When Darkness Falls Page 3

  The engine fired, and Vince could hear the car pulling away. His brother was gone, and it was like old times. Back then, they would lay awake at night in those bunk beds, talking. Oh, the things brothers could talk about while staring into the darkness. Then Danny would fall asleep, and Vince would be alone. And afraid.

  Get over it, Vince told himself.

  His childhood fears notwithstanding, Vince had grown up to be brave, good-looking, and full of confidence. He came to the police force straight out of the marines, after a tour of duty in the first Gulf War. Before enlisting, he’d earned a degree in psychology from the University of Florida, where he was also a standout on the swim team. At six-foot-two and 190 pounds of solid muscle, he was a walking Speedo advertisement. He hated those banana hammocks, however, and he wore them only to compete. What he loved was police work, and he loved being a cop. The psychology degree and his coolness under pressure made him a natural for crisis management. In his five years as a negotiator, he was known as a risk taker who didn’t always follow the conventional wisdom of other trained negotiators. His critics said that his unorthodox style would eventually catch up with him, and they were right. A few of them predicted that he’d end up dead some day.

  Even they didn’t see blindness coming.

  The telephone rang. He rose and, with the aid of his walking stick, went to the kitchen and answered it. The voice on the other end of the line halted, though it was a familiar one. “Vince, hi. It’s me. Alicia.”

  The call didn’t shock him. “Professional” was perhaps the best way to describe his behavior toward his ex-girlfriend during that crisis on the bridge. He felt no animosity toward her, and he had conveyed none. He simply felt better equipped to move forward without Alicia in his life, without a constant reminder of the bright future he’d lost. Vince didn’t want anyone sticking by his side just because she felt sorry for him. No matter what she said, a woman as active, adventurous, and gorgeous as Alicia was bound to leave her blind boyfriend behind eventually. Her dumping him would only make it worse. He had explained all of that to her many times before. Perhaps he should have told her again. “What’s up?” he said.

  “Nothing. I just wanted to tell you that I thought you did an amazing job yesterday with that jumper.”

  “Thanks. But it really wasn’t anything to be proud of.”

  “You’re being too tough on yourself. I think you should consider branching out beyond just teaching at the academy. I really do.”

  “It’s nice of you to say that. But honestly, the way things went down on that bridge, we’re lucky no one was hurt.”

  “Luck is always part of the job.”

  “Sometimes it’s with you, sometimes it’s not.”

  “This time it was,” she said.

  Last time, it hadn’t been. No one needed to say it.

  An awkward silence gripped the phone line, and Vince could sense that she had something more to say. He kept them focused on business. “We should never have promised to let him speak to you,” he said. “It’s always dangerous to feed a stalker’s obsession, and getting caught in a lie can spell disaster.”

  “I was actually willing to talk to him, if you thought it was a good strategy. Lying to him wasn’t my idea.”

  “I know,” said Vince. “But that was how the chief wanted to play it, so who am I to argue with results? As long as you’re comfortable.”

  “I’m fine with it.”

  “You should be. I don’t think Falcon will be getting out of jail any time soon. Like his lawyer said, if the judge wants to set bail at ten thousand dollars, he might as well set it at ten million.”

  “Well, apparently Swyteck changed his tune. The station called right after dinner. Falcon made bail.”

  “You’re kidding? How?”

  “I don’t know,” she said. “But that’s enough about Falcon. I’m just glad I was able to help. That’s the reason I went to the bridge.”

  The implicit message was that she hadn’t gone there just to see him. “I understand what you’re saying,” he said.

  “No, maybe that didn’t come out right. What I’m trying to say is that if I wanted to talk to you, I wouldn’t show up on a bridge in the middle of some homeless guy’s suicide. I would just call you up on the phone and say, hey Vince, I want to talk to you.”

  “I know you would.”

  She paused, and Vince could feel the change in tone coming. “Hey Vince, I want to talk to you.”

  Again, there was silence. He could feel the tightness in his throat, the emotional vice grip. He drew a deep breath and let it out. “It’s not that simple, Alicia.”

