‘You’ve worked with this guy for years now. There must be something you can tell us about him that we don’t know,’ said Dole.
Fullerton cast his eyes down, said, ‘You know how hard it is to write a twist in a novel?’
‘Can’t say that I do,’ said Dole.
Fullerton leaned forward, gave Dole his full attention, and said, ‘It’s the most difficult thing an author can pull off, in my opinion. LeBeau knocked them out of the park, every book. You never saw it coming. Now, I edit his manuscripts, lightly, but even with a light touch I get pushback. This guy loves his anonymity, but in a strange way I think he’s very proud of his work.’
‘Proud?’
‘I know, it’s crazy. But unless I made a real case for changing anything in the manuscript, he just wouldn’t entertain it. I got the impression he was protective of his work. As he should be. He knows just how good he is. I know it’s a paradox, but that’s just the impression I get. If you’ve created something really great, why would you shy away from taking the credit for it?’
‘Last question, does the name Paul Cooper mean anything to you?’ said Dole.
‘I think I’ve heard of him. He’s a mid-list mystery writer. Think he’s one of Josephine Schneider’s clients. She pitched me a book by him some years ago and I turned it down.’
CHAPTER FIFTY-THREE
The sun came up as Daryl passed his house for the second time in the boat. His limbs were lead, and if it wasn’t for the adrenaline and morphine floating through his system he knew he would’ve fallen unconscious before he’d reached home.
He’d hit the throttle and gone past the house soon as he saw his front door lying open. Not wide open. An inch or two. Enough to see the door didn’t sit flush with the frame.
The cops had been inside. He knew it. All the same, he needed to check it out – make absolutely certain. If he had heat on him it would affect his movements. Only one way to find out.
All he wanted to do was lie down and go to sleep. He hadn’t closed his eyes for two days. He’d spent the night in a friendly doctor’s office in Miami, swallowing antibiotics with warm Scotch and then biting down on his leather belt while the doc stitched him up. By the time he’d reached the doctor he was in bad shape. Pale, a fever running him down and it still felt like he had that knife in his back. No time to wait for the morphine to really kick in. The doc had been paid up front, as was customary, and once the doc had counted the bills, and locked them away in a secure box, he then felt compelled to act immediately.
Daryl’s back had been cleaned with surgical alcohol – breaking the scab and allowing fresh blood to flow. Then the doc set about stitching the wound and applying a gauze pad, which he strapped in place with a bandage around Daryl’s torso. Nausea swept through him, and the morphine tapped out the pain just as the good doctor tightened the bandage. Too little too late. Daryl passed out for a few minutes and when he came to he was on the floor, the doc struggling to lift him.
Somehow he made it back to the boat, and he took it out into the harbor and fought through the dizziness, the sickness and raging fever. He’d taken enough antibiotics to fill his stomach and he knew if he threw up he would be in serious trouble by morning. Through sheer will, he battled on through the night and the waves back to Port Lonely. Back to his house.
And the open door.
Daryl shut down the motor half a mile west of his house, on another jetty belonging to a private house. A holiday home. Thankfully, the owners weren’t there to disturb him. That could have been awkward.
Unwilling to leave the money in the boat, he took the leather satchels, climbed onto the wooden pier and made his way to the trees at the edge of the property. The damn bags were pulling on his stitches. He could feel the wound weeping. A trickle of blood running down his back. At least he hoped it was blood. The doc in Miami didn’t look like the most hygienic medic. For all Daryl knew it could have been pus running down his shoulder blades.
Instead of thinking the worst, Daryl forced his mind into believing the probable truth. The satchels were stretching the wound. It was just blood. He decided to put his faith not in the doc, but in alcohol used to clean the wound, and the massive dose of antibiotics.
The trees in this part of the county provided great cover. Enough for him to pass unseen by road to his house. The terrain had proved difficult though. It had taken great effort to get over the rough ground carrying the satchels, which continually became snagged in the lower branches, wrenching his back as he moved forward.
And after twenty minutes he reached the edge of the tree line. He could see his house. The front door. He put down the satchels, hunkered down and waited.
Rested.
Listened.
No cars on the nearby road. No vehicles parked anywhere on his property. All was quiet save for the birds and their song.
Daryl found a large oak, and behind it he saw a hollow log. No one was going to see him place the bags in there, and no one would come along checking an old log in the meantime. Safer than the boat, he thought. He carefully placed the satchels inside, then made his way along the edge of the trees until he was as close as he could get to the house without breaking cover. Sitting still, listening and watching, Daryl decided the house was empty. There had been no movement visible from the windows, no lights on inside, no steam from the boiler chimney to show there was anything going on.
Taking small steps at first, crouched low, Daryl made for the house. Soon as he was out in the open he realized how vulnerable he was. His adrenaline kicked in and he jogged, with his teeth clenched against the pain, to the house and the front door.
Pinned to the door was a copy of a bench warrant. His records, his phone, his house – the Port Lonely Sheriff’s Department could examine it all.
Goddamn it.
