A Tropical Cure

by John Hollenkamp

  Darren relayed the results from the fifteen-minute meeting with the bank executive overseeing his account and affairs with the bank. In the same office, a member from the Fraud and Corporate Affairs unit read him the riot act with regard to his complicity in major fraud and money laundering. They would contact him when the investigation was completed. They had even asked him to surrender his passport. Darren had explained, “Mate, I don’t need a passport to get away from you lot.”

  “That part took a bit of doing to un-convince them to arrest me on the spot.”

  “You are a little bit of a smartarse, I must say.” Ruby frowned.

  Darren then clarified the dollars and cents of the mess he created, including the twenty-seven-hundred dollar hole.

  “Wow, you are being done over.” Ruby slammed a few paracetamol tablets back, drinking from a glass of water to wash them down. “What now? Have you any money to pay the bank the twenty-seven hundred dollars?”

  “No. Actually, I’m pretty skint after paying the vet bill.” Darren poured himself a neat Jim Beam.

  “Yes. Sorry, I had to write that one out for you. It was rather high.” She raised her eyebrows.

  “Not your fault. I am grateful for all the things you and Helen did for him. The million-dollar slum dog,” Darren replied casting an eye on Patch, who sat sweeping the floor with his tail.

  “Hahaha …yes, you might say that.”

  “I’m going to have a couple of beers, and a few more of these.” Pointing at the bottle of Beam.

  “Suppose you deserve them after today’s results. Don’t worry I will help you with your bank debt.” Ruby moved into him, pecked him on the lips.

  “The bank can get fucked, after the way they treated me today,” Darren grumbled.

  “Is it the bank’s fault that one of their employees entangled them in a web of fraud?” Ruby replied with her hands cupping his cheeks.

  “Guess not,” Darren replied.

  “What about your friends? Nearly half a million dollars. Enough to make you want to run away.” Ruby’s face became concerned. “Aren’t these people capable of killing?”

  “Probably not until they have their money.” Darren sunk another nip of bourbon.

  “I know I’ve put on a brave face, but I must admit I’m a little nervous about all of this.”

  “You can bail out. I won’t stop you. It’s probably the best thing for you.” Darren went to the fridge and dug out a long-neck of Cooper’s Ale. “Forgot about that one.” He eyed it with admiration, and thirst.

  “Are you at all concerned about your well-being?”

  “Yeah. Of course, but tomorrow’s another day. I’ll have to figure out how to deal with these bastards. They are nothing but thugs. Nothing special about them, or than that they are ruthless cuh …, sorry, pricks, and they are dangerous as hell.”

  “Oh, that all? And, thank you, I appreciate you not using that word.” Ruby bent over to pat Patch.

  “Gotta clear out next week too. Less than a week. Might have to move in with Dougie and his missus.” He rolled his eyes.

  “Just temporary. I’m sure you’ll cope. He’s your brother, isn’t he?”

  “Don’t like the imposition. They’d be happy to have me around. Love a brew.” Darren hadn’t bothered with pouring the Cooper’s into a glass, and gulped straight from the longneck.

  …

  “I’m serious you know. You can bail out. We can pick up our friendship down the track,” Darren said and held her gaze.

  “And let you get killed all on your own. Hah. I bet you can’t even shoot a stationary target,” she huffed.

  “Is that a challenge?” Darren laughed.

  “Absolutely. Any weapon, anytime.”

  “Tomorrow. Reckon you can shoot a .38 and hit a bottle from thirty metres away?”

  “Blindfolded.” Ruby kissed him.

  ***

  Elsewhere, on the same day…

  The flight to Cairns from Townsville didn’t take long, an hour and a bit had catapulted Slice into a different place. Whereas Townsville had been dry most of the time since he’d arrived, Cairns was awash in a downpour when he walked out of the airport building. He hadn’t made any arrangements for accommodation. In fact, he had been lucky to snatch up a seat on the flight from a cancellation.

  Seeking shelter from the rain under an awning allowed him an opportunity to check out some billboards with names of hotels. A taxi pulled up, the driver opened the window, muttered something in heavily accented Indian-English. Slice appraised him, and his own situation; picking up his briefcase, he decided to let this taxi driver guide him to the best accommodation.

