Chapter 20
Back at her desk, Taylor took a gulp of water from a plastic bottle. The speed-limit-breaking drive from Cairns had left her mouth dry, her stomach rolling and her head spinning. She’d screamed at Jack to slow down, which he did. At first. Then somehow, gradually, the pace picked up again as he weaved in and out of traffic, honking at everyone. Four times she told him to chill before she could take no more. Twenty kilometres out of Yorkville she yelled at the DS to pull the hell over and she took the wheel. To Jack’s fidgety frustration, she stayed five under the limit until she dropped him at Garfield Walters’ office. God help that lawyer.
Heart-rate now normal, she opened the printed report from Brisbane digital forensics. As usual, the specialist unit had done a thoroughly professional job. The file contained an overview of the analysis plus a couple of bonus annexes jammed full of rows and columns. There was an electronic version in her inbox, but for close-up inspection you couldn’t beat paper, a ruler and a ballpoint pen. She licked a forefinger and began leafing through the file. She wasn’t optimistic. Ninety-nine percent of the time the officers who prepared these reports laid everything on the line, there was no guess work required by detectives. Occasionally, very occasionally, something slipped through the cracks. Fingers crossed it had happened this time. Blinking hard to focus on the hieroglyphics before her, she wished Constable Wilson was on deck. This tedious aspect of police work was more up his alley, the man was borderline savant when it came to the minutiae of data. Unfortunately, young Ben was at home, exhausted, probably tucked up in bed and pushing up a stream of Z’s.
Taylor flicked to the back of the thick document to get to the meat of this data stew, grabbed a ruler and scanned line after line of text messages and emails, stopping at specific trigger words. These were highlighted by an algorithm some big tech companies would pay the Queensland Police Service big money for. Judging by the laser-targeted advertising rammed down her throat, maybe they already had, with ads for scrunchies and chocolate truffles flooding Taylor’s Facebook feed.
As she checked off the seemingly endless list of texts and numbers, Taylor prayed she’d pick up a telling crumb of information. Either something the chief had missed in his summary or a gold nugget the team down south had forgotten to mention in the findings. An hour and thirty minutes later and nearly cross-eyed, Taylor reached the last entry. A text from Cameron Snyder to Lydia telling her not to come around tonight, he was heading to Cairns to check on a malfunctioning vending machine. Exactly as Lydia claimed.
Batista’s gangly figure hovered into view, the shadow of his elongated chin encroaching onto the cover page of the report. ‘Afternoon, Claudia.’
‘Sir.’
‘See anything that eluded everyone else?’
‘Fat chance.’ She frowned. ‘I found no lovers, angry loan sharks or offshore bank accounts. Why would I? The experts have been through this with a fine-tooth comb and come up empty.’
‘Wilson did it last year.’ The Inspector gave a half-hearted wink.
‘Yes, but that hardly counts.’ Taylor remembered the constable’s Eureka moment. Yorkville CIB had relied on phone records they were sure would lead to a conviction. Wilson realised the mistake when a warrant was issued to arrest well-known country singer Lesley (woman) Chandler instead of violent career thief Leslie (man) Chandler.
‘I don’t know about that. He saved us from potential embarrassment.’
‘That wasn’t in the same ball park as Snyder’s murder in the seriousness stakes.’
‘Of course not.’
‘Anyway, like you said already, there’s nothing on Snyder’s devices incriminating anyone he’s been communicating with.’
‘Damn it.’
‘One thing to bear in mind. The data doesn’t go back forever.’
‘How do you mean?’
‘People change their phone numbers, email accounts. They pay some bills with cash, others with PayPal or similar services. That can make it tough for us to track down transactions without a court order.’
‘But we don’t need a court order for a dead man. We’ve got all the authorisation we need.’
‘True, however Snyder could’ve had email accounts years ago that have been closed and all records erased.’
‘Is that realistic?’
‘Absolutely. I had this secondary Yahoo account, didn’t use it for two years. One day I decided to log on to check something and, lo and behold, the whole history of the account had been wiped due to inactivity. Every single email was gone.’
‘Jesus, it’s amazing they can do that. Aren’t your emails personal property?’
