Lexie nodded, amazed he missed nothing. ‘I hear you.’ She forced a smile. ‘Take care.’
‘I always do . . . you too. Don’t worry, everything will be fine.’
With those words, he was gone.
Lexie tried to numb the dread in her heart, stop the tide of panic rising. She had to believe Rex would be all right.
CHAPTER 19
‘SPG Officer Sorrento, positioned on the roof on the southern side of hostage’s premises, confirming the hostage is unharmed. The hostage taker broke a vase. I repeat: I have a visual of the hostage. She is unharmed.’
The relief inside the negotiator truck was palapable. Phone contact had been cut and Linda O’Neil was doing her best to get Milton back on the line. McDonald, the team leader, huddled with his fellow negotiators, talking tactics. Brad and Dani left them to it, stepping outside the truck to get some air.
For a long moment they stood silently in the soft glow of light from the truck, lost in their own thoughts. Brad swiped at a bug that landed on his shoulder, glad to be out of the claustrophobic confines of the truck. Dani kicked at a rock under her feet. The early morning air was still warm. A cow bellowed in a paddock nearby.
‘Are you all right, Brad?’ Dani asked, breaking the silence. She was jiggling on the spot, a ball of nervous energy
‘What? I’m fine.’ He felt a bit sick, actually, and it must have shown. He hoped she wasn’t like Lexie, who could almost read his mind. ‘You?’
Dani nodded, then shook her head. ‘No, not really. This is kind of nerve-racking.’
The door of the negotiator truck swung open. McDonald bounded down the three steps and joined them. ‘We’re going to continue to negotiate – as per our protocols.’
Brad nodded, not daring to question negotiation tactics.
‘Milton is staying out of sight,’ McDonald continued. ‘They don’t have a clear shot and I’m not sending the tactical boys in unnecessarily. We have to weigh up our options and getting one of my men killed is not one of them.’
‘Of course.’
‘Linda has made contact with Milton again. Come in and listen.’
Inside the truck Linda was saying, ‘So, Wally, I am so glad you are okay. And how is Harriet?’
‘Can’t you fuckin’ hear her moanin’ and cryin’? She’s fine,’ Wally Milton yelled. ‘I hated that vase . . . she’s carryin’ on like it was worth a fuckin’ fortune or somethin’.’
‘It was Mum’s vase,’ Harriet yelled in the background. ‘How could you?’
‘It sounds like the vase held some sentimental value for Harriet. Now, Wally, I need to discuss something important with you—’
‘You arseholes wanna send me back to gaol and I’m not goin’ back there. No fuckin’ way. And if I come out, youse’ll shoot me.’
Linda was doing her best to build a rapport with the hostage taker and reassure him a peaceful resolution to the situation was possible, and the best outcome for everyone. She had her work cut out for her. Brad didn’t envy her. Milton was as high as a kite on Ice; paranoid and aggressive. Besides all that, it seemed he was not completely stupid. He knew the situation: holding his sister hostage, threatening to kill her, possessing firearms and having an outstanding arrest warrant would not be treated lightly. He knew if he was taken into custody he wouldn’t be seeing the light of day any time soon, which made negotiations very difficult. He had nothing to lose.
‘Wally, if you come out unarmed I give you my word you will be safe,’ Linda assured him. ‘As a sign of good faith, why don’t you let your sister come out now?’
‘She fuckin’ dobbed me in to you pigs. She deserves to die.’ They heard whimpering in the background. ‘You fuckin’ cow – dobbed on me . . . you rat! You betrayed me, you dirty bitch.’
‘I didn’t do nothin’. I didn’t call the cops. I’ve been with you the whole time, Wally,’ Harriet screamed.
‘Wally, I sense your frustration.’ Linda tried to bring his attention back to her. ‘Your sister did not call the police. As I said, the police were hoping you may be able to help them with an investigation. It had nothing to do with Harriet.’
There was silence on the other end of the line while Milton digested this information. Then, a string of profanities could be heard through the speaker on the wall.
‘She is not comin’ out,’ he screamed. ‘You can go and get fucked!’