  Happy enough with the taxi driver’s suggestion, he settled on a hotel near the Esplanade, Cairns’ waterfront tourist district.

  A good night’s sleep followed by a room-service delivered hot breakfast had made Slice feel like a king.

  The view from his 5th floor room was out to the waterfront and Coral Sea. He had requested a copy of the Yellow Pages with his breakfast order, scanning through the used car dealer section while eating his Eggs Benedict, allowed him to be efficient with the start of his day. Slice was aiming to kill two birds with one stone, hoping Bruce’s Bang for Buck Cars had a decent range of sportscars to choose from.

  His phone vibrated on the table.

  He put his knife and fork down, picking up the device.

  “Morning,” Slice answered dabbing his mouth with a stiff, white serviette.

  “Are you going to the island?” Salvatore enquired.

  “No. I had a change of plans. Last minute.”

  “Why? I need to know about my nephew’s loyalty,” the Italian replied tersely.

  “You told me not to touch him. To keep digging … Of course, if you have decided to change your priority, then I will do my best to follow your directive,” Slice replied calmly with polished diplomacy.

  “Go and see him this morning.”

  “I am not in the position to do that,” Slice replied.

  “Why not?” The Italian was agitated.

  Slice was reluctant to inform the crime-boss about his rapid departure from Townsville, and the reasons why. It would make him look, incompetent and foolish.

  “I am in Cairns. Remember the car-yard I told you about? I am here following up on Matteo’s contact. I thought it a wise step.” Slice cut some salmon with his fork, and separated it to load on his fork. The conversation was beginning to wear thin; the Italian had a penchant for invading his time of privacy.

  Salvatore grunted and hung up.

  Good. Slice put the phone down, and continued with his meal.

  ***

  Coloured triangular flags hanging in long, draped lengths adorned the perimeter of the used car sales lot. How original. Slice paid the cab driver, brushing his white trousers as he shut the door of the cab. Standing on the sidewalk, he had a good look at the stock of used cars, some with glaring fluorescent prices pasted on the front windscreens. Uninspired about shopping for a suitable car, but curious about how Matteo fit into this, he advanced with reserved enthusiasm.

  A tower of a man, clean-shaven with a crisp modern hair-cut, had started walking towards him from a shack-like office. Slice assessed the salesman as he approached, Slovakian, very strong and masculine. Not my type. Something familiar.

  “Good morning, what can I do for you?” A husky voice, a little unpolished.

  Slice was more reserved in his greeting, “Morning.”

  “Have you got anything in mind?” The big man stuck his hand out.

  Slice reluctantly shook the strong hand, looking away and replied, “Something with power.”

  “Come with me. Let me show you what we have. There’s a couple of cars that might suit your requirements.”

  No warmth in his voice. Slice followed the man, translating the observations regarding the salesman’s presentation of his role: speech was unrefined, mannerism awkward, like he was uncomfortable in his own skin, and clothing. Not
typical of car salesmen. To Slice, this guy was like a pelican in a duckpond.

  “What do you think?” The salesman pointed at a WRX, metallic blue, shiny and flawless in presentation.

  “Hmm. Nice, but I don’t want a boy-racer,” Slice dismissed as he looked around.

  “Sorry, mate. I didn’t catch your name.”

  “Mike. Mike Devonport.”

  “The name is Ed,” Eddie said, and ran his fingers through his slick, manicured hair. In doing so, Eddie’s huge bicep shrunk his shirt-sleeve back exposing part of a tattoo. The ink said DSMC, overlapping a tattooed skull with horns.

  DSMC? Slice was momentarily distracted, trying to remember what Salvatore had told him about this Eddie character. And the photographs. He glanced at the salesman.

  “Anything wrong, buddy?”

  “No… I was considering the WRX, but it does not suit my needs … not really.” Slice’s answer was stunted.

  “Okay. Follow me.”

  Slice trailed in the salesman’s shadow, his mind desperately picturing the image of a hulking biker with long dark hair, a neatly cropped beard, and cold eyes. There was a likeness. But what would Eddie be doing up here? Salvatore was convinced Eddie was in Townsville, but this was Cairns.

