Kill Shot

by Blair Denholm

  ‘Fascinating,’ said Taylor, shaking her head. ‘And she seemed so…proper.’

  Harlow’s expression reminded Jack of a smouldering volcano, lava bubbling away underneath waiting to erupt. ‘That’s a total exaggeration, Detective Lisbon. Times are tough for all businesses these days. Hers is no different.’

  ‘Maybe so. But it seems your wife’s troubles are more than economic. I found an intriguing story in the online foreign press. I’m surprised it hasn’t generated much interest here…yet.’

  ‘What’s any of this got to do with me?’

  ‘Bear with me, Mr Harlow, I’m getting to it. Anyway, turns out a vigilant NGO based in Hanoi caught wind that Louise’s company operates a number of sweatshops, the employees work in conditions not fit for animals. It’s slavery, if I may use a layperson’s language.’

  ‘Bullshit. My wife is a model employer; she offers those people – who own nothing in this world – a chance to escape poverty. That article is a lie. Louise absolutely respects human rights.’

  ‘Her own, maybe,’ Jack scoffed. ‘One of the so-called factories was forced to close down; your benevolent wife was ordered to pay a shitload of money in compensation. Probably some dirty bribes as well.’

  ‘I’ll ignore that last statement. It’s beneath you, Detective. Bottom line, Louise paid what the Vietnamese government asked her to.’ Harlow wriggled in his seat for a moment. ‘There was a misunderstanding when she applied for some permit or other. In business, you gotta delegate. Sometimes the people under you do the wrong thing, and that’s exactly what happened in this situation. She’s working hard to get everything back on track again, including her reputation. A bureaucrat over there lied to Louise about licensing requirements, she didn’t know about the abuses.’

  ‘Here, look at this, Claudia.’ Jack beckoned with a forefinger. ‘Does she look unaware in this picture?’ Jack dropped the image from the Internet in the middle of the table. In it, a smiling Louise Harlow in the company of half a dozen grey-suited functionaries inspected miserable-looking workers, some who appeared to be children, sitting behind sewing machines in a cramped space, just a few square metres.

  Taylor bent her head close to the picture, shook her head slowly. ‘I’d say she was aware of the conditions, all right. Not of the camera, though.’

  ‘Correct,’ said Jack. ‘The photo was taken covertly by a disgruntled worker. A brave woman who did the right thing.’

  ‘Listen, this is getting boring,’ said Harlow. ‘And it’s irrelevant.’

  ‘I find it extremely interesting. I’m curious as to how you’re able to maintain the luxury. A champagne lifestyle on a beer budget, I believe the Australian saying is.’

  ‘We’ve got savings,’ Harlow said in a quiet monotone.

  ‘Not enough for the recent purchase of a holiday home in Manly, where your sister-in-law now resides. To me, that’s fucking inexplicable.’

  ‘Louise’s financial affairs and investments are handled by an accounting firm down in Brisbane. I know nothing of those details.’

  ‘I reckon, and it’s only a hunch mind, that you, Mr Harlow, are contributing more than you’d have us believe. I reckon you’re selling drugs to keep your missus in the lifestyle she’s grown accustomed to.’

  ‘Ha! Don’t make me laugh. You’ve got a loose concept of reality, sunshine.’

  Jack remained silent, fixed Harlow with an unflinching gaze, daring him to speak next. It worked. ‘I’m done with you pricks.’ Harlow slapped an open palm on the table. ‘This is harassment. I’m not talking to you again without legal representation. I can’t believe I trusted you enough not to insist on it this time.’

  ‘We forgot to ask him the most important question, Jack.’ Taylor nodded at her partner apologetically like a goof who’d forgotten something totally obvious. ‘Just before you go, Mr Harlow. We’d like to clarify one more thing.’ She carefully placed three glossy colour photos of Evan Zane before Harlow. ‘Do you know this man?’

  Jack noticed a flicker of recognition in the corner of Harlow’s eye as he studied the photos. The trainer looked at the images of Zane intently for about 30 seconds before shaking his head. ‘Never seen him before in my life.’

  ‘You’re lying,’ said Jack. ‘Remember my offer: you tell us the truth or I pass your wife’s story over to the media. They’ll have a field day.’

  Flickering eyelids, clenching and unclenching fists told Jack the man was trying to make a difficult decision, was Jack bluffing or should he come clean.

  ‘Fuck you.’

