‘I hear what you’re saying,’ Jac said, and even if Truelle did finally break now, Candaret might say exactly the same when he laid it all before him: ‘ This is all very well, Mr Ayliss, but the DNA evidence puts Durrant there. There’s no other possible explanation: he killed Jessica Roche.’ Jac took a fresh breath. ‘But if they can set Durrant up so perfectly with everything you’ve helped them with — then I’m sure they also worked out how to set up the DNA evidence. Only nobody’s worked out how yet.’
Further adrift… Truelle clinging so hard, his nails dug painfully into one thigh. He stood up abruptly. ‘I’d like you to leave now, Mr Ayliss. I believe we’ve discussed everything we have to.’ Get Ayliss clear of his office before he fell apart completely.
‘I know it’s hard to face.’ Jac grimaced tautly. ‘But deep down you know the truth of what’s happened here, Mr Truelle. And you’re probably the onlyperson left now that might be able to save Larry Durrant.’
Last few fingers wrenched loose… sailing free. Truelle didn’t respond directly or even look at Ayliss, simply buzzed on his intercom. ‘Mr Ayliss is leaving now, Cynthia.’ And put the hand quickly back on his desktop, bracing as he felt himself sway slightly, as if he’d been drinking.
Jac wrote down his Ayliss cell-phone number and slid it across. ‘And remember, be careful where you call from with anything too juicy or incriminating. Your phones might well be bugged.’ He slipped Malley’s photo into the envelope and looked back from the doorway as Cynthia held the door open. ‘It’s not going to simply go away, or be any easier to face in front of the DA. Especially with five years hanging over your head.’ Jac smiled tightly and waved the envelope. ‘Twenty-four hours — again, purely as a courtesy. Then I go to him with all this.’
Nel-M had been tapping his fingers so incessantly against the steering wheel, he could feel them starting to go numb. Where the fuck was she? Already twenty-five minutes Ayliss had been in there, and still no sign of her.
He had her number from her last call, and called it back.
‘Hi again,’ Melanie Ayliss said. ‘I shouldn’t really be talking on this now.’
‘Why’s that?’
‘You know, while I’m driving.’
‘I thought you’d be jumping in a cab?’
‘I’d already booked this from back in Portland… didn’t take long to get the paperwork done.’
Nel-M closed his eyes. No wonder Ayliss had fucking divorced her! He felt like screaming, I thought I told you it was urgent!.. but no point in alienating her. He took a fresh breath. ‘He’s still here — but maybe not for much longer. Where are you now?’
‘On Simon Bolivar… just crossed Melpomene.’
Six or seven minutes, thought Nel-M. No more.
‘Okay. See you soon.’
But just as it hit the six minute mark, he saw Ayliss head out of Truelle’s office towards his car. Nel-M phoned again, a couple of rings before it answered, Ayliss already back at his car, getting in.
‘He’s just leaving!’ Nel-M’s voice sharp with immediacy.
‘But I’m right there.’
‘Where?’
‘On Canal Street… just turning into Royal.’
‘What car have you got?’
‘Uuuh… Blue Chevy Metro.’
Ayliss starting up, looking around, pulling out.
And Nel-M spotted her then: Blue Metro, brown-haired woman at the wheel with a cell-phone in her hand.
‘He’s just pulled out!’ Nel-M screamed. ‘Grey Buick Century… heading your way.’
‘What? Where… where?’
The woman frantically scanning the road ahead as she assimilated the information, Ayliss’s car twenty-five yards away at that point, starting to pick up speed.
And at only ten yards away, she finally spotted him, her eyes locking fully on the car and Ayliss inside as they came alongside. Her eyes went wide for a second, and then she did something foolish — although nothing would have surprised Nel-M about her by that stage. She braked. Hard.
The car behind, a Dodge Dakota, didn’t have a chance, crushing most of the back of the Metro into a concertina. Nel-M closed his eyes and cringed; and when he opened them again, it wasn’t pretty. Though she still looked alive. Just.
Ayliss had kept going, might not have even noticed the conflagration twenty yards behind him. Quick decision to make: head into Truelle’s office and pull out fingernails until he found out what had happened, or keep tailing Ayliss? The sound of a distant siren made his mind up: there’d be a scene here now, police cars arriving at any second. He could catch up with Truelle later and, besides, he’d need Ayliss’s whereabouts for when his ex got out of the hospital.
Nel-M swung out to follow Ayliss, but at that moment the man driving ahead decided to stop to assist the accident victims, his car blocking the road.
‘Out the fucking way!’ Nel-M screamed, his head out the window. ‘You fucking numb-brained mor-’ Nel-M’s voice trailed off as he saw a squad car ahead turn into the road.
Nel-M looked over his shoulder, one arm across the passenger seat as he did a hasty three-point turn, praying that he was able to get around the block quick enough not to lose Ayliss.
The perfect set-up.
Over a couple of shots of Jim Beam, which rapidly became three, four, five and more, Leonard Truelle pondered whether Darrell Ayliss’s claim might be right.
In the very beginning, he’d had strong doubts, but he’d had little choice then: Raoul Ferrer’s hefty street debt one side, which they offered to clear, his drink problem and the threat of exposure and getting struck off, the other; then the final sweetener on top: $250,000. On one side crushing problems, on the other all the decks cleared and a hefty chunk of cash on top.
But when they’d still sensed some reluctance from him, they’d started piling it on about Durrant being guilty in any case. Adelay Roche had put feelers out on the criminal network, and Durrant’s name was the main one to come back as having killed his wife. But the coma and selective memory situation had conveniently blotted it out. The police couldn’t even apply standard question and interrogation tactics in such a situation, and in any case simply didn’t have enough evidence to haul him in.
Truelle had offered to get the information out of Durrant conventionally, but they’d said no. Too risky. If he’d blotted out the recall, or his memory of it was sketchy, the police still wouldn’t have enough to nail him. And with taped sessions, they couldn’t later go back and add or embellish; then it wouldlook suspicious, as if the memory had been falsely embedded.
No, allthe details had to be there, so there was no possible error or come-back. That’s what they were paying for: over $400,000 with Ferrer’s debt.
He should have pulled out right then, but the money and all his problems cleared at the same time was just too tempting.
And so he’d gone along with it, used the next session to condition Durrant: ‘ You went to a house that night on Coliseum Street, Lawrence… large antebellum mansion in the Garden District with grand white columns on its front portico. You know the type. It was a planned house robbery, Lawrence, and you felt guilty about it because you’d promised your wife not to commit any more robberies. And unfortunately, while you were there a woman was still in the house that you didn’t know about…. and it all went wrong… terribly wrong…’
A masterful mix of what he’d been fed from Roche and Nel-M, along with what he knew himself about Durrant’s background.