The Midnight Promise: A Detective's Story in Ten Cases

by Zane Lovitt

  ‘We tried him,’ Linehan said. ‘He’s not available.’

  I checked my pride: a little pinched.

  ‘And I mentioned nothing about hurting the man,’ Linehan said, ever the lawyer. ‘We of course encourage our agents to operate within the bounds of what is legal.’

  I said, ‘All right. I’ll consider myself retained.’

  ‘Good. We’ll fax through a picture of Benedict. You’ll have to be in place for at least forty-eight hours, or until you hear from us, starting now.’

  ‘Tell me, of all the men you’ve got working on this, is there a bonus for the guy who brings him in? A percentage of the surety, maybe?’

  ‘Nope.’

  ‘Good,’ I said. ‘Because there’s no way Billy Benedict is coming to the Pioneer.’

  The magic wand at the revolving front door arcs up over people’s jewellery, their belts and boot buckles. Two teenagers are giggling at their mother, whose earrings have set off the metal detector.

  This is what I have to entertain me for the next two days.

  At the couch adjacent to mine are three men in well-cut suits with their ties tugged loose and heavy drinks in their hands. One of them, the one with no hair, he’s looking around the lobby, trying to kill the lull in conversation.

  ‘That waitress…’ he says, indicating a short-haired woman wearing a cravat. ‘I’d go her.’

  The other two moan their approval.

  And I’m sitting here listening to these brain surgeons when the mystery of the beefed-up security is solved. Over my shoulder appears a man in a black suit. Black shirt, black tie. His hair is black. The blackness of it all is what draws my attention, but then, after a moment, I know him. He’s Neil Bighuty, formerly Constable Bighuty stationed in Moorabbin, ‘Big’ to anyone he didn’t arrest. He was kicked off the force a year ago, which is the last I saw of him.

  I remember the night itself. Him, freshly fired and red-faced from crying, asleep on the planks of the St Kilda pier while I watched the sunrise.

  If he clocks me it doesn’t show. He hardly moves, hardly seems to be breathing, surveying the room like he’s looking for someone. Then he touches a hand to his sleeve and I hear one of the businessmen next to me say, ‘Jesus Christ…’

  From out of the casino walkway emerge four more men in black, flanking a woman with the blondest hair I’ve ever seen, who would still be considered tall even without the skyscraper heels. Her outfit fits snugly like a wax she’s been dipped in. Her sunglasses cover most of her face.

  Another one says, ‘Is that…?’

  She strides quickly to the elevator bank where Bighuty has a lift waiting. Then she and all the men are gone.

  I turn to the trio of businessmen. ‘Who was that?’

  ‘Wasn’t it Hannah Delaney?’ This is the short one.

  ‘Hannah Delaney, the actress?’ I ask.

  ‘Wasn’t it?’ he says.

  ‘Of course it was.’ This is the bald one. ‘She’s engaged to Adrian Krewz, so the security is, like, crazy here.’

  ‘She’s engaged to Adrian Krewz?’ I ask.

  ‘Yeah, dude.’

  ‘The football player?’

  ‘Dude…’ This is the third one now. ‘Where have you been living?’

  The other two laugh. I end it there, decide I’m going to order a drink and raise a private toast to Neil Bighuty, who in twelve months has risen from disgraced police officer to VIP security detail, the kind of job for which most of the force would disgrace themselves on purpose. Money, travel, authority and, when your charge is eternally pursued by stalkers and photographers, the possibility of actual violence. It’s a meathead’s wet dream.

  I hear the bald man say, ‘I would definitely go Hannah Delaney.’

  Simultaneous, the other two say, ‘Duh.’

  Right now, security officers are wanding a couple of tourists in white trousers and golf hats. The more I look at these guards, the more I see it’s a bluff. They’re mostly teenagers, goofing around; sizing up the cars, the women, each other. The uniforms and machinery are here to scare off a potential threat to Hannah Delaney, not to foil one. I guess, most of the time, that’s what a security service is for.