The conversation seemed to be going nowhere. After another twenty minutes of similar questions and answers, Brad wondered how long this would go on. At what stage did the negotiation team decide enough was enough? He’d heard of these kinds of situations going on for days, stringing out and wearing the offender down until he was emotionally and physically exhausted.
McDonald passed Brad a note. He read it quickly and nodded. They were going to put the question straight to Milton, ask if he knew anything about the bombing. Normally, they’d prefer to have the suspect in a controlled environment before doing this, but right now they had little option. If Milton knew what this was about and had an alibi, he might calm down.
The secondary negotiator took the note from McDonald and slipped it to Linda. She read it, gave him a nod.
‘Wally, I can see you are very angry, so this is the truth,’ Linda promised. ‘Detectives want to speak to you about the bombing of the Assassins’ clubhouse. That’s what this is all about. They thought since you’re an ex-member of the club you may be able to provide assistance, help them with their inquiries.’ She appealed to his ego. ‘They were hoping your knowledge could help identify possible suspects, individuals who may want to harm Assassin members, or bikies in general.’
Brad was impressed with Linda’s negotiation skills. She had managed to word the question in such a way that Milton should feel important, that his wisdom was valued. He also marvelled at how the woman managed to keep her voice so calm when all he wanted to do was scream at the idiot.
There was silence.
‘Wally, are you able to tell us anything about the bombing?’ Linda prompted.
‘I don’t know what the fuck you’re talkin’ about.’ Milton’s voice was slightly calmer. ‘What bombin’? Is this bullshit?’
Everyone in the truck glanced at each other dubiously. Surely he had heard about the bombing? It had been all over the news. Then again, if he’d been in a drug-induced haze for days on end . . .
Linda told him the details.
‘I can’t help the cops even if I wanted to. I don’t know nothin’ about it. Call off your fuckin’ dogs. You guys disappear and I’ll let Harriet go.’
‘You know we can’t do that. We have to make sure you are both safe.’ Linda paused, tried again. ‘If you let Harriet go—’
‘No . . . not happenin’ until youse leave.’
‘Can you tell us where you were on Sunday around four pm?’ Linda didn’t miss a beat.
‘I was with Rick, me mate, at Auburn.’ Milton suddenly sounded reasonable, coherent. ‘You can check. Harriet was with me.’
‘What is Rick’s last name and where does he live?’
‘Silver Street, Auburn. I don’t know the number.’
Brad dared to hope they were getting somewhere.
Linda asked for Rick’s last name again.
‘Cunningham.’
‘His name is Rick Cunningham?’ Linda said without a hint of sarcasm.
McDonald shook his head. Brad rolled his eyes, deflated. Richard Cunningham? And I’m the bloody Fonze . . .
Milton was talking shit.
Leaving the truck, Brad made a call to the office and got Detective Senior Constable Jim DeBatista, a young detective working through the night.
‘Do some checks. If this bloke exists, my bet is he’ll be on the system. Get a local car to attend. Actually, give Auburn cop shop a call. They may know of him,’ Brad instructed. ‘I’ll be waiting to hear from you.’
‘Sure thing. Happy days, sergeant,’ DeBatista said.
Back in the truck, Brad hear
d Milton making demands.
‘I’m hungry. Can you order some pizza?’ He had apparently already asked for cigarettes and beer.
When Linda politely declined his request, he once again went off on a tangent, yelling and screaming. His mood pinballed all over the place.
The siege had now been in progress for four hours and there was no sign it would end peacefully any time soon. Brad motioned for McDonald to meet him outside so they could again talk tactics.
Brad picked his words, not wanting to offend. ‘What do you do in these types of situations? He’s clearly crazy; drug- and alcohol-affected. Do you think there is any chance he’s going to come out peacefully?’
‘At this stage, I honestly don’t know. I’m still not ready to risk police lives by storming the place when we don’t know what he’s got in there. We know he has a shotgun, but he may have other explosives. He could kill the sister the moment he hears the slightest noise. He may have traps set up. It’s too dangerous. We have to constantly reassess in these situations. At present no one is injured, so we’ll keep negotiating and see what develops.’
