Resurrection Bay
Page 13
She yawned and gestured him inside, switching on lights as she went. No empty bottles, and only the smell of pine air-freshener and last night’s pizza. She’d obviously been using one of the beds as an office. The other one looked as though she’d been practising her wrestling on it: the bedclothes were in a heap on the floor and the bottom sheet was bunched halfway down the mattress.
‘Not sleeping well?’ he asked.
‘Not with you hammering on the door.’ She slumped onto it and yawned again. ‘What … big … anyway?’
‘Sorry, what?’
‘What’s the big emergency?’
‘No emergency, I was just awake.’
‘I … text me … way?’
‘Sorry?’
She shook her head. ‘Is your brain working?’
‘I need new batteries for my aids. You’ll have to slow down a bit until I get them.’ He avoided her eye by shifting a stack of papers from the office-bed. He glanced at the top page as he sat down. ‘You’ve been looking into the warehouse employees?’
‘Yep. Nothing of interest. So, what’s up? You look like crap. Did you find out Gary was bent or something?’
He winced before he could stop himself.
She raised her eyebrows. ‘You’re kidding? Saint Gary?’
‘No. Nothing like that, but he may have been … I found out he had an affair.’
‘So now you’re wondering how well you knew him.’ She examined his face. ‘Where’d you get the bruises?’
He told her. Slowly at first, then in a garbled stream: the gun, the fight, Boxer’s gruesome death. When he finished, she stared at him without speaking.
‘OK, that’s …’ She scrubbed her hands through her hair. ‘Fuck. Are you OK?’
‘Dandy.’
‘Yeah, I’d imagine. Jesus. Did you report it to anyone?’
‘No. Do you think I should?’
‘God, no, last thing you should do. Although maybe you should get in contact with your mate, Tedesco. Not to give him any details, just to let him know that one of Scott’s guys found you.’
‘Why?’
‘Because we need friends in high places and he’s the closest thing we’ve got to it at the moment. Is the, ah, body, still there?’
He pushed away the image of the blood-soaked sand. ‘Yeah.’
‘OK, I’ll phone in an anonymous report. We don’t want any ten-year-old boys finding it. No, scratch that, I don’t want my voice on tape – I’ll email it from an internet cafe.’
Frankie in full practical mode: it was both reassuring and unsettling. He had a flash of her as a cop. She would have made it to the top ranks if she could have controlled her weakness.
‘Do you know how they tracked you down?’ she asked.
‘No.’
She held up a hand. ‘Back up. Something very shifty just happened with your eyes. Let’s try that again – do you think you know how they tracked you?’
‘Sure. I’ve got a dozen theories. They could’ve traced my phone, or the prescriptions Maria wrote for me. I might have let something slip to Tedesco, someone in town could have told Scott.’
‘By someone, you mean your brother?’
Straight to the heart of it.
‘I don’t think so. He’s got a job, he’s clean. It’s the longest he’s ever been clean. And the phone call Gaz made to him checked out – he was asking if he could bring the family down to stay.’
‘How do you know?’
‘What?’
‘How do you know that’s why Gary rang him?’
‘Because he left Anton a voice message.’
‘And you heard this message?’
‘No, I didn’t fucking hear it. Look, if it ends up that Ant’s involved in something stupid, I won’t be too shocked, but he wouldn’t do anything to deliberately hurt me. It’s all about unintended consequences with him.’
‘Guess you know him better than me.’ She smothered another yawn. ‘I can’t think like this. Make yourself at home while I have a shower.’
He sat on the bed and read through her notes while she had the longest shower in the history of Western civilisation. She’d done a lot in just one day, but it smacked of busy-work: research into people who were obviously unconnected, records of similar cigarette heists and warehouse robberies. He got the strong feeling it had all been done for his benefit.
She finally emerged looking a lot more like herself with freshly gelled hair, and dressed in jeans and a leather jacket.
‘No more pink kittens?’ he asked.
