thirty thousand feet cut through the night sky. Vince waited for the distant noise to fade away completely, then said, “He had pictures of Jamal Wakefield with him.”
“Pictures?”
“He had a cell phone, too. Jack Swyteck’s number was in the call history.”
“He talked to Swyteck before he died?”
“Turns out Swyteck was at a sidewalk café about fifty feet away when the guy dropped dead on Lincoln Road Mall. Detective Lopez took his statement last night.”
“Is Swyteck a suspect?”
“No. His story is that an anonymous informant called him yesterday and told him to meet at eight o’clock on the mall. The guy promised to bring Swyteck some photographs to support Jamal Wakefield’s alibi.”
“What alibi?”
Vince told her, and he took the long pause as a sign of her incredulity. Finally, Alicia said, “So the photographs show that Wakefield was held in some kind of a detention facility in Prague when McKenna was murdered?”
“I’m sure that’s what Swyteck will argue in court.”
“Exactly what did Lopez tell you is in the pictures?”
“It’s definitely Jamal. He’s handcuffed. He looks tired and scared. But there’s no way to tell where he is or when the photos were taken.”
“Does he look like Jamal Wakefield from Miami, or like Khaled al-Jawar from Somalia?”
“Clean shaven, like Jamal. But he didn’t have long hair and a beard when he arrived in Guantánamo. So these photographs could have been taken when he was in Gitmo— after the murder.”
“Could have been? Or were?”
“Were,” said Vince. “Definitely were, if you ask me.”
“Are they ruling his death a homicide?”
“Toxicology report will take a few weeks. But they found a suspicious mark on his ankle. So, unofficially, yeah. Lopez is going with foul play. Probably will call in Miami-Dade Homicide.”
Alicia couldn’t help chuckling. “What’s the theory—somebody jabbed him with a poison-tipped umbrella à la James Bond?”
Vince didn’t answer.
“You’re joking, right?” she said.
He turned in his chair and removed his sunglasses, as if to look her in the eye. “Do I look like I’m joking?” he asked, his tone taking on an edge. “Is there anything about this that should strike me as remotely funny?”
“Vince, come on.”
“No, I’ve kept my head about this for three years. I’ve been upbeat. I’ve been positive. I’ve done all the things that make people say they admire me right before they go home and tell their wife, ‘Thank God I’m not Vince Paulo.’ ”
“They don’t say that.”
“Yes, they do , Alicia. And I’m okay with it. Most of the time. But not right now. Jamal Wakefield is back, he’s got himself a couple of smart lawyers, and they’ve cooked up a really clever alibi. How do you expect me to act?”
“I don’t expect anything. I’m just a little worried about you.”
“Of course you are. Everybody is. The blind guy gets sad, and it’s because all blind people are depressed. The blind guy gets angry, and it’s because all blind people are bitter. Why can’t I have the same emotions everybody else has? Why does everyone assume that if there’s a smile on my face, it’s fake, and if there’s no smile on my face, it’s because I hate my life? I hate Jamal Wakefield—that’s what I hate. And there is nothing wrong with my wanting to nail the son of a bitch who butchered McKenna Mays and left me like this.”
He felt her touch again, but he pulled his hand away.
“Vince, I don’t think I like what I’m hearing.”
“Then go to bed,” he said as he reached for his cell phone.
“Who are you calling?”
“Jack Swyteck,” he said, dialing.
“Vince, don’t. You’ve been drinking.”
He kept dialing.
“It’s after eleven,” said Alicia.
Vince ignored her. On the third ring, Swyteck answered his cell.
“Swyteck, it’s Vince Paulo.”
Jack hesitated, obviously caught off guard. “How are you, Vince?”
“Been better. I know
“Pictures?”
“He had a cell phone, too. Jack Swyteck’s number was in the call history.”
“He talked to Swyteck before he died?”
“Turns out Swyteck was at a sidewalk café about fifty feet away when the guy dropped dead on Lincoln Road Mall. Detective Lopez took his statement last night.”
“Is Swyteck a suspect?”
“No. His story is that an anonymous informant called him yesterday and told him to meet at eight o’clock on the mall. The guy promised to bring Swyteck some photographs to support Jamal Wakefield’s alibi.”
“What alibi?”
Vince told her, and he took the long pause as a sign of her incredulity. Finally, Alicia said, “So the photographs show that Wakefield was held in some kind of a detention facility in Prague when McKenna was murdered?”
“I’m sure that’s what Swyteck will argue in court.”
“Exactly what did Lopez tell you is in the pictures?”
“It’s definitely Jamal. He’s handcuffed. He looks tired and scared. But there’s no way to tell where he is or when the photos were taken.”
“Does he look like Jamal Wakefield from Miami, or like Khaled al-Jawar from Somalia?”
“Clean shaven, like Jamal. But he didn’t have long hair and a beard when he arrived in Guantánamo. So these photographs could have been taken when he was in Gitmo— after the murder.”
“Could have been? Or were?”
“Were,” said Vince. “Definitely were, if you ask me.”
“Are they ruling his death a homicide?”
“Toxicology report will take a few weeks. But they found a suspicious mark on his ankle. So, unofficially, yeah. Lopez is going with foul play. Probably will call in Miami-Dade Homicide.”
Alicia couldn’t help chuckling. “What’s the theory—somebody jabbed him with a poison-tipped umbrella à la James Bond?”
Vince didn’t answer.
“You’re joking, right?” she said.
He turned in his chair and removed his sunglasses, as if to look her in the eye. “Do I look like I’m joking?” he asked, his tone taking on an edge. “Is there anything about this that should strike me as remotely funny?”
“Vince, come on.”
“No, I’ve kept my head about this for three years. I’ve been upbeat. I’ve been positive. I’ve done all the things that make people say they admire me right before they go home and tell their wife, ‘Thank God I’m not Vince Paulo.’ ”
“They don’t say that.”
“Yes, they do , Alicia. And I’m okay with it. Most of the time. But not right now. Jamal Wakefield is back, he’s got himself a couple of smart lawyers, and they’ve cooked up a really clever alibi. How do you expect me to act?”
“I don’t expect anything. I’m just a little worried about you.”
“Of course you are. Everybody is. The blind guy gets sad, and it’s because all blind people are depressed. The blind guy gets angry, and it’s because all blind people are bitter. Why can’t I have the same emotions everybody else has? Why does everyone assume that if there’s a smile on my face, it’s fake, and if there’s no smile on my face, it’s because I hate my life? I hate Jamal Wakefield—that’s what I hate. And there is nothing wrong with my wanting to nail the son of a bitch who butchered McKenna Mays and left me like this.”
He felt her touch again, but he pulled his hand away.
“Vince, I don’t think I like what I’m hearing.”
“Then go to bed,” he said as he reached for his cell phone.
“Who are you calling?”
“Jack Swyteck,” he said, dialing.
“Vince, don’t. You’ve been drinking.”
He kept dialing.
“It’s after eleven,” said Alicia.
Vince ignored her. On the third ring, Swyteck answered his cell.
“Swyteck, it’s Vince Paulo.”
Jack hesitated, obviously caught off guard. “How are you, Vince?”
“Been better. I know
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