  I’m thinking this, and also about that drink, when I first see Freckles through the tinted windows of the hotel lobby. I call him Freckles because I don’t find out his name until later and he’s got freckles and I have to call him something. His hairline’s receding but it doesn’t make him look old; he has the face of a child, one that’s scowling because his team just lost, and he stands at the far end of the driveway, frozen there, making that face at the security procedures that have turned the front entrance into Checkpoint Charlie.

  Something’s bulging under his suit jacket, under his left arm. When a security person glances over he u-turns, overacting casual, then he walks away quickly with a self-conscious bobbing motion. From this, it’s easy enough to tell that he’s drunk, so I stop thinking about him as he scurries off down the street and out of sight.

  I ask a waiter in a cravat for a scotch on ice and when it comes I hold off on sipping it, even as an appetiser. Instead I let the ice melt for a minute, let it water down the scotch just enough, watch it swirl like a tiny supernova that’s been captured and placed lovingly in a glass tumbler just for me.

  I don’t know it yet, but this is the calm before the storm. It will be this moment I look back on later when I’m careening down the hotel stairs, blood pouring out of everywhere, cursing the name of everyone I’ve ever known. It’s right now that I’ll think about in a few weeks when I’m answering journalists’ questions, the same ones over and over about how much I’d had to drink, how long I’d been here, how responsible did I feel. This is the moment I’ll wish I could go back to, the last one today when things are actually as boring as they seem. Because right when the scotch is ready, right when it’s evolved from hotel beverage into perfect thing, about twenty minutes after I saw him the first time, there’s Freckles again.

  He’s in the lobby, coming from the outdoor pool with that same deliberate gait, careful steps across the marble floor so as not to draw attention. There are small dark blotches on his collar and his eyes are wide, like he’s just as surprised by his appearance here as I am. He makes a beeline for the reception desk and I see that the bulge is still there under his arm; his hand covers it awkwardly while he talks to the receptionist. I suppose he’s checking into a room. He shows her a driver’s licence and she gives him a passkey, not at all fazed by the stains on his collar. Maybe it looks like tomato sauce from where she is.

  With another furtive look around the lobby, he heads for an elevator, gets on board. His eyes scan the room again and maybe they come to rest on mine for a instant. Then the doors close.

  I take a hit of scotch and feel it soak in deep, loosening the knot in my stomach. I belch my gratitude. Beside me the three businessguys are in agreement that they would each do the girl at reception, and I think about moving couches. Then I think about spending the next two days moving couches to get away from people like this, waiting for someone who isn’t coming, and then I think about Freckles, what a mess he was. I wonder if I should do anything about him, wonder if I should have another drink before I do. I finish the scotch and catch the waiter’s eye.

  I’m letting the ice melt again when Neil Bighuty steps into my line of sight, grinning. He’s heading over from the elevators, strolling coolly in his black suit and salon haircut, scratching his nose and trying to hide a giggle like we’ve been busted by the teacher. I smile back, give a big nod as he reaches me.

  ‘JD,’ he says. ‘It’s been bloody ages.’

  ‘It has.’

  ‘Are you staying at the hotel?’

  ‘I’m on a job.’

  Big looks at my scotch. ‘Working hard?’

  ‘You want one?’

  ‘I quit.’

  He tugs up his trouser legs and sits beside me on the couch. ‘Geez,’ he says. ‘The last time I saw y
ou must have been…’

  Before thinking I say, ‘That night in St Kilda.’

  ‘Yeah…’ A sudden cool in his demeanour. ‘I guess I looked pretty funny to you.’

  ‘I was pissed. I don’t recall a lot of it.’

  Big’s eyes look like they have more to say. Whatever it is I try to steer past.

  ‘Was that Hannah Delaney I saw you with? I figured you blokes were either her security detail or her strippers…’

  ‘We’re security, John,’ Big clarifies, without even a courtesy laugh. Something else I remember about him is that he only appreciates jokes about other people.

  ‘All this…’ I point to the army of security personnel. They’ve formed a thicket around a group of four Asian men in matching tracksuits. ‘This is your doing?’

  Big rolls his eyes. ‘For what they’re worth.’

  ‘Has something happened?’

  ‘Her fiancé, Adrian Krewz. Been getting some weird mail. There are fucking crackpots out there, JD. Let me tell you. You wouldn’t believe some of the stuff they write. You wouldn’t believe some of the stuff they write with.’