  “It’s a heck of a lot easier than trying to act like total strangers.”

  “Let’s not go over this again, okay?”

  “You’re right. Let’s not do that. There’s a jazz festival on South Beach this weekend. Some of the clubs are kicking things off Friday night. You like jazz even more than I do. Want to go?”

  “I don’t think-”

  “Don’t think. Just do it.”

  He paused just long enough to give her an opening.

  “Great,” she said. “I’ll pick you up around nine.”

  Part of him wanted to say no, but that would have been his fears talking-the fear of destroying what they’d once had, the fear of discovering that they had no future, the even greater fear of confirming that he could never build a life with a sighted woman. “Okay,” he said. “I’ll see you tomorrow night.”

  She said a quick good-bye and hung up. Clearly, she wanted to disconnect before he could change his mind. There was no chance of that, however. Vince was a man of his word. If he said he would go, he’d go. It wasn’t in his nature to second-guess his decisions.

  Except for that door. That pockmarked door at the end of the dark hallway-the door he should never have opened.

  Vince found the clock on the kitchen counter and pressed the speaker button. “Ten fifty-two,” the mechanical voice announced. Time for bed.

  He took three steps to the right and opened a drawer that was directly beneath the microwave oven. His medication was in a foil package, third bin from the left. The doctor had prescribed Mirtazapine, thirty milligrams, in a dissolvable-tablet form, to be taken each night at bedtime. It was an antidepressant. It didn’t seem to make him any happier, but it did knock him right out.

  He opened the package and placed the tablet on his tongue. The bitter lemon taste brought a sense of calm, even security. Eight hours of sleep, guaranteed. Eight glorious hours of sight.

  In his dreams-even in his worst nightmares-Vincent Paulo was never blind.

  chapter 5

  A licia didn’t feel the cold night air until she switched off her cell phone.

  The bar was packed and noisy, so she’d been forced to step outside and call Vince from the sidewalk. Miracle Mile was an upscale shopping boulevard, the heart of downtown Coral Gables. This time of year, it had that eclectic mix of palm trees and Christmas decorations-colored lights everywhere, storefront windows frosted with artificial snow, reindeer and candy canes suspended from lampposts. The bar at Houston’s Restaurant drew a twentysomething crowd on Thursday nights, and the waiting line wrapped all the way around the corner to the valet stand. The singles on queue seemed to eye one another with added interest. This was definitely snuggle weather. Alicia was the only person on the block without a coat. She felt like one of those Jersey girls who ended up on the evening news each year, determined to show off her new bikini and steal a suntan despite forty-degree temperatures without the wind chill.

  Alicia wasn’t out on the prowl. Thursdays were her nights out with old girlfriends, a chance to break away from a shrinking social life that seemed to revolve more and more around being a cop. All the guys stepped aside and checked her out as she went back inside. She drew dirty looks from several women who assumed she was using that hot body to cut in line. It was amazing how so much of society and basic social interaction was built on eye contact. Tha
t little observation just seemed to pop into her head for no reason at all. But things rarely happened without a reason. She was thinking about Vince, and her painful awareness that he could never again cut a glance across a room was exactly what had triggered her thoughts. She was suddenly angry with herself. He would push her away for good if he knew she was feeling sorry for him.

  The bar seemed even louder and more crowded as Alicia forced her way back to her friends’ table. The effects of two-for-one margaritas were beginning to wear off, and she was already regretting the impulsive telephone call to Vince. She knew better than to let alcohol do the talking for her, but somehow it had worked out fine.

  Finally, she reached her table, only to find a waiter clearing away empty glasses as five women settled up the bill.

  “You owe sixteen twenty-five,” said Rebecca, never looking up from her miniature calculator. Rebecca had been Alicia’s friend since college, and she was still the same. Bills were divided to the exact penny.

  Alicia checked the back of her chair for her purse, but it wasn’t there. She checked the floor around them and even under the table. “Did one of you girls grab my purse by accident?”

  The others shrugged and looked at one another. No, uh-uh, not me.

