She nodded, put the car in reverse and got back on the road.
CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE
Daryl shut the front door, locked it with the deadbolt then turned and saw Paul on his hands and knees in the hallway.
‘Have they gone?’ said Paul.
Pulling back the blind, Daryl watched the sheriff’s car reverse back up the driveway, out onto the road, stop and then drive back toward town.
‘They’ve gone,’ said Daryl, lifting the kitchen towel away from the gun. He picked up the weapon then put it back into the waistband of his jeans. At the front this time.
‘You were supposed to stay in the basement,’ said Daryl, in a flat, casual tone.
Paul stood up and said, ‘I thought you were going to shoot. You might have needed an extra pair of hands to make a quick exit.’
Shaking his head, Daryl said, ‘Nah, that would have been a last resort. Thanks, anyway. Did you hear what we talked about?’
As Daryl asked the question he took a moment to study Paul. If this man had begun to suspect Daryl then he needed to know. They were about to take an incredible risk, and Daryl knew he couldn’t pull it off if Paul was not to be trusted. As Paul took in the question, Daryl saw his neck flushed red. Maybe it was a reaction to the cops being here, or maybe it was something else.
‘I heard a little. I didn’t know you worked at the country club,’ said Paul.
Ah, maybe that was it, thought Daryl.
‘I worked there part-time. Fishing don’t pay the rent on its own. I saw your wife there a couple times. And what I told the cop was the truth – that’s why he left; I only talked to her for a few seconds. Just passing the time of day. That’s all. I didn’t know her.’
Again, Daryl brought all of his attention and concentration to focus – zeroing in on Paul’s every movement, gesture and word.
‘Fair enough. I mean, why would you know her, right?’ said Paul.
Daryl nodded, ‘Right,’ he said.
Daryl knew there would always be a wrinkle of doubt in Paul’s mind. Had to be. The only uncertainty would be whether that wrinkle got mostly ironed out in time or just got bigger and bigger. That was beyond Daryl’s control. He would just have to wait it out and see. No way to second-guess it. The only thing he could do was to keep a closer eye on Paul, make sure he was thinking about other things.
There was a lot to think about.
‘I think we have to move up our schedule,’ said Daryl. ‘That sheriff is a fool. Same with his deputy. They can’t find you so they’re running around chasing their tails. They want to make sure they’ve got their man.’
‘So when do we leave?’ said Paul.
‘We’ll get loaded up now, aim to be out of here in two hours flat.’
‘That soon?’
‘Yeah, your money is not going to wait there forever. If you’re declared dead you’ll never see it again. Let’s go get it.’
CHAPTER FORTY
In most novels and movies, people wake up from comas by sitting bolt upright in bed and screaming.
It’s dramatic. Visual.
It just so happened that Maria Cooper woke up that way too.
But Maria didn’t really wake up. Not fully.
Her eyes stirred beneath her eyelids. Her heart rate went up. Breathing rate intensified, her chest filling with air then blowing out, faster and faster in time with her heart until she was panting. The nurses would have seen the spike in her vitals if they happened to be in the room. In the case of the nurses being engaged in other activities, the only way they might know if she was awake was an alarm.
The heart rate got close to sounding that siren.
In the end, there was no need. The nurses came running when they heard the screams.
Maria’s eyes opened, startled by the noise. The terrified scream. It took her a few seconds to realize it was her that was making that noise. And then she really let go.
A junior doctor was paged, and he came and administered a sedative to calm her while the nurses held her down.
She didn’t say a word. She just screamed.
Maria’s mind had reset. She had vague memories of a kindly woman in New York working barefoot behind a deli counter, a man with a sad face who spoke softly to her and held her close, and a house on the beach with the wind whipping the long grasses around it.
She didn’t know if this was her life, or a dream.
The sedative kicked in right when Maria felt a scorching pain in her head.
The last thing she saw was a wall of plastic, drenched in blood.
