James Grippando - When Darkness Falls

“We heard a scream. Is everything okay in there?”

“Where’s Swyteck?”

“Why are you whispering?”

He gnawed his lower lip, wincing like a man in pain. “Tell me where Swyteck is.”

“He’s on his way back from the bank. He’ll be here in a little while. Now, like I said, we heard a scream in there, Falcon. It sounded like a man. I need to hear Theo Knight’s voice, make sure he’s okay.”

“He’s fine.”

“I got guys chomping at the bit to beat that door down, Falcon. Help me out here. I need to hear his voice.”

Falcon gritted his teeth, then walked over to Theo, who was still seated on the floor. Facing him, he put the gun to Theo’s left ear, the phone to his right. “Say something.”

“There’s two more-”

Falcon slugged him with the butt of the gun and snatched the phone away before Theo could finish. “Not so damn loud,” he said as he brought the phone back to his ear. He was furious but still whispering.

Paulo said, “Falcon, do you have two more hostages?”

“I want to talk to Swyteck.”

“Why are you whispering?”

“Because she’s here. In the bathroom.”

“Who’s in the bathroom?”

“It’s her. I know it’s her.”

“Who is she?”

“I can’t get rid of her!”

“Falcon, take a breath and tell me who else is there with you.”

Falcon was pacing furiously, but he was careful with each footfall so as not to make too much noise. “She’s always here. Everywhere I go, she just shows up.”

“Who?”

“She comes to the river. She comes to my house. She sits on my milk crate. She won’t go, she won’t never go! I beat the living crap out of her with a pipe and stuff her in the trunk, and she’s still here! Right here in the bathroom!”

“Falcon, tell me who you’re talking about.”

He cupped his hand around the receiver, containing his words so that no one would overhear. It made his whisper even raspier. “I have to tell Swyteck something.”

“No problem. I can pass it on to him. What is it?”

“Tell him-first tell him I still want my money.”

“Okay, he’s working very hard on that. Anything else?”

“Yeah,” he said as he shot a nervous glance toward the bathroom door. “Tell him I need, I really need, my fucking necklace.” He closed the flip phone and disconnected.

J ack was in search of the Bushman.

Falcon’s demand for his necklace had made absolutely no sense to Sergeant Paulo. Jack, however, knew exactly what his client was talking about. He wanted the necklace of metal beads that had held the key to Falcon’s safe deposit box at the Greater Bahamian Bank amp; Trust Company. Problem was, Jack had last seen it around the neck of a homeless and extremely paranoid Jamaican called the Bushman.

“Would you know this Bushman if you saw him again?” asked Paulo.

“Sure. My guess is that he lives along the river, probably not far from Falcon’s car. If someone can give me a ride, I’ll find him.”

“I’ll go,” said Alicia.

Jack had yet to tell anyone about his private talk with Alicia’s father, but the upshot of that conversation made it seem like a good idea to take the mayor’s daughter away from the command center and the lead negotiator. “Great. Let’s go.”

They took Alicia’s personal car, so she had to flash her badge to get through the traffic-control perimeter. Miami Avenue took them south, toward the river. They parked at a metered spot near Tobacco Road, Miami’s oldest bar, a place where Theo had on many occasions blown the saxophone until the wee hours of the morning. Jack wasn’t searching for memories, but it was amazing how the prospect of losing a friend made you see him everywhere and in everything.

“What does this Bushman look like?” said Alicia as they walked along the north side of the river.

“The thing I remember most is that he had about three miles of dreadlocks tucked up under a bulging knit cap, and the whole blob on top of his head was wrapped in aluminum foil. It reminded me of Jiffy Pop.”

“Of what?” said Alicia.

“Remember in the days before microwave popcorn how you would cook it on the stove in that little container that looked like a pie tin? As the corn popped, the foil on top would blow up like a big aluminum balloon? Well, that’s the Bushman’s head.”

“There was popcorn before microwaves?” she said.

Jack was about to answer, but he noted the little smile, a signal that she was yanking his chain. Nothing like being made to feel old by a young and beautiful cop.

Jack walked around a heap of rusted metal that appeared to be part of an old barge. “Your father corralled me for a talk before I came back to the command center this morning.”

She cast him a tentative look. “What about?”

“He’s very concerned that you might play too active a role in this hostage negotiation. He made me promise that if I talk to Falcon, I won’t even mention your name.”

“My father means well. But you should do whatever Sergeant Paulo tells you to do.”

They continued walking. The terrain was flat, but the piles of junk along the river were getting more formidable. With an active hostage-situation back at the hotel, Jack felt as though he should be running to find the Bushman, but he had to watch his step with all the twisted metal along the banks. “What can you tell me about Paulo?”

“He’s excellent.”

“How well do you know him?”

She hesitated just long enough for Jack to sense that it was a complicated question. “Very well,” she said.

“I hope you don’t mind my asking this, but is he totally blind?”

“Yes. Now, before you freak out, just remember that he’s an experienced negotiator. Listening, talking, persuading-that’s the essence of his job, and none of it is tied to his sight. It’s not like he’s a blind cosmetic surgeon about to feel his way through your nose job.”

Jack did a little face-check. “What’s wrong with my nose?”

“Nothing…”

“Good.”

“…that a little plastic surgery couldn’t fix.”

“Ah, cop humor. That’s one thing we criminal defense lawyers just can’t get enough of.”

Alicia stopped and pointed. “Is that him?”

Just ahead, near the bridge, a man was asleep on the ground. His winter jacket was so dirty that his form nearly blended into the earth, but the morning sun reflected off his shiny headgear like a chrome globe. “Gotta be the Bushman,” said Jack.

They approached with caution, the way anyone might approach a guy who slept alongside the river with his head wrapped in aluminum foil. He lay curled up on his right side. A charred, empty crack bowl was on the ground beside him. A stray cat was licking something off of his hand, but the Bushman wasn’t moving. It was hard to tell if he was even breathing.

“Bushman?” said Jack. He still didn’t move. Jack tried a little louder, “Hey, Bushman!”

The Bushman groaned and slowly propped himself up on one elbow. “What you want, mon?”

“Remember me? It’s Jack Swyteck-your friend Falcon’s lawyer.”

The Bushman sat up, but he paid little attention to his visitors. He started smacking his lips, as if trying to decide whether he could live with the foul taste in his mouth.

Alicia said, “Falcon needs your help.”

He stopped smacking. “Who are you?”

“She’s with me,” said Jack. He didn’t want to sic the cop on him just yet. “Falcon wants his necklace back.”

“You talked to him?” said the Bushman.

Jack didn’t answer directly. “He’s in a lot of trouble, and he just said he really, really needs his necklace.”