City on fire, p.32
City on Fire, page 32
“Not your balls though. Most blokes would have given up. You’ve pushed through it.”
“I’m not fucken through to the other side yet.”
“We rarely push through to the other side of the pain. Perhaps we’re not supposed to.”
“What would you know, Frank?”
Frank stayed quiet.
“Hell…I’m sorry. You’d have a better grasp than anybody. Shit…go on.”
“All Asians. Eighties onwards. Three whacks, a suicide, missing persons, ODs.”
“I’m guessing anything after whack is actually a whack. Someone’s organised. Whose DNA?”
“Hog’s bodyguard. Dirk—”
“He might be on the database.”
“I hope not. If he is, we’re snookered because if they picked up evidence at either of the scenes, someone should’ve run a match by now.”
“Evidence. Come on. The eighties. Shit, crims left calling cards all over the place for the forensics of the future.” He gazed at a dirt paddock. “And if Dirk isn’t on the registry? Thugs don’t like handing over DNA.”
“Lon’s organising a meeting with Skinny Ray.”
A moment hung between them.
“Suffering bum holes,” said Brad. “It’s like a school reunion. Skinny Ray. When you turn to crime, you really do turn to crime.”
“At least we know, for a crim, the guy’s switched on. Anyway, what’s done is done. Stick to the present not the past…sit and I’ll explain.”
He sat.
“One of the hits was Skinny Ray’s brother. That’s why Ray showed Ewen the heroin—”
“The Red Dragon gear was Ray’s?”
“No.”
“But Ray organised the viewing. And the same H ended up at Ewen’s place.” He stood up, and paced. “It’s possible to look at this a couple of ways, Clint. The one I’m picturing, the one with the helicopter night-sun illuminating it, is Ray is working with Hogmyre.”
“No, Ray’s brother’s murder wasn’t drug or gang related. Ray wants Hogmyre. And the coup in Thailand I told you about.”
“If the wankers in Asia wanna play nasty politics, let ‘em. We’ve got domestic problems.”
“I should also mention that Ewen and I discussed another remote reason for the heroin.” He paused.
“I’m all ears, and they’re full of dread.”
“Skinny Ray’s niece, Celty. Ewen upset her.”
“Not a nice family to upset. How?”
“Ewen cheated on her.”
“He was banging Celty. Skinny Ray’s niece.” He lit another cigarette. “Now’s she’s upset and you wanna involve Skinny Ray.”
“It’s a remote chance no one actually believes.”
“Any more hidden gems?”
“Fuck, I hope not.”
Brad sat. His cheeks sank as he dragged on his fag. He closed his eyes. Blue smoke streamed from his nostrils. He eyed his friend. “What are mates for. Anyway, librarians don’t get to nail bad guys…how will you get the DNA?”
“Ray’s muscle. Stage a violent robbery on Dirk. Grab a piece of the guy while they’re at it.” Frank sat back. “Thing is, what if it is a match? We don’t want any alarm bells.”
“Already thought of it. Test run. Any lab does it. Even mining companies. Make sure the lab rats are doing their job properly.”
“You were always good at your job.”
“You haven’t mentioned the guys in the 250 that T-boned Ewen. Want to fly under the radar?”
Frank nodded.
Brad stalled. “Tell me. If Skinny Ray is so sure Hogmyre had his brother killed, why don’t his thugs raise a gun to Hogmyre’s head and do him?”
“Ray wants the truth first. Something about karma.”
“If karma saves Ray, I’ll receive the red carpet treatment at the pearly gates. Zeya…if he has the goods on his old man, and we secure a DNA match linked to the murdered brother, or the other hits, well, the bodyguard may cave. It’d make for a compelling case, especially if he has priors. But I’m guessing you’re not solely after Hogmyre and you’re not solely looking after Zeya. Correct?”
Frank nodded. “So, can you do it for me?”
Brad nodded.
“I knew you wouldn’t walk away from this.”
