He returned to the bedroom, dressed in sweat pants and T-shirt and then took his laptop to the study on the second floor. He opened it, read over Martha’s death scene. As much as he liked that scene he knew it had to go.
Kill your darlings. Isn’t that what all the best writers say?
He highlighted the text, and was about to delete it when he heard a noise.
Holding himself very still, he listened. The soft whirr of the fan in his laptop. Nothing else. Still, he didn’t move. The hairs stood up on the back of his neck. Even though he could hear nothing else, he knew there was someone in the house.
Quickly, quietly, he stood and went back to the bedroom. He removed a silenced pistol from the lock box in the closet. Checked the weapon. It was fully loaded. Round in the chamber. He stepped into a pair of Nikes then made his way back to the study. While on the landing, he listened again but heard nothing.
Didn’t matter. He knew someone was in the house.
CHAPTER SIXTY-SEVEN
Dole watched Daryl park in the garage of the Spanish house that overlooked the freeway. He had stayed at least three cars back from Daryl’s SUV the whole way. Hardest part of the drive was keeping a respectable distance from the car in front.
He thought the LAPD pool car could’ve been worse. He had gotten used to it. The brakes on the Pontiac needed a lot of work. They were either on or off. There was no real margin for slowing down. You were stopping or not, and that was the way of it.
How he had avoided an accident he wasn’t quite sure. But he was here now.
He waited until most of the house lights had either been switched off or muted. Dole checked his gun. Made sure he had a full clip. Then he got out of the car and approached the house. There didn’t appear to be any alarms that he could see.
No boxes on the wall to tell potential intruders there was a burglar alarm. No cameras on the corners of the house.
Once he’d completed a circuit of the property, he’d noted two possible points of entry. The back-door lock could be picked, or he could try to slip through the kitchen window.
He opted for the back door. There were no rear lights on the property. Only a fence and a small yard stood between him and the back door. Climbing fences wasn’t Dole’s strong point. The fence was made up of wooden panels, about five feet high. At least it was solid. Dole used his arms to push himself up, then hooked a leg on top of the fence, threw his other leg over and dropped to the ground. A searing pain shot through both knees. He swore under his breath, rubbed at his joints then crept through the yard.
He knelt at the back door. Stopped. Listened.
No dogs or neighbors and no lights coming on in either this house or the one beside it. Drawing up his pant leg, he felt for the object in his boot. Found it. Drew out the picks he kept with him. There were a lot of summer homes in Port Lonely. Properties that lay vacant in the winter months. Dole had lost count of the amount of times he had to gain access to one of those homes to turn off the alarm after a raccoon had set it off. Usually the owners were four to five hours’ drive away and more than happy to let the sheriff pick the lock, turn off and reset the alarm and then close the door behind him.
To this end he had become reasonably proficient with picks.
He checked the lock. A cylinder with probably six barrels. He selected the picks, worked through touch and had the door open in under two minutes.
He put his picks away, put his hand on his gun at his hip and stepped lightly into the dark house. He closed the door over, but didn’t let the lock catch. He might need to make a quick exit.
Gritting his teeth against the bites of pain in his knees that came with every soft footfall, he made his way through the house. Kitchen, lounge and hallway were clear.
He glanced upstairs. The light was on in the bathroom. Another light spilled from a different room. He couldn’t tell which room, but it was soft light. Probably from a lamp.
Footsteps above him.
Dole stopped. Held his breath.
He heard the sound of wood and old rollers. An unmistakable sound. Someone opening an old window. He crept further into the hall. Now he could hear sounds of traffic outside, but it was coming from upstairs. Then another sound, directly above the hallway. Someone on the roof.
Dole crept carefully up the stairs. Drew his weapon as his eye-line came level with the landing. He glanced through the bannisters, and saw a small study. A lamp burned on a desk. Beside the lamp, a window thrown fully open. Dole narrowed his eyes.
