Finders Keepers, page 20
Back at the cabin, Flash sat in a wicker chair, watching the man’s face. He had poured a glass of cold water over Robbie’s head. The shock had brought him back for a moment, but soon he was out again. Robbie appeared to be in his forties—a white guy with freckles and curly red hair. He was gaunt, his cheekbones showing a two- or three-day stubble. He was wearing a wrinkled, flowered short-sleeve silk shirt and soiled blue Bermuda shorts with no shoes. His hands were small, a girl’s hands, with dirty long fingernails, a couple of them broken. His torso was boney, and he was breathing in short, shallow breaths, softly panting.
All Flash could do was watch and wait. He wondered what he would tell the cops when they arrived. In his other life, the one that had imploded, he hadn’t been a particularly impulsive person. He’d thought of himself as a reasoned and rational guy. And yet here he was, a once-rational man sitting in a remote hunting cabin on the side of a mountain on an island in the middle of the Pacific with a zoned-out junkie.
After Robbie was taken to the ambulance, Bob and Kellie did a preliminary search of the cabin while Flash waited to be questioned. Finally, the three of them were standing on the porch, preparing to walk back to the vehicles.
Kellie said, voice strained, “Well, not-a-cop Flash, what the hell are you up to?” She was pissed.
“I heard you were looking for Robbie Washburn. I know a guy who knows lots of people on the island and who knew about the hunting cabin, so I just thought I’d check it out. I was curious—no crime in that. Besides, I didn’t really expect that Robbie would be up here. Lucky I came, though. Otherwise, you might have had another corpse to deal with.”
“That’s bullshit,” barked Bob, standing shoulder to shoulder with Kellie. “Who the hell are you, anyway? What were you really doing up here? You got something going on with Robbie? Let me see your arms.” Bob reached out and grabbed Flash’s hand, slid the jacket sleeve up to examine Flash’s inner arm, first his right, then the left, then he pulled Flash’s shirt up looking at his stomach.
Flash remained passive. He couldn’t blame Bob for being suspicious.
With no obvious track marks on Flash, Bob said, “You could still be his buddy—or maybe an accomplice. Where were you the night Peterson was killed?”
Flash smiled. He couldn’t help himself.
Kellie said, “You know, Bob, I have a better idea. We need to interview him at the police station and get a full statement. We have too many unanswered questions about this guy and Robbie. We need to do this carefully, one question at a time. Come on. Let’s go, Flash. Get in the cruiser.”
For all their growling, they allowed Flash to go over and pay Pika for the ride—round trip, of course.
The session was more interrogation than questioning for the purpose of obtaining a statement. Flash refused to answer questions about his past. They told him they had followed up the red flag on his files and had been referred to the Seattle Police Department.
Yet Kellie and Bob still weren’t given any useful information about his identity. The Seattle police chief’s administrative assistant returned their call as a courtesy but stonewalled them. The one concession she made was a promise that if the red-flag status was removed, internal affairs would notify the Kauai police. She said she had made a note on the file in question and then abruptly signed off.
That goddamn red flag. Flash was left holding it, and Kellie and Bob were like marauding bulls. They hammered him about the Seattle police, why they might be involved, and why his fingerprints had led to them. Seattle police, Seattle police, Seattle police, over and over again, question after question.
But Flash knew how to protect himself in these situations. “I have nothing to say,” “No comment,” and “I don’t even know what you’re talking about,” over and over.
At a little after eleven, Flash signed his statement and was excused. He was exhausted, of course, but actually quite satisfied with his performance.
Kellie volunteered to take him back to Koloa, but Flash told her Pika was just a call away and he would prefer Pika’s company, even if he had to pay for it.
John Horan prided himself on having a compartmentalized mind. As he imagined it, each compartment was like a steel-walled, watertight section on an ocean liner. He believed he could, at will, move dangerous or disturbing memories out of the open spaces of his psyche into one of these partitions, and by turning a large steel wheel on the door, lock it shut, sealing the stories, memories, and past sins away—if need be, forever.
