Hear No Evil Read online

  She didn’t immediately take to the suggestion, but his point slowly seemed to register. “Okay, but…”

  “But what?”

  “Give me a day or so to sort some things out.”

  “What things?”

  “Look in the mirror, Jack. I showed you his photograph at our first meeting. Brian is bound to see the resemblance. And then he’s going to start asking questions.”

  “Does he have any idea that he was adopted?”

  “No. Oscar and I never told him. I think I should have a long talk with him before he meets you and figures it out for himself.”

  “Okay. It’s not my place to tell you how to handle that. But it is my job to tell you that we have to move fast. I think an indictment is coming down soon, so I need to make a decision about representing you.”

  She pushed aside her egg-white omelet. She hadn’t taken a bite. “Which way are you leaning?”

  “Brian is the only person who was in the house at the alleged time of your husband’s death. So I need to talk to him.”

  “You didn’t answer my question.”

  Jack surrendered his last piece of toast to a golden retriever that had been staring at him for the past five minutes with the eyes of a starving child. The dog left, and Lindsey was still locked onto him like radar from across the table, waiting for her answer. “Lindsey, I told you at the outset: I don’t want to represent Brian’s mother if it looks like she killed Brian’s father.”

  “Does that mean you’re not going to represent me?”

  “Your father-in-law gave me some troubling information. Seems Oscar had a trust fund worth seven figures. It kicked in when he was thirty-five, but he was career military. He thinks you killed him to get off the base and get your hands on the money.”

  “That is so typical of him,” she said, her voice taking on an edge.

  “Did Oscar leave you his trust money in his will?”

  “Yes.”

  “How much?”

  “Two million and change.”

  “So it’s in your name now?”

  “No. The estate won’t release the funds to me. Not until it’s established that I didn’t kill him.”

  “Damn it, Lindsey. Why didn’t you tell me about this before?”

  “Because I didn’t want you to take on my criminal case just to get a big fat contingency fee in the probate matter. I’m more than happy to pay your usual criminal retainer, but mostly I want you to do this for Brian.”

  “Oh, come off it. This is crucial to your criminal case. Two million dollars is plenty motivation for you to kill your husband.”

  “Sure it is. If I’d known about it. But I didn’t know anything about it until after Oscar was dead.”

  “Oscar never told you?”

  “No.”

  “I find that hard to believe.”

  “It’s true. The Pintado family is a strange one. They are very, very protective of their own. I’m sure you’ve noticed that I’m Lindsey Hart. Not Lindsey Pintado. Do you know why? Because Alejandro Pintado wouldn’t let his son give me his name. That man never liked me, and for one reason: I’m not Cuban. And when I couldn’t get pregnant and at the very least give him a half-Cuban grandchild, well, then I was truly worthless.”

  “I’m sorry about that. But before you start railing against Cubans in general, I should warn you. I’m half Cuban.”

  “Yeah, right.”

  “It’s true. My mother was Cuban. I wasn’t raised Cuban, but-”

  “Then you’re not Cuban. Kid yourself all you want, but if you weren’t raised in that community, you are not part of that community. I spent my entire marriage trying to fit in, and as far as that man Alejandro is concerned, I might as well be from outer space.”

  “Lindsey, let’s not get off track here. I’m talking about me representing you.”

  “That’s exactly what I’m talking about, too. You’re afraid to represent me. You’re afraid of Alejandro Pintado. You’re afraid that if you defend the woman who is accused of murdering his beloved son, it will push you further and further away from being a part of a community that you can never be a part of.”

  “That is totally unfair.”

  “Don’t talk to me about fairness. Ask my husband how fair this is.”

  Jack took the blow, though Lindsey seemed to regret having said it. “Believe me,” he said, “I couldn’t be more sorry about what happened to your family, and I am committed to doing what’s best for your son.”

  “That’s very nice to hear. But let me tell you something about commitment. It’s a lot more than words.”

  Now there was a speech he’d heard before. “I’m not just saying it to appease you. I mean it. The most important thing here is Brian.”