He hated the thought of cops swarming over his stuff. Behind the warrant was a list of items they’d taken. Just books. Didn’t matter. He didn’t need them. He was about to swear at the cops for leaving his front door open – then he saw that the lock was busted. They couldn’t close the goddamn door. And they hadn’t taken any steps to secure the house after the search.
As he stepped inside, he found the air thick with their presence. No, not their presence, but the remnants of their visit. A faint smell of dust. Shards of broken wood on the floor. Plates and cups spilled out of the kitchen doorway. Looking in the other direction, he saw books lying on the floor. They had ransacked the place in the way that cops always do. The basement door lay open. His mouth felt dry. He eased the door open a little further, then winced at every step he took, down into the darkness of the cellar. A flashlight lay on a shelf at the bottom of the steps. He took another deep breath, clicked it on. Then scanned the basement.
Bed still in place. Furniture moved around, cupboard drawers lying on the floor.
The floor. It had not been disturbed. He took the flashlight around and found one corner of hard packed earth at the rear of the basement, still undisturbed. He went upstairs, clicked off the torch. Breathed a sigh of relief then went up another level.
In his closet, he found his clothes lying in a pile at the bottom, the hangers limp and empty on the rail. The sheriff had been thorough – and messy.
He laid out a shirt, pants and fresh underwear on the bed. Daryl stripped, washed and dressed. He left the house open, went back the way he’d come, grabbed the satchels and quickly made his way to the boat. This time he mostly dragged the satchels on the ground, making sure he didn’t stress the wound. The pier was as quiet as when he’d arrived. A low mist hung over the water. The golden haze from the sun illuminated the mist. It looked like fine white silk masking a candle.
He stowed away the satchels, fired up the motor, cast off from the pier and left Port Lonely behind. A few hours before he’d docked, Daryl thought this would be his last visit to Port Lonely. He knew now it might not be.
He needed to go away for a while. Somewhere quiet. Somewhere safe. To rest. To he
Thank God they hadn’t looked under the basement floor. He knew now that they wouldn’t be going back to tear the place apart any further. They had done their search. And they had missed the jackpot.
Still, the job wasn’t finished.
By the looks of things, Daryl had a lot more work to do.
CHAPTER FIFTY-FOUR
‘Hi, Maria, my name is Chad, I’m part of the brain injury team. Don’t you look cosy in that bed? Oh you so do, missy. Mind if I sit? Thanks. Okay. If I’m going too fast, or if you find yourself drifting off while I’m speaking, or if there’s anything you want me to go over, just holler, Chad, I’m having a moment, okey-dokey, honey?’
Chad wore a bright yellow tee and blue jeans, he had a sticker on his shirt that read Jesus Saves and between his red hair and his blank-white-screen teeth, his cheerful smile and his sing-song voice, Maria couldn’t decide if she was awake or dreaming. Chad had entered her room in a flurry of color and mock concern and now he was sitting on her bed. Talking to her like she was in kindergarten.
‘Now, honey, you’ve had a big bang on the head. I’m sure that’s been explained to you, but I’m here to tell you about some of the things that you might experience because of this nasty bang, and what we can do to help.’
Maria stared at Chad. A blank expression on her face.
‘You may experience some memory issues, some speech issues, some co-ordination issues, even nightmares. Yes. Now, honey, with our program we can make all of those things a lot less troublesome. We’re going to be trying some physiotherapy tomorrow, there will be some tests too. Did you know the paramedics and the doctors here thought you’d died? Turns out you have a little something called vasculitis. It’s a pre-existing condition. Don’t worry about it, this bang on the head means they’ve caught it now and they’ll be treating you. It’s nothing to worry about, but we’re going to be liaising with the medical team to find out the root cause, okay?’
Vasculitis. The doctors had mentioned it. Like Chad, they said it was nothing to worry about. Maria wasn’t worried. Her blood pressure was always on the low side, and doctors pricked and bruised her skin a lot whenever they had tried to take blood. Her mom had been the same – bad veins. What she didn’t need was Chad explaining it all in his Disney Channel voice.
‘Now, don’t fret about those beastly questions we’re gonna ask – they’re not designed to trick you. It’s not like you needed to go to college or anything, they’re just some regular questions – nothing to be concerned over,’ said Chad, almost purring.
Maria said nothing.
Chad reached out, touched Maria’s hand, stroked it gently.
‘Oh, honey, you remind me so much of my big sister. I can tell we are going to get on like a house on fire. Now, come on, what’s the matter, sweetie, cat got your tongue?’ said Chad.
‘Get out of my room or I’ll give you a fucking brain injury. Although judging by the way you’re dressed you might already have one,’ said Maria.
She stared into Chad’s open mouth for a moment. He really did have good teeth.
‘Chad?’ she said.
‘Yes?’ he managed to squeak.
‘I can’t help noticing you’re still here. Do you want me to slow down? Is there anything you need me to go over? Are you having a moment?’
‘I might be,’ he said.
‘Get out of my room and have it somewhere else.’
She thought Chad might burst into tears as he left. She didn’t regret what she’d said. Not one bit. Matter of fact, she enjoyed it. Chad, with his high voice and positivity, struck her as one of life’s victims. Someone who could be bullied, walked over, and trampled underfoot. The fact that Chad would allow this to happen sealed his fate that it would happen, at least in Maria’s mind. Destined to be last in line, last in love, the one who was always taken advantage of, and then left behind.