  “Ed, is it? Do you have anything with an eight?”

  “Sure do. It’s a Ford. Hope you don’t hold that against me.” Eddie stopped his tour in front of a gleaming, orange AU Falcon. “It’s an XR8, with some extra grunt. Tricked up under the bonnet. Suspension’s been tweaked too. See, it’s pretty low.” Eddie had a broad smile.

  “Yes. It is a Ford. How much are you asking for it?” Slice wasn’t as excited as the salesman.

  “For you. Today only. Five grand, cash,” Eddie replied, smiling with auto-prompt.

  Slice bobbed his head, and stepped closer. Without uttering a sound, he walked slowly around the car, looking into the open driver’s side window. Black leather, six-speed manual, it was clean, but definitely used. He saw himself in the side mirror, he noticed that he’d missed a spot on his eyebrow. I must be more meticulous. He lowered his sunglasses.

  “Reckon, this would outrun a Commodore?” Slice asked.

  “No doubt,” Eddie assured him.

  “What about a Highway Patrol version of a Commodore?” Slice was trying to set a trap.

  “That would be illegal, of course. But if you were inclined, I’m sure you could give them a run for their money.”

  Smart answer.

  “I will give you four and a half. Today. In cash.” Slice ran his hand over the silky-smooth roof of the XR8.

  “Done deal, pal.” Eddie shoved his hand forward.

  Again, the tattoo revealed itself, not fully like before. This time, Ed, the salesman had caught him sneaking a peek. Ed had ended the handshake quickly, casually pulling his sleeve down with his other hand.

  “Nice tattoo.” A casual remark, and nonchalant, like it had absolutely no significance. “What happened to your hand? Nasty looking scabs.”

  Their eyes met.

  Eddie had forgotten about the ugly scabs on his hand and wrist.

  “An accident.”

  “Looks like … bite marks.” The buyer inspected his hand a little closer.

  “Yeah. Let’s not go there. Fucking neighbour’s dog. Deserves a bullet.” Eddie’s response wasn’t from a polished salesman.

  “Rather extreme.” Slice returned his reply.

  Eddie’s eyes jumped from his buyer’s to the orange XR8, and back.

  “How about we finalise the paperwork,” Eddie proposed.

  “How about a test drive first?”

  Eddie nodded. Hope the bastard starts. Remembering Bruce’s instructions about going around and checking batteries. “You’ll fuck up a sale with a no-go car.”

  CHAPTER 54

  A SMELLY TRAIL

  The butterflies were fluttering in Joel’s stomach. He stood behind the other uniformed guys, Wilder was next to him. They eyed each other, as the one of the police constables knocked on the door. The seconds ticked over. It was like Joel could hear every heartbeat of the men, and one woman in front of that unit door. Gibbs encouraged the constable in front to step aside with a firm push of her hand, now in front of the door, knocking like a rattling STEN-gun.

  She barked, “Police. Please open up.”

  Nothing.

  “Do we knock it down?” A young officer asked unsure of the response.

  “It’s not bloody Hawaii Five-0,” Gibbs faced the rookie rolling her eyes.

  “What’s Hawaii-Five-0?” The young copper whispered.

  “Christ almighty.” Wilder barged forward sidelining the uniformed squad.

  Wilder banged on the door, yelling out. ”James Earl Jones, this is the police, open this door!”

  “James Earl Jones? That’s the name of the guy that played Darth Vader,” the young rookie remarked.

  Wilder looked at the probationary constable questioningly.

  Joel tapped the other rookie on the shoulder. “You. Stand back here, before someone nobs you.”

  “Oh sorry, sir.” And the rookie meekly vanished behind the raid squad.

  “See if the caretaker is around? This is beginning to really piss me off,” Wilder grumbled.

  ***

  The unit was spotless. The caretaker was most impressed, the coppers weren’t.

  “Can you organise forensics? I want this place turned upside down.” Wilder touched the edge of the benchtop with his fingers, then quickly moved them off.

  “On to it now.” Joel went out through the front door, phone already in his hands.