  “And to hell with Lindsey,” she said, scoffing.

  “I didn’t say that.”

  “You didn’t have to. So why don’t you just go to hell yourself, Jack.”

  “What was that for?”

  “Because you’re acting as if I have no one else to turn to. I’m not some know-nothing wife who followed her husband around the world from one military base to the next. I’ve met some very interesting people-people I would call friends.” She pulled her cell phone from her purse and started scrolling down the list of names in the address book feature. “Look, right here,” she said, showing the names and numbers to Jack. “I could call Jamie Dutton. She works in the State Department. Nancy Milama. She’s married to Tony Milama, chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff. People like that. I could call them, if I had to. They would help me.”

  “Then call them.”

  “I didn’t want to call them. I called you because I thought you were right for the job. I thought you might do the right thing, stand up to a guy like Alejandro Pintado and find out who really killed your son’s adoptive father. But it turns out you don’t even have the courage to reach up under your skirt and find your own balls.”

  He tried to contain his anger, tried to understand this was a woman accused of murdering the father of her son. But he wasn’t Job. “Lindsey, get a grip on yourself right now, or you and I are done.”

  She looked straight at him, her eyes clouded with a swirl of emotion. Anger. Disappointment. Then anger again. “I held my tongue before, Jack, but I’ll say it now.”

  “Make it good. Because this may be the last time I’ll listen.”

  She seemed about to explode. “I know you were playing games with me the other day when you said you didn’t know Brian was deaf.”

  “It was no game. I had no idea.”

  “Even with all the joy that Brian brought to me and Oscar, every now and then I still had these awful thoughts.”

  “About Brian?”

  “No. Never about Brian. About his birth parents. I wondered, Did they know their baby was deaf? And was that the reason they gave him up for adoption? It seemed like such a terrible thing to think about the people who had shared such a beautiful gift. I felt guilty for letting it even cross my mind. But now that I’ve met you face-to-face, now that I’ve gotten to know you and find out what you’re really like, I have to say: That sense of guilt is gone.”

  Jack wanted to defend himself, but his thoughts were drifting back to Jessie. Beautiful, brilliant, and incredibly egocentric Jessie. He hated to think it, too. But maybe that was the reason she had opted for adoption.

  And he had a little better understanding of Lindsey’s resentment.

  She rose and threw a ten-dollar bill on the table to cover her share of the bill. “Good-bye, Mr. Swyteck. And congratulations. I think there’s probably just enough room for both you and Mr. Pintado in your self-absorbed little world.”

  Jack sat in silence, staring at nothing, not sure what had just hit him as Lindsey turned and walked away.

  10

  She is totally yanking your chain,” said Theo.

  “You think?” said Jack.

  “How many times did I fire your ass when I was on death row?”

>   “About every other week.”

  “See. Ten years later, I still can’t get rid of you.”

  Jack was about to point out that this was his house, they were cooking his food, and Theo had his carcass parked on Jack’s couch every weekend, all of which raised some pretty serious questions as to who couldn’t get rid of whom. But Jack decided to leave it alone.

  Theo turned his attention back to the stove. He was searing two thick tuna steaks in a crispy coating of lemon pepper, sesame seeds, and ginger. He looked like a short-order cook, spatula in hand, greasy white apron wrapped around his waist. To most people, Theo came across as the kind of guy whose idea of a seven-course meal was a six-pack and a bag of chips, but he was actually quite a good cook, and he enjoyed it. And like most good cooks, he hated meddlers in the kitchen.

  “What are you doing?” he asked Jack.

  Jack was standing at the sink, washing the mixing bowl. “Cleaning up,” he said.

  “Can’t it wait?”

  “I suppose. But I guess it’s sort of an old habit.”

  “We talking about your ex again?”

  “Yeah. Cindy never used to let me near the kitchen unless I cleaned up as I went along.”

  Theo looked at him as if he were from another planet. “Clean up while you’re cooking? That’s like stopping in the middle of sex to do the fucking laundry.”

  Jack shut off the water, considering it. “I think Cindy actually did that once.”

