Paul Cleave - Collecting Cooper

Adrian also feels betrayed. He knew the woman would let Cooper out of his cell, and what Cooper did next was going to impact their relationship. If he tried to escape, it meant he didn’t really like Adrian at all, and that everything he had said was a lie. The killing brought them closer, but the betrayal has driven them apart. He guesses that means he’s exactly where he was in the beginning.

He finishes breakfast but doesn’t go downstairs. He cleaned up the mess last night. He wrapped the body in an old blanket and took her around the back to bury her with the others. He doesn’t want to face Cooper right now. He’s still too annoyed at him. And anyway, he’s got other plans for this morning-he has some digging to do, and maybe some collecting too.

Donovan Green doesn’t look like he’s had any sleep since the last time I saw him. He hasn’t changed either. His hair is a mess and his eyes are red and keep flicking left and right as if he’s being followed. He looks like he’s just walked out of a bar where he’s been holed up for the last twelve hours drinking hard.

“Here’s the money,” he says, handing me an envelope. When it comes to finding your daughter, there’s no limit to what you’ll spend. “What’s the lead?”

“Cooper Riley wrote a book,” I tell him. “It may have something in it we can use.”

“It’s five thousand dollars for a book?”

“It is for this one. I’ll call you later on today.”

He seems about to argue the point, that he wants to hang around and watch me work, but in the end he just nods slowly. He’s a broken man holding out the kind of hope that may kill him if things don’t work out the way he needs them to.

“The sketch in the news,” I say, “you recognize him?”

“Looks like the prime minister.”

“You know if the police have shown it to Emma’s flatmates and friends?”

“One of them thought it was their cousin Larry. I told you she was still alive, and the photos prove it,” he says. “I know you think things might have changed since they were taken, but they haven’t. She’s alive and I can feel it,” he says, and I really hope that he can. “She’s strong,” he tells me. “You know that for a fact. She survived what you did to her, and she’ll survive what’s being done to her now. She can talk her way out of anything.”

I hope she can. I hope she has the ability to talk.

“My wife, Hillary,” he says, “she was always the strong one. Last year, when you hurt Emma, my wife was a rock. I was the one falling apart. This time, Jesus, she’s a mess. All she does is sit in Emma’s old room holding on to some of the clothes Emma left behind when she moved out. Hillary is the strongest woman I know, but this. . if we don’t get Emma back alive,” he says, “she’s. . she’s. . I don’t know. I just don’t know,” he says, shaking his head. “Just. . just find her, okay? Find her alive. Please, I’m begging you, find my daughter alive.”

I want to tell him that’s exactly what I’m going to do. I want to tell him he can tell his wife everything is going to be okay, because by the end of the day, tomorrow at the latest, they’ll have their daughter back. I can see in his tired face and tired features that he wants me to tell him this, that hearing it would make him feel a whole lot better.

And I almost tell him.

I nod, and he takes meaning in that nod because he nods back, turns around, and I watch him walk away, maybe he’s going to head back home, maybe to the hospital, maybe to go and see Jonas Jones Psychic or a priest because he’s desperate to try anything.

I head back into the corridor. The idea of money isn’t as powerful as money itself, which is why I hold up two thousand dollars in the window of the door to the computer server room and knock on it. I could try holding up fifty dollars and hope for the same result, but the risk of having him call the police fades more with every hundred I hold up. The door is locked and the guy comes over and stares at the money then at me and then back at the money.

Keeping his eyes on the money, he asks “What do you want?”

“To ask you some questions,” I answer. “About Cooper Riley.”

“You a reporter?”

“Come on, this is cash I’ve got here, not a check that’s going to bounce.”

“What are you then?”

“I’m somebody trying to find Cooper Riley and you’re somebody who looks like they could do with some cash.”

“How much is that?”

“Two thousand,” I say, beginning to grow impatient. “It’ll only take two minutes. You ever earned a thousand dollars a minute before?”

He unlocks the door. The room is the coldest room I’ve been in since getting out of jail. There are fans blowing and an air-conditioning unit running hard with small ribbons taped to it fluttering in the breeze. There are LED lights coming from every surface and lots of light radiating into the room from a dozen switched-on computer monitors and overhead fluorescent lights that I can hear humming. Throw in the sound of a hundred ticking hard drives and we’re listening to an IT symphony. The door swings closed behind me. He can’t take his eyes off the cash.

“Okay, so what’s the deal?” he asks. Then he adds, “You shouldn’t be in here,” almost as though he’s reading off a cue card.

“I need some information.”

“I’m not at liberty to. . to. . this is two thousand?”

“That’s right. And I’m not after anything illegal,” I say, which is a complete lie. “Listen, all I need you to do is access any files belonging to Cooper Riley.”

“I thought you only wanted me to answer some questions.”

“It’s a little more complicated than that,” I tell him.

“Police have already had me access them.”

“Then this shouldn’t be too hard for you.”

“I. . I don’t know.”

“I’m looking for something in particular. I need to know if he’s backed something up. You take a look, and you get this,” I say, waving the cash.

“Just for looking?”

“Just for looking.”

“Okay. Okay, that doesn’t seem too illegal,” he says, justifying it to himself and holding out his hand. I give him the cash.

He walks over to one of the terminals. It only takes him thirty seconds to punch up the information he needs, having accessed it yesterday. A list of files and folders comes up.

“He was writing a book,” I tell him.

“What kind of book?”

“About criminals.”

“Hang on,” he says, and starts scrolling through the files. “Yeah, there’s a word processing document here that looks pretty big that the cops took a copy of yesterday. Let me check,” he says, and double clicks on the icon. Page one of a manuscript appears. “This looks like it could be it,” he says, and when he turns back around I’m holding out another thousand dollars in my bandaged hand.

“I need it printed,” I say.

“I don’t know. .”

“Nobody will ever know.”

“If it comes back I did this. .”

“It won’t. Trust me. There’s no way I’ll get caught with it, and it’s not like Cooper Riley is going to be in any position to complain about his book being printed out-even if he ever does find out, and since the police have a copy anyway, it’s only a matter of time before it becomes public. I just need a head start on it.”

“I don’t. .” he says, but keeps looking at the money.

“Just print it out and I’m gone.”

“And nobody ever has to know?”

“Not from me.”

He turns back to the computer. He reaches into his pocket and grabs a flash drive and slots it into a USB port. “Printing will leave a record,” he says, “plus it’ll take too long. It’s about three hundred pages. It’d take close to fifteen minutes.”