  ‘OK, Mr Harlow,’ said Jack. ‘You’re free to go. We’ll be in touch.’

  Chapter 20

  ‘He’s been doing everything by the book,’ Jack spat.

  ‘What book’s that?’ asked Taylor, stirring a takeaway chai latte with a wooden stick.

  ‘The Book of Sneaky Lying Arseholes.’

  ‘Haven’t read that one,’ she laughed. ‘Is it any good?’

  ‘No. It’s terrible.’ Jack turned the key in the ignition and the Kia’s engine hummed to life. ‘Tailing this guy is a complete waste of bloody time.’

  ‘Shouldn’t we persist for a couple more hours at least? Batista said–’

  ‘Never mind what Batista said. Harlow’s been doing nothing out of the ordinary.’ Jack consulted his laptop and recited aloud the latest update. ‘Constables Ben Wilson and Kylie Smith watched the suspect from after he left the station Friday evening to Saturday lunchtime when another two undercover officers took over. Apart from an uneventful dinner date with his wife, they observed no strange behaviour by Harlow.’

  ‘How do they know what he got up to at the restaurant? Maybe he was meeting with drug dealers inside, buyers, who knows?’

  ‘Nope. Wilson and Smith had a word with the manager who squeezed them in. An extra table was brought in; the officers observed the Harlows from a far corner. Apparently, Andy didn’t talk to anyone except his wife and the restaurant staff and didn’t appear to touch his phone. He only went to the toilet once and Wilson followed him in. Stood next to him at the urinal while he relieved himself.’

  ‘Creepy.’

  ‘You gotta do what you gotta do.’

  Taylor took a slug of takeaway tea. ‘Yeah, but watching a suspect take a leak…geez.’

  ‘Those two constables enjoyed a slap-up three-course meal at the Queensland Police Service’s expense. I wouldn’t be complaining if I was them.’

  ‘I guess not.’

  Jack looked back to his laptop. ‘Another pair of officers staked out Harlow’s mansion on Sunday. He didn’t leave there until 8:30am this morning and no other persons entered or left the premises while it was under observation.’

  ‘It’s a sprawling property. Was someone watching the back?’

  Jack shrugged. ‘I don’t know. That’s dense rainforest, but I get what you’re saying. I guess it’s impossible to cover every base unless we deploy effing drones, and they aren’t exactly inconspicuous.’

  ‘So people could have come and gone unnoticed.’

  ‘Yes, but my gut tells me it’s unlikely.’ Jack flicked the indicator to turn left at the city hospital, its sandstone façade bleached almost white by the tropical sun. ‘The officers followed him here to the Iron Horse where we took over at 9:00am and have been sitting and twiddling our thumbs for…what time is it now?…one o’clock in the afternoon with only one short break … for you mind, not me… when you walked to that coffee van over there and got us a drink. So no, we won’t persist for another couple of hours. I’m pretty sure Harlow’s either clocked us tailing him or he’s simply being extra careful.’

  ‘What are we going to do?’ said Taylor as the car eased onto the main highway. ‘Go to the press with the story on Louise Harlow?’

  ‘No. I never planned to do that. That’d be plain vindictive on my part. It wouldn’t help us and would definitely fuck up the lives of their innocent offspring.’

  ‘You reckon any children of theirs would
be innocents?’

  ‘Until proven guilty, yes.’

  ‘You’re a softy when it comes to kids, aren’t you DS Lisbon?’

  Jack blushed and smiled, felt a warm glow in the pit of his stomach. He had no idea why, but he liked it when Taylor addressed him by his title. ‘Don’t be ridiculous. I just believe in avoiding collateral damage when it comes to justice.’

  Jack noted the fuel indicator was nudging empty, pulled into a service station. He filled the tank, paid and returned with two chocolate bars, a copy of the daily rag and a scowl. He tossed the paper onto Taylor’s lap. ‘Here, check this out.’

  ‘How did you get time to read it?’

  ‘I haven’t. Just saw the disgraceful headline.’ He pointed at it: YORKVILLE COPS CLUELESS. ‘Now, read me the story.’

