The Turin Shroud Secret (4 page)

She drifts away from the CSI, the dead cat now forgotten. The husband of Tamara Jacobs is either her killer and knows
she’s dead or his life is about to be ruined. ‘If you’ve got a number, call it.’

Nic picks up the phone again, finds the entry and presses call. The room falls silent. All eyes are on him as he listens to
the dial tones roll out across the airwaves. No number is displayed, just the name Dylan Jacobs – he could be a mile or a
whole continent away. Nic’s heart thumps with anticipation.

The tones stop.

A deep baritone voice speaks. ‘This is Dylan, I can’t talk at the moment, leave your name and number and I’ll get back to
you just as soon as I’m free.’

Nic kills the call. ‘Went to messages. I’ll try again from the office where I can record it.’

Mitzi nods. ‘Okay. Take that home phone away with you, check the callers and process it. I can do the rest of this search
without you.’

He unplugs the telephone and waves a hand as he heads for the door. A thought stops and turns him. ‘No pictures.’

She throws a frown across the room. ‘Say again?’

‘There are no pictures around the house of husband and wife. Not in the study, not in the bedroom or anywhere.’

Mitzi casts her mind back to the rooms upstairs. ‘You’re right. There were no male clothes in any of the closets either, no
shaving gear or toiletries save female stuff. In fact, no trace of Dylan Jacobs ever being here.’

SYDNEY, AUSTRALIA

Twenty-seven-year-old Viktor Hegadus shifts uncomfortably on the edge of the sun lounger only feet from the private pool.

He has a lot on his mind.

No wonder he has a headache. The kind that will become a migraine. He just knows it will. His only hope is to take a snooze
for a while – a little power nap – but he can’t. Not with so many things troubling him. The builders arrive tomorrow and he’s
wondering if he should put them off until he’s had another think about the plans for the extension – a separate guest wing
complete with its own pool and courtyard.

The midday sun creeps over his feet. He gets up and adjusts the parasol so he’s safe in the shade. He’d hate to burn. It would
be awful to have red and dry skin.

The cell phone under the lounger next to him rings. He tries to ignore it, as he’s done for most of the morning. A twinge
of guilt finally makes him grab it. ‘Dylan’s phone, who’s calling?’

There’s no answer. Just a click and a clunk, like the call is being transferred.

‘Hello,’ Viktor scowls into the phone.

‘Is Mr Jacobs there please? I need to talk to him.’

‘Not possible. Who is this?’

‘My name is Karakandez, Nic Karakandez. I have some important business to discuss with Mr Jacobs. Can you please put me through
to him or tell me what number I can get him on?’

‘He’s meditating at the moment. He doesn’t want to be disturbed.’ Viktor abruptly finishes the call, turns the phone to mute
and throws it angrily beneath the lounger.

If Dylan can’t spare the time to
be
with him, then he’s certainly not going to let him spend it talking to strangers.

77TH STREET STATION, LOS ANGELES

The Trakscan software on Nic’s terminal generates a pop-up window showing the call was received at a private villa off Tower
Street in Gordon’s Bay, New South Wales. He searches the computerised Interpol directory and finds details for the New South
Wales police. He toggles through until he pinpoints the area covering Gordon’s Bay and then dials the contact number.

‘Chief Superintendent Hawking – how can I help you?’

Nic tells him exactly how.

Thirty minutes later, armed police slip into position around
the multi-million-dollar villa overlooking the tropical waters of the Tasman Sea and Nic receives a call back.

‘You’re good to go, Detective,’ says the Chief Super. ‘Your fella hasn’t left in the past half-hour and now he has nowhere
to run but into the welcoming arms of my officers.’

DOWNTOWN, LOS ANGELES

The dark-haired young man zaps open his old Ford Explorer and dumps his tired frame behind the well-worn steering wheel. He’s
just finished a full day of hard work. Factory work. Good honest labour. His place of graft is ten miles from his last kill
site – his home even more miles in a different direction. He thinks of these things and is comforted by them as he starts
the engine and heads off for a long drive before turning in for the night.

Driving is good. He likes to get to know new neighbourhoods – study the unkilled walking around with their children, dogs
and loved ones as he cruises past.

He imagines what their lives are like. What their deaths would be like. How sweet and merciful he could be to them – given
the chance. Some years back a cop on the TV news described him as a reptile, a cold-blooded killer with
no feelings, no emotions and no morals. The cop couldn’t have been more wrong. What he does is out of love. God’s love.

