs a new pair a’ shoes. Reeboks to be exact. You may recall that it as a rainy night when you visited your favorite client. Your footprints are all over the apartment.”

Jack fell silent. Things were getting worse by the minute, but he had nothing to gain by sparring with the old detective. “Just get what you came for,” he said flatly. “And be on your way.”

Stafford signaled back to his team with a jerk of his head. Jamahl Bradley and two other officers filed into the house, heading straight for the master bedroom. Jack followed closely behind, his stomach in knots.

“What’s happening?” Cindy asked Jack, her voice trembling as the officers whisked by her in the living room.

Stafford stopped to field the question. “We’re gonna prove your boyfriend here was traipsing around Eddy Goss’s apartment the night of the murder. That’s what’s happening, miss.” Stafford took another step, the stopped and arched a suggestive eyebrow at Cindy. “You sure you want to sleep here tonight, sweetheart?”

“Shut the hell up, Stafford,” Jack snapped.

Stafford just shrugged and continued on toward the bedroom. Jack started to follow but stopped when he saw the look on Cindy’s face. He wanted to watch the police conduct their search, just to make sure they stuck to the warrant, but he couldn’t let Stafford’s remark linger. He had to keep Cindy’s trust, so he took her by the hand and led her quickly through the kitchen, into the backyard by the gazebo where they’d be out of earshot.