Enemies Within

by J. S. Chapman

  “Not by a long shot, Mr. Kirschner. Don’t bother showing me out. I know the way.”

  On her ride back to the airport, Cordelia reviewed everything she knew and everything that bothered her, and ticked them off one by one —

  One. Kirschner denied everything. She expected him to. But in every one of his denials, he never once mentioned Coyote.

  Two. Even though the dummy corporation was registered in the state of Delaware, it was domiciled in Missouri and clearly linked to Rutledge, Sibley & Kirschner, almost like a signpost.

  Three. The gruesome murder of the woman who worked alongside Coyote and slept with him and was supposed to have been league with him on the theft was too damned convenient.

  Four. The hundred thousand dollars left in one of the Grand Cayman banks seemed odd, like bait left in a trap, just waiting to be picked clean.

  Five. Even though the fifty million was washed and rinsed, and washed and rinsed again, until it was finally rewashed and bleached, Coyote’s digital fingerprints were all over everything, leaving behind indisputable proof he had motive and opportunity.

  Six. If Coyote were directly involved in the heist, he’d want to avoid attention and not bring it to him by leaving cyber trails at his back.

  Seven. That Coyote overdosed on a drug within the same timeframe as murdering the woman and stealing the fifty million dollars didn’t make a hell of a lot of sense.

  Eight. The use of his birth name ... Finlay rather than Coyote ... eventually would lead straight to him.

  Nine. Up until the murder and the elaborate cybertheft, Coyote had been an upstanding citizen, neither a known criminal nor an associate of known criminals.

  And ten. If he were as smart as they said, Coyote would have absconded with the money, covered his tracks, and never be seen or heard from again.

  She wanted to get to know Jack Coyote, up close and personal. She saw only one impediment with her brilliant idea. Everyone standing in his way eventually wound up dead.

  23

  Seven Mile Beach, Grand Cayman

  Tuesday, August 12

  THE BODY HAVING been transported a half an hour since, the rubbernecking crowd on the beach had only just begun to disperse. The crime scene was still cordoned off, technicians still combing the area for promising evidence. A general call had gone out for anyone with information leading to the capture and arrest of the murderer. A few were speaking to officers, giving whatever meager accounts they could. Others were hanging around to view the drama, to feel like they were part of something, to capture a photo or two, a souvenir they could show to friends back home or put up on social media. Everything taken together, the scene was just as gruesome in the full light of morning as it had been at the early light of dawn.

  Wearing the crisp white shirt and red-striped pants of the island police, the supervising inspector visibly stood out. Her athletic build and statuesque height—just under six feet—put her in a class by herself, one that could intimidate the most hardened of crooks, this while being a lady from the crown of her head down to the thick soles of her regulation shoes. The abundant cinnamon tresses of her dreadlocks were neatly braided and scooped into a hair ornament at the back of her head. A billed cap bearing the embroidered insignia of the Royal Cayman Islands Police Service—RCIPS—kept the worst of the sun from spilling onto her severe face. Her eyes were a limpid violet-blue that took in everything at once. She was a stunning woman, but woe unto the man who ignored her orders or evaded her questions.

  Jack approached her anyway, understanding the consequences, but also understanding that avoiding her would put him in a worse light. Those arresting eyes caught the determined bearing of a man approaching her with purposeful strides. As he drew closer, she swung her head aside but kept her eyes riveted on him, an observant woman, a wary cop, a smart lady. He introduced himself. Once again, the phlegmatic police officer of quiet authority assessed him with an unblinking glower, eyes wide with curiosity but narrow with suspicion. She could intimidate any man of any breeding from a hundred yards off.

  She let an uncomfortable silence pass between them before speaking. “And?” was all she said. She was unruffled. She knew there was more. She waited for him to have his say while the morning sun blinded his eyes but not hers, she having subtly repositioned herself into an advantageous position without him even noticing.

  Compelled to put a shading hand to his brow, he nodded towards the crime scene. “We dined together last night.”

