False Move, page 12
‘That’s the thing you’re missing, Teresa. You were only a little girl. You’re recalling events through a little girl’s eyes but juxtaposing an adult’s take on those memories now.’
‘My most vivid earliest memories are those of trauma. I remember when I first fell off a swing and broke my collarbone, and when Alex threw a Frisbee at me and cut my forehead; I remember trapping my fingers in the car door that time we vacationed at Cape Cod; and I remember dad yanking me out of Aaron Lacey’s arms with such force and anger that I cried for an hour after.’
‘You make it sound as if you had a terrible childhood.’
‘That’s not what I mean. I do have happy memories too, but they’re fuzzier; they didn’t make such a lasting impression on me. As humans we’re wired-up to remember the things that hurt us most, so that we don’t repeat our mistakes; it’s how we learn.’
‘Spare me the psychology lesson, Teresa.’
‘Mom, stop dodging the question. Just tell me the truth. I need to know if you ever cheated with Aaron Lacey.’
‘No!’ Barbara’s reply rang sharp. ‘Is that good enough for you, or are you going to continue making these hurtful accusations?’
‘Did something else happen between you then? Is that it? Was he interested in you even if you never reciprocated his advances?’
‘He was your granddad’s patrol partner,’ Barbara stated, ‘and a friend of the family. We often had occasion where we met, but no, there was nothing funny going on. By God, Teresa, how on earth did you get the idea I cheated on your dad?’
‘If you didn’t have a thing with him, can you explain why Aaron should keep a photograph of you next to his bed? You never … you know, after my dad died …’
‘I have not laid eyes on Aaron, as I told you before, since we moved from New York. And, no, I cannot, and will not even try to, explain why he’d have a photo of me. To be quite honest, Teresa, I’m tired of defending myself, and am not prepared to do so any longer. I’ll speak with you when you’re home, and you’d best get these silly notions out of your head before I see you.’
Barbara canceled the call.
Tess dropped the phone and cupped her face in her palms.
If she could weep, she would have, but no tears would come. Her mind and heart felt equally hollow.
Po exited the bathroom, came round the bed and sat alongside her. His bare arm slipped around her shoulders. He waited in respectful silence until she was ready. Finally she raised her face an inch, took his fingers in her right hand and gave them a gentle squeeze.
‘I guess that didn’t go so well?’ he said.
‘I’d say it went horribly right, and I wish to God it hadn’t.’
‘Tell me.’
‘I’ve interviewed enough people in my time to tell when they’re lying. My mom was lying through her teeth.’
‘I wasn’t tryin’ to eavesdrop, but, well, you got kinda riled up, and these hotel walls are thin. Are you sayin’ that your mom and Lacey did have an affair?’
‘Yes. I don’t believe my mother’s lies, any more than I did Holbrook’s earlier.’ Her voice grew reed thin. ‘What if … I don’t even want to think about it, but what if I’ve been lied to all my life?’
‘In what way?’
‘Po, you know what I’m saying.’
His embrace tightened around her shoulder. ‘I don’t see it, Tess. You and your brothers, you’re the spitting image of each other.’
‘Alex and I look alike; we both have our mom’s colouring. But Alex also looks like my dad, he’s got his height and build, his mannerisms, and Michael Jnr is Dad’s mirror image. But I don’t recognize anything of my father when I look in a mirror. With her hair dyed blond these days, I see more of me in Stella than in either of my brothers.’
‘You’re not Aaron Lacey’s daughter. Get that idea outta your head.’
‘That’s the thing, Po, I’m finding it difficult.’ She showed him the Polaroid, even as she once again replayed the events at the graveside through her mind, where it was almost as if she was a possession being fought over. ‘Lacey didn’t only keep a picture of my mom close to hand, I’m in it too.’
