Beyond Suspicion

“Hello.”

His heart was in his throat. The voice on the other end of the line was one of the voices he’d heard last night-the woman’s. “Good morning. This is Jack Swyteck. Remember me?”

She didn’t answer. Jack was feeling pretty smug, imagining her shooting a confused look at the phone in her hand.

He said, “I think you have something of mine. And if you check the number on this incoming call on your Caller ID, you’ll see that I have something of yours.”

She took a moment, and Jack was certain she was checking. Finally, she said, “Well, now. Isn’t this interesting.”

“Yours is especially interesting. The messages in your voice mail, all in Russian. I don’t speak the language, but I’m sure the FBI or vice squad downtown would be happy to translate for me.”

There was a brief but tense silence on the line. “What do you want?” she asked in a low, serious tone.

“I want to talk to you.”

“We’re already talking.”

“No. Unlike you, I’m not stupid enough to transact business over nonsecure airwaves. I want to meet.”

“That would be a mistake.”

“Perfect. I’d say it’s about time I made one of my own. I’m tired of paying for everyone else’s.”

“I’m not kidding. A meeting would be a terrible mistake.”

“It would be an even bigger mistake if you stood me up. So, listen good. You know where the Metro-Dade Government Center is?”

“The tall building downtown next to the museum.”

“Right. At four o’clock go into the lobby. Right in the middle, there’s a planter with a bronze plaque in memory of a man named Armando Alejandre. Wait for me there. Or I’m going straight to the FBI, and your phone comes with me.”

“How do I know you’re not going to have me arrested if I show up?”

“Because I want to find out who’s trying to hide what really happened to Jessie Merrill. And if I have you arrested, you’re not going to tell me a thing, now are you?”

More silence. Finally, her answer came: “You sure this is what you want?”

“Yes. Oh, and one other thing.”

“What?”

“When I was a prosecutor, this was my favorite place to meet reluctant witnesses, snitches, the like. It works very well because at least a dozen security guards are always wandering around. So leave your steel-toed boots at home. If you try anything, you’ll never make it out of the building.” He hit the end button, put the phone in his pocket, and finished off his coffee.

“You like something more?” asked the woman behind the counter.

“No, gracias. Todo está perfecto.” He handed over a five-dollar bill.

“Thank you. Have nice day.”

Have nice day, he thought, smiling to himself. Once again, bad Spanish begat bad English. Why do I even try?

“Thank you, ma’am. It already is a nice day.”

29

•

Her work didn’t require a visit to the studio that morning, but Cindy went anyway. Jessie’s death had rendered her own house unlivable, and her mother’s house was feeling none-too-cozy after the raid at sunrise by federal marshals. She was ru

Her portrait work was strictly by appointment, but she had nothing scheduled today. She’d driven into the South Miami looking forward to a solid eight hours alone, a day to herself. There was always work to do, but she wasn’t in the mood for anything challenging. She opted for organizing her office, the perfect mindless task for a woman who wasn’t sure if she was married to a cheater.

She started with the mound of mail in her in-box, which was no small assignment. She actually had four in-boxes, each created at a different stage of procrastination. There was “Current,” then “Aging,” followed by “I’ll Get to It on a Rainy Day,” and finally, “I’ll Build the Ark Before I Sort Through This Crap.” She was only a third of way through the “Aging” stack when a knock at the door interrupted her.

She double-checked, and sure enough, the sign in the window said closed. She stayed put, hoping that whoever it was would just go away. But the first knock was followed by a second, then another. She finally got up and was about to say There’s no one here, but then she recognized the face on the other side of the glass. It was Jack’s abuela. She unlocked the door and let her inside. The little bell on the door startled the old woman as she entered.

“Ooh. Angel got his wings.”

Cindy smiled as she recalled that it was two years ago, Christmas, when Abuela had come over from Cuba, and her first lesson in English was the movie It’s a Wonderful Life-over and over again.

“How are you?” said Cindy as they embraced warmly.

“Bueno. Y tú?” she answered in Spanish, though Cindy’s ear for the language was even worse than Jack’s.

“Fine. Come in, please.”

Abuela followed her zigzag path through canvas backdrops and lighting equipment, stopping at a small and cramped office area. Cindy cleared the stacks of old photo-proofs from a chair and offered her a seat. She would have offered coffee, but Abuela had tasted hers before, and it had just about sent her back to Havana.

“I hope you not too busy,” said Abuela.

“No, not at all. What brings you here?”

“Well, sorry, but I not here to get picture taken.”

“Oh, what a pity.”

She smiled, then turned serious. “You know why I here.”

Cindy lowered her eyes. “Abuela, I love you, but this is between your grandson and me.”

“Claro. But this just take a minute.” She opened her purse and removed a stack of opened envelopes.

“What are those?” asked Cindy.

“Letters. From Jack. He wrote these when I live in Cuba.”

“To you?”

“Sí. This is before I come to Miami.”

“Jack wrote all those?”

“Sí, sí. Is how Jack and I got to know each other. Is also how I got to know you.”

“Me?”

Abuela paused as if to catch her breath, then continued in a voice that quaked. “These letters. They are all about you.”

Cindy again checked the size of the stack. Her heart swelled, then ached. “Abuela, I can’t-”

“Por favor. I want you to see. My Jack-our Jack-maybe is no so good at saying things in words. If his mother lived, things would be different. She was loving person. Give love, receive love. But Jack, as un niño, no have her love. In his home, love was inside. Comprendes?”

“Yes. I think I understand.”

“If you are Swyteck, sometimes only when heart is broken can love get out.”

“That I do understand.”

Abuela sifted through the stack of letters in her lap, her hands shaking with emotion. “This is mi favorito. Is when he asked you to marry. And this one, too, is very good. About your wedding, with pictures.”

“Abuela, please. These letters were written for you, not me.”

She laid the stack aside, clutching one to her bosom. “I wouldn’t ask you to read them. I just want you to know they exist.”

“Thank you.”

“But there is one you must see. Es especial.” She fumbled for her reading glasses and dug the letter from the last envelope. “Is the oldest. Very different from others. See the top? Jack wrote the time. Two-thirty A.M. What make a man write a letter at this crazy hour?”

Cindy felt that this should stop, but she couldn’t bring herself to say it. She just listened.

Abuela read slowly, trying hard to make her English perfect, though her accent was still thick. “’Dear Abuela. It’s late, and I’m tired, so I will keep this short and sweet. Do you remember the letter you wrote me last June? It would have been your fiftieth wedding a