‘Okay. Sorry.’
Then only two days later, when he’d all but given up on it, Malastra saw the news item on Jac McElroy, lawyer to Larry Durrant, Jessica Roche’s murderer of twelve years ago. But what piqued Malastra’s interest was the victim’s name, Gerald Strelloff. It rang a bell, and minutes later he found it on his computer. Strelloff had worked as a barman at the Bay-Tree at the time of the scam, and the ex-girlfriend named in the news bulletin as part of the love triangle that led to the murder, Alaysha Reyner, still worked at one of his clubs, Pinkies.
Then Malastra recalled that Nel-M had phoned him when he’d first latched on to Jouliern’s scam to apologize for Raoul Ferrer’s hit. A coincidence, maybe, but it left Malastra with an uneasy feeling.
Maybe that’s how Jouliern had done it? Instead of handing to the courier directly, he’d used the barman, Gerry Strelloff. Countless conversations between them every week, and numerous papers and envelopes with till receipts and stock re-order lists passed between them — the ideal cover.
But then Strelloff would also have been searched in and out of the casino, so would have needed someone else to pass on to. Malastra got back to his computer and started searching for the person Strelloff might have used.
Over the following forty-eight hours, Lieutenant Jerome Derminget’s department fielded over twenty possible sightings of Jac McElroy. Seventy percent of them could be discounted straightaway, and of the remaining thirty percent they followed up, only one sounded like it might be bona fide: an elderly farm cooperative worker from a small settlement out by the Great River Road.
If McElroy had got a lift at the Morrison Interchange, as they suspected, then the timing of the sighting coincided with when he might have been dropped off in that area.
But the man didn’t phone in with the sighting until the next morning when he first saw a news report, and by then, understandably, McElroy had long gone from the area. Though what most worried Derminget was that McElroy seemed to have disappeared from every other area. From the other suspected sightings, a couple of close-but-no-cigars, the rest had been a mile off the mark.
Broughlan had been screaming for results, yet with each passing hour the chances of finding McElroy were looking slimmer. After twenty-four hours with no more firm sightings, despite McElroy’s face appearing on every local news bulletin and in the newspapers, the first real concerns began to fester at the Eight District station house. After forty-eight hours still with nothing, it was all but officiaclass="underline" Jac McElroy had disappeared from the face of the earth. Had without doubt left the State, if not the country.
‘He was incredible. Fuckin’ awesome. The Zoro of how to cream the BOP with a few swift strokes.’ Rodriguez mimed two elaborate sword strokes with one hand.
Rodriguez was holding court in the prison canteen the morning after the BOP hearing, and had the attention of everyone at his long table, with some heads also turned from the tables each side. ‘First thing is he gets her to repeat her beef, which o’ course straight-off gets her more shaky of her ground. Then, like he was doing her a favour, he cuts in halfway and says he knows and respects the point she’s makin’ and is glad she’s raised it. “Only someone as astute as yourself, Mrs Elleridge, would pick up on the worrying sub-text of Mr Durrant’s articles in the way you have”.
‘He’s laying on the compliments like thick treacle to soften her up, and she’s blushin’ and so open to anything by now that she might as well have her panties down by her ankles. So then he gives her the first test jab, sayin’ that he’s sure that’s not what Larry Durrant meant by that article. “What makes you say that?” she quizzes, knees twitchin’ now, worried that she might have made a big mistake leaving herself so open. But it’s too late; with a little teasin’ smile, he rams home wit’ the “Fuck you”, says that if she noticed in the article, Durrant uses the third person throughout: he sites Texas statutes regarding Mary-Beth Fuller, and his own lawyer with culpability doubts in his own case. At no time does he express those opinions as his own.
‘She starts splutterin’…. “That as may be…” realizin’ now that she’s gettin’ fucked, but not sure how to stop it — and he rams home with the final killer stroke.’ Rodriguez did another sword swipe in the air to accompany his hip thrust. ‘“And that’s supported too by what, from his files, Mr McElroy was faced with when he first saw Larry Durrant.” “What was that?” she asks, wide open again — this girl jus’ wouldn’ learn.’ Rodriguez smiled crookedly and shook his head. ‘ “The fact that at that point Durrant said he wanted to die — didn’t want a plea made on his behalf”.
‘Mr Smooth-southern-ass then looks at the panel long and hard, and says: “Now you can’t get more accepting of guilt than that. You see, it’s not Larry Durrant himself who’s questioned his guilt or felt that his life might be worth pleading for — it’s his lawyers: Mr Coultaine, Mr McElroy, and now myself. And if we’ve been wrong in doing that, then I humbly apologize”.’ Rodriguez was in his element playing to his audience, laying on a thick southern accent for Ayliss and switching to high and squeaky for beehive Elleridge. Rodriguez punched a fist skyward as he finished. ‘Fuckin’ ace!’
Peretti was the first to show his support by slapping the flat of one hand against the table with a ‘Yeah, yeah,’ which set off more table-slapping along with some ‘Wuh-wuh’ frat-boy monkey chants, Rodriguez taking a quick bow before he caught the quizzical glare from Elden on guard duty at the far end.
But as Rodriguez sat back down, the clamour as quickly dying, he knew that it was mainly bravado to fire everyone up, kid them, and himself, that there was still strong hope left. Drag them away from the reality: only eight days left now for Larry, and little hope.
‘Okay. Give me the low-down.’ Roche wheezed heavily into the phone, the panic of the past forty-eight hours and the nervous anticipation waiting for Nel-M’s call back weighing like a rock in his chest. ‘What have you been able to find out about him?’
‘Darrell Christopher Ayliss. One of Mike Coultaine’s old colleagues from way back. One of the best criminal lawyers in Mississippi at the time. We’re talking almost twenty years back to seven years ago, late-nineties — before he went to Mexico.’
‘Mexico?’
‘Yeah, that’s where he hi-tailed it to after his divorce. Messy business. On top of the half, his wife wanted a big chunk of his new partnership. He said, Fuck it, in that case there is no partnership. Headed to Puerto Vallarta and started selling real estate and handling some conveyance for Americans buying there. He sent her maintenance, though not what she was claiming, plus presents and money for their daughter Christmas and birthdays. She apparently pursued him for the extra money for a while, then gave up the ghost when she moved to Oregon a few years back.’
‘Is that why maybe he feels it’s safe to come back here now?’
‘Maybe. But if that’s the case, it was a sudden decision. Like the minute that Coultaine got on the phone and said he needed help, Ayliss was on the next plane. Because from what I can find out, up until now he’s been in Mexico.’
Roche chewed the information over for a moment, his breath falling more steadily. ‘So he owes Coultaine a favour or two, or they’re close enough for that?’
‘Uh-huh. Ayliss was with Bowyer and Turnbull in Jackson before, then did a two-year stint with Payne, Beaton and Sawyer. That’s where he and Coultaine first met — and when Ayliss went back to Jackson to start up a partnership, they kept in contact. And obviously they have since, too.’
‘One of the best criminal lawyers at the time, you say?’
‘From what I hear. Of those in the early nineties tipped to be the next F. Lee Bailey, Ayliss was a prime contender.’ From Roche’s more troubled breathing at the other end, that obviously wasn’t what he wanted to hear. Nel-M forced a tentative chuckle. ‘But after eight years selling condos in Mexico, he’s probably as rusty as shit.’