TWENTY-TWO
With a thick wad of bills in his pocket, Lacey returned home to his apartment, too tired to conduct counter surveillance techniques. He was under no illusion: using his cards to withdraw cash was about the most stupid thing he could do, but there was no other option. If he’d been ten years younger and fitter, and not carrying wounds, he might have taken a different approach to refilling his wallet. Back in the day, there were times when he’d rolled drug dealers for some of their takings rather than arrest them, and not a damn one of them had dared make a complaint when they’d have been incriminating themselves. He was never greedy, he only skimmed a wedge off the top and let them keep their product, but it only took a few shakedowns per week to earn him some walking round money his wife was unaware of, or to keep up the rent on his hidey-hole. Back then he’d been extremely careful about keeping his lair a secret, and he was even more so now he was in real danger. But after tramping all over Midtown, spreading his ATM visits wide enough that he could be hiding anywhere on the island, he was fit to drop and wanted only to lie down and take the weight off his knees. Elite’s analysts might be able to monitor his credit card usage, but they weren’t the NSA. Even if they were on to him right that minute, analyzing where he’d used the cards, they didn’t have a fucking spy satellite overhead to track him home. They’d have to mobilize their assets, put boots on the ground, and that would take time. He was confident he needn’t have to worry about a team running him down this evening, and it’d be some time after before they looked for him on his side of town. By then, his get-rich plan would be in play, and he’d be long gone.
As he’d walked he’d chugged down more of the pills given to him by Doc Grover, but their painkilling efficiency didn’t equal the exertion, and the ache in his knees had become a red haze of agony spreading from his legs to his throbbing skull. He was hot too and sweating, and wasn’t fully sure if that was through effort alone, but more to do with a fever. The wounds in his side were tight and itchy, and damp: he was bleeding again.
Doc Grover had warned him about overexertion, but people who wanted his head weren’t currently hunting Grover, and neither had the doc been down to the last few brown cents in his pocket. His energy output would be tested again this evening, because he fully intended a second visit to Si Turpin’s workshop. Now he had some considerable green in his wallet, he felt he could entice the hacker to join him in his blackmail plot better than the promise of decent alcohol could.
At the same convenience store as before, he bit down on his discomfort while he bought supplies, as he hadn’t consumed anything substantial since the glugs of Mountain Dew earlier. A good meal and a hot drink inside him and he would feel much better for the trek back to Turpin’s place. Leaving the store, he made a half-assed attempt at covering his tracks again, completing a shambling circuit of the block, before dipping into the stairwell of his building and trudging upstairs to his apartment. He set his groceries down and collapsed on his couch. That bells-and-whistles smart kettle Stella bought him would have come in handy just then, because he’d barely the energy to rise again and get some water boiling, but it was gathering dust over at his official family home. He’d fill the plastic kettle he kept here in a minute, once he’d rested his sore knees, and put something in the microwave to heat up, he decided, and instantly fell asleep, his snores rattling the windows in their frames.
While he slept in blissful ignorance, other players in his story moved towards him, Tess and Po by road, Hayden James and his team by air, following separate trails of breadcrumbs, all of whom were more than a step further ahead than he could have known and, worse still, Lacey should have promised more than champagne to a guy who couldn’t tolerate the stuff.
TWENTY-THREE
It was one thing playing nice to Aaron Lacey’s face, treating him as if they were old buddies, but that couldn’t be further from the truth. Lacey’s relationship to Si Turpin was based on a debt Si was never allowed to pay off. He’d been kept on the bastard’s leash so he could be snapped to attention whenever Lacey called. They acted pleasant in each other’s company, but Si was under no illusion: the ex-cop thought he was a dirt bag and he’d be tossed aside when he was of no further use. Yeah, both of them smiled and played nice, but each thought the other was shit. He didn’t buy Lacey’s parting promise of throwing more work his way, none that’d prove lucrative to him at any rate. For sure, Lacey’s fingers were dug deep in somebody else’s pie, but Si wouldn’t get as much as a lick of the ex-cop’s dirty fingers afterward. Lacey would screw him on the deal, squirreling away any percentage of an illegal take promised to Si, and how could he ever complain?
Allegedly Lacey still held onto historical evidence of Si’s illegal activities, but so fucking what! They were so dated most of the old spinsters he’d scammed of their savings were probably dead, or their memories too scrambled in their dotage to call as witnesses if ever a case was brought against him. When he thought about it, any leverage Lacey held had lost its efficacy when he’d retired from the NYPD. He bet if he’d called his bluff before this, Lacey would’ve had no option but cut his losses, walk away and never darken his workshop again. He didn’t owe Lacey any loyalty, and certainly no respect. In fact, Lacey was due a fucking-over for the way he’d squeezed Si’s balls all these years.