CHAPTER FORTY-ONE
In the Port Lonely Sheriff’s Department, spread out on a normally cluttered desk, was a line of hardback books. Ten novels.
The complete works of J. T. LeBeau. Bloch had been to the bookstore.
‘Make sure you write it up on expenses,’ said Dole.
‘I’ve read most of them. We need to get inside Paul Cooper’s head. See how he thinks.’
‘And the search warrant for Daryl’s place?’
‘Sue is typing it up,’ said Bloch.
For almost ten minutes she briefed Dole on LeBeau’s work. Each novel was a different thriller – different characters, different settings, different plot. All of the novels were global number-one bestsellers. And no one was really sure why.
‘Why would one of the most successful authors on the planet, adored by millions of readers, not want to come forward and accept that recognition?’ said Dole.
Dole had sat in his chair, listening intently to the potted history of J. T. LeBeau. It had been the longest, sustained time he’d heard Bloch talk. He hadn’t interrupted. He could tell that at various points during her mini-presentation she had become conscious that she was talking for a long time. Dole said nothing. His attention and silence willing her on. Bloch was beginning to open up, and he wanted more of that. He liked her. Even admired her. In time, she would be a much better officer than he could have ever hoped to become.
It wasn’t so easy bouncing ideas off Bloch. They tended to hit her, then slide off her forehead like Jello. She didn’t talk much at all, but when she did you could be damn sure she had something worth saying.
‘Come on, you must have thought about this, no? Why would the guy stay anonymous when the world loves him so much? Who could resist that?’ said Dole, finally breaking into her speech.
‘I could,’ said Bloch.
Nodding, Dole said, ‘I could believe that, but you’re—’
‘I’m what?’ said Bloch.
‘You’re not the type that talks or socializes much, are ya?’
‘I socialize, but not in Port Lonely. Are you kidding me? If I want to meet somebody I’d prefer it if they weren’t carrying a cane and standing on their new hip.’
‘Yeah, I get it. We’re all old. There are a few your age. Paul Cooper and Maria aren’t that much older than you.’
‘True, but they’re not my type. Anyway, I get out and see people. And I talk to them. So what? I’m quiet, and I know that.’
‘There’s nothing wrong with telling me a theory,’ said Dole.
‘I don’t like to speculate. I like to look at the evidence – I like to know,’ said Bloch.
‘We don’t know much, but there’s nothing wrong with healthy speculation. Use your imagination. Let’s say LeBeau isn’t a mute hermit. Let’s say he’s an ordinary guy. Why doesn’t he put his hand up and claim all the credit and adoration?
She pulled at the flesh on her chin, said, ‘That’s the wrong question, Sheriff.’
Tapping his finger along the spines of the books on the table, Dole said, ‘He wrote all of these books. I don’t have time to read them so you’d better cut to the chase if you know something I don’t. What is the right question?’
Bloch picked up a book entitled Twist and gave it to Dole. He took it in both hands.
‘This is his first book. I read it when it came out, but I don’t remember the plot. I’ll need to read it again. First books a
re often autobiographical, whether the author intended them to be or not. It just kind of comes out. There might be a clue in this book. See, the real question is why did Cooper kill Linzi to keep his LeBeau identity a secret? When she was murdered, the book had done really well, but it wasn’t a global bestseller just yet. That wouldn’t happen until later.’
‘He already had something to hide. He didn’t want anyone to know who he was from the get go. Success didn’t feature in it. There was something about Cooper that was rotten from the start. What could that be?’
‘I couldn’t find anything linking Linzi or Paul Cooper to a writers’ group on Facebook. I’d say all the accounts are deleted. My feeling is Cooper was trying to hide his past. Yet his record is clean.’
Opening the first page of Twist, Dole shook his head and said, ‘Whatever it is he’s hiding, it was worth killing Linzi to do it. At least to him.’
‘Has to be something big, doesn’t it?’ said Bloch.
‘Sure does,’ said Dole. He scanned the first line of Twist, written ten years ago, and let the words sink in.
