Twisted

by Steve Cavanagh

  ‘But not Cooper,’ said Dole.

  ‘Right. I wouldn’t be surprised if he knew exactly who broke in.’

  Dole’s mind ticked over. Everything seemed to be pointing at Cooper for Maria’s attack, and Linzi’s death.

  ‘Thanks,’ said Dole.

  ‘Now was that so hard to say?’ said Sue.

  On the way back home, Dole pulled over. Stopped. Closed his eyes and repeated the thought pattern in his mind.

  Cooper’s cover had been blown. Someone broke in and either they discovered Cooper’s identity as LeBeau, or they already knew it. It makes sense that the intruder would also know why Cooper was hiding behind LeBeau in the first place.

  It was Oakes. He somehow worked it out. Could be that he attacked Maria, maybe sank Cooper’s boat too. Maybe he was after the money in the Caymans. All Dole needed was a solid link between Oakes, Cooper and LeBeau.

  He fired up his cell phone. Called Bloch. He was bumping up the time of the raid. Told her to meet him at the station at five a.m. At five thirty a.m. they were going to break down the front door while Oakes was still asleep, arrest him, search him, and then search the house. Daryl Oakes had a lot of questions to answer.

  Tomorrow this case would be blown wide open.

  He could feel it.

  CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR

  Miami proved to be a longer pit stop than Daryl had expected.

  For most of the day he’d gone over the plan in his mind. Trying to find weaknesses. Probing the possibilities. Paul had said little that day, but as they approached Miami he cracked the silence.

  ‘I need a suit,’ said Paul.

  ‘What for? We’re not going to a fancy dinner anytime soon,’ said Daryl.

  ‘I’ve been to the bank maybe eight or nine times. I’ve always dressed well. It’s that kind of place. Don’t think I’m being ungrateful and I sure as hell don’t mean it as an insult, but these jeans and this shirt kinda make me look like I’m on the run.’

  Looking over his shoulder, Daryl gave him a look up and down.

  ‘We get one shot at this. Everything needs to be perfect when we land in Grand Cayman.’

  ‘Okay,’ said Paul.

  They moored the boat at the marina, and Daryl paid the harbormaster in cash for the docking fee and the fuel, and even threw in an extra fifty for the late arrival. Paul stood behind him, saying nothing, his face hidden under one of Daryl’s ball caps.

  Within ten minutes they were on a strip filled with bars, restaurants and nightclubs. The heat was worse in Miami, the wind off the coast didn’t seem to bite into the humidity one bit. They were sweating through their clothes, tired and hungry. Sweet spices and cigar smoke caught the air outside every restaurant, the patio tables filled with diners. They would eat later.

  Daryl hailed a cab, which took them to an all-night shopping mall. After a day in the sun, and the Miami juice that filled every particle of air with water, the air-conditioned mall was delicious. Together, they found a department store – not too flashy, but not too shabby either. Paul took his time, selecting a blue cotton shirt, light gray single-breasted suit. He found a cheap pair of brown polished-leather shoes that looked fairly expensive at first glance. A pair of gray socks finished the ensemble. No need for a tie. Smart casual was just fine.

  He took the items into a changing room, tried on each one. In the mirror he caught sight of his face. Almost a week without a shave. Several months ago he’d tried to grow a light beard to follow the current fashion trend. Maria said he looked dirty. He would need to pick up a razor and some foam. Maybe a hair product too.

  Satisfied with the suit, he undressed and carefully rehung the items and left the fitting rooms.

  Daryl sat on a stool outside, like he was waiting on a partner.

  Paul picked out a pair of black jeans, black sports coat, a Stetson hat and a white shirt for Daryl who took all of the items to the counter, paid in cash and they left together. They ate a meal in silence in McDonalds with their shopping bags around their ankles. Instead of a cab back to the boat, they walked to allow Paul to stop at a pharmacy and pick up a pack of disposable razors, hair gel and some shaving foam.