Years ago, Lacey must have engaged another hacker to gather the info he’d subsequently used to blackmail Si into being his tech bitch, because the fucker didn’t have a clue when it came to technology. So, when he’d shown up, clutching that thumb drive as if it were a winning Lotto ticket, Si had instantly figured there was something on it he intended using to blackmail somebody else. The stupid analogue dinosaur had no idea that it was as easy for Si to make himself a copy of the files as it was to download onto those cheap-assed flash drives he’d handed over. He’d barely been able to contain a smile of triumph when he lied to Lacey about removing the passwords and encryption from his copies. In fact he’d inserted into each, as well as the original, a self-destruct virus that’d corrupt the data the instant they were slotted into any device.
After Lacey limped off down his stairs, Si had instantly shut up shop for the day, and brought up the files ripped from the original flash drive. When Lacey, or whoever he’d coerced into helping him, downloaded the raw data, they hadn’t been selective; they’d just copied everything held on a particular server. Whatever there was of importance was hidden among reams of irrelevant crap he had to sift through. There were audio and video files, and also data logs recording the relevant dates, times and duration of each, plus serial numbers cross-referencing to further connected files, some of them recording subsequent follow-up communications.
In the dimness of his workshop, Si scrutinized various files, growing quickly frustrated. He felt like a voyeur with a fetish for the mundane – until he stumbled over a certain audio file bearing a person’s name that tugged at him in familiarity. Initially he thought the name couldn’t be that of the man he was thinking of, that it was simply a coincidence. But these files had been stolen from a security consultancy that probably had equally important clients on their list.
Not a little star-struck, his nerves trembling throughout his body, Si adjusted his earphones and turned up the volume, and heard the first bleats of a Hollywood superstar better known for on-screen tough-guy roles. At first Si struggled to associate the panic-stricken squawk with the testosterone-fuelled on-screen persona he’d grown used to from a series of back-to-back action blockbusters, but … Holy shit! That was A-list movie star Jon Cutter, begging some guy called Holbrook to collectively save his career, his reputation and his ass from serious jail time!
He grew jittery as he listened to the call, and was sick with trepidation by the time it ended. That, of course, didn’t stop him from sorting through the cross-referenced files and pulling them all together in one place. He clicked on a video file, but dithered over letting it play. Once seen, it couldn’t be unseen. But Si Turpin was a guy who’d witnessed the worst that the Internet could offer, and he couldn’t halt the impulse. He hit play … and afterwards knew he’d never be able to enjoy a Jon Cutter movie again, not now that his heroic status was tarnished. Fuck tarnished! His image had been painted pitch black.
Si checked the date embedded in the file: the damming video had been recorded on the cusp of Cutter’s rise to superstardom. Had its contents been leaked, he’d have been destroyed, and so too would have the multi-billion dollar machine he’d subsequently grown into. That’s where Elite Custodian Services had stepped in.
Ben Holbrook had made the threat to Cutter disappear, but it was at a heavy cost. A ‘consultancy retainer’ amounting to ten percent of Cutter’s gross income between the conspirators, and Elite had grown wealthy as Cutter’s star power exploded into supernova.
Si’s left arm tingled. There was a sharp constriction of his chest. His heart fluttered. For years he’d been warned to lose a few dozen pounds, to avert the cardiac arrest written in his future, but his physiological reaction wasn’t to a failing heart or blocked artery, it was fear. The magnitude of what he’d learned was alarming, but also … exhilarating. There was nothing that excited Si Turpin more than being the recipient of a windfall that’d change his miserable life. Earlier he’d sneered at the thought of Lacey holding a winning Lotto ticket, but – by fuck! – Si had just snatched the winnings out of the bastard’s dirty fingers.
That was, supposing, Si had the courage to make an enemy of the ex-cop. To hell with Lacey! If Si played things right, he could disappear to somewhere hot, where he could laze away his days sipping ice-cold mojitos – Lacey could shove his champagne up his ass – out of reach of anything Lacey could do or say to hurt him in revenge. The question was how to work this to his advantage?
