Fatal Mistake

by Karen M. Davis

  The voice faded to a buzz like bad mobile reception. Berni was guided to the lounge and instructed to sit. One of the men took up post next to the front door, a deterrent in case she was thinking of attempting a getaway.

  ‘These items were found in your flat.’

  Berni stared at the bag of white powder, the stolen police portable radio, a wad of money from the reporter she tipped off.

  ‘I’ve never seen any of this before.’ Berni repeated what she’d heard so many times in her short police career. ‘That stuff is not mine.’

  The Professional Standards men exchanged a look. Predictable, she could imagine they were thinking. Not that she cared what they thought. Her mind was already ticking over, calculating ways to get out of this mess.

  ‘Bernadette Kirk, you are under arrest for possession of narcotics, consorting with known criminals, stealing from the police department . . .’

  She wished for the buzzing to return, for her brain to switch off, but her head was clear as the officer cautioned her.

  ‘You are not obliged to say or do anything, but whatever you do or say may be used in evidence. Do you understand that?’

  Berni nodded dutifully. Her father would be furious. He would not get her out of this one. It was up to her. She had to give it a go.

  ‘I do, I understand. But you’ve got it all wrong. This stuff belongs to my boyfriend, TJ. He must have set me up. I have seriously never seen any of this before in my life. What do I have to do to make this go away?’

  Self-preservation won over loyalty every time.

  CHAPTER 57

  The sun was shining in a clear blue sky by the time Lexie pulled into the garage of her undercover home. She let her head drop back against the headrest and tried to summon the strength required to drag herself up the three flights of stairs to the flat she would soon vacate. It was over. She could go home, return to her life and normality . . . whatever that was.

  They had brought down a drug syndicate. Many arrests had been made. Some unexpected, as most of Rocco’s guests were found to be carrying drugs on their person. Not really such a surprise. However, Lexie could not muster even the slightest sense of relief or enthusiasm. She should now be basking in the warm glow of resolution and success but that was impossible, because things had not gone according to plan.

  Batman had been shot and was fighting for his life in hospital. She had been forced to shoot and kill Tiffany. Rocco was dead. None of that was supposed to have happened.

  Lexie had changed out of her bloodstained cocktail dress into a spare set of jeans, T-shirt and sneakers that she kept in her locker. The dress was now evidence, as was her firearm, which would be tested for gunshot residue and subject to ballistic examination. It was standard procedure, but she felt almost naked without her weapon’s weighty security.

  Lexie felt a shadow of despair loom over her. What was the point of doing the right thing when the universe was an authority unto itself? One minute you were here, could be gone the next. She thought of Rex and Batman. Being ethical and decent hadn’t benefited them, had it? Everything in life appeared transitory. She felt insignificant and fragile. The events of last night were still fresh in her mind, an unreal and terrifying nightmare she would never forget, yet was still trying to comprehend.

  She didn’t even have the energy required to cry.

  You need sleep. There is still possibly another hitman out there looking for you.

  With extreme effort, Lexie climbed the stairs. She tried to push her worries away. How she hated feeling vulnerable. Though she had to keep things in perspective. No one knew where she was.

  The moment she pushed open the front door, she knew instinctively someone was inside the flat. Instantly Lexie was on full alert. Her exhaustion evaporated as the fight or flight response kicked in. Her eyes scanned every corner of the living space, taking in the creamy lounges, the blue cushions arranged the way she had left them. The way the sheer white curtains floated in the gentle breeze; the breeze wafting in through the windows – the open windows . . .

  Edging backwards into the hall, Lexie leapt out of the doorway, using the wall for protection. She strained to hear any noise. A baby cried upstairs. A television muttered next door, and a car alarm sounded in the street outside.

  Were her frazzled nerves sending her crazy? The logical voice of reason had been her undoing in the past, before she had learnt to trust, to listen to her instincts. She had not left those windows open. Lexie never left anything open. She was a certified security freak.

  Then – the slightest rustle in one of the bedrooms. The blast of adrenaline was like a blood transfusion and Lexie caught her breath. The urge to flee from whatever evil lurked inside was overwhelming. But the force to stay and fight was stronger. She had been through enough. Infused with indignation, she prepared to go in.

