James Grippando - Beyond Suspicion

Abuela sifted through the stack of letters in her lap, her hands shaking with emotion. “This is mi favorito. Is when he asked you to marry. And this one, too, is very good. About your wedding, with pictures.”

“ Abuela, please. These letters were written for you, not me.”

She laid the stack aside, clutching one to her bosom. “I wouldn’t ask you to read them. I just want you to know they exist.”

“Thank you.”

“But there is one you must see. Es especial. ” She fumbled for her reading glasses and dug the letter from the last envelope. “Is the oldest. Very different from others. See the top? Jack wrote the time. Two-thirty A.M. What make a man write a letter at this crazy hour?”

Cindy felt that this should stop, but she couldn’t bring herself to say it. She just listened.

Abuela read slowly, trying hard to make her English perfect, though her accent was still thick. “’Dear Abuela . It’s late, and I’m tired, so I will keep this short and sweet. Do you remember the letter you wrote me last June? It would have been your fiftieth wedding anniversary, and you told me the story of how you and Abuelo met. It was a picnic, and a friend introduced you to her older brother. He ended up walking you home. You said you didn’t know how you knew it, but by the time you got home you knew he was the one.

“’I went back and re-read that letter tonight. I don’t know why. I just did. That’s not true. I do know why. I had a date tonight. Cindy is her name. Cindy Paige. I don’t really know her that well, but I have that same feeling you described in your letter. It’s weird, Abuela . But I think she’s the one.’”

Abuela looked up, and their eyes met.

Cindy blinked back a tear. “He never told me that story.”

“I no can explain that. But I know my grandson pretty good. The young man who sit at his kitchen table and write this letter at two o’clock in the morning… he not really writing to his grandmother. He just being honest with his feelings. This letter is like talking to himself. Or to God.”

“Or to his mother,” said Cindy, her voice fading.

Abuela reached forward and took her hand. “I don’t know what he did this time. I don’t know if your heart can forgive him. But I do know this. He loves you.”

“I know,” Cindy whispered.

She handed Cindy a tissue. “Sorry I do this to you.”

“It’s okay. Maybe it’s what I needed.”

“Smart girl,” she said with a little smile, then rose. “You excuse me now, please. I go home, put on my kicking boots, and give my grandson what he needs.”

“I might actually pay money to see that.”

“Ah, but we both love him, no?”

“Yes,” she said, squeezing Abuela ’s hand. “We do.”

Cindy watched as Abuela gathered up her letters and put them back in her purse. Then she put her arm around the old woman, thanked her, and walked her to the door.

•

At four P.M., the main lobby of the Government Center was abuzz with rush hour. Jack headed against the stream of homebound workers. Theo was right along with him. Jack knew better than to face an attacker without a big ugly at his side.

Jack had gone straight to Rosa’s office after making the phone call from the café. Immediately, it was decision time. Sam Drayton had confirmed that Viatical Solutions, Inc., was controlled by some element of organized crime. Why not tell the cops that his attacker had dropped a cell phone filled with Russian messages?

Why not? That was a question Jack the Client had been asking himself. Jack the Lawyer knew better. So did Rosa. The feds were going after him through the IRS, and that might only be the beginning. The state attorney had him on the short list of suspects for the murder of Jessie Merrill. In that posture, you didn’t simply hand over anything to the police. You negotiated. And to negotiate properly, Jack had to know what he was selling. That was especially important here. From the moment he’d made the phone call, Jack had a strong feeling that his attacker wasn’t what she appeared to be.

Not even close.

In less than twenty minutes they’d summoned a Russian linguist to translate the recorded messages. In thirty, they had a good criminal mind translating the literal English translations into something the lawyers could understand. Theo was perhaps the more indispensable of the two. Three of the messages dealt with, literally, “taking the ponies for a boat ride,” which, Theo figured, was probably code for shipping stolen cars out of the port of Miami. The other six sounded as if the caller had a plumbing problem. A sink needed to be unclogged. Jack didn’t need Theo to tell him that a sink was the repository in a money-laundering operation.

Theo checked his watch and asked, “You think she’ll show?”

“A musor always shows.”

“A what?”

“Didn’t you listen to anything that Russian translator said?”

“Only the part that was in English.”

As the name implied, Government Center was the nerve center of Miami-Dade County. Offices in the thirty-story tower housed various local departments and officials, including the mayor and county commissioners. The bustling lobby area served not only the office tower but also the largest and most crowded stop along the Metrorail. It was a three-story, atrium-style complex with a glass roof that allowed for natural lighting. Flags of all fifty states hung from the exposed metal rafters overhead. Long escalators carried workers and shoppers to a two-story mall called Metrofare Shops and Cafés. At the base of the north escalators was a large planter in the shape of a half-moon, where bushy green plants flourished. Between two large palms was a simple bouquet of white daisies and carnations in a glass vase. Above the vase was a bronze plaque that read: “Dedicated to the Memory of Armando Alejandre Jr., 19501996, Metro-Dade employee, volunteer of Brothers to the Rescue. His airplane was downed by the Cuban Air Force during a routine humanitarian flight over the straits of Florida.”

Seated on the ledge of the planter in front of the plaque was a young woman wearing dark sunglasses, even though it wasn’t very sunny inside the building. She was alone.

“That must be her,” said Jack.

Theo gave him a thin smile. “Let’s go.”

As they rode down the escalator, Jack’s eyes fixed on the woman. He’d never gotten a good look at his attacker, but from the beating he’d taken, he’d built her up to be at least eight feet tall, three hundred and fifty pounds. She was more like five-six, with slender-but-muscular arms, and the nicest set of legs that had ever kicked the daylights out of him. With her long, dark hair and olive skin, she looked more Latina than Russian. It surprised him how attractive she was.

“You got beat up by that ?” said Theo as they glided into the lobby.

“Just shut up.”

“I mean, some guys in my bar would pay money to get her to-”

“I said shut up.”

They wended their way through the crowd and approached from the side. She caught sight of them about ten feet away and rose to meet them, though she skipped right over the hello.

“Who’s your friend?” she asked.

“You get my name when we get yours,” said Theo.

A group of pedestrians passed by on their way to the train. She asked, “Is this a good place to talk?”

“Perfect,” said Jack. “Nobody stands still long enough to hear what we’re saying. And like I said on the phone, plenty of security guards around if you decide to get stupid.”

She paused, as if to get comfortable with the setting. Then she looked at Jack and said, “That was a gutsy phone call you made.”