Ascension Day

39

The phone was on its fourth ring before Bob Stratton finally picked up and Jac worried for a moment that he wasn’t there. He put on the drawl and introduced himself as Darrell Ayliss, said that he’d seen Stratton’s name in the file he’d taken over from Jac McElroy.

‘He’s noted here that you’re good at finding people — with an exclamation mark. And that’s exactly what I’m after.’

I was there at the time… I’d have incriminated myself…

The thought had struck Jac in the early hours of the morning, woke him sharply at 5.40 a.m. — not that he was sleeping that well in any case, different hotel beds every night and the turmoil of thoughts in his head — another crime going down at the same time! That’s why he hadn’t been able to come forward; fear of self-incrimination.

Maybe he was clutching at straws — maybe it was just an old friend or hoaxer — but with still no reply to his last e-mail and only forty-eight hours now left, that was all there was left to do: squeeze every last drop out of the few remaining possibilities.

He explained his thinking to Stratton. ‘Probably not in the Roche house itself — too much of a coincidence — or even immediate neighbours. But somewhere within, say, fifty or a hundred yards… close enough that this person would have got a reasonable look at the murderer leaving the Roche house that night. Enough to say that it wasn’t Larry Durrant.’

‘And you say you’ve got some photos and a description of this mystery e-mailer?’

‘Yeah. From a girl in the internet cafe, I…. I see from McElroy’s file.’ Having to be careful every second what he said. ‘Though the photos don’t give that much, they’re only partial cam-shots with at most thirty per cent facial profile, and the description — black, stocky, five-ten, maybe six foot, late thirties, early forties — could fit ten or twenty per cent of the city’s black population.’

‘Okay.’ Stratton was thoughtful for a second. ‘But if I get fresh photos of a few live-ones in front of this girl, something might strike a chord.’

‘Yeah, possibility,’ Jac agreed. ‘Except don’t forget we’re looking for someone that was active twelve years ago. If they’re not active now, mug-shots are going to be thin on the ground.’

‘True.’ Stratton took a fresh breath. ‘But that’s going to be stage two. The first thing’ll be to find out if another crime did go down nearby twelve years ago. Then we’ll have a start point to know if it’s even worth looking further. And also what type of crime and connected mug-shots we’re looking for.’

Nel-M tried to grab some sleep on his twenty-minute-delayed 6.45 a.m. flight from Vancouver, but the images still surging through his head were making it difficult.

If only everything his end of things had gone as smoothly as Garrard’s. If only.

He’d spoken to Tommy Garrard two hours ago and it apparently had gone like clockwork: car in the drive, alarm set off twice, husband comes out, no other family there at the time, into the house to get the envelope, two quick shots, and away again.

‘Nobody saw me. But just in case, like you suggested, I wore a mask at the time.’

But with Nel-M’s target, there’d been no car in the driveway, and he’d had to bang a side-passage dustbin to hopefully get the man of the house out to investigate. Three sharp bangs at two-minute intervals, Nel-M starting to worry that he’d bring the neighbours out as well, before a heavy-set guy finally emerged — wielding a baseball bat and moving surprisingly fast for his size, perhaps not realizing Nel-M had a gun until it was too late. Nel-M floored him with a leg shot, then had to drag the stumbling, bleeding body back through the house with his wife and son, no more than eleven, looking on — swinging his gun towards the wife for a second as she made a move towards the phone — to get the envelope from a bedroom drawer. He’d made sure to ask about the envelope while they were still outside, out of earshot of his family, then clamped a hand across his mouth as they moved inside, knowing that if the man did mention it, he’d have to shoot them too.

But as he levelled his gun to finish the job halfway back down the hallway, his wife screamed and lunged for him then — only a split-second to turn his gun from the head-shot to put one in her leg to take her down. Then he stood over them both for a second, breath falling rapid and short, as he pondered whether to finish her too.

He’d also used a mask from a joke shop — so what else would her and her son have seen other than a bit of dark skin and some salt-and-pepper curls either side of an Ozzy Osborne mask? Then at that moment she groaned heavily with pain from her leg wound, made him worry that she’d disturb neighbours; but as he raised his gun, he caught the look in her son’s eyes, questioning, pleading. What was he going to do — shoot the kid as well? As Joe Pesci once said, ‘You could be out there half the fucking night.’

He waggled the gun at them threateningly as he backed away along the hallway and out the front door, then turned and ran off into the night.

But now, as he tried to sleep on the flight, those boy’s eyes were with him again, strangely haunting… reminding him of that night twelve years ago with Jessica Roche, that woman walking her dog staring at him. Only once before had he left a witness alive, and look where that had led.

Jac sat anxiously outside Truelle’s office building, his earlier telephone conversation with Cynthia still rattling through his mind.

‘When do you expect him back?’

‘I don’t know. He didn’t say.’

‘Do you know where he’s gone?’

‘Didn’t tell me that either.’

‘What about the patients he has today?’

Cynthia sighed tiredly. ‘That, if you don’t mind me saying, is none of your business.’

