Private Oz

by James Patterson

  There’s a gap in my memory after that. Next thing I knew I was clambering through the passenger window. The buckled window frame and remnants of glass were cutting me open, but I didn’t care. I landed on the road, guts churning, blood in my eyes diluted by tears flowing down my cheeks. I groaned … a primordial sound.

  There was a revolting smell … petrol, rubber … I managed to get to my knees, leaned on the car and pulled myself into a hunched, twisted figure, feeling like an octogenarian suddenly. The front of the pickup truck stood ten feet away, hood crumpled, windshield smashed. I could see the top of the driver’s head above the steering wheel.

  I shuffled over. From far off came the sound of sirens.

  The door of the truck fell away as I yanked on the handle and I just managed to step back before it landed at my feet. It was an old, screwed-up wagon. The driver hadn’t been wearing a belt. His face smashed in, spine snapped. A vertebrae protruded from his shirt back.

  I leaned in, caught the smell of alcohol. Then I saw the can of beer on the floor of the passenger side. It lay in a puddle of foaming liquid.

  The fury hit me in a way I’d never experienced before or since. It was pure, all-consuming. I grabbed the guy’s hair, yanked his head back. His features were just recognizable. He was maybe twenty-five, blond, little goatee.

  I felt the vomit rise again, but this time I held it down, lifted my fist, smashed it into the dead driver’s face. I hit him again and again. “BASTARD!… AAGGGHH!..MOTHER-FUCKER!

  I kept hitting and hitting, the dead man’s shattered head lolling around.

  Then I felt a hand on my shoulder.

  Chapter 12

  JUSTINE SMITH WALKED into the hotel room on the top floor of The Citadel overlooking Darling Harbour. It was fantastic. Luxurious room, shimmering evening sun. Sliding doors opened onto a walled deck, a jacuzzi sunk into the balcony.

  She’d naively hoped the opening of the Sydney branch of Private would offer some welcome relief from the usual death and destruction back home in LA. Fat chance!

  She kicked off her shoes and walked into the bedroom. It was cool, the air-con set just right, the bedding turned back, a chocolate placed on the pillow. The room smelled of orange essence.

  Unbuttoning her blouse, she turned and caught her reflection in a wall of mirrors. Slipping off her skirt, bra and panties she stood naked considering her body.

  “Not bad, baby,” she said. Did a half-turn to her left. She had a narrow waist, flat tummy, firm boobs. “Gotta be some benefits from eating nothing and having no bambini, I guess.” She did a pirouette and headed for the bathroom.

  Then she changed her mind. Pulling on a robe, she went back in to the main room, slid open the doors and felt the crisp heat. A refreshing breeze came in over the harbor. She strode to the chest-high wall, admired the view.

  Two minutes later, Justine was naked and immersed in bubbles, a glass of Krug on the side of the jacuzzi. “God! This is the life!” she said aloud and rested her head against the soft cushioning behind her neck. With her eyes closed, she reached for the champagne flute, brought it over and let the bubbles explode inside her mouth.

  Her cell rang.

  She groaned, and a voice in her head said: “Ignore it”. But that wasn’t in her nature. She lifted herself from the jacuzzi, padded over to the phone, naked and dripping.

  She saw the name on the screen – GRETA. Stabbed the green button.

  The first thing she heard were sobs.

  “Greta! What is it?”

  Something unintelligible.

  “Hey, sis … slow down.”

  More sobs. Finally a sentence. “Oh, Justine. One of my friends has been murdered.”

  Chapter 13

  JOHNNY AND I were in my office going over the police report on the Ho kid.

  Johnny’s only twenty-three, not much older than the victim. Born in Lebanon, he came over here with poor immigrant parents when he was three. Could have ended up a criminal or dead, but he was far too bright for that. He got out of the ghettos of Sydney’s Western Suburbs ASAP, found a legit job and took a Psychology degree in his spare time. He was still working on the Psychology degree. I trusted him, and trust is always top of my necessity list when it comes to the job.

  “There are two Ho boys, right. Chang’s the younger by three years,” Johnny said. “Mother died when he was five. Rich businessman father … probably never home.”

