Fatal Mistake

by Karen M. Davis

  Rocco thought for a moment. ‘What I will do is . . .’ He dragged on his cigarette again and rested it in the ashtray. ‘I’ll do you a deal: two forty, which makes you a profit of sixty per gram.’ He got a calculator out, played with the buttons. ‘That will cost you sixty grand and make you a profit of fifteen grand.’ He shrugged. ‘You cut it down a bit, you can make even more. Though this is good quality and if you want your customers to come back, that is what they expect.’

  Lexie nodded. The butterflies in her stomach did little cartwheels. She was authorised to make the purchase. The police department would get the money back eventually.

  ‘I can have it to you by the end of the week. We will do the deal here, at my club.’ Rocco gave her a wink. ‘This special price is only for you, Lara, only for you.’

  ‘Is it coming from far away?’ Lexie asked, hinting for a location.

  ‘No, it’s not far.’ But Rocco was giving nothing away.

  Lexie stood and extended her hand over the desk to Rocco. ‘It’s a deal.’

  Rocco stubbed out his smoke. He stood and took her hand. Without breaking contact, he manoeuvred around the desk and pulled her forward. She fell against his ridiculously muscular chest. It was like hitting a brick wall and it knocked the breath out of her for a second. His other arm snaked around her back, securing her in position.

  ‘I have a better idea,’ he said, moving even closer, his eyes on her lips. ‘Let’s kiss on it.’

  Seriously? This guy was red hot.

  Gathering her strength, Lexie shoved him in the chest for all she was worth.

  Not expecting this reaction, Rocco stumbled backwards and appeared stunned.

  ‘Rocco . . . we just had this discussion.’ Lexie didn’t have to act pissed off, because she was. He thought he could have and do anything he wanted. ‘I was hoping you would respect my wishes.’ She ran her fingers through her hair, exasperated. ‘Why are you trying to make things hard for me?’

  She took a chance. This could go either way, but what choice did she have? He was making it impossible. Dealing with a conceited walking hormone like Rocco was harder than she could have imagined.

  To Lexie’s surprise and relief, Rocco burst out laughing. ‘I don’t get a knock-back often . . . ever, actually. I’m sorry, I couldn’t help myself.’ His gaze was roaming her face hungrily. ‘You are different to the girls I know. Lara, you are enticing, fascinating, a challenge. Rocco loves a challenge and he always gets what he wants.’

  Lexie stared back at him, still serious. ‘I’m sure Rocco does.’ She wanted to have the last say. Keep him on his toes. Let him think he has a chance. ‘I think I should let you get back to your guests now. Though I think you should know, Lara too gets what she wants. I suppose only time will tell if we both want the same thing . . .’

  With that carrot dangling, Lexie left the room, and Rocco gaping in her wake.

  CHAPTER 16

  Berni was more than a little drunk. And more than a little pissed off.

  After meeting Rocco, she had been on such a high it hadn’t bothered her when TJ left her sitting at a table with a trio of bimbos who had their heads bent together talking secrets; she understood he was on a mission to return the DVDs to Rocco’s office. Besides, she was happy to sit back and soak up the atmosphere, sip champagne and wait to catch a glimpse of Rocco as he passed through the crowd. Perhaps he’d spot her alone, come over and talk.

  But that had been over an hour ago and now Berni was beginning to think Rocco quite rude, ignoring most of his guests in favour of spending his time with a select few. The only one of his entourage she’d seen strutting through the crowd like he owned the place, sleazing over one girl or another, was that big ape, Lucky. The memory of Lucky having sex with the girl who had wound up dead flashed through her mind, turning her stomach. He was repulsive, yet like a car crash, Berni had been compelled to watch. And what her investigative mind had noticed was that Lucky had appeared unaware he was being recorded. Rocco had glanced at the camera, smiled straight into it, making it obvious he knew he was being recorded and enjoying the fact. This meant someone had set Lucky up. But why?

  Even though Berni’s mind was foggy from too much alcohol, a thought struck her. TJ had told her tension often ran high between Lucky and Rocco; there was an intense power struggle lingering underneath their surface friendship. Both wanted to be top dog and what better way to keep your rival under control than the threat of exposure, culpability? Crooks turned on each other to save their own skin all the time. Some would rat on their own mother if it meant exonerating themselves. The DVD could be Rocco’s insurance Lucky never betrayed him, for fear of becoming the number one suspect in the girl’s questionable death.

