Twisted

by Steve Cavanagh

  He dropped one bag, opened the door and stepped onto the back deck. He waited for Daryl and slammed the door on him just as he was coming through. Daryl had been expecting it, leading with his foot raised, ready to kick back at the slamming door. The force of Daryl’s kick bucked the door back into Paul’s face. He stumbled backwards, blood gushing from his nose. The back of Paul’s legs hit the rail and he tumbled over it. He was going to fall head first into the water.

  Then, he felt a wrenching at his shoulder, arresting his fall.

  Daryl held onto the satchel with one hand. In the other, he raised the knife over his head, ready to bury it in Paul’s stomach.

  Paul let go of the satchel, threw himself backwards, took a big gulp of air and hit the water. Just as his head went under, he saw Daryl swinging the knife like a dagger. The blade embedded itself in the outside of the boat. He’d missed.

  Turning in the water, Paul swam down and away. Kicking his legs, pumping his arms. His body was crying out for air, but Paul didn’t care. He knew he needed to get as far away from the boat as possible or it wouldn’t matter. Drowning might even be preferable to letting Daryl get hold of him.

  His eyes were stinging from the salt water, and his lungs were bursting. He began to cramp in his legs, his stomach, his shoulders, and he kicked hard, turning and heading for the surface.

  He broke the top of the water, his mouth open and his eyes popping wide.

  He’d traveled thirty-five, maybe forty feet from the boat. He didn’t see Daryl on the back deck. At any moment he expected the engine to kick into high gear, and the boat to change direction and come after him. Running him over in the water.

  He turned, got his muscles working again despite the pain and he went under once more.

  It would take him an hour to get to shore, at least. If he kept going under, and swimming left and right at angles to the shore, maybe Daryl would miss him.

  He’d fucked up, badly.

  No money. No help. No boat.

  He couldn’t think of that now. One thing was keeping him alive, driving his arms and legs.

  Fear. The fear of not making it to the shore. Paul was not afraid of drowning – he was afraid that if he didn’t survive then there would be no one to stop Daryl. The man had to be stopped. The man had to be killed. Paul couldn’t allow Daryl to hurt Maria again. She was a target because she had survived his attack. He would try to kill her if she ever woke.

  Paul had to stop him. So he swam, and ignored the pain, the exhaustion, and the urge to let himself sink to the bottom of the sea.

  CHAPTER FORTY-NINE

  Daryl pulled at the knife lodged in the back of the boat rail. He’d already hauled the satchel of cash back over the side and into the boat without dropping it in the ocean.

  The knife seemed altogether more difficult. It wasn’t stuck, the knife moved up and down in the fiberglass rail and he couldn’t understand why he was unable to pull it clear.

  He tried to give it a good hard tug this time, but he found he couldn’t even grip the hilt. His body slumped over the rail. Suddenly dizzy, Daryl’s feet tried to find purchase so he could stand, but the soles of his boots were sliding around the deck. He managed to right himself, glanced down and saw the blood beneath his boots. His back was soaking in sweat and blood.

  Daryl vomited once, over the side. Then slowly and carefully, panting all the time, he made his way back into the cabin.

  He wanted to kill Paul right then. Gut him. Slice him up slow. Make it hurt so bad.

  But Daryl knew he could do none of those things. He felt weak, light-headed and so very, very thirsty. The medical kit was under the driver’s seat. Daryl pulled it out, opened the box and found some gauze and bandages.

  He took a guess at maybe a minute, a minute and a half since Paul had put the knife in him. That was reassuring. If Paul had hit an artery Daryl would already be dead.

  If he hadn’t nicked an artery, there was still a chance. Daryl knew he had to be fast. He picked up all the gauze from the box, then reached behind his head with his right hand. Soon as his elbow was past the horizontal, the pain turned up a notch and kept increasing the further Daryl stretched his arm backwards.

  The wound couldn’t have been in a more awkward place.

