The Pardon

Chapter 29

Seventy-three-year-old Wilfredo Garcia stood in his kitchen before his old gas stove cooking dinner, bistec palamillo and platanos fritos-flank steak and fried plantains. A Cuban who’d come to the United States with grown children in 1962, he had never become completely conversant in his adopted tongue, often shifting to Spanish to get his point across. He was a likable sort, though, and even his English listeners easily forgave his linguistic limitations.

Wilfredo was pudgy, with warm, deep brown eyes and chubby cheeks. He loved to eat, and most nights he dined at home, since the area of Adams Street wasn’t really safe after dark.

Tonight, just as he was smothering his steak with chopped onions and parsley, the phone rang. He glanced up, but he didn’t answer. He’d been ignoring his phone calls for the past couple days, ever since he’d read that article in the newspaper about how important the 911 call could be in the case against Jack Swyteck. He knew it was only a matter of time before they’d come looking for the man who’d been so ambivalent about getting involved that he’d called from a pay phone to keep the police from tracing it. He still didn’t want to get involved. So until things blew over, he’d decided to live like a hermit.

But the phone kept on ringing-ten times, and then more than a dozen. It had to be important, he figured. Maybe it was his daughter in Brooklyn. Or his bookie. He turned off the stove and picked up the phone.

“Oigo,” he answered in his native Spanish.

“Wilfredo Garcia?”

“Si.”

“This is Officer Michael Cookson of Metro-Dade Police. How you doin’ this evening, sir?”

Wilfredo’s heart sank. He instantly wished he hadn’t answered. “Am fine.” He answered in English, though his heavy accent was detectable even in his two-word response.

“Mr. Garcia, I’m just doing some routine inquiries about the murder of Eddy Goss. I understand you live on the same floor as Mr. Goss used to live on.”

“Same floor, si. But-por favor. I know nothing. I no want me involved.”

“I can understand that, sir. But this is important. We’re looking for the man who dialed nine-one-one from a pay phone outside your building the night Mr. Goss was killed.”

Wilfredo grimaced. “I no want-”

“Hey, listen, my man,” the officer said, speaking in a friendly tone, “I understand where you’re coming from. Between you and me, I don’t care if they ever catch the guy who killed this Goss character. But it’s my job to follow up on all these things. So if you know who made the call, you might just want to pass it along to him that it’s really much better to talk to the police before all the lawyers come looking for him. Will you do that for me?”

Wilfredo had a lump in his throat. “All right.”

“In fact, let me make it real easy for you, Mr. Garcia, because I know how people hate to get involved in these things. I don’t want you or anyone else to have to come down to the station, or even make a phone call to the station. Let me give you my personal beeper number. If you hear anything, or if one of your friends knows anything, just beep me. All I want is information. I promise I won’t use your name unless I absolutely have to. Sound fair, my man?”

“Si.”

“Write this down-five, five, five, two, nine hundred. Got it?”

“Uh-huh.”

“Excellent. Thanks for your time, sir.”

“Good-bye.” Wilfredo was short of breath as he hung up. It surprised him that he’d actually written down the beeper number. He really did hate to get involved, but the same instincts that had prompted him to dial 911 in the first place were gnawing at him again. It was a long time ago that he’d been naturalized as a citizen, that he’d sworn an oath to support his country and be a good American, but his memory of it was still vivid.

He glanced at the number he’d just scribbled down. The policeman had seemed nice enough. Maybe it wouldn’t be as bad as he feared. Maybe it was time to come forward and get the monkey off his back.

Wilfredo drew a deep breath. Then he picked up the phone. His hand was shaking, but he managed to dial the number.