  Although she was not stupid about it. Tentatively she again peered through the doorway, into the living room. A figure stood in the hallway. Lexie feared her heart might stop. Was the figure real? She narrowed her eyes, but her vision blurred with tiredness.

  No, it wasn’t Lincoln, Lexie swiftly realised. This figure was much bigger . . . huge – a monster. The figure moved towards her. It was a solid form; certainly not a ghost.

  ‘Oh my god!’ she cried, remaining frozen to the spot, hardly daring to breathe.

  ‘I didn’t mean to give you a fright.’ The voice was raspy, croaky from sleep. ‘I just thought you were taking so long I’d have a kip while I waited for you to get home.’

  ‘How – how . . . oh my god,’ Lexie gasped, unable to get her words out. ‘I thought, I thought – oh my god . . .’

  ‘No, not God, I’m afraid. Just little old me.’

  Rex. Lexie could hardly believe she was looking at Rex Donaldson. Her chest constricted. ‘I thought you were—’

  ‘Dead?’ Rex smiled, rubbed a hand over his bald head. ‘Well, that is exactly what I wanted everyone to think, though thankfully I’m not.’ He waved a hand in the air dismissively. ‘I’ll explain later.’

  Lexie blinked rapidly to make sure she wasn’t seeing things. That her mind was not tripping.

  ‘Come inside.’ Rex gently guided her into the flat. ‘Sit down; I’ll get you a scotch. I’m sure you need a stiff drink after the night you’ve had.’

  Lexie collapsed onto the lounge gratefully. She stared at him. He looked different. ‘Hang on, I don’t have any scotch. And what do you mean, after the night I’ve had?’

  ‘It’s been all over the news.’

  As though in a trance, Lexie watched Rex walk to the hall cupboard and pull out a bottle of something. He disappeared into the kitchen, then came back a moment later with two glasses filled with ice. He sloshed scotch into the glasses.

  ‘I always have a bottle stashed here in case of emergencies,’ Rex explained.

  Lexie took the glass he handed her and swirled it around, listening to the ice clink and crackle. When she took a tentative sip, the liquor burnt the back of her throat and made her eyes sting. She coughed and wrinkled her nose in disgust.

  ‘This stuff is horrible.’ She shook her head and took another sip. It didn’t get any better.

  Rex drained his glass in one long gulp. Poured himself a refill.

  ‘You did an incredible job – all of you, the other agencies included.’

  Lexie’s stomach clenched. ‘It didn’t go as planned. Batman could die.’

  Rex nodded. ‘I know. And that’s terrible. But whatever happens, you have to remember, it’s not your fault.’

  Nodding mutely, Lexie sipped her scotch. The taste was horrific but it was having a nice, anaesthetising effect. Unable to wait any longer, she asked the inevitable question.

  ‘What happened to you?’

  • • •

  ‘Don’t move or you’re dead.’ Rex’s threat sounded menacing, even to his own ears.

  The killer froze. Rex dug the cold barrel of the gun into his temple and the man let out a shock
ed gasp that turned into a choked gurgle.

  In the dim glow cast by the nightlight, Rex could see they stood level, were almost the same body shape. In a physical fight, they would be evenly matched, though the element of surprise provided Rex with the upper hand. Having witnessed the killer empty every bullet from his magazine into what he thought was Rex’s sleeping body, there was no going easy on this prick.

  Rex pistol-whipped his assailant across the back of his head. There was a dull thud and an anguished cry. With a bit of luck, there would be a permanent dent in his skull. Collapsing onto the bed, face first, the killer moaned in pain. Rex backed up a bit and stood in the doorway, creating as much distance as the small confines would allow. With his gun fixed intently on his target, Rex flicked the bedroom light on.

  He caught his breath. ‘You . . .’ It came out like a growl.

  ‘Thought I was dead?’ the killer moaned, struggling to sit up while rubbing the back of his head. ‘Not quite. I’ve gone into remission. Surprised everyone, especially myself.’ Max Croft volunteered this news with nonchalance. Rolling onto his side, he pushed the pillows he’d shot up aside and wriggled across the mattress, making himself comfortable against the bedhead. ‘What gave me away, Donaldson? How did you know I was after you?’

