I check through the rest of Nic’s inbox, but there’s hardly anything in it. Or in her trash files. She doesn’t send many emails, just to Aiden her stepdad – they seem to get on well – and to her course tutor (As all the way). There are a couple of newsletters from the gym where she works out and from a female personal trainer. Some junk ones from Netflix. She doesn’t seem to have many friends. And besides this guy Marcus, no boyfriends. She’s not on Facebook or Twitter. She keeps things private. And who can blame her? After the trial her asshole boyfriend sold intimate details about their relationship to some magazine.
She’s seeing a therapist – a Dr Phipps. His photograph, when I pull it up from the DMV’s database, shows a guy who looks like Spike Lee. I don’t read the files. Patient-doctor confidentiality is sacrosanct in my book and it’s pretty obvious why she needs to see a therapist. I’d be more worried if she wasn’t seeing one.
I throw my head back and stare at the ceiling of the cube, thinking back to the day I first set eyes on Nic Preston. It was about six months after I’d been thrown off the FBI’s internship programme. I was in LA, starting up my internet security business. I was barely nineteen and mentally I was all over the place. Truly messed up. I’d never admit it to anyone, not even Maggie, but the FBI was my whole life. I’d dreamed of being an agent since I was fourteen and getting kicked out before I even got my badge is still my second biggest regret.
Forcing that thought aside, I pull up a few pieces that appeared in the LA Times around the time of the Cooper case. Almost every article carries a photograph – not of the suspects, but of Nic. A pretty face always sells newspapers, but when the pretty face is also a victim of vicious crime then the media takes it to a whole new level of spectator sport. They even made some terrible TV movie after the trial.
The day her story hit the news stands I started researching the case, hacking into the police files to find out what the papers couldn’t tell me. If you asked me back then why I was so interested in the case I would have said it was because it was high profile and I wanted to get my teeth into something big and juicy – but if you asked me now I’d have to admit it was because Nic’s story got to me. The fact that she had lost so much struck a nerve. Actually, it struck several.
I broke into the server of the security company that had provided the alarm system for the LA house. It only took me an hour to discover that the Coopers’ system had been compromised. My own internet security company was just a couple of weeks old but I took the evidence I’d found to the District Attorney’s office, hoping it could help. But the next thing I know, the feds have arrested these two ex-military guys – Robert Miles and Casey McCrory – and are charging them with breaking and entering and double homicide.
They were two Iraq vets, both suffering mental health issues and various alcohol and drug dependencies. Neither of them had an IQ above one hundred and ten. They weren’t capable of hacking the security system at the Cooper house. They were barely capable of remembering what day of the week it was.
At this point I took my findings to the defence team. I couldn’t understand how anyone in law enforcement could think these guys were involved. Initially they looked at me like I was some snot-nosed teenager with no clue what I was talking about, but a quick glance at my findings and at my credentials and they were encouraged enough to ask me to start probing deeper, to find more holes in the prosecution’s case. I didn’t just want to find holes though. I wanted to find the real murderers.
When I took the stand I knew with one hundred percent certainty that Miles and McCrory hadn’t killed Carol or Taylor Cooper. I hadn’t been able to figure out who the real culprits were but I did know it was a set-up – some kind of conspiracy. I wouldn’t have given evidence had I believed otherwise.
I check the time. It’s close to eight in the morning and I want to get as much as possible done before Nic wakes. I hack into the National Archives and pull up the police report from the night of the original break-in. They took Nic’s statement eight hours after the event. She was in a state of shock. Her mother and stepsister had just been brutally murdered. She had no lawyer present, just her stepfather. I lean back in my chair and start reading.
NIC
Crystal shatters.
I yank out my headphones and hit the mute button on my laptop. The music playing through the ear buds stops, leaving only pulsing silence. For the briefest of moments I wonder if I imagined it but then I hear a scream. It’s cut off by the sound of a man shouting and becomes a muffled sob and I draw in a breath as I register that it’s my mum who is sobbing.