  Ninety minutes after they docked, they pulled away in Daryl’s boat into the night with the light streams of Miami reflected in the water. They would hit Grand Cayman before midday. Paul took himself to the back of the boat, curled up on the bench and tried to sleep. He was exhausted, and with every passing mile he felt further away from himself. This reality appeared both dreamlike and yet hyper-real. All of his senses were on high alert. He could smell everything, his eyes had grown accustomed to the darkness and his body to the roll and bang of the boat as it caught a wave. This was not Paul’s life. This was a test. A strange, deadly game that he had found himself playing. He didn’t dare think of the consequences of messing up.

  His thoughts drifted to Maria. Now, in the dark, alone and with the knowledge of all that had happened, he knew then that he had wronged her. She had been the one great thing in his life, tainted only by his lies. He couldn’t be with her again. No way to square that circle. If he lived through the next twenty-four hours he would try and make amends. He swore it. And he meant it. If she hadn’t met Paul, then Maria would not have had to go through that attack. Praying was not something Paul had even entertained for the last twenty years. Yet he found himself clasping his hands together and mumbling the Lord’s Prayer for Maria. For himself.

  He wondered if he could pray for the death of the man steering the boat.

  If there was a God, he prayed it was a vengeful one.

  CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE

  Dole knew he didn’t need to give a warning.

  Didn’t matter much to Dole. He did things by the book. Even if they were pointless matters of protocol, you never knew when the smallest slip might come back to bite you in the ass.

  ‘Daryl Oakes, Port Lonely Sheriff’s Department, we’ve got a warrant to search this property. Open up or we’re coming in!’ cried Dole.

  He waited. Counted to ten. Gave the nod.

  Bloch picked up the Big Black Key. This was the name Dole had given to the thirty-five-pound steel battering ram that the department had used only once or twice since they bought it. Bloch had used it on every occasion. Dole didn’t have the strength. She swung it away from her body, stepped forward, reversed the momentum and guided the impact sphere to the point on the front door right beside the lock.

  The wooden door gave way, the lock punching out and hitting the back wall. Sidearms ready, Dole and Bloch went in. They’d already scouted around the property. No back door. And the boat was gone.

  They cleared the first floor. Then the upstairs bedrooms and bathroom. No one at home. Just the basement. The most dangerous room in the house. No easy way out, no way to clear the corners before you found you were standing in the middle of the room, an easy target.

  Bloch and Dole lit up pocket flashlight and took it slow on the basement stairs. They paused every fourth stair to allow Bloch to crouch down and check through the slats of the steps at the area behind and beneath them. While she shone her light through the gaps, dipping her head down low for a better look, Dole crouched down too and kept his torch moving, hoping to catch any movement over Bloch’s shoulder – covering his partner.

  Descending in this manner was the only safe option. It took three minutes to get down. Dole didn’t mind. He had three minutes to spare.

  They checked the basement. Nobody there, but there were signs of recent activity. Circular grooves in the dust covering the table where someone had placed a cup of coffee. The bed sheets smelled relatively fresh, while everything else had the faint odor of mold. It was in Bloch’s nature to be meticulous, and Dole found himself watching her work. She checked the places that Dole had already searched, just to be sure. They took their time. It felt like there was something in the house. Something there to be found. A strange feeling, but one not unfamiliar to law enforcement.

  They found nothing o
f great interest in the basement, and after a half hour they went back up to the ground floor.

  Without saying so, Bloch turned left out of the basement and made for the kitchen. Dole guessed he should check the living room. The door to the living room lay open, letting out a sliver of light. Dole couldn’t remember if he’d closed the door behind him or not. He knew he’d left the living room after Bloch, so it must’ve been him.

  Even so, he drew his weapon once more and nudged the door wide with his foot.

  He let out his breath, lowered his Glock. Just his imagination.

  Bloch came in behind him, said, ‘There are spare charging cables for a computer, but if there was one I guess he took it with him. There’s a gun locker under the kitchen units, but no gun. I found gun oil and some brushes, still wet. He cleaned a weapon recently. Anything in here?’

