Shot Clock

by Blair Denholm

  ‘I want you to call my lawyer.’

  ‘On this?’ Jack dangled Baumann’s phone in front of the man’s eyes.

  ‘Give it back.’

  ‘No can do. Turns out the guy at our station who examined it reckons there’s stuff inside he can’t decipher. The Inspector’s decided to send it to Canberra where they’ve got a bloke with the skills to hack into NASA’s network. Whatever secrets you’ve got in here, we’ll find them. We’ll trawl through all your computers too. In short, you’re fucked.’

  ‘You’re bluffing. You’ll have to release me before the day’s out.’

  ‘Nah-ah, sunshine. You’re scheduled for an emergency hearing. I’ve got a suspicion the court won’t grant bail and you’ll be remanded in custody for some time.’ Jack offered his best smile.

  ‘Let’s just see about that. My lawyer will annihilate you.’

  Jack’s phone rang. ‘Yeah, wot?’

  ‘Which stables?’ said Taylor. ‘We’re at the ones past the members’ enclosure and can’t find you.’

  ‘Well, I must be at the other ones then. You’ve got a wonderful grasp of the bleedin’ obvious. OK. See you soon.’

  Baumann rocked on the haybale, cackling. ‘That Detective Taylor is one dumb bitch.’

  ‘Shut your fucking mouth.’ Jack tucked the gun in his belt, spat in his palms and attacked Baumann about the head with a burst of punches. As the blood sprayed in all directions from the man’s broken nose and busted lips, Jack admitted to himself that it wasn’t a fair fight, what with the man’s hands tied together. With pricks like Baumann, though, normal rules of civility went out the window. A brutal left cross knocked the detainee off his seat into a neat pile of dung. Jack dragged him by the feet, up the aisle and into the stall with the frisky black horse, placed him just out of reach of the beast’s flashing hooves.

  ‘Jack, you in here?’ Taylor called out.

  ‘Hurry up, will you. It looks like a horse kicked the bastard in the face.’

  Chapter 31

  The methadone in the tiny cup hit the spot. It looked such a small dose you’d wonder it would have any effect at all. Inferior to the opioid narcotic it mimicked, but better than nothing. If he had to sit cooped up in that apartment by himself without chemical stimulation until Deets gave the all clear, he’d go round the fucking bend. Sure it was an awesome pad, but solitude sucked no matter the comfort level. When would that all clear come?

  ‘Will you be back next week, Mr Pramberg?’

  ‘Call me Ian.’ Why not? That’s what his fake ID said. She was the first person to address him by the bogus identity and he liked the way it felt. Ian. A strong dependable name. Better than Sandor. When the kids at school found out about his Hungarian ancestry they made his life hell. They laughed at his mother’s strong accent, the weird lunches he brought to school. He asked his schoolmates to call him Sandy, instead he got Attila the Hun. They teased him mercilessly. Until the day after his eight birthday. Simply, he’d had enough. Breaking his first arm at the tender age of eight gave young Sandor quite a thrill. Set him up for a life of teaching bullies short, sharp lessons. Ones that hurt and stuck in the memory.

  ‘We’ll be seeing you then.’ The woman flashed him a smile that in other circumstances he’d follow up with a lousy pick-up line. She was cute, all dimples and teeth and eyelashes. She’d reject you anyway, you big oaf, so best to keep your mouth shut. Besides, he was under clear and unambiguous orders. Lay low. However the methadone clinic was in a discrete alley, he could get there and back quickly and unnoticed, so it wasn’t really a breach. Methadone was essential mental health treatment, so fuck Deets.

  Back in the apartment he logged onto Facebook as Ian Pramberg. Deets could be a killjoy arsehole, but he was beyond peer as far as organising shit went. The page loaded up. Notifications – one. He clicked the bell and it showed him the Scorpions Fanclub page.

  And there it was.

  The promised video.

  Freedom!

  He’d been tagged with a bunch of random people – were they inventions of Baumann’s mind too? You couldn’t put anything past him.

  But something was wrong. The Larry Bird video hadn’t been posted by Deets under his agreed alias of Meadowlark. The user’s name was Killer Lion. Even zoned out on faux heroin Sandor worked out it was Baumann’s lawyer, Lionel Kimler. What the fuck? The comment was: Larry Bird hanging on the ring-ring-ring!