Some of the newspapers or news syndicates would pay dearly to break this story, but that’d mean blowing the story worldwide, and that did not protect Si’s anonymity: he wanted to spend his new wealth without the intrusion of cameras and journalists. He could go direct to source and blackmail the shit out of Jon Cutter, but who knew the kind of complication that might bring down on him. No, his best move here was to go back to source: he’d bet Ben Holbrook would pay a finder’s fee to anyone who could save his company from burning by returning the incendiary evidence.
He considered avenues through which he’d make first contact; an email from an anonymous Hotmail account; an encrypted voicemail message; but decided those methods were too slow for his timetable. He had to strike before Aaron Lacey got his dumb ass together and set to extorting Elite. From the clutter he kept in his workshop he selected a burner phone, an old cheap model cell, certain that Ben Holbrook would welcome a personal call from one who’d end his troubles at a bargain price.
TWENTY-FOUR
‘Come here and show me some love, Pretty Tess. It has been far too long!’
Pinky Leclerc enfolded her in an embrace, squashing her against him as he danced in place. It was his manner to be magnanimous with his affection. Tess hugged him in return, but even she could sense the tenseness in her frame. It had been too long since last she’d seen Pinky, and there was a part of her that was overjoyed by his presence, but the recent discussion with her mom played heavily on her. She’d yet to meet Stella’s smile of greeting, for fear she saw too much of herself smiling back. Pinky set her down, and held her under his gaze. He cocked his head to one side.
‘What’s wrong, you?’ he mildly scolded. ‘You look like you’ve lost ten bucks and found a nickel, instead of the ton of gold that is Pinky, me!’
She forced him a smile. ‘It’s wonderful to see you, Pinky. It’s not you; I’m just extremely tired. It’s been a couple of trying days.’
‘I blame that brutish oaf Nicolas, he’s no good for you, him. I beg you again, leave him and run away with Pinky. I know how to treat a lady, me.’
‘I might need readin’ glasses but there’s nothin’ wrong with my ears,’ Po announced as he carried in their overnight bags. ‘I hope you haven’t been flirtin’ with Stella like that since you arrived; I’m not sure her husband will be as understanding as me.’
‘I’m always the model of a gentleman, me,’ Pinky claimed, before aiming a grandiose wink at Stella, ‘unless you fancy an affair with a bad boy, eh? Haha!’
Stella’s chuckle and corresponding wink said Pinky’s flamboyant and shameless manner had ingratiated him with her – as Tess promised it would. Pinky grinned, and had Po in a hug before he could even set down their bags.
‘Thanks for comin’, bra,’ said Po the second they parted.
‘Hey, try keeping me away, you. You now there’s nothing more I love than the company of beautiful women … and one boorish Cajun in particular.’
‘Any trouble?’ Po asked.
‘Only if you count finishing the incredible meal my lovely hostess cooked me; y’know, I’m watching that one, Nicolas, I’m sure Stella’s fattening me up for the kill.’ He cupped his belly and jiggled it up and down for effect.
Po appraised him. ‘You’ve lost weight.’
‘Have not.’
‘Have so.’ Po studied him squarely. ‘You’re looking a little pale, you haven’t been overdoin’ things lately?’
‘Nicolas, I’m fat as a bull and black as night; you need to throw away those glasses and wear a stronger prescription, my friend.’
Their friendly jibes would sound insulting to anyone who didn’t know them, but Tess was used to their ways. Except this time she wasn’t fully convinced that Po was joking. Pinky’s features looked slightly drawn, with spots of grey in the hollows of his cheeks and there was less animation in his brown eyes than usual. She’d say something was troubling him and had been for a while. Ordinarily she’d try to get to the bottom of it, to help take the weight off his mind and alleviate his concern, but her own thoughts sapped her energy. She wanted only to sleep, hoping that when she woke again her mom’s lies could be consigned as figments of a lucid and discomfiting dream. After speaking with her on the phone the notion of resting was impossible, and Po’s suggestion of immediately driving down to Manhattan had seemed like a better idea than before; it had given her time to mull things over as he concentrated on the roads: her mind had got to a point where darkness settled in at the edges, but it hadn’t helped blunt the disbelief or, yes, the disappointment, at what she’d concluded about her mom’s faithlessness to her dad. If she rested now, she expected any sleep would be fraught with similar disturbing thoughts.
