Innocence (20 page)

He was sure that the people around him had noticed the change in his demeanor. What had once felt like confidence now echoed as defensiveness and anger. He no longer had the energy to dress himself properly, and looking down, he noticed a pasta stain on his shirt.

He picked up the phone and dialed the number.

“Yes,” the voice on the other end of the line answered.

“It’s me.” Mac kept his voice low, lest anyone try to eavesdrop. He knew he should use a pay phone, but he was too weary to make such an effort.

“I was beginning to think I was going to have to contact you. I’m relieved it hasn’t come to that.”

“Yeah. Whatever. I think I’ve figured a way out of this.”

“Good. You will take care of the lawyer, then?”

“No,” Mac said. “That wouldn’t solve the problem; it would only buy some time. Salazar could always find a new lawyer. Besides, two lawyers killed on the same case within a week? It’d raise some eyebrows.”

“I’m not concerned with eyebrows,” the voice said. “What is your solution?”

“Salazar.”

There was silence on the line. “Are you sure it can be done?”

“Happens all the time. Easier on the inside than in the real world.”

“Yes, but Salazar spends much of his time in the infirmary. He is difficult to get to.”

Mac grunted. “It’s prison. You can get to anybody.”

“It cannot be traced back to us. You cannot use any of my people.”

“Understood,” Mac said. “It’s already been arranged.”

“When?”

“Tomorrow.”

Again there was no reply. Then: “What about the lawyer?”

“What about him? We deal with Salazar, and the lawyer’s reason to follow the trail disappears.”

“I’m not so sure.”

“Look,” Mac said, hating the pitiful tone of his voice. “You told me to take care of this. That’s what I’ve done. You don’t like the way I handle things, then don’t call me again.”

Mac could hear the contemplative breathing through the phone. “Fine. We’ll try your way first. If it doesn’t work, though . . .”

“It will work.” Mac hung up the phone. He could feel the perspiration damp and cold under his arms and at his shirt collar. He tried to stand, but the nausea took him off his feet, and he closed his eyes as he crumpled into his chair.

“You okay, Mac?” Detective Koontz called from the far side of the room.

“Fine,” he choked out.
Like she cares? Answer the fucking phones, then go home and make your fucking husband some goddamned dinner. Don’t sit there in my fucking squad room and ask me if I’m okay like you belong and I’m the one who’s out of place.

He opened his eyes and looked at her. She was regarding him with an expression of concern. “You sure?” she asked.

On the other hand, she wasn’t a half-bad piece of ass for a cop. No tits, but you couldn’t have everything, could you. He forced a smile. “I was out for some drinks last night. Might have overdone it, you know?”

“Been there,” she said. “I’ve got a kiwi Powerade in the fridge. It’s great for a hangover. Replaces the electrolytes. You’re welcome to it.”

His head spun. “Sure. Sounds good.”

She got up and went out toward the kitchen to get him the drink.

Kiwi Powerade. Electrolytes. What the fuck had the world come to? Whatever happened to black coffee and Alka-Seltzer? One thing was painfully clear: The world had changed around him as he’d been sitting still, and it might very well be too late for him to catch up.

z

Jimmy Alvarez stood quietly, watching as the Padre closed his cell phone.

“Our friend says that it will be taken care of,” Carlos said. “On the inside.”

Jimmy said nothing. He had survived with Carlos against all odds because he knew when to keep his mouth shut. He was Mexican—and only half Mexican at that. Ten years ago that would have precluded his participation in VDS. True, good soldiers of other nationalities had been recruited in the past decade, but it was still an organization that beat with the heart of El Salvador.

But Jimmy had been instrumental in establishing the cross-border penetration that allowed the organization to carry on many of its most profitable activities. He’d grown up in El Cenizo, just across the border from Rio Bravo, Texas, a town made famous by the 1959 movie starring John Wayne and Dean Martin. His father was American; his mother wasn’t. As a result, he knew everyone along both sides of the border. Without him and the information he provided, VDS would be at a loss. That was why Carlos kept him alive.