Jac sensed he was getting the run-around, that something was wrong — but if he pushed harder and she revealed anything sensitive, anyone listening in on Truelle’s line would hear it at the same time, and so he’d signed off then, ‘I’ll try him again later,’ deciding in that moment on another unannounced visit.

He’d originally planned to wait outside and observe for thirty or forty minutes, then barge in and let loose with all guns — on Truelle if he was there, on steel-blonde Cynthia if he wasn’t. But then Mike Coultaine’s call about Melanie Ayliss had come through just as he was leaving his hotel, and suddenly he felt vulnerable sitting in the open in the street. It was bad enough posing as Ayliss, padded out like a Weight Watchers reject, feeling as if he was in a constant pressure-cooker, worried that half his face might suddenly melt and slide off — but now he had this crazy ex on his tail, telling the police or anyone who’d listen that the man running around town as Darrell Ayliss wasn’t her husband!

After only fifteen minutes, his nerves were worn, spending as much time looking round at the street for anyone who might be looking at him as at Truelle’s entrance and window.

Still no sign of Truelle, only a couple of people he didn’t recognize, perhaps going to other offices in the building, and a DHL messenger heading in and then out again two minutes later. Jac managed to last only another three minutes.

A short gasp from steely Cynthia as he burst in, then a cool, imperious eyebrow raised. ‘What do you want? I told you earlier he’s not here… and he still isn’t.’

‘Save it!’ Jac snapped. He went through to Truelle’s office to check, then glared back at her. She held the same cool stare; she was getting used to this by now. He moved towards her desk, leant on the edge of it. ‘So, let’s try again. What time do you expect Mr Truelle back?’

‘I don’t know?’

Jac sighed tiredly. A re-run of their telephone conversation forty minutes ago. He asked where Truelle had gone and she said she didn’t know that either. Jac closed his eyes for a second, the sigh heavier now — severely pissed off. He leant over a fraction, more intimidating.

‘We could spend the next half hour with me asking variations on those same questions, with you continuing to be uncooperative — but the only problem with that is, I don’t have much time. I’ve got a man on death row because of Truelle, and the clock’s ticking fast against him. That’s why, when I was here yesterday, I gave Mr Truelle a deadline.’ Jac glanced at his watch. ‘Now at that deadline, only half an hour from now, if Truelle isn’t in the DA’s office ready and willing to talk, then the DA is going to have him arrested. And if he’s not here to arrest, then he’s going to have you arrested instead and charged with obstruction of justice.’ A bluff, but he doubted Truelle had told her enough for her to know that; he’d probably simply instructed, don’t say anything. She stared back at him, hardly a flicker or flinch. Mrs Cool-steel-blonde. ‘And you’ll end up having to answer these same questions after a night in a jail cell and with a year’s sentence hanging over your head.’ Jac eased the syrupy Ayliss smile. ‘Only I don’t have time to wait for you to languish in jail for a day — I need the answer to those questions now!’ He slapped one hand against the desk for emphasis; in the quiet of the office, it was like a rifle-shot.

She didn’t move or flinch, all it raised from her was a slow blink. Defiant: you’renot going to break me. She returned the smile smugly.

Jac reached for his back-up ammunition, took the photo of Nelson Malley out of his briefcase and slid it across her desk, asking, ‘Do you know this man?’

‘No… no, I don’t.’

Jac knew that she was lying; the flinch in her eyes, the first so far, screamed Yes! And, like Truelle, she’d hardly looked at the photo, as if afraid to fully confront it.

‘He’s going to come round here, too… asking you the same questions. But he’s not going to be nearly as nice as me. He’s going to have his hands round your throat and a gun in your face sooner than you can blink.’ Another faint flinch, her blinking a beat quicker. ‘And he’s not going to think twice about pulling the trigger.’

A faint swallow, Cynthia looking down rapidly, not wishing Jac to see that he’d struck a chord.

And as Jac looked down too, he noticed the open appointment diary before her, her arms on it, guarding. From upside down, he thought he could make out the word ‘Rearranged’ and then another time written alongside on a few entries. He grabbed for the book to turn it his way, but she held on to it tight, and he had to twist and wrench hard, finally shoving her back with one forearm to wrestle it free.

He could now see more Rearranged’s with fresh times alongside, with some on the next page as he flicked over. Seven in all rearranged over the next three days, and she was probably working on the rest as he’d walked in.

‘So, now at least we know how long he’s going to be away — at least the three remaining days of this week. And with all those appointments rearranged for the end of next week and some the week after, maybe as long as a week.’ Jac raised an inquisitive eyebrow, but she just glared back at him, red-faced and slightly breathless from the brief tussle. ‘So now all that’s left to find out is where he’s gone?’

‘I don’t know, he… he didn’t tell me.’

But Jac could see that she was more hesitant, less sure of her ground; perhaps uncertain now, after their brief tussle, just how far he’d go to get the information. He gave the diary one more quick scan, an entry to one side hitting his peripheral vision, but not at that instant seeming relevant. He laid the diary back in front of Cynthia, leaning over again at the same time.

‘Come on, Cynthia… I don’t have time for any more of your fooling around.’ Three days. Larry would be dead by then! ‘I need to know where, where?’