Brad tried to hide his mounting concern and ignore the nausea churning in his stomach. Whether it was negative thinking, or his instincts kicking in, he could not shake the feeling this siege was not going to end well.
CHAPTER 20
As Lexie drove towards the flat at Coogee, the heavens opened up and huge raindrops beat down upon the car’s windscreen. The streets were still dark, and mostly deserted, though shortly the sun would rise and footpaths would fill with people. Cafés and shops would open for business and peak hour would begin its reign of terror on Sydney. Thankfully, her undercover home had a garage with internal access, saving her from getting drenched.
By the time Lexie dragged her feet up the stairs to the third floor, she was exhausted. Taking a quick shower, she threw on a singlet and silky boxer shorts and made herself a cup of tea and Vegemite toast. She mindlessly watched the shopping channel while she had her . . . breakfast? Dinner? She wasn’t sure what you’d call it. Her body clock was totally out of whack.
After carrying out her usual security check, Lexie switched off the bedroom light and lowered the blinds. The nightlight, plugged into the power point beside the bed, cast a dim glow in the blackness of the night. It felt silly, but after her stabbing, Lexie was uncomfortable in complete darkness. It made her feel vulnerable, like prey. Being able to see her surroundings when she opened her eyes gave her a sense of security.
Checking her personal phone left charging on the bedside table, Lexie noticed a text from Josh. She smiled. It was sent at eleven the night before, just wishing her goodnight. She quickly typed out a reply: Love you, talk later – hopefully . . . Working opposite shifts was seriously limiting their contact.
Climbing into the queen-size bed, Lexie plumped the pillow and pulled the light doona over herself. She lay on her back and stared, wide-eyed, at the ceiling, listening to the rain, pelting against the window so violently the glass shook and shivered in its frame. The wind howled angrily outside and the old building’s foundations creaked and groaned. Although Lexie’s limbs were heavy and her body was tired, it seemed her mind was not.
Last night had gone well. She had organised her first drug deal with Rocco and avoided being put in any compromising positions – well, she’d managed to get out of the ones he’d created, at least. She had met and somewhat befriended Tiffany and was now familiar with the rest of Rocco’s entourage.
And Batman had kissed her.
Lexie rolled restlessly onto her side, wanting to banish the memory. She squeezed her eyes shut, willed her brain to stop. It was bad enough that the kiss had happened, but now she felt a rush of guilt.
Stop thinking . . . just go to sleep.
But unfortunately there was no mute button for her mind.
Having neglected to inform Josh she was working with Batman was weighing Lexie down, like an invisible chain around her neck. Not that she’d really had the chance: their conversations had been brief and infrequent. And there was no way she was telling him via text message – she needed to hear his voice to gauge his reaction. Lexie promised herself she would tell Josh the next time they spoke. What the hell was she scared of, anyway? It wasn’t her fault she’d been partnered with Batman. And she and Josh should be able to be honest with each other; after their break-up, they had agreed to have no secrets.
Her thoughts jumped to Rex. She wondered what would become of him, what he would do and if she would ever see him again. She waited for that heavy feeling of foreboding that warned of future tragedy to invade her chest, stab at her insides. It didn’t happen. She felt only a strange floating sensation, a weightlessness that made her head light. Lexie hoped it was not just exhaustion, hoped it was a good omen.
Nestling into the comfortable mattress, Lexie’s mind began to clear, finally craving rest as much as her body. Sleep was way overdue, though just before her eyes grew heavy and drifted shut, the dimness around her shifted. She glimpsed a shadow in the doorway; felt a presence. However, instead of being scared or threatened, she felt calmed, reassured. The living she feared much more than the unseen. Phantoms of the night could not hurt her, they were not tangible, were without malevolence, unlike some humans. The formless shape twitched, appeared to shimmer, then disappeared. Lexie liked to think it was her brother coming to tuck her in and bid her goodnight.