“But I need to walk away from this house now, before I change my mind.” He lifted himself from the chair. “My therapist. Pretty little thing she is. Nails done. Sweet smile. Short skirt. She tells me, wafting her hands as if conjuring a genie, When you are un-medicated, beliefs and emotions will bubble to the surface.” He huffed. “Bubble. I’m a fucken lava lamp.” They wandered to his car. After opening the door, he turned round. “You must trust me a hell of a lot?”
“I trust your values. You value justice. Trust. Yes I do.”
Brad shuffled in behind the wheel and powered his window down.
“Where to now?” asked Frank.
“An AA meeting in Mundaring. AA’s more commonplace than NA. I’ve mapped the AA meets like water wells along the Canning Stock Route. I’m gunna need it. Just enough time to make it.”
“Very handy.”
“You betcha. These days, meetings are held in every suburb. It’s a city on fire. Twenty thousand FIFO workers on leave each week; can’t smoke a joint because they have to piss in a bottle. Only option left—booze. Another twenty thousand sacked resources crew on the bones of their arses, not enough money to leave the state and return home. Overseas investors pushing rentals through the roof. The economy starting to take off, leaving half the city in its wake. Forty per cent youth unemployment. Streets awash with powder and ice. Permanent heat wave. Tick, tick, tick.” Brad shoved his hand out the window. “Great fucken news all round.”
“Aren’t you supposed to stand when you shake hands?”
Brad grinned. “Not if you’re old friends.” The engine started. “I can’t march all the way on this, Clint.”
Frank nodded. “What happened to the kid cop at the hospital?”
“Bunt of the blue social network. What’s the quickest way to evacuate a hospital? Answer. Ask Leon Dodds.” Brad raised his eyebrows. “He’ll live.”
“There’s guns.”
“Lon?”
Frank nodded.
“Doesn’t surprise me. Had street written all over him. Trust him?”
“He’s Ewen’s best friend.”
“Trust Ewen?”
Frank nodded again. “He has history.”
“I’ll read him at the shop.”
“You’ll only find the baby steps. Dig anyway. I might have missed something.”
“At the moment, for us as cops, it’s better the devil you don’t know. They’re smarter.”
Frank handed over a piece of paper. “My new mobile. Buy yourself a new sim. Text me the number. I’ll change sims in two days.”
Brad read the handwriting. “And the address? Rego?”
“It’s Lon’s. Swanky apartment. View of HQ. Drives a BM. Run a background for me.”
“Worried?”
“No. Concerned.”
Brad folded the paper. “You did a lot of right in your thirty-five years. Don’t you think it’s time to kill any concerns and retire on those rights?”
Frank placed a hand on his friend’s shoulder. They huffed smiles at each another.
“One gun isn’t Lon’s. And it’s a Street Sweeper.”
Brad whistled. “Import?”
“Sawn-off semi.”
“And your Glock? The uniform’s?”
“Mine. Friend of a friend.”
“Badge?”
“I had a reproduction made while on holiday in China.”
Brad slotted reverse. “You’re cool, Clint. Real fucken cool.”
Gratitude floated Frank back inside the house, back into refrigerated air.
Zeya snapped at him, “I don’t like that guy.”
The ex-detective forced himself to stay quiet by concentrating on sweat beaded at his temple. A bead trickled. A cold steel touch. He wiped it off and continued through the house.
Chapter 61
Skinny Ray’s gang member waited in the dark next to an empty carport. Face hidden behind a red bottlebrush, spine resting against a shed wall, he switched the black stun gun’s safety catch on with his thumb. Switched it off. Worked the rehearsal; speed needed—no fuckups. No way would he test the zap button, the electric crackle sounded too loud, the blue light flashed too bright.
From the carport, a paved walkway wove across the lawn to Dirk’s modest brick and tile Nedlands home. A vertically slatted, two-metre high fence fronted the road, right-angled into the driveway, and stopped at a walkthrough where the carport met the shed. A neighbour’s tall jacaranda helped shadow the front yard from a distant streetlight.
Dirk usually returned from his manicure at nine.