  She shifted her head aside, eyes narrowing. “Then I presume you know her name.”

  “Keri. Keri Parris. She’s a banker with CapTrust Cayman Shores. My client has an account with them. We met earlier in the day. And ran into each other at the hotel bar.” He hoped the information would be enough to satisfy her. He knew it wouldn’t. And it wasn’t. Her penetrating glare drew him out. Like a magnet pointing true north, he was compelled to go. “We ate at one of the hotel restaurants. From about eight o’clock until ten or eleven.”

  She considered him, her focus unswerving. “We had better have a talk. In private. If you wouldn’t mind, Mr. ...?”

  “Fox. John Fox.”

  She nodded toward her companion, just now pulling up beside her, a barrel-chested man wearing a black beret angled over narrow eyes. “Constable, if you would be so kind as to lead the way.”

  Bracketed by two formidable individuals who wouldn’t hesitate using physical force if necessary, Jack strove to appear cooperative and non-threatening. He wanted nothing to be interpreted as belligerence, not even the animal smell rising from his pores. He walked casually, measuring his pace to the long strides of his escorts, letting his arms dangle harmlessly at his sides, and concentrating on his feet as they negotiated shifting sands. Bystanders turned their heads, scrutinizing the spectacle of a man being led away by law enforcement officers, whether voluntarily or involuntarily it didn’t mattered to them since they already adjudged him guilty of the dead woman’s murder.

  When they reached the police van, the constable motioned with a roll of his eyes and a gesture of his hand for Jack to turn around. He knew the drill and obeyed, bracing his hands against the broiling heat of the side panel, his feet angled slightly back and apart. The constable kicked his legs further back, putting Jack in a position of powerlessness. His palms became sweaty. Perspiration sluiced the sides of his face. The constable employed meaty hands to pat down the suspect. He extracted a wallet from Jack’s back pocket and handed it to his superior.

  She looked over the photo ID with mild curiosity and read off his name. “You’re an American citizen. And you’ve come to our fine country for business. Or is it pleasure? Perhaps both?” Her voice emphasized the last two words.

  The constable indicated that his search was complete and the suspect unarmed. Jack pushed himself away from the van and stood upright, holding himself loose, appearing wholly cooperative.

  The inspector approached and planted herself before him. “If you would kindly remove your shirt.”

  Jack considered her request. “May I ask why?”

  “You may. And I will answer.” She snapped evidence gloves onto her hands. “I should like to ascertain if you have any marks of violence on your person.”

  Since it was a reasonable request, Jack complied, tugging the buttoned shirt over his head. She took the article of clothing and examined it inside and out before handing it to the constable, who stood at attention, eyes sharp on Jack.

  “Please turn,” she asked. “Slowly, if you would be so kind. Hold your arms out ... yes, like that ... extend hands and fingers.” Jack followed her instructions. When he circled back around and met her probing gaze, she placed her gloved hands onto his shoulders and ran them down the lengths of his arms, turning each over in turn before encircling her fingers around his wrists and flipping over his hands to examine both knuckles and palms. Afterwards she claimed the evidence bag handed to her by the constable, drew out a sterilized nail clipper, and used the scraper to tak
e a sample from beneath several of his short-clipped fingernails, after which the nail clipper was dropped into the evidence envelope and the contents sealed. Appearing to be satisfied for the moment, she looked into his eyes as though searching his conscience and perhaps his very soul. She broke the connection and nodded toward the constable, who handed the shirt back to Jack. She waved an arm of invitation. “You may climb onboard now, Mr. Fox.”

  Buttoning up his shirt, Jack settled into one of the bumper seats against the side window. The inspector sat opposite him, settling down and immediately engaging a switch on her body cam. “With your permission, everything you say will be recorded.”

  “Does this mean I’m under arrest?”

  “Not at all. But your statement may be key to our investigation.”

  “Then you think this is a homicide.”

  “Oh, I think so, don’t you? If you refuse to answer our questions here, we can always transport you to the station and take your statement there.”

