‘He’s going to come round here, too… asking you the same questions. But he’s not going to be nearly as nice as me. He’s going to have his hands round your throat and a gun in your face sooner than you can blink.’ Another faint flinch, her blinking a beat quicker. ‘And he’s not going to think twice about pulling the trigger.’
A faint swallow, Cynthia looking down rapidly, not wishing Jac to see that he’d struck a chord.
And as Jac looked down too, he noticed the open appointment diary before her, her arms on it, guarding. From upside down, he thought he could make out the word ‘ Rearranged’ and then another time written alongside on a few entries. He grabbed for the book to turn it his way, but she held on to it tight, and he had to twist and wrench hard, finally shoving her back with one forearm to wrestle it free.
He could now see more Rearranged’swith fresh times alongside, with some on the next page as he flicked over. Seven in all rearranged over the next three days, and she was probably working on the rest as he’d walked in.
‘So, now at least we know how long he’s going to be away — at least the three remaining days of this week. And with all those appointments rearranged for the end of next week and some the week after, maybe as long as a week.’ Jac raised an inquisitive eyebrow, but she just glared back at him, red-faced and slightly breathless from the brief tussle. ‘So now all that’s left to find out is wherehe’s gone?’
‘I don’t know, he… he didn’t tell me.’
But Jac could see that she was more hesitant, less sure of her ground; perhaps uncertain now, after their brief tussle, just how far he’d go to get the information. He gave the diary one more quick scan, an entry to one side hitting his peripheral vision, but not at that instant seeming relevant. He laid the diary back in front of Cynthia, leaning over again at the same time.
‘Come on, Cynthia… I don’t have time for any more of your fooling around.’ Three days. Larry would be dead by then! ‘I need to know where, where?’
She looked down awkwardly again, not wanting Jac to see what was in her eyes; or perhaps, in that instant, seeing in Jac’s eyes everything he’d been through: almost drowning in the lake, being framed for murder and hunted by the police, representing a man who he was sure was innocent now only a day and a half away from execution. Dawning on her then that having gone through all of that, he wasn’t simply, after a few trite fob-offs, going to walk away.
And as Jac looked down again, he noticed that Cynthia seemed to be more concerned with covering that side entry — that’s what she’d been covering before! From where he was, he’d been able to see the rearranged appointments. Shielding them hadn’t been as vital.
He yanked back at the appointment book, shoved her arm away from covering the entry, and read fully what before had only half registered:
Apartado 417, Sancti Spiritus, Cuba.
DHL: 8422016CS.
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’tfucking 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 iswhere 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.’