Twisted

by Steve Cavanagh

  CHAPTER FIFTY-ONE

  Paul Cooper hauled his sorry ass onto a beach in front of two bemused fishermen. Locals checking their nets, ready to head out in a catamaran for the day. Paul lay on the white sand for a time, getting his breath, letting his overworked muscles rest, but not too much. If he let himself stay there much longer he would cramp up and then he wouldn’t be able to move for several hours.

  He forced himself to his feet, brushed the sand from his wet clothes and saluted the fishermen as he made his way up the beach toward the highway. He could tell the locals had never seen a white guy wash up on the shore before. There was a first time for everything.

  This wasn’t Paul’s first time starting from scratch. He’d wiped out a couple of times in his life. Lost an apartment once in a foreclosure. Had his car repossessed. Even had to give his dog away because he lost a job.

  All of that changed, of course, when J. T. LeBeau came along.

  The beach led directly to a stretch of two-lane highway. To the right he could see a strip mall in the distance with a gas station tacked onto the side. He turned in that direction and rung out his shirt on the way. The heat helped. And what the sun wouldn’t fix, the humidity would disguise.

  By the time he arrived at the gas station he didn’t look too much worse than anyone else who’d been outside all day. Except he smelled of the sea, and his shoes squelched with each step. The gas station had a bank of pay phones on the back wall. The first phone had been ripped out of the wall and the cord hung loosely down from the receiver as it lay in the cradle. Second station didn’t have a receiver at all. Third one was the charm. Paul picked up the phone, dialed the operator and asked to make a collect call to New York. He gave the operator the number for his agent and waited.

  It took a good minute or two before he heard a click, and the operator told him he was connected.

  ‘Jesus, Paul!’ said Josephine. ‘I thought you were dead. It said on the news that you were missing. Do you understand? Didn’t you see that? Where’ve you been? I have been going out of my mind with worry. I called the cops here and asked them to liaise with Port Lonely and … you know how useless cops are? They did nothing. Maria got hurt too. There was a sheriff on TV saying you did it, but I don’t believe it. Please tell me you’re alright and this is all a big mistake.’

  ‘I didn’t hurt Maria. I’ll explain later, but you gotta help me. I need you to wire me some money. There’s a Western Union on Parade Street, Grand Cayman. Can you manage five grand?’

  ‘Sure, I can do that, but … I almost don’t want to ask. Paul, what happened to the travel money I gave you, and the money in your account?’

  Paul held his head, said, ‘It’s gone. All of it. There’s not much I can do about it. Things have changed, Josephine. I was right, LeBeau found me.’

  ‘Oh my God! Where are you? I’m coming to get you and we can go to the police and straighten all of this out.’

  ‘No. I can’t go to the police. I’m wanted for attempted murder. And I have no evidence. It’s always been that way, this guy leaves no trace. I have to take care of this myself.’

  ‘You can’t do this on your own.’

  ‘I need to. I should have ended it long ago. I have to end it now.’

  CHAPTER FIFTY-TWO

  For a small, quiet Sheriff’s Department, the Port Lonely officers who served that community could be devastatingly efficient. Dole discovered that Sue had already made a booking for a car rental, and an escort was waiting for Dole and Bloch when they got off the flight. The escort was a young man of no more than twenty-five, holding an iPad with ‘Sheriff Abraham Dole’ lit up on the screen. At first Dole thought the NYPD were cock-blocking his investigation, then he took a good look at the young man holding the computer tablet. He was no cop. And when they approached him he introduced himself as Martin, from Avis. He led Dole and Bloch to the luggage department where they collected their guns, and then took them outside and onto a motorized cart. Ten minutes later he dropped them off at their rental. A gray sedan. Dole signed the paperwork, tipped Martin twenty bucks and waved him on his way.

  He waited until Bloch reversed the car out of the space before he got into the passenger seat. The car smelled of fried chicken and lemon air freshener.

  ‘This must be the car they give to all the visiting cops,’ said Bloch.

