by Luke Preston
About Dark City Blue
If there’s one thing worse than a crooked cop on your heels then it’s a whole unit of them.
A fistful of people are murdered, fifteen million dollars is stolen and detective Tom Bishop is stuck in the middle. When he hits the street, every clue points in the same direction – his colleagues in a police department demoralised by cutbacks and scandals. Hunted, alone and with no place left to turn, Bishop embarks on a hellish journey down into the gutters where right and wrong quickly become twisted and problems are solved with gunfire and bloodshed.
Over the next two days, Tom Bishop will be cornered. He will be beaten. He will bust into prison. He will shoot at police. He will team up with violent criminals. He will become one of them. He will break every rule in the book, chasing a lead nobody else will go near down a rabbit hole of corruption, murder and buried secrets.
Will Bishop become the very monster he set out to destroy?
A modern hard-boiled tale that unfolds at a relentless pace, Dark City Blue is Serpico, if Serpico snorted a fistful of cocaine and hung out with Lee Marvin.
Contents
About Dark City Blue
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-One
Chapter Thirty-Two
Chapter Thirty-Three
Chapter Thirty-Four
Chapter Thirty-Five
Chapter Thirty-Six
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Chapter Thirty-Eight
Chapter Thirty-Nine
Chapter Forty
Chapter Forty-One
Chapter Forty-Two
Chapter Forty-Three
Chapter Forty-Four
Epilogue
About the Author
About Out of Exile
Copyright
Chapter One
Two days ago, division found a half-beaten, half-pretty, naked fifteen-year-old girl stumbling down the Hume Highway. The case got bumped to Sex Crimes, then the CO bumped it to Tom Bishop. The girl didn’t speak a word of English, and after a translator arrived she didn’t speak a word of anything. Yesterday, Bishop and Ellison hit up every pimp and whorehouse in a two-kilometre radius of where she was found. An hour ago, they got an address from a gonzo smut shooter as to where simulated rape videos were being shot. Only they weren’t so simulated.
Ellison shifted her attention from the dirty windscreen to the clock on her phone. ‘What the fuck takes so long?’
‘Relax,’ Bishop said. ‘It takes as long as it takes.’
She mumbled a profanity and shifted her weight from one arse cheek to another.
Bishop lit a cigarette and wound down the window. The shit smell of three-day-old roasting garbage blew through the car from the rubbish bins some bastard had kicked over the night before. He fixed his gaze on the green stucco house at the end of the street. Three bedrooms. One bathroom. Paint-chipped walls. Overgrown lawns and a burnt-out shell of a car in the yard. A shithole.
The radio crackled to life. ‘Any movement?’
Ellison picked it up, pushed it to her lips. ‘Nothing but the street.’
Moose and Winters were around the back of the house doing the same thing they were: sweating, waiting and trying to stay alert.
Twenty minutes and another cigarette later, Bishop watched a car pull up in the rear-view. He slipped on his sunglasses, climbed out and clocked the street: empty in every direction.
Reeves emerged from the fleet and approached Bishop with a shake of his head. ‘They wouldn’t do it, mate.’
Ellison kicked the side of the car. ‘Fuck.’
She left a dent in the door that Bishop ignored. ‘Did you go to Kean?’ he asked.
‘And to Beechworth and Pointon. All said the same thing: not enough evidence for a warrant.’
A breeze pushed across Bishop’s sweaty face as he turned to watch the green stucco house. His mind raced with all the horrible things that were going on inside. Still, probably nowhere near as bad as the reality of it.
He took a breath.
Fuck it.
Bishop popped the boot, pulled out a shotgun, racked it and moved toward the house with Ellison and Reeves in his wake. ‘You hear that?’ he said.
Ellison looked up and down the street. ‘Hear what?’
‘Screams. Waiting for a warrant, we heard screams then entered.’
Ellison pulled her weapon, checked the chamber, let the slide fall back into position. ‘Works for me.’
‘Reeves, go get lost in traffic.’
Reeves nodded, headed to his car. A moment later, it pulled into the street and the engine faded away.
Bishop wiped his face with the sleeve of his leather jacket as they crouched behind a dilapidated picket fence. Ellison handed him the radio. He pushed it to his face.
‘I want you boys to wait a couple of minutes, then meet me around the back.’
Winters’ voice filtered back through the two-way. ‘Sure, boss.’
‘Where do you want me?’ Ellison asked. She couldn’t keep still; her eyes darted every which way.
‘Front of the house, pick the door quietly.’
‘What if the shit hits the fan?’
Bishop gave it some thought, rubbed his jaw. ‘Then kick it in.’ Bent at the waist, he made it down the street and into the front yard.
There were two cars parked on the kerb and a shitbox Ford up on blocks. Bishop slid in behind it, peeked over the bonnet. Tattered yellow curtains that were once white hung in the windows and blocked any way of seeing in. He moved closer. Dry grass crunched under his feet as he crept between the house and the fence. The windows were painted black and beyond that, at the rear of the property, lay burnt grass and a makeshift fireplace surrounded by empty longnecks and cigarette butts.