She looked down awkwardly again, not wanting Jac to see what was in her eyes; or perhaps, in that instant, seeing in Jac’s eyes everything he’d been through: almost drowning in the lake, being framed for murder and hunted by the police, representing a man who he was sure was innocent now only a day and a half away from execution. Dawning on her then that having gone through all of that, he wasn’t simply, after a few trite fob-offs, going to walk away.

And as Jac looked down again, he noticed that Cynthia seemed to be more concerned with covering that side entry — that’s what she’d been covering before! From where he was, he’d been able to see the rearranged appointments. Shielding them hadn’t been as vital.

He yanked back at the appointment book, shoved her arm away from covering the entry, and read fully what before had only half registered:

Apartado 417, Sancti Spiritus, Cuba.

DHL: 8422016CS.

Jac stabbed the entry with one finger, glaring back at Cynthia. ‘That’s where he’s gone, isn’t it?’

Cynthia, red-faced, shook her head. ‘I… I don’t know.’

Jac slammed one hand on the desk again, another rifle-shot, and this time Cynthia did flinch. ‘Yes, you fucking do! Because I saw the DHL man come in and out just ten minutes before I came up here!’ Cynthia chewing at her bottom lip, clinging by her fingertips to her last shred of resolve. One last push. ‘And if my man on death row, who I truly believe is innocent, should die because of you — then God help you. I’ll push the DA with everything I’ve got for the maximum for obstruction. Two years in the hardest possible women’s prison! And as tough as you think you are, Cynthia, you won’t make it.’ Jac leant closer still, so close that hopefully she’d feel the syrup from Ayliss’s sly smile drip on her, his voice lowering to a hiss. ‘You won’t fucking make it.’ Cynthia chewing harder at her lip, crumbling inch by inch before him. Jac tapped Malley’s photo. ‘And if this man catches up with your boss before me, then God help him too — because he’ll be dead long before my man on death row… and all your efforts today will — ’

‘Okay… okay!’ Breathless exhalation as that last inch went, her resolve finally snapped. ‘That is where he’s gone.’ She looked up at him anxiously. She shook her head. ‘But I didn’t tell you, okay? I promised I wouldn’t.’

‘Do you have a street address or any other information?’

‘No…no.’ She shook her head again. ‘That’s it. And I only had that because he asked me to send something there.’

This time Jac sensed she was telling the truth. ‘And what was that?’

‘A cassette tape. He told me where to find it in his office.’

‘Okay.’ Jac nodded thoughtfully. Tape? Perhaps the tape that had got bumped when Truelle shifted all the sessions. Jac wrote down the Cuba P.O. box number and gave Cynthia one last look at Malley’s photos before he slid it back into his case. ‘And do yourself a favour, Cynthia. If this man calls asking for your boss — and for sure he will — make sure you’re not here. As I say, he won’t be nearly as nice as me. And in the end, I wasn’t really nice at all.’

Carmen Malastra visited the Bay-Tree Casino floor once more to confirm everything that he’d put together on screen from studying cam videos the past weeks. Filling in the final shades: the envelopes passed from Jouliern to Strelloff, him stashing them below the bar — easily covered as part of the bar float until the final tally was done at the end of the evening — and then Strelloff in turn passing the envelopes on to the courier.

Malastra walked the areas that he’d seen on video, looking back thoughtfully towards the cameras, wondering how many more envelopes might have been passed that he hadn’t picked up on. The hand-over at times obscured by activity on the casino floor, people milling about.

This time Caccia didn’t follow him round like an obedient puppy, sensed after the first few paces that he’d rather be alone. ‘I’ll leave you to it, Mr Malastra. If you need anything… anything at all, I’ll be at the end of the bar.’

Malastra’s steps retraced Jouliern’s and Strelloff’s movements on those nights: from the tables where Jouliern took the money, half of it pocketed and chips substituted to match before he passed everything on to the cashiers booth; then, an hour before closing, passing all the skimmed money in an envelope to Strelloff behind the bar, and finally Strelloff passing it to the courier at the end of the evening. Not every night, though; they were restricted by how often the courier could call. Two or three times a week by the looks of it; and, with the association, not at all suspicious that they would be there that often.

Malastra leant against the bar and looked back towards the two main cameras covering it. He hadn’t managed to pick up every envelope handover, but enough to piece together the pattern.

With a curt nod to Caccia, Malastra went back to his office and computer. After forty minutes of checking angles again and running through the dozen or so sequences where the images were clearest, he freeze-framed and printed off what he thought were the best shots, then picked up the phone and summoned Bye-Bye.

‘This is who we’re looking for,’ he said as Bye-Bye approached, passing across two photos. ‘That’ll then end this whole Jouliern saga. I want it done quick and so smooth and clean it’ll be like an oyster sliding down Pavarotti’s throat.’ He looked up sharply at Bye-Bye. ‘Understand?’

Bye-Bye nodded, studying the two photos. ‘Yeah, sure.’

‘And be careful on this one, don’t get complacent. With Jouliern gone, they might have guessed we’ll be coming for them. So they could well be looking out or have made some safeguards. Be prepared for that.’