  Big cranes his neck and watches the four men in tracksuits as they move through security. He gives them a piercing analytical stare, then turns back to me.

  ‘You still a detective? No…what was that fancy name you gave yourself? Private inquiry agent?’

  ‘Yep. Still doing that. But look at you, you’re going well.’

  Big smiles. ‘Things are good, things are good. This is my dream job. Did you know I make more than two hundred k a year?’

  Big raises his fat, bushy eyebrows like he’s really wondering if somehow I knew that. I do my best to look impressed as he crosses his legs and throws his arm casually back over the couch.

  He says, ‘And the perks, let me tell you…’

  Big keeps talking, about his suit, about his hi-tech cufflinks, and I’m seeing that he isn’t the Neil Bighuty I remember. Clothes weren’t a big part of his world back then. When you brawled as much as he did, clothes couldn’t be important to you. He wasn’t the sharpest cop on the force, but he was the toughest, the thug they called in to break the other thugs. They sent him out to bust the bogans in the west and the bikies in the north and, for fun, the South Yarra posers dealing coke out of their shiny cars, the ones who thought they were above the law because they were white and rich and smiled a lot. It occurs to me now, as I watch his mouth savour his words and sneer them out, that Big has become one of those guys: well dressed, keen to talk about being well dressed. He’s not a thug anymore. I wonder if he misses it.

  He sees my gaze linger on his hairdo and he says, ‘I get it cut for free at Givaani. Miss Delaney is one of their regulars.’

  I’m about to fake an urgent phone call, apologise repeatedly so Big doesn’t get too offended, when Freckles appears in the lobby again, stepping out of the elevator and heading away from us to the piano bar. There’s no bulge under his jacket but that’s the only thing that’s different. He murmurs quickly to the barman and gets a neat bourbon in return, smells it pointlessly then carries it through the maze of empty tables to the bar’s entrance, trying to appear sober and controlled. He falls into a chair that faces the lobby and takes a long sip. I take a long sip too.

  ‘Miss Delaney is literally the best actress in the world,’ Big is saying. ‘For her hair and body type. That’s my opinion anyway.’

  I’m guessing Freckles has come back down to brandish himself in front of hotel security, make sure no one’s onto him. And no one is. One uniform is telling a story to four others now, which involves punching gestures and his own uncontrollable laughter. Freckles watches them, expressionless. He orders another drink.

  Big says, ‘You haven’t changed a bit, JD.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Mister Too-Cool-for-School-Private-Dick.’

  He comes down hard on that last word.

  ‘All right…’

  Big shrugs. ‘Whatever, right? But you always had to be so fucking special. So aloof. I read that word the other day and I thought, that’s a good word for my old friend, John Dorn. Always walked a perfect line. Never got his feet wet.’

  ‘All right…’

  ‘Yep. And now I’m making the money, doing the kind of work you can only dream about, but you look at me like I’m still just another bogan copper for you to treat like shit.’

  I’m glad he didn’t have that drink.

  ‘I’m working, Neil. Dazzle me with your insecurities another time. There’s something going on here, something you should be interested in. It might be to do with Hannah Delaney.’

  The trio of businessmen get up from the couch next to ours, brush my shoulder with their thighs as they pass. I watch them walk away, wait for them to be properly gone.

  Big raises his eyebrows.

  I say, ‘See the guy with the brown hair and long forehead, sitting at the entrance to the bar?’

  Big’s glance is smooth, professional.

  ‘What about him?’

  ‘He was at the far end of the driveway about an hour ago with something under his coat. The metal detectors scared him off, so he walked round the back and came in over the fence between the freeway and the pool.’

  ‘That guy did?’

  ‘He must have had trouble, there was blood on his shirt when he came in, but he’s hammered so he hasn’t noticed or doesn’t care. And there was something hidden under his jacket. He checked into a room, went up in the lift, and now he’s come back down and there’s nothing under his jacket anymore and he’s sitting at the bar, drinking. He’s waiting for something.’

  Big blinks at me.

  I open my hands. ‘That’s the story so far.’

  He grinds through the gear change from listener to thinker and grimaces like it’s painful. ‘Do you reckon it’s anything?’