Maria had no time for victims. She was through with that shit. Her left side felt weak. She had no strength in her left hand. It took all her willpower to move her left leg. One side of her body felt like it was full of lead. Deadened, slow, numb.
No amount of gentle encouragement was going to help her. She knew that much. Positivity could fuck off out the door behind Chad.
Maria set a course in her mind. A clear objective. She would go through physio. She would work hard – harder than anyone. She would sweat and push and fight through the pain, because nobody wanted it more. Happy faces and applause wouldn’t be enough to get her there.
No.
Maria knew then she had an infinite power source in her arsenal. Something deep inside, burning its way through her body.
Hate.
Maria had hate, and rage. That would be enough. That would be better.
Given a few months, she wouldn’t just be back to normal. She would be better. Stronger. Faster.
She’d let Paul into her life, and he’d betrayed her. Hurt her. She should’ve killed him when she had the chance. At home, in the middle of the night with one of his fucking kitchen knives. She shouldn’t have relied on Daryl. He was too soft. She thought about the head of that hammer coming down, Paul wielding that hammer. She couldn’t see his face clearly, but she knew it was him. He must’ve found out about her and Daryl.
Then a darkness. And all the while she had that smell in her nose. One she would never forget. The smell of fresh paint and blood.
CHAPTER FIFTY-FIVE
Dole was marching through the Bay City airport when Bloch grabbed his arm, yanking him to a halt.
‘We have to do something. Cooper has disappeared. There’s no leads, no way to get to him. How the fuck are we going to catch this guy?’ she said.
Before they’d left New York, they had tried to talk to Josephine Schneider, Paul Cooper’s literary agent.
Schneider wouldn’t see them. They never got past the doorman at her office building. She wouldn’t talk on the phone, and her secretary point blank refused to take a message. Port Lonely Sheriff’s Department had no jurisdiction in New York. Dole had contacts in New York. Detectives who would pull a favor for him if he asked, but he knew there would be hell to pay if he brought an NYPD detective to Schneider’s office. According to Fullerton, Cooper’s agent was a serious player with friends in the mayor’s office. No go. Nothing else to do but go home. This didn’t sit easily with Bloch, and she’d been sullen and quiet on the plane. Now, in the airport, Bloch’s frustration had bubbled over.
Dole stared at her large, questioning eyes, then over her shoulder. There was a burger joint behind her. An airport restaurant, but still, Dole figured it was pretty hard to fuck up a hamburger.
‘I’m starving. Let’s eat,’ he said.
He walked past Bloch, feeling her gaze on the back of his neck like the afternoon sun.
‘We can talk while we eat,’ he said.
They ordered cheeseburgers, onion rings and baked potatoes from the bar and took their side salads and Cokes to a table. Bloch looked tired and pissed off. She was a rarity in law enforcement. Smart, on the level, and she gave a shit. There are any number of reasons why someone would become a cop. Some folks want to help their community. Dole had seen his fair share of those officers. Not enough of them, but they were still out there. Others join up because they want the power trip, or their family are cops, or they see it as the beginning of a path to something else, like local politics, and then there’s the last kind. It was still something which gave Dole the creeps, but he’d seen it too often to deny it – some people joined law enforcement so they could get the opportunity to kill somebody.
‘Why’d you become a cop?’ asked Dole.
Bloch finished chewing some lettuce and tomato, wiped her lips on a napkin and took a long slug from her Coke. She put down the drink and said, ‘Family.’
Dole’s glass hovered close to his lips, he took a sip, put it down and said, ‘So you were forced into it?’
‘My father was a cop. Thirty-five years. He got busted with five other cops. They were running a protection racket and decided to branch out on their own. They were running girls, coke, guns, you name it.’
Dole was careful to stay quiet in case Bloch wanted to say more, but after a minute he realized he needed to prompt her. Bloch sometimes made statements which were clear to her, but not everyone else followed.
‘So you signed up for … what reason?’
‘My dad had nothing to do with the other five cops. They were his friends, and he had no part in the racket. They all said my dad knew about it, and did nothing. It’s not like they paid him off. I think they tried, but he refused. He just turned a blind eye, you know?’
‘Did he get time?’
‘He died before the trial. Heart attack.’
‘Shit, sorry, Bloch. So you’re clearing the family name with your service?’
The waitress arrived with the plates, halting the conversation. Dole took a bite on a crispy onion ring and waited for Bloch to answer. It was hard for her to talk about this. A sore subject. He could tell. She was even more difficult to engage than normal.
‘At first, sure. I wanted people to remember my dad for who he really was – a good man. Then when I joined up I found out the cops didn’t think the same way. Superiors would tell me Dad was a great cop. So did the regular beat cops. My dad didn’t rat out his fellow officers, and that was the most important thing to them. Things changed then for me. I wanted to know what it was like to be part of a group where no matter what you did, you were covered. I moved around a lot. It was always the same. Cops look after cops. My dad talked about his cop pals like they were his family. Maybe I wanted to be part of that. I … I don’t get along with people so good.’
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