Afraid of the Dark (21 page)

Chapter Forty-three

B
rent and Bradley Hellendoorn, please come to the check-in counter,” said the gate attendant.

Shada Mays grabbed her purse and carry-on bag, hoping for her name to be called next. The gate at the Miami International Airport’s Terminal A was jammed with three-hundred-plus passengers, several of whom seemed more than capable of felony assault, if that was what it took to snag an upgrade to business class. Shada had the last available seat in the waiting area. It was right next to a family of seven, and three toddlers were tumbling on the floor in front of her. The 747 was right on the other side of a large plate-glass window, however, so at least she could keep an eye on it and make sure the flight didn’t leave without her. She didn’t normally worry about such silly things, but flying out of her hometown after a day like today was beyond stressful. She’d taken extra precautions to make sure no one would recognize her. Her traditional hijab dress included a half niqab, a veil tied on at the bridge of the nose that falls to cover the lower face. Only Homeland Security officers would see her full face. In hindsight, she should have worn a full niqab to the cemetery.

I can’t believe Chuck came before nine o’clock in the morning.

Shada had disappeared a month before her daughter would have turned seventeen. For three birthday anniversaries running, Shada had returned to Miami to visit McKenna’s grave. Any hour before noon should have been a safe time to make the pilgrimage. Never had Chuck been a morning person—especially a
Sunday
morning person. Apparently he wasn’t the late-Saturday-night party animal he used to be.

Admit it: You wanted him to see you.

Shada shook off the thought. If she’d wanted it, she wouldn’t have dressed like a Muslim. Shada had never worn the hijab—never practiced any Muslim traditions—as long as she’d known Chuck. The clothing was purely an expedient form of concealment that she’d adopted since her disappearance. It fooled most people. It was funny, however, the way a man could recognize his wife with so little to go on—maybe just the way she cocked her head, the way she lifted her chin, or the tilt of her shoulders. Chuck had recognized her, all right. Even at a distance, she’d felt it register.

“Maysoon Khan, please come to the counter.”

Shada immediately rose from her seat. “Maysoon” had been her name for more than two years now, and it had become as familiar to her as Shada. No longer was there even the slightest hesitation in her response to her assumed name.

There was a short line ahead of her at check-in, and she had to wait as the two brothers ahead of her insisted that they
not
sit together. It was starting to fray her nerves, all these little delays and bumps in the road. She needed to be on a plane and flying out of this city
now
, away from the most terrible of memories, beyond the reach of her old fears. Fears that kept her up at night. Fears that she had struggled to conquer since that text-message exchange on the day before she had driven her car to Everglades, staged her own suicide, and disappeared.

Are you afraid?

Not at all.

Maybe you should be.

No way. Never. I will see you tomorrow.

Beneath the veil, Shada bit her lip, trying to stop it from quivering. This time, she hadn’t returned to Miami simply to visit McKenna’s grave and mark another birthday never reached. For nearly three years, Shada had believed that Jamal was McKenna’s killer. For nearly as long, she had lived in fear that he would find and kill her, too. She’d come to Miami to see him brought to justice. Now Jamal was dead, leaving questions unanswered as to his whereabouts not only at the time of McKenna’s death, but also at the time of Shada’s disappearance. It was the latter that had prompted Shada to leave the message for Chuck at their daughter’s grave.

Dear Chuck,

I can never come back, not even if you wanted me to. It won’t erase the past, but I promise I won’t let anyone blame you for what happened to me. Or for what I made them believe happened. I’m sorry it had to be this way.

“Can I help you?” asked the attendant.

The line in front of her had disappeared, and it was Shada’s turn to upgrade from coach. She placed her documents on the counter. “I’m Maysoon Khan,” she said.

“Lucky you. I have one seat left in business class.”

Shada watched in silence as the attendant checked her passport. With the push of a button, he reprinted her boarding pass to London/Heathrow.

“Have a nice trip home,” the man said.

Home
, thought Shada. It didn’t feel anything like home.

“Thank you,” she said as she retrieved her documents. “I will.”

Chapter Forty-four

T
here was only one woman Jack wanted to see when he reached the airport. He found her at baggage claim.

“I missed you,” said Andie as they locked in a tight embrace.