  ‘I have more brains in my little toe than you have in your head, that’s how. What do you want with me?’ Rex watched Croft closely. His once ruggedly handsome looks had faded with ill health, he was satisfied to see.

  ‘The world is not big enough for the two of us, Donaldson.’

  ‘Seriously?’ There had to be more to it than that. Bells of concern were clanging like tambourines in the back of Rex’s mind. He had Croft at gunpoint. Why did he appear unconcerned? ‘You get a second chance at life and the first thing you think to do is kill me?’ Rex felt sweat trickle down his back between his shoulder blades. ‘What the hell have I ever done to you, anyway? The way I see it, you’re the one who ran off with my wife and my child.’ Seething, he swallowed his fury. ‘Your hatred is illogical.’

  Croft’s face screwed up. ‘I had to live with the ghost of your marriage haunting our every moment.’

  He’s trying to bluff you. Max Croft is full of shit . . .

  ‘Debbie’s guilt about leaving you, taking your fucking brat away, gnawed at her insides, ripped her apart until she hated herself . . . and me. You ruined our lives. You never deserved her and you ended up destroying her. That was why she killed herself, you know. That is on you.’ Croft shot Rex a twisted smile.

  Resentment vibrated so deeply within Rex he felt his skin was the only thing restraining his temper. There had to be something seriously wrong with this man, a chromosome missing, or some wiring loose, to distort his culpability in such a way that he envisaged himself as the victim in the situation.

  ‘You really are a narcissistic bastard.’ Rex saw Croft shift ever so slightly. ‘Don’t fucking move!’ he yelled. ‘And keep your hands on your lap where I can see them. You don’t want to give me any more reason to shoot you than I already have.’

  Rex noted Croft’s eyes darting around like a trapped animal in search of an escape route. Perhaps he was not as smug as he would like Rex to believe. There was a good chance Croft had a knife, another weapon, secreted on his body somewhere. However, Rex couldn’t risk getting close enough to search him. He had to keep a distance, remain in control. Every nerve ending was prickling, on total alert. If Croft made a move, he would be forced to shoot the bastard.

  Croft sighed and his smile vanished. ‘You know if you kill me, you will never be safe. One of my boys will find you.’ He hissed the threat with narrowed eyes. ‘I may not be the president of the Assassins any more, but they are still loyal to me.’ He clenched his jaw and the veins on his neck stood out like cords. ‘My satisfaction of being the one to kill you is just the icing on the cake. This is not all personal. I have orders. You are a dead man no matter what you do.’

  Gripping his gun even more tightly, Rex waited for Croft to elaborate. What he had that Croft didn’t was years of experience extracting information from people. Rex could tell Croft was dying to talk – wanting to brag. He played the game and drew out the silence.

  ‘My mate, Amitt Vincent. That’s what you want to know, isn’t it?’

  The Revolutionary bikie; the arsehole who stabbed Lexie.

  ‘I don’t believe you.’ But Rex did. He had a bad feeling he knew where this was going. ‘I’ve never had anything to do with him. Why would he want me dead?’

  ‘Lexie Rogers.’

  Rex felt a stabbing in his gut. He had no idea what Croft knew about his relationship with Lexie, so he would tread carefully.

  Rex threw out a tester. ‘I know Rogers, but like you, I don’t mix with cops.’ It was imperative he find out all he could before Croft got lawyered up and refused to speak. He also needed assurance his cover was not blown.

  Croft sniffed and then snorted. ‘I hate cops as much as you do but I’d make an exception for her.’

  ‘Get your mind off your dick and tell me what the hell a cop has to do with Vincent wanting me dead. How the fuck does that work?’

  A family of frogs began a croaky sing-a-long somewhere outside.

  ‘Detective Rogers claims Vincent stabbed her, tried to kill her.’ Croft’s tone was condescending. ‘It’s her word against his – she’s lying, of course. She shot him in cold blood.’

  ‘Oh and she slit her own throat too, I suppose,’ Rex shot back.

  Croft pulled a face, raised his eyebrows. ‘I’m just following orders.’ There was a forced cheerfulness to his voice. ‘I’m actually getting one hundred thousand dollars for killing you when, ironically, I’d do it for free.’ He began to laugh; a wicked, frenzied cackle. Rex thought he must be mad.