He turns on the radio and tunes in to the news as he drives. Listens out for himself. There’s nothing. He’s relieved. It means
no manhunt, no interference in his work. Anonymity is his protective shield, God’s way of showing approval – a blessing, if
you like. He puts it down to his MO. Modus Operandi – his
method of operating.
Strange how Latin phrases still exist in the modern day. Fragments of a past civilisation blown across the centuries and
continents, turning up on the blood-soaked streets of the City of the Angels.

The young man slows as he passes his local church and makes the sign of the cross. Instinctively, he mutters more Latin:
‘In nomine Patris, et Filii, et Spiritus Sancti.’
The rhythm of the words comforts him. He turns them over and over like a fascinated child might with a smooth stone in his
palm. And then his favourite,
Dominus vobiscum –
the Lord be with you. He says the phrase differently.

The words have to be pronounced softly, clearly, slowly, reverently. After all – they’re the last his victims ever hear.

77TH STREET STATION, LOS ANGELES

When Nic makes his next international call, it’s 8 p.m. Friday night in California and 2 p.m. Saturday afternoon in Gordon’s
Bay, Sydney. As he dials, he taps up a Google Earth map. On the screen he zooms along the beautiful Australian peninsula,
past the striking ocean frontages around Dunningham Reserve and Bundock Park and then down the northern headland that showcases
the select homesteads of multi-millionaires.

This time Dylan Jacobs answers his own phone and it doesn’t sound like the meditation and sunshine have done much to relax
him. ‘Jacobs,’ he snaps, irritably.

‘Nic Karakandez, Mr Jacobs.’ The cop’s voice is calm and friendly. ‘Just to be clear, you are
Dylan
Jacobs, the husband of Tamara Jacobs the Hollywood writer?’

‘Why do you want to know, Mr Karikeez?’

‘Karakandez –
Lieutenant Kar-a-kan-deez
of the LAPD.’

‘I
am
Dylan Jacobs. Tamara is my wife.’ The aggression has gone from his voice. ‘Why are you ringing me, Lieutenant?’

‘I’m afraid the body of a woman has been found at Manhattan Beach. From photographs we’ve obtained it appears to be that of
Tamara.’

‘Dear God. It can’t be—’

‘Mr Jacobs, I apologise for calling you like this, but I’m a homicide detective and we’re treating the death as suspicious.’

Jacobs struggles to speak. ‘This isn’t real. It just can’t be. You’re certain it’s Tamara?’

Nic weighs up the voice down the line and decides the shock is genuine. ‘We’re as sure as we can be without next-of-kin identification.’
One thing is bugging him, though, something he just has to mention. ‘Mr Jacobs, I’ve listened to all the messages on your
wife’s home answerphone and despite her being missing for more than twenty-four hours, none of them are from you.’

Jacobs lets out a long sigh. ‘We don’t talk much, Detective. Maybe once a week. Sometimes less. We’re estranged, have been
for years. I have a home out here in Sydney with my partner – I believe you spoke to him earlier.’

Now Nic gets the picture – a rich married man approaching the autumn of his life comes out of the closet. Probably, for his
wife’s sake he agrees to maintain a veneer of heterosexual respectability for as long as possible. ‘Mr Jacobs, in a moment
an officer from the New South Wales police will knock on your door and show you a photograph we’ve scanned and emailed to
him. We need you to officially confirm it is your wife – do you understand?’

‘I do. Is there, then, a chance you could be wrong?’

‘We really don’t think so. The ID is more of a formality.’

‘Oh.’

‘I’m very sorry for your loss and for the fact that we have to do this. I’d also like the policeman to ask you a few questions,
to see if you can help us find whoever was responsible for your wife’s death. Are you able to do that for us?’

Your wife’s death.
The words stun Dylan Jacobs into silence. He and Tamara have been apart for some time but he can’t imagine never seeing her
again. Never wondering about her. Never hoping she’s forgiven him and is having a good life without him.

‘Mr Jacobs, did you hear me?’

He’s still struggling as he nods at the phone. ‘Yes,’ he manages finally, ‘I heard you.’ He places the receiver back on its
cradle feeling hollow.

His world has changed. His wife is dead. He is no longer a married man.

