Jac stabbed the entry with one finger, glaring back at Cynthia. ‘That’s where he’s gone, isn’t it?’
Cynthia, red-faced, shook her head. ‘I… I don’t know.’
Jac slammed one hand on the desk again, another rifle-shot, and this time Cynthia did flinch. ‘Yes, you fucking do! Because I saw the DHL man come in and out just ten minutes before I came up here!’ Cynthia chewing at her bottom lip, clinging by her fingertips to her last shred of resolve. One last push. ‘And if my man on death row, who I truly believe is innocent, should die because of you — then God help you. I’ll push the DA with everything I’ve got for the maximum for obstruction. Two years in the hardest possible women’s prison! And as tough as you think you are, Cynthia, you won’t make it.’ Jac leant closer still, so close that hopefully she’d feel the syrup from Ayliss’s sly smile drip on her, his voice lowering to a hiss. ‘You won’t fucking make it.’ Cynthia chewing harder at her lip, crumbling inch by inch before him. Jac tapped Malley’s photo. ‘And if this man catches up with your boss before me, then God help him too — because he’ll be dead long before my man on death row… and all your efforts today will — ’
‘Okay… okay!’ Breathless exhalation as that last inch went, her resolve finally snapped. ‘That is where he’s gone.’ She looked up at him anxiously. She shook her head. ‘But I didn’t tell you, okay? I promised I wouldn’t.’
‘Do you have a street address or any other information?’
‘No…no.’ She shook her head again. ‘That’s it. And I only had that because he asked me to send something there.’
This time Jac sensed she was telling the truth. ‘And what was that?’
‘A cassette tape. He told me where to find it in his office.’
‘Okay.’ Jac nodded thoughtfully. Tape? Perhaps the tape that had got bumped when Truelle shifted all the sessions. Jac wrote down the Cuba P.O. box number and gave Cynthia one last look at Malley’s photos before he slid it back into his case. ‘And do yourself a favour, Cynthia. If this man calls asking for your boss — and for sure he will — make sure you’re not here. As I say, he won’t be nearly as nice as me. And in the end, I wasn’t really nice at all.’
Carmen Malastra visited the Bay-Tree Casino floor once more to confirm everything that he’d put together on screen from studying cam videos the past weeks. Filling in the final shades: the envelopes passed from Jouliern to Strelloff, him stashing them below the bar — easily covered as part of the bar float until the final tally was done at the end of the evening — and then Strelloff in turn passing the envelopes on to the courier.
Malastra walked the areas that he’d seen on video, looking back thoughtfully towards the cameras, wondering how many more envelopes might have been passed that he hadn’t picked up on. The hand-over at times obscured by activity on the casino floor, people milling about.
This time Caccia didn’t follow him round like an obedient puppy, sensed after the first few paces that he’d rather be alone. ‘I’ll leave you to it, Mr Malastra. If you need anything… anything at all, I’ll be at the end of the bar.’
Malastra’s steps retraced Jouliern’s and Strelloff’s movements on those nights: from the tables where Jouliern took the money, half of it pocketed and chips substituted to match before he passed everything on to the cashiers booth; then, an hour before closing, passing all the skimmed money in an envelope to Strelloff behind the bar, and finally Strelloff passing it to the courier at the end of the evening. Not every night, though; they were restricted by how often the courier could call. Two or three times a week by the looks of it; and, with the association, not at all suspicious that they would be there that often.
Malastra leant against the bar and looked back towards the two main cameras covering it. He hadn’t managed to pick up every envelope handover, but enough to piece together the pattern.
With a curt nod to Caccia, Malastra went back to his office and computer. After forty minutes of checking angles again and running through the dozen or so sequences where the images were clearest, he freeze-framed and printed off what he thought were the best shots, then picked up the phone and summoned Bye-Bye.
‘This is who we’re looking for,’ he said as Bye-Bye approached, passing across two photos. ‘That’ll then end this whole Jouliern saga. I want it done quick and so smooth and clean it’ll be like an oyster sliding down Pavarotti’s throat.’ He looked up sharply at Bye-Bye. ‘Understand?’
Bye-Bye nodded, studying the two photos. ‘Yeah, sure.’
‘And be careful on this one, don’t get complacent. With Jouliern gone, they might have guessed we’ll be coming for them. So they could well be looking out or have made some safeguards. Be prepared for that.’
40
Larry couldn’t take his eyes off Joshua. Not, he liked to think, because it was the last time he’d see the boy; but because he hadn’t seen him now for eleven months, and the boy had changed so much in that time.
He looked a good two inches taller, his voice a shade deeper, the look in his eye more thoughtful. Larry thought he could see the first shadow of the man that Joshua would become: kind, thoughtful, caring, but hopefully nobody’s fool. And maybe much of that had come about, that transformation starting so early, because he’d had to shoulder so much more than other boys of his age. The taunts, the different surrogate fathers, careful what he said between and about his real father and them in case it looked like favouritism; difficult, if not impossible, Larry thought, to get that balance right from what he’d read in Josh’s e-mails.
Or maybe that was all just wishful thinking, Larry projecting his thoughts because he knew now that he wouldn’t actually see how Josh turned out.
‘Come here!’ Trying to project too every ounce of love he’d missed giving the boy these past long years, and now the years to come, as he hugged him tight. Not wishing to smother Josh or make him feel too awkward, so letting him go sooner than he’d have liked; he could have stayed hugging Josh all day.
Francine looking on, her eyes glassy with emotion, her voice breaking slightly, ‘Oh, Larry… Larry,’ as she took Josh’s place and they embraced; though this time it was more her hugging Larry, patting his back a couple of times as if he were the child that needed consoling.
Then silence for a moment. Tense, uneasy silence. He’d covered most of the day-to-day, regular stuff by e-mail with Josh over the past few months — though Franny wasn’t to know that — and he and Franny hadn’t spoken for so long now, they hardly knew what to say to each other any more: casual, light stuff seemed too trivial given what he was facing, and the heavier stuff which might remind him of that or, worse still, tackled it directly, seemed just as bad. So they just sat there for a moment, in that silent gap in the middle.
They’d been allowed a cell near Haveling’s office for their final meeting so that they weren’t forced to just clasp fingers through the holes in a glass screen, and semi-privacy: the back of a guard’s head was just visible through the door’s open inspection hatch.
‘I appreciate you coming here today,’ Larry said finally. ‘I understand from Josh’s e-mail it wasn’t that easy. You had to lay it on the line with Frank.’
She nodded. ‘Yeah. Had to tell him straight-out: that’s it, we’re going… no point in arguing. It might be our…’ She broke off then, bit at her lip, realizing the minefield this conversation was going to be, but no other word that she could think of that wouldn’t sound pathetic or contrived. ‘Our last chance to see you.’ Her eyes glistening heavier, she closed them for a second, as if in apology for having said it.
‘That’s okay.’ Larry reached out and touched her shoulder. ‘Whatever the reasoning, I’m just glad to see you both here now.’