He moved quickly now. Unconcerned about the potential noise. He got to the top of the landing, made for the study, then ran in, his gun raised. The room was empty. A small bed sat behind him. He ran to the open window and looked out. His gun following his line of sight.
No one on the roof. No one on the street below. He’d lost Daryl. Dole put his gun back in his holster. He put a foot on the window, gripped the sides of the frame with both hands. He was going to climb onto the roof to see if he could get a better view of the street and the rest of the roof. Either Daryl was long gone, or he was trying to make it onto the roof next door.
Dole felt the presence behind him before the man could say a word.
‘I have a gun. Don’t move. You’re a trespasser,’ said the voice.
Dole stayed still, didn’t turn around, but the Glock on his hip called to him.
‘Put both feet on the floor. Raise your hands where I can see them, and then stay perfectly still,’ said the voice.
Dole put his foot back down, let go of the window frame, slowly. Holding out his empty hands, Dole said, ‘I’m a police officer, don’t shoot.’
‘Turn around, slowly, and keep your hands up,’ said the voice.
Dole did as he was told, careful not to let his arms slip down even an inch. He saw a man in a crouched position behind the bed. He had his arms spread on the bed and in his hands Dole saw a silenced pistol aimed straight at him. At first he didn’t recognize the man at all. He was bald, tanned. With a salt-and-pepper goatee. Then, when he looked closer, he saw the familiar jaw line, but what gave it away were the eyes. Dole would never forget those terrible eyes.
‘Hi, Daryl,’ said Dole. ‘Or should I call you LeBeau?’
‘You’re a lot smarter than I gave you credit for. I want you to get on your knees.’
The weight of knowledge hit Dole like an anvil falling from the heavens. This was it. The final moments. He didn’t feel afraid. He wanted to make a stand, that was for damn sure, but he knew this was only going to have one outcome.
‘Before I get down on my knees, tell me one thing – you broke the mailbox, didn’t you? So that the mailman would find Maria’s body?’
‘I was going to use the car. You know, drive over it. But I was worried about leaving a paint trace on the post, and I’d have to change my tires. Damned if you do, damned if you don’t. Now get on your knees,’ said Daryl.
‘You killed Maria tonight, didn’t you?’ said Dole.
‘On your knees,’ said Daryl.
Dole smiled. He wasn’t the best driver, wasn’t the smartest in his own department, couldn’t run, damn near blew out his knee getting over the fence and he probably should have pieced all of this together a lot sooner. One thing he could do was shoot.
He put in the hours. Draw and fire. Hit the target. Five rounds in under three seconds was his personal best.
Dole breathed out, went for his gun.
Dole’s weapon hadn’t cleared leather when he felt the first bullet.
He didn’t feel the second.
CHAPTER SIXTY-EIGHT
Daryl held the silencer in his hand, and with the other he twisted the pistol free.
He looked down at Dole’s body.
This would be messy. He put the gun in one pocket of his pants, the silencer in the other, walked around the corpse and took hold of the feet. He dragged Dole out of the study, rolled his corpse down the stairs to the hallway. He followed after, stepped over Dole’s lifeless arm then
unlocked the basement door. Dragging Dole toward the open door, he saw the blood trail on the floor. He could clean it easily enough. The floor was polished wood. The whole house had the same wooden flooring. The staircase and landing too. He would only need to replace the rug in the study.
As Dole’s body fell down the steep, treacherous basement stairs, Daryl heard the crack of a bone snapping.
Not that it mattered. He picked up Dole by the boots again, dragged him behind the staircase, onto an area of soft earth. Eight by ten. A shovel leant against the back wall of the stairs. Daryl set to work. The earth moved easily, and soon piled up. He left the gun in place, in Dole’s holster, but took the car keys, cell phone and wallet. Lifting Dole by the torso now, Daryl shifted around and tossed him into the dirt. In a few minutes he would find Dole’s car, move it to one of the less enchanting areas of Los Angeles. Leave the keys, phone and wallet in the car. It would be gone within ten minutes.