Sunday evening at MIA at the height of tourist season was like the running of the bulls in Pamplona, complete with the trampling of stragglers and the goring of innocent bystanders. Parking was out of the question, so Jack met up with Andie on the lower level as Theo burned through a half tank of gas circling the terminal. Andie was carrying a heavy winter coat and wearing a black sweater, which was way too warm for a balmy night in Florida. Jack liked her in cashmere, however, and he was feeling her warmth and breathing in the familiar smell of her hair when he realized that she was no longer a phony blond.

“Your hair—it’s like it used to be,” he said, smiling.

“I like things the way they used to be.”

“Me, too,” said Jack, his smile turning a little sad.

Two days had passed since Neil’s burial, since Andie had promised to get out from undercover and return to Jack and Miami as quickly as possible. She already had her bag, but out of curiosity Jack checked the flight information on the nearest luggage carousel. She’d flown in from JFK, but Andie was on to his detective work, and she shot down immediately any notion that he had uncovered the location of an FBI operation.

“You don’t really think I fly home direct from an assignment, do you?”

He supposed not. “Speaking of,” said Jack, touching her newly restored hair. “I hope this doesn’t mean you did something drastic . . . like quitting?”

She shook her head. “I got a week. I just thought you might like to spend it with the real me.”

“You’re the best.”

Jack took her bag. They exited through the pneumatic doors, continued on the sidewalk past the long line at the taxi stand, and stopped at the curb. A cabdriver laid on his horn, which set off the audio version of the domino effect. Traffic was endless, eight lanes of cars and shuttle buses streaming by at something less than cruising speed at Grandpa Swyteck’s nursing home. Somewhere in that mess was Theo, unless he’d gotten fed up and ditched them.

The horn blasting subsided, and Andie took his hand. “Have you thought about what I asked on Friday?”

“About what?”

“Buying us a snowblower,” she said, shooting him a look. “About letting law enforcement do its job.”

“Yes. I’ve thought about it.”

Jack wanted to drop it, but Andie seemed determined to secure his agreement that trying to find out what had happened to Neil could be hazardous to his health.

“Have you been talking to Vince Paulo and Chuck Mays?” Andie asked.

Theo pulled up to the curb and popped the trunk—
Perfect timing.
Jack wedged the bag between the golf clubs and spare tire, then climbed into the rear seat with Andie. Theo steered back into the incredibly slow flow of traffic. They might as well have been moving backward.

“Welcome to the Bob Marley Taxi Company, mon,” said Theo, putting on a Jamaican accent, “where da whole world move like a stroll on the beach.”

Andie rolled her eyes. “Hello, Theo.”

“I like the new hair,” he said, glancing in the rearview mirror. “Old hair.”

“Thanks. Jack was just telling me about his talks with Chuck Mays.”

“You already told her about—”

Jack groaned, and Theo caught himself, but it was too late.

Andie’s expression demanded an explanation.

“Come on, Andie,” said Jack. “Mays has resources that even the cops don’t have. You know as well as I do that even the FBI turns to guys like him when they really need to find someone.”

“Then let the FBI turn to him. You don’t need to get involved.”

“With all due respect to your fidelity, bravery, and integrity,” he said, invoking the slogan on the FBI shield, “I’m not convinced that the FBI is entirely committed to solving this crime.”

“We think it’s a cover-up,” said Theo.

“Thank you for translating,” said Andie.

“So does Chuck Mays,” said Theo.

“I’m not surprised,” said Andie.

“So does Shada Mays,” said Theo.

“Shada?” she said, looking at Jack.

“She’s alive,” said Jack.

Andie massaged between her eyes, as if staving off a migraine. “Did Chuck tell you that?”

“Yes.”

“And you believe him?”

“I think so.”

“She just vanished, is that it?” said Andie. “No reason.”

“We don’t know the reason,” said Jack.

Theo wedged his way into the next lane, but traffic was still barely moving. “But we do know that Shada was cheating on her husband when she ran.”

“What?”
said Jack.

“It’s obvious,” said Theo. “Didn’t you read the memorial plaque at the cemetery? ‘In memory of Shada Mays.’ That’s it. No ‘loving mother and wife.’ Nothing.”

