‘Hello, wot?’
‘You sound out of puff, Detective? Been running after bad guys?’ The gruff voice was a bit slurry, but unmistakable. Carl Masiker.
‘Training hard in case I have to.’
‘Good to hear.’
‘Why are you ringing me at this time of night?’
A pause.
‘You there?’
‘Yeah, sorry. Look, I saw the story in the Times today. Got me thinking.’
‘You wanna cash in on the reward? Sorry, mate, but I’m afraid you’d be ineligible since you’ve already spoken to the police.’
Masiker muttered something incomprehensible.
‘Say again?’
‘I may’ve withheld some…information that…might help…yer ‘vestigation.’
‘What did you say?’ Please let this be the breakthrough.
‘I wanna help.’
‘What is it?’
‘Nah…not saying over the phone. I need to talk face to face with ya. An’ don’t bring that uptight sheila, she wasn’t very nice to me last time we met.’
‘Have you been drinking, Mr Masiker?’ In the background, Jack could hear a lively crowd, muffled piano music. Billy Joel covers. The gym owner was out on the town drowning his sorrows.
‘Yeah, ha ha. How can ya tell? No wonder you’re a fucken de…de…detective.’
‘It’s pretty obvious. Where are you?’
‘Pelican Bar, know where it is?’
It was Dave’s Bar in Jack’s mind. ‘Yes. I’m on my way.’
Race upstairs as fast as his tired legs could carry him. Showered. Dressed. Car. Esplanade.
Masiker looked a mess. Shirt untucked, he could barely sit straight on the barstool. Reminded Jack of himself not too long ago.
‘What is it you want to tell me?’
‘Not tell, show. Here, you might find this in’erstin’ viewing.’ Masiker slid a green and white USB drive across the bar. ‘Don’t tell no one I gave you this. I just wanted to…protect my family.’
‘You never struck me as the family type, Carl.’
‘Well, I am. I live for me wife and kids. I pretend I’m this big, confident bloke, it’s all a sham. I…’ Jack thought the man would burst into tears, but it became a hysterical laugh. ‘I couldn’t have even bought the gym if not for a lucky inheritance. Aunty Beryl died and left me a squillion. She thought I was a legend ‘cos I played a handful of games in the NRL. What a joke!’
‘I’d heard about your good fortune. But you’re wandering off track a bit there, Carl. Back to business.’ Jack tapped on the flash drive. ‘What’s on it?’
Masiker stumbled to his feet, went to put his wallet in his pocket and dropped it. Jack picked it up and handed it back, suddenly struck by the look of anxiety twisting Masiker’s features in shifting knots.
‘Is someone threatening you?’
‘Just leave me alone. I never asked for any of this. It’s all on…the video. You’re smart enough to figure it out.’
Masiker lurched across the foyer and stumbled out into the hot, balmy night.
Chapter 21
‘What the hell’s this? I saw Masiker download all the CCTV footage. I don’t get it.’ Taylor craned forward in her seat on the couch as Jack inserted the flash drive into a socket on the side of his smart TV; much easier to watch the show on the big screen than crowded around his undersized laptop which was barely bigger than an iPad. He’d called her on his way home from the Pelican Bar; it was late, nearly 11:00pm, but this was this worst violent crime to hit Yorkville in years. She complained about the hour, but he needn’t have worried; Taylor’s car was already in Jack’s driveway when he arrived.
Jack clicked on the remote and the MP4 video file opened. ‘He must have pinhole cameras set up all around the gym.’ Jack had a flash back to the Brisbane bank siege he’d foiled two years ago, remembered how these clandestine security devices had shown the police what was happening with the hostages trapped inside. ‘He might have others set up for voyeuristic purposes. I trust him as far as I can throw him. I’ll be recommending a sweep of the place. If Masiker’s spying on people in the change rooms, look out.’
‘You think that’s likely?’ Taylor helped herself to a handful of salted cashew nuts from a bowl on the coffee table.