‘Piss off, it was all I could get from Target.’ She looked at the pages in his hand. ‘Anything strike you as interesting?’
‘No. Good that you’ve done it all, though.’
‘You going to give me a gold star, too?’ She took the pages from him and stuffed them in her suitcase. He watched as she gathered her clothes from around the room. Steady hands, perspiration-free. A little washed out, but overall looking a lot better than the day she’d disappeared.
Her eyes raised to his as she zipped up her backpack. ‘I’m dry.’
‘I know.’
‘Then fuck off.’ She grabbed her bags and headed outside.
She was leaning against the car by the time he shuffled out to her. ‘Jesus, Cal, have you seen a doctor? Sorry, stupid question, I mean, should I take you to a doctor?’
‘No.’
‘Why not?’
He pulled his keys from his pocket. ‘Because I’m not wasting my time being told something I already know.’
‘That you’re an idiot?’
‘That I’ve got a bit of bruising and it will heal. Let’s take Ant’s car – if they can track me to the Bay, they can trace your rego.’
‘It’s fine, no-one even knows I’m alive.’
‘Until you run a red light.’
She considered that. ‘Fine, but I’m driving. I’m not putting my life in your … hands.’
‘In my what hands?’
‘Palsied,’ she said clearly.
‘Right.’ He threw her the keys. ‘Thanks for the sympathy.’
‘You want sympathy? See a fucking doctor. You … the …?’
‘What?’
She squinted at him. ‘You got spare batteries for those things at your flat?’
‘Yeah.’
‘Think that might be our first stop.’
His apartment door was closed and, for a crazy moment, he thought Boxer and Grey-face had locked up when they’d left. They hadn’t. The local junkies had gone through the place like locusts. The shitty television was gone, the good computer, every electrical device, including the lamps. He wandered through the living room, stepping over the slashed couch cushions and ripped papers. It was going to take days to clear up. Why hadn’t the pricks just taken his belongings instead of smashing them? Maybe it had been frustration – there’d been nothing of any value in the place except for his laptop.
The chaos continued in the bedroom. The mattress had been thrown to the floor and sliced open, the bedside table upended. Frankie helped him search through the mess and found the container of batteries under the wardrobe. She threw them to him without comment and left the room. For that alone, it was worth putting up with all her shit.
He took one of the broken bed slats into the bathroom and locked the door. Steady hands as he slotted the new batteries into his aids. He turned the volume to full and gripped the slat. A last run through of the litany of reasons his test might not work: corroded wiring, dud batteries, sand in his aids. Destroyed hearing. Hands not quite so steady now. He closed his eyes and brought the wood down on the basin. A thud. A definite thud. He rested his forehead against the mirror. Thank Christ.
He found Frankie in the kitchen, half-heartedly shoving food back into cupboards.
‘Leave it,’ he said.
She turned around. ‘You get the feeling they were looking for something?’
‘Jewellery, money.’
‘No, this wasn’t sma
ck-heads. At least, it wasn’t just smack-heads. It was searched before the locals got to it. Look around: freezer emptied, cushions slashed. Our mates don’t think we know something – they think we’ve got something.’
He had a flash of Boxer’s hands on him. That brief moment before the kicking began.
‘Boxer searched me. And he was shouting. I think he was shouting questions. Really put the boot in when I didn’t answer.’
Frankie was very still. ‘What did he want?’
‘I don’t know, I didn’t catch anything.’
‘I know they weren’t ideal conditions, but you would have caught the odd word. Think back, you’re on the sand, Boxer’s face is …’
‘You don’t need to go through all that – I’m telling you I didn’t get anything. I couldn’t see Boxer’s face because mine was in the sand.’
‘Nothing at all?’
‘It’s not a fucking superpower, Frankie. I’ve got two eyes like the rest of you.’
‘I’m not criticising, I’m clarifying. OK, Boxer thought you might have it on you, so it’s something small. A key, a letter.’ She waited for him to speak. ‘A CD, a …’ She gestured.
‘Photo, USB stick, credit card, diamond ring.’
