When Darkness Falls

She reached for the door handle and then stopped. Why hadn’t Vince called her? She was ru

Or perhaps Vince was starting to wrestle with the same questions and suspicions that she was finally facing.

Alicia’s BlackBerry chirped and vibrated in her purse, which wrested her from her thoughts. Without even checking, she was certain that it was from Vince, and that this phone call would settle once and for all that he respected her judgment and that, despite all the personal history and the intervening tragedy, they could work together as a team. She smiled a little as she grabbed the phone and prepared to deliver some pithy greeting. But it wasn’t Vince. It wasn’t even a phone call. It was an e-mail. It came from a server she didn’t recognize, and the screen name wasn’t even a name, just an apparently random combination of letters and numbers. The subject line took her breath away. It read simply, “It was only out of love that I sought you,” harking back to the e-mail she’d received that same night her purse had been stolen. Alicia scrolled down to the body of the message, her hand shaking.

And now I’m sure that I have found you,

the message read.

Meet me in the lobby of the Hotel Intercontinental. Today at 4:00. Please come alone. Please, please come.

Alicia read it again, which only delivered a double dose of chills. She checked her watch: 3:40 p.m. She could make it to the Hotel Intercontinental by four o’clock, but only if she left at that very moment. She thought about it, then decided to trust her instincts. She restarted her car and tucked the BlackBerry into her purse, right beside her Sig Sauer pistol.

THE PHONE CALL in Jack’s ear sounded like a buzz saw. He held his flip phone about six inches away from his head, and only then did he realize that it was Theo’s friend Zack shouting over the roar of a seaplane engine.

“I can’t hear a word you’re saying,” said Jack. He was shouting in reply, even though he was standing in the relative quiet of the parking lot outside the mobile command center. Two Miami cops happened by and wondered if Jack was speaking to them.

“Just a sec,” shouted Zack. The engine noise in the background suddenly cut off, then Zack was back on the phone. “Is that better?”

“Much.”

“Guess who I have sitting here next to me,” said Zack, though he didn’t wait for a response. “It’s our pal Riley.”

“You mean Riley the Bahamian bank manager?”

“The one and only.”

“I thought he was missing.”

“‘Hiding’ is a better word for it.”

“How did you track him down?”

“Made it my mission to do so. I’ve been flying back and forth from the Bahamas for ten years. I got my share of contacts. Let’s just say that my resourcefulness would have made even our buddy Theo Knight proud.”

Jack knew exactly what Zack was saying: Don’t ask. He had visions of Riley bound, gagged, and hanging upside down by a thread over a vat of bubbling acid to prevent his escape, à la Adam West and the old Batman TV show. Jack said, “Does Riley know what happened to the money in Falcon’s safe deposit box?”

“My friend, there is no end to the secrets this man knows.”

“Does that mean yes?”

“It means that the answer is so long and complicated that you’d better ask him yourself.”

“That’s fine. Bring him here to the mobile command center. Sergeant Paulo and I will question him.”

Zack hedged. “Uh, there’s a reason this guy went into hiding. Taking him to the police is probably not such a hot idea.”

“Is he ru

“No. He just doesn’t have any faith that the cops can protect him.”

“Then who is he ru

Again, Zack’s pause conveyed that same “Don’t ask.” Jack said, “Have you processed him through immigration?”

“That depends on what you mean by ‘processed.’”

“Zack, I hope you haven’t-”

“Stop right there. This is Theo Knight we’re talking about here, remember? If that was you or me stuck in that motel room with some pistol-waving lunatic, Theo would have sprung us free two hours ago. We’d be back at his bar shooting pool, drinking beers, and laughing about the whole thing by now. Theo would do whatever it takes. You understand what I’m saying?”

Jack considered it. In every way that mattered-friendship, loyalty, and the kind of brotherhood that transcended the luck of the genetic draw-Zack was making perfect sense. Jack said, “Okay, so tell me, exactly what is it going to take?”

“About five minutes of your time. There’s things you know that I don’t, and vice versa. If you and me put our heads together, Riley could be the key that unravels this thing. It’s like that guy Deep Throat telling the Washington Post reporter how to figure out what was really going on with President Nixon and the Watergate scandal.”

“Follow the money?”

“Yeah. Follow the money.”

“And you’re telling me that Mr. Riley is our roadmap?” said Jack.

“Well said. Now, get your butt over here.”

“I really can’t get away from this place. At least not for long.”

“I’m not bringing Riley to the mobile command center. Dropping him in a sea of cops is the quickest way to make him clam up for good.”

“Can you meet me somewhere halfway? How about the people-mover station over by the college? I forget the name.”

“The one next to that huge construction site?”

“That’s it.”

“I can be there in ten minutes.”

Jack checked his watch. “Be there in five,” he said, then switched off his phone.

SURROUNDED BY POLISHED walls and towering columns of green Brazilian marble, an old woman waited in the three-story, open lobby of the Hotel Intercontinental. On a typical South Florida day, streams of sunlight would be shining through the skylights and bathing the lobby in a warm, natural glow. The afternoon rain and dark clouds, however, gave the marble interior a cold, dreary feeling. A huge modern sculpture dominated the center of the lobby, and in its shadow, the old woman found a comfortable leather armchair. From there, she had a perfect view of the hotel’s grand entrance. She eyeballed each person who entered through the revolving glass doors. If it was a man, she let him pass without much notice. Only the younger women warranted her scrutiny, attractive Latinas in their midtwenties. Miami seemed to be full of them, and this particular hotel lobby was no exception. One of the major cruise lines was in the process of booking hundreds of guests for an overnight stay, and the old woman was begi

A waiter cleared away the empty cocktail glasses that previous patrons had left behind on the table beside her. “Algo tomar?” he asked. Something to drink? Miami waiters didn’t always assume that their guests spoke Spanish as a first language, and she wondered why he had made that assumption correctly in her case.

“No, gracias,” she said.

As the waiter turned and tended to the next table, it suddenly occurred to her why he had spoken to her in Spanish. She was clutching her purse tightly, and protruding from it was a thick file. It was plainly marked: LA CACHA, CASO NUMERO 309. La Cacha, Case Number 309.

The waiter must have noticed the Spanish wording on the file. Or maybe not. Paranoia was getting the best of her. She didn’t exactly look Swedish, for heaven’s sake. Even so, she turned the folder around so that the label was concealed against her bosom. She continued to clutch it tightly, hopefully. Almost as an afterthought, as if for support, she reached into her purse and clutched an old white nappy. It was just a piece of cloth, but it was rich with personal history and years of struggle.