I guess you know all about the grand jury investigation, he said, still not quite believing the turn of circumstances.
She nodded.
Do I need to tell you I didn't do it?
She looked into his eyes. I know you didn't.
He went to embrace her again, but his attention was diverted by a car pulling into his driveway. It was a police car - not one but two in fact. And inside the lead car was Detective Lonzo Stafford.
I've got to talk to these guys, Jack said to Cindy as he gestured for her to go inside. At first she hesitated, but then she entered the house.
Stafford trudged up the path and took Cindy's place on the porch. His blue blazer was even more wrinkled than usual, his necktie was loosened, and a few extra lines seemed to have appeared in his tired old face. He'd clearly been working some long hours, but the gleam in his gray eyes made it equally clear that he thought his hard work was about to pay off.
Got a warrant here, my friend. Time for a little search party.
Jack sighed, relieved that it wasn't an arrest warrant. You won't find a murder weapon here, he assured the detective. For a moment, Jack felt like leading him right to his footlocker and the old .38. A simple ballistics test would prove it wasn't involved in the Goss shooting. But the gun was never registered in Florida, a problem in itself, and possessing it would only prove his familiarity with the same type of weapon the newspapers said had killed Goss. Jack figured the less grist the detective had for wild conjecture, the better.
Stafford glanced over his shoulder to make sure the other officers couldn't hear him. Do you think I'm stupid enough to get a warrant to look for a murder weapon? he asked contemptuously. Then I'd have to tell the jury we looked for it and didn't find it, wouldn't I, Swyteck? Besides, he said smugly, I don't need to find the gun. Not since Ballistics determined a silencer was used to kill Goss. Not since that mechanic down at Kaiser pulled a silencer out of your convertible.
A mechanic did what?
Stafford smiled wryly. You'll hear all about it soon enough, counselor. Right now, he said with a wink as he flashed the warrant in Jack's face, baby needs a new pair a' shoes. Reeboks to be exact. You may recall that it as a rainy night when you visited your favorite client. Your footprints are all over the apartment.
Jack fell silent. Things were getting worse by the minute, but he had nothing to gain by sparring with the old detective. Just get what you came for, he said flatly. And be on your way.
Stafford signaled back to his team with a jerk of his head. Jamahl Bradley and two other officers filed into the house, heading straight for the master bedroom. Jack followed closely behind, his stomach in knots.
What's happening? Cindy asked Jack, her voice trembling as the officers whisked by her in the living room.
Stafford stopped to field the question. We're gonna prove your boyfriend here was traipsing around Eddy Goss's apartment the night of the murder. That's what's happening, miss. Stafford took another step, then stopped and arched a suggestive eyebrow at Cindy. You sure you want to sleep here tonight, sweetheart?
Shut the hell up, Stafford, Jack snapped.
Stafford just shrugged and continued on toward the bedroom. Jack started to follow but stopped when he saw the look on Cindy's face. He wanted to watch the police conduct their search, just to make sure they stuck to the warrant, but he couldn't let Stafford's remark linger. He had to keep Cindy's trust, so he took her by the hand and led her quickly through the kitchen, into the backyard by the gazebo where they'd be out of earshot.
Were you really at Goss's apartment the night he was murdered?
He looked into the middle distance, obviously struggling with what he was about to say. Listen, Cindy, there are going to be things I won't be able to tell you from here on out. Not because I'm guilty, but because it's possible you may end up being a witness at trial - and the less you know, the better. But I may as well tell you this, because the footprints are going to prove it anyway. Yes, I was there that night. I went to Goss's apartment. But I didn't kill him. I went because of some threats I was getting. Someone was calling me, telling me there was a killer on the loose.' And then I was nearly run down, and Thursday - he killed Thursday.
Cindy brought her hand to her mouth. Oh, my God oh, my God, Jack.