Jack cracked a can of ice-cold beer, handed it to Taylor. He made do with a Diet Coke. ‘Could be.’ Jack told Taylor how he’d helped bust a ring of fitness centre operators in London who took clandestine videos of women showering and shared the images online. One prominent Member of Parliament had her career ruined when she was caught getting intimate in a shower with another female member. ‘Now do you understand why I don’t trust blokes in this business?’
She agreed it was indeed despicable. ‘But let’s concentrate on the murder and missing person cases first, OK?’
The video file opened and Jack clicked the big white PLAY arrow in the middle of the screen. ‘There’s our vic. Strange to see him alive and well.’ Jack pointed at the TV with the remote. The first scene showed Owen storming onto the gym floor. Sharpe and Bartlett were packing up training gear.
‘Hang on, there’s audio on this. Better than CCTV,’ said Taylor. ‘Can you turn it up?’
‘Sure.’
The video and sound quality were excellent. Masiker hadn’t spared money getting a top-of-the-range system to spy on his customers and staff. Time stamp: 21:47, Tuesday 27 October.
‘I thought the pair of them never trained on the same night?’ Taylor gestured at the TV with her beer can. ‘I’m sure Masiker said that.’
‘He did. Said they’d tear each other apart. But only Sharpe looks like he’s been training.’ Jack paused the video. ‘See, Kennedy’s in a pair of jeans and a t-shirt.’
‘You’re right. It’s like he’s popped in to stir up trouble. Hang on, I think there’s about to be a confrontation.’
The video resumed. On the screen, Owen Kennedy and Danny Sharpe stood toe to toe, nose to nose, snarling at each other like pro fighters hamming it up before a televised weigh-in. Only there was no acting involved. Terry Bartlett was squatting by a bench two metres away, stuffing towels into a sports bag and wearing an anxious expression.
Kennedy: Hey, I just heard the news. Sucked in for failing the drug test, dickhead. Looks like I’ll be fighting Jeremy Clifford for the title. He’s a more worthy opponent than you, you fucken weasel.
Sharpe: Piss off Kennedy. I was framed.
Kennedy: Bullshit. You’re a liar as well as a cheat.
The two men banged chests together like elephant seals. Bartlett leapt between them in a flash, straining to keep them apart.
Bartlett: Enough! Owen, go home. I don’t know what you think you’re playing at. If Vince knew you were stirring up shit…
Kennedy: Leave him out of it. The champ pulled back his fist, held it for a moment before dropping his arm to his side. Bartlett let out a sigh of relief.
Kennedy stormed off out of the camera range, his laughter echoing in the cavernous gymnasium.
Sharpe’s complexion was beetroot red. Bartlett placed a hand on his charge’s shoulder, looked upwards as if seeking divine help: That was our last training session, son. I can’t keep you on any longer.
– What the fuck!
– You know I’ve got no time for cheating fighters. My reputation is all I’ve got in this business.
– You can’t drop me. I’ll pay you double.
– Sorry, son. I don’t need your money. It’s a matter of principle. I won’t change my mind.
Sharpe buried his head in his hands before screaming at Bartlett.
– You fucking arsehole! My career’s ruined!
– No it isn’t. I made sure you only copped a small fine. If not for me, you’d have been rubbed out for a year, maybe more. I’ve taught you all the skills you need. Jeremy Clifford gets by without a trainer, and you’ve got years more experience than him.
– Don’t compare me to him. C’mon
, man. Please! I’m begging you. I need you if I’m gonna have any chance of winning the title.
– Sorry, son. I’ve made my decision.
– You’ll be sorry, Terry. I’ll make you pay for this.
Sharpe flexed his fingers like he wanted to hit something hard, strode out of camera-shot taking long, bouncy steps. Off camera he shouted indistinct obscenities that gradually faded.
The vision cut abruptly, shifting to another part of the gym. Time stamp showed 22:21, the same night. Andy Harlow and Terry stood among a forest of weight-lifting machines, engaged in a heated argument.
– I just had a word to Danny in the carpark. Why the fuck did you drop him, Terry? The lad’s just made a silly mistake.
– You know my feelings on drugs, mate. Zero tolerance.