  Eyes closed tightly, teeth grinding and his chest heaving as he tried to get air, he managed to drape the gauze over the wound by leaning forward. He threw the roll of bandages over his shoulder, keeping hold of one end. He reached around to the small of his back with his left hand and found the roll, brought it around and up to his shoulder, threw it over again.

  In this way he was able to get two loops of the bandages over the gauze. He pulled the ends tightly, fought down the urge to vomit again, and then tied the bandages.

  The pressure on the gauze would help staunch the bleeding, but it wouldn’t stop it. Daryl threw up the thrust on the boat, pointed it at Miami.

  He felt the blood soaking the seat, and his pants.

  Nothing else for it.

  He would’ve loved to turn the boat around and run over Paul, but that would waste time. Time he didn’t have. No chance of going back to Grand Cayman. The authorities there no doubt already knew of the purpose of his visit. If he went back they would hold him after he was treated – question him.

  No, Miami was his only hope. Four or five hours with the wind behind him like it was now. He could make it. There were any number of quacks in Miami who would stitch him up, give him some antibiotics and painkillers without saying a word.

  That’s if he made it.

  Daryl pushed his back against the seat, trying to keep pressure on the wound. He felt the flow of blood again, resisted the urge to scream and concentrated on piloting the boat.

  He could make it, he told himself.

  He had the money and that was what mattered for now. He’d tracked down Paul Cooper before, he could do it again.

  Gripping the wheel, Daryl forced his eyes open and focused on the horizon.

  He felt a sharp pain on his forehead, then realized he’d passed out and hit his head on the wheel. He couldn’t have been out for very long, seconds only, but it scared him.

  No way he was getting to Miami alive. No way to stitch the wound. He was in open water and if he went back to Grand Cayman there would be questions, and police, and jail.

  He had to think. There was no margin for error. Think or die.

  Pulling back on the power, Daryl let the boat cruise and slow. He cut the engine, got up and made his way to the back of the cabin. Sweat dripped into his eyes with the effort. Once he reached the bench, he lifted the seat to reveal an SOS emergency kit in the well. He took it out, put it on the table and opened it up.

  Daryl selected a flare, then went out onto the back deck. He untied the bandages, then slipped off his shirt. He stood on the deck, feet spread apart. Letting his body find the rhythm of the chop. He reached up, over his shoulder. The effort made him cry. Tears rolled down his cheeks as he lowered his arm. The flare would attract any nearby vessels. And they would come if they saw it. That’s the way it worked at sea. Everyone helped each other, no matter what.

  ‘Fuck it,’ said Daryl, popping the flare cap.

  There were no ships or boats in sight. He wasn’t calling for help.

  The bright sodium flare began to burn. He reached over his shoulder again, and, best as he could, he held the head of the burning flare against the wound. He had to stop the bleeding, and cauterizing the wound was the only option. The sound of his skin sizzling, and the smell of burning flesh came to him all at once and he screamed into the sun like only a dying man can.

  CHAPTER FIFTY

  ‘How in the name of Almighty God do you open a zip file?’ said Dole.

  He got up from behind his desk. Bloch took his place. Dole folded his arms, shook his head and blew out his cheeks. The adjustment to some forms of technology just wasn’t as smooth as others. Bloch gave him a withering look, then she took hold of the mouse. Made a few q
uick clicks, then said, ‘It’s printing.’

  The printer beside his desk whirred to life. Started spitting out pages. Dole picked up the first one, looked at it, then threw it down on the desk in front of Bloch.

  ‘I can’t even make sense of this. What the hell is that?’ he said.

  Bloch picked up the sheet, scanned it.

  A list of SMS messages. All from Maria to another number. You didn’t get both sides of the conversation. Just the messages to that number and the date and time they were sent.

  Bloch got up, lifted the pages clear of the printer as it continued to spit more out. She flicked through them, found another page.

  ‘Okay. So they go through the phone and the computer program lifts the messages sent. Then another part of the program finds messages received. We have to piece it all together. Like a jigsaw,’ said Bloch.

  Rolling his eyes, Dole then raised his hands to the heavens and said, ‘I thought technology was supposed to make all this shit easier. I hate jigsaw puzzles.’