  The living room didn’t look like much to Dole. A bookcase seemed to be about the only thing of interest. Dole took a walk to the window and stared out over the water, as if he might still see the ripples from Daryl’s boat. There were none. He’d missed him.

  He turned and saw Bloch studying the shelves.

  ‘Lot of true crime books, mostly on serial killers. The rest are mostly manuals on police procedures and forensics,’ said Bloch.

  ‘I’m sure he’s got a DVD box set of CSI Miami somewhere too,’ said Dole.

  ‘I don’t think so,’ said Bloch, reaching for a large volume on the second shelf. ‘This is a book on FBI profiling in the Behavioral Analysis Unit. It’s not a memoir, or a true crime gory history of that place. This is an academic work. It’s been read a number of times, too, look.’

  She held up the book, and pinched a yellow Post-it note that had been attached to a page, marking it. When she flicked to that page it was a chapter on profiling serial killers though their signatures. This didn’t mean analyzing their handwriting, but examining the crime scene and the victims to establish a pattern of violence in each murder, which the FBI called a signature. There was a note in the margin. Handwritten.

  Weapons, victim selection, victim type, location, overkill/rage wounds.

  ‘If you were a serial killer, and you knew the feds were looking for a pattern in your victims, it’s the easiest thing to change weapons, tactics, alter your victim selection and vary the amount of violence inflicted on the victim pre- and post-mortem. If you did that, it would be almost impossible to link two murders together,’ said Bloch.

  Nodding, Dole flicked through the rest of the book, looking for any more pages that had been marked. He found none.

  ‘Strange reading material for a waiter and diving instructor, don’t you think?’ said Bloch.

  Dole didn’t acknowledge her. He didn’t hear her too well. His mind was taking in the bookshelf, and the little yellow flags that protruded from those books on the shelf.

  Daryl had been doing some serious study.

  Dole’s phone began to vibrate. He picked it up. The call came in from Bay City forensics.

  ‘Sheriff Dole,’ he said.

  ‘Hi, it’s Max McAllister, forensics. I got something that might be of interest. We managed to hack into Maria Cooper’s phone. I’ve got call history and text messages. I’ll send it over in a zip file asap.’

  Dole thanked the man, and ended the call. Only when the call disappeared did the thought occur to him that he had no idea what a zip file was, and he stared at the phone, about to call McAllister back.

  He didn’t call McAllister back. Before he could press redial, his phone started to vibrate. A number he didn’t recognize.

  He answered the call, listened, thanked the caller and said, ‘We’ll be right there.’

  Bloch waited, expectantly, cradling an armful of books from Daryl’s shelf.

  Dole said, ‘We’re getting a zip file with Maria’s phone records on it. Better yet, that was the hospital – she just woke up.’

  CHAPTER FORTY-SIX

  Of all the times he’d been to Grand Cayman, Paul had never once arrived there by boat. It took a hell of a lot longer than hopping on a plane, but it was a lot more low key. He’d used the time wisely, washing his hair and body in the little cabin sink, then shaving and running the gel through his wet hair.

  He looked and smelled like a human being for the first time since his boat sank. He couldn’t wait to put on the suit, add the finishing touches when they docked. Until then he admired the view. Despite the situation, he couldn’t help but marvel at the beauty of the place. To Paul, this was paradise – the colorful island birds circling overhead, the school of dolphins that seemed to usher the boat to the harbor, the smell of fresh fish and roasting meat on the grills right beside the water.

  They’d landed in George Town, and Paul felt a familiar tinge of excitement.

  Paul changed clothes in the cabin while Daryl tied up the boat. It would feel good to be outside, away from the stench that came off his deadly companion. And Daryl was always on his mind. Even while he changed his clothes, he made sure to keep Daryl in sight at all times through the cabin windows. He put the small knife in his jacket pocket.

  Soon as Daryl set foot back on the boat, Paul moved away from his bag, away from the view he’d had through the cabin window. It must’ve been noticeable, because Daryl’s demeanor seemed to alter afterward. He appeared to be just as interested in Paul’s movements as Paul was in his whereabouts.