  TJ didn’t know that, while he had taken a shower after they’d had sex, Berni had copied the disc onto her laptop. You never knew when something like that could come in handy.

  Realising her glass was empty, Berni stood up to get another one. The room tilted, then spun. She felt decidedly woozy and thought better of drinking any more. Coke would sober her up. Making an uneven path to the ladies’, she managed to line up on top of the toilet cistern without spilling any. While girls chatted and touched up makeup in the mirror, Berni pulled a twenty-dollar note from her purse and rolled it tightly. She leant against the wall for balance. Someone was being sick in a nearby toilet. The sounds of gagging and retching made her own stomach churn. Using the rolled-up bill as a make-do straw, she snorted the drug and got out of there in a hurry.

  Making her way back to where she’d been sitting, Berni scanned the crowd for Rocco. He was still nowhere to be seen. She hoped he wasn’t in one of the rooms upstairs with some girl. Yes, she’d managed to get that out of TJ: they rented out rooms by the half-hour for patrons who wanted to get it on. She had to give it to Rocco. He was a good businessman, knew how to make money. Sex, drugs and alcohol were big sellers and he had them all covered.

  A drunk guy was slumped in her seat and the trio of bimbos had been replaced by a similar set. Where was TJ? Berni wanted to find him desperately now. The room suddenly felt hot. She found a wall and leant against it. Her focus found and stuck on a couple kissing on the dance floor. That would be her and Rocco one day. When she knew him better, when he trusted her, she would surprise him, reveal her profession. Rocco was smart. He would see what an asset she could be: knowledge of police procedures and methodology was priceless.

  Feeling a floating sensation, Berni let her thoughts fly off into the future, imagining where they would live, what their life would be like . . . She had big plans, ambitions, dreams. Smiling to herself, she envisioned her father’s face when he met Rocco and realised his daughter was dating a real-life gangster.

  Her jaw clenched as she ground her teeth together. The cocaine was working its magic. She felt all fluffy and light. Caught up in her daydreams, Berni’s mind was as out of focus as her vision and it took her a moment to realise TJ was standing in front of her. He looked panicked.

  ‘I can’t get into Rocco’s office.’ TJ spoke into her ear so she could hear him over the music. ‘Rocco’s been in there with some girl for ages. He’s gone back to the VIP room now but he’s locked the office. I’m sure he wouldn’t have noticed the missing DVDs. It’s not like he’d be checking them all the time, though I think I’m going to have to hang around until the place is empty and replace them.’ He seemed breathless. ‘I know where the spare keys are, but I’ll have to be careful.’

  Berni’s night had taken a sudden plunge downhill and she felt her stomach lurch. Her chance of speaking to Rocco again was non-existent. Besides, she was too pissed now to carry on a decent conversation.

  ‘Look, TJ, you go and mingle, network, and wait for the opportunity to get into the office.’ Her speech was slurred. ‘I’m feeling pretty drunk and a bit sick, so I might head home.’ When he went to protest, she soothed him with a kiss on the cheek. ‘I’ll be fine. I’ll jump into a cab outside and be home before you know it. I don�
�t want to spoil your night.’

  TJ didn’t argue. ‘I understand, though I wish you could stay. I’m sorry. I need to get this done. It’s making me nervous . . .’

  ‘I know. I agree.’ She took hold of his hands. ‘I’m only sorry I’m letting you down.’

  ‘You’re not, honey, you’re not.’ He gave her a lingering kiss. ‘It won’t always be like this. One day we’ll be invited into the VIP area with the others. I’ll call you in the morning. See how you are.’

  Berni nodded and headed unsteadily for the door. Outside, the air was warm and had her head spinning. Her stomach felt turbulent. The only thing that would save her from a monstrous hangover was gallons of water, some greasy food and sleep. Deciding to walk to a nearby kebab shop, Berni headed towards the main strip of Kings Cross, gazing at the iconic red and white Coca-Cola sign – a famous landmark of Sydney’s red-light district – that had illuminated Sydney’s skyline for many years. She passed scantily dressed prostitutes of varying ages hanging in doorways and street kids pestering drunk passers-by for money. Spruikers pranced around underneath strip clubs’ flashing lights calling out and trying to drum up some business. One grabbed her arm. Berni pushed him away.