‘Good boy. See how well we do when you play nicely?’
‘It doesn’t get us anywhere. All we know is that they’re looking for something and we haven’t got it.’ His words struck him. ‘Gary didn’t have it, either. Whatever Scott’s after, he didn’t have it.’
All the torment his friend had suffered – the broken bones, the knife wounds – all for nothing.
He looked at Frankie. ‘If Gaz didn’t have it, where is it?’
She shook her head. ‘No, the question is, what is it? We won’t be able to find it unless we know that.’
21.
Frankie’s sixth sense for finding cholesterol led them to a nearby greasy-spoon. Eighteen months living in the area and he’d never noticed the place. The smell of burnt bacon grease assailed him as he opened the door. The owners needed to get a new extractor fan. Maybe a new cook while they were at it. The handful of solo diners looked a little more frayed around the edges than him and Frankie, but not by much. He chose a table as far away from the kitchen as possible while Frankie caught a waitress and ordered them both coffees and a cooked breakfast.
Something dug into his hip as he sat down. He pulled it out and found himself staring into Boxer’s hooded eyes. His driver’s licence. Michael Petronin, thirty-eight years old. Not going to see thirty-nine. He’d killed this man, felt the heat of his blood pump into his hands.
Frankie tapped a spoon on the table. ‘Something interesting?’
He showed it to her.
‘Petronin,’ she said. ‘Russian name. You don’t think it’s a Russian Mafia thing, do you?’
‘Hope not. I’ve got his gun, too, by the way. It’s in the boot.’
‘“By the way?” You’ve got his gun “by the way”? And you’re just mentioning it now? Jesus fucking Christ. What if the cops pull us over?’
‘I forgot I had it.’
‘You forgot? You forgot you had a dead man’s gun on you?’
A few of their fellow customers’ heads turned their way.
‘Yes, I forgot. I’ve been a bit busy while you were on the piss – a few things might have slipped my mind.’
The waitress appeared with their coffees, setting them down with a thump that sloshed brown liquid into the saucers. Frankie dropped her glare to the table. He gulped his coffee. It was thin and bitter, but hopefully contained caffeine.
They sat without speaking, until Frankie stirred. ‘What next? Gary’s house?’
He tried for an even tone. ‘Eventually, but it’s pretty unlikely there’ll be anything there – Scott and his guys tore the place apart. Let’s check out Petronin’s place first.’
She didn’t say anything, but there were calculations going on in her head. He stayed silent while she went through them.
‘High risk,’ she finally said. ‘Neighbours, flatmates, dogs. An apartment, so only one door in and out. And fourth floor, going by the number. No, too risky.’
The waitress reappeared with two loaded plates. A layer of charcoal coated everything: bacon, eggs, toast, sausages. Had to give the cook points for consistency.
‘We can walk away if it doesn’t feel right,’ he said when the waitress had left. ‘But it’s our best lead. Our only lead.’
‘What do you think you’re going to find? A teledex with the name Scott written in it in big red letters?’
‘Any colour will do.’ He tried the sausage. It held none of the usual mystery associated with sausages; this was clearly a product composed of sinew, sawdust and offal. He picked up a piece of toast. Frankie was ploughing her way through her meal like it was her first one in days.
‘Petronin’s flat is the next obvious step,’ he said.
She shook her head and attacked the bacon.
‘We have to be more aggressive than usual. Scott’s guys have attacked us both. They broke into your house and my flat, they found me in the Bay. If we don’t work out what’s going on, we’ll be running for the rest of our very short lives.’
Frankie started in on the sausage without replying.
‘But I’m happy to go there by myself if you want to sit this one out.’
‘For fuck’s sake.’ She lay her cutlery on the plate. ‘You do everything I say. Everything. If I say we get out, we get out. Understood?’
‘Yes, Sergeant.’
‘I’m fucking serious. I’m not getting cornered by some hit man in a flat. Or worse, by my ex-colleagues.’ She pushed back her chair and signalled for the bill. ‘And while we’re on the subject of exes …’
‘I don’t want to talk about it.’
