Afraid of the Dark - James Grippando [65]
“Hello?” he said.
There was no answer, but Jack sensed that someone was on the line.
“Who is this?” said Jack.
“Is this Mr. Swyteck?” The voice was beyond tentative. It sounded like a teenage girl—a frightened teenage girl.
“Yes,” said Jack. “Who’s calling?”
“You don’t know me, but . . . you were the lawyer for Jamal, right?”
“Yes. Who is this?”
“I—I can’t tell you that.”
Her English was good, but she spoke with an accent. German, maybe. “Where are you calling from?”
“I can’t really tell you that, either.”
Jack heard the sounds of a city over the line—the echo of a car horn, the grumble of a bus or a diesel truck. She was obviously calling from outdoors, perhaps on a busy street corner, either a cell or a pay phone. Wherever she was, the business day had already begun; it definitely wasn’t 3:40 A.M.
“Did you know Jamal?” asked Jack.
“Uhm, not really. I spoke to him. Once.”
“When?”
“A couple of days ago,” she said, her voice quaking. “He gave me your number and begged me to call you. I told him he’d never hear from me again if he told you or anybody else we talked but . . . is it true that he’s dead?”
“Yes.”
“Oh my God,” she said.
Jack jumped out of bed and started pacing. He wasn’t sure where to go with this, but it sounded important. “What did you and Jamal talk about?”
“Was he . . . killed?” she asked.
“It looks that way,” said Jack.
“Oh my God,” she said, and this time Jack thought she might hyperventilate.
“Calm down, okay?” said Jack. “If you know something about this, I can help. You just have to tell me what you know.”
A siren blasted in the background. She was definitely in a city.
“It’s like I told Jamal,” she said. “I think . . . I know who killed his girlfriend.”
Jack stopped pacing, frozen in the darkness of his bedroom. “McKenna Mays? You know who killed McKenna?”
“I think so.”
“Who was it?”
She didn’t answer.
“I need you tell me who did it,” said Jack.
“I’m afraid!”
Jack didn’t want to push too hard and lose her. “It’s okay. Have you gone to the police?”
“Yeah, right,” she said, and Jack could hear the struggle in her voice. “I can’t do that. No way.”
“Why not?”
Jack heard more of the sounds of the city, but she was silent.
“Why can’t you go to the police?” Jack asked.
“Because he would—”
She stopped herself. There were more urban sounds in the background, and Jack thought he heard her breathing. No, she was crying.
“Are you all right?” Jack asked.
The crying continued, stronger but more distant, as if she had taken the phone away from her face.
“Don’t hang up,” said Jack. “I need to know: Are you all right?”
The crying stopped, and Jack heard her take a deep breath.
“No,” she said, sobbing, “I’m not.”
Before Jack could respond, the caller was gone.
Chapter Thirty-one
Her heart was pounding as she hung up the pay phone at the street corner. One thought consumed her, but she could barely get her mind around it. The gruesome photographs she’d seen weren’t staged. Jamal was dead, his foot cut off.
OMG!
She was shivering, partly from the cold but mostly with fright. This time of year, sunrise didn’t come to London until almost eight o’clock. Thirty minutes past dawn, the chill of night was still in the air, and the morning fog was so thick that she could barely see the top of the three-story redbrick buildings that defined the beaten-down neighborhood. She was in a place she knew well, near the Tayo Restaurant, the Hilaac Superstore, and the all-important Internet café. Neighborhood shops were opening for another business day, buses were running, and streets were lined with morning commuters. None of it put her at ease. There was no doubt in her mind that gangs like the Money Squad and African Nations Crew were still on the prowl, searching for young girls like her who were stupid enough to venture out alone. Gang violence terrified her. It had taken all the courage she could muster to head out before daybreak,