The minutes dragged even more excruciatingly as four-thirty passed. Jac rubbed at his chest. Tension was knotted so tight there that it felt like indigestion.
He took a deep breath to try and ease it, pushed again to immerse himself in Langfranc’s case, if nothing else as a distraction; and at some stage he was partly successful, his note-making on a pad at last beginning to flow – because when his cell-phone rang at 4.47 p.m. with Rodriguez’ call, it made him jump slightly.
‘We got that e-mail through… or should I say, an e-mail from Josh. But there’s somethin’ that worries me about it...’
Jac felt such a rush of elation and ebbing of tension at Rodriguez’ first words that he only half-absorbed what followed.
‘Whoa… whoa. Back up a minute. What is it exactly that worries you about it?’
‘Like I said – first thing is that it arrived only fourteen minutes after I sent the samples, whereas I thought it’d be twenty minutes or so. Second thing is it said a couple o’ things that didn’t relate at all to those earlier samples... unless, that is, she’s into makin’ really big, not to mention brave, leaps o’magination. And third – and main – thing is it didn’t come from the same e-mail address where I sent ‘em, or anythin’ like it.’
‘How different are they?’
Rodriguez read them out, and Jac had to agree, it definitely wasn’t from the same internet café, and its personalization, friggy22, bore no relation to Alaysha’s name or what they were doing that day.
‘Are you thinking what I’m thinking?’ Jac voiced. ‘Even though we didn’t think he could…’
‘Yeah, that’s what I thought immediately I saw it: the main man himself.’
Jac left his sentence unfinished in case of prying ears, and no doubt for the same reason Rodriguez said ‘man’ instead of ‘boy’, in case it was too obvious. But they were both clearly leaning the same way: that somehow, against the odds, Joshua Durrant himself had sent it.
‘Jesus!’ As the knock-on implication hit Jac, it brought him to his feet. ‘That means if she still… I’d better get hold of her before –’ He was still trapped in a cycle of unfinished sentences.
‘Exactly my thoughts, Counselor. We’d be in an overkill situation. That’s why I called you straight off. You got some pretty fast shoe-shufflin’ to do.’
‘Yeah.’ Instantly Jac cut off, he called Alaysha’s cell-phone, but it went straight into her service provider’s message service. She’d obviously switched it off so that she wasn’t disturbed while preparing the e-mail.
‘Alaysha. If you pick this up in time, something unexpected has cropped up – so for God’s sake don’t send that e-mail. And phone me as soon as you get this message.’
He dialled 411 to get the number for Netwave, and took the option of being put straight through. Jac looked anxiously at his watch: already three minutes over by her shortest estimate, six or seven to go by her longest.
But as he started explaining what he wanted, he noticed John Langfranc looking over at him again. Jac quickly averted his eyes to his desk, as if in concentration. He’d no doubt cut a picture of perfect panic the past few minutes.
‘…can’t miss her. Mixed race, real beauty. Somewhere between Beyoncé and Mariah Carey. And she’s with a young girl.’
‘I’m sorry, sir. The computers are all upstairs, and most people head straight up there, so often I don’t get a good look at them.’
‘She said she’d be there now, and it’s really important that I get hold of her. Could you go up and see if she’s there for me?’
‘I… uh, it’s pretty irregular, sir – and real difficult right now. I’m on my own here, and there’s already people backing up waiting on their lattes. I just can’t break away at this moment.’
Lattes? ‘She said she’d be having coffee for a while.’ As Jac spoke, he tapped out a quick message to Alaysha’s last e-mail address. She said she’d shift to another computer, but it was worth a try. ‘Maybe she’s still with you in the café?’
‘Mmmmm, no. Sorry. Nobody here right now fitting that description.’
‘Then she must be upstairs.’ He was getting desperate. ‘Please, I’m begging you. It’s absolutely vital that I get hold of her – a matter of life and death.’
‘I’m sure it is, sir. But if I break off right now and my manager finds out, it’ll be my death.’ His voice drifted for a second as he addressed someone in the background. ‘Yes, I know… I know. Coming right up.’ He sighed heavily as he came back to Jac. ‘Look, give me a couple of minutes to serve these two people – then I’ll go up. That’s the best I can offer.’