‘I guess not. But Snyder was only in his early 30s, so I’d hazard a guess he’s been using this same Gmail address since he left high school.’ Taylor opened the file and pointed. ‘See, this one goes back to the mid-2000s. He’s got another one that’s linked to his business name’s website.’
‘More or less an open book.’ Batista rubbed a pen behind his ear.
‘Yep. Same with his SIM card. He’s used the one phone number for a decade.’
‘That’s not to say he didn’t have an enemy with a longstanding grudge who never communicated with him. Say, someone he bullied when he was a kid.’
‘But what evidence do we have for that? Lydia’s been his partner since they were at school. She’d have told us.’
Batista pulled up a chair, sat next to Taylor. ‘Does Jack have any hunches?’
‘Only everyone!’ She laughed. ‘Sowell the jealous business rival, Gillmeister the protective brother, maniacal thug Tommy Thomson. Then there’s Rex van der Klopp…’
‘Wait a minute. I thought you told me earlier the neighbour wasn’t the jealous type.’
‘Not on face value. But even if the love’s faded between him and his missus, the bloke next door shagging your wife’s gotta be a huge blow to a man’s ego.’
‘True.’
‘Then there’s the latest possibility, the lawyer.’
‘Why him?’
‘I aired the theory he may have spilled the beans to Lydia about the secret trust, and the pair of them acted together with Walters getting a slice of the action.’
‘What’s your feeling?’
‘I’m open to it. Jack’s at the fellow’s office as we speak, giving him the third degree no doubt.’
‘Excellent.’
Taylor took a deep breath, placed the digital forensics report on top of a pile of other papers. ‘With time running out on this investigation, Jack’s willing to interrogate the school lollipop lady.’
‘Which one?’
‘The proverbial one, sir.’ Taylor rolled her eyes.
‘I knew that.’ Batista coughed into his fist. ‘I’ll let you in on a little secret, Claudia. Jack can go on his holiday whether we solve the case by the weekend or not. I was never going to stand in his way.’
‘You must be kidding, sir! He’ll blow a fuse when he finds out you’ve lied to him.’
‘I know. Perhaps I should ring him, ease his anxiety. What do you reckon?’
‘Like hell. He works better under pressure.’
Batista’s phone rang. It was his wife, Marjorie, priority number one, trumping all other matters, murder enquiries included. Taylor overheard the name of their son, Jordan, a man-baby who’d worry Mr and Mrs Batista into early graves. The Inspector strode to his office to continue the call, a worried edge to his voice. Taylor took the opportunity to check her emails. An update from Semmens and Trevarthen. Intensive door knocking around Trick Shot brought no joy. People either knew nothing or weren’t willing to talk. Not a huge surprise. A phone call by Semmens to Thomson’s mother confirmed the loan shark’s alibi. A message from Cairns CIB’s Chief Inspector contained disheartening information. In response to a request from Batista, a squad of Cairns uniforms pounded the pavement around Chalkies pool hall. They came up with some names, but the leads were vague. But, the station’s boss promised his team would dig, dig and dig s
ome more. Tomorrow and the next day and the day after that until all leads were exhausted. Taylor smiled to herself. She and the Yorkville team would do the same, with or without Jack Lisbon.
The repercussions of this case would be enormous. If and when the killer was found, there’d be internal investigations into where Hook had come up with a quarter of a million dollars in spare cash. The press would have a field day.
Taylor checked the time. Ten minutes after the end of official business hours. Still, she buzzed Proctor. The woman was a workaholic and most certainly would still be hard at it. ‘How are the tests going, Margaret?’
‘Not even a good afternoon, DC Taylor?’
‘Good afternoon.’
‘That’s better.’
‘How are things looking in the lab? Found the smoking gun?’
‘Not yet, but you’ll be pleased to know I’ve pulled out all stops on the DNA analyses. This new testing gear we acquired from America last month certainly speeds things up. With Rapid DNA testing we can get basic information within two hours. Isn’t that amazing?’
‘Marvellous.’ Get to the point, Margaret.
‘This technology was unheard of just a few years ago. But for more detailed, accurate information, we need at least 24 hours. Do you know if all your suspects intend to supply samples? We don’t have anything from the widow, yet.’
