Jack took a deep breath. It was the same voice, but the tone was different. The man was breathing heavily, as if he'd been running, and his voice trembled as he spoke.
You came early, Swyteck. And now I'm very angry.
Jack stayed on the line but was unable to speak, paralyzed by the crazed panting of a madman so furious he was gasping for breath. Please, Jack said, let's talk.
I said four-thirty A. M., he seethed. And I meant four-thirty A. M. This is your last chance. Be there - at four-thirty.
Jack started to say something, but the phone went dead. His hand shook as he hung up.
What was that? Gina asked with fear.
He looked at her. My final invitation, he said.
Chapter
16
Two hours later, Miami was in its deepest phase of sleep, that eerie, silent period just after the last drunk makes it home for the evening and just before the first early bird leaves for work. There was a knocking, then a pounding at the door. Eddy Goss rose from his bed and listened, wondering if he'd really heard something. Another round of pounding told him he wasn't dreaming. He rolled out of bed and paused, letting his eyes adjust to the darkness. He couldn't switch on a light; they'd shut the power off when he failed to pay his last bill. He took small, precarious steps out of his bedroom and toward the door, somewhat leery of answering the knock. He reached under the couch cushion and retrieved his revolver, then pressed his face to the door and looked through the peephole. The bulb hanging outside his apartment was out, and all he could distinguish was a distorted silhouette. He recognized the dark blue police uniform, however, so he tucked the gun away. Convicted felons weren't allowed to have guns. He opened the door and presented himself in the same cocky way he always addressed cops.
His face showed confusion as he stared into the eyes of the man in uniform. What the hell - he started to say, but before he could get the next word out, the intruder burst inside the apartment, slammed the door behind him, and shoved Goss against the wall. He had no time to think, no time to fully understand what was happening. In half a second, the look of horror that he'd seen in so many of his own young victims overtook his face as he stared down the marksman's tunnel of death and swallowed two silenced bullets that pierced his cheeks and blew his brains out the back of his skull. He slid to the floor, smearing a bright red streak against the wall and landing with a thud, a twisted heap in a pool of blood. His lifeless body lay in the dark shadow of his executioner. Then the door opened quietly, and in an instant the shadow was gone - down the dimly lit hall, down the stairs, and back onto the street, carried away from the scene and into the night by the lonely echo of worn leather heels pounding on the pavement like just any other beat cop making his rounds.
Part Three Tuesday, August 2
Chapter
17
At 5:25 A. M. a frantic 911 call came in to the department. A crimson pool of blood had seeped beneath the closed door to Goss's apartment, staining the hallway's dirty green carpet. A neighbor had spotted it coming home from her night shift at the county hospital. The address she gave to the dispatcher would have been familiar to any homicide detective in the city, with all the publicity the Goss trial had received. Any one of them would have been tickled to see Goss get his due. But the chief of the homicide division knew exactly who should answer the call.
Jump in your car, Lon, he said as he rushed into the office of Detective Lonzo Stafford. The venetian blinds rattled against the glass door as it swung open. Sun ain't even up, and I'm about to make your day.
Stafford looked up from the Miami Herald sports section spread out on his desk. As usual, he was in his cubicle of an office a full ninety minutes before his 7:00 A. M. shift officially began, sipping coffee and dunking doughnuts. Stafford had been in law enforcement for almost forty-five years, a detective for nearly twenty. He was an ex-marine and a workaholic who filled nearly all his free time with overtime. Some said he worked longer hours because he'd lost a step with age - that he had to push a little harder to get less satisfactory results, like a magic lamp that had to be rubbed three times to yield one wish. In his prime, however, Lonzo Stafford had been the best homicide detective on the force. He didn't make mistakes. Except one time in forty-five years, and it had been so big that it cost a prosecutor a sure conviction. He'd played on a murder suspect's conscience during a videotaped interview and induced a confession by giving a Christian burial speech. He'd botched the case against Eddy Goss. And Lonzo Stafford despised Jack Swyteck for nailing him to the wall with that one.
Whatchya got for me? Stafford asked.
Cold one, the homicide chief replied with a smirk. Four-oh-nine East Adams Street. Apartment two-seventeen.
A satisfied grin came to Stafford's face as he instantly recognized the address. Praise Jesus, he said, rising from his old Naugahyde chair. I'm on my way.
Lon, said the chief as he stepped inside and closed the office door. Stafford was stopped in his tracks by the chief's pointed look. I know how you felt when that bastard Goss walked. I felt the same way. And I want you to understand that I won't be upset if, just this once, your investigation turns up goose eggs.
Stafford looked back plaintively, without disagreement. The chief turned to leave, then stopped before opening the door. Actually, he said, sighing, there's more to it than that. Right after Goss's neighbor called nine-one-one, we got another call. Some guy who didn't want to get involved. Wouldn't leave his name, and he called from a pay phone outside the building so we couldn't trace it back. Claims he saw someone in a police uniform leave apartment two-seventeen - right about the time Goss got blown away.
Stafford raised an eyebrow but said nothing.
We don't know anything for sure, the chief continued, but I suppose it's possible that when the jury didn't give Goss what he deserved, one of our men decided to take matters into his own hands. Can't say I'd be terribly shocked if that's what happened. Can't say I'd be terribly disappointed, either. You've been around long enough to know what I'm saying. Your job isn't to catch a killer. It's to kill a rumor.
Stafford smiled wryly. Second call sounds like a dead end already.
Good. Now, on your way, Detective. And give my regards to Eddy Goss.
The two men chuckled as they headed out the door together, smiling the way men smile when they're in complete agreement.