  I nodded. “Severely disturbed by his mother’s death?”

  “Definitely. His deafness made him determined to prove to his father he’s every bit as good as his older brother, Dai.”

  The phone rang.

  “Justine …” I began and she cut over me. Johnny could see my expression darken and raised a questioning eyebrow.

  “What!” I exclaimed. “How long ago? Alright, we’ll go to the Thorogoods’ place together. I’ll pick you up in five. The Citadel Hotel, right?”

  “What’s up?” Johnny asked as soon as I clicked off.

  I was already out of my chair. “A murder in Bellevue Hill, friend of Justine’s sister, Greta.”

  “Christ!”

  “The cops are all over the street. The woman was found in a car just a few yards down from the Thorogoods’.”

  Chapter 14

  I EXITED THE garage and pulled onto George Street. It was almost dark, still hot. Checked my watch … 6.57. The city was aglow, shoppers bargain hunting in the January sales.

  The traffic wasn’t great and it took me more than the promised five minutes to reach the hotel. Justine was waiting in the drive-thru outside the main doors. She looked amazing in white linen pants, a tight top, her hair flowing over her shoulders, slightly damp at the tips.

  We merged with the highway traffic. “Did your sister offer any details?” I asked, and tried to put out of my mind the intoxicating smell of perfume wafting from the passenger side.

  “She was a mess. The victim is a family friend, apparently. Known her for years.”

  I drove east down Park Street and onto William Street, and we fell silent. I could hear a siren far off and the rush of air in the sticky night.

  Bellevue Hill is mostly old money with a sprinkling of nouveau business gurus and gangsters. From William Street we took New South Head Road, drove about three miles, then hung a right into a wide, leafy street, Stockton Boulevard.

  The Thorogoods’ house was an ultra-modern place that backed onto the Royal Sydney Golf Club. Its wide, glass-balustraded balconies offered views east toward the ocean.

  Justine led the way up the granite path.

  Greta, eyes moist, mascara run, opened the door before we reached it, and beckoned us in.

  “So what happened?” Justine asked as her sister fell into her arms. We walked into a vast living-room and sat in a horseshoe of low-slung white leather sofas.

  “It was about six o’clock. Brett had just got home. The phone rang. We heard sirens and saw the blue and red police lights, the screech of tires as the squad cars pulled up … just over there.” Greta pointed through the window. “Brett told me to stay here. But look, the kids are both on sleepovers. So I thought … what the hell? I snuck out.”

  Her face froze for a second. She looked at us, her eyes watering. “I wish I hadn’t.” She swallowed hard. “Stacy’s got three kids … There was blood everywhere.” She broke down and Justine encircled her in her arms, letting her younger sister sob into her shoulder.

  Chapter 15

  I FETCHED A glass of cold water from the kitchen and handed it to Greta. She seemed to calm down a little, wiped her eyes, took a deep breath.

  “Greta,” I said as sympathetically as I could, “is there anything at all unusual about Stacy? Anything that could suggest she would be targeted?”

  She looked lost. “No. Stace was just a regular mom. We got to know each other through the school. Her eldest son’s the same age as Serge.”

  “Okay, Greta, I know this might sound insensitive, but were Stacy and her husba
nd happy?”

  She shook her head. “Craig, please! I’m upset but I’m not stupid! My husband is the Deputy Commissioner!”

  “Yeah … sorry.”

  “As far as I know, Stacy and David are, were happy. You never can tell, though, right?”

  I glanced at Justine. “I’m going to …” Flicked my head toward the street. Justine nodded and turned back to her sister.

  Outside, the road was dark except for the glow of headlights and crime scene floods spilling around a corner on the far side of the street. I crossed over and ran toward an alleyway, the road brightening as I went.

  The end of the lane was cordoned off with crime scene tape. A cop was standing just my side of it. I showed him my ID. He glanced at it, then asked me to wait a moment. Two minutes later, he was back with a young guy I’d seen with Thorogood last night.

  “Is the DC …?” I asked.