  The hint was obvious. A quick Internet search pulled up the brief’s number. Sandor jotted the number down on a post-it note, hurried to the corner payphone, made the call to Kimler.

  ‘It’s me.’ Sandor was breathless. ‘I saw the post. I was expecting it to be from Deets. What’s going on? Can I come home now?’

  ‘Bad news I’m afraid. Dieter’s been pulled in by the police.’

  ‘He’s smart. He can talk his way out of anything.’

  ‘I should have been clearer.’ Kimler cleared his throat. ‘He’s been charged with murder.’

  ‘Does that mean I can get out of this bloody apartment and come home? He might need my support.’

  ‘No! Are you out of your fucking mind? It’s more important than ever you keep your head down.’

  ‘Yeah, of course. Dunno what I was thinking.’

  ‘So you’ll do as you’re told, right?’

  ‘Yeah, yeah.’ Sandor massaged his forehead with the tips of his fingers. ‘What if the cops offer him a deal? You know, in return for giving me up as an accessory.’

  ‘Dieter assured me he won’t rat you out. Or accept any deals. We’ll argue his innocence vigorously. The burden of proof is on the DPP. In my opinion, they won’t meet that requirement.’

  The brief’s words went in one ear and out the other. ‘Listen, it was me who lured Collins to his death. I’m as guilty as Deets. Jesus Christ! I can’t spend much more time down here alone. What happens when the money runs out?’

  ‘We’ll cross that bridge when we come to it. Just lay low.’

  ‘How did the cops work it out?’

  ‘Dieter’s not a genius. Close to it, but he makes mistakes. Nothing a well-planned defence can’t handle, though.’

  ‘You’re sure?’

  ‘Yes.’ Impatience gave Kimler’s voice a sharp edge. ‘Make sure you check the fan page daily. That’s all I can tell you for now. Hang up and go back to the apartment. And then what are you going to do?’

  ‘Lay low.’ Patronising prick.

  * * *

  Fuck this for a joke. Deets had left him in the lurch. Kimler’s assurances all would be hunky dory rang hollow. He was right about one thing, though. Baumann would never drop his mate in the shit. If his friendship with Baumann had taught Sandor anything, it was the value of loyalty and integrity. They’d never dumped on each other and never would, no matter what.

  Still, he was in an awful jam because of Deets. His mind was heading for that dark place. Sandor looked up the street as the sun faded. His feet carried him away from the apartment, towards an area where he reckoned he could score a bag of smack. Methadone wasn’t going to cut it. A quick chat to a furtive bloke loitering under a streetlamp. A nearby address obtained. Sandor would go there in the morning, tonight he’d watch the televised Scorpions game straight.

  No.

  He couldn’t wait. He took the simple route the stranger had described, left, right, left, and found the house. A dilapidated fibro shack two streets from the beachfront. Inside, two other desperados in search of a hit. A gaunt, hollow-eyed male and a woman, just as thin, both in their late teens to early twenties. Maybe thirties. It was impossible to tell when people had been using drugs for so long. Their need was physical, Sandor’s purely psychological. He sat waiting on an uncomfortable stool, staring at a mould-covered wall. That last meeting with Dale Collins played out in his mind like a horror movie, made the need to inject the gear even more urgent.

  Collins stood, hands behind his back, waiting at the fountain in the middle of Currie Park.


  ‘Glad you could make it.’ Sandor adjusted his peaked cap lower over his face as he approached. Nervousness made his hands shake.

  ‘Where’s Dieter?’ Collins looked over Sandor’s shoulder.

  ‘Sorry, he’s been called to an urgent business meeting. But it’s about to finish. He asked me to take you to him.’

  ‘Hey.’ Collins’ eyes lit up. ‘I remember you. You tried out for the team a while back.’

  ‘Yeah.’ Sandor had changed his appearance radically since then. Shaved his head, added some tattoos. ‘Never mind.’

  ‘We were that close to giving you a run.’ Collins squeezed his thumb and forefinger together. ‘Sometimes you have to make hard decisions in our business.’ He offered an awkward apologetic smile.

  ‘Whatever.’ Sandor had no desire to revisit the disastrous tryout.

