Fatal Mistake

by Karen M. Davis

  ‘Wow, that’s great.’ Brad felt the excitement a new lead always delivered. ‘Perhaps Milton wore the disguise.’

  ‘The timings are off. Milton would have been at Cunningham’s by this stage. This man watched the bombing.’

  Yelling and screaming from inside Harriet Milton’s house echoed around the surrounding countryside and froze Brad in his tracks.

  ‘Something’s happening,’ he told Cook. ‘I have to go.’

  Brad leapt up the stairs and saw everyone lined along the narrow rectangular window that ran the length of the truck.

  Dani gestured for him to stand behind her so he could see over her head. ‘Milton’s coming out,’ she whispered.

  Brad saw the tactical guys, weapons raised, suddenly closing in. Surrounding the house at a distance, they held their positions. The speaker on the wall transmitted what was being said. A hot sweat broke out across his forehead as the front door swung open. Milton appeared on the small veranda, both arms held high in the air.

  You could have heard a pin drop inside the truck. It was as if they were collectively holding their breath.

  Milton paused, then followed the instructions being issued by the tactical police. Slowly, he moved forward, walked tentatively onto the buckled concrete pathway that led from the house to the front gate. His movements were unhurried, deliberate, resigned. It seemed he was surrendering. Brad felt a rush of relief as he watched the State Protection Group handle the situation with calm professionalism. It was going to be a peaceful resolution.

  The lead tactical officer was now talking in a loud voice, telling Milton to get on the ground, lie face down, keep his hands above his head. Milton appeared to comply, then suddenly, like a switch had been flicked, he began to scream back at them, his words tumbling out of his twisted mouth in a string of insane ramblings and foul profanities.

  Brad’s heart somersaulted and dread pinched his insides as he watched Milton reach into his jacket, pull out a handgun and aim it at police, yelling, ‘Die, you fuckers!’

  ‘Oh no, no, no,’ Linda cried, gripping the wall.

  The horrified gasps around Brad were quickly drowned out by gunfire. They watched in stunned silence as bullets punched into Milton’s body. The impact spun him around, made him look like he was doing a jerky dance. In his twenty-three years as a cop, there wasn’t much Brad hadn’t seen, but this took disturbing to a new level. His brain seemed unable to process what his eyes were seeing; he felt numb, anaesthetised and sick.

  Milton’s body hit the ground hard, face first. Harriet came running out of the house, screaming hysterically. The tactical officers moved in, reaching her as she fell to the ground beside her brother.

  ‘It was a plastic gun,’ Harriet screamed at nobody in particular. ‘He was unarmed. It was a plastic gun, a fuckin’ water pistol . . .’ She tried to throw herself over Milton’s body, was stopped by two officers lifting her upright. ‘You killed my brother!’ she spat, hysterical. ‘You bastards killed my brother.’

  Brad watched as Harriet thrashed and kicked out at the officers. They bundled her in their arms, pushed her onto the grass. Unbelievable, he thought. Her brother held her hostage, hit her, threatened to kill her and now she was blaming the cops for the outcome.

  McDonald was rubbing Linda’s back, trying to lend support. She looked devastated and close to tears. She had worked hard, negotiated well. Brad couldn’t imagine how she must feel right now.

  ‘He did that on purpose,’ Dani muttered accusingly. She turned and looked up at Brad. ‘He did that on purpose,’ she said again, as though waiting for her words to sink into her own head. Her eyes were wide. ‘He knew if he pulled out a gun, plastic or not, they would shoot him.’

  Brad nodded, placed a comforting arm around her shoulder for just a moment.

  ‘Yes, he knew what he was doing . . . Well, as much as anyone off their face on Ice and alcohol can, I suppose. Death by cop.’ Brad felt suddenly angry. ‘He’d obviously rather be dead than face going back to gaol. He didn’t have the guts to shoot himself, so he gave them no choice but to do it for him. Now those poor blokes are going to have to live with the memory of being forced to kill a man for the rest of their lives.’

  ‘Just as we’ll be haunted by what we’ve witnessed for the rest of our lives.’ Dani let out a shaky hiss. ‘Cowardly bastard.’