‘Okay. Thanks.’ Jac in turn eased his own sigh of relief.
But hanging on the line, listening to the background clatter and hiss of the espresso machine as the seconds ticked by, Jac felt his nerves too begin to bubble and steam. If Alaysha had already sent the e-mail, they were sunk; with the one just arrived, the monitoring guard would know immediately it was false. The last chance of saving Durrant gone, and no doubt the death-knell for Jac’s legal career too if it was connected back to him.
Jac looked up with a jolt as John Langfranc broke into his thoughts.
‘Something wrong?’
Jac put one hand over the mouthpiece, shrugging with a tight-lipped grimace. ‘I’m trying desperately to hunt down a lap dancer.’
Langfranc raised an eyebrow. ‘Can’t you wait until after work to see them, like the rest of us?’
Jac forced a conciliatory smile. ‘This one unfortunately is just about to do something that she shouldn’t.’
Langfranc kept the eyebrow arched. ‘I thought that’s exactly what they were paid to do every day: things they shouldn’t.’
Jac’s smile was weaker this time. Still the empty background clatter on the phone: the rest of the world going on as normal, oblivious. Probably it was already too late, and all these obstacles were for a reason: he was being given the message not to be so foolhardy and push things, just let Durrant go where he wanted to. Be with his God.
Jac sighed and closed his eyes briefly in submission before looking up again at Langfranc. ‘Sorry, John. I haven’t been much use to you so far this afternoon. But as soon as I’ve got this sorted out, I’ll –’ Jac broke off, holding one hand towards Langfranc.
Alaysha’s voice.
17
‘Yep… Nice to catch up after so long. But one of the reasons for my call now, Tom – you know that envelope I sent you to safe-keep all those years back.’
‘Only to be opened in the event of your death? Have to say, Leonard, thought it was pretty morbid at the time.’
‘The same… the same. Well, I need you to send it back to me. You don’t need to safeguard it any more…’
The second call was in much the same vein, but as it came to Truelle’s third call, all made within minutes of each other, Roche sat forward, paying more attention.
‘You already got a note of that address?’ he quizzed Nel-M. ‘Know who it is?’
‘Old colleague of his from New York, now lives upstate in Binghamton.’
‘Not that much imagination. His lawyer and a cousin for the first insurance policies, now he trades for an old work colleague and…’ Roche let the sentence hang as the tape rolled on to Truelle’s fourth call.
But Nel-M felt immediately more uncomfortable. The fourth, made two hours later – possibly because of some small time zone difference – was far vaguer. He had little clue where it might be.
‘Yeah, sure, buddy… no problem. Just send it to the same mailbox number.’
‘Thanks, Chris. I appreciate it. How’s the weather right now in the frozen north?’
‘Not too bad, actually. Not that cold – hard weather hasn’t hit yet – and real pretty. Autumn gold on the trees everywhere you look. When you get so as you start feeling sicker than your clients, you should head up here and pay me a visit, get some fresh air for a change. Christmas is particularly nice…’
Nel-M let i
t play to the end, watching Roche’s face cloud.
‘Is that it?’ Roche quizzed. ‘No address, town or even a country? Just a mailbox – which we don’t even have the number of – and Chris?’
‘ ‘Fraid so. All we know from “frozen north” is that it’s either close to the Canadian border or, more likely, Canada itself. Or maybe Alaska.’
‘Well, that really narrows it down.’ Roche waved one arm effusively. ‘Do you want to head up there with your snow shoes and start looking? Or should we call on America’s finest, who’ve been searching for Bin Laden for the last few fucking years?’
Nel-M nodded in resignation, his face flushing. Roche rarely swore. ‘We just have to hope for a break. Hope that they speak again and we get more detail.’
Roche raised an eyebrow. ‘But as you and I well know, that might not happen. In fact, probably won’t. Truelle will just send his envelope, and they might not speak again for six months or a year. Maybe longer. And we don’t have that sort of time. We’ve only got thirty-four days.’