SATURDAY MORNING
INGLEWOOD, CALIFORNIA

Eight a.m. and Nic rolls out of bed more tired than when he got in. He crashed in the early hours then woke four or five times.
Insomnia has been habitual since Carolina and Max’s deaths. He turns on the TV as background noise – virtual company – and
because his apartment is so small he can still listen in the shower.

He’s towelling dry when his cell phone rings. Without
looking he knows it’s Mitzi. She’s the only one who ever calls at weekends and as it was too late last night to update her
on his conversation with Jacobs. She’s probably itching for info.

‘Morning,’ he says, still rubbing his wet hair. ‘I’m fresh out the shower and was going to make coffee then call you.’

‘You mean I caught you naked? Lordy lordy. Please answer yes, even if it’s not true. You know how us married women need a
little harmless fun.’

‘Butt naked and in all my athletic glory.’

‘Enough, now I’m having flushes. How’d it go with Jacobs?’

He drops the towel and dresses with one hand as he talks. ‘Husband turns out to be gay and living with a partner half his
age in Sydney, Australia.’

‘No way.’

‘Every way, by the sound of it. Aussie cops tell me he and his wife split several years back after he admitted to his homosexuality,
but they never divorced.’

‘Why so?’

‘Bit vague. Dylan said Tamara didn’t want everyone laughing at her and as he always worked away a lot he just went along with
the story that he was always travelling and working.’

‘But now he has a
home
in Australia?’

‘Yeah, and the South of France and Bali. He’s a property guy, sells top-end stuff to the rich and famous, gets a few bargains
for himself along the way.’

‘Sweet deal.’

‘Cops in New South Wales were really helpful. I wired a photo that one of our CSIs recovered from Tamara’s house and Jacobs
ID’d it as Tamara.’

‘Where was Mr Property Tycoon when she was killed?’

‘Sydney, where he’s been for the past month. His story checks out. He couldn’t have done it.’

‘No motive?’

‘Don’t think so. He gave us his lawyers’ details so we called them. Dylan Jacobs signed an agreement more than a year back
giving his wife the LA property and dividing stocks, shares and savings. Seemed a strange but amicable affair.’

The sound of teenage girls shouting at each other spills down the phone. ‘Keep it quiet!’ Mitzi with a hand over the receiver.
‘Don’t go annoying your father, he’s trying to sleep.’ She waits for them to shut up then speaks to Nic again. ‘Sorry, I gotta
go, they both have parties today and they’re wound up already. You heading boatward?’

‘You read my mind.’

‘Have a good one.’

‘You too. Hope the girls have fun.’ He hangs up and pictures Mitzi bundling Jade and Amber into the family’s beat-up station
wagon while her lazy no-good bum of a husband stays in bed and sleeps off another Friday night bender. She could do so much
better.

Nic makes instant coffee and thinks a while more about Mitzi’s old man. She said he hit her once. Slapped her after he saw
a male neighbour coming out of the house when he
rolled home drunk from a bar crawl with the boys. The idiot put two and two together and made five. Mitzi had kicked his ass
back and that had been it. But Nic wonders now if the strapped-up fingers he saw in the office were really the result of another
fight. He pours OJ and eats a cup of granola without any milk – a quirk dating back to bachelor days when he was always running
out of everything except cereal. If Mitzi’s in trouble, she’ll tell him. And if she is, then it’ll be his pleasure to go and
straighten her husband out.

It’s a little after nine when Nic shuts his front door and begins the thirty-minute drive to Terminal Island, just east of
San Pedro and west of Long Beach. The Al Larson Marina on Seaside Avenue is leased from the Los Angeles Harbor Department
and has more than a hundred slips, for vessels between twenty and fifty feet long. Slap bang in the middle is Officer Karakandez’s
pride and joy. The one thing that’s kept him sane.

Reunion
isn’t a yacht that turns heads. In fact, the nine-ton Hillyard sloop is a real Ugly Betty of a boat. No bikini-clad supermodel
or playboy prince will ever be seen near her, let alone on her. But after his wife and son’s deaths, Nic fell in love with
the rust bucket and saved its cast-iron keel and white oak ribs from the breaker’s yard. The process of renewing something
was good for his soul, if not his pocket. Every spare dime he’s made has gone on repairs – reframing and caulking, a new centre
cockpit with wheel steering, three cabins refurbished in mahogany, fresh fibreglass over thick pine decks.