  Bloch had driven in New York before. She’d lived in New Jersey for a spell, and had been stationed on the Upper West Side of Manhattan for almost a year. Too expensive to live in the city, she made the commute every day. Her father had served in the same precinct, Dole knew. He’d never asked why she had left, and in truth he didn’t want to. He guessed she didn’t get along with people – it was all too plain. She put in for a transfer from New York, and hadn’t settled anywhere until she came to Port Lonely, which at first seemed like a staging post. Another place that she would use to get to the next place. Only she stayed. Dole knew her record inside out. He wanted her to stay forever.

  They took Grand Central Parkway to Randall’s Island then the FDR until the exit ramp for the park. Bloch asked Dole to give her the address again. He called it out from his notebook, she nodded and got onto 2nd Avenue headed downtown until they hit 85th Street.

  Dole parked and they got out and wandered east on 85th until they stood outside a brick building, with wide glass windows and an American flag flying over the door.

  Bloch asked the address again. Dole repeated it and watched Bloch check an app on her phone. She entered the address on ‘Maps’, and it told them they were in the right place.

  ‘Goddamn it,’ said Dole.

  ‘You didn’t think it was going to be that easy, did you?’ said Bloch.

  ‘I sure didn’t, but I was expecting more than this.’

  The address they’d traveled to was the same address registered for LeBeau Enterprises. Two hundred and twenty-nine East 85th Street, Manhattan. Only this wasn’t a business address. Large aluminum lettering jutting from the brickwork above the door read, ‘United States Postal Service, Gracie Station.’

  They went inside and Dole let Bloch do the talking. Even though they were both in law enforcement uniforms with side arms strapped to their belts it didn’t stop five people calling them out as they walked to the head of the line and Bloch asked to speak to a manager.

  Dole missed New York City. When he’d moved there to join to the police force, fresh from his home in rural Alabama, he thought he would never leave. In the end, he had left because of Eden. After she died, he became haunted by the life they had both been denied. He saw her face everywhere: at the window tables of coffee shops they used to frequent, in the neon glow of rain puddles on Times Square, at night on the subway when he would catch her reflection in the glass as another train thundered by. And then there was her smell. It was still in his apartment, on his sheets, on his clothes. He saw her face in the polished surface of his police issue .38 Smith and Wesson. He had to get out, and he knew it. Coming back felt like stepping into someone else’s life. The memories not quite his own, not quite as painful, but familiar nonetheless. He realized he had missed the city. There were fond memories here, too.

  After a short time in the Post Office, a pale balding man in a stained shirt came forward to talk to them. He confirmed the Post Office held a number of mail addresses for businesses. The particular mailbox for LeBeau Enterprises was in the office. Every month a different courier service arrived with a mandate and emptied the box. That was it. A bust.

  ‘You still think knocking on doors is the way to go?’ said Bloch.

  ‘You hit busts all the time. At least it feels like we’re moving. Let’s try the store,’ said Dole.

  Twenty minutes later Dole and Bloch entered what looked like a 7-Eleven.

  ‘You sure this is the right address?’ said Dole.

  ‘This is it,’ said Bloch.

  Inside, they realized they were right – it was a 7-Eleven. The clerk behind the counter was in his fifties, pale and
sweaty with a straggly beard and an old yellow Arnold Palmer sweater with a polo shirt beneath it. He looked like he was about to tee-off at a golf course in Chernobyl.

  ‘Excuse me, police officers,’ said Dole, flashing his badge, but not quick enough for the store clerk to see they weren’t NYPD badges. ‘Wondering if you could help us. Did this used to be a cell phone store?’

  ‘You’re not NYPD,’ said the clerk.

  ‘No, we’re not. We’re officers from out of state, but we’re here with the authority and co-operation of the NYPD. So, was this a cell phone store a few years back?’

  ‘No, it’s always been a 7-Eleven. Ever since I bought the place in ninety-two.’

  ‘You’re the owner?’ said Dole.

  ‘Yes, I am.’

  Bloch stared at the man’s sweater and said, ‘You should give yourself a raise.’

  ‘What my colleague here means is that this store is obviously doing well since you’ve been here so long. Tell me about cell phones. We have records which show you sold a burner a couple of years ago.’