Once the section was shut, he imagined nothing could get in or out because he was a well-trained soldier, mentally and physically strong, certainly much stronger than anyone he’d ever known. This act of creative imagery was one of John’s several means of convincing himself that he wasn’t a psychopath.
No, he was an ultra-intelligent, supremely disciplined human being. Simple as that. He was so strong, he could release one of those threatening memories, let it out to wonder over for a while, and then, once aired, return it to its sealed chamber. All it took, all anything took, he believed, was inner strength and determination.
The other thing that set him apart from others was that most people were wimps. Everyone committed unforgivable sins, some much worse than his, but the wimps of the world cratered, and they were inevitably brought to their knees and punished. All the while, he continued to prosper—proof positive of his invincibility.
John saw Flash Michael as one of the wimps. In fact, Flash had turned out to be the perfect wimp. He had not only caved under pressure, but then he panicked and disappeared, gone forever. Even now, seven months after the robbery, if Flash were to come out of hiding, he would be arrested and probably convicted for John’s crime. Who could ask for more than that? Once again, John was bulletproof.
John was forty-six now, divorced, and planned to remain a cop for maybe three or four more years, then fake an inheritance or a successful investment, tap into his trust fund, and bail. This was to say he was cruising, biding his time until he would retire, so to speak, with a nine-million-dollar cushion.
Like many older men and women on the cusp of retirement, he was becoming a creature of habit. Of the many restaurants and bars he could frequent, four or five nights a week he found himself at Vito’s, an old Seattle landmark.
John always sat at the far end of the bar on an old wooden bar stool. That evening, he’d settled in with a bourbon on the rocks, then chatted with the bartender and one of the servers, just chilling out. The cop shop had not been particularly taxing. He was a lieutenant, so he told people what to do as opposed to doing the work itself. If you had to work, his was a good job, especially knowing that he didn’t need to climb the ladder anymore.
John ordered a second bourbon, and the bartender brought a menu with it, aware that John would order a meal and some wine next. John smiled to himself when he saw the menu, as if he needed one to order. He took a sip of his drink and pulled out his phone to check texts and his Gmail account.
“Jesus,” John said under his breath. “Jesus, Jesus, Jesus.”
“Something wrong, John?” asked the bartender.
“Ah, just bit of a surprise. You know, I don’t think I’m going to have dinner tonight. I have to take care of something. Could you run my tab?” John slid a credit card across, looking over the bartender’s shoulder at the mirror behind the bar and the display of reflected light from bottles, glasses, and a red-and-yellow neon Vito’s sign on the far wall.
“Well, I hope you get it taken care of, John. Here you go.”
John added a tip, hastily signed the tab, and walked out into the rain.
Back in his apartment, he pulled up the email and printed it. He needed to read it carefully and think. With the printed message in hand, he walked over to the couch facing a floor-to-ceiling window with a view of downtown Seattle, the lights and the goddamn rain, wondering what the hell had just happened to him.
To: John Horan
From: Tilly Good
Subj: Revenge is best served cold
Hello John,
This is me talking to you from beyond the grave. I know you murdered me. It had to be you, or someone hired by you. Of course, I don’t know how or where you killed me, but it doesn’t matter. I’m dead, and you did it.
Now, John, my death has set off a series of events that start today and end with your smug, cozy existence going right into the shitter.
Way back in the day, when you were debriefing me about the drug scene in Nevada, I remember answering a question about some complicated deal or another. You interrupted me to summarize what you thought I had said. What you repeated back to me pissed me off, because your summary was shit. It wasn’t what I’d said at all, so I went on a rant, correcting you. When I was done, your only comment was, “Oh, what a surprise, Tilly Good gets the last word—again.”
You were trying to hurt my feelings, and you did. Now it’s my turn, John—to hurt your feelings, I mean.