  It was a stare-off and a stand-off, and a win-win for her. She smiled ever so slightly. “The video will protect us both.”

  When Jack nodded his agreement, the constable closed the side panel with a heavy thwack, encasing the three occupants inside the nearly soundproof police van.

  “This is Constable Thomas Johnson, my right-hand man, and I am Detective Inspector Tamara Collingsworth.”

  Johnson remained standing on the lower step, the guard at the gate should the prisoner ... and could there any doubt Jack was a prisoner? ... try to escape. Air conditioning ventilated the cabin, providing some relief from the stink of fear that must have been emanating from the prisoner.

  The inspector flipped open a notebook and poised a pen above lined paper. “For my personal observations,” she said, everything about her very proper, very polite, and very formal even if the circumstances were anything but. “You may now make your statement.”

  He recounted his business dealings with Ms. Parris earlier in the day and their chance encounter — or what he described as a chance encounter but wasn’t anything of the sort — which led them to dining at a candlelit table for two surrounded by witnesses who could corroborate his version of the events. He didn’t mention being approached by Dani Nguyen. Or his true companion of the night, the maid who would have lost her job if it became known she slept with a guest at the hotel. He wanted to be believed for everything he said but not for anything he didn’t say. For him, it felt more than slightly silly, sitting in a police van and trying to explain why he couldn’t have been the murderer. And said so.

  “If it was indeed a murder,” Tamara pointed out. “Or merely an accident. Only the coroner’s report can confirm your conjecture.”

  “Or yours,” he said.

  “Touché, Mr. Fox, you’re a worthy opponent.” She paused before concurring. “Then shall we call it an alleged murder?”

  The interrogation was quite civil. Instead of him calmly explaining his side of things, they should have been giving him the third degree in the station. But he was seated on comfortable leather seating with cool air blowing on his face.

  When he finished his statement, Inspector Collingsworth regarded him with neutrality while Constable Johnson glared at him with suspicion. He was smart to be suspicious. Jack would have been, too, if he had been speaking with seemingly the last person to see the victim alive. “May I have your passport?” Tamara asked.

  “Again I ask why.”

  “And so you should,” she said, her accent crisp and thoroughly British, her eyes unswerving and nearly colorless in the dimness of the van, and her slender fingers penning neat notes onto lined paper. Like most investigators, she had learned to hide her thoughts. But unlike others, elements of humanity showed through, revealing a genuine person beneath. “Because I don’t want you to leave our island paradise until we have thoroughly checked out your story.”

  “It’s in my room.”

  “Then if you wouldn’t mind, Constable Johnson will go with you and take it into evidence.” She smiled pleasantly and waved a hand of egress.

  The constable escorted Jack to his room and waited at the door for him to hand over the passport. He flipped the pages past his thumb, slipped the booklet into an evidence pouch, made a notation on the outer label, handed over a receipt, and tugged at the bill of his cap before departing.

  Jack closed the door of his room, backed up to the bed, lowered his heavy weight onto the freshly made bedding, and there contemplated. He was in a tight situation. The murder of the Parris woman proved that, not forgetting his encounters with the Nguyen woman. His movements were anticipated. They ... whoever they were ... knew he would follow the money. The moment he left the offices of CapTrust Cayman Shores, someone made a call, either the Parris woman herself or a superior. Following the alert, actions were set into motion and instructions were relayed. Contacting Jack on neutral ground was required. Keri was the lure. When he rebuffed her, she was silenced. Dani took up the slack. Possibly they worked together. Since Keri met with violence, it might also mean that Dani was vulnerable too, though she seemed capable enough, more capable than a paper pusher.

  The details of how it went down were irrelevant. One man was behind the murder. The same man who had been hounding Jack ever since his release from jail. The Frenchman.

  24

  Washington, D. C.

  Tuesday, August 12

  LIZ TOOK A girding breath and rapped on the door. The door cracked open, a hand reached through the sliver, yanked her inside, and dragged her into the room, flipping her onto the bed.

