Afraid of the Dark - James Grippando [92]
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