  ‘I still don’t see what this has to do with me.’

  ‘In short, Amitt picked the wrong guy to take care of his business.’ Croft lifted one shoulder, rolled his eyes around in his head. ‘He fucked up and now I’m cleanin’ up the mess. Rogers has disappeared, vanished into thin air. She may be in hiding, in witness protection, fuck knows, but she has to be drawn out and knowing you two are . . . close . . . I’m guessing she would not miss your funeral.’

  ‘Wow, you really are going to a lot of trouble. Vincent must be desperate.’

  ‘When you’re facing life in gaol and you have money to change the outcome, nothing is too much trouble.’

  It was time to call in Rex’s colleagues. There was no need to drag this out longer than necessary. With his left hand, he plucked his mobile phone from his jeans pocket. Mudgee Police Station’s number was on speed dial. Patrol cars would be here in minutes when he claimed a bikie was trying to kill him. He would keep Croft at gunpoint until they arrived.

  But he had to ask: ‘How? How were you going to get away with my death?’

  ‘House fire,’ Croft said simply. ‘The pigs might think it was a planned hit but, hey, that’s what happens in the bikie world.’

  ‘But I’d like to know how you plan to do all this when I have the gun pointed at you?’

  ‘You’re not going to shoot me.’ Suddenly Croft looked agitated. His cocky words didn’t match his body language.

  ‘You’re right,’ Rex conceded. ‘I’m going to call the police and you are going to go to gaol; perhaps the same one as your mate.’

  That was when Croft made his move.

  His hand reached into his sock and pulled out a knife, which he threw at Rex. The blade struck Rex’s chest, slicing a hole in his T-shirt before bouncing off and thumping onto the floor. Thankfully, the bulletproof vest shielded his flesh from contact.

  But that was just a distraction. Croft sprang to his knees and reached his arm around behind him. He was going for a weapon. Rex really didn’t want to shoot, but this was it.

  ‘Don’t move! Don’t fucking move.’

  Rex saw the gun Croft pulled from the back of his jeans, watched his arm sweep out to the side to aim the we
apon at him. Rex’s finger curled around the trigger of his own gun and squeezed. The sound of the blast was deafening. There was an orange flash and then the pungent scent of gunpowder filled the air. Jumping back, out of the doorway, he took cover behind the hallway wall just as Croft let off a shot. The bullet lodged into the wall beside him.

  ‘You fucking shot me,’ Croft cried out from the bedroom. ‘You shot me!’

  Carefully poking his head around the bedroom door, Rex saw Croft was hit in the thigh. He was on his knees, next to the bed, staring down at his wound, blood seeping through the denim of his jeans. He tried to stand but fell sideways, hit the wall and slid down to the floor.

  ‘I’m going to kill you,’ Croft snarled, raising the gun once again at Rex.

  Rex knew it was kill or be killed. Instinct kicked in and he fired one shot straight into Croft’s chest. His face registered surprise, or perhaps disbelief, before his body fell forward and hit the floor. While Rex stood there for a long time processing what had just happened, he decided Max Croft’s soul had vacated his body long before his death.

  • • •

  ‘I never intended to kill him.’ Rex opened his eyes, feeling like he had just relived a horrible nightmare. ‘I’d intended to find out all I could, who was after me and why, before I handed him over to our friends in blue. The bastard ruined a perfectly good mattress and three innocent cushions.’

  ‘Ironic, isn’t it,’ Lexie offered, arching an eyebrow. ‘Croft survived cancer only to be killed while trying to kill. How did he find you?’ She sipped the scotch and pulled a face. ‘What did you do with his . . . his . . . Was that the body they found in the farmhouse?’

  Rex nodded slowly. ‘I hoped the intensity of the fire would make identification difficult. And I figured even if DNA was detected or dental records revealed the victim to be Croft, those findings take time and I’d be long gone by then.’

  Rex explained how he’d shaved his hair and beard off to make himself less identifiable. How’d he cut himself, smeared blood inside his car and left his wallet and some belongings near the house. In the farm shed, he found petrol and poured it everywhere. He threw a match on it and walked away.