After you enlisted me to do the Neves Bank scam, I realized I might have made a big mistake. A million-dollar payday can do that to a girl. If I followed your instructions and rerouted the money, the way you planned it, I would end up being the one person on the planet who could ruin your life. How long would you, a bent cop, be willing to live with something like that over your head? Not very long, I figured. So while we were planning the heist, I decided to buy some insurance. If for some reason you turned on me, I could use the insurance to protect myself.
The mistake you made was to give me the coded instructions a week before I left for Neves. I took them to a pro, a hacker, and rejigged your instructions to shunt all of the money, the whole ten million, around the world a couple of times, landing it in my offshore account, not yours. Using the instructions you provided me, he traced the path to your supposedly secret trust fund. He then constructed a fake website that recreated your trust fund’s look and feel.
This phony site would act and appear exactly like your account. So when you used your codes to access your account, you would be bounced onto my hacker’s fake website. On the screen you’d see a balance of nine-million, you’d see fraudulent statements just like the real ones, and you’d feel good. You know, just like Bernie Madoff, all numbers but no real money. I was pretty sure you wouldn’t touch any of the money until you were clear of your cop job, but even if you had discovered my deception, I still had the money. Like I said, insurance.
So there you have it. I have all your money. Poor you, literally!
Don’t waste too much time feeling sorry for yourself, though, because the clock is ticking.
Take the date you received this email and add thirty days. That’s the day all hell breaks loose in your life. The Seattle Times will receive a document dump including my full and detailed confession about the theft, an affidavit that accuses you of my murder, along with copies of documents, emails, text streams, phone numbers, and call records—all of it, every incriminating scrap.
And just in case the Seattle Times tries a cover-up, complete copies of the package will simultaneously be transmitted to:
The Seattle Police Department, Chief Forsyth, and Internal Affairs,
Interpol’s Fraud and Money Laundering Task Force,
The FBI Washington office chief,
and Finnegan Michael.
I saved it all, John, just in case. Plenty of stuff to convict you of fraud, theft, and, if they’re willing to do a little footwork, murder.
The files are all locked and loaded, ready to be fired off in thirty days. Getting worried yet? I hope so.
While you ponder what to do next, you might also be curious about all that money. As you know, I’m dead, so ten-million wouldn’t do me any good buried in an inaccessible offshore account. But, hey, look at me now! I may be dead, but I’m playing with house funds. Why not put the money out there, somewhere hard to find, but close enough so you might be able to get your hands on it before you’re arrested, or not? Just like a treasure hunt, with real treasure.
Here’s a hint to get you started, you might look to your old buddy, Flash. Maybe he could help you. Oh, wait a minute, you screwed him over, too, and you don’t even know where he is. That’s too bad! Could anyone else help you?
No matter what you do, thirty days from now, everyone will know you’re a thief and a murderer, and the nasty old world you created will rise up to eat you alive. I’m looking forward to watching you suffer from wherever I may be.
Have fun out there. :)
Tilly Good
John was sitting in the dark. The printout of Tilly’s posthumous email, all three pages, lay on the coffee table in front of him.
He said, “Jesus, Tilly, aren’t you an unforgiving bitch!”
He stood up, went over to a liquor trolley against the wall, opened a bottle of Wild Turkey 101, poured a good two slugs into a square crystal rocks glass, and returned to the couch and the view. Watching raindrops break up the city lights, he took a big sip, held the glass in both hands, and said to himself, “Looks like I’m going to have to get really sick, fast.”
John took another sip, a longer one this time. “Tomorrow. Emergency sick leave, starting tomorrow. Gotta get that money back.” He stood, went over to the trolley for the bottle and put it on the table next to the couch, where he could reach it more easily.
CHAPTER 26
“I don’t believe it. This is ridiculous—absolutely outrageous. Kellie, what happened?”
“I’m sorry, I can’t explain it,” Kellie said, shaking her head. “Either way, we’ve had to disclose it to his lawyer, the jerk from Honolulu, and bingo, Keanu is off the hook. Charges dropped.”
After a run and a shower, Flash had joined Mia’s morning mafia at Kauai Roasters. That morning, he, Kellie, Emma, and Janet Nakamura were all gathered around an outside table.