Jack touched her cheek gently to console her. I figured it was Goss, and sure enough, that day you left for Italy I got a call inviting me to his apartment. He didn't identify himself, but that was just part of the game-playing. I had to confront him, Cindy. But I didn't kill him.
Are you going to tell the police all that?
No way. He laid his hands on her shoulders for emphasis as he spoke. It's very important that you understand this. We can never tell the police about the harassment. Not unless they force us to tell them.
Why not?
He sighed. Right now, they're trying to build a case against me for killing Eddy Goss. I don't know how good it's going to be, but off the top of my head, I can see one glaring weakness: motive. Why would I kill Goss? Without any evidence that Goss was stalking me, all the prosecution can say is that I killed him because I felt guilty about having gotten him acquitted. Their whole case boils down to whether or not a lawyer - a criminal defense lawyer - had a guilty conscience. Now, how many jurors would even believe a lawyer actually has a conscience, let alone one strong enough to make him into a killer?
She listened carefully, considering his explanation.
It's simple, he continued. If I were to tell the police about the threats I started getting after Goss's trial, I'd be handing them a motive on a silver platter. The moment they find out Goss was after me, that's it. Bingo! They've got a motive. Understand?
Cindy sighed. She felt like she was going to cry, not so much because of what was happening at the moment, but because she realized that this was all just the beginning of a new and terrible set of events. Yes, she said quietly, I understand. Don't worry, Jack. I'm with you.
Jack and Cindy ordered out for Chinese after Stafford left the house. At first they tried to keep the conversation light, but as Jack finished his last spring roll, he turned the discussion in a more serious direction. I'm sorry we didn't get to talk before you left for Italy - at least to say good-bye.
More than that needed to be said, Cindy answered. There's a side of you that always seems cut off from me. And it's not just me - you seem to deal with your father the same way. The whole time I've known you, you've never made an effort to contact him, and he's never called you either.
I don't blame you for being confused about that.
It's not about blame, Jack. It's just something you've got to deal with.
He averted his eyes as he fiddled with an empty soy sauce packet. I've wanted to. Oddly enough, just before this thing got really crazy, my stepmother phoned. Said I should give my father a call. I don't know how to explain it it's absurd, really, but as long as I don't call him, there's hope we'll work things out. If I do take a chance, and there's a blowup, I'm not sure we can ever put the pieces back together. It's like they say, if you take your shot and miss, the dream is over. But if you don't, there's always someday.
C'mon, Jack, you know better than that. You can't trudge along, status quo, hoping things will change. There comes a point when you have to do something. That's what I did with us. I'm not saying I handled it perfectly, but I had to do something. Her eyes sought his. You need to know that it was strictly business between me and Chet. She shook her head, rolled her eyes. It turned out that he wanted it to be more, and that's why I came right back home. I didn't feel it was over between us - which is why I told Gina to give you the number at my hotel.
Gina never gave me a number, said Jack.
Oh Cindy looked confused. She promised me she would. I guess she forgot.
Yeah, he said skeptically. He'd really allowed Gina to sucker him in. His feelings of guilt were overwhelming.
After they'd cleared the dinner plates, Jack glanced at his watch. They'd been talking longer than he thought. It was nearly eleven-thirty. He asked Cindy if she'd be all right getting back to Gina's.
I want to stay here tonight, she said, avoiding direct eye contact. But tonight' means just that. No commitments yet, okay?
That's fine, he said, his expression showing both gratitude and relief.
Twenty minutes later, Cindy emerged from the bathroom wearing a big football jersey Jack had loaned her to sleep in. She shuffled toward the bed, then paused as she noticed the dresser mirror. You replaced all the torn snapshots.
Yeah, I dug out the negatives and made some new prints, he said sheepishly. I didn't have much of a choice. Every time I looked at the mirror, it reminded me of how awful I was the last time we were together.
She flashed a wide smile. Come to bed, she said as she led him by the hand.
