by Ben Sanders
The front yard was cordoned off. An old red Commodore sat nose-in behind the carport. A patrol cop recognised him and raised the tape.
‘Front’s blocked off, there’s a kitchen door round the back.’
Devereaux thanked him and headed down the side of the house. A train was passing on the tracks behind the property, roar and diesel waft of the sluggish hulk. He felt the jittering of the ground beneath his feet. A tent and plastic ground sheet were set up at the kitchen door. He donned paper overshoes proffered by a Scene of Crimes officer, and went in.
It was busier than last time he’d visited: technicians in overalls scrutinised the fridge door, print-dusted the table. Nothing packs out a venue quite like murder. He stepped into the corridor.
Frank Briar blocked his path. ‘Good of you to make time,’ he said.
Devereaux ignored him and brushed past.
Please don’t be dead—
On the hallway floor: two bodies, shrouded by sheets. Behind them, Don McCarthy and Lloyd Bowen in murmured conversation, arms folded and chins to chest. Bowen’s back was turned, but McCarthy saw him. His expression showed no change, but he breathed something clipped and inaudible. Bowen turned.
McCarthy nodded at him. ‘Bit casual.’
Devereaux didn’t answer. He dropped to his haunches. The larger body was closer to the door. The smaller victim — probably Leroy — was further into the corridor. Both appeared to be outstretched on their stomachs. A head-to-head arrangement, maybe a metre between them.
Devereaux said, ‘What happened?’ Adrenaline made his voice catch.
‘Blunt force trauma head injuries to both of them,’ Bowen said.
Devereaux pinched a sheet edge and raised it. Leroy Turner’s cheek was to the floor, his gaze lidded and distant, as if in some narcotic stupor. His nose and forehead had been caved in. His mouth was open, teeth cracked to scarlet stumps, the lower jaw bashed askew. Devereaux checked the second body. The big guy had his nose to the carpet, a single, wide trench stamped in the rear of his skull.
Devereaux replaced the sheet. ‘Shit,’ he said. He passed a sleeve across his mouth. His temples swelled and ached as he looked at the carpet.
You weren’t innocent, Leroy, but you didn’t deserve this.
He took a breath. The floor creaked as McCarthy took a measured step sideways. ‘Have we got an ID on the second victim?’ Devereaux said.
Blood had stained the carpet black. Circular seepage patterns overlapped, linking the two dead men. Like some morbid Venn diagram. Bowen waved off a blowfly.
McCarthy said, ‘The big guy’s a private investigator named Mitchell Duvall.’
Devereaux looked up. ‘You checked his wallet?’
‘No. I’ve dealt with him before.’
‘You made a visual ID?’
McCarthy nodded. Bowen’s cell rang. He stepped into an adjoining room to take the call. Quiet, and then a hushed tone: ‘If it’s ready in forty minutes, that’ll be fine.’
‘Any signs of forced entry?’ Devereaux said.
‘No.’
Devereaux looked down. He thought of the absconded Doug Allen: a shotgun stock seemed a likely candidate for the head injuries. But Leroy had claimed he knew nothing of the bank heist activity. So had he lied? Not unlikely. Or maybe this was something entirely unrelated.
He massaged his temples. Maybe he should have had more Moët.
He waited for something logical to cohere, but all he got was fog. What was the PI’s reason for being here?
I’ve dealt with him before. Maybe McCarthy was holding something back. Not unlikely either.
Devereaux looked up. Bowen stepped back into the room and said, ‘What are you thinking?’
‘I’m thinking this doesn’t make a lot of sense.’
Quiet for a moment. Technicians passed back and forth. Occasional camera flares startled shadows.
Bowen still had his phone out, spinning it absently between thumb and index finger. He said, ‘We thought that given you’d visited recently, you might be able to shed some light on what happened.’
Devereaux looked at him, tried to see between the lines. There was a hidden weight to the statement. Bowen knew he’d visited on Tuesday, hence the hurry to get him down here. Which meant Bowen suspected him of having information he was reluctant to part with. The suspicion was almost circular: Devereaux knew McCarthy was holding something back from him. Question was whether he was holding back on Bowen, too.