Mia shook her head, scowling. As for himself, Flash was pretty sanguine about the missing narcotics. He knew stuff happened in an evidence lockup. Bureaucracy, lots of details, and every now and then stuff got lost.
Mia, however, was practically apoplectic. She looked over at Flash, squinting, and said, “Keanu’s free. Now what do we do to protect Paul?”
Perfume from the surrounding gardens hung in the air, competing with smells of coffee and fresh baking. The time was eight a.m., and Emma, dressed in a blue pantsuit, would be leaving soon for her office in Lihue. In uniform now, Kellie would leave to pick up her partner, Bob, by eight-twenty as they needed to report for duty at the station by eight-thirty sharp.
Janet, who was seated next to Mia, put her hand on Mia’s arm. “You know, Mia, Keanu was this close to a big boy jail sentence.” She held two fingers up a mere inch apart. “That ought to get his attention, no? He’s been warned not to go near Paul. So, I think he’ll stay clear, I really do. So why don’t we all calm down for a minute and try to get back to normal. Is Paul staying home for now?”
Emma nodded. “Yeah, Paul’s done a one-eighty, thanks to you, Janet. Oh, and you, too, Flash. Oh, gosh, you guys have been so great. And yeah, I think Keanu will stay away from Paul. As to whether Keanu has learned his lesson…” She shook her head and said, in a quieter voice, “I just don’t know.”
Kellie said, “Listen, we told Keanu and his lawyer, too, if Keanu even approaches Paul, we’ll charge him in a heartbeat. I don’t think he wants to return to the correction unit.”
Kellie turned to Mia. “We’ll be watching him, I promise.” Kellie patted Mia’s hand with hers, then took a sip of her mocha. She smiled and wiped her mouth with a napkin.
Mia said, “Okay, maybe, okay. But Keanu. I don’t like him. And what was that Allen woman doing anyway, hiring the big-shot guy and coming to Keanu’s rescue? And drugs, Kellie, what about the drugs? We’re not used to illegal drugs here. What’s going on with that?”
“Good question,” said Flash, watching Kellie to see how she would react. She didn’t offer an opinion, however, which for a cop on the case was the right way to go. The more pertinent question for Flash, though, was what were Keanu and Sachiko up to? Maybe he’d do a little reconnoitering at Keanu’s house and then drive out to Princeville—just for a look-see.
A cellphone beeped. Kellie picked hers up from the table. “This is Kellie.” She bowed her head and pressed the phone tightly against her ear. Something was wrong. She nodded a couple of times, then shook her head slowly and said in a low voice, “Oh, no, okay. I’ll pick up Bob, and we’ll be right there, fifteen minutes max.” Putting her phone in her pocket, she rose and pushed back her chair. “Ah, look, I’ve got to go. See you all soon.”
Mia said, “What is it, Kellie? You look awful.”
“A boy, seventeen, dead of an overdose. Found this morning in Nawiliwili Park. I’ve got to go.”
Today was shaping up to be a troubled day in paradise.
Sachiko said, “I’ll get the cash.” They were seated at a round wooden table in the garden.
Keanu snorted. “You can get twenty grand?”
“Yeah, I can.” Sachiko’s eyes met Keanu’s. Well, she thought, now is as good a time as any. “My money, so you understand I’m the boss.”
“What? Bullshit! This is my deal. I done all the fuckin’ work. I’m the boss!”
“Fine, boss. Where are you going to get twenty-thousand dollars?”
Keanu looked stunned. What an idiot. She smiled. “Well, where are you going to get the money, big boy?”
He frowned, his lips pressed tight, his hands joined on the table, his biceps moving as he squeezed his fingers. Sachiko could just make out his pulse beneath his tight puka-shell necklace. His hair was thick, black, and combed back, shinning in the morning sun. He certainly cleans up well, she thought. Too bad he’s such a numbskull.
“Look, admit it, you can’t do this without me. I’m the boss, or you have no deal. Now that we’ve settled that—”
