James Grippando - When Darkness Falls

She switched on the car radio and caught the tail end of a news update at the top of the hour, delivered in rapid-fire cadence.

“The hostage standoff between police and the homeless man accused of stalking Mayor Mendoza’s daughter now enters its eighteenth hour,” the announcer reported, “with no outward signs of progress. At least four hostages remain holed up in a motel room with the gunman, one of whom is now believed to be Walter Finkelstein, better known as Walt the Weather Wizard, the colorful meteorologist with Action News in Miami. More news at the bottom of the hour.”

Alicia switched off the radio. To her knowledge, the identity of the hostages had yet to be released. The leaks were starting. With more than a little concern, she wondered what other secrets might find their way into the media.

She returned to the staging area just before dark and found a parking space a few car-lengths down from the mobile command center. The rain continued to fall, though no longer in the blinding sheets that had made her drive to Coconut Grove so treacherous. Still, completely overcast skies and plenty of threatening dark clouds made for a premature dusk. Darkness came early in December, and on a miserable day like today it would come even sooner than usual, which gave her an uneasy feeling. She was no expert in hostage negotiations, but Vince was. He was living and walking proof that nightfall often triggered action in a hostage situation-for better or for worse.

Alicia dodged raindrops as she darted toward the mobile unit and pushed the door open, entering with more of a flurry than she’d intended. “It’s me,” she said upon seeing the startled expression on Vince’s face.

“You’re back,” he said. “I was beginning to think you’d left us for good.”

“No, there was just something…something that came up. Can I speak to you alone for a minute, Vince?” Alicia glanced at the second negotiator from MDPD, who was gracious enough to volunteer that he needed another jolt of espresso. He pulled on a windbreaker that was already rain-soaked, stepped out into the drizzle, and left Alicia and Vince alone in the command center.

“What’s up?” said Vince.

Alicia pulled up a chair that faced him and sat close enough for him to feel her presence. She felt an urge to reach out and take his hands in hers, but she resisted, in this setting. “Vince, what do you know about Argentina’s Dirty War?”

The question didn’t seem to surprise him the way she had thought it would. “Up until this afternoon, I’d say I knew virtually nothing.”

“That probably puts you in the same boat as most Americans, except for the fact that your answer implies that you now know something about it.”

“I have learned a few things.”

“Did something happen while I was gone?”

“Someone came forward with some information. A source.”

“Who?”

“An old woman who cleaned out the cash from Falcon’s safe deposit box in the Bahamas.”

“She stole it?”

“No. It appears that he authorized access. He gave it to her.”

“Why?”

“She claims she knew Falcon. Told us all about him.”

Alicia knew exactly whom he was talking about, and she was glad that Vince couldn’t see her reaction. “What did she tell you?”

“Lots of things. Turns out that he spent most of the Dirty War torturing prisoners at one of over three hundred secret detention centers that the military dictatorship set up around the country to deal with dissidents. He was known as El Oso.”

“How did she know him?”

“Her daughter was detained there.”

“I see.”

“Do you?” said Vince.

She wasn’t quite sure how to read his tone, but he didn’t wait for her response.

“Interesting thing is that the detention center was called La Cacha. The guards gave it that name. It was short for La Cachavacha. Apparently there was a popular cartoon in Argentina called La bruja de la cachavacha, about a witch who could make people disappear.”

“I know the cartoon,” she said.

“El Oso and his buddies must have been a real bunch of comedians. I guess that’s what Falcon was hinting at when he kept talking about the witch and the Disappeared.”

“What do you expect? You’ve seen him, talked to him. He’s crazy.”

“No, he’s not crazy. He’s more of a sociopath.”

“Is that what your source told you?”

“She didn’t use that word, but she told us the stories. If it quacks like a duck and walks like a duck…”

“What kind of stories did she tell you?”

“Some pretty horrible things,” said Vince.

“What?” she said, conveying more urgency than she would have liked.

“Basically, her daughter was seven months pregnant when she was taken into La Cacha. Believe it or not, she was one of nineteen pregnant women detained and tortured there. Nobody ever saw her again, but there were rumors that she lived long enough to give birth.”

“Does anyone know what happened to the baby?”

“I couldn’t tell you.”

“You didn’t ask her?”

“She wouldn’t discuss it.”

“You didn’t push it?”

“It didn’t seem pertinent to the hostage negotiation. And when I say she wouldn’t discuss it, I mean she would not discuss it.”

“You were okay with that?”

“Actually, that was part of our deal. She was willing to tell us everything she knew about Falcon, but the more personal details about her daughter were her business.”

“Was she hiding something?”

“Could be. Or maybe it’s still too painful for her to discuss it. Either way, I always honor my deals with sources. She gave us plenty of helpful information about Falcon, and she asked for just one thing in return.”

“What?”

“She asked that I give something to you.”

“To me?” she said, trying to act more surprised than she was. “What is it, the money?”

Vince shook his head. He laid two files on the table. Alicia could see the entire label of the top file, which was written in Spanish. In translation, it read: SECRETARY FOR PUBLIC HEALTH. BUENOS AIRES. DURAND HOSPI-TAL. ATTENTION: DR. DI LINARDO. Only a portion of the label was visible on the second folder beneath it. This one, however, was written in English: AMERICAN ASSOCIATION FOR THE ADVANCEMENT OF SCIENCE. WASHING-TON, DC. An abbreviation of some sort followed: CONADEP.

Alicia had never seen the files before, never had any dealings with a Dr. Di Linardo or any of the listed entities. “What is this?” she asked.

“I don’t know. It’s not for lack of interest, but obviously I didn’t read it.”

“Your source didn’t tell you?”

“No. That was our deal. She tells me all about Falcon, and I give you the files. But she insisted that what’s in there is between you and her.”

Alicia was looking straight at the files, but she didn’t answer.

“What’s wrong?” said Vince.

“Nothing.”

“Come on. The old lady said it was personal, but she also promised that you wouldn’t hate me for giving it to you.”

“I don’t kill messengers, Vince.”

“Then what is it?”

Alicia couldn’t tear her gaze away from the files, but she was hearing that voice inside her head again-the one that had told her to get on the interstate and just keep driving. “I think it’s more than I want to know,” she said quietly.

S ergeant Chavez was in a SWAT power struggle, and he was determined to win it.

As lead representative of the City of Miami’s tactical team, Chavez was inside the SWAT van with the head of Miami-Dade SWAT. Joining the debate by telephone were Chief Renfro from the city and the MDPD director. Paulo was not invited.