  ‘I reckon he’s brought in something he’s not supposed to, and whatever it is he’s left it up there in his room. He wasn’t here when you brought Delaney through, but he might be waiting for her…’

  I take a drink. Still pained, Big looks at my scotch as I put it down. ‘Maybe. Maybe you were busy reading the drinks menu when he walked in the front door, and that thing under his jacket was the bottle he’s been drinking from.’

  ‘Maybe.’

  ‘Where would a guy like him get a firearm?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘And if he does want to shoot Miss Delaney, what’s he doing waiting for her without it?’

  ‘We could argue, or you could just go up to his room. Either there’s a gun there or there isn’t.’

  ‘I can’t break into someone’s room, with or without a good reason.’

  ‘Hotel security can’t get in?’

  ‘On your say-so? ‘Fraid not. They’d get sued.’

  I don’t remember Neil Bighuty being this kind of stickler. I should drop it and let Freckles shoot whoever he wants. I have no love for movie stars. And then I could tell the world that I warned Bighuty and he didn’t listen.

  I say, ‘I’ll go up and take a look.’

  Big smirks. ‘In his room?’

  ‘If you can get me the room number.’

  ‘How are you going to get in?’

  ‘Well…’ I say, swivelling on the couch to face him directly. ‘Hotels like the Pioneer only get business like Hannah Delaney if they agree on certain procedures. Like her personal security staff holding universal passkeys, in case of emergency.’

  Still smirking, he rolls his eyes back in his head like I’m electrocuting him. ‘There’s fucking no way I’m giving that to you. Are you out of your mind? That would be my job.’

  ‘Then I’ll get in some other way.’

  ‘How?’

  ‘Some other way.’

  Big’s smirk turns into sceptical laughter. He stares at me a moment, giving me a chance to take it back. When I don’t he turns and points to reception. ‘Is that the girl who checked him in?’

 
‘Yeah.’

  Big saunters over, shows her his ID.

  With his back turned, I suck down the rest of the scotch in one long hit.

  Big returns smiling. ‘Room 1504, and for the record, his name’s Rene Mush.’ Then he cocks his head to look at Mush, who’s watching the lobby while he drinks.

  ‘I do want to know if he’s a credible threat to the principal…’ Big must love lines like that. ‘But you’re not armed, you’re not authorised and you’ve got no way of getting into his room. Why bother trying?’

  ‘The rooms up there are supposed to have superb views. I was thinking of breaking into one anyway, just to take a look.’

  He doesn’t find that funny either.

  I stand up and take the photo out of my pocket. ‘I need you to cover for me while I’m gone. Do you recognise him?’

  Big stares at the picture. ‘Nope.’

  ‘His name’s William Benedict.’

  Big shakes his head vacantly. I think to myself, Where have you been living?

  ‘You’re looking for him?’ he asks.

  ‘Yeah. He won’t show up, but if he does, call me.’

  I write my mobile number on the back of the photograph. ‘And call me if Rene Mush starts back to his room.’

  Big can’t think of a reason to say no. He says, ‘If anyone asks, JD, I’ve got nothing to do with this.’

  ‘Okay.’

  ‘As far as I’m concerned, we never met.’

  ‘Okay.’

  I knew Neil Bighuty for the six months between when I was introduced to him by Detective Senior Constable Dennis Burke and when he was booted off the force for killing a teenager in the backyard of Moorabbin Police Headquarters. We drank a few times, Dennis being the only reason either of us was there. We traded stories and performed for each other our worn-out histories. Then he and Dennis would head to the strip clubs.

  I’d go home. I guess that’s what Big meant by aloof.

  Something else I remember is how he used to pull out this picture of his ex-girlfriend from his wallet, hand it around to people and talk about her like they were still an item. Her name was Sotiria and the picture was taken on the Greek island where she was born. ‘Sotiria’ was written on the back of the photograph, like you’d ever forget that name, and Big said that it meant ‘tragedy’ or ‘salvation’, he couldn’t remember which. Dennis told me that Sotiria was married now to a sergeant in the armed robbery squad and hadn’t spoken to Big in the two years since she dumped him. But for some reason, Big hadn’t given up hope.