He covered him up, shovel after shovel, then smoothed down the soil, leant the shovel against the wall. In the morning he would concrete that area. Just enough to cover the grave. When he’d first bought the house that basement had a dirt floor.
Slowly, over time, Daryl brought guests to the basement. He killed them, buried them and concreted over. Looking around the basement now, he saw that there was very little of the dirt floor left. In a basement fifty feet by thirty, he’d managed to put a lot of bodies in the ground, and pour a lot of concrete. He tried to estimate how many he’d put down here.
Too many to count.
And one more wouldn’t make a difference.
Then there was the house in Port Lonely. Dole hadn’t checked the basement floor. Anyone who got in Daryl’s way in Port Lonely or Bay City had ended up in the basement. There weren’t many, just half a dozen. Not like Boston. He’d finished that concrete floor four years ago. Some of the other houses still had room though. The house in New York. Austin. Orlando. Cheyenne. His second house in Los Angeles. DC. Phoenix. Houston. And now the new house in Medina.
The Medina house had plenty of room. It was a new purchase. Five million. A modest price in Medina, whose residents included Bill Gates and Jeff Bezos. Medina was a small, secure millionaire’s paradise that looked over the bay to Seattle. Daryl couldn’t wait to get settled in.
CHAPTER SIXTY-NINE
‘Something else has come up. We need to go over this again. I don’t care how many times you’ve told this story. You tell me again about J. T. LeBeau or so help me God you’ll never leave this cell. Dole is missing. I don’t have time to fuck around.’
Paul could see spit at the corner of Bloch’s mouth. She was two seconds away from leaning over the interview table and tearing out his throat. Paul had spent twenty-four hours in custody, he’d been to court and arraigned for attempted murder. He was waiting for transport back to Port Lonely when Bloch came into the holding area, told him she had to talk to him about new information. Paul didn’t see any point in holding back. He knew he had to co-operate.
‘I’ll tell you. I don’t want anyone else to get hurt,’ said Paul.
He told her the story again. Same as before. He didn’t leave out any details.
‘Everyone I’ve confided in about LeBeau gets killed. You have to go and save Maria. Get her the hell away from Daryl.’
Bloch bit her lip. Dole had gone to see Maria last night. She still couldn’t raise him.
‘Where would we find Daryl? What other properties does he have?’ asked Bloch.
‘I don’t know. The house in Port Lonely, he used to have a place in Manhattan, but he sold it. I honestly don’t know if he has any other property anywhere.’
Bloch got up, silently, and left the interview room.
That morning Paul was arraigned on new charges in Port Lonely. Josephine Schneider had arranged a lawyer this time, and he applied for bail for Paul. The DA objected to bail and the old judge set bail at ten million dollars. He would need a tenth of that amount as a bond. There were conditions, too. He could not stay in Port Lonely – he had to find an address outside the town limits. No contact with his wife, Maria Cooper. And no contact with any potential witnesses or persons of interest in an ongoing police investigation – namely Daryl Oakes. The lawyer Schneider arranged said, ‘My client will post bail this afternoon. The bond will be with the court as soon as possible.’
Sure enough, after the hearing, the lawyer said Josephine had paid the one-million-dollar bond, told him to call her. From a payphone in the holding area of the Port Lonely courthouse, Paul called Josephine.
‘I’ve been calling like every half-hour. You okay?’
‘I’m alright. Jesus, Josephine, I didn’t know you had that kind of money. I can’t tell you what that means to me. Thank you so much for bailing me out. Only problem is I can’t stay here. I’ll need to find a hotel,’ said Paul.
‘We’ll talk about that in a second. Look, it’s just so good to hear your voice. You should’ve called me. I haven’t heard from you since you were in the Caymans.’
‘I just needed some time on my own. I appreciate you helping me out. And I hate to ask …’
‘Don’t be silly, honey. That’s what I’m here for. When you get out there’s a Western Union a couple of blocks away. There’s ten grand for you. It’s traveling cash. I’ve got a plane ticket waiting for you at Bay City airport. I’m sorry, I just took the liberty. You see, I got you a place to stay. Somewhere you can rest for a while. Take stock of things.’