Morning, Lon, Detective Jamahl Bradley said to his partner as he ducked his six-foot-six frame beneath the yellow police tape that spanned the width of the hall outside Goss's apartment. The building had been completely secured, with uniformed police officers standing guard at the staircase and at either end of the hall. The door to apartment 217 was wide open, a yellow tarp draped over the bloody corpse that blocked the entrance. Dawn's eerie glow seeped in through the apartment's only window. All was quiet, save for the occasional squawk and static of a police walkie-talkie.
Stafford glanced at Bradley as he folded his arms across his signature attire: red tie, white shirt and twenty-year-old blue blazer - the colors, the flag-waving ex-marine liked to say. About damn time you got here, Stafford grumbled.
Bradley gave him a look that typified the mutual disrespect this young African-American and old Florida cracker outwardly demonstrated toward each other. But their banter belied their true feelings. Deep down, they knew they worked well together, basically liked each other, and, most of all, loved giving each other unmitigated hell. You're lucky my black ass is here, Bradley snapped back. Your daughter wouldn't let me out of bed.
A joke like that would normally have drawn a nuclear reaction out of Stafford. But he wasn't listening. The old master was absorbed in details, standing squarely in the open apartment doorway as he peered inside with narrowed, discerning eyes. He'd been on the scene for over an hour already. He needed just one more hard look before turning things over to the department's lab rats, who would collect blood, fingerprints, fibers, and whatever else they could find.
Let's go, said Stafford.
Go? asked Bradley.
Yeah, he nodded. You and me gotta be at Jack Swyteck's house before he turns on the morning news.
Bradley winced with confusion. What for?
Justice, he quipped, the corner of his mouth curling in a wry smile. I can't wait to see that cocky bastard's expression when I tell him that half his client's ugly face is splattered on the living room wall.
Detective Bradley returned the smile. Like everyone else in the police department, he was familiar with the way Eddy Goss's lawyer had skewered Stafford on the witness stand. I'll drive, he said.
They left Goss's apartment building at 7:00 A. M., just as rush hour began, but they were headed against traffic. They reached Jack's house in fifteen minutes, pulled into the driveway, and marched up to the front door, Stafford leading the way. The detective gave three loud knocks and waited. There was no answer. Jack's car was in the driveway, though, so he knocked again, louder this time. He listened carefully, then smiled with success as he and his partner heard someone stirring inside.
Jack lumbered out of his bedroom and shuffled through the living room to the door. His eyes were puffy slits, and his hair stuck out in all directions. He wore no shoes and no shirt, only the baggy gray gym shorts he'd slept in. He yawned as he pulled aside the curtain and looked out the window next to the front door. He recognized the beige sedan in the driveway as an unmarked police car, and his brow furrowed with curiosity. Then his curiosity turned to concern as Lonzo Stafford's familiar face appeared in the window. Right behind the crusty old detective was his young black partner, whom Jack recognized from Goss's videotaped confession. Bradley seemed even taller and more formidable in person. He had the thick neck of a weight lifter, and his hair was cropped short on the sides and flat on the top, like a pencil eraser. Jack's heart fluttered as the black detective glanced at the Mustang in the driveway. Fortunately, the top was still down so the slash wasn't visible. Relieved, Jack took the chain off the door and opened it.
Good morning, Stafford said matter-of-factly.
It certainly is morning, Jack answered.
We need to talk.
What about? asked Jack.
You mind if we come in?
What's it about? Jack repeated, this time more firmly.
Stafford showed no expression. It's about Eddy Goss.
Jack shook his head. Then we have nothing to talk about. I don't work at the Freedom Institute anymore. I don't represent Goss anymore.
He's dead, said Stafford.
Jack froze. What?
Goss is dead, he repeated, as if he liked the sound of it. We found him in his apartment a few hours ago. Somebody killed him.
Are you sure?
I seen a few dead bodies in my day, Stafford said. I know a homicide when I see one. Now, he arched an eyebrow, you mind if we come inside for a minute?
Sure, said Jack.
You do mind? Stafford asked, pretending to have misunderstood.
No, Jack said, flustered. I mean, I don't mind.
Because you don't have to talk -
I don't mind, Jack asserted, a little too forcefully. Come on in, he said as he stepped aside, allowing Stafford and Bradley to pass.
As he entered, Stafford reflected on the irony of the situation. Had a homicide detective shown up at the door of any of Swyteck's clients the night after a murder Swyteck would have been the first to tell him to get lost. It amazed Stafford how lawyers never seemed to heed their own advice.
Have a seat, said Jack as he cleared the newspaper off the couch.
Stafford watched him carefully. Jack's movements were jerky, a little nervous. Stafford noted the fresh red scratches on his bare back. Could have been a woman, he thought. There was a purple bruise on his ribs, too. Would have taken a pretty aggressive woman. And the back of Jack's left hand had a nasty cut - like from a knife. Not something a woman delivers in ordinary course.
That's quite a gash you got there, said Stafford as he and his partner took their seats on the couch.
Jack glanced down, picking up on the detective's nod at his hand. It suddenly hurt more now than when he'd stabbed himself with the steak knife. It looked worse, too. Everything looked worse than it had last night. There was a dead body and two nosy detectives looking for an explanation.
It's nothing, really, said Jack. Just a scratch.
Pretty deep for a scratch, observed Bradley. More like a puncture.
Jack shifted uneasily, feeling somewhat double-teamed now that Stafford's partner was talking too. He glanced at Stafford, then at Bradley. They seemed to want an explanation. So he gave them one. Yesterday, I was doing some work on my Mustang, he lied. I was loosening a really tight nut, you know - one of those ones that gets rusted on real tight. I just pushed and pushed, he said, demonstrating with his left hand. The wrench slipped, and I cut my hand.
Stafford arched an eyebrow suspiciously. Didn't know you were a lefty, Jack.
Jack hesitated, measuring his response. I'm not. But I use both hands.
You're ambidextrous? Bradley followed up.