You were hoping she was going to lie for you.
Not lie, no. I mean - I don't know. I don't know what I was thinking, Manny.
Manny's face showed deep disappointment. Then his eyes narrowed with suspicion. Are there any more lies, Jack, and more important, is your alibi the biggest lie you've told me?
Jack became indignant. Are you questioning my innocence?
Not based on what I've heard so far. But I can't live with deception from a client who, at the very least, was willing to put himself in a position where he might have to kill Eddy Goss.
I resent that. I'd never kill anyone.
Really? Then why did you go inside Goss's apartment that night - before you went to Gina's? And just what were you planning to do with that pistol you were packing?
Jack paused. It was a difficult question. Maybe I don't know what I was going to do with it.
Manny looked his client straight in the eye. You can do better than that, he said, speaking in a tone that forced Jack to search his own soul. Manny's look was not accusatory. It was not judgmental. But it still made Jack uncomfortable.
Look, Manny. The bottom line is this: I didn't kill Eddy Goss.
Then don't kill your chances for an acquittal, he said, and don't manipulate your lawyer.
Jack looked him in the eye. He said nothing, but they'd reached an understanding. Then he rose from his chair and stepped toward the window. We're really better off without Gina anyway. Better this blew up now than at trial.
Manny leaned back in his chair. One thing still bothers me, though. When I told Gina she should help you, she said she didn't want to. That disturbs me.
That's just Gina.
Maybe. But when she says she doesn't want to help you, is that all she's saying? Or is she saying she wants to hurt you?
Jack froze. His throat felt suddenly dry. I don't think so. But with her, you really never know.
We need to know.
I suppose I could talk with her. I think she'd say more if it were just the two of us.
All right, Manny nodded. Try the personal approach. The sooner the better. Let's talk again as soon as you've had a conversation with her.
I'll call you first thing. He shook Manny's hand, then started across the room.
Oh, Jack, Manny called out as his client reached the door. Jack stopped short and looked back at his lawyer.
This Gina is a key player, said Manny. Don't get into it with her. Be polite. And if it's not going well, just ask her if she'll meet with me. Then let me handle her. And don't worry. I'm good with witnesses. Especially women.
Thanks, Jack replied, his expression deadpan. But you've never known a woman like this one.
Chapter
29
Seventy-three-year-old Wilfredo Garcia stood in his kitchen before his old gas stove cooking dinner, bistec palamillo and platanos fritos - flank steak and fried plantains. A Cuban who'd come to the United States with grown children in 1962, he had never become completely conversant in his adopted tongue, often shifting to Spanish to get his point across. He was a likable sort, though, and even his English listeners easily forgave his linguistic limitations.
Wilfredo was pudgy, with warm, deep brown eyes and chubby cheeks. He loved to eat, and most nights he dined at home, since the area of Adams Street wasn't really safe after dark.
Tonight, just as he was smothering his steak with chopped onions and parsley, the phone rang. He glanced up, but he didn't answer. He'd been ignoring his phone calls for the past couple days, ever since he'd read that article in the newspaper about how important the 911 call could be in the case against Jack Swyteck. He knew it was only a matter of time before they'd come looking for the man who'd been so ambivalent about getting involved that he'd called from a pay phone to keep the police from tracing it. He still didn't want to get involved. So until things blew over, he'd decided to live like a hermit.
But the phone kept on ringing - ten times, and then more than a dozen. It had to be important, he figured. Maybe it was his daughter in Brooklyn. Or his bookie. He turned off the stove and picked up the phone.
Oigo, he answered in his native Spanish.
Wilfredo Garcia?
SA.
This is Officer Michael Cookson of Metro-Dade Police. How you doin' this evening, sir?
Wilfredo's heart sank. He instantly wished he hadn't answered. Am fine. He answered in English, though his heavy accent was detectable even in his two-word response.
Mr. Garcia, I'm just doing some routine inquiries about the murder of Eddy Goss. I understand you live on the same floor as Mr. Goss used to live on.
Same floor, sA. But - por favor. I know nothing. I no want me involved.
I can understand that, sir. But this is important. We're looking for the man who dialed nine-one-one from a pay phone outside your building the night Mr. Goss was killed.
Wilfredo grimaced. I no want -
Hey, listen, my man, the officer said, speaking in a friendly tone, I understand where you're coming from. Between you and me, I don't care if they ever catch the guy who killed this Goss character. But it's my job to follow up on all these things. So if you know who made the call, you might just want to pass it along to him that it's really much better to talk to the police before all the lawyers come looking for him. Will you do that for me?
Wilfredo had a lump in his throat. All right.
In fact, let me make it real easy for you, Mr. Garcia, because I know how people hate to get involved in these things. I don't want you or anyone else to have to come down to the station, or even make a phone call to the station. Let me give you my personal beeper number. If you hear anything, or if one of your friends knows anything, just beep me. All I want is information. I promise I won't use your name unless I absolutely have to. Sound fair, my man?
SA.
Write this down - five, five, five, two, nine hundred. Got it?
Uh-huh.
Excellent. Thanks for your time, sir.
Good-bye. Wilfredo was short of breath as he hung up. It surprised him that he'd actually written down the beeper number. He really did hate to get involved, but the same instincts that had prompted him to dial 911 in the first place were gnawing at him again. It was a long time ago that he'd been naturalized as a citizen, that he'd sworn an oath to support his country and be a good American, but his memory of it was still vivid.
He glanced at the number he'd just scribbled down. The policeman had seemed nice enough. Maybe it wouldn't be as bad as he feared. Maybe it was time to come forward and get the monkey off his back.