– He only got a fine, for fuck’s sake! If it was serious, he woulda got banned. Musta been a tiny dose.
– Any amount is too much.
– Why are you even worried? The public will forgive him as time goes by.
– Listen, Andy. He got off because of ME, because of MY influence, you idiot. You’re the one I should sack for supplying him the growth hormone!
Harlow’s meaty right hand darted out, grabbed Bartlett by the collar of his shirt, wrapped his right leg around the front of Bartlett’s thighs and flipped him over.
‘Look at that, Claudia. A classic judo throw. Too quick for Bartlett even though Harlow’s a fat slob.’
‘Yeah. I wouldn’t have picked Harlow for that one.’
Harlow used his superior weight advantage to muscle Bartlett to the ground. Bartlett resisted, to no avail. He screamed out. Help! Harlow adjusted his position, sprawled his big body across Bartlett’s lighter frame, jammed his forearm into Bartlett’s windpipe; Bartlett’s eyes boggled and his face reddened, he wriggled underneath, looking for a way to get the heavier man off him. Harlow pushed off Bartlett, supported himself on the ground with one hand, wound up and slapped Bartlett viciously across the cheek. Harlow stood, barked at the vanquished opponent who cowered on the ground.
– You’re pathetic. I expected you to support Danny, not abandon him.
Harlow walked off to the left of camera, Bartlett struggled to his feet, wiping blood from a small cut on his lip. Other gym members arrived. Bartlett started swinging randomly at anyone who approached him.
Vision ends.
‘And then we have the official CCTV you got from Masiker the first time,’ said Jack, slugging on his soft drink. ‘An angry Bartlett being led out of the gym by two uniforms.’
‘Do you reckon there’s enough on there to bring in Andy and Danny?’
‘More than enough. Actual violence by Harlow, accusations of drug supply, and a direct threat from Sharpe. Let’s grab them first light tomorrow morning. Like the KGB used to do.’
‘Sorry?’
‘They always arrested people at 4:00am when the suspects were at their most vulnerable. Half asleep and unable to think properly.’
‘You must be crazy if you think I’m getting up at that time. I’ll be unable to think properly.’
‘OK. 6 o’clock?’
‘Still too early, but I grudgingly agree. Someone needs to keep an eye on you.’
‘I’ll pick you up at 5:30am.’
Taylor thanked Jack for the late-night entertainment, gathered her keys and was gone. Jack checked his watch. Just after midnight. He speed dialled a drowsy-voiced Batista with a request for boosted manpower for two early morning raids. Request granted.
Chapter 22
‘I thought you couldn’t handle service station sludge?’ Taylor smiled through tired eyes as she accepted the steaming brew from Jack.
‘I can’t. This comes courtesy of the Golden Arches 24-hour drive-thru.’
‘I beg your pardon? You’re dropping your low standards even further.’
‘Unbelievable as it sounds, their stuff isn’t revolting. Go on, try it…’
‘Hmm. I preferred the coffee we got at Harlow’s.’
‘Something tells me he ain’t gonna be offering us any this morning.’
Jack nudged the Kia against the curb in the relatively quiet post-dawn. Constables Wilson and Smith sat parked across the street from Danny Sharpe’s apartment complex, between two clumps of cane palms. A marked police car and the two of them in uniform. Jack assumed everyone would be in plain clothes and unmarked vehicles for the raids, but it didn’t matter. The police regalia added an element of drama to the operation. The warming sun had been up for half an hour but hadn’t had a chance to cook the town. Most people would still be asleep, delaying their appointment with harsh reality.
Jack spoke to Batista over the two-way radio. ‘We’ve arrived, sir. Please confirm officers are in place at Harlow’s residence.’
‘Confirmed. Constables Trevarthen and Semmens have been watching the mansion since before sunrise. All quiet.’
‘Roger that, sir. Have Wilson and Smith been here that long, too?’
‘Affirmative. I didn’t want the suspects sneaking off in the dark.’