I’ve dealt with him before.
Bowen wasn’t an idiot. He’d heard the same comment, and would have made the same logic leap. But his expression was unchanged. Meaning that whatever McCarthy was privy to about this second victim, Bowen probably knew too. Except McCarthy clearly didn’t trust Bowen enough to tell him about the gun incident in Pit, or Devereaux would have been out of a job already.
Devereaux held the crouch. ‘Whose is the car out front?’ he said.
‘Commodore comes back to Duvall,’ McCarthy said.
‘When were they found?’
‘About ninety minutes ago. There’s a cellphone in Turner’s hand. He managed to punch one-one-one before he went.’
‘No dialogue?’
‘No dialogue. Comms sent a patrol car to do a cruise-past, and they recognised the address from having run parole checks, figured they’d better see what was going on.’
Devereaux stood up, felt his knees crack. The room tilted slightly as he rose. Bowen was watching him carefully, the phone still spinning. McCarthy had his trademark even stare levelled at him. He felt pinned down from all angles. Devereaux said, ‘How did the officers get in?’
‘They broke the front door,’ McCarthy said. ‘They could see through the living room window there was someone in the corridor.’
‘And there was no pre-existing damage to the door?’
‘No. Apparently, Leroy likes to keep the chain on as well, so whoever nailed them was most probably let in.’
Devereaux nodded slowly. He looked to the end of the corridor. The evidence technicians were still examining the table. He wondered whether they’d recovered any of his prints yet.
‘Did any of the neighbours see anything?’ he said.
McCarthy said, ‘We don’t know yet.’
Bowen put his phone away, kept his hand in his pocket. He spoke carefully, as if adhering to some rehearsed statement. ‘Sergeant, there’re a few details that would be good to iron out. What would be good at this stage is to just sit down and run through some questions.’
‘What, here?’
He shook his head. ‘Back at the station.’
It was probably a twenty-minute trip back to town. He recalled Bowen’s phone conversation: If it’s ready in forty minutes, that’ll be fine.
Devereaux smiled. ‘Fine. Who’s going to run things at this end?’
‘Detective Sergeant Briar is more than capable of supervising progress.’
Devereaux didn’t answer. Bowen took a hand from a pocket and made a lead-the-way gesture. Devereaux took a last glance at Leroy, and walked back down to the kitchen, heard McCarthy and Bowen following. A quiet little procession as they walked around the front of the house. Down the street, Pollard was pulling up in an unmarked.
Devereaux turned to Bowen, held up a peace sign. ‘Two minutes,’ he said.
He walked away unbidden. Pollard saw him coming and dropped his window. Devereaux put his hands on the sill and leaned down.
‘You look like shit,’ Pollard said.
‘You look like a yard of pump water.’
‘I’m touched.’
‘Likewise. I just saw two dead guys. Do me a favour; I’m light on info, but I’ve got to leave right now. One of the vics is a private investigator named Mitchell Duvall—’
‘I heard.’
‘Yeah, see if you can find out what the hell he was doing down here.’
Pollard nodded, watched McCarthy slide into the Camaro. ‘Why do you have to take off so fast?’
‘Who’s they?’
‘Bowen and old Clint Eastwood.’
Pollard’s eyes flicked up. ‘Are you holding back?’
‘Yeah. But a lot less than they think.’
Pollard paused. ‘You don’t look quite right. What’s going on?’
‘I don’t really know.’
Pollard’s mouth hooked. ‘They think you did it?’
Devereaux ignored the question. ‘Look, if you could give me a call that would be great. It’ll probably only take twenty minutes to get back to town, but anything you can scrape together would be better than nothing.’
‘You owe me a six-pack.’
‘Find me something worthwhile, I’ll make it a dozen.’
They took separate cars. McCarthy drove lead, Bowen brought up the rear. Calm air had let a light smog linger: a jaundiced pallor above the central district.
They paralleled the railway line and went northeast along New North Road. Heavy traffic through Mount Albert stalled them. Old two-storey façades stood behind heaved bitumen footpaths, veranda shades straining against rusted tie rods. The grimed and jigsawed rooflines, walls lined by downpipes. Windows crammed with air-con units, the grille-ended stubs leaking vapour.