  ‘It seems Yorkville Police are no closer to solving the murder of champion MMA fighter Owen Kennedy or the disappearance of respected trainer Terry Bartlett. With both cases now a week old, the police have been strangely quiet about developments. Our confidential sources tell us the CIB are making little progress with either matter. To move things along, local identity and car dealership owner Archie Thaiday has offered a reward of $100,000 for any information that helps to locate Mr Bartlett. ‘I’ve got little faith in the police,’ said Mr Thaiday. ‘Their enquiries seem to be at a standstill. All we’ve had is one train-wreck of a press conference at which the lead detective delighted in telling an off-colour crocodile joke, and then no updates for a week. Perhaps my offer of cash will spur the public to come forward with information. There’s genuine fear in the community. My customers tell me they don’t feel safe with a murderer on the loose in their town.’ Mr Thaiday credits Bartlett with curing his diabetes. There’s more, wanna hear it?

  ‘That’s enough for now. I’ll read the rest later. Who wrote that trash?’

  ‘Someone called Staff Reporter.’

  ‘Bastards. Hiding behind anonymity.’

  ‘It could be a good thing.’ Taylor opened the wrapper of her Mars Bar. ‘We might get a lead or two.’

  ‘No.’ Jack shook his head. ‘I doubt it. All it does is make us look incompetent.’

  Taylor tossed the chocolate bar and paper aside when her mobile bleeped. ‘It’s a text from Batista. Brisbane’s agreed to send up a team of senior officers to help with inquiries, so that’s something. Not for a couple of days, though.’

  ‘Better late than never.’

  ‘Is that professional jealousy, DS Lisbon? I thought you’d be glad. You yourself wanted them.’

  He gave her a side-eye. ‘I am glad. When this is all over maybe we’ll get a staffing boost.’

  Jack swung the car onto the highway.

  ‘While we’re obsessing with Harlow,’ said Taylor at set of lights. ‘Don’t forget there’s a couple of other likely suspects. We can’t be everywhere at once. Extra bodies on the ground means we can at least keep an eye on Masiker, Sharpe and Bartlett junior. Plus check out some of those potential jealous husbands we haven’t had time to chase up.’

  ‘True. I can’t argue with that. These two cases are a massive strain on resources. I heard Batista was all set on recruiting a couple of lollipop ladies to help out.’

  Taylor burst out laughing. ‘I can imagine.’

  ‘It’s great to have the help, but I’ve got another idea I reckon we can implement all on our own. This press coverage is a disaster, we need to get this solved, fast.’

  ‘What do you want to do?’ Taylor gripped the handle above the door as Jack took a corner a touch too quickly.

  ‘Set up a sting.’

  Taylor wisely chose to sit in the car with the engine and air-con running, where she could do more research into Lou-Har Pty Ltd. Jack got the fun job of rigging up Zane in the junkie’s house.

  ‘I ain’t doin’ it. It’s a suicide mission.’

  ‘Come on, Evan. Need I remind you of your obligation to look after that little girl of yours.’ Jack patted the tape holding the wire in place, securing it to Zane’s bony chest. A couple of lonely black hairs surrounded flat nipples. ‘I’ll be listening, mate. This is your chance to impress.’ Blue veins pulsated around the man’s neck, rivulets of sweat trickled down his armpits. Jack pulled his hand away as quickly as possible to avoid touching the toxic perspiration.

  ‘This is blackmail. Now I remember why I always hated the pigs.’

  ‘It’s not blackmail. It’s called a trade-off. Look at it another way: you’re helping us figure out whether Andy Harlow is a nice guy we’re harassing for no good reason, or a bastard who needs locking up. In return for your co-operation, I don’t punch your fucking lights out.’

  ‘I already told you I sold gear to him, so he ain’t no nice guy. Arrest Harlow for possession and distribution of drugs. Why waste time with this cloak and dagger shit?

  ‘Two reasons. One, he’d end up fingering you as his supplier, which means I have to arrest you and then it’s bye-bye kid, and two, to do that we’d need to find gear at his place which requires a search warrant, and I’ve been given the hint that an application for one would likely be rejected.’

  ‘Don’t you need a listening device warrant to secretly–’

  Jack thrust a piece of paper in Zane’s face. ‘My, aren’t you well schooled in procedure? You could be a lawyer if you weren’t such a loser. As it happens, the same magistrate who has a reputation for being tough on search warrant requests saw fit to approve this one. So, it’s fucking legit.’

  Appropriately contrite, Zane dropped his head.

  ‘You’ll be fine, sunshine. Just do as I told you and everything will be all right.’

  ‘Can I take a little something to calm my nerves? I’m shitting myself.’