  As the ceiling spun, she tried to grasp what had just happened. Brandon was on top of her by then, knees straddling her torso, pudgy fingers groping at her blouse and unbuttoning the buttons. Her instinct was to cry out. It was a mistake.

  He slapped his sweaty palm over her mouth and stifled the pitiful sounds. “Not one peep.” It was all he needed to say. He denuded her the rest of the way and made love to her on a filthy bed in a filthy room while she wept filthy tears throughout the ordeal.

  In truth, it wasn’t a filthy room or even a filthy motel. It was his posh hotel room at the Arcadia. It was Liz who was filthy, for surrendering to this filthy man with his protuberant lower lip and his deviated septum from a twice-broken nose that made him wheeze like a bear. The event was over as quickly as it started. One thing she had learned about Neville Brandon. He might have been a dirty old man but he could never get it up. His weight rolled off her but he kept his elbow cinched around her neck, a gesture of ownership. He never really hurt her. Never slapped her around. Never left physical damage. Only the psychological kind, the manipulative kind. In a way, she would have preferred being slapped around. At least then, she would have physical evidence. Her scars could not be seen.

  He was still panting like a man on his last legs. She knew him for a rake and a scoundrel. He was also a massive heart attack waiting to happen. His fumbling and groping and nastiness were the actions of a randy teenager. He held her in the grip of his manipulativeness, tighter than the elbow still cinched around her throat.

  It meant nothing, these sleazy lunch dates. She always knew what to expect. A display of ruthlessness. Idle threats. Pawing and grunting. And then nothing. He cried like a baby once. She had rocked him in her arms, trying to soothe him, but it only enraged him, and she paid for that, too, when he demanded she get on all fours and bark like a dog. The only time he physically abused her was at the fundraiser when he used his fist, proving he could hurt her, and hurt her bad. She learned her lesson well. Never again would she test him. In her mind, though, she had already murdered him twenty times over.

  He was still breathing hard when she sat up and buttoned her blouse, a nearly useless act of modesty. But she needed something to cover the raw nakedness of her body, even if she couldn’t hide the degradation of her spirit, the one hunched over like a child and crying her eyes out. He reached over and slipped his hot hand beneath the blouse and rubbed her back, sayi
ng, “It was good this time.”

  She started to get off the bed, but he said, “Don’t go,” almost like a boy, a very needy boy who needed his mommy.

  “I have to. I have a conference call.”

  “Stay.” He was still petting her like a master pets his Shih Tzu. He lay back on the pillows and reeled her against him. “When did you lose your virginity?”

  She always dreaded his personal questions. They somehow made her more vulnerable than she already was. “In high school. A guy named Roger. Played football.”

  “Were you high school sweethearts?”

  “Until he went away to college. He was two years older than me.”

  “Ever get back together?”

  “Once.” She shrugged. “We knew it was over. He changed. I changed.”

  “You do know what you are, Liz? What you’ve become?”

  During one of their appointments on a rainy day, they didn’t make love. Instead, he ordered her to pose for him while he took videos and still shots. Clothed, partially nude, and full frontal, with the curtains closed and the lights turned out and the bedsheets mussed and everything coming out like frames from a film noir, her body swathed in shadows but unmistakably Liz Langdon in her prime, before her face and body would go to ruin.

  “What’re you going to do with them?” she had asked.

  “I think you know.”

  “Blackmail?”

  “I already have that. In the safe deposit box. I told you. You didn’t believe me? Of course you did. That is why you’re here.” He inhaled a deep breath.

  “To get off on them? When you’re alone? When I can’t be with you?”

  He swept his large thumb along the curve of her nose. “Oh, lady, lady.”

  “If someone ever saw them ....”

  “No one will see them,” he assured her. “Only me.”

  She often wondered in moments of introspection why she gave into his every whim. Followed his orders without complaint. Went on humiliating herself. The answer was simple. She had nothing more to lose. Funny. She always thought of herself as plucky, liberated. One shrewd woman. Smarter than everyone else. Now she was reduced to a little girl obeying her mean daddy.