‘I know. I know.’ Nel-M closed his eyes for a second in submission. ‘I’ll think on how I can push things on. Like I did with the lawyer.’
‘I grant you,’ Roche shrugged, raising one hand, ‘you did well there.’ This was how he liked Nel-M: the puppy dog seeking approval, rather than posturing and cocksure, kidding himself he had anything like equal say on their best next move. And for the same reason, control, Roche loved what Nel-M had just laid in his grasp: the option of destroying Jac McElroy’s career at the drop of a hat. But the last thing he wanted to do was let Nel-M know that. ‘Although we still have to worry that if we get rid of McElroy, Clive Beaton might simply put someone else in his place. And someone that might be more able and competent.’
‘Yeah, but surely once Durrant gets to know the e-mail is false,’ Nel-M pressed, ‘it’s going to be game-on again with him wanting to die. And the clemency bid and all the lawyers with it then go straight out the window.’
‘True. And it’s nice to know that Durrant’s finally got the message of what everyone wants from him.’ Roche smiled thinly, but it faded just as quickly. ‘However, the problem is that in achieving that we’d also show our full hand. And apart from the legal lines crossed in taping McElroy, not to mention phoning Francine Durrant and posing as a prison liaison officer – some awkward questions might arise of just why we were doing all of that. So, if it’s okay with you, I’d like to give it just a tad more thought before deciding the best way to proceed.’
Nel-M felt stung by the meeting with Roche.
He’d gone there with such high hopes: the situation with Truelle’s insurance policies eighty per cent there, and the whole caboodle about Durrant’s apparent death-wish and the fake e-mails uncovered. What the fuck more did Roche want?
Nel-M popped back a blue pill from his glove compartment and pointed his car towards the French Quarter. He felt he had to take his frustrations out somewhere, and right now Misha seemed as good a bet as any.
Nel-M had been married once, a disastrous three years when he was only twenty-three. No children – though his wife blamed her two miscarriages on their arguments and his verbal abuse. He had never hit her.
Since then he’d taken solace at a number of cat houses in the city – the age gap between the girls and himself becoming ever wider. Though in the last few years he’d managed to narrow it down to a handful of regular favourites, of whom Misha at Madame B’s was top of the list. A bubbly, curvy, African-French mix with wild red hair and nipples like mahogany door stops.
‘Not your normal Friday night, then?’ Madame B greeted him.
‘No.’ Nel-M kept things short and sweet as he paid and was led to a bedroom by Misha.
He couldn’t wait to get down to business, couldn’t wait to be inside her, even cutting short halfway through their normal ritual of her slowly undressing him and kneeling before him, allowing only a half-dozen languorous slides between her lips before throwing her back on the bed and entering her.
As she felt the urgency of his thrusts, Misha commented, ‘Someone lit a fire on your tail tonight.’
‘Damn right. Damn right.’ And as he felt her responding, felt that her gasps were somehow stronger than before, he remembered from a couple of past visits that she enjoyed mild asphyxiation, that it seemed to heighten the sensations even more. He raised one hand to her throat, gently pressing.
‘Oh… Ohhh. Yes… yesss!’ Misha closed her eyes in abandon, hissing through clenched teeth as her breath became shorter.
Though at some stage it became Roche in his grip, and he started pressing harder, harder – Want to give it a tad more thought, do you? – oblivious to the fact that Misha’s gasps of pleasure had suddenly turned to ones of panic. Her eyes were wide and pleading, and she started beating at Nel-M’s shoulders and arms.
But Nel-M had already shut his eyes, lost in reverie that it was Roche beneath him, the tortured breathing convincing him all the more that it was him. Or maybe you’d like to put on your snow shoes and search up there yourself? With your stump legs and emphysema, you’d be lucky to get five miles from the fucking Canadian border. Squeezing harder, harder, a tingle of pleasure rising as he felt the last life ebbing from Roche, the beating at his arms becoming weaker.