• • •
The siege had been going for over six hours now and the blanket of darkness had been replaced by a bright, warm sun. Brad stepped outside with McDonald to get some air while Dani remained inside, listening to negotiations. He cautiously peered around the side of the bulletproof negotiator truck, and thought about the incredible tactical guys who had been frozen in position for hours: on roofs, in bushes and ditches; using their surroundings as camouflage, no reprieve in sight.
Through the line of trees, Harriet Milton’s rundown fibro shack was now visible. It squatted sadly in the middle of a flat and bland chunk of overgrown grass, more brown than green. Box-like with peeling white paint and drooping eaves, it was in desperate need of some basic maintenance. Being a rural area, the houses on either side of Harriet’s were some distance away and separated by wire fencing. As a precaution, however, all residents in the vicinity had been evacuated before Brad and Dani had arrived.
‘Want one?’
Brad turned, watching McDonald light a cigarette before he offered the packet to Brad.
Brad stared at the packet, nodded automatically, then quickly shook his head feverishly. ‘No, no, no . . . Well, yes, I want one.’ God, how he wanted a cigarette right now. His hand, seemingly of its own accord, reached out to take one. Maybe a smoke would calm his jagged nerves? Perhaps that was all that was wrong with him lately. He thought of Michelle in tears last time he’d started smoking again. ‘But I’ve gone three weeks without one.’
McDonald snatched the packet out of his reach. ‘Then don’t have one. I’m not going to be the one to corrupt you.’
Brad’s phone rang. He reached into his back pocket, pulled it out and glanced at the screen. It was his boss, Detective Inspector Justin Cook.
‘I have news on Richie Cunningham.’
Cook said the name so seriously Brad wanted to laugh – then thought better of it. McDonald sucked on his cigarette then, turning away from Brad, blew it out. The smoke wafted back in Brad’s face and he greedily sucked in the fumes.
‘He does exist. Very well known to the local cops, actually,’ Cook said. ‘They knew where he lived, paid Cunningham a visit and verified Milton and his sister were at his place at the time of the bombing, hours before and afterwards, in fact. That was further backed up by a neighbour who went in and asked Cunningham to keep the noise down. He stated a man matching Milton’s description gave him a mouthful of abuse.’
‘That sounds like him. I suppose the bomb could have been on a timer,’ Brad mused, leaning back against the truck. ‘Could Milton have turn
ed up at the bike show early, dumped the bomb, and got away with plenty of time to made sure he was with others to guarantee an alibi?’
‘Anything is possible,’ Cook said. ‘If we can get any of the Assassin members to cooperate, we can ask them if Milton was there. He was ordered to get out of town, so I’m thinking he would be pretty stupid to show up, completely outnumbered, at a bikie meet where he was hated. But stranger things have happened.’ There was a short pause. ‘We also have some new information.’
Brad asked Cook to hold on while he passed on the confirmation of Milton’s alibi to McDonald, who stubbed out his smoke with the heel of his boot and disappeared inside the truck.
‘I’m back, what’s the new info?’ Brad asked.
‘Lurch has taken a statement off an eighteen-year-old guy, Jack Mason, who was “parking” with his girlfriend by a small reserve on a hill overlooking the Assassins’ clubhouse. Not that they were there for the view, I imagine . . .’ Cook said. ‘They heard the explosion, got scared when they saw the flames and were about to hightail it out of there when they noticed a man peel out from beside a toilet block. This young bloke, Mason, wants to join the cops when he’s old enough, so he watched the guy, saw him shed a black wig and moustache, and throw them into a residential bin at the front of a house.’
‘That’s great. But what’s taken him so long to report it?’ Brad asked.
‘His girlfriend begged him not to. She’d snuck out of the house and was scared of repercussions.’ Cook cleared his throat. ‘His conscience got to him. Playing detective, he went back to the house in the early hours of this morning, fished the moustache and wig out of the bin with gloves, put them in a garbage bag and handed them in at the station.’
‘You’re kidding me.’ Brad moved his weight from one leg to the other, feeling restless. ‘We have a budding Sherlock.’
‘They’re on their way to the lab for DNA profiling as we speak. I’ve asked for it to be a priority. Mason also saw the man throw a bottle of something on the ground near where he was standing, so the morning shift is going out to see what they can find there.’
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