  “Well, shit,” said Alicia. “Somebody stole my purse.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Yeah. I took my phone out to call Vince, and I left my purse right here on the back of my chair.” Presently, the back of her chair was up against some guy’s butt. Their table was surrounded-practically smothered-by a standing-room-only crowd. Someone could have easily brushed by the chair and lifted her purse without Alicia’s friends taking notice.

  “I’ll cover your share of the bill,” said Rebecca. “Why don’t you check with the hostess? Maybe someone turned it in.”

  “All right,” said Alicia, though she knew in her heart that it was more likely in the Dumpster and that some slob who now called himself Alicia Mendoza had already purchased a sixty-inch plasma TV with her credit card. It was a sea of humanity between her and the hostess. She had to turn herself sideways and rub against two dozen strangers before reaching the stand.

  “Did anyone turn in a purse?” Alicia asked.

  “What’s it look like?” asked the hostess.

  “Black shoulder bag. Kate Spade.”

  The hostess pulled the bag from beneath the counter just as Alicia’s friend emerged from the crowd. “You found it,” said Rebecca. “Where was it?”

  The hostess said, “One of our waitresses found it in the ladies’ room.”

  “I didn’t leave it in the ladies’ room,” said Alicia.

  “Maybe it was one of your margaritas that left it there,” said Rebecca. “Check to see if anything’s missing.”

  Alicia opened the bag, but the restaurant was almost too dark to see inside her purse. She and Rebecca went outside, and the cold night air hit them immediately. The temperature was dropping by the minute, but Alicia was flushed with adrenaline as she sifted through the contents of her purse. To her relief, her wallet was still there. The credit cards were still in place, and so was all her cash.

  Rebecca snatched a twenty-dollar bill and said, “For the drinks. Now I owe you three seventy-five.”

  Alicia stepped away before her friend could claim ownership to anything else. She checked the side pocket and the zipper pouch inside. “My lipstick is gone.”

  “Yuck,” said Rebecca. “No offense, girl, but who would steal your lipstick?”

  An uneasy feeling came over her. She imagined some pervert writing her initials on his balls with Dusty Rose No. 3. Probably an overreaction on her part, but the mind went in those directions when you were a cop. “Only one person I can think of.”

  “You mean that guy on the bridge who wanted to talk to you? I thought he was in jail.”

  “The station called right after I left work to tell me he was back on the street. Somehow he made bail.”

  “If a homeless guy came wandering into Houston’s, wouldn’t somebody notice?”

  “Maybe they cleaned him up before he left jail.”

  “Enough to get into the ladies’ room? That’s where they found your purse, remember?”

  “That’s true.”

  “But it has to be him, doesn’t it? If it’s not, then who’s the lipstick bandit?”

  Alicia’s gaze shifted back toward the restaurant. With the reflections off the huge plate-glass windows, the packed crowd seemed to double in size. “I have no idea,” she said.

  chapter 6

  T he night Falcon returned to the street was the coldest of the year.

  It was well after dark before his lawyer finally posted the ten-thousand-dollar bail. Swyteck wanted to have a full and frank discussion with his client before springing him loose. Falcon wanted out of there immediately. Predictably, Swyteck turned on the social-worker speech, the deep concern for his downtrodden fellow man. Get yourself an apartment, Falcon. Get some warm clothes, get a life-for Pete’s sake, do something with all that money you have squirreled away in a safe deposit box. As if any lawyer really cared about his poor, homeless client. Falcon was no fool. He didn’t need to sit around and wait for Swyteck to work his way up to the obvious burning question. The guy was a lawyer, and he wouldn’t be much of a lawyer if he didn’t worry about where the money had come from. Not that those bastards didn’t take dirty money. Lawyers just knew well enough to take precautions before taking their take. Take, take, take.

  “Back off, Swyteck!” he said aloud, speaking to no one. “You can’t have it.”