As he drew back the sheets, thoughts of his impending arrest took the edge off his desire. He looked at Cindy and felt an enormous burden of guilt. She was so willing to give him a second chance, so willing to support him as he weathered this latest crisis. He wondered how she'd react if she heard that his best shot at an alibi was her own best friend.
Chapter
21
Stafford and his assistants left Jack's house at about eight o'clock. Jack's tennis shoes were in the lab by eight-thirty. Stafford and his partner hung around the police station for the preliminary results, patiently waiting in the senior detective's office. Stafford was at his desk, still in that faded blue blazer he never seemed to take off, his white shirt collar unbuttoned and wide polyester tie dropped over his chair. He was busying himself smoking cigarettes and straightening out paper clips. Bradley was in the chair beside the window, wadding up yesterday's newspaper into little balls and shooting free throws into the wastebasket in the corner.
The phone rang at ten. Stafford, the detective answered eagerly, cigarette smoke pouring from his lips as he spoke.
Bradley watched expectantly as his partner nodded and grunted.
Got him! Stafford proclaimed as he hung up. He leaned back in his chair and folded his arms smugly across his chest. Perfect match on the Reeboks. Twenty-seven glorious prints all over the apartment, and even one on the windowsill. Can't say I'm surprised. I knew in my gut Swyteck did it. But I'm pleased as hell we can prove it.
Bradley nodded slowly. Congratulations, he said, though he spoke without heart.
Stafford looked questioningly at his partner. I would have expected a little more excitement than that, Jamahl.
Bradley hesitated, but there was something he needed to say. Frankly, Lon, you just seem a little too eager to nail this guy. That's all.
Stafford's eyes flared with anger, but he kept control. Listen to me, he lectured. I've been a cop more than forty years, son. I know enough to listen to my instincts. And my instincts say that Jack Swyteck lost his cool after that trial, and he blew Goss away. I know what I'm talking about, he growled, then took a drag from his cigarette. The system is just a game to these criminal defense lawyers. They don't care about the truth. They'll say or do whatever it takes to win: My client ate too many Twinkies,' or My client watched too much television.' I've heard it all and I've seen em all, and Swyteck ranks up there with the worst. I listened to Eddy Goss confess murder right to my face. Right to my damn face. And then I watched Fancy Jack Swyteck convince a jury his client wasn't guilty. That boy made a fool out of me. I've watched that son of a bitch do it time and time again. And every time he wins, another killer goes back on the street. Usually it's on a technicality or some flaky defense. And Swyteck's just getting warmed up. He's a tenderfoot. Can you imagine him doing this for the next twenty-five, thirty years?
Bradley swallowed apprehensively. He knew the dangers of a cop who let the ends justify the means - especially one who seemed out for revenge. So what are you saying, Lon? Somebody's got to stop him?
Stafford's expression turned very cold. No, he snapped. All I'm saying is that this slick defense lawyer has got himself into deep trouble, and I'm gonna make damn sure he pays for it. So excuse me if I seem a little too happy about catchin' myself a killer, okay?
Bradley nodded slowly. Okay, chief, he shrugged, seeming to back off. After all, you do have twenty-seven footprints.
You're damn right I do.
But don't forget, said Bradley, shooting him a look. There's still an unidentified footprint right outside the apartment door. We know it's not from Goss. It's not the right shoe size. And we know it's not from Swyteck, either, since he was wearing the Reeboks.
So what, said Stafford, waving it off. It's from the janitor or somebody else in the building.
Bradley shook his head. No, it's not, Lon. That's a very clean print. You can see the insignia on the heel very plainly: two crossed oars. Those are Wiggins wing tips - three-hundred-dollar jobs. There ain't no janitor and nobody in that slum of an apartment building who wears three-hundred-dollar wing tips.
Look, Jamahl, Stafford grimaced. We got twenty-seven footprints from Jack Swyteck inside the apartment. We got one stray footprint outside the apartment. Quit bein' a pain in the ass, will ya?