  “Jacko, that’s one woman you don’t need back in your life. But this Lindsey, she’ll be back. Trust me.”

  “Aw, the hell with it. I’m better off without her.” He shook his head. “But then there’s Brian. I mean, what if his mother is innocent? He’s getting the worst of it at both ends.”

  Theo smiled knowingly as he flipped the tuna steaks. “She’s manipulatin’ you, man.”

  “If she is, she’s doing one heck of a good job of it.”

  “Which sort of makes you wonder, don’t it?”

  “Wonder what?”

  Theo lifted the pan from the flame, then slid the steaks onto dinner plates. “Maybe you should be listening to that Mr. Potato.”

  “Pintado.”

  “Whatever. My point is this: Just maybe-she’s not innocent.”

  Theo grabbed the plates and started toward the family room. Jack stood frozen at the kitchen counter. He’d had his doubts, to be sure. But coming from Theo’s lips, just hearing it out loud, gave it an entirely different impact.

  “You coming?” said Theo.

  Jack was sifting through a stack of mail at the kitchen counter.

  “Hey, Clarence Darrow. I said it’s time to eat.”

  Jack held up a large manila envelope. “It’s from Lindsey.”

  “Wow. That is the fastest ‘I still love you’ card in the history of the U.S. Postal Service.”

  “No. It’s postmarked three days ago. Before our blowup.”

  Theo laid the plates of fish on the table. “This should be interesting.”

  “It’s addressed to me, Theo. Not us.”

  “I slave all day, cook your meals, and this is the thanks I get?”

  “Go away.”

  “Fine.” He took both plates of tuna and threw his nose into the air, a bit like an all-pro linebacker pretending to be a ticked-off housewife. “There’s Cheerios in the cupboard.”

  Unless you already ate them, thought Jack.

  He waited for Theo to sink into the couch and lose himself in ESPN before opening the letter with a kitchen knife. He hesitated, then reached inside and pulled out a handful of photographs. He sifted through the stack quickly, then went through them again more slowly. They were all snapshots of Brian, some of them quite old, others more recent. A picture of Brian with his soccer team. A picture of Brian and his mother. Another one of Brian and his dad. They were saluting the flag. Oscar was wearing his khaki Marine uniform.

  The last photograph was of Brian as a newborn. His mother and father were with him, locked in the awkward and tangled embrace that was so typical of new parents who had no idea how to hold a tiny infant. Jack couldn’t be certain, but it appeared to be Brian’s first day with his adoptive parents. They looked so happy together, which gave him a good feeling. But then he wondered how Jessie must have felt at that very same moment, the birth mother all alone, far removed from any celebration. Jack’s sense of joy faded, and it vanished altogether as he thought about his own life on that day. By the time young Brian had looked into the eyes of his proud adoptive parents, Jack had completely moved on from Jessie, unaware that she was even pregnant. He’d already attained a remarkable level of self-delusion, having convinced himself that Jessie was not “The One,” that Cindy Paige would spend the rest of her life as Cindy Swyteck.

  Jack put the photographs aside and removed the letter from the envelope. He unfolded it slowly, not sure what to expect. It was handwritten in smooth, beautiful cursive.

  Dear Jack,

  I wanted you to have these photographs of Brian. He is a special little boy, and he’s becoming a young man in a hurry. I know that one day he will be so grateful for everything you are doing to help keep our family together, now that Oscar is gone.

  Jack, I know it’s important to you that I be innocent. Believe me, I understand that. And I respect it, too. I would have no right to raise my son if the things people are saying about me were true. I don’t know how to give you the comfort you need, but if it would help, I would be more than happy to take a lie detector test. Just let me know when and where.

  Thank you again for being there for us. Fondly, Lindsey.

  Jack started to read it again, then quickly laid it facedown on the counter as Theo returned to the kitchen. His friend nearly broke two fishless dinner plates as he dropped them into the sink. In less than five minutes he’d eaten enough seared tuna to feed a Tokyo suburb.

  “What’s the matter with you?” said Theo.