  The Miami River was an inky black belt in the moonlight. It was quiet along the riverfront tonight, except for the cars whirring across the drawbridge. Rubber tires on metal always seemed louder in the cold, dry air. Falcon wasn’t sure why, and he didn’t care. He had to take a piss. He stopped beneath the bridge, unzipped, and waited. Nothing. The traffic noise from above was bothering him. Vehicles passing at the speed of light, one after another, quick little bursts that sounded like laser guns. It was breaking his concentration. His stream of water wasn’t what it used to be. It took a clear head and determination just to empty his bladder. He gritted his teeth and pushed. One squirt, dribble. Another squirt, more dribble. To think, this used to be fun. What the hell ever happened to the mighty swordsman who could hose down a park bench from ten feet away? Falcon hadn’t completely finished his business, but it was way too cold to keep your pecker hanging out all night. Especially when you were well compensated, right, Swyteck?

  He buttoned up and prepared himself for the final leg of the journey. He was almost home. The bend in the river told him so. He loved living on the river. In fact, seventy-degree river water would feel mighty good on a night like tonight. A regular poor man’s hot tub-except that Falcon wasn’t poor. Ha! The rich are different. “Yeah, I’m good and different, all right,” he said to no one.

  His breath nearly steamed in the crisp night air. It just kept getting colder. How was that possible? This was Miami, not Rochester. Swyteck had offered to drive him to a shelter, but Falcon was going home. Yeah, it was an abandoned car, but it still had all the comforts. Had himself a TV, a stereo, a toaster. He was sure they would still work, too, if only he had electricity. He could even have laid claim to a dishwasher, had he been able to lift the damn thing. The stuff people threw out was just amazing. Most trash wasn’t really trash at all, just things people got tired of having around the house. It wasn’t broken, wasn’t worn out, and sometimes it wasn’t even dirty. Out with the old, in with the new. Lawn mowers, radios, blenders, the Bushman. Especially the Bushman. That’s right, you heard me. You’re trash, Bushman! YOU ARE NOTHING BUT STINKING, SMELLING TRASH!

  “Who you calling trash, mon?”

  Falcon turned around. He was still standing under the bridge. His friend the Bushman was lying on the ground and glaring up at him. That crazy Jamaican was sucking the thoughts out of Falcon’s head again. Or maybe Falcon had been talking o
ut loud without realizing it.

  “Sorry,” said Falcon. “Didn’t mean nothing by it, buddy.”

  The Bushman grumbled as he pulled himself up to the seated position. A tattered old blanket was wrapped around his shoulders. He had the thickest, longest dreadlocks of anyone outside of the Australian Bush, which was the reason Falcon called him the Bushman. Normally, those dreadlocks would hang down loose, all dirty and gnarly, like the tufted fleece of a yak. Tonight, however, they were wrapped around his head like a turban, held in place by an old metal colander that made a pretty nice helmet. His jeans were filthy, as usual, but the sweatshirt looked to be clean and in good shape.

  “New sweatshirt?” said Falcon.

  “Folks from the shelter came by an hour or so ago. Passed out some goodies.” He held up his hands to show off a pair of socks that he was wearing like gloves. “You missed out, mon.”

  “They take anybody back with them?”

  “Nope. Not a one of us.”

  Just ahead, barely visible in the moonlight, a heap of cardboard started to stir. It was Uhm-Kate. Whenever anyone asked her name, the response was always, “Uhm, Kate.” She looked twice her normal size. It was a trick Falcon had taught her: stuff your clothes with old newspapers on cold nights. There were other ways to keep off the chill, but they usually came in a bottle.

  “Hey, Falcon’s back,” she said.

  More moving cardboard. The underbelly of the old drawbridge was like one big homeless slumber party. There was the Bushman, Uhm-Kate, half a dozen more. Eager as he was to get home, Falcon thought he might just stay here tonight, until he saw Johnny the Thief. He didn’t actually see him-just the glinting eyes in the darkness. It was the cough that revealed his identity. Johnny had one of those deep, lung-shredding coughs that hurt your ears just to hear it. He denied having AIDS, but everybody knew. When he first came to the street, he was Johnny the Pretty Boy. He wasn’t so pretty anymore. Now he was Johnny the Thief, always stealing everybody’s dope.