There is little in this world that is more fascinating than a dead body. Especially one that has had its head twisted around the wrong way.
CHAPTER FORTY-TWO
Paul had watched Daryl pack a small bag. A shirt, jeans, the items he came back with the night before, a ball cap, a .45 and two knives. And his laptop.
All set.
They loaded up the boat with bottled water, some baloney sandwiches, and that small bag. Paul brought two items. The memory stick was the first. It felt dry to the touch, but he still had no idea if it would work. It didn’t seem to matter much when he thought about it as a novel. It was more about Paul’s motivation. He was about to do something that could get him arrested or killed. He had to believe that there was a life after all of this was over.
The memory stick was a symbol of that life-to-be. He wanted to keep it.
In the afternoon they set off on the water. Daryl piloting. Paul sitting in the rear of the boat, behind the cabin. After an hour or so of silence, Daryl said, ‘We should be in Miami in another three hours. We’ll refuel and head off from there. Should reach the Caymans by dawn.’
Staring at the back of Daryl’s neck for hours set Paul’s mind into focus. He needed Daryl to get the money. No way he could get it without him. At the same time, he occasionally leaned forward and felt the paring knife in the back pocket of his jeans. His second item. A secret addition to his otherwise sparse luggage. He’d been quick and quiet in the kitchen, whispering open the drawer and selecting a sharp, small knife which fit easily into his pocket. Daryl didn’t see a thing – he’d been out at the boat, making his checks.
Paul thought about Daryl sabotaging his writing boat, and then showing up as his savior. He thought of the life he could have had with Linzi, and her last minutes on this earth. His teeth ground together, making a squeaking noise and his jaw muscles pulsed. He thought about Maria. She would’ve been terrified, and all because of this man. He thought about drawing the little knife from his pocket and slamming it into the base of Daryl’s skull. Twisting it.
Twisting it again.
Feeling the warm blood run through his fingers.
The salt on his lips tasted like blood in that moment of thought. And tears followed. He wiped them away, quickly.
The money stopped him killing Daryl. And the fearful weight of what would happen if he missed with the knife …
No, Paul decided he would wait. One more day. Soon as they had the money, and they were going back to the boat, Paul would find a way to kill Daryl.
He had to.
Because as soon as the money was out of that bank, and in Paul’s hands, Daryl would try to kill him too. Daryl had the gun, the knife, the weight and height advantage. Plus he was a smart son of a bitch. But with the money on board, Daryl would relax. He didn’t know Paul was alive to his real identity. That gave Paul the advantage. He could play it cool. Get the money, wait until Daryl is distracted driving the boat, then he would strike. If Daryl was going to attack Paul, which he clearly was, then he would wait until they had the money and the boat was in open water. That would be the time to pull the gun. As long as Paul got to Daryl before that, things would be okay. He couldn’t run without the money – he’d never make it.
The boat skipped along the coastline, riding the waves from haulage ships and cruise liners. A whine from the engine, the splash of the hull on the bed of the waves, the smell and taste of the sea all took on a dark tinge for Paul.
Tomorrow one of the men on that boat would kill the other. Taking a life was no small matter. Paul had never been in that situation. Now he wanted nothing more than to stop this killer. He imagined kneeling over Daryl’s body, the life slowly bleeding from the killer’s eyes. He would lean over Daryl then, and whisper to him that he knew all along about his plan. He knew who he was, and he was going to kill him.
For Maria. For himself.
For Linzi.
As alien as the thought felt, it also made him feel strong. He needed that strength of belief if he was to survive. Before they’d left, he’d asked Daryl if he could do one last news search and see if there was any update on Maria’s condition. Daryl relented, and Paul searched and found nothing more.
He needed Maria to pull through. Something good had to come from all this darkness. Paul stared again at Daryl’s back.
Tall, lean. The muscular valleys of Daryl’s back were a perfect target. Paul started to plan it out. How he would do it.
Where he would put the knife.
