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“I don’t want to hear your ‘guess,’” Jack said firmly. “I just want you to answer my questions. Understand?”
Paxton glared at him. Like most bullies, he clearly wasn’t keen on being put in his place. “What’s your question?” he fired back.
“You testified that you were in the garage with Mr. Nichols and a naked corpse. What did you do after Mr. Nichols told you to get rid of the body? Did you have a plan?”
“I think I said I could dump the body in the Everglades.”
The Florida Everglades were the dumping ground of choice, a murderer’s best friend. The warm waters hastened decomposition. Sawgrass, muck, and flora seemed to swallow cadavers. Alligators, pythons, and other wildlife feasted on whatever remained.
“But you didn’t dump the body in the Everglades, did you?”
“No.”
“Why not?”
“Mr. Nichols gave me very specific instructions on what to do.”
“What were those instructions?”
“Take the boat. Go out in the bay to Isola di Lolando. Tie him to the concrete piling and leave him there.”
“Did Mr. Nichols tell you why he wanted Mr. McCormick’s body displayed in this way?”
“No.”
“Do you have any information at all as to why he told you to put the body on display like this?”
“All I can tell you is what Shaky said.”
“What did he say?” asked Jack.
“He said it was Imani’s idea.”
There it was—the testimony that had gotten Imani indicted. At trial, Jack would of course challenge the credibility of a convicted felon, and he would attack whatever deal the witness had cut with the prosecutor for a reduction of his sentence in exchange for his testimony.
The prosecutor pushed away from the table and stretched, as if morning had just broken. “Is now a good time for a break, Mr. Swyteck?”
Jack had promised to call Imani as soon as anything “important” happened. This was definitely in that category, as evidenced by the hint of a smug smile from the prosecutor.
“Let’s take ten,” said Jack.
Chapter 22
It was a cloudy night in southeast London, typical for late October. Light rain started to fall as Theo reached the Underground station at Bethnal Green. He hurried down the stairs and caught the train just before the doors closed.
Theo had never actually left London after his release from the station house in Covent Gardens. He was fully aware that Jack and others had been led to believe that the FBI had put him on a flight back to the States, but a death threat from a Russian oligarch made travel too dangerous. The safest course was for Theo to stay in London and cast confusion to the world with a false narrative as to his whereabouts.
“Stay in London,” of course, could mean many different things. When a six-foot-six Black man with an American accent needs to keep a low profile, he doesn’t exactly disappear by moving to Cherry Tree Lane and hiding out with Mary Poppins and the Banks family. Theo chose Bethnal Green and rented a studio apartment in one of the typical three-story redbrick buildings that defined the beaten-down neighborhood. Some said the area wasn’t safe, and to their point, plenty of gang graffiti on walls, billboards, and fences marked the territory of Money Squad, African Nations Crew, and other thugs who ruled the night. But in the morning, the shops opened, buses ran, and sidewalks were lined with commuters. Theo had even seen children playing and parents pushing baby strollers. Bethnal Green was not as bad as its reputation. But Theo had chosen it precisely because of its reputation, betting that he would feel more comfortable there than anyone sent by a Russian oligarch to find him.
Still, it wasn’t Kensington. While Theo could protect himself in a bad situation, not everyone could. The teenage girl standing at the front of the car, holding tightly to the safety pole, had no business catching a train alone after dark at the Bethnal Green Underground station. Theo kept one eye on the girl and the other on a “dodgy bloke,” as the locals would have called him, who was rubbing his crotch and sizing her up. Theo had him pegged for one of the many creeps who rode the train all day begging for money, bumming cigarettes, talking nonstop to strangers, asking women if they’re “selling,” and, more than anything else, looking for teenage runaways who bit their fingernails and tugged at their hair in ways that signaled they were ripe for appropriation. “Those are just the flavors of London’s northern lines,” people liked to say. Theo didn’t like it one bit. So, when the self-aroused creep rose from his seat and started toward the front of the car, Theo couldn’t just sit in silence and do nothing, the way so many commuters did, as a pathetic excuse for a human being rubbed himself up against a defenseless teenager. Even if he was trying to avoid trouble and keep a low profile, it wasn’t in his blood to be a bystander.
“Back off, asshole,” said Theo.
The creep stopped and faced Theo. “This your girl?”
“Definitely not yours,” said Theo.
“Says who?”