  Bloch fought back a smile. They waited until the printer had finished the job. It took twenty minutes and two paper reloads but when it was done they had a stack of pages. Maybe six hundred.

  Together they cleared Dole’s desk and divided up the pages. Maria’s cell phone had been dissected – so they had to put it back together to see the whole story.

  A stack of pages at the back of the bundle revealed the call logs. Dole selected the calls from the day before the break-in, right up until Maria was attacked, and put them in a separate pile.

  Working together, they made neat piles of message dates and put them together with the corresponding replies. It didn’t take that long to divide up the evidence.

  After another ten minutes, Dole said, ‘I can’t read this. The way it’s laid out – just a jumble of messages and numbers. Why can’t we just take a look at the goddamn phone?’

  Bloch nodded, said, ‘Let’s just check the recent stuff first. While we have it. We can get the phone later.’

  Reluctantly Dole agreed. He tried again to look through the messages. There were contact names on some sheets, which must have corresponded to the contact listings on Maria’s phone. Dry cleaners. Charity appeal lines. He ignored these, and skipped through them until he found a text message history with a cell number that had no contact listing. At first he thought there was nothing there, then he saw, in the small printing, a date and time for a single text message.

  It had been sent the day after the break-in.

  My marriage is over. I’m going to need your help.

  ‘Look at this. Check your pile of responses, see if you have one from a cell number with no listing in the phone memory – just the number,’ said Dole.

  After a few minutes to sifting, Bloch found it.

  A single text. The only one recorded.

  Whatever it is, I’ll do it. I’d do anything for you.

  The date and time corresponded. This was the reply to the message.

  Before Dole could say anything, Bloch picked up his phone and called the forensics team at Bay City, asked them to trace the cell number for this exchange.

  ‘They’ve put me on hold,’ she said.

  ‘For the love of sweet Jesus,’ said Dole. ‘I hate this hacker bullshit.’

  ‘I can tell,’ said Bloch.

  ‘I prefer real police work. Knocking on doors. Looking someone in the eye,’ said Dole.

  After a few anxious minutes, Bloch came to life. Grabbing a pen she made notes. Asked a few questions then hung up.

  ‘It’s a burner,’ she said.

  ‘A what? I thought it was a cell phone?’ said Dole.

  Bloch shook her head, said, ‘A burner is a cell phone. Like a disposable phone. You top it up with a card. It’s kind of anonymous. All we know is it had two hundred dollars put on it when it was bought in a store in Manhattan a couple of years ago. Could be it’s changed hands since then. Those type of phones are ten bucks in any second-hand shop in the country.’

  ‘Who was she texting?’ said Dole.

  ‘From the sounds of it, someone who is trying to let her know that they love her. She doesn’t have family. Not that I could trace. Sounds like Maria was either leading somebody on, or maybe she was having an affair?’

  ‘Daryl?’

  ‘That could be our link.’

  Dole’s upper lip twitched, and he said, ‘The burner was bought in Manhattan, you say?’

  ‘Yeah, I’ve got the address. You want me to call them, see if they have records?’

  Dole checked his watch.

  ‘No, let’s go knock on their door. We can make New York this afternoon. There’s a couple of things we can check out.’

  ‘Like what?’ said Bloch.

  ‘Like the address for LeBeau Enterprises. Like that cell phone store. Like …’

  ‘Like what?’

  Dole stood, turned around and picked up a copy of a LeBeau novel. Opened it to the legal page and said, ‘Like the publishers of J. T. LeBeau. Flatiron District. New York City.’

  Ten minutes later, Sue had booked Dole and Bloch on the next flight to JFK, and Bloch was doing eighty-five miles an hour on the road to the airport.

  With time to think, Dole thought he should call ahead to the local police in Manhattan. It was only courtesy. He called Sue and asked her to do the honors.

  ‘Call Detective Mick Long in the 71st precinct. Tell him it’s a courtesy call – I gotta go and talk to some people and I don’t want any jurisdictional bull. He’ll understand. We go way back, Mick and I. But whatever you do don’t call the publishers. I don’t want them turning us down. This is too important for some flake in a suit to get uppity about appointments.’

