James Grippando - Afraid of the Dark

“And then what?”

“This time they kill him,” said Jack. “Just like they killed McKenna.”

“Shit,” said Neil. “With that kind of follow-up interrogation, it’s no wonder the CIA doesn’t want to talk about that secret site.”

“Be careful with that,” said Jack. “We’re pretty sure it’s not a CIA site.”

“Okay, a secret site operated by a private security firm that was hired by the Department of Defense.”

“I’m even having my doubts about that. A severed foot. What does that remind you of?”

It took a few moments, but Neil had a thought. “That serial killer in Canada. Remember all those severed feet in sneakers that kept washing up on the beaches of the Georgia Straits in British Columbia?”

Jack hadn’t even thought about that, but Neil had defended several serial killers over the years, so it was no wonder that his mind had gone there.

“I was thinking more along the lines of organized crime,” said Jack.

“That was a severed horse head in The Godfather, not a foot.”

“I’m talking real life. It was the discovery of a severed foot in a vacant lot that finally unraveled the mystery of how Joseph Massino got rid of three captains in one night to become the undisputed boss of the Bonanno crime family.”

“How do you know that?”

“It’s one of the FBI’s proudest moments. You keep forgetting I’m engaged to an undercover agent.”

“Mr. Goderich?” the Miami-Dade detective said.

Detective Burton surprised them, having approached from behind. Jack felt a few more raindrops as they shook hands, and it was now falling steadily enough for droplets to bead on Burton’s clean-shaven head.

“Any news?” asked Neil.

“Only bad, I’m afraid,” said Burton. “We found the body.”

Jack knew it was coming, but the news still hit him like a punch to the gut. “Where?”

“Everglades National Park. Near a canoe launch.”

It was like another body blow, but Jack kept his reaction to himself.

“I’m headed there now,” said Burton. “I’ll keep you posted.”

Jack watched as the detective ducked under the yellow tape and walked toward his car. The rain was coming hard enough to trigger a few umbrellas. Investigators were scrambling to protect the scene with sheets of plastic.

“We should go, too,” said Neil.

“Didn’t you hear the location of the body?” said Jack.

“Of course. I was standing right here.”

“Everglades National Park near a canoe launch. That’s the same place they found Shada Mays’ car after she disappeared.”

“Wow, that’s interesting.”

“It’s more than interesting,” said Jack, and he was speaking his thoughts as quickly as they came to him. “Police suspected that Shada was tracking her daughter’s killer when she vanished. Supposedly, Shada had some e-mail or other communications with him over the Internet. The cops’ theory was that the killer was Jamal, and when Shada pushed too hard to get him to turn himself in, Jamal killed her, dumped her body in the Everglades, and tried to made it look like a suicide.”

Neil had a pained expression, as if he wanted to follow Jack’s reasoning, but wasn’t quite with him. “So somebody cuts off Jamal’s foot and dumps his body where McKenna’s mother disappeared. Why?”

“Not just somebody,” said Jack. “I think we’re talking about McKenna’s killer. The same guy who killed Shada when she started closing in on him. The same guy who killed Jamal as soon as he got out of jail and-maybe-picked up on the trail Shada was following.”

“Could be,” said Neil. “Unfortunately, we don’t have a client anymore. So I’m not sure what we can do about it.”

“I know what I want to do,” said Jack.

“What?”

“I’m going to have another talk with Chuck Mays.”

It was Monday evening when Jack returned to the Mays estate on Tahiti Beach in CocoPlum.

For nearly two days, his phone calls to Chuck Mays had gone unanswered, and an unannounced visit seemed too confrontational. Finally, a secretary called from MLFC headquarters late Monday afternoon to say that Mr. May’s would be jet-lagged but expecting Jack at his house around nine P.M.

Jack rang the doorbell and waited.

“In the backyard,” said Mays, his voice crackling over the intercom speaker at the entrance. “I’m making s’mores.”

S’mores? Jack didn’t verbalize his thoughts, but his expression was caught on a security camera, and Mays’ voice crackled again on the speaker.

“Don’t act like you don’t fucking like them, Swyteck.”

An Eagle Scout couldn’t have said it better.

The door unlocked with an automated click, which Jack took as his invitation to enter unescorted. The rear of the house was a wall of windows, and from the foyer Jack could see all the way through to the backyard. Beyond the patio, on a finger of land that protruded into the moonlit waterway, a campfire glowed in the darkness. The sliding-glass door was unlocked, and Jack followed the path of stepping-stones around the pool and through the garden to find Chuck Mays seated on a log before a crackling fire. It was a cool night for Miami, but it was still south Florida, which meant that Mays was wearing hiking shorts, flip-flops, and a T-shirt that said, 1f u c4n r34d th1s, u r34lly n33d 2 g3t l41d.

If you can read this, you really need to get laid. The speed with which he’d decoded it troubled Jack. Damn, I miss Andie.

Mays handed him a skewered marshmallow, seeming to sense that Jack had solved the riddle. “S’mores are the next best thing,” he said.

A light breeze was blowing in from the water, but it was still too warm for a jacket. As Jack removed his, the wind shifted and the smoke overcame him, sending Jack scrambling to the other side of the campfire, where he could breathe.

“S’mores were McKenna’s favorite when she was a little girl,” said Mays. He stuffed the toasted marshmallow between two graham crackers and waited for the chocolate to melt. Jack found a hot spot above some glowing embers and held his marshmallow over it. Mays stuffed the gooey treat into his mouth, chewing roundly.

“So tell me what’s on your mind, Jack.”

It seemed absurd to discuss Jamal under these circumstances. More precisely, it would have seemed absurd, if it hadn’t felt so choreographed. This was all staged, of course-Mays taking the steam out of a potential confrontation by holding a fireside chat with his mouth full of McKenna’s favorite childhood snack.

“Jamal is on my mind,” said Jack. “I’m trying to figure out who cut off his foot, tortured him to death, and then dumped his body less than two hundred yards from where your wife disappeared in the Everglades.”

“You’re on fire,” said Mays.

“What?”

“Your marshmallow is burning.”

Jack yanked it out of the fire, and the flaming mess dropped like red-hot lava onto his foot, just above the shoe leather. Jack jumped up and let out a yelp, then smothered the flame with his jacket. It had burned through his sock, and he was sure the skin would blister. Mays roared with laughter, and Jack decided not to say what he was thinking.

Mays looked at him and said, “No, I’m not.”

“You’re not what?” said Jack.

“You think I’m enjoying this.”

Jack felt chills. He was dead-on. The guy really is a genius.

“Truth is,” said Mays, “I haven’t enjoyed a damn thing in three years.”

Jack couldn’t imagine ever being friends with Mays, but it was impossible not to feel sorry for a man who’d lost so much. Even though Jack knew he was risking a punch in the nose, he could think of only one response.