The bottlebrush’s honey scent dominated. In the dark, its flowers hung like black truncheons. To take his mind off the ski mask heating his head and prickling his skin, the Thai checked his watch and signalled four outspread fingers to his accomplice peering over the chest-high veranda brick wall.
Car beams lit the verge eucalypts, the light intensifying as the beams tunnelled down the street. The car, barely audible, breezed past the house.
The street returned to a semi-dark quiet.
A mosquito jackhammered around his ear. He fanned it away. The gum trees began to glow again, but this time light also shone through the gaps in the slat fence, projected like prison bars onto the house. A vehicle pulled into the driveway, the car’s suspension tapping lightly as the vehicle bumped across the footpath and idled into the carport.
The motor died. A car door winged open, slapped closed. A locking system beeped. Shoes scuffed the paving. Dirk strolled past the bottlebrush. White cotton shirt, a sweaty night and thirty thousand volts. The Thai clicked the safety off. Dirk halted. Skinny Ray’s thug leapt from the bushes and ploughed blue snapping electricity into Dirk’s back.
Hogmyre’s bodyguard skydived to earth, his head whacking the concrete veranda step so hard the Thai screamed to himself, no, don’t die. Boss’s instructions: do not kill. Shit. Keep electrocuting. Can’t let off, can’t take the chance.
Dirk thrashed and howled. They rifled his back pockets, and snatched his wallet. They flipped him over. Blood ringed his eyes. Front pockets rifled yielded phone and car keys. Gun crackling blue, Dirk rag-dolling, flicking away the pain. Swab across the mouth. Cracked head pointed at. Swab across the blood. A neighbour’s porch light.
Please, stay alive.
Job complete. A nod to each other.
The Thai turned off the stun gun and ran into the street into their stolen car. One hand on the wheel, one hand pressing 000 on Dirk’s phone, he accelerated away, followed by Dirk’s stolen Mercedes. “I need an ambulance…”
Chapter 62
On Sunday mornings, the Western Times workroom ran a skeleton staff. This Sunday was no different, more or less silent except for Snitchel and Bernadette talking opposite each other at the editor’s desk.
The editor read from her own computer screen. “Ewen is passé. I’ve scanned my favourite sites and all I’ve found is one pissy little follow-on story. Just goes to show, work will always be available for a capable journalist because the public will forever crave the new.”
The after-hours buzzer sounded. Snitchel checked the wall clock, grudgingly rose from her seat, walked across her office and pushed the intercom. “Your friendly Sunday janitor speaking.”
“Cut the crap, Noelene. It’s Christen Nesbit.”
“More dumbass questions from Perth’s number one detective I presume?”
“Bernadette Schofield. She holed up in this ghetto?”
The editor eyed her reporter. “Nesbit, fantastic work, you’ve found her. No wonder you’re number one.” After she pushed the door release switch, she stabbed the intercom again. “Don’t pinch any lollies from the front counter.” She leant against the doorjamb, and sucked on her bottom lip.
“I’m gathering,” said Bernadette, staring mildly, “you know each other?”
“As affectionately as the mongoose and the cobra.” She sat. “Ready to lie to the police?”
Bernadette minimised her Hogmyre story and sat up straight.
Christen Nesbit and Lance Absalom rambled across the empty newsroom and in through the editor’s doorway.
“Look at this,” said Christen. “The boss having to slave on a Sunday.”
“You, also. What, too many kiddies smoking pot these days? No wonder the drug squad reformed out of major crime. You would have been flat-chat in the seventies.”
“Cut your bullshit, Noelene.”
“That’s what I tell my reporters every day. Want a job?”
“The only reason this paper still prints is because poor people can’t afford toilet paper.”
“Poor souls. Just like you; eyes in their arses.”
“Don’t fucken bait me. Your Sunday investigative journalism sure ain’t gunna rescue your drug dealing employee, so why are you even here?”
“Language. Ladies present.”
“Lady, as in singular.”
“Language.” Snitchel pointed to the ceiling security camera. “Bluetoothed. The entire floor. Tiny processor. A pittance to run. Dollar a day for all that footage.”