  They were circling one another. Each reluctant to put the other out of sight. Paul was fully dressed now. Suit and button-down shirt, and hard, leather-soled shoes. He exited the cabin, giving Daryl some privacy.

  Paul walked around the cabin, holding onto the safety bars on the roof, and made his way to the port side of the boat. He put his back to the cabin, so Daryl couldn’t see him from any of the windows. He listened to the thump of Daryl’s boots hitting the floor, then casually flicked all of the cartridges he’d taken from the .45 into the water. They made a soft plonk as they sunk below the surface. When his pockets were empty, he went back inside.

  Just in time.

  Daryl unzipped his bag, drew out the Colt .45 and gripped the slide, ready to jack it back and check the load in the chamber window.

  ‘Wait, leave that here,’ said Paul, with authority. Daryl froze, looked at him.

  ‘You can’t take that into the bank, and there’s nowhere safe to stash it outside. Leave it here.’

  Daryl sighed, stuffed the gun back into his bag like a surly teenager and stood, adjusting his jacket.

  ‘How do I look?’ he said.

  ‘You look … perfect,’ said Paul.

  They took a cab to the First National Bank of Grand Cayman on Elgin Avenue. The island authorities knew banking tourism was one of their main attractions – so the banks mostly put up shop on Elgin. It was a wide street, with four lanes of traffic and palm trees whispering above the roll of Bentleys and Ferraris beneath. The sound of the wind in the palm leaves reminded Paul of the whisper of thousand-dollar bills fanned out from a stack. There was a sweet dryness to the sound. Something calming, and yet exotic.

  Paul went up the steps first, Daryl trailing a few feet behind.

  Marble pillars framed the glass doors. Even from outside, Paul could see the ornate mosaic floor spread out in the shape of the island. He thought he could smell the vanilla-scented air freshener, the leather seats and the faint aroma of sweet decay which seemed to permeate every part of the island.

  Paul had chosen this bank carefully, all those years ago. He thought about it now as he pushed open the glass doors, holding one open for Daryl.

  His new shoes echoed on the floor. And he was reminded of the first time he’d set foot in the bank. He knew then that he’d chosen wisely.

  First National Bank of Grand Cayman had a diverse spread of clientele: Hollywood movie moguls, property developers, hedge fund managers, twenty percent of the world’s drug lords, most of the illegal arms dealers and three of the biggest charities on the globe.

  Absolute privacy. Total
security. And zero tax.

  The three magic beans in banking for the super-rich.

  You couldn’t hold an account here unless you deposited five million. The bank had reasonable charges, and in return you were accountable to no one. A limo would pick you up from the airstrip, bring you to the bank, and remain at your disposal until you decided to leave. No limo for Paul this time.

  This time he was slumming it.

  There were no cashiers’ desks, just a reception, with a manager behind it ready to greet you, and five heavily armed guards positioned around the room.

  He couldn’t help but notice those men with black suits stretched over tactical vests, cradling assault rifles in their arms. They stood out. Even in the corners. He knew Daryl would notice them too. Paul raised his head, looked around the domed, gold-leaf ceiling.

  The one thing he loved about the bank was that it put its faith in assault weapons for security, and not cameras. There wasn’t a single security camera on a wall, anywhere. Paul had to confess he saw the logic. An AR-15 is better protection than a Kodak. And the bank’s customers were keen to maintain their privacy in all of their dealings. He heard Daryl’s footsteps behind him, veering off to the left towards the leather couches against the wall.

  Paul approached the manager. She was tall and rather severe in her appearance. Her black hair pulled tightly away from her forehead, and her large brown eyes looked as though the hair band was stretching her entire face into a demented, and yet delighted smile. She wore a purple tweed suit, lilac shirt beneath. The bank’s colors.

  ‘Greetings, may I help you?’ said the manager.

  ‘Yes, I’d like to make a withdrawal,’ said Paul.

  ‘Certainly, sir. Please enter your security code into the pad.’

  In front of Paul was an iPad type device. He entered his security code using the touch-screen keypad. His account information came up.