  “Lindsey sent me some photos.”

  Theo raised an eyebrow. “We talkin’ hot-moms-dot-com material?”

  “No, pervert. Photographs of her son. And a letter.”

  “What she say?”

  “She offered to take a polygraph. And remember, this was written before our fight today.”

  “Heh. Ain’t that a kick in the head?”

  “Yeah.”

  “I thought you don’t believe in polygraphs.”

  “I don’t. But I tend to believe a recent widow and single mother who offers to take one. Especially when she says you pick the time, you pick the place, you pick the tester. You see the difference?”

  “Yeah, I do. So, now what?”

  “I don’t know. You got any suggestions?”

  “Yeah,” he said as he walked toward the fridge. “How ’bout dessert?”

  Jack stared at the letter, hopelessly confused. Finally, he looked at Theo and said, “That’s the best damn idea I’ve heard in a long time.”

  11

  Jack went food shopping with Abuela. This wasn’t just the dutiful grandson taking his grandmother to the grocery store. This was Jack’s biweekly lesson in Cuban culture.

  “What you like for eating, mi vida?”

  Mi vida. Literally it meant “my life,” and Jack loved being her vida. “Camarones?” he said.

  “Ah, shreemp. Muy bien.”

  It was part of their routine, Jack speaking bad Spanish, Abuela answering in bad English. Jack did the best he could for a half-Cuban kid who’d been raised one hundred percent gringo, which, of course, was the point of their little visits together to the grocery store. Mario’s on Douglas Road was the neighborhood market in an area that began to establish itself as Cuban American with the first wave of immigrants in the 1960s. More than three decades later the conversion was complete, and Mario’s Market was virtually unchanged, owned and operated since 1968 by a smiling old man named Kiko (there never was a Mario, he just liked the alliteration). A cup of café con leche was still just thirty-five cent
s at the breakfast counter in front. Nine aisles of food were stuffed with the basic essentials of life, including twenty-pound sacks of long-grain rice, bistec palamillo sliced to order, delicious caramel flan topping, an assortment of cooking wines to satisfy the most discerning chefs, and glass-encased candles painted with the holy images of Santa Bárbara and San Lázaro. Established customers could buy on credit, and the best Cuban bread in town, baked on the premises, could be purchased straight from the hot ovens in back. All you had to do was follow your nose, or for the olfactory deprived, follow the signs and arrows marked PAN CALIENTE. Jack had driven past the store a thousand times on his way downtown, and he would have kept right on driving for the rest of his life had his grandmother not come to the United States and opened a whole new set of doors for him. Twice a month they visited Mario’s together to select the freshest ingredients, and then Abuela would come over to Jack’s kitchen and demonstrate the old family recipes.

  Abuela was a phenomenal cook. She always seemed to be preparing a meal or planning the next one, as if on a mission to make up for thirty-eight years of living under Castro with virtually nothing to cook and nothing to eat. Almost five years had passed since Jack’s father called to tell him that Abuela was coming to Miami, and Abuela became Jack’s window to the past-to his mother’s roots. Of course there would always be the gap that no one could fill, the gaping hole of a life that was never lived, the tragedy of a mother who died bringing her son into the world. Jack’s father had told him stories about Ana Maria, the beautiful young Cuban girl with whom Harry had fallen head over heels in love. Jack knew how they’d met, he knew about the fresh yellow flower she used to wear in her long brown hair, he knew how jaws would drop when she walked into a party, and he knew that when someone told a joke, she was the first to laugh and the last to stop. All of those things mattered to Jack, but even on those rare occasions when his father did open up and talk about the wife he’d lost, he could offer Jack only a snippet of her life, just the handful of those final years in Miami. Abuela was the rest of the story. When she talked of her sweet, young daughter, her aging eyes would light up with so much magic that Jack could be certain that Ana Maria had truly lived. And Abuela could be certain that she still lived, the way only a grandmother could be certain of such things, the kind of certainty that came when you took a grandchild by the hand, or looked into his eyes, or cupped his cheek in your hand, and the generations seemed to blur.