  CHAPTER 21

  The lone figure sat in a car opposite Lexie Rogers’ block of flats at Clovelly, growing increasingly impatient. Having arrived over an hour ago and been lucky enough to score a parking spot two behind her black Hyundai Getz, the killer had expected she would have left for work by now.

  So where the hell was she?

  A sighting of Lexie Rogers was needed desperately. The grainy picture from a newspaper article – FALLEN OFFICER A TRAGIC LOSS TO OUR COMMUNITY – was the only clue to what she looked like. The shot had been taken from a distance at her brother’s funeral nearly three years ago. Tall and lean, the detective was dressed in all black: knee-length dress, blazer and pointed heels. Her hair was pulled off her sombre face in a tight bun and, although her features were hard to make out, it appeared she was not bad-looking.

  There was a church in the background, people and blue uniforms everywhere. A woman – much like Rogers, only older – clung to her arm as though her life depended on it. The caption underneath read: Lyn and Lexie Rogers left devastated at the loss of their son and brother, Detective Lincoln Rogers, who was killed on duty four days ago.

  What if she looks different now? She could have put on weight, cut her hair. People changed and identification of the target was essential. There was no room for mistaken identity. There had already been one fuck-up, there could be no more.

  The bombing had been a complete waste of time and energy. Making the bomb had been enjoyable. It had been good to put skills acquired from specialist military training to good use. However, it had been an exercise in futility. The information received had been wrong. Lexie Rogers hadn’t even been working the Assassins’ bike show.

  A tide of anger rose.

  Take a breath . . . You are capable, determined, worthy . . . You’ve devised a new plan . . . it will work out . . . do not let the black cloud overwhelm you.

  The pressure to fulfil the order was stifling. But it had to be done. It would ensure the old man’s respect, gratitude and acceptance. It would fix everything.

  Staring at the windows of Rogers’ flat, hoping for a twitch of the blinds, a fleeting shadow – some signal of movement inside – the killer weighed the options. The boyfriend was away, that much was known. One call to the drug squad had confirmed Detective Sergeant Harrison was in Byron Bay, well out of the way. Lexie Rogers was home alone – perfect.

  So where the fuck was she?

  The killer reached for the phone.

  ‘Bondi Junction Police Station, Constable Fulton speaking, can I help you?’

  The killer spoke with a deep, disguised voice. ‘I’d like to speak to Detective Rogers please. It’s important.’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ the constable said. ‘She is on holiday leave at the moment.’

  Fuck, fuck, fuck . . .

  ‘I can put you through to another detective if you like,’ the cop said.

  ‘No, I need to speak to her urgently. I have information.’ The killer tried not to sound desperate. ‘Is it possible for you to call her, pass on a message and get her to call me?’

  The cop hesitated. ‘If it’s really that important, I can do that.’

  ‘It’s important,’ the killer stressed. ‘It’s about a case she’s working.’

  ‘Can I have your details?’ the cop asked.

  ‘My name is Lenny.’ The name was plucked out of the air and a mobile phone number was supplied. ‘I’m a friend of a friend. She’ll want to hear what I have to say. Actually, can you at least tell me when she’ll be back at work?’

  ‘Sorry, I don’t have that information,’ the cop said too quickly. Was he getting suspicious?
Time to step back.

  ‘Thanks, I appreciate your help.’

  All would be fine. There were options. The most preferred scenario would be for Rogers to call back in the hope of obtaining some hot information. Young cops were always keen to prove themselves, solve a case, get some glory, so she would more than likely call, even if she was on holiday leave. A meeting would be set up in a secluded location and she’d be there for the taking. If she didn’t call back, things would have to wait until she returned to work, got back into her usual routine, then it would be possible to pounce, intercept her when she least expected it. She had to come home eventually.

  It was just a matter of time.

  CHAPTER 22

  At 8.30am, Josh and his team arrived at Rod and Lorraine Black’s impressive acreage in the hinterland of Byron Bay. The sun was already warm and shone brightly in a clear blue sky. The smell of freshly mowed grass hung in the country air and a family of chickens squawked in greeting from behind the wire fencing of their hen house.