‘She wasn’t feeling up to it today. She’s promised to call by tomorrow.’
‘Fine. We did get cheek swabs from Rex and Renee van der Klopp. The officer who took the samples told me the wife wasn’t at all phased by the process. On the contrary, she was rather excited by it, which leads me to deduce…’
‘Leave the deducing to us, please, Margaret. But I know what you’re thinking. That the neighbour’s genetic material is not going to be among the samples collected from the crime scene.’
‘You read my mind.’
‘What about her husband?’
‘He came by separately, about an hour ago. Apparently his demeanour was less pleasant. Complained about his precious time being wasted.’
Taylor rubbed her forehead, a tiny ache building into a bigger one. Perhaps she ought to cancel tonight’s date. ‘Yeah, he’s a grumpy git, all right.’
‘Nevertheless, he did comply with your request, and rather quickly.’
‘Thanks for that, Margaret.’ Also a pointer towards innocence. ‘Talk to you tomorrow.’
Taylor tidied her desk, pulled her scrunchie tight. She decided she would go on that date tonight. James the bank teller was a nice, safe option for dipping her toes back in the water. They’d been out once before, the evening ended with a peck on the cheek at Taylor’s front door. Maybe tonight passions would ignite. She composed a quick text to Jack. Let me know how you go with Garfield Walters. I’m done for the day. Talk soon. I’ve got to get ready for my hot date tonight. She re-read the text, was about to hit send, then, she had no idea why, deleted the last sentence.
Jack hadn’t enjoyed the cool interior of the Pelican Pub in months. In prime position on Yorkville’s waterfront, the place attracted a wide range of clientele, from rusted-on locals to excitable tourists. Tonight the sports bar, where Jack preferred to roost, was only at around one fifth capacity. Perfect.
Now a non-drinker but, if he was going to be honest with himself, still an alcoholic, Jack only visited when he wanted to glean gossip out of Dave the barman. He was a nosy, chatty type who had his finger on the pulse. His information had proved crucial in a number of previous cases. For Jack, though, visiting the Pelican Pub was a classic Catch-22 situation. A great place to get leads, but the temptation to slide back into bad habits here was strong. So far, Jack had resisted the urge for, he counted in his head, thirteen months and twenty-four days. Let’s not drink to that!
He draped his jacket over the back of a barstool, fished out his phone. An SMS from Taylor. He started to reply when a familiar voice asked, ‘What’ll it be, Detective Lisbon?’
He looked up and frowned. ‘Didn’t I tell you last time to call me Jack?’
‘Buggered if I can remember, it’s been so long since I’ve seen your battered nose around here.’
The DS tilted his head to the side. ‘Oi. Enough of your cheek. Get us a ginger ale and a shot of Bundaberg rum. And a packet of your finest peanuts.’
Dave’s expression was a question mark underneath a tight man-bun, then he smiled and nodded. Jack would do the usual can I resist routine: buy a rum with his soft drink and leave the booze on the bar when he departed. Dave poured the two drinks, unnecessarily adding ice to the rum, shook roasted nuts into a bowl, then strode to the other end of the bar to attend to another punter. The man waved a fifty note around like he was about to die of thirst. Jack took the opportunity to complete the text to Taylor, fill her in on his meeting with lawyer Walters. Hi. Lawyer’s a stuffed shirt but no grounds to suspect anything. C u tmrw.
A quick reply. Hope u were nice to him
Jack: Of course. As always
He waited for the conversation to continue, but Taylor clearly had more important things to do. Then he remembered. She was going on a date. He had no right to feel jealous, he had his own dinner rendezvous lined up with Marietta, the Amazon woman from the gym. Still, something gnawed at his heart, the thought of another man and Taylor…No, stop it.
Jack recalled the bollocking he’d just given Garfield Walters. Accused him of all kinds of treachery: breaching confidentiality by telling Lydia about the trust, conspiring to murder Snyder in order to share the spoils. Walters, to his credit, never buckled under Jack’s onslaught of hyperbole and empty threats, smiled throughout the entire interrogation. Walters claimed he’d been grilled in court by cops more belligerent than Jack. Walters held firm, denied, denied, denied. Solid as a rock. Getting physical with Walters was out of the question, the wall separating them from the receptionist was paper thin. Not only that, if there was one breed of person who knew their rights better than others, it was damned lawyers. After half an hour of bellowing, Jack thanked the man for his time and stormed out of Walters’ office. Despite leaving with nothing concrete, the energy expended on the tirade somehow left Jack on a high. To stay there, he pushed all thoughts of Taylor out of his head, beckoned to Dave.
