Afraid of the Dark

Chapter Fifty-one

Stop here,” Jack told the driver. They were in Bethnal Green, a half block away from the Carpenter’s Arms.

Like it or not, Jack had received a crash course in East End pub history from a driver who was apparently determined to become his new best friend. Plenty of pubs in the area claimed a connection to Ronald and Reginald Kray, the East End’s kings of organized crime in the 1950s and 1960s. Carpenter’s claim was more real than most. Once upon a time, it was actually owned by the Kray twins and run by their dear old mum. Somehow over the years the tiny old pub had avoided conversion to flats, and it stood in refurbished splendor at the corner of Cheshire and St. Matthew’s Row.

“Try the Greene King IPA or Staropramen ale on draft,” the driver said as Jack climbed out of the cab.

“Will do,” said Jack.

The cab pulled away, leaving Jack alone on the sidewalk. He was standing in front of a vacant shop that had apparently sold shoes of some sort; a tattered old sign in the window read THE DEVIL WEARS PRADA, BUT THE PEOPLE WEAR PLIMSOLLS-?5. The narrow and crooked one-way street was made even narrower by a block-long construction site across from the Carpenter’s Arms. Jack peered through the cold mist and saw Vince at the pub’s entrance.

Jack felt a pang of guilt for tailing a blind man, but Vince’s claim that he didn’t know who he was going to meet was a crock, and but for the jet lag, Jack would have called him on it immediately. Factor in the pain he was still feeling over Neil’s death, and maybe Andie had been right about the wisdom of deferring to the police. Chuck Mays was not to be trusted, and even if Vince was reliable under normal circumstances, these were not normal circumstances. Jack was starting to feel used, and it wouldn’t be the first time that someone like Chuck had tried to hire the name Swyteck-the son of a former governor-to legitimize some scheme.

Jack was about two hundred feet away, his anger rising, when he saw Vince reach for the door at the pub entrance. Then Vince stopped. Jack’s cell rang, and he answered.

“Stop following me,” said Vince.

The words hit him like a brick. Jack didn’t know how Vince knew, but it didn’t matter. “If I go back to the hotel, I’m going back to Miami,” said Jack. “Either I’m part of this, or I’m not.”

“Don’t be a jackass. It’s not my decision. Chuck set up the meeting.”

“Chuck is about to be indicted for murder.”

“For the third time: That news story was a plant. Chuck didn’t kill his wife.”

“I’m talking about the murder of the guy who was sleeping with her. Who killed Jamal Wakefield?”

“Jamal was butchered. They cut off his foot.”

“I’ve seen more grisly murders for hire.”

“Now you’re talking crazy.”

“Am I?”

“Yes. But let’s have this conversation later. You have no idea what you’re screwing up.”

“Who is your meeting with?”

“I’m not meeting with anyone if you don’t get out of here.”

Jack picked up the pace, now almost close enough to read the chalkboard in the window. “Are you meeting with Shada Mays?”

“I told you: Chuck set it up.”

“That’s the point. I’m not going to lend my name and reputation to secret meetings that I’m not a part of.”

“What are you talking about?”

Jack was acting on a gut feeling that wasn’t his own, but he trusted Andie and Theo, and the fact that they were of the same mind about Shada’s infidelity was enough for him.

“Don’t be a fool, Vince. Don’t let Chuck use you.”

“Use me to do what?”

“To strong-arm Shada Mays into helping Chuck get away with the murder of Jamal Wakefield.”

“What?”

“You heard me,” said Jack. “Are you or are you not meeting with-”

Jack stopped cold, nearly flattening a woman who had rounded the corner from the opposite direction. She, too, was frozen in her tracks-and their eyes locked.

“Jack, please,” Vince said over the phone, but Jack wasn’t listening. Images flashed in his mind-photographs he’d seen of Shada Mays before her disappearance. And he knew.

“Shada?” he said.

She didn’t answer, and before Jack could say another word-before he could even react-she turned and ran.

“Shada, wait!”

Jack sprinted after her, trying his best to keep up. Two minutes into the chase, Jack was digging for a gear he didn’t have. She was pulling away, a blur of buildings flying by as the distance expanded between them.

“Shada!” he called out.

She never looked back, never broke stride. Jack hadn’t logged a five-minute mile since high school, and Shada was bettering that pace on a wet sidewalk. He pulled up at a zebra crossing, exhausted and fighting to catch his breath. The mist was turning to rain. Hunched over, hands on his knees, Jack looked up and watched Shada disappear into the old neighborhood. He wasn’t surprised in the least that a woman on the run could run like the wind.

Jack was still catching his breath when a taxi pulled up at the curb. The rear window rolled down, and he spotted Vince in the backseat.

“Get in,” Vince said.

Jack turned and walked the other way. The cab came up slowly beside him, matching Jack’s walking pace. Vince spoke through the open window.

“I made a mistake,” said Vince.

Jack didn’t answer. The cab pulled ahead with a quick burst of speed, and then it stopped at the corner. Vince got out, and the cab pulled away. He waited for Jack, who had no intention of stopping. In fact, Jack already had his smart phone in hand, searching the Web for return flights to Miami.

“I’m sorry,” said Vince.

Jack stopped. It wasn’t every day that a criminal defense lawyer got a heartfelt apology from a cop, and Jack found himself unable to ignore it. He put his phone away.

“You should have told me you were meeting with Shada Mays.”

“You’re right, I should have,” said Vince.

“It was beyond a mistake. Meeting with Shada Mays was the most important thing that could have possibly come out of this trip. You not only excluded me, but you flat-out lied to my face. There is absolutely no way for me to trust you anymore.”

“Let me try to explain.”

“Forget it,” said Jack. “I never trusted Chuck, and you may not be a murderer, but now I don’t trust you, either.”

“Chuck didn’t kill anyone.”

“Obviously, he didn’t kill Shada. But like I said: I have serious questions about what happened to Jamal. I should have listened to my fiancee and never come on this trip.”

“Does your fiancee seriously think that Shada was sleeping with Jamal?”

Jack was silent.

Vince shook his head, scoffing at the thought. “Look, Chuck and Shada didn’t have a perfect marriage. But Shada loved McKenna. She was not the kind of mother who would bed her teenage daughter’s first love.”

Vince was making sense, and it surprised Jack that Andie hadn’t thought of that. Or maybe the whole theory that Chuck killed Jamal in a love-triangle homicide was more posturing on her part to keep Jack from going to London.

“You did the right thing by coming,” said Vince. “Let me talk to Chuck and see what he can do to make this right.”

Jack stopped. He’d come this far, and now he had leverage. The next nonstop to Miami was not until Wednesday morning anyway. “All right, here’s one way to make amends. Chuck can tell me all about Project Round Up.”

“Exactly what do you think you can learn from Project Round Up?”

Jack remembered that Jamal had been working with Chuck on Project Round Up before he’d gone missing. “My bet is that it will tell me how Jamal ended up in a detention center, and why Chuck never really believed that Jamal killed his daughter.”

Jack studied his expression. Those were two huge pieces of the puzzle, but it was hard to read a man who lived behind dark sunglasses.

“It might even tell me what Shada has been doing in London for the past two and a half years,” said Jack.

He was fishing, and for Jack, the trust had indeed worn thin. But it spoke volumes that Vince didn’t deny any of the importance that Jack attached to Project Round Up.

“All right,” said Vince. “Let’s see if Chuck thinks you’ve earned your way into Project Round Up.”