‘Like that, is it? You fucked that up pretty quickly, well done. But I was thinking about her car. Is it still at the beach?’
The bottom dropped out of his stomach. Sitting there, metres from Boxer’s body. The cops would think Kat was involved once they found it. And Boxer’s mates.
‘Fuck. I mean, fuck. I didn’t even think about it.’
‘Or the fact that your trace evidence is all over it, and Boxer’s car. But don’t worry, I’m onto it.’
Trace evidence? What a joke – his fingerprints were all over it.
She patted his hand. ‘Don’t stress, I’ve got the brains part covered, you’re just here to provide the looks. Or something.’ She stood up. ‘You get the bill while I make a couple of calls.’
The owner being as good at padding bills as he was sausages, paying took a bit of negotiation. By the time he got outside, Frankie was pocketing her phone.
‘Sorted. It’ll be moved this morning.’
‘That was quick. Who’d you call?’
‘Your brother.’
‘Shit. He’s got a record, Frankie. He can’t be anywhere near a crime scene. Not to mention his total lack of … Christ.’
‘Don’t get your knickers in a twist, he’s not doing anything. I just got a name and number from him.’ She opened the driver’s door.
He got in the car. ‘Was he …?’
‘What?’
Coherent? Breathing? Off his face?
‘Nothing. Whose name did he give you?’
‘Some guy called O’Brien.’
‘Brad O’Brien? Neo-Nazi Brad? Kat just put the fear of God into him, he’ll go straight to the cops!’
‘Stop yelling. It wasn’t Brad, it was Jeremy.’
He did a catalogue of the O’Brien brothers. ‘There isn’t a Jeremy.’
‘Old guy with a walking stick and an eye-patch?’
‘The grandfather?’
‘Great-grandfather, I think. And he’s more than happy to help Kat out. Thrilled even.’
‘What. Why?’
‘Because he’s got the hots for her. Apparently it runs in the family.’
‘He’s a hundred, for fuck’s sake.’
He’d never be able to scrub that image from his mind. ‘Didn’t he go to prison for killing puppies or something?’
‘Don’t exaggerate. He fire-bombed a neighbour’s kennels sixty years ago. Which happens to be a good thing for you. He said he’d quite enjoy torching Boxer’s car while he was at it. Hasn’t had a good bonfire in a while.’
Petronin’s apartment was in a large blond-brick building, in a street full of other large blond-brick buildings, all built some time in the 1950s. The garden of quartz pebbles and straggling yucca plants looked as though it hadn’t been touched since. The grimed lobby smelt of stale piss, hopefully from a cat.
‘Not as much money in the murder business as I would have thought,’ Frankie said as she checked the flat numbers. ‘Looks like I was right – fourth floor.’
He tried to pretend it wasn’t killing him for the first flight, then gave in and wheezed his way up the remaining stairs, holding grimly on to the handrail.
Frankie waited for him at the top. ‘You still sure I shouldn’t take you to a doctor?’
He shook his head.
‘Yeah? Give me one good reason.’
‘It’s getting better.’
‘Jesus, you sound like a chain smoker kidding himself he’s just got a bit of a cough. Come on, I think it’s this way.’
The flat was at the end of a long corridor.
‘What d’you reckon?’ Frankie said. ‘Knock? If someone opens it, we can pretend we’re Mormons or something.’
He looked at her jeans and battered Doc Martens. ‘And if that doesn’t work?’
‘Then I’ll run away. You’ll have to come up with your own plan.’ She rapped hard, but the door stayed closed. ‘Next idea?’
No CCTV in the corridor, a cheap plywood door, and an even cheaper-looking lock. Odds were there wouldn’t be an alarm, either. He lifted the hallway fire extinguisher from its bracket.
‘When in doubt, use brute force.’
The plywood might have been cheap, but the extinguisher barely dented it when he took a swing. He dropped it and staggered back, clutching his ribs. Jesus Christ.