‘Indeed.’ A thought occurred to Jack. Maybe they’d already flown the coop. Dammit, he should have hit the targets immediately after he’d seen the video. So what if it was late? The motives had been established and he ought to have acted.
Jack prayed he hadn’t fucked up. ‘OK, Claudia, let’s get a wriggle on.’
Taylor waved at the officers across the street, pulled hair through a red scrunchie. The uniforms alighted from the vehicle, joined the detectives at the glass entrance to the main set of stairs. A light blanket of humidity promised to grow heavier as the day progressed. The only sounds came from unseen insects and birds. Radios turned down, the officers entered as quietly as possible and walked up to Sharpe’s apartment. The time for stealth over, Jack banged hard on the door. Taylor stood close beside him, the other two a step below. The door swung open by itself. The lock had been busted, splinters of wood and plaster powder lay just beyond the threshold. All four cops entered, guns drawn and held at eye level.
‘Danny!’ Jack called. ‘Police. Are you here?’
Silence.
‘Stay where you are, sunshine. There are four armed officers here, it’s best for all concerned you co-operate.’
‘He’s not here, Jack,’ said Taylor.
‘I’m not taking any chances. He could be in his bedroom with a fucking machine gun for all we know.’
‘You two.’ Taylor turned to the constables, eager determination etched on their young faces. They’d probably never seen action like this since graduating from the academy. ‘Wait here and watch the front door while DS Lisbon and I check the bedrooms and bathroom. We’ll yell out if we need you.’
Inside, the lounge and kitchen had been ransacked even more thoroughly than Bartlett’s house had been. Two recliners and a sofa were upended, someone had attacked the furniture fabric with a knife and pulled the stuffing out. Looking for something, perhaps. Drugs or money. Smashed crockery and glasses littered the kitchen floor; it appeared someone had sunk a boot into the TV screen. Two dark green plants lay on the carpet surrounded by a couple of kilos of black potting mix.
A zig-zag crack ran from top to bottom of the bathroom mirror, the contents of drawers were tipped out. No Danny Sharpe.
In the bedroom, sheets were ripped off the bed and lay in a crumpled heap on the floor. Nothing was hanging in the wardrobe except a purple satin dressing gown. Jack edged closer to the wardrobe, pulled back a sliding door. Inside, a squashed down dark green garbage bag. ‘Here, what’s this?’
Taylor opened the yellow draw-tie and peered inside. ‘A pair of boots covered in dried mud. Wasn’t this place searched already?’
‘Yes. And these definitely weren’t here. Wilson!’ Jack called. He appeared at the doorway in a flash, Constable Smith on his shoulder, both of them breathless.
‘Yes?’
‘Get this to the lab. NOW!’
Jack turned off the siren three streets from
Inglis Avenue. The rest of the journey was made in silence, save for the purr of the car’s engine. Rev this baby and it roars, but Jack was able to coax the Stinger along at a decent clip without looking and sounding like a hooligan.
Trevarthen and Semmens were guarding the property exactly as programmed. Both of these men had grown up in North Queensland, beefy ex-footballers who weren’t afraid of a scrap. Perfect back-up in case Harlow got nasty. Jack remembered the video, how quickly Harlow had neutralised Terry Bartlett, himself a handy brawler.
Jack and Taylor stepped out of the car, the two uniforms followed to the gate as per previous radio communication. Jack pressed on the intercom button.
‘Yes?’ A timorous Louise Harlow answered within ten seconds, surprising Jack. He’d already been scanning the surrounds, looking for a way to breach Fortress Harlow and storm the joint.
‘It’s DS Jack Lisbon and DC Claudia Taylor again. We need to speak to your husband. Is he in there?’ In there…it sounded a lot more sinister than “is he at home.”
The gate swung open before she answered. ‘No. Come in…I…’ She burst into tears.
‘Quickly now everyone. She shouldn’t have answered so fast at this time of the morning. Something’s severely fucked up.’ Jack broke into a sprint, the others struggled to keep up. The glass-panelled double front door was wide open like a pair of welcoming arms.
Chapter 23
Kill Shot Page 15