  “Just left for HQ, Mr. Gisto. Inspector Talbot’s given you the green light though,” and he offered little more than a nod, lifting the tape to indicate I should follow him.

  I could see the back of a car in the alley. It was a new Lexus SUV, an LX 570, doors open. The intense white of the flood-lights lit up the number plate: STACE. Forensics were already there – blue-suited figures picking and poking around.

  I strode toward the driver’s side. The dead woman was strapped into the front seat. The seat had been lowered back almost to horizontal.

  Mark saw me and came over. “I’m only agreeing to you being here because Thorogood insisted,” he said woodenly and lifted his cell to indicate that he’d just spoken to his boss.

  I ignored him and walked over to the body. The woman’s face was disfigured with what were clearly cigarette burns all over her cheeks and down her neck.

  She was, I guessed, early forties, a blondish bob, well-preserved figure, wore an expensive watch. There was a huge diamond next to her wedding ring. She was dressed in a flimsy cotton dress. Someone had placed a green sheet over her from the abdomen down. It was difficult to see how she’d died.

  “Tortured and then stabbed repeatedly in the back,” Talbot said and pulled the woman forward. A mess of congealed blood, three … four long black gashes.

  “What’s with the sheet?” I asked.

  “Look for yourself.”

  I pulled aside the fabric – and took a step back.

  Chapter 16

  Three Years Ago.

  I WAS TRYING to focus but the florescent strip in the ceiling was too bright. A face swam into view a couple of feet above me. It was probably the last face I wanted to see.

  Then it all came flooding back.

  Smack.

  Filling my world, sending me reeling.

  And there was the face.

  “You’re lucky to be alive, Craig.”

  I heard the words but they didn’t really register. I managed to turn my head a little to the left, then the right. Tubes, machines, a hospital. Yeah – that would figure.

  “I do worry about your temper though, mate.”

  I looked at the face, focused. Mark Fucking Talbot. My cousin Mark.

  But I felt nothing, and I didn’t care. Mark didn’t matter. Nothing mattered. Becky and Cal were dead. I was alive, but I wanted to be dead.

  “You smashed that driver’s face to a pulp,” Talbot went on.

  I didn’t care what he said. I didn’t care.

  “You know how I felt about Becky.” His face was expressionless, but he knew how to turn the screw. “I never met little Cal …” Then his face thawed. For a second, he looked genuinely upset. “They deserved better.”

  I didn’t care what he said. I didn’t care.

  My cousin had no idea. He must have thought he was really hurting me.

  He sighed. “In one way you’re lucky, Craig. Sure, you smashed the guy’s face up. But …” He lifted a thin beige folder into view. “Forensics report. He died on impact.”

  I didn’t care what he said. I was alive but I wanted to be dead.

  He started to turn. Stopped. Walked back and leaned in close to my ear. “You got what you deserved, you fuck. And you’ll go to hell.”

  And he was gone.

  I didn’t care.

  Chapter 17

  “WELL, YOU ALL know the gist of it,” I said, walking into the conference room. “A close friend of Greta Thorogood was tortured and killed a few yards from her front door. Bizarre MO.”

  I looked around the table. I’d called in everyone … the team, plus Justine.

  They already knew the basics of the homicide. Bad news travels fast.

  I flicked a remote and the blinds closed. A second touch on the rubber pad and a flat screen lit up at the far end of the room. “I shot this on my phone.”

  It was jumbled up at first but settled down as I’d steadied my hand and set the phone to “Stabilize video”.

  The inside of the victim’s car.

  “Stacy Friel,” I said flatly, as the horrific image of the dead woman’s face appeared. “She was murdered sometime around 5.30 yesterday evening in an alley close to her house in Bellevue Hill. Facially disfigured and stabbed four times in the back as she got out of her vehicle. She was then returned to the car … postmortem.” The camera moved to show the dead woman straight-on. I had panned down, zoomed in.

  There was an intake of breath from the women in the room.

  Understandable, I thought, imagining an equivalent for guys.

  The victim’s lower garments had been removed, her legs spread wide. A bunch of money had been inserted into her vagina. You could see the golden yellow of Australian fifty-dollar bills.