I scramble off the bed and tiptoe to the door. It’s ajar and I peek my head out, straining to hear, but everything has fallen eerily silent as if all the air in the house has been sucked into a vacuum.
The shouts came from downstairs, so I dizzily edge my way to the top of the stairs, keeping my back to the wall. A man’s voice spirals up – gruff and angry – and I dart back out of sight. I can’t hear what he’s saying because he’s in the kitchen and the door is pulled to, but I can hear my mum whimpering in response. I lean back against the wall and try to think even though cold tendrils of fear are winding themselves around my body.
The words home invasion leap into my mind. There have been a few in the neighbourhood. But I can’t believe it’s actually happening to us, it’s too surreal. I shake my head. What am I doing just standing here? I need to get to a phone. I need to call the police.
I start tiptoeing back to my room, my heart battering wildly against my ribs, but I haven’t taken two steps before I hear the kitchen door burst open and another man shouting, ‘Check upstairs!’
Footsteps stampede towards me. My bedroom is too far so I sprint in a single bound to the bathroom across the hallway. I glance around in panic – the marble bath, the small cabinet beneath the sink, the elegant arched window with the wrought-iron bars beyond it. With nowhere to go, I slide behind the door just as the footsteps reach the landing and come to a stop inches from where I’m hiding.
I close my eyes, anger and terror welling inside my chest, waging battle. On the other side of the door I hear the man breathing heavily through his nose. A floorboard creaks and I picture whoever it is standing there, taking in the dozen or so rooms leading off the hallway, trying to decide where to start his search. For the first time since we moved to LA and into this house, I’m grateful for the preposterously large size of it.
My legs are shaking and I force the muscles to tense and stay rigid. I stare at the back of the door willing it not to move. But it does. The man is pushing it open, slowly. I turn my head to the side, trying to flatten myself against the wall, biting my lip to stop myself screaming, but just as the door bangs against my foot and I am sure I’m about to be discovered there’s a loud blast of music from the other end of the house.
My eyes snap open in confusion. Nicki Minaj is playing at top volume. The man lets go of the door instantly and I hear his footsteps thunder down the hall just as I realise what the music signifies. Oh God. Oh God. I hear a high-pitched scream. It’s my stepsister, Taylor. She was meant to be out at a party.
I hear Taylor scream again, then the sounds of a scuffle, followed by a sharp yelp. I don’t move. I can’t. I stand frozen behind the door and listen as she is dragged screaming down the hallway. I twist slightly and manage to catch a glimpse through the crack in the door.
Taylor is wearing only a towel. Her long bleached-blonde hair sticks in wet slicks to her back and she kicks her bare legs out at the man, who is holding her by the arm. He wrenches her hard, pushing her down the stairs and she flies forwards, her face hitting the wall with a crack, leaving a smear of blood that I can’t drag my eyes away from.
Taylor lets out a startled cry and the guy grabs her around the waist and carries her down the remaining stairs. She clutches the towel around herself, spitting out a torrent of curses. I don’t catch more than a glimpse of the guy’s back – he’s about six foot, broad shouldered, wearing a
ll black: combat pants, a long-sleeved sweater and a ski mask.
When they are gone, into the kitchen, I take a deep, shuddering breath and step out from behind the door. My body vibrates like a tuning fork. Move. I need to move. I hover in the doorway looking right, towards my bedroom, and then left to the room my mum and stepdad share. It’s about twenty metres from where I stand. I start to move towards their bedroom but the sound of Taylor crying pulls me up short.
‘Is there anyone else in the house?’ one of the men is yelling at her.
Taylor screams, a high-pitched yelp that turns my insides to liquid.
‘No!’ my mum shouts back. Her voice is defiant but there’s a rift of fear in it that makes my heart stop.
‘Where’s the safe?’ the other man demands.
‘In the study,’ my mum whimpers. ‘But I don’t know the combination. Only my husband does.’
‘What about her?’ the first one asks.