  Her phone rang. Plucking it out of her bag, she answered without checking the caller identification, thinking it was probably TJ checking on her welfare. But it was Morris Murphy, the pain-in-the-arse but very good-looking reporter, who paid her two hundred bucks a tip-off. He wanted to know what she knew about some siege situation southwest of Sydney. When he realised she had no idea what he was talking about, he promptly hung up on her. Probably in a hurry to ring another on his pay roll.

  As she passed an alleyway, Berni automatically glanced deep into the darkness. A couple were pressed against the wall not far from the entrance, locked in a passionate embrace. Unsteady on her feet and distracted by the lustful kissing, Berni stumbled on the uneven roadway, lost her footing and went over on her heel. Sharp pain shot from her ankle up her leg. She tried to steady herself but failed. Arms flailing, clutching at air, she fell, crying out as her hands and knees slammed against the ground, at the feet of the kissing couple.

  Breaking apart as though they’d been sprung, they glared down at Berni. Neither moved to help her up. Berni waited for her vision to focus, staring at them through a veil of messed hair, and was shocked when she recognised the woman regarding her with blatant distaste. It was Lucky’s wife, Erika. Berni glanced at the man. Her shock amplified.

  They had no idea who she was, but Berni certainly knew them. She had made it her business to know all the members of Rocco’s entourage. And even though her body was aching, her hands and knees burning from the fall, the pain was worth this accidental discovery. This was gold.

  Berni felt empowerment; she knew a secret. Lucky wasn’t the only adulterer in his marriage. It seemed Erika was having an affair and, if it got out, if the man involved was revealed, it would tear a fissure in Rocco’s group larger than the Grand Canyon.

  CHAPTER 17

  The sound of his mobile phone ringing plucked Brad from a deep, dreamless sleep. His eyes flickered open slowly. The room was black. Rolling onto his side, he squinted at the illuminated numbers of his alarm clock: 1.07am. Michelle stirred next to him as his hand patted around the bedside table in search of the phone. He found it, snatched it up and brought it to his ear.

  ‘What’s happened?’ Brad kept his voice as low as possible.

  ‘We have a siege situation,’ Inspector Cook told him calmly, and dropped him straight back into reality.

  ‘Shit.’ Brad shot upright, suddenly wide awake, and sprang out of bed. Michelle switched on the bedside lamp and watched him.

  ‘Wally Milton, the ex-Assassin gang member with a grudge, picked the surveillance guys I had watching his sister’s house,’ Cook explained. ‘Marty Wells worked late last night building his profile and it turns out we were right not to just walk up to the front door and ask to speak to him. The guy is extremely dangerous. As well as the arrest warrant for a serious assault, he’s addicted to Ice. Officers at the scene report he’s mad, doesn’t want to go back inside, so he’s holding his sister hostage.’

  ‘Are the—’

  ‘Yes,’ Cook interrupted, ‘the negotiators have just arrived and tactical operations unit are on the way. They will be there before you. Dani took the car home last night and will be at your place to pick you up in about twenty minutes. She’s up to speed with everything and will fill you in on the way. Keep me informed.’ Cook hung up.

  Brad rushed around, had a two-minute shower, brushed his teeth, threw on a fresh shirt and suit while Michelle fussed around in the kitchen making a thermos of coffee – with an extra travel mug for Dani – and fixed sandwiches and snacks. Twenty-five minutes later, Brad was in the passenger seat of Strike Force Lister’s blue Prado, next to Dani.

  ‘Your wife is seriously the best,’ Dani remarked, seeing Brad’s travel esky packed to the brim with food and drinks.

  ‘Yes, Michelle is a keeper,’ Brad agreed, not for the first time wondering how he’d got so lucky. While Dani drove, Brad carefully poured her a coffee and placed it in the cup holder between them. ‘So what do you know?

  ‘I know the shit has hit the fan big time,’ Dani said, taking the cup and sipping. ‘Wally Milton is extremely paranoid, apparently, and somehow picked the surveillance car. He opened the door, pointed a rifle at them and screamed out something about his sister dobbing him in for warrants and if they didn’t piss off, he’d kill her.’

  Dani veered the car to the left, onto General Holmes Drive and drove south, away from the city. At this hour of the morning, the roads were all but empty. Besides the occasional glow seeping through closed blinds, most homes were in darkness.