‘Where?’
‘I’ve got this new client. He’s a heavy hitter. Took him on a while ago. Big money. I told him one of my other clients was having a real hard time at the moment. This guy wants to help out. He’s going on tour in Europe, so his house is free. He lives in Washington State. Said you could stay as long as you wanted. The lawyer I sent has cleared the address with the judge. It’s all set, you can stay.’
‘That’s very kind.’
‘Look, it’s a beautiful place. I’m going to meet you there tomorrow. I’ll bring you out to the house and I’ll stay for a few days. Make sure you get settled in. I’m actually quite excited about seeing the place myself. It’s a mansion, across the bay from Seattle.’
‘What’s the name of the town?’ said Paul.
‘Medina,’ said Josephine.
CHAPTER SEVENTY
Paul used the cash he’d picked up from Western Union to buy some decent clothes, then he checked into a Bay City hotel. He planned on resting and trying not to think about the upcoming trial. As part of his bail conditions he was prevented from making any contact with Maria. So he didn’t try. There was no point anyway, he thought. Not after the way she’d looked at him at the memorial. Instead he called the Port Lonely Sheriff’s Department, gave them his hotel room number and the name of the hotel – all part of his bail terms. They would check and make sure he was there. They didn’t want him skipping out.
After a long shower, he wrapped himself in the hotel robe and crashed out on the bed. He couldn’t put on the TV. Didn’t want to risk seeing himself on the news. Instead, he drifted off to sleep.
A knocking at the door slowly roused him. He got up, checked the peephole to see who was standing on the other side of the door. He sighed, hung his head, and reluctantly let Bloch inside.
She entered the hotel room without a word. Paul noticed she was not in uniform. Black jeans, black boots, black leather jacket zipped to the neck.
‘I already checked in with your department. I haven’t breached my terms,’ said Paul.
Fixing him with a derisory look, Bloch took an armchair in the corner of the room. Paul remained standing.
‘How did you think I knew you were here? I’m aware you checked in, Paul. We need to talk.’
‘Maybe my lawyer should be here for this.’
‘Go ahead and call him, if you want. I’ll leave. If you want to talk, it’s just you and me. I think it’ll be in your interest,’ she said.
Running his fingers through his
hair, Paul sighed, then said, ‘Go ahead. What is it?’
‘I hacked into Sheriff Dole’s cell phone. He got a call from Maria. She left him a voicemail saying that Daryl was J. T. LeBeau. He hasn’t been seen since. LAPD found his pool car burned out on the South Side. No idea how it got there.’
‘Jesus, is Maria okay?’ said Paul. He suddenly felt sick, a cramp took grip in his stomach and began to spread.
‘I think Dole went after Daryl. He didn’t call for back-up. He just called me. I told him about my father, you see. My dad covered for some guys in his precinct. Cops who were on the take, every which way. Dole knew I understood that law. Cops don’t rat on cops. I think he went after Daryl, but he wasn’t going to try and bring him in. I think he was going to kill him. But Daryl got to him first.’
She said this with a flat look on her face. One of loss, and disappointment. Her shoulders were hunched in the seat, but her fists were clenched. There was a rage inside of Bloch, which she was barely keeping under control.
‘Where’s Maria?’ he said, this time Paul’s voice cracked. He coughed, cleared his throat.
‘It’s like you said. Everyone with the knowledge of LeBeau’s identity ends up dead. Help me find him. This has to end.’
‘I’ll help, but please just tell me. Maria is …’ He couldn’t say it.
Bloch’s demeanor changed, her eyes softened, her hands relaxed. She leaned back in the armchair and spoke softly.
‘I think you should sit down for this.’
He sat on the edge of the bed.
‘Paul, Maria took her own life.’
Fourteen hours later, Josephine embraced Paul at the arrivals gate of the airport. It was a long, warm hug. Full of affection.
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