  Jack went to rest a hand on Zane’s shoulder, remembered the man’s abysmal hygiene and jerked it back. Instead, Jack flicked him under the chin. Zane looked up, more zombie than human, eyes dilated to their maximum extent. ‘I can tell you’re already coked up or on speed. I need you functional for this to work. More stimulation would be a dumb idea.’

  ‘Please, just a line.’

  ‘No, mate. But you can when the job’s done. Plus a promise from me not to charge you for anything for the next year.’

  ‘I appreciate that.’

  Jack declined to tell Zane that, according to one of his favourite maxims, lying to crims wasn’t really lying.

  ‘Now, repeat it for me one more time. What’s the plan?’

  ‘In one hour I meet Harlow at the park two blocks from the Iron Horse. I tell him I can get him cheaper HGH on a regular basis if he agrees to buy bigger amounts. But if he wants a piece of the action he has to decide tonight. To show my good faith, I offer him a batch for a third of the price he’s been paying.’

  ‘Excellent, Evan. He can’t say no to that.’

  ‘What if does, or smells a rat?’

  Jack sniffed twice. ‘The only thing he’ll smell is your effing body odour. Man, you stink to high heaven. On second thoughts, it’s probably for the best you’re a soap dodger. He’ll be less inclined to want to feel you up.’

  ‘Is he gay? If he is, there’s no way I’m–’

  ‘To see if you’ve got a wire on, you idiot.’

  Jack put his hands to his head. Zane spearheading the sting operation was enough to give anyone ulcers, but the risk had to be taken. The press weren’t lying, the cops were getting nowhere. The one thing that gave Jack hope was the fact Louise Harlow’s business was in trouble. There was something in the tender way Andy looked at his wife, held her hand, that gave life to that hope. He loved her; to see Louise lose what she’s built up on the sweat of Vietnamese slaves would devastate him. And for that reason, he’d buy the gear from Zane.

  Jack attacked the stubborn roll of Scotch tape with his teeth, attached the offending newspaper article to the heavy bag. At 8:20pm, he had the cupboard-sized gym in the apartment complex all to himself. It was too wet outside for a run after a voluminous rainstorm, the roads w
ere slippery and the cane toads abundant, and he couldn’t be arsed driving to his favourite McGrath’s gym. This would have to do.

  On with the strapping, the cracked black gloves. Then the stretching routine to protect his middle-aged body from strains and sprains. It was easy to confuse enthusiasm with ability; warm-ups were more important than ever. A disruption to routine caused by careless injury would piss him off, might make him abandon his training altogether. How easy it would be to take the lazy way, to slip back into the persona of the cynical, heavy drinking, chain smoking, fat cop who cared only about himself.

  That must never happen, he’d come too far to revert to that pitiful caricature again.

  And so stretching took on special importance. Each movement required full concentration and effort. Glutes, hamstrings, shoulders, ankles and wrists. No punching until the fifteen minute routine was complete and a fine layer of sweat coated his body. A full-length mirror by the door proved Jack’s new way of life was paying off. Muscle definition like when he was a twenty year old, broad in the shoulders, biceps hard, slim in the waist.

  Now, it was time.

  He lined up the newspaper article and laid the first jab and cross combos, hammering into the bag, determined to smash the stuffing out of it. Worse than the newspaper article was Evan fucking Zane. The spineless junkie pulled the pin – and the wire from his chest – and failed to show at the meeting. The detectives had sat in a stifling unmarked van for an hour after the agreed rendezvous between Harlow and Zane. They even called in the techies to check the connection when no sound was coming through, gave their undercover man the benefit of the doubt. The equipment was working fine, Zane was the problem.

  Jack punched on like a locomotive. He revelled in the fibres twitching in his arms and legs, stomach and chest. A series of thunderous body rips, left and right combinations high and low, got his heart pumping. Sharp, loud exhalations, screaming obscenities at those conspiring against him, accompanied every punch. Twenty minutes in, the hits began to slow and the impact soften, it was harder to hold his hands without shaking. Four more minutes, summoning every ounce of energy, and he could go no more. Exhausted, he bent to pick up the shredded remains of the newspaper article. Some slow warm-down stretches before he collapsed on the floor with his back to the wall, rehydrated with an electrolyte drink, rested for a few minutes. As he gathered his sports bag, his favourite punk band launched into their signature tune. Jack snatched at his mobile. Number withheld. If it was Zane calling to apologise, he’d drive over to his house right now and rip him a new one.