  Brad studied the profile photo Dani had of Wally Milton, using his iPhone torch app to light up the car’s dark interior. It was obviously a surveillance shot: Milton had no idea he was being photographed as he walked along a street. He didn’t look like a big bad bikie with a grudge, he just looked like an average guy: around six foot in height, slimmish build, dark straggly hair. In fact, Milton had the sort of face that was neither ugly nor attractive, just completely ordinary. He was someone you could stare at for an hour and forget in a minute. And that would make him the perfect criminal. He was totally unremarkable.

  ‘He could be the guy with the backpack in the CCTV footage,’ Brad said thoughtfully. ‘Though the footage didn’t capture his face, so it could be a lot of guys, anyone really.’

  ‘Neighbours have been evacuated and the local police have things under control, so to speak. I suppose we’ll know more when we get there and speak to the negotiators,’ Dani said.

  ‘Strangely, in my almost twenty-four years in the job, I’ve not been to a siege until now. Have you?’

  ‘I’ve been to a few. All ended peacefully, thankfully, but they can go on forever.’

  They grew silent, contemplating the hours that stretched before them.

  ‘So how are you surviving without Lexie?’ Dani asked. She veered onto the M5 motorway that would lead them southwest of Sydney. They both knew Lexie was working undercover and not on holidays as everyone else had been led to believe.

  ‘I’m surviving.’ Brad glanced at the large shapes of passenger planes parked along the fence line of Sydney Airport as they passed by. Like most of Australia, they too were resting until sunrise. ‘Though I have to say, I’m very glad her replacement is off sick and you’ve come along.’ He told her all about Berni. ‘Bloody numpty, that’s all she is.’

  Dani laughed, glancing at him. ‘Doesn’t every office have one of those?’

  Shaking his head, Brad grunted. ‘The job’s not what it used to be.’

  ‘If you say the job’s F-U-C-K-E-D, I’m going to have to hit you,’ Dani warned.

  ‘Nah . . . I still love the job. I just don’t love a few of the poor sillies I have to work with.’

  They arrived in the outskirts of the rura
l township of Buxton at almost 2.30am and parked behind a Camden patrol car. Before killing the headlights, Brad could see crime scene tape cordoning off the road ahead and two uniformed officers standing beside it, guarding the outer perimeter of the scene. Media trucks lined one side of the road and about six people – eager reporters, he guessed – huddled in the shadows. As they got out of the car, Brad noted the night seemed warmer here and ominously quiet. He smelt the scent of the country: a mixture of manure, animals and fresh air. There was no street lighting, so blackness surrounded them like a blanket. The glow of the moon and police-issue torches would be their only light.

  Brad switched on his torch and Dani followed suit, aiming their beams of light at the ground. Their feet crunched over gravelly bitumen as they walked towards the uniformed officers. They had only taken a few steps when a reporter peeled away from the group and yelled out to them.

  ‘Officers, officers.’ He rushed towards them waving madly. ‘Can I speak to you for a minute?’

  ‘Oh great.’ Dani voiced Brad’s thoughts exactly.

  ‘Can I just have a word? Off the record.’

  Brad laughed, knowing there was no such thing.

  ‘Just a quick comment, please . . .’

  ‘Can’t tell you anything because I don’t know anything,’ Brad said, keeping his gaze on the ground. Not that he’d tell the reporter anything anyway. ‘Speak to the media unit.’

  ‘Oh, is that you, Detective Sommers?’

  Brad slowed his pace, glancing at the man walking beside him. In the dimness he couldn’t make out his features, so he shone the torch straight in his face. The brief glimpse Brad got in the split second before the reporter swore, spun away and covered his eyes from the blinding light was enough. Dislike burnt the back of Brad’s throat as recognition hit.

  Morris Murphy was tall, blond and handsome, which he evidently thought excused his repugnant personality and rude, arrogant manner. A vulture who would do anything for a story, he was disliked in general, even within his own industry. Brad had a healthy respect for reporters. They had a job to do, as did he. And as in every profession, you got the good and the bad. Murphy was one of the latter. His uncanny knack for being first on the scene and getting the scoop on major stories had meant he’d come under suspicion for a spate of fires some time back. Unfortunately, nothing could be proven. Not surprising really; if someone was devious enough to instigate a disaster, or a crime, just to get a good story, they would be cunning enough to ensure an alibi.