Wilfredo drew a deep breath. Then he picked up the phone. His hand was shaking, but he managed to dial the number.
Chapter
30
Jack put the top down and took a long drive along the beach after leaving Manny's office. Cindy had called him a couple of nights before - just to chat, but they'd talked about being apart, and suddenly he heard her saying she'd move back in. Unfortunately, the euphoria he'd felt then had been severely dampened by the past two days' events. They'd settled on tonight for her to bring her stuff over, and he knew she'd be at the house, unpacking, when he arrived. He needed time to think before facing her.
The meeting today with Gina had been a real reality check. Any prior illusions about keeping his evening with her a secret were beginning to dissipate. He kept looking for a way to steer a course with her that would help his case and not affect his relationship with Cindy, but nothing was coming to him.
It was shortly after six o'clock when he finally pulled into the driveway and turned off the engine, and by then he'd received a call from Manny in his car that made him even more ill at ease. He thought about the call as he got out of the Mustang and walked up the wood-chip path.
The front door opened before he'd even mounted the stairs. Hi there, Cindy said. She stood smiling in the doorway, and although he felt miserable it was impossible for him not to throw his arms around her.
How's the unpacking going? he asked, closing the door behind them.
Getting there, she said, taking his hand as they walked into the living room. It's mostly just clothes, but I spent most of my time sifting through Gina's closet, looking for things she borrowed from me.
As they sat down on the couch, she noticed that he was brooding about something. You're not having second thoughts, are you?
He sighed. Cindy, as much as I want us to be together, after today I wonder if it's such a great idea for you to move in.
What do you mean?
It's not a question of loving you. I'm crazy about you. It's just that I'm not sure it's safe for you here.
Why not?
He exhaled, then launched into a selective summary of the events of the past two days, focusing on the Tampa real estate attorney by the name of Richard Dressler.
So why is Dressler so interested in this? she asked.
He's not. I got a call from Manny driving back here. His investigator met with Dressler in Tampa. Turns out his wallet was stolen two months ago. Somebody got all his identification. Including his Florida bar card.
So somebody's been using his bar card to pose as an attorney?
Exactly. This somebody used his name to check out the police file in my case after Goss was dead. I think the guy, whoever he is, is trying to frame me. If I'm right, it was him who was hassling me all along, not Goss.
Her eyes widened. Are you saying -
I don't know exactly what I'm saying. I haven't thought it all the way through yet. But I'm pretty sure there's still a killer on the loose. Whoever was after me is still out there.
She took a step back. Who is it, then? If it wasn't Eddy Goss, who could it be?
I don't know. But I'm going to find out. And until I do, I think it's best if you take a vacation or just get out of town for a few -
No. I'm staying with you, Jack. I'm not going to leave you at a time like this. We'll deal with this together.
He took a deep breath, then put his arms around her again. We still can't call the police. I can't tell them that whoever was after me is still out there. Because the minute they find out I thought Goss was threatening me, the prosecution goes from no evidence of motive to iron-clad proof.
Cindy bit her lip. It was bad enough that a stalker was still out there, but not being able to tell anyone was against common sense. Yet everything Jack had said seemed logical. All right, she said with a sigh. No police. We'll look out for ourselves, and we'll look out for each other.
That same Thursday evening, Governor Harold Swyteck checked into a room on the thirty-second floor of Miami's Hotel Intercontinental. He was scheduled to speak at a fund-raiser later that evening, but first he had to give away some money of his own. The bouquet of chrysanthemums he'd ordered was waiting for him in his room. He took the money from his briefcase - fifty thousand dollars - and placed the bills in the oversized pot. Then he took his shoes from his suitcase, all the while fighting to keep his anger under control. It was demeaning, really - like stealing a man's clothes and leaving him stranded on a street corner. But if that was the kind of cheap power trip this lunatic needed, so be it. At this point, Harry would have given much more than fifty grand to be rid of his blackmailer, once and for all.
He checked his watch. Six-thirty. With traffic, it would be about a twenty-minute drive to Memorial Cemetery. For perhaps the hundredth time that day, the governor mentally ran through his options, trying to find some way out of this ludicrousness. But both of his alternatives - calling the police or letting his tormentor do what he'd threatened - seemed unacceptable. At least, by following his blackmailer's instructions, he had a chance of holding on to the life he'd struggled so hard to create.
He grabbed the pot and the keys to his rental car and he was off, wondering with a growing dread if the grave he was about to visit was his own.
Chapter
31
Jack and Cindy were in bed by 9:00 P. M., and they didn't stop making love to the sounds of Love Jazz on the radio until well after the deejay said, Thank God it's Friday. Afterward, Jack decided he had to find some way to tell Cindy the truth about Gina. She was risking too much for him to be dishonest with her. Before breaking the news, however, he wanted to confirm Gina's position. He wanted to be able to tell Cindy that Gina wouldn't be telling their sordid story to the world - as a witness for the prosecution.
The following afternoon Jack was deep in thought as he headed to Gina's townhouse, driving so slowly that even carloads of tourists zoomed by him on the expressway.
Gina had just returned from jogging when Jack knocked on her door. She wore orange nylon shorts, Nike running shoes, and a skimpy tank top that had been pasted to her body by a good hard sweat. Her long brown hair was pulled back and tied behind her head.
Can I come in? he asked, standing in the open doorway.
Gina sipped her Gatorade Lite, her expression as cool as the ice in her glass. Sure, she said with a shrug.
He stepped inside and closed the door, then followed her to the kitchen. I realize this isn't your favorite subject, Gina. But the way you left Manny's office yesterday, I felt like we should talk.