  ‘Do you know what Baumann wants?’

  Sandor frowned, tried to look ignorant. ‘Dunno the details. But he reckons it’s real important. He said if you don’t meet him, you’re fucked. His words.’

  Collins’ face turned the colour of fresh milk. ‘Excuse me?’

  ‘I think it’s something to do with money or gambling or some shit. Now, are you coming or do I have to make you?’

  ‘I’m sure this is all a big misunderstanding.’

  ‘Head that way.’ Sandor indicated a narrow, shaded path. ‘I’ll be right behind you.’

  ‘It better not take long. We’ve got a training session shortly.’

  ‘Then get moving, why doncha?’ Sandor snarled as he poked Collins in the chest. Fear expanded the coach’s eyes. He turned and started walking.

  As he followed a step behind Collins, Sandor recalled the conversation he had with Dieter three weeks ago, about what the coach had done and why he deserved to die.

  The game was against the lowly Wollongong Wombats, victory was there for the taking. Viewed live, it appeared the Scorpions just had an off night and the other team took advantage. Dieter later re-watched the game, pausing the footage, analysing Collins’ tactics. It became obvious the coach had deliberately sabotaged the game. Steve Sarsby fouling out, a couple of key mismatches on defence which the opposition capitalised on easily, other subtle manoeuvres. At a crucial stage Collins substituted Martin Welsh, slightly injured with a scratch to the face but more than capable of playing on. The Wombats took the lead in the second half of the last quarter and held on for a win no one saw coming. No one except Dale Collins. None of this would have mattered one bit, except Dieter had placed a packet on the Scorpions to win. Sandor asked the logical question: Why the hell would Collins throw a match?

  Dieter told Sandor he’d hacked Coach Collins’ home computers to find out exactly that. Maybe Dieter was wrong, but he had to discover the truth. What he found came as a shock.

  Word around the Scorpions camp was that Collins’ opulent lifestyle was funded through his access to old family money back in the States. Not so. A series of exchanges going back a decade revealed Collins had been cut off from the family fortune. Marrying outside the faith was met with disgust. On the surface they pretended to accept Filomena, deep down they seethed with rage. Dale pleaded with the patriarchs for understanding and forgiveness, no dice. The folks back in Utah would not compromise on their beliefs and Dale would have to fend for himself.

  Deets also found a folder chock full of correspondence between Collins and the director of a bank in the Cayman Islands. The emails described massive deposits through a spiderweb of accounts. It was a simple matter of comparing the dates of the transactions – there were ten, two for each year Collins had coached the Scorpions. Each deposit occurred after the Scorpions suffered big or unexpected losses. The largest deposit followed two days after Sarsby’s debacle against the Wombats. $159,650. Dieter was furious. He’d borrowed $50,000 from a loan shark to back Yorkville and had to move heaven and earth to pay it back. As a player, he always abided by the league’s code, never placed a bet. He couldn’t comprehend how Collins could behave so disgracefully.

  Why don’t you just report him? Sandor asked. Collins’ career will be ruined, he’ll probably go to jail.

  Deets offered three arguments against such a course of action. One, he’d never get his own fifty grand back, so what was the point? Two, reporting Collins would backfire. Deets himself could be charged with illegally accessing private information. And three, the Scorpions didn’t deserve the scandal that would attach to unmasking Collins. The entire franchise would be tarnished by the man’s actions, all past results would be questioned, the players would be held in suspicion. Sandor agreed these were excellent reasons to kill Collins. And he could at last exact his own personal revenge for being snubbed by Collins when Sandor was clearly good enough for top-level basketball.

  So they planned and executed the perfect murder. Thought they’d never be caught. How fucking stupid! A jury would see past Kimler’s lies, Dieter would go down. Sooner or later the cops would figure out the missing piece of the puzzle and Sandor would also be taking up permanent residence in Copperhead Jail.

  He stopped at a pedestrian crossing, felt the cool sea breeze on his face. Perhaps a refreshing twilight dip in the surf would make him feel better. Then he remembered the order.

  Lay low.

  Evening traffic was building as people headed to restaurants, bars, clubs. Rendezvous with lovers, strangers, full of nervous anticipation, meeting in person after finding each other on the Internet. A night on the town with the promise of adventure.