  Today they were following up on information Katrina, the Blacks’ 22-year-old daughter, had given them. Katrina had been quick to point the finger at Jake Goodstein, the son of a family friend, who lived on their uncleared, adjoining land. She said that Goodstein lived rent free in a small cabin in the midst of the bush that consumed most of the property. Her description of Goodstein was not kind. She stated he was a disgusting, dirty, drugged-out feral who gave her the creeps.

  Following Katrina’s directions, Josh led his team of three – detectives Hardy, Coffee and Hungerford – along a dirt track. As they progressed, the track narrowed and the vegetation became increasingly dense. They were forced to weave around huge palms and eucalypts and trudge through bushy undergrowth. All that could be heard was the crunching of twigs underfoot and the swishing of branches being pushed aside. Until a sudden shriek from behind had Josh spinning.

  ‘It’s . . . it’s a brown snake,’ Chris Coffee spluttered, frozen to the spot, staring at the ground.

  ‘Nobody move,’ Josh ordered. Doubling back, he came to stand beside Coffee. Josh studied Australia’s deadliest snake. It lay decidedly still in the dirt between tufts of grass beside the narrow track. He had walked straight past it.

  Josh saw an army of ants crawling around the snake’s head. He let out a long breath. ‘This one’s no threat. It’s dead.’

  They moved on, eyes a little more focused now, scanning their surrounds until reaching a spot where bush gave way to a cleared plot of lush land. Almost instantly Josh identified about ten marijuana plants to the side of a dilapidated corrugated iron shack. A fire smouldered from a pile of sticks and utensils littered the ground around it.

  Josh’s eyes were drawn to a filthy bathtub to the left of the shack. It was filled with dirty water and a man. His arms rested loosely along the porcelain rim. His head fell to one side, eyes were closed. Josh thought he might be dead.

  ‘Sarge . . .’ Karly and Chris whispered in unison. They’d seen him too.

  Josh put a hand behind him, gesturing for them to stop as he moved closer.

  ‘Police! Are you all right there, sir?’ he called.

  The guy jerked forward so fast Josh flinched, almost jumped backwards.

  ‘What the hell?’ The guy in the bath frowned. ‘This is private property. You can’t just come in here. You need a warrant. I know my rights.’

  Josh considered the man. He looked to be around thirty but it was hard to tell: a furry red beard covered most of his face, obscuring his features and merging into a mess of dreadlocks that hung way past his shoulders. He was thin to the point of emaciation and ground-in dirt made his skin appear almost black. Josh decided Katrina’s description of him had been accurate.

  ‘Are you Jake Goodstein?’

  ‘What if I am?’ Josh saw the upturn of his chin, the tightening of his jaw. ‘What of it? You shouldn’t be on my land.’ The guy in the bath stood, unconcerned about his nakedness. Josh snatched a pair of technicolour board shorts lying on the grass nearby and threw them to him. He caught them and stepped out of the bath and into the shorts, still dripping wet.

  ‘This is Mr Black’s property,’ Josh informed him. ‘We have permission to be here, so we don’t need a warrant. Now, answer my question. What is your name?’

  ‘Will . . .’ The man smiled, showing stained yellow teeth. ‘Will Power.’

  Smart-arse . . . It was going to be like that, was it?

  Josh’s irritation must have showed because, as he advanced towards him, the feral crept backwards and called out he was Jake Goodstein.

  ‘Okay, Jake, a word of advice . . . Next time you take a tub, use clean water and soap, because you stink.’ Josh grabbed his arm and marched him over to the crop of marijuana plants. ‘Are these yours?’

  ‘No, they must belong to the owner,’ Jake replied quickly.

  ‘I don’t think so. How about you tell the truth?’ Josh tightened his grip on Jake’s arm. ‘And before you answer, think carefully about what you say. I don’t think Mr Black, who allows you to live here rent free, will appreciate you putting him in the shit. You might find yourself out of a home. So, again, are these your plants?’

  ‘They’re just for my own use,’ Jake said. ‘There’s no offence in that.’

  Yes, there is actually. ‘And the other plants along the border of the Blacks’ main property. Are they just for your own use?’