  ‘We still sell them,’ said the man, pointing down toward the glass display below the counter top.

  Dole stood back, looked at the display and saw a couple of small cell phones in plastic vacuum wrapping.

  ‘Don’t suppose you keep any records of who you sell those to? The buyer put two hundred dollars on the phone with a prepay card he probably bought in this store,’ said Dole.

  ‘Not a chance. Lot of people buy prepay cards when they buy their phones. No records.’

  Bloch looked around the store, pointed to a security camera behind the man and said, ‘Would you have any security footage from that time?’

  ‘No, it’s busted. Camera hasn’t worked in years.’

  ‘What about credit card receipts?’ said Dole.

  ‘This is a cash only store,’ said the man, pointing to a sign to the right of the counter that read, ‘CASH ONLY. NO CREDIT.’

  Last chance, thought Dole. ‘Do you remember a man coming into your store and buying a cell phone, and a two hundred dollar prepay credit?’

  ‘I don’t remember the last customer. Sorry. No clue.’

  Dole and Bloch exchanged a look.

  ‘If you’re not buying anything you can take your asses back to Tallahassee Land,’ said the man.

  ‘I’ve missed New York,’ said Bloch.

  At four thirty-five Dole and Bloch entered an office building in the Flatiron District. The lobby was pale pine, stone and bookshelves covered in hardback books facing outwards. The receptionist sat behind a marble desk with a list of companies behind her on a board. There were only a handful of names. This was the real reason for their visit, but they couldn’t resist checking out the business address while they were in the city. After all, it was on the way.

  A receptionist made a call, told them to take a seat and someone would be right with them. A few minutes later a tall blonde lady in jeans, a black sweater and a false smile came into reception and said that they could have ten minutes with Mr. Fullerton, but she needed to know what it was in connection with first.

  ‘J. T. LeBeau. It’s a serious matter, ma’am,’ said Dole.

  The name dropped the fake smile off her face and she said, ‘My name is Sarah. Come upstairs with me and then you can talk privately with Mr. Fullerton.’

  She led them to an elevator which took them to the fourteenth floor. An open-plan space with desks, stacks of manuscripts and books everywhere. Most of the employees seemed to be young women. At the far end of the floor, in the corner, was a glass-walled office. Sarah held open the door. Bloch went in first and Dole followed her. Seated behind a granite-slab desk was a very tall man in his early sixties, neatly attired in navy cargo pants, a blue shirt and charcoal waistcoat. He had gray, wavy hair and an easy smile. Once they were all inside he got up from behind his stack of pages and came around the desk to shake hands.

  ‘Theo Fullerton, publisher. Pleased to meet you both. I know Port Lonely. My wife and I used to summer there with the kids when they were young. Beautiful place. What brings you out here?’

  ‘I’m Sheriff Dole, this is Deputy Bloch. We’re hoping you can help us with a case,’ said Dole. ‘A name has cropped up, and we need to find some information. The name is J. T. LeBeau, sir.’

  Watching Fullerton carefully, Dole noticed the slight crease in his brow at the mention of that name. Fullerton looked once at Sarah, then at Dole, and the crease got ironed out in a New York smile.

  ‘He’s our golden boy, Sheriff Dole. I take it you’ve done your research, so you probably know as much about the author as I do. Please, take a seat,’ he said.

  Settling himself into a leather armchair, Dole bit down to disguise the pain shooting from his knees. Fullerton took his seat behind the desk, leaned back and cocked his head, ready to listen.

  ‘We can’t go into every detail of our investigation, you appreciate that, but my department may have information which tends to identify a resident of Port Lonely that we believe to be J. T. LeBeau.’

  ‘You know his name?’ said Fullerton. As he spoke he sat upright, and then leaned forward placing his elbows on the desk and clasping his hands together. He looked like a kid about to receive a birthday present.

  ‘We have a name. Unfortunately, that individual is currently a missing person. I got to tell you that this person may be dead. I can give you more information, but I need to know your relationship with LeBeau,’ said Dole. He thought it best not to mention to Fullerton that if Dole did find Paul Cooper then he would be arrested and charged with attempted murder. Fullerton might not be so helpful if he thought Dole was set on putting his golden boy behind bars for thirty years.