There’s a pause then I hear my stepsister shrieking and cursing and the dull thud of a fist smacking flesh.
‘Leave her alone, please!’ I hear my mum beg. ‘Please . . .’
I wrench myself away from the top of the stairs, swallowing my panic and tears, and sprint down the hallway to my mum’s bedroom, hoping to God the sound of my stepsister screaming will cover me.
Slipping inside, I dive towards the bedside table on Aiden’s side and drop to my knees, fumbling on the underside of the drawer for the panic button he showed me.
My finger finds it and I press down. Nothing happens. I keep pressing it. Nothing is supposed to happen, I tell myself. It’s a silent alarm. But still, I crouch there, too scared to take my finger off the button. The phone is on the other side of the bed and I am working on building up my courage to let go of the button and run round to it when I hear the soft shush of the bedroom door opening.
I turn just in time to see a foot and the barrel of a gun appear. I’m on my feet instantly, sprinting towards the en-suite bathroom.
There’s a savage yell behind me and I’m thrown forwards. My chin strikes the floor, jarring my whole spine, knocking the wind out of me. Strong hands grab me around the waist and I’m hauled like a sack of coal over on to my back and suddenly I’m staring up into the black-masked face above me. Blue eyes like pin pricks in the darkness. Pupils dilated. Unmistakable excitement glimmering in them. Foul breath. Acid fear in the pit of my stomach. Lungs burning. A searing pain in my neck. I register all these things in the space of a single heartbeat.
He reaches for me. His hands grab my waist and he tries to drag me to my feet.
And suddenly I’m alive, fighting just like Taylor did, kicking and screaming. My leg bends reflexively and by chance my knee connects with his groin. He lets out a cry and drops me. My foot lashes out and slams into the side of his head. He collapses to the ground groaning, his knees drawn up to his chest.
I don’t stop to think. I stagger to my knees. His hand snags around my ankle. I stomp down. Hear a crack. Tumble forwards. Towards the bathroom. Swing myself around the door. Throw myself against it. Ram the bolt home. Sink to my knees.
A few seconds pass. Somewhere I register that Taylor’s cries have stopped.
There’s an enormous crash as something is thrown against the door, but it holds. I fall back, press myself against the wall, staring in terror at the door. Another thud. It shudders on its hinges. I grasp for Aiden’s safety razor. It’s a pathetic weapon and I know this even as I hold it out in front of me with shaking hands, tears rolling down my face.
I turn towards the window above the bath but I know without even trying it that it’s locked. All the windows in the house are wired into the alarm system. An idea hits me. I grab a can of aftershave from the side and, shielding my eyes, hurl it through the window.
Splinters of glass rain down on me but I ignore them. We’re two floors up. I can’t jump. The window doesn’t offer any escape. It faces the back garden and the swimming pool. Our nearest neighbours wouldn’t be able to hear me scream, but I can only hope that smashing the window will trigger the alarm in case the panic button didn’t work.
I sink to my knees beside the toilet, my eyes glued to the door and the razor still clutched in my hand. Silence has fallen again and all I can hear is my breathing, ragged and out of control.
After a minute or two of terrifying, heart-stopping silence on the other side of the door, there’s a knock.
‘Hello . . .’ one of the men calls softly from the other side.
I huddle further back against the wall.
‘Helloooo in there,’ he says again, his voice scraping against the wood. ‘Won’t you come out and play?’
Ninety seconds. Aiden said it would take ninety seconds for the security patrol to respond. Surely it’s been that already? Where are they? I start counting in my head, trying to block out the man’s wheedling pleas, but I only get to twelve before another voice on the other side of the door makes me forget about counting.
‘Nic,’ my mum whispers, her voice hoarse.
I stare at the door, imagining my mum on the other side of it. She sounds so afraid. I imagine her on her knees, her hands pressed to the wood panel, her face just inches away from mine. Is she bleeding? Is she hurt? Are they holding a gun to her head?