At the same time, the Padre kept him close, and Jimmy knew that his loyalties were always being deliberately tested. Because he was a Mexican. Because he was an outsider. Jimmy thought he had made the big time when Carlos first recruited him, and he swaggered around his hometown for a month. Now he knew it had been an illusion, and he would give anything to be out. Carlos, he realized, was a stone-cold killer, and Jimmy was nothing more than a hustler at heart. He’d never committed any greater violence than slapping around a few hookers to make himself feel tough, and he had the feeling that Carlos was beginning to sense his weakness. That put him in a very precarious position.

“What do you think, Jimmy?” Carlos asked him.

The others in the room looked at him. The Padre seldom asked for advice. It made Jimmy wary, and he considered the question carefully before answering.

“If he wants to fix the problem himself, there’s no point in not letting him.”

“But . . .” Carlos said.

Jimmy went on. “But we need to have a backup plan in place. Next weekend is too important. If Macintyre can clean up his own mess, then so be it. If not, we have to clean it up ourselves.”

“What of our detective friend? What would you do with him?”

“From what you have told me, he was useful in the past, but he has also created unnecessary risk. If he fails in his attempt to resolve this matter, he must be dealt with.”

“And if he succeeds?”

Jimmy thought about this, but only briefly. “He still should go. He’s old and sloppy.”

Carlos laughed without humor. “Is age such a handicap, my young friend?”

The others in the room laughed as well, but Jimmy pressed his point. “Not if age makes you stronger.” He looked carefully at Carlos. “Do you think age has brought wisdom to Detective Macintyre?”

The laughter ceased. Everyone turned back to Carlos.

“No,” the older man said. “Our friend is certainly not wise.”

“I didn’t think so. And given his weakness, he’s no longer useful, either. We have others in better positions to help us. He is nothing more than a liability.”

Carlos considered this. “Agreed,” he said at last. “After Saturday, we will make sure to eliminate that liability.” He turned and faced the window. “I also agree with your view as to the more immediate issue. We must have a contingency plan in place. I would like you to handle that.”

“Of course, Padre. I’ll take care of it.”

“Personally,” Carlos emphasized.

Jimmy’s heart skipped a beat. It was another test, he knew, and there was no way to evade the challenge. “Personally,” Jimmy agreed. He hoped no one heard the tremble in his voice.

Carlos walked over and placed a hand on Jimmy’s shoulder. “I am glad you are with us,” he said. “Otherwise I would wonder how you might judge my own age.” He looked at the younger man, his eyes narrowing as though they might peer through Jimmy’s eyes to read his thoughts. Jimmy kept his gaze even and unblinking, looking directly back into Carlos’s dark pupils.

After a moment Carlos broke into a grin, and he gave a sharp laugh. “Indeed,” he said, turning to the others in the room. “I will be always sure to have my wisdom grow faster than my years with this one around. I would never want to be viewed as a liability myself.”

Jimmy smiled back as the dark laughter filled the room. He was well aware, though, when it was best to keep his thoughts to himself.

z

The examining room was no cleaner than the waiting area. If anything, it was more depressing. There were no windows, and the examining table was a rickety piece that looked like it had seen its best days around the time Ted Williams was still playing for the Sox. There was a chair in the corner and a rolling doctor’s stool that floated on rusty springs in the center of the room, but neither Finn nor Kozlowski chose to sit. It seemed wiser to avoid contact with anything in the room. Through the thin walls, they could hear a deep chest cough that sounded like a child’s last dying gasps.

Kozlowski’s head throbbed. The meeting with Maddy had gone no worse than he’d expected, but that hadn’t made it any easier. He’d warned Finn, but that fact, too, provided little consolation. He could tell that Finn wanted to talk, to thrash things out, but Kozlowski avoided any movement or speech that would indicate a willingness to engage. To some degree, that was just his way; he wasn’t much of a conversationalist.

They waited silently in the examining room for ten minutes before the door opened and a young man in a white coat walked in. There was little question that he was Vincente Salazar’s brother. He was a little taller and thinner, but he carried himself with the same quiet confidence, and he had the same distinctive widow’s peak and dark skin coloring. He regarded both of them for a moment and then held his hand out to Finn. “Mr. Finn, I’m guessing,” he said.