He pushed against the back wall of the house and waited.
Movement.
Winters and Moose. Each held their weapon with one hand while they climbed over the rear fence with the other. The pair wore Hawaiian shirts, loud, offensive. They sidled up to Bishop. ‘I take it we’re going in, boss?’ Winters asked.
Bishop nodded. ‘There’s no warrant; you boys up for that?’
‘Cool with us,’ Moose said. ‘I’m assuming we heard screams?’
Bishop nodded. His eyes shifted to the back door. ‘That thing locked?’
Winters slipped his fingers around the knob and quietly turned. Locked.
‘Pick it.’
Winters got started as Bishop knelt down beside the basement trapdoor. The forty-dollar padlock was a good attempt at security, but the rusted-out latch it was connected to wasn’t. Bishop pulled his flick knife and undid the screws. He looked to Winters and Moose and their Hawaiian shirts. ‘Try to blend in.’ And then he stepped into the darkness.
A sound.
Bishop swung his shotgun low and to the left: a cage. Naked girl. Twelve years old, maybe. She huddled in a corner and tried to cover herself, but there wasn’t much space for her to move and nothing to cover herself with.
Bishop brought a finger to his lips. ‘Shh.’
Whatever language she spoke, she understood.
He dug his hand into his pocket and pulled out a flashlight. Hitting the switch, he scanned the basement: two more cages, two more girls.
The floorboards above creaked. Dust sprinkled down and fell through the light; somebody was in the house and, judging by the steps, they were around one hundred and fifty kilos’ worth.
Bishop headed up the three wooden steps, wrapped his fingers around the doorknob, opened it a crack and peeked through. The hall was empty. He stepped onto the warped floorboards and closed the basement door behind him. Despite their attempts at blacking out the windows, the hall was bright. The walls were bare, yellow, the floors scuffed and dusty. Muffled sounds of fucking leaked from the front of the house. Bishop raised his shotgun and took baby steps toward the source. Each room he passed was bare and cold. Nobody lived there and hadn’t for a long time.
The scene was common enough: the makers shoot fuck films in empty houses for a couple of weeks before moving on to another location. By the time the movies are shot, cut, distributed and intercepted by the VPD, the location is already two months old and pointless tracking down.
Bishop passed through the kitchen. The fuck sounds grew louder as he neared the doorframe and waited, the nightmare only inches away on the other side of the flimsy wall. Sweat ran down his face. His palms were wet. He wiped them on his jeans, took a breath … Then his heart stopped.
A barrel pushed into the back of his neck. ‘Easy,’ the voice said as a hand took away his shotgun. Bishop turned and ran his gaze from the .357 up the arm of the musclebound monster. He was tattooed from head to toe, With a minor tilt of his head, the monster motioned to the other room and Bishop stepped into the lounge.
Four men.
Girl on the floor. Crying. Dirty mattress.
Table of knives.
Above the girl, a fifth man. Masked. Naked, Machete in hand.
Bishop was outmanned and outgunned. ‘You’re all under arrest,’ he said.
Nobody was amused.
Ellison kicked the front door to splinters. Scanned the room. Aimed. Bishop hit the deck. She fired. Sprayed what was left of the monster’s head on the wall.
Scumbags yanked out weapons.
Sidearm in hand, Bishop rose to his feet. The masked man moved on him. Machete above his head. Bishop fired. The blast slammed him back into the wall.
A scumbag lurched at Ellison. She fired. Missed. He tackled her to the ground.
Bishop felt a gun on him: the director. He raised his weapon as the girl on the mattress jumped to her feet. Terrified. She tried to run, didn’t know where. Bishop shifted his aim.
‘Down,’ he yelled.
She didn’t hear. Couldn’t hear. The director about to shoot them both. No time: Bishop slammed the butt of his gun across her cheek. Out cold.
Scumbag fired. Missed. Hit Winters instead. He hit the floor.
They opened up. Bishop took out the director as Moose put six into the one on the right.
Ellison was still down on the floor. She had a bastard twice her size in a headlock. Veins on his forehead popped. Spit pushed though his clenched teeth. A moment later, his body went limp.
As fast as all the bad noise started, it came to a stop, leaving only the heavy breathing of the living and gun smoke lingering in the air.
Moose helped Winters to his feet. He leant against the wall and coughed.
‘You alright?’ Bishop asked.
Winters tore at the velcro and let the bullet-ridden vest drop to his feet. He ran his fingers over his chest. ‘Think I busted a rib.’
‘You’ll live.’
Ellison peeled herself off the floor, scooped up her weapon.
‘How about you?’ Bishop asked.
‘I’m good.’ She motioned to the brick shithouse on the floor. ‘Better than him anyway.’
The smoke burnt Bishop’s throat. He lit a cigarette and called to Moose. ‘There’s three girls in the basement; get them out and call an ambulance.’