The breathing was just short, strangled bursts now, almost non-existent. Nel-M kept up the pressure, felt one hand now clutching at his hair in desperation, the other…
Nel-M’s eyes opened sharply with the sting of the fingernails digging in and raking down his back – suddenly snapped back to reality of who was beneath him, saw Misha’s eyes stark and bulging with fear, her face starting to turn blue… but he was too close, felt his orgasm snaking up the back of his legs, and so he held her there for his last few thrusts, only letting go as he came, his ragged, tortured breathing finally matching hers.
Misha rolled quickly away, coughing and spluttering for her first full breaths. It sounded for a moment as if she was going to vomit, and when she’d finally got her breathing back to near normal, she glared at him.
‘What’s wrong wit’ you? You half-killed me there.’
‘Sorry. Bad day at work.’ Nel-M forced a lame smile.
‘Yeah, well. Next time you have a bad day – don’t come seeing me. In fact, bad day or not – don’t come seeing me again. Yer hear?’
Nel-M nodded dolefully. Frustrations all around, and so when he got back to his apartment, he was pleased to hear the message from Vic Farrelia, particularly when he phoned back and gained more detail.
Nel-M drove straight over to hear the latest tape offering from McElroy’s phone line, his trademark sly smile firmly back in place as it finished. Roche wouldn’t be able to delay any longer in making a move against McElroy.
‘Freedom… oh, freedom. That’s just some people talking.’ Mike Coultaine looked wistfully across the City Marina and the Mississippi river beyond from the back deck of his cabin cruiser. ‘So that’s what Durrant’s after these days? He doesn’t ask much.’
‘It wasn’t a straight-out request.’ Jac filled in the background with Durrant’s initial death-wish. ‘Although now I’ve finally convinced him to put in a plea – he has little interest in that possibly extended life still behind bars. It only has appeal to him if he might gain freedom – either now or in the near future. So, as part of putting in clemency, I promised.’
‘Oooh, promised. That’s something a lawyer should never do.’ Coultaine’s teasing smile faded as he looked at Jac directly. ‘But if Candaret turns down that appeal – which he probably will given recent history – we’re talking now rather than near future. How long left?’
‘Thirty-two days.’
Coultaine looked out pensively across the marina again.
Three days, and everything had changed.
Alaysha had come on the line exuberant that she’d finally got the tone right with the e-mail; so when Jac had told her, no need now to send it, Joshua Durrant had already sent one, s
he’d immediately felt deflated. ‘You’ve got no idea how long I sweated over that, Jac McElroy. No idea.’ And then in protest didn’t speak to him for twenty-four hours before finally softening. Durrant too let him stew; and when after two days he still hadn’t heard anything, he put in a call to Rodriguez.
‘I tell you, Counselor, he was like cat’s-got-the-cream with that e-mail from Josh. But you know what Larry’s like – proud, stubborn – so it don’t surprise me he hasn’t called you. I think it’s gonna be down to you givin’ him a little nudge.’
Nudge quickly became push with Jac informing Durrant that this was absolutely his last visit to try and convince him to put in for clemency. ‘When I walk away from here now, that’s it. So if there’s anything, anything that might make you want to continue clinging to life, now’s the time to speak up.’ It was as far as he dared go; he couldn’t risk Durrant catching on that he knew about Joshua’s e-mail.
But still Durrant was guarded, closed-handed. ‘Before we get into that – how you getting on with gaining me freedom from this rat-hole? Made any moves yet?’
‘I’ve already spoken to Mike Coultaine, your original lawyer,’ Jac had lied. ‘Got more background from the trial and appeal. But you’re going to have to help me too. Give me some good reasons why you think you might be innocent. Something to fight with.’
Durrant flinched at the ‘think you might be’, a sudden reminder that he couldn’t know for sure, and his face clouded as he fought to explain, though maybe it was the darkness of the images still haunting him as much as lack of clarity. Jac made brief notes and nodded knowingly at some points, as if they might be significant – and perhaps they would be when he finally got to speak to Coultaine.
Jac looked back over his notes as he finished, shaking his head. ‘I want to help, Lawrence, I really do. But all of this is going to take time – time which we just don’t have. And there’s another reason why we need that extra time…’ Jac had pondered long and hard whether to tell Durrant about the anonymous e-mails, had finally decided that he had to at some point; now it might be just the thing to tip the balance.
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