Devereaux watched the lurid brake-light stream arc ahead. God, the hunger. Even a double bludgeoning hadn’t quelled his appetite. He watched a Chinese food vendor jiggle a steaming wok above a flame. The deprivation was torture. He turned back to the road, saw McCarthy place a call on his cell. Seconds later, and his mirror framed Lloyd Bowen, phone to ear.
What are you talking about, fellas?
They crawled onwards. He kept his attention split: one eye on Bowen in his rear view. They hung up in unison, two minutes later. Bowen’s finger was keeping a beat on the top of the wheel.
Devereaux stretched across and took his phone from the glove box. Two missed messages: one from Ellen’s mobile, one from the house in Herne Bay. He thought about calling her back, but opted out. He was in the wrong frame of mind to be explaining himself. It wouldn’t end well.
They reached the intersection at Saint Lukes Road. Devereaux raised the phone and faked a call. He kept it simple: a nod, some silent mouthed nonsense, a hang-up. On cue: Bowen put his phone to his ear, and one car in front, McCarthy answered. They didn’t last long either. Thirty seconds, and then they clicked off.
Further north, and The Don led them onto Dominion Road. Less than ten minutes from the station. Devereaux glanced at his phone.
Come on, Pollard.
Down past K’ Road, through low-rise commercial and apartments on Upper Queen Street. Past Myers Park, left into Mayoral Drive. Pedestrians long-shadowed in the late light.
The cellphone rang. Caller ID: Pollard.
‘You’re leaving it late,’ Devereaux said.
‘And you’re an ungrateful bastard.’
‘What have you got? We’re nearly there.’
‘Not much. The PI’s name is Mitchell Duvall, but I think you knew that.’
They turned into the garage, under bright electric light. Strictly speaking, it was police vehicles only: The Don’s lofty status meant the Camaro was welcome.
Pollard said, ‘I spoke to that guy Frank Briar. He said Bowen put a message out with Comms that this Douglas Allen guy is wanted in relation to the Turner-Duvall homicide. I don’t know whether he had some sort of info, or whether he just made a good guess. But by the sounds of it he put out the alert before he’d even seen the scene. So I don’t know.’
‘Okay, good. What else?’
He found his slot and ripped the brake.
‘There’s a folder in Duvall’s car, he’d built up his own info on the robbery investigation. He’s got clippings on the October job, the fight club job in January, and the shootings earlier this month.’
‘So why was he talking to Leroy?’
‘I don’t know. If I find something, I’ll pass it on.’
‘Okay, cheers. Look, you might have to text it through; I’m not going to be able to take calls.’
‘Yeah, sure.’
‘Have you found anything that indicates this guy Doug was definitely at the scene?’
‘Not yet. There’re some tyre tracks in the lawn they’re checking out, and I’ll get patrol to do a house-to-house, so we’ll see what turns up. Keep your phone on.’
An interview room was ready and waiting: door ajar, a two-versus-one chair arrangement across the obligatory square table.
Devereaux sat down. His allocated position was obvious. McCarthy rounded the table and drew a seat out and turned it sideways. He sat down and folded his legs. Bowen closed the door slowly, a solemn little click as the tongue caught. He slipped his suit coat off and draped it over the back of the third chair. A protracted pause as he unbuttoned his cuffs and rolled them neatly to his elbows. Forearms raised, like surgery preparation. It seemed like he relished the build-up. He seated himself and rested his arms on the table. Nice contrast: Bowen hunched forward, brow gently furrowed, McCarthy resting easy, elbow on the backrest, head propped by two fingers.
Bowen said, ‘Tea? Coffee?’
‘No thank you. I’m fine.’
‘You look a little preoccupied there, sergeant.’
Devereaux shrugged. ‘Vicious double homicide,’ he said. ‘Sitting here doing nothing doesn’t seem that productive.’
Neither of them replied. Bowen looked down and watched his fingers knit tightly. At length McCarthy said, ‘Don’t you think the sergeant’s aged recently?’