“That doesn’t mean anything.”

“Maybe not by itself. For me, the clincher was when Paulo came to Shada’s defense and said the only reason she ran was to escape from the daily reminders of her daughter’s murder. Makes sense, I guess. It’s also the only explanation that makes you feel sorry for a woman who basically abandoned her husband. And what does Mays do? He turns it all around and paints himself as the saint who
let
her go. A guy with an ego like Chuck Mays doesn’t let go of anything, least of all his beautiful wife. She cheated, and he kicked her ass out the door. Maybe the only reason she cheated was so that he
would
kick her ass out the door. But the bottom line is the same.”

“That’s a big leap of logic,” said Jack.

“Dude, you’re talking to a bartender. You know how many guys I’ve talked to who got that same chip up their ass?”

Jack blinked, confused. “I think you’re mixing up chips with bugs or shoulders with—”

“You know what I’m saying,” said Theo.

“So she wasn’t the perfect wife,” said Jack. “It doesn’t really matter.”

“It
does
matter.”

“He’s right,” said Andie. “It matters.”

Jack did a double take. Andie had been curiously silent since the conversation had turned to adultery.

“It matters how?” asked Jack.

“You said it yourself: You think someone is trying to cover up the fact that Jamal Wakefield was in a secret detention facility when McKenna was murdered. That gives you one motive for two murders: first Jamal, and then Neil.”

“Don’t forget about Chang,” said Theo.

“Okay,” said Andie. “Throw him in there, too. It all breaks down if Shada was cheating on her husband.”

Jack made a face, not comprehending. “What am I missing here?”

“Good grief,” said Andie. “Don’t you get it? Chuck Mays had reason to kill Jamal—or to have him killed—even after he found out that Jamal didn’t kill his daughter.”

“Why?”

“Dude!” shouted Theo. “Jamal was banging his wife!”

They fell silent, and Jack suddenly felt stupid. It wasn’t the kind of thing he normally missed. Andie took his hand.

“Jack, this is why you need to stop playing detective. You’re a smart man, but you’re grieving. You were too close to Neil to see all the possibilities.”

Jack glanced out the window. “How long has the FBI known?”

“Known what?”

His gaze turned back to Andie. “That Shada Mays was cheating on her husband. And that she’s still alive.”

“You know I can’t answer that question.”

“This isn’t idle curiosity,” said Jack. “We’re talking about Neil.”

“It doesn’t matter who we’re talking about. I can’t tell you what the FBI knows.”

“Then I’ll make you a deal,” said Jack. “Let me know when you
can
tell me. That’s when I’ll stop playing detective.”

Chapter Forty-five

B
ritish Airways Flight 208 from Miami landed at Heathrow as scheduled. By ten thirty
A.M.
London time, Shada emerged from the sausage grinder that was the immigration chute and ducked into a public restroom. Ten minutes later, she was dressed like a Westerner.

Returning to her neighborhood wearing a hijab and carrying a suitcase wouldn’t have been smart. There were religious laws against Muslim women traveling alone, and there were men in Somaal Town who took it upon themselves to enforce them. The hijab had been a charade anyway, simply a disguise to make Shada unrecognizable while in Miami. Maysoon Khan had never dressed that way in London.

The tube ride from the airport was over an hour, and Shada was so sleepy that she nearly forgot to change lines at the Holborn Station. The final leg of the trip home took her to Bethnal Green, and she could walk to her apartment from there.

Northeast London had been overcast and chilly when she’d left six days ago, and it was even colder this morning. Or maybe it just felt that way after the warmth of Miami. She walked briskly, her suitcase on wheels clicking at each crack in the sidewalk behind her. Every half block or so she glanced over her shoulder, back toward Somaal Town, where gangs had been known to crack skulls just to protect their turf. Even in daylight Shada checked for trouble sneaking up from behind. Her own neighborhood, up around Wadeson Street, was only slightly better, though a steady increase in trendy clubs and restaurants like Bistroteque and Bethnal Green Working Men’s Club drew crowds from all over the city.