‘We’ve got your mommy,’ the man’s voice sings. There’s a pause. ‘Your choice.’ He’s gruff again now. ‘Come out or we kill her. We already had a lot of fun with your stepsister.’
I launch on to my feet, the razor hanging limply in my hand. What does that mean? What have they done to Taylor? All the blood in my body has been replaced with lead.
‘No! Don’t come out!’ my mum suddenly screams.
I take a wobbly step towards the door. There’s silence on the other side.
‘Nic?’
I stop at the sound of the man saying my name.
‘Nic?’ The man says again, softly. ‘You’ve got until the count of three to come out or we kill her.’
I reach for the door handle.
‘One.’
I put my hand on the lock.
‘Two.’
‘Nic, don’t do it!’ my mum screams just as the sound of sirens tears through the night, wails bursting in through the broken window.
Everything is going to be OK!
The sirens grow louder and louder.
They drown out ‘three’.
But they don’t drown out the sound of the gunshot.
I sit bolt upright in the bed, my heart thundering a thousand beats a minute. I’m drenched in sweat, shivering hard, and my face is wet with tears. The images from my dreams are tangled up with the images from last night and together they rush at me as though a dam has broken. It’s like waking from one nightmare straight into another.
It takes me several petrified seconds to remember where I am and then my eyes dart instantly around the room looking for Finn. There’s no sign of him but the bolts on the door are still drawn and there’s a light coming from inside the cube.
I draw in a breath and let it out in a half-sob. Goz is sitting up, staring at me quizzically.
‘It’s OK,’ I tell him, wrapping my arms around him, still shaking hard. ‘It was just a dream.’
I swipe at the tears angrily. I haven’t had a nightmare about that night for almost six months and the after-effects linger. I press my face to Goz’s fur, feeling tears scalding my cheeks. I want my mum. That’s always my first thought when I wake from these nightmares. The irony doesn’t pass me by.
It hurts. So much I can’t breathe. Just thinking about her and Taylor, what they did to them . . . and having to relive it in my dreams over and over . . . A wave of guilt washes over me. It should have been me. Taylor wasn’t even supposed to be home.
Everyone told me I did all I could. That it wasn’t my fault. But the facts stare me in the face: I was a coward. I did nothing. I just hid. I saved myself.
Just like last night. I could have done something. I could have come o
ut of the bedroom. I could have confronted whoever was in the apartment. I could have saved Hugo. And what if they find me again, here? What about Finn?
I look at the door and contemplate sneaking out, but then I glance towards the windows and I remember that I have no money, no credit cards, nowhere to go.
My heart is still hammering wildly. It feels as if I have an orphaned animal in my chest trying to burrow its way to safety. I lie back down on the bed, feeling the reassuring weight of Goz as he settles against me. I stare blindly up at the ceiling, too scared to close my eyes in case I fall asleep and have another nightmare.
FINN
I sit back in my seat, flicking through the images from the crime scene. I’ve seen some dark things in my time, things no person should ever have to witness, and these are just as shocking – even more so because I keep imagining Nic on the other side of that bathroom door listening to those bastards threaten her and her mother.
The last image in the file is of Aiden. It’s a case file image of him and Carol Cooper on their wedding day. I note that she’s only wearing a gold band and wonder why the CEO of a huge jewellery company didn’t give his bride a big, fat diamond engagement ring.
My gut is telling me that this is all about Aiden. He’s the link to both break-ins. And he’s one of the richest men in America. I turn to my other computer and start researching him.
Aiden’s jewellery business – Firenze Inc – is one of the largest luxury jewellery companies in the world, dealing mainly in diamonds and watches. He met Nic’s mother in London – his company headhunted her away from her job as the head of an environmental charity there. She moved to LA to run the non-profit foundation Cooper was setting up, and her daughter went too. Nic was thirteen at the time. Within eighteen months Carol and Aiden were married. Now Aiden has quit running the jewellery side of the business and focuses solely on the non-profit.
Conspiracy Girl Page 5