  Jake nodded, his dreadlocks falling onto his face. ‘I don’t want to upset Mr Black so I’ll admit it. I’ll get rid of them.’ There was the beginnings of panic in his glassy, red-rimmed eyes. ‘I got a good set-up here. I don’t want to be kicked out. I just use the stuff for pain relief, for myself. I don’t sell it. There’s no offence in that.’

  ‘Wrong,’ Josh said, still holding on to Jake’s arm so he couldn’t run. ‘It is an offence to grow cannabis for your own use. But my guess is, having this many plants, you’re selling also.’

  Jake shook his head, glancing around at their bushy surrounds as though ready to flee.

  Josh instructed Chris to handcuff him. ‘You’re under arrest for the cultivation of a prohibited substance.’ He gave him the official caution. ‘You are not obliged to do or say anything unless you wish to do so but whatever you do or say can be used in evidence. Do you understand that?’

  Jake baulked and started to struggle. Karly moved in to help Chris, as did Josh.

  Pulling a face, Karly said, ‘You’re right, Sarge, he stinks.’

  ‘Chris, you stay here with Hungerford and start pulling the plants out. Make sure to take photos and document details first. I’ll call another crew to come and assist while Karly and I take our friend back to the station.’

  ‘I don’t want to go to the police station,’ Jake protested. ‘I’ve done nothin’ wrong. I’ve never been in trouble with the cops before. Please, can’t you just pull the plants out and forget this? Or take some for yourself, I won’t tell anyone.’

  ‘Are you trying to bribe police officers with drugs now?’ Josh said, failing to hide his amusement.

  • • •

  At their four-wheel drive, Josh placed Jake in the back seat, holding his breath as he pulled the seat belt across him and clicked it into place.

  ‘Why are you wasting your time with me when you should be out busting real drug dealers?’

  If only he had a dollar for every time someone had said, ‘Why are you arresting me? Shouldn’t you be locking up real criminals?’

  Josh jumped into the back seat beside Jake and lowered the window to get some air. Karly, who was already in the driver’s seat, started the car.

  ‘Know any? Give me some useful information that might assist us and I’ll see what I can do to help you with the mess you’re in.’

  ‘You want information?’ Jake said, thinking for a moment. ‘Go and see Shadow at Club on Elm in town. He deals in everything. People like him are who you should be locking up, not me.’

  Josh’s expression gave noth
ing away, although inside he felt a spark of excitement. This was totally unexpected. Karly, who was negotiating the gravel driveway, met his eyes in the rear-view mirror.

  ‘Does Shadow have a real name?’ Josh asked.

  Jake shrugged. ‘I only know him as Shadow.’ He glared at Josh. ‘Do I get off now for telling you this?’

  ‘It doesn’t work that way. But assisting us can help your cause. What else can you tell me about this Shadow?’

  Jake huffed, turned away and stared out the window.

  ‘I think we’re going to treat you to a shower when we get to the station. You can even keep the soap.’ Josh wouldn’t subject anyone to using it after this guy. He was seriously offensive.

  As they reached the end of the Blacks’ driveway, Josh noticed a well-dressed woman, probably in her mid-forties, standing on the other side of the road waving them down. Behind her was a nice-looking two-storey home. Josh patted Karly on the shoulder, asked her to pull over.

  ‘Is everything all right, ma’am?’ Josh asked through the lowered window.

  ‘You’re the police, right?’

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘I saw the police helicopter and the four-wheel drives here yesterday. I figured you must have found some marijuana plants. Everyone knows you’re in town.’

  Josh was aware news travelled fast in country communities. It was obvious they weren’t tourists, so some locals regarded them with polite indifference. Others, who saw them as a threat to the town’s marijuana supply, treated them with quiet contempt.

  Showing his badge for verification, he asked, ‘How can I help you, Ms . . .?’

  ‘My name is Marilyn Jones.’ Her voice was strong, confident. ‘I’m aware of the issues we have with drugs in our beautiful little haven of Byron Bay. My friend runs a restaurant in town. She tells me she’s seen an increase in not just marijuana use, but also the party drugs. That young girl overdosing at the club in town is just terrible. My friend has heard there is a supplier in the area.’