  Wilder dismissed the uniform officers, all four of them. Not only were they no longer required, but he didn’t want to run the risk of a crime scene contamination. Wilder cast a look to the young rookie who followed Gibbs like a puppy. James Earl Jones.

  “And can you do a background check on a ‘James Earl Jones’?”

  Joel gave Wilder a cursory thumbs-up while advising the details of the unit to the recipient on the phone.

  ***

  Further north, the next day, a lone Highway Patrolman had been on patrol from Cardwell to Ingham, when his radar speed-alert went off, forcing him to perform a U-turn to chase the offender going to the other way. Unbelievably, the speeding offender never looked in the rear-view mirror for nearly ten kays. When she did, the shock of being stalked by flashing coloured lights had caused her to swerve erratically, resulting in her car leaving the bitumen, barrelling down an embankment. Luckily, she managed to keep control of her bouncing car, narrowly avoiding a collision with a stationary vehicle, and miraculously steering the car back onto the shoulder, where she opened her door, gasping. “I think I’ve just had a heart-attack.”

  “Wait until you see the fine,” the unimpressed patrolman replied.

  Sending the driver on her way after a lecture and a speeding fine, he turned his attention to the stationary car at the bottom of the embankment.

  A red Charade no one had taken any notice of until now.

  Wonder how long that’s been here for? He viewed the vehicle from the grassy verge. From the road, travelling at speed it would have been easy to miss. He approached the car with caution.

  The windows were up. The car certainly appeared abandoned. Most stolen cars of that vintage would have the windows down, lack of aircon. Maybe a silly assumption, he thought. Still, the car had a weird aura about it. Something he felt wasn’t right, other than the fact that it was clearly an abandoned vehicle. Then, with a slight breeze came the smell. Oh. Great.

  ***

  “Hinchinbrook has just informed us about a body discovered in an abandoned car south of Cardwell. They want someone from here to help them out with crime scene stuff,” Wilder relayed the request to Joel, who was now on one-month secondment to Serious Crimes.

  “I think you might as well go up there and arrange for forensics to meet you there.” Wilder hadn’t even taken his eyes off the report in his hand. “Y
ou wouldn’t believe it, but the forensics report virtually called it ‘sterile’. And yes, I know. James Earl Jones was a fake name. So far, he’s created a dead end. He’s good. Bastards like him eventually leave a smell, unfortunately, in the way of a dead body.”

  “Apparently, I am about to smell one too,” Joel said leaving the office.

  The two-hour drive to the crime scene was pleasant enough, giving Joel an opportunity to process the events of the last week. Was it just bad luck that the carjackers picked on the wrong bloke? To sterilise a flat covering up the minutest of evidence of his stay had the hallmark of a serious professional. Scrubbing away any sign of the heinous killing and torture of a young boy, sent shivers up Joel’s neck. They were dealing with a very sick individual.

  Joel was sure that a lot of the loose ends would come together, sooner or later. He was convinced that once Darren would let him in on some of the shady activities … Eureka! The stolen car … the suspect killer’s car was a green Commodore, an SS, with a thumping loud eight.

  “Yes!” Joel yelled out. “

  “Yes. That’s it!”

  Same car Darren described as the vehicle stalking him. There ya go. Connection.

  Five minutes later, Joel spotted the Highway Patrol vehicle, along with a police paddy wagon. A tow truck had already got wind of a job, and was parked on the verge, orange light twirling.

  Joel pulled up behind the patrol car. Upon approach to the uniformed officer he produced his temporary ID card. The officer nodded.

  “We’ve left him where we found him,” the patrolman spoke to Joel.

  “Recognise him at all? Is he a local?” Joel had his notebook ready, pen in hand.

  “To be honest, none of us were too keen to get close. You know what I mean?”

  “Fair enough.”

  “When are the sniffers coming?” the patrolman asked.

  “Sniffers? Oh, you mean forensics. You know they shower every day, they don’t sniff much, really.” Joel held the patrolman’s gaze. Then he laughed, “Only joking mate.”

  The pale-faced copper didn’t respond to the attempt at humour.

  “I’m going back on the road. Those two guys will hang here for another twenty.” Eyes pointing to the two officers guarding the Charade. The humourless patrolman walked off to his car.