‘Another drink? Oh, you’ve barely touched the first one.’
‘Cameron “Cueball” Snyder.’
‘Pardon?’
‘You must have heard about the murder. It’s been all over the newspapers and TV.’
‘The pool hall guy?’
‘Yeah, him.’
Dave shrugged his slim shoulders.
‘There’s been some rumours.’
Jack’s ear pricked up. ‘What?’
‘Stupid ones. Fake news, as they say. He assaulted the daughter of a biker gang’s boss, he’s part of a Mexican drug cartel, runs with Nazis, things like that.’
‘Nothing about a rival businessman bumping him off in order to get his hands on the Pilkington Fish Factory?’
Dave raised a forefinger to his chin. ‘Actually, yeah, I did hear something like that. Well, not exactly. It was months ago, before the guy was killed.’
‘Got a name?’
‘Nope, it’s eluding me. Geez, I’m not being very helpful am I?’
‘That’s fine, mate. Snyder was busy running his own businesses, unlikely he’d waste time frequenting the pubs around Yorkville.’
‘I saw photos of him on the news. To be honest, I don’t think I ever saw him in here. He’s fairly distinguishable, with that shiny bald head and hooped earrings.’
The last one was a hail Mary. ‘Anything about him being a wife beater?’
A shake of the head. ‘Nah, nothing like that. To be honest, the punters that come here are more interested in the fate of the Yorkville football team. They’re six and oh this season, so that’s about the only thing people are talking about right now.’
Jack didn’t give a damn about the town’s football team. It was time to leave
. He gulped down his ginger ale, shrugged on his jacket and placed twenty dollars on the bar with an exaggerated flourish. ‘The rum’s all yours, mate. And keep the change.’ Not a generous monetary reward, the tip would have been less than five dollars. But pouring the alcohol down the sink would be more of a sin than someone else consuming it.
‘Sorry I couldn’t be of any more help.’ Dave had a quick look left and right, slammed down the shot.
‘Don’t mention it, sunshine. I’m sure I’ll be back.’ Jack took two steps before turning around. ‘Oh, one more thing, and it’s very important.’
‘Sure, Jack. Anything to help Yorkville’s finest.’
‘You know any good restaurants where I can take a big strapping woman with an appetite like a bleedin’ bear?’
Chapter 21
Dave’s suggestion turned out to be an inspired choice. Genaro’s Grill House and Oyster Bar sat at the far end of The Esplanade, quiet compared to the middle section where rowdy bars and clubs crowded into each other. It had been open for only four months, but in a small city like Yorkville that was enough time for word to spread. The restaurant couldn’t have suited a woman of Marietta Szabo’s immense appetites any better. It boasted a menu loaded with high-calorie options, a groaning salad bar and a wine list longer than the white pages. The only downside was the astronomical prices.
‘I’ve been thinking about coming here for a while.’ Marietta held her glass up to the light, gave a tiny nod of approval and took a sip of French pinot noir. ‘It’s had some excellent reviews already.’
Jack smiled. ‘Yeah, me too.’
‘You’ve had excellent reviews? Where can I read them?’
‘No. I mean I’ve been keen to check out the restaurant.’ He’d not heard of Genaro’s until Dave gave him the rundown on the joint.
‘Only teasing,’ she laughed. After a considered swirl of wine inside her mouth and a satisfied swallow she added, ‘You know, Jack, I can’t believe you asked me on a proper date so soon. We only met yesterday!’
‘I’m not known for wasting time.’ Although he had ulterior motives, he wasn’t prepared to reveal his hand. Let the evening progress naturally, ease the request into the conversation. Don’t let her think you’re using her.
Trick Shot: an absolutely gripping mystery and suspense thriller (The Fighting Detective Book 3) Page 15