  He hung up. Told Bloch to ease up on the gas. Dole knew he was more likely to die on the way to the airport than on a plane. Especially with Bloch driving.

  ‘I’m glad you’ve still got friends in New York. I burned my bridges before I left.’

  ‘Really? Your sergeant didn’t think so. He gave you a great recommendation when you left. I saw it on your file.’

  ‘That’s because he wanted to get rid of me,’ said Bloch.

  An unpleasant look crept over her face, as if she had tasted something sour and wanted to spit it out. She did, in her own way, by changing the subject.

  ‘Think Maria will hold up in court?’ asked Bloch.

  Dole thought she would, just as long as Bloch didn’t drive her to the courthouse – the poor woman would be a shivering wreck if she had to spend time as one of Bloch’s passengers.

  ‘That woman is tough. Her recollection isn’t the best it could be, but I’d say by the time she’s due on the stand she’ll be solid. I’d bet on Maria Cooper over a defense lawyer any damn day of the week.’

  ‘She’ll need a medical,’ said Bloch.

  ‘That’s up to the DA. She sounded shaky at the start, but by the time we left I thought she was pretty convincing. I know she was all messed when we saw her on the beach, but she had a brain hemorrhage back then. She’s getting better every day.’

  ‘So Oakes is off the hook?’ said Bloch.

  ‘Looks like it. We got nothing from his house. He didn’t show up for work for a few days, and he says he was sick. That’s it. Not enough for an arrest. Maybe we’ll get something else on him. Could be that burner belongs to him. I don’t know, I don’t buy it. I don’t think Oakes is the romantic type. The fact that Maria thought her marriage was over only puts the heat on her husband, but …’

  ‘But what?’ said Bloch.

  ‘Maybe Oakes didn’t attack Maria, but it could be that he’s been helping Cooper?’

  ‘Why would he help Cooper?’ said Bloch.

  ‘I think a man with twenty million dollars in his bank account can be assured of help if it became a requirement, don’t you?’ said Dole.

  Nodding, Bloch said, ‘Even so. Hell of a risk what with the TV coverage and all.’

  Dole held on while Bloch took a corner, clipp
ing the edge of the sidewalk as she made a left turn.

  ‘I get the impression Oakes isn’t opposed to taking a few risks if the payday is right,’ said Dole.

  ‘Payday? Hang on, what if we’re looking at this the wrong way around?’ said Bloch.

  A fleeting image of the painting in his office swept before his eyes. Bloch telling him in her interview it was upside down, and Bloch rehanging it, the right way up, moments after she left.

  ‘What if Maria was having a casual thing with Daryl Oakes? Then she discovers her husband is LeBeau and he’s got twenty mil in the bank. She tells Daryl. Maybe he was encouraging her to confront Paul, and take a share of the money? Maybe he promised to elope with Maria and some of Paul’s millions? When in fact Daryl was using Maria to get to the money. That sounds more like the guy we talked to at his property,’ said Bloch.

  ‘Okay then. But who hurt Maria? It still looks like Cooper, doesn’t it?’

  Bloch said nothing. She increased the pressure on the accelerator, and wrung the steering wheel in her hands.

  Bloch made the airport in thirty minutes – parked in the closest lot on a No Parking grid, daring someone to hand out a ticket, and together they made their way to Bay City terminal one. Their tickets were waiting at the desk and they checked their firearms into the hold through the police air travel system.

  The TSA didn’t bother Dole or Bloch, and they went straight through security and boarded the plane first, ahead of the line. Three and a half hours of flight time to New York. Bloch had brought the phone records with her. She would get through them on the flight. Dole brought something else. He was about to read his first J. T. LeBeau novel. It wasn’t the first book, which he had meant to read after Bloch’s recommendation. Nor was it the most recent. Something from the back catalog he’d chosen at random – a book entitled Angel Falls. As the plane’s tires left the runway, he opened the book. Before he got the bottom of the first page he’d fallen asleep.