  Not for Sandor Katz.

  Lay low.

  Christ, he wasn’t sure he’d be able to stand his own company much longer. Thank God he’d gone to that house on the beachfront. He felt the baggie of heroin in his back pocket. Everything’s going to be all right. Sandor tugged the bag out of his jeans, held it up to the light and smiled. You know what? he said the words aloud. I don’t need this shit. And with those words he stepped off the pavement, said a quick prayer and threw himself into the path of a thundering 30-tonne semitrailer.

  Chapter 32

  The highly anticipated report came through this morning, just as Jack was stirring the sugar in his morning coffee. Brisbane CIB’s gambling taskforce IT specialists had taken a week to fulfil the request: analyse and decrypt all the data on Dale Collins’ mobile phone and computer. The phone revealed nothing of interest. The computer, by contrast, was a gold mine. Jack and Taylor almost sprinted into the Inspector’s office when he buzzed them. Two seats were set up either side of the chief’s swivel chair.

  Jack and Taylor sat agog as Inspector Batista scrolled through the contents of the report. Secret bank accounts, large deposits into a Cayman Islands bank. Jack got a headache looking at all the graphs, the tables of transactions. Most surprising of all were the 10-year-old emails between the coach and his irate fundamentalist family in Utah. Taylor had been right about the existence of the family fortune. Only poor Dale didn’t get a look in. Where did the money come from? The Brisbane unit took the initiative, compared the dates of the deposits with the Scorpions’ playing record. Conclusion, Collins was throwing matches and cashing in. Had widow Fil been aware of her husband’s duplicity? If she wasn’t, Dale Collins had done a magnificent job of shielding her from the truth for a decade.

  Now it was time to spread the good news with the media. A big announcement, a massive breakthrough in the case. Minus a couple of bombshells. They would come later.

  Jack couldn’t stop touching at his face where Taylor had brushed on foundation to mask the bruising caused by Baumann’s elbow. She slapped his hand away. ‘Stop. You’ll smudge it.’

  ‘Sorry, Claudia. It’s itching like mad.’

  ‘Would you rather look like a mugging victim instead of a big, tough cop?’

  ‘You’ve got a good point, but I’m used to putting on Vaseline after I get beaten up, not Max bleedin’ Factor.’

  ‘Fight the urge,’ she grinned. ‘It’s show time.’

  Inspector Batista shuffled side
ways, occupied the middle chair between Jack and Taylor. He tapped the microphone twice, donned a pair of rimless glasses. ‘Ladies and gentlemen,’ Batista spoke loudly and with authority. ‘I’m pleased to inform you that we have made an arrest in relation to the Dale Collins murder inquiry. I’ll now hand over to our lead investigator on the case, Detective Sergeant Jack Lisbon.’

  ‘Thank you, sir.’ A perfunctory throat clearance followed by a mouthful of water. ‘As a result of diligent work by the entire CIB, as well as co-operation from the Yorkville community, we’ve gathered enough evidence to charge Dieter Heinz Baumann with the murder of Dale Collins. Many of you will recall Baumann played a number of seasons with the Scorpions. He–’

  ‘Why did he do it?’ Hot-shot reporter Holly Maguire from Channel 11 wasn’t a firm believer in waiting one’s turn.

  ‘We believe the motive was revenge,’ said Jack, reaching for his glass of water.

  ‘For what?’ Johnno Peroni, Channel 3.

  ‘Without going into too much detail, there seems to have been a financial element to the crime.’ With the playoffs ongoing and the victim’s funeral scheduled for tomorrow, Batista instructed the detectives not to mention Collins’ involvement in illegal gambling until later. Perhaps not even until the matter went to court.

  ‘What kind of financial element?’ Peroni again.

  ‘Let’s just say there was money involved.’ The room erupted in laughter. Of course the police could, in theory, give the press much more information than they planned to. But why kill the town’s mood? The players were lifting exactly because of Collins’ death. Revealing the coach was a crook would destroy the players mentally, sink any chance the Scorpions had of winning the title. Besides, Jack and the Inspector had bet good money – legally – on the locals winning the crown. Better to keep schtum.

  ‘I’ve heard through the grapevine there were two killers.’ Maguire had to rain on the parade. ‘Where’s the second perpetrator?’