Beyond Suspicion

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Jack couldn’t get The Beatles’ “Tax Man” out of his head. It reminded him of Sam Drayton-an old, annoying song that he didn’t like in the least, but it was embedded in his brain.

After the meeting, Jack stopped to collect his thoughts at an open-air café on Miami Avenue. Just down the street from the old federal courthouse, it had been one of his favorite coffee spots during his years as a prosecutor. The smell of arroz con pollo, today’s lunch special, wafted from the noisy kitchen in back. A guy with no shirt, no shoes, and practically no teeth was selling bags of limas from a stolen shopping cart at curbside. A largely Spanish-speaking crowd sipped espresso at the stand-up counter along the sidewalk. Jack found a stool inside and ordered a café con leche, a big mug of coffee that was half milk. The woman behind the bar remembered him from his days as a prosecutor. She smiled and worked her old magic, frothing up the milk with the steamer just the way Jack liked it.

“Muchas gracias,” he said.

“You’re welcome,” she replied.

It was the same routine they’d followed for eight years, Jack’s wooden Spanish evoking a reply in English. The story of his barely Cuban life.

Jack’s meeting had gone even worse than he’d feared, but he tried to shake it off. He needed a contingency plan, but he had other things to deal with, too. Things more important. He needed to talk to Cindy.

He took his cell phone from his pocket, flipped it open, and froze.

What the hell?

He hadn’t noticed anything unusual at five A.M. when he’d called Cindy. It had been dark then, and he was too incoherent to have noticed. But now it was broad daylight. His head was no longer swirling. It was obvious to him.

The cell phone wasn’t his.

He sipped his café con leche and took a closer look. The phone looked exactly like his, a black Motorola issued by Sprint. He and Cindy used to have the exact same model, until they’d tired of getting them mixed up. He’d ended up buying Cindy a Nokia that looked completely different. It was just too easy to grab the wrong phone when you were racing out of the house in morning.

Someone, it seemed, had made the same mistake last night.

Jack flipped open the Motorola. He was familiar with all of the functions; they were the same as his own phone. He checked the message center. Nine voice mails were stored in the memory. He hit the play button. “Message one,” the recorded voice said. “Yesterday, eleven-thirty-two A.M.”

The message was in a man’s voice. The language was foreign. It sounded like a cross between Boris Yeltsin and Robin Williams in Moscow on the Hudson. Jack skipped to the next one. “Message two, yesterday, ten-twenty-one A.M.” A different voice but the same language.

The messages seemed bizarre now, just minutes after hearing that Viatical Solutions was controlled by some “criminal element” that was involved in money laundering. Until now, he’d had little recollection of his attacker’s voice, having been pounded so mercilessly. He couldn’t say the messages were in the same voice, but he was at least beginning to recall an accent that he’d been too groggy to discern last night. He skipped through the third and fourth messages, the fifth, and on and on. All nine were in the same language.

Russian.

In his mind’s eye, he saw himself walking to his car from his grandmother’s townhouse last night. A punishing blow from behind sends his cell phone flying out of his hand. In the ensuing fracas, his attacker’s cell phone is yanked from her pocket or belt clip. A final blow to his head, and Jack is out cold, leaving the rest to conjecture-perhaps his attacker searching frantically in the darkness until she finds a phone that looks just like hers.

But it wasn’t hers. It was Jack’s.

Ho-lee shit. He smiled, then chuckled out loud. It was about damn time something had cut his way. We swapped phones!

“Señora,” he said to the hostess. In his best Spanish, he asked for bread and cream cheese. It was a heart attack in the making, but Abuela had sold him on the pleasures of slathering Cuban bread with cream cheese and dunking it into his café con leche.

She handed him two long strips on wax paper. “Enjoy.”

Jack was dunking at a near-frenzied pace, his mind awhirl. When they’d talked that morning, Cindy had told him that she’d called him on his cell but got no answer. It made sense that his attacker wouldn’t have answered before five A.M. But just as soon as someone dialed his number at a decent hour, she would answer, and then she’d realize that they’d swapped phones. If she were smart, she’d cancel her cell service and erase the messages.

He dropped his bread and cream cheese, hurried to the pay phone and dialed his office voice mail. He replayed each message onto the recording, then relaxed, suddenly feeling in control. She could cancel away, but Jack would forever have her messages.

Now what? he thought as he returned to his seat.

The fact that she hadn’t canceled her service and erased the messages told him that she wasn’t onto the swap just yet. He could call the cops, but they couldn’t trace the phone until she used it. Unless she tried to use it in the same battered and confused state that Jack had found himself in earlier that morning, she’d realize that the phone wasn’t hers, and she’d pitch it in the Dumpster, for sure. This might be his last chance to call and open up a dialogue. He grasped his attacker’s phone and dialed his own number. It rang twice before connecting.

“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.”