Bowen didn’t answer. He said, ‘Is there anything at all you wish to disclose at this stage?’
‘I don’t know.’
Bowen shook his head gently. His lips dipped at the corners. ‘I can’t see that the question could have been much clearer.’
Devereaux shrugged. ‘It’s the sort of question that implies you’re anticipating something specific. I’m not quite sure what you’re expecting to hear.’
Bowen didn’t answer. McCarthy just looked at him.
Devereaux said, ‘What exactly is the purpose of this meeting?’
Bowen said, ‘This afternoon you attended a crime scene in Otara.’
‘You’re referring to the home of Doug Allen?’
‘I am.’
Devereaux nodded. ‘I did.’
‘You weren’t informed of the call. I’m just curious as to how you knew to attend.’
‘I saw Frank Briar receive a message that looked urgent. I called Comms and asked what was happening.’
‘You seemed very eager to get down there.’
‘I was. It’s my job.’
McCarthy shifted in his seat, laid an ankle across one knee.
‘Sergeant,’ Bowen said. ‘Don’t get short with me.’
‘I’m sorry. I’ll endeavour to use longer sentences.’
Bowen didn’t flicker. McCarthy smiled, but it looked more like contempt than humour.
Devereaux said, ‘I think the biggest mystery is why nobody alerted me to the fact something had happened.’
Bowen smiled thinly, like a slice of moon. He stretched his arm in front of him and rolled his shoulder, checked his cuff roll. He said, ‘Sergeant, as you can imagine, the purpose of this little get-together is to discuss the fact that less than forty-eight hours after you paid a visit to Leroy Turner, he ends up dead.’
‘The tone you use makes it seem so much less innocent than happy chance.’
Bowen’s eyebrows hiked. ‘Happy chance?’
‘Poor choice of words. Pure coincidence.’
Bowen didn’t reply. The lighting cut out, blinked itself awake after a short lapse.
Devereaux said, ‘If you want to talk alibis, I’m rock-solid.’
Bowen shook his head. ‘I don’t think you killed anyone. I just think there’s information you’re not giving me.’
Devereaux’s heart skipped a beat. He hoped they didn’t sen
se it break stride. ‘What gives you that impression?’
‘You visited Turner’s address on Tuesday morning for no apparent reason.’ He pouted gently; knitted fingers rose and then fell. ‘You’ll have to forgive me for thinking it seems a little strange.’
‘I object to the “no apparent reason” part.’
Bowen spread his hands. ‘So go ahead and justify.’
‘I got Turner’s name from Howard Ford. You had him in custody Monday night.’
‘I seem to recall instructing you not to speak to him.’
‘I’d dealt with Ford previously. I knew he’d been associated with Turner, and that Turner had been involved in robberies from time to time.’
‘Okay. And you felt the need to visit him at one a.m. on a Tuesday morning?’
‘I’m a light sleeper.’
Bowen cracked a grin, razor-edge cool. Devereaux remembered Hale’s description from Monday: sharp as a paper cut, and just as unpleasant. ‘So what did you talk about?’
Devereaux’s phone sounded. He braced for a long lament before the voicemail kicked in, but the tone was short-lived. He rolled sideways on his chair and the phone slid from pocket to cupped palm. He checked the display. Text hogged the screen: Duvall’s file note says: Informed by Const. Charles Easton that Leroy Turner assaulted by Det Frank Briar during Q&A.
So Leroy hadn’t lied. He had third-party corroboration of his assault tale.
Devereaux laid the phone on the table, face down. Bowen and McCarthy glanced at it in unison. The sudden reflexive tug of curiosity.
Devereaux said, ‘I spoke to Turner, but it was a waste of time.’
Bowen looked up from the phone. He clenched his teeth. Jaw muscle swelled and faded. ‘Why?’ he said.
‘I questioned him about the Savings and Loan robbery on October eight; he told me he’d been in prison at the time, and knew nothing about it.’
Bowen was quiet a long time. His gaze was steady, but Devereaux could see something battling to leave the cage. It looked like excitement. It looked like the thrill of entrapment. McCarthy had tipped his chair up on two legs. The sense of something waiting to drop.