  The film stopped. The blinds came up. No one spoke.

  I looked round the room. Darlene was staring straight at me. Justine studied the table. Mary was still glaring at where the image had been a few seconds ago. Johnny was counting his shoes.

  “Not nice, I know, but there you have it.”

  “Pretty fucking sick, actually,” Mary said with a steely look.

  “Yep. Certainly is.”

  “What’ve the police found out?” Darlene asked.

  “Not a lot. Their forensics people have promised to get a complete set of crime scene samples over to you by mid-morning. Thorogood’s being very cooperative. I guess Greta is putting pressure on him to keep us fully involved.”

  “So am I, Craig,” Justine remarked. “Brett’s subscribing to the idea that two heads are better than one. He knew Stacy too. He’s genuinely upset.”

  “So what now?” It was Mary.

  “Darlene, you work on the samples soon as they arrive,” I said.

  She nodded.

  “Justine, you and me should take a trip to the police morgue. Find out anything we can.”

  “I’ve got a very nasty feeling the unfortunate Stacy Friel is only the first victim,” Johnny said suddenly.

  “Why do you say that?” I asked, swiveling my chair.

  “Because, and Justine will verify this,” Johnny began, glancing over to where she sat, “the murder was ritualistic.”

  Justine nodded solemnly.

  “So?” I persisted.

  “One-off murders are a type – the most common sort,” Justine explained. “Someone dies in a violent crime – a bank raid, a gang killing – collateral damage. Or people are murdered in a moment of passion, or slaughtered clinically – revenge, jealousy. A woman who is tortured, killed, dumped in her car and has her vagina stuffed with banknotes is not the victim of a spontaneous act. It was planned and everything about it has meaning. I hope it’s not the case, but I think Johnny’s right – Stacy Friel is just the first.”

  Chapter 18

  “MARY?” I CALLED her over as the team filed out.

  “What’s up?”

  “The Ho murder. Darlene’s found some interesting stuff.”

  “Yeah, I heard … Triads. You’re thinking drugs?”

  “Possibly, but from what Ho Meng said, his kid was hardly the sort.

&n
bsp; Darlene found no evidence he was using.”

  “May’ve been dealing.”

  “Well, yeah. But anyway, it’s speculation. It might not be drugs, the Triads are involved in all sorts of shit.”

  “Maybe it wasn’t the kid,” Mary replied. “What about the father, Meng? I’d be surprised, but we have to consider it.”

  “It’d crossed my mind. I don’t think he gave us everything he had yesterday.”

  “I agree.”

  I looked at Mary. I’d known her for years and I knew she had a soft side, but I think only a handful of people in the world had ever seen it and two of those were her mom and dad.

  “You know the guy a little. Reach out to him,” I suggested. “Find out if he has connections with the Triads.”

  “He must have. But he won’t like us probing.”

  “No, he won’t,” I replied. “But he needs reminding if he wants us to find his son’s killer that we have to have everything he can give us – not just about Chang, but about himself too.”

  She nodded and looked straight into my eyes.

  “You okay with that, Mary? The Triads are not nice.”

  “Oh, please! I’m a big girl and I thrive on ‘not nice’.”

  Chapter 19

  THE NEW SOUTH Wales police morgue was part of a modern building in Surry Hills, a couple of miles from the CBD. It was like all morgues everywhere – pristine, clinical, and it stank of chemicals and death.

  A tall, well-built man with a graying beard and wearing round tortoiseshell spectacles met us in a small, overlit ante-room. A pass was pinned to his lapel – photo and name, Dr. Hugh Gravely.

  He was friendly enough and showed Justine and me into the main part of the morgue. It was low-ceilinged, fluorescent strips. The stink was much worse here.

  Stacy Friel lay on the slab. Gray skin, wet hair pulled back, a red, crudely sown up Y-shaped incision dominating her upper half. She would have been a very handsome woman yesterday, I thought. And suddenly a horrible pain hit me in the chest. I almost let it show, but reined it in. I knew what this was. I had been to a very similar morgue … after the crash. I had to see Becky and Cal. But later, I wished I hadn’t.