The sun began to set. And the lights came on in the distance. Miami. A pitstop.
By the time the boat approached the mooring, Paul had a plan.
CHAPTER FORTY-THREE
Judge Griffiths, a seventy-four-year-old man who signed whatever law enforcement put in front of him, authorized the warrants and orders that Sheriff Dole put on the judge’s desk. He was in the judge’s house, in the judge’s private study, on the judge’s own time, and his Honor didn’t even read a goddamn word of what Dole had written.
Nor did he look at the photographs Bloch had taken at Daryl’s house.
The judge didn’t listen to him either. After leading him into the house, and then the study, the judge had seemed only too glad to have some respite from his wife. Dole had met her a few times, and he’d been pleased to leave her company on every occasion. Mrs. Griffith talked. She talked a lot. Never saying anything to you, just at you. And she did so at great volume. For a small, slight bird of a lady she had a tongue on her like an industrial wind machine. Thankfully, Mrs. Griffith was upstairs for the moment.
‘Now, now, there’s no need, Sheriff. I’m sure this is all absolutely necessary and just fine. There you go, all done,’ said the judge, handing the executed paperwork back to him. Just at that moment, Dole wondered what would happen if he ever found himself on the wrong side of the law. With Judge Griffith showing no inclination toward his professional duties or even a moment’s thought toward the constitution, Sheriff Dole imagined that being on trial in front of the judge could be a difficult problem for any defendant. Unless you were accused of murdering Mrs. Griffith – in that case you might get an easier ride out the door than expected.
‘Thanks, Judge,’ said Dole, making his way to the study door.
‘You gotta leave so soon? I was hoping you could stay a little while, have some coffee and say hi to Mrs. Griffith,’ said the judge.
Dole increased his pace, practically running out of the study and toward the front door, answering the judge over his shoulder – ‘Sorry, Judge, I have to go right now. Urgent police business.’
He shut the front door behind him. At that moment he felt a little sorry for the judge.
Back at the Sheriff’s Department, Dole locked the search warrants in the safe. The order freezing the account of Paul Cooper in the Caymans he faxed and emailed to the bank, requesting an immediate response. Two hours later an email landed
from the bank’s chief legal officer confirming the recognition of the court order by the bank under international money laundering regulations. Not a penny could be taken or removed from that account. The twenty million was going to stay in the account, and no one would be allowed to touch it. In the morning, he planned to hit Oakes with the search warrant. Dole closed up his office and saw Sue at the dispatch desk, filing her nails with a level of concentration that amazed him at this late hour.
‘I read your report,’ said Dole.
‘I’m honored,’ said Sue, neglecting to lift her gaze from her nails.
‘Now don’t be getting on your high horse. It was good work. All of it. I wanted to ask you something.’
This time she looked at him.
‘What do you make of this whole J. T. LeBeau business? You think it’s Cooper who attacked his wife? Or the other fellah, Oakes? Maybe he had something to do with Cooper’s boat sinking?’
Sue took off her earpiece mic, folded her arms and said, ‘It’s sure suspicious that Oakes has been sick since the night of the attack. You need more before you could pin it on him. Lot more. I think Cooper was afraid of something. Maybe he was afraid you’d find out he was that author fellah LeBlue.’
‘LeBeau.’
‘Whatever. Any which way you look at it, Mr. Cooper didn’t want the Sheriff’s Department wriggling around in his business. That’s for sure.’
‘What makes you say that?’
‘Honey, you may be the sheriff, but I take the calls. We’ve had four breaking and entering reports over the last three years. Every one of ’em was a pain in the ass for me. Those people were never done callin’ and complainin’, why ain’t you caught that burglar? When am I gonna get my grandma’s necklace back? Now I know there was nothin’ taken in the Cooper break-in, but Mrs. Cooper got a slap for her troubles. Any man in this county would be breakin’ your balls to catch the bastard who broke into their house and assaulted their wife—’
Twisted Page 21