As Moose left, the adrenaline in Bishop’s body began to bleed away. He dry-rubbed his eyes. When he opened them, it was to the sight of a naked child, battered, bruised and out cold by his feet. Bishop lifted her onto the couch. She weighed next to nothing, and his leather jacket looked enormous draped over her small body. Greasy hair lay over her face; he slipped a strand behind her ear.
‘What is she, thirteen?’ Ellison asked.
‘If that.’
A cracked window from a stray bullet let a warm breeze flow over the room, drying the blood on the walls. In the distance, sirens blared.
Chapter Two
‘Why didn’t you wait for a warrant?’
‘We heard screams coming from the house.’
Jim Patterson’s arching eyebrow pulled up half of his face. ‘Screams?’
‘Can I smoke in here?’ Bishop already had one in his mouth and was looking for a light.
‘No,’ Arden said. ‘You can’t.’
‘Won’t be much longer, detective,’ Patterson said.
Bishop pulled the cigarette from his lips and slid it back into the packet. He looked at Patterson, than shifted his eyes to Arden with a sigh. It was the standard post-incident Ethical Standards debriefing. Bishop had run through the same story twice and, by the look of Arden, she wanted him to go through it again.
‘Were you the only one who heard the screams?’ she asked.
‘My partner Jane Ellison was with me. She heard them as well.’
‘What about …’ she thumbed through some papers ‘… Moose and Winters?’
‘They were at the rear of the house. You’ll have to ask them.’
‘After you decided to enter the premises, tell me what happened.’ It was clear to Bishop: Ethical Standards was Arden’s first assignment out of uniform. She was trying too hard. ‘What happened next, detective?’
Bishop sighed, looked to Patterson. He knew Bishop’s story wasn’t going to change, no matter how many times he told it.
‘Arden, do you mind giving us a minute?’
Her chair scraped the concrete as she pushed back and a moment later the door closed behind her and the room fell quiet. Patterson stood and stretched out his busted leg. The pain eased, but only a little. He was two years older than Bishop but joined the VPD the year after him. He graduated top of the class, did the customary six months in uniform before shifting to undercover where he exposed a drug smuggling ring out of Tullamarine Airport. The bust netted seventy million in heroin and it made him a real-life genuine star. The bosses were grooming him to be the next power player, possibly even commissioner, so a young Patterson found himself being transferred to a different department every twelve months to learn policing from all angles. It was during his brief stint in Homicide that Bishop met him. They were partnered up together and got thrown a Jane Doe that nobody expected to solve. They traced that girl to a guy, and traced that guy to another guy and the whole thing led to bringing down a people smuggling operation out of KL. Patterson took most of the glory. Bishop didn’t care. Patterson's promising future went all to shit when his leg was blown apart by a religious zealot with a shotgun preaching peace, love and child sex slaves. Patterson was taken off the street and put into Ethical Standards. The leg never recovered and neither did his career.
Patterson turned the tape recorder off.
‘I was sorry to hear about Jennifer,’ he said.
‘Alice.’
His face contorted. ‘S
hit, I’m sorry. Now I feel like a real prick.’
‘Don’t worry about it,’ Bishop said.
Half a smile came to his face. ‘It’s my job to worry.’
‘You worried about me?’
‘Should I be?’
Bishop shrugged. ‘My report’s clean.’
‘Doesn’t mean it’s faithful.’
‘Look,’ Bishop said, ‘I made a call. The girls are safe and only the bad guys got hurt.’
‘That’s a common theme in your reports.’
‘Making arrests.’
‘Suspects getting hurt.’
Bishop looked at him sideways. ‘Am I under investigation, Lieutenant?’
‘We’re just two cops having a chat.’
‘Bullshit. What am I doing here?’
Patterson leant back in his chair. Picked up Bishop’s personnel file. It was three inches thick. ‘I read this and I see two things. I see a career detective who’s brought down some heavy hitters. Benny Eastwell, Rob Black – Jesus, you hunted Terry Vass halfway across the country and copped two bullets in the back for your trouble, and you still brought him in. I look at this and see a hero cop with more commendations than twenty cops put together. Then I read between the lines and do you know what else I see?’
Bishop shook his head.
‘I see bruised suspects and others in body bags. I see corners cut and laws bent—’
‘I never broke the law.’
‘You’ve skimmed the edges of it. The question I ask myself is, who is the real Tom Bishop? The hero cop on these pages or the violent man hidden between the lines?’ He put the lid on his pen and the pen in his pocket.
‘Well, there is one thing I’ve been wanting to get off my chest,’ Bishop said.
Patterson smiled. ‘Good.’
‘It’s a little embarrassing.’
‘Go on.’
Bishop filled his lungs and slowly let the air escape. ‘Yesterday, I parked in a handicapped zone.’
‘Come on. I’m being serious.’
‘I feel really guilty about it.’
Patterson leant against the chair and stretched his leg. ‘Get out of here.’