  ‘My God, of course, I’ll help in any way. Ahm, well, I’ve never met LeBeau. No one in the company has. We don’t know much about him. He delivers his manuscripts by courier, paid in cash. The envelope is addressed to me, personally. Once the book is edited, the manuscript is sent to his mailbox. He’ll make changes and it comes back. That’s as much contact as we have with him.’

  ‘What about contracts, payments, all of that?’ said Dole.

  ‘Email. He will send an encrypted email to me. And before you ask, it’s a dead end. Some of our IT people once tried to trace the IP address for the email – it’s rerouted through multiple countries. Anyway, once I have the manuscript, we negotiate and when we have an agreement the contract is mailed out, he signs and returns it and we pay the first part of the advance to the company, LeBeau Enterprises.’

  ‘Where is the company’s bank account held?’ asked Bloch.

  ‘I’m afraid I can’t divulge that information without a warrant. As you can imagine there is a strict confidentiality clause in the contract. I can’t give you that information even if I wanted to, although I don’t see how that would help.’

  Fullerton’s eyes were drawn to Bloch and her pen moving across the notebook.

  ‘Why wouldn’t it help? We’re trying to trace this man.’

  ‘The address for the bank account is the same as the company address – the mailbox.’

  ‘Yes, but there may be more information than simply the address for the account,’ said Dole. ‘Look, Mr. Fullerton, there has to be somebody in this company who has met him. Come on …’

  ‘No, there really isn’t. Not anymore.’

  ‘But there was someone, once. I remember now, maybe his first editor?’ said Dole.

  ‘Yes, Bob Crenshaw. He’s no longer with us.’

  ‘But you must have something on file – an address or something about this man,’ said Dole.

  Fullerton looked at Sarah while he tapped his fingers on the desk and nodded.

  With that, Sarah left the office.

  ‘I’ll show you the only information we have on LeBeau,’ said Fullerton.

  Sarah came back into the office holding two letter-sized pages and handed them to Dole.

  They were still warm from the printer.

  It was a
simple questionnaire. As an address LeBeau had given the mailbox number which Dole and Bloch had just visited. Date of birth, personal history, real name if writing under a pseudonym – all left blank.

  ‘As you can see, this man was never very forthcoming,’ said Fullerton.

  ‘You’re telling me,’ said Dole. ‘The editor who first worked with LeBeau, Bob Crenshaw, you say he left the company?’

  ‘Yes, it was very sad.’

  ‘Did he have any family, any work colleagues he might have talked to about LeBeau?’

  ‘No, Bob kept to himself. He was divorced, no kids, and he didn’t have any contact with his ex, although I don’t know what he did outside of work hours. I already went through all of that with the police at the time,’ said Fullerton.

  The soft, scratching sound of Bloch’s pen moving across her notebook ceased abruptly. This was new.

  ‘What do you mean you told the police at the time?’ said Dole.

  ‘When they told us about Bob,’ said Fullerton.

  ‘When they told you what? You’re not being clear,’ said Bloch.

  Turning his head, Fullerton stared out of the window at the Manhattan skyline beyond. Dole followed Fullerton’s gaze and took in the view: the prow of the Flatiron Building sailed over 5th Avenue, and Madison Square Park beyond. It was as if Fullerton wanted a stark, visual image of life teeming beneath him as he answered the question. Perhaps, thought Dole, it was Fullerton’s way of lessening the somber weight of his words.

  ‘Bob Crenshaw burned to death in the trunk of a car in an abandoned lot down by the Manhattan Bridge. Bob was murdered.’

  Sarah bowed her head. Dole said nothing. He just listened to Bloch’s pen moving across the page again.

  ‘Was LeBeau a suspect in that murder?’ asked Dole.

  ‘No, of course not. Why would he be? Bob had a lot of problems. The case was never solved, but there was no animosity between LeBeau and Bob, or LeBeau would’ve changed publishers. Look, I’ve tried to help out, but there’s not much more I can tell you.’