“Tell someone who cares.” His stare slewed. “Bernadette Schofield?”
She nodded.
“Where were you yesterday?”
“Here.”
“We were here in the morning. You weren’t.”
“No. I swam at City Beach with the other half of Perth, then worked here after lunch.
“We tried your mobile.”
“It was flat in the morning and I’d left my charger on my desk. You didn’t ring in the afternoon.”
“Friday night?”
“With friends,” she said. “Everyone discussing Ewen.”
“Names?” asked Absalom, flipping open his notepad.
“Noelene Cynthia Snitchel.”
“Not you, cockhead,” said Absalom.
Christen Nesbit rocked on the spot. Fists jammed deep into pants pockets, he stared at the editor gumming her lips and feigning dumb.
Absalom pointed his pen at Bernadette. “Your alibi friends’ names?”
Christen kept rocking until his partner ceased writing. “I’ll ask again, Snitchel? You, the night of Ewen’s breakout?”
“Where ever you want me to be is what I’ve heard.”
“You’re a serious pain.”
“If I’ve ever seen a more convincing argument for bringing back tits on page three,” said the editor, “it is standing right before me. Help the restless blow off some steam.”
“Friday fucken night?”
“Do you seriously believe Ewen will turn up on my doorstep? Or is this another pitiful excuse to get back at the paper?”
“Friday fucken night!” he screamed.
“As I said last time. At home with the dog.” She turned to Absalom. “Boab.”
“What?”
“My dog’s name if you need to jot it down.”
Only Bernadette’s eyes moved, wider.
“Your lackey’s history!” yelled Nesbit. The air-conditioning wasn’t cold enough. His face stayed red. “Need any pictures of his disguise; the shaven head routine? Well, we have some. Real beauties. Oh, and your drug dealing reporter handing in a hundred-dollar note to lost and found, how touching.” He relished a sarcastic smile and stabbed a finger towards the editor. “We’ll nail scag-head and his mate Frank within forty-eight hours. Whataya reckon about that, sweet-cheeks?”
“I’m as comfortable as a Cottesloe mum in a coffee shop.” She yawned.
Nesbit turned and flogged it across the workroom and reefed open the door.
The editor yelled to their backs. “I’ve changed my mind; you can take a lolly. Stabilise your blood sugar.”
Bernadette gawked at her boss. “Mongoose is the word.”
Snitchel stared at the workroom’s closed door. “You’re in the firing line.”
“From them?”
“Nesbit’s heading towards retirement. He’d be there, behind a desk, if it weren’t for the increase in crime. But don’t worry about him. This newspaper’s brought the drug squad to its knees once. He’d be a brave or well-informed soul to mess with us.” She turned to her worker. “Hogmyre’s the person who will come after you.”
“What did legal say?”
“If it was up to me, I’d say we’re green. The owners requested the run past.” Snitchel checked the wall clock again. “Another half hour should see it sorted.” She wheeled her seat round to her reporter’s laptop and re-read the story. Together they tinkered with the words.
Forty minutes later, the intercom sounded.
Snitchel spoke into it. “Juliet, I’m hoping.”
“Hope no longer,” said the female voice.
The workroom door opened. It halted any discussion.
In walked a woman wearing a sleeveless yellow low cut cotton dress. Her natural blonde hair, lean legs and tanned skin pointed towards fifty. Probably used to compliments of forty. Eyes locked onto Snitchel, she sashayed across the room and relaxed against the editor’s doorjamb. “Noelene. Ever heard of a Sunday session? Well, this isn’t it.”
Snitchel sat back. “The Sunday session at your age?”
“I’m divorced, remember.”
“What’s that have to do with it?”
“It’s called menopause. Not man-on-pause.”
“Juliet, meet Bernadette.”
She nodded to Bernadette, and turned to Noelene. “What’s with the Minties strewn across the foyer floor?”
“Outstanding.”
The lawyer eyed her for an answer.
“The police ransacked us.”
“Who?”
“Nesbit. He was here on the pretence of asking questions. Complete bullshit. The prick was here to gloat.”