Shada climbed the front stairs to her building, dug the key from her purse, and entered the apartment. It wasn’t much warmer on the inside. She left her bag at the door and walked straight to the thermostat to crank up the heat. Hunger pangs growled in her belly, but instead of going to the kitchen she went to her small study and switched on the computer. It was something she and Chuck had in common, this obsession with information. The PC took a moment to boot up, but finally the screen blinked on and brightened the room, bathing her in the blue light of her digital desktop. She jumped onto the Internet and went to the home page for the
Miami Herald
.

Shada wasn’t technically a news junkie, but she had followed the local news in Miami daily since McKenna’s death. The Internet made that a snap even from London. Most days were the same: nothing about McKenna. Until recently. Out of the blue, she’d read about the return and arrest of Jamal Wakefield. Each day since had brought new developments—often several breaking stories in a span of hours. The latest headline jarred her:

Data-Mining Pioneer Is Prime Suspect in Wife’s Disappearance

Shada knew immediately what the story meant, and the feelings of guilt and regret almost made her dizzy. But she read on:

Three years after his wife’s disappearance, Miami businessman Charles “Chuck” Mays, a pioneer in the personal information industry, is the focus of a criminal investigation. According to sources at the Miami-Dade Police Department, Mays could face charges of first degree murder.

A sick feeling welled up in Shada’s throat. She forged ahead, skimming over the part about how Chuck became a millionaire, her hand shaking on the mouse as she read about McKenna’s death and then about her own disappearance:

Six months after her daughter’s death, Mrs. Mays’ kayak was found floating upside down in the Florida Everglades, less than a mile from her parked car. An empty bottle of sleeping pills was in the front seat. “Clearly someone was trying to make it look like suicide,” said Miami-Dade homicide detective Jim Burton, but her body was never recovered.

For nearly three years, police theorized that Mrs. Mays and her daughter were killed by the same man. Jamal Wakefield, a U.S. citizen and alleged “enemy combatant” of Somali descent, lived under an assumed identity at the Gitmo detention facility until January of this year, when he was transferred to Miami and charged with McKenna’s murder. Just one day after his release on bail, Wakefield was brutally murdered, his body found less than a mile from where Mrs. Mays had disappeared in the Everglades.

“We still believe Wakefield killed McKenna Mays,” said Detective Burton. However, new evidence has led police to suspect that Mrs. Mays was killed by her husband.

Shada scrolled down, but the story offered no clue as to the nature of the “new evidence,” concluding with a quote she would have expected from Chuck: “ ‘The charge is total bull—.’ ” Clicking on links to “related stories” pulled up nothing but earlier postings that she had read before.

Shada sat perfectly still, her face aglow in the warm light of the computer screen. The words she had written to Chuck at her daughter’s grave replayed in her mind: “I promise I won’t let anyone blame you for what happened to me. Or for what I made them believe happened.”

Now what?

There was no clear answer. She owed Chuck, but was now the time to honor her promise? Or later, if and when he was formally charged? Her head hurt too much to think about it.

Shada closed out the Web page. She thought about going to bed, but her information addiction kicked into another gear. Unopened e-mails beckoned. It took her ten minutes to get through the ones under her main identity. Then she switched to another screen name—one that allowed her to be the person she wasn’t. Seven messages, one for each day Shada had been gone. The first had hit just a few hours after Shada had left for Miami. The most recent was from last night. All were from the same woman. A lonely woman whom Shada had met only in cyberspace. They had been exchanging instant messages for almost a month, but of course Shada had told her nothing about her trip out of the country. Shada knew her only as kitty8.

kitty8: Hi cutie.

kitty8: Miss u.

kitty8: Where r u?

kitty8: r u playing hard to get?

kitty8: Been thinking about u soooo much.

kitty8: Do u have any clue what u r passing up?

The string of messages ended with a playful threat:
Last chance. kitty8 n88ds a FB.

Shada smiled. She’d sent enough text messages and IMs to know that “8” was code for oral sex, and that “FB” in this context was a kind of buddy, not “Facebook.” A photograph was attached, and upon opening it, Shada had to catch her breath. She’d worked hookups online before, but this was one of those rare instances where the photograph actually lived up to the “as advertised” hype. And it left no doubt as to the kind of buddy that kitty8 needed.

Shada typed a short reply—
Let’s meet!
—and hit
SEND
. The message was on its way.

And kitty8 was in the bag.