Afraid of the Dark - James Grippando [12]
He hated being away from her.
“When are you coming back?” he asked.
“You know I can’t answer that,” she said.
He knew. But on days like today, he couldn’t help but ask. Funny, he’d been divorced for years, perfectly fine with living alone. But Andie’s enthusiastic “yes” had been like the flip of an emotional light switch. The thought of being away from her tonight was almost too painful.
“I can’t talk long,” she said. “Just wanted to check in, say I love you.”
“Love you, too.”
“And Jack?”
“Yeah?”
“I’m not at liberty to say much about this, especially over the phone. But . . .”
He waited, then prodded. “But what?”
“Do yourself a favor,” she said. “Stay away from the Jamal Wakefield murder case.”
Jack gripped the phone. It had been one of their express understandings—a solemn pact to ensure a happy marriage between a criminal defense lawyer and an FBI agent. He didn’t tell her how to do her job—whether to take this undercover assignment or that one—and she didn’t tell him what cases to handle. He knew it wasn’t a rule she would have broken lightly.
“I’ll keep that in mind,” he said.
“Good,” she said. “I’ll call again when I can.”
One more “I love you,” and she hung up.
Jack tucked the phone away and stopped the car to pay the teller at the exit to the Flipper-flamingo, string-bikini, piña-colada—whatever—garage. He tried to take Andie’s advice in the spirit in which it had been given. It was eating at him so badly, however, that he almost missed his exit for the Dolphin—what else?—Expressway. A cabdriver gave him the horn and the finger as Jack cut across two lanes. His train of thought switched to his grandfather shouting out random letters while trying to break out of the Alzheimer’s bed restraints, but he was also thinking about Andie’s advice. Warning. Whatever it was.
“Stay away from the Jamal Wakefield murder case.”
He knew her concern had nothing to do with the fact that the accused was a former Gitmo detainee, or that the victim was a sixteen-year-old girl. It wasn’t even the fact that the attempted murder charge involved the blinding of a cop named Vincent Paulo. It was the fact that Jack knew Vince. Not only knew him, but owed him. He and Theo both were indebted to Sergeant Paulo, big time. And now Jack represented Jamal Wakefield of Miami, Florida, aka Khaled al-Jawar of Somalia.
Sorry, Andie. Sorry, Vince.
P.O., no no.
Coming, Grandpa.
Why is nothing ever simple?
Chapter Six
I should have held at sixteen,” said Vince.
He was back at home in the comfort of his bed. Sam lay quietly on the rug beside the dresser. His wife was at his side, still awake.
“What did you say, honey?” asked Alicia.
“In Dr. Feldman’s office today,” he said. “I was sitting on a king and the six of clubs, and like an idiot, I say, Hit me. Of course I busted. He dealt me a seven.”
Vince felt the gentle caress of her hand at his chin, then the warmth of her kiss at the side of his mouth.
“I’m so happy for you,” she whispered.
Vince smiled as she rolled back to her side of the mattress. It was late and he needed rest after such a full day, but he was too excited to sleep.
The Brainport session had lasted two hours. The first hurdle was to understand that it wasn’t like seeing with your eyes. “It’s more akin to a language in that you develop a skill,” Dr. Feldman had told him. After five minutes he was able to operate the device. Within an hour he was recognizing sensations on his tongue and reaching out for a ball as it rolled in front of him. By the end of the session he was playing blackjack—not with