“Yes,” Finn replied, shaking his hand. “Dr. Salazar.”

“My brother talked to me about you. Thank you for helping him.”

“Don’t thank me yet. I haven’t accomplished anything.”

“You’ve given us hope. You’ve given him hope. That’s more than you may understand.” He looked at Kozlowski and held his hand out again. “And you must be the skeptical Mr. Kozlowski,” he said. “My brother described you as well.”

Kozlowski remembered his demeanor with the man’s older brother and wondered whether he was supposed to feel guilty. “I may have given the wrong impression to your brother,” he conceded. “I’m suspicious of convicts by nature.” It was as far toward an apology as he was willing to go.

“No explanation is necessary, Detective. It’s understandable. My brother said you were honest. It is a trait he admires greatly.”

Kozlowski nodded. There was no question that there was something compelling about the brothers. They both looked you straight in the eyes, and there was a leadership quality that emanated from them. For the first time, Kozlowski found himself believing in Vincente Salazar’s innocence.

“Interesting place you have here,” Finn said, interrupting Kozlowski’s thoughts.

Miguel looked around the room as though seeing it for the first time. “It’s humble, I admit,” he said. “But you’d be surprised how many lives a place like this saves.”

“Must be a significant difference from your usual practice,” Kozlowski said.

“It is. It’s far more fulfilling.” He sat down on the rolling stool. “Tell me, Mr. Finn, what can I do for you?”

Finn leaned against the wall. “We wanted to talk to you about your brother. Assuming he’s innocent—”

“He is innocent.”

“Right. Which means that someone must have set him up. I’ve asked your brother whether he was aware of anyone who would want to frame him, but he couldn’t think of anyone. We figured we should talk to you and see if you could suggest any possibilities. Sometimes it’s harder to answer questions about your own enemies honestly. I thought you might be able to give us a more unvarnished view.”

Miguel twisted on the stool, thinking. “No one,” he said. “I can’t think of anyone who might have wanted to do anything to hurt my brother.”

“No one?” Finn asked. “We all have enemies.”

“We’re not all like my brother.”

“I didn’t mean to suggest anything bad about your brother, and I understand how you may feel,” Finn said. “He’s a very impressive guy in person. But no enemies?”

Miguel shook his head. “You say he’s impressive as though you really know him. You don’t. You have met him, what, two or three times over the past week? This is after he spent fifteen years in hell? After he was forced to leave his home in El Salvador only to come here and have this happen to him? He has had everything taken from him, and still, all he thinks about is other people. He has never thought of himself. Believe me, Mr. Finn, ‘impressive’ doesn’t even begin to describe my brother.”

Finn said, “Fair enough. You’re right, I don’t know your brother all that well. But I still have only a few days to come up with a reasonable theory to explain why all the evidence in this case points to the fact that your brother shot Madeline Steele. And that theory has to be good enough to sell to the judge, otherwise, regardless of what the DNA tests say, your brother will stay in jail for the rest of his life. So any help you can give me in developing that theory would be great.”

Miguel looked embarrassed. “I’m sorry, Mr. Finn. I know you are only trying to help, and I shouldn’t get so emotional. The fact that, of all the people in the world to get caught up in something like this, it is my brother is enough to make me lose my grip on my temper.”

“It’s understandable,” Finn said. “Anything you can tell us would be helpful.”

Miguel took another moment to think. “I suppose there could have been people he tried to help who might have thought he didn’t do enough. It seems hard to believe, but it’s possible.”

“People like who?”

“Immigrants. Other illegals. Back then there were no free clinics in the area. Going to the hospital risked detection and possibly deportation. My brother was the only medical help many in the community could get. He charged people only what they could afford, which was often nothing or next to it, and he treated everyone who came to him. Some of them . . . there was nothing he could do. Even at Mass General, with the best facilities and technology in the world, there are times when there is nothing doctors can do. My brother was without an office, without supplies, without any support whatsoever. It is safe to say that there were times when he could do nothing to help his patients. Perhaps some of them blamed him for not doing more.”

Finn considered this. “He treated everyone who came to him, right?”

Miguel nodded. “To the best of his ability, yes.”