Tall Dark Heart
Page 17
Once he’d positioned me, the retired pro golfer told me to lift my legs a foot from the bed and hold my breath for thirty seconds.
I did what he said, and a low, barely perceptible hum emanated from the white plastic surrounding me.
The golfer cracked a grin and said he’d do another pass. Then he told me it was over, and my doctor would call me with the results in a week.
It reminded me of an old joke: How do you keep an arsehole in suspense? Tell him tomorrow.
They shepherded me into a smaller room, where a doctor placed ultrasound sensors on my testicles. He casually said he saw lumps, but not cancer, because testicular cancer didn’t hurt, and we would wait for the results.
My phone buzzed, and when I looked, I’d received a text from an unknown number.
It read: Carpe Noctem.
I got into my car and made sure the windows were up. When I called the number, a woman answered.
‘‘Lo?’
‘Yeah, hi, this is Matt Kowalski. I got a text from this number.’
‘Oh, hi, Mr. Kowalski. This is Anastasia Morrison. I just wanted to say thank you.’
‘Oh, hey, Anastasia. Uh, it’s good to hear from you.’
‘Aunty Evelyn explained everything you did for me.’
‘I see.’
‘Did I do something wrong?’
‘Oh no, no, not at all. No. That’s fine. I’m glad your Aunty Evelyn was big enough to do that.’
‘I just wanted you to know that Heather and I appreciate everything you’ve done for us.’
‘That’s fine, Anastasia. There’s no need to thank me. It was my pleasure. Would you like a copy of my notes from the case file? I don’t know who else to give them to.’
‘No, that’s fine. The sooner I put this behind me, the better.’
‘Sure, I get that. Just so you know, I’ll maintain your confidentiality. I’ll wipe my hard drive and burn anything I’ve printed.’
She laughed. ‘Wow! That’s... extreme, I guess? But okay, if that’s what you want to do. No worries. I appreciate that.’
There was a pause, until I said, ‘This is going to sound stupid....’
‘No, it’s fine. What?’
‘I don’t know if this means anything, probably nothing at all, given the circumstances and what I know, but I’m sorry about your father.’
She took in a long, deep breath. ‘It is the polite thing to say, isn’t it? Thank you. He was a very complex individual who I never really knew. My mother, on the other hand....’
I held back a laugh, and she picked up on it.
‘It’s fine,’ she said. ‘You can laugh. I know I have to, or I’ll lose it. But you know what? It’s okay. I’ve made peace with the bitch. How’s that for a cliché? ‘I’ve moved on’.’
‘Turned over a new leaf.’
She laughed, and it sounded so young.
I said, ‘Anastasia... did she know?’
She took in another long breath. ‘Um. Yes? I mean, she must have, right? I mean... let me put this way: there was something she always did that I didn’t understand at the time, but that I totally understand now. She’d get up every morning at six thirty, without fail, even on weekends, and make herself drinks. She called them ‘Mummy cocktails.’ Do you know what they are?’
‘No idea.’
‘Xanax and white wine.’
‘Jesus.’
‘Yeah, and it wasn’t just the one.’
‘I think I know the answer to my next question, but are you in any way interested in the money left to you?’
‘No.’
‘You don’t want anything to do with Lyons Media?’
‘No.’
‘What do you want?’
‘You know what I want? I want Tamsin Lyons to be declared legally dead.’
I laughed. ‘I hear you.’
‘Then and only then will I sleep more than five hours straight.’
‘That sounds unbelievably good.’
‘It does, doesn’t it? Listen, I’m really sorry, you’ve been really nice to talk to, but I have to get going.’
‘Sure, that’s fine. I appreciate the call, and wish you all the best with everything, okay?’
‘Thanks. Heather says hi, by the way.’
‘Say hi to her for me.’
‘I will. Bye. Thanks again.’
‘Take care, Anastasia.’
‘I will.’
‘Carpe Noctem.’
She laughed. ‘Carpe Noctem.’
—-THE END—-
But... don’t stop here. Please keep reading for more, including our Bonus Content—a Special Sneak Preview of 10-30 by Michael Golvach
About the Author
Website | Facebook | Twitter
I’m a freelance writer and filmmaker, born in 1975 in The Gong, who now lives in Bathurst, New South Wales, Australia with my wife and two sons.
I used to make my own mystery books in the fourth grade by typing them out on an old Olivetti, and I drew my first five-fingered human being when I was four years old.
In 2004, I pitched a comic series to Image Comics, and I contributed cartoons and designed a cover for the Litmus Journal of Melbourne in 2007.
I worked with the Victims of Crime department in Sydney, rubbing shoulders with ex-cons and stand over men, and sought restitution for their victims.
In 2014, I founded a production company, Glitchfilms, alongside my producing partner. In 2015, I wrote and directed an independent horror film, The Lights, which was released in selected cinemas. I self-published the tie-in, behind-the-scenes eBook, Dark Light: How to Get Your Horror Film into Cinemas.
I write every day and try to put some of myself into my writing. My passion is crime fiction, and my favourite authors include Karin Slaughter and Michael Robotham. I also love graphic novels by Neil Gaiman and Grant Morrison.
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What’s Next?
Chris Krupa is fast at work on the third book in this series, BRUTALISM. It’s sure to be another thrilling detective/crime fiction novel featuring Matt Kowalski, and is due to be released in 2020. Please stay tuned to developments and plans by subscribing to our newsletter at the link below.
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PI Kowalski peels back the layers of a sunny, idyllic Aussie town, and exposes the darkness underneath.
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INLET BOYS
PI Kowalski – Book 1
The first book in this series is now available. For more information on this book, and on the entire series, please visit our website here:
The “PI Kowalski” Series
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PI Matt Kowalski’s first case is personal. When his uncle coerces him to investigate the brutal murder of a cousin he barely knew, he can hardly refuse—besides, he needs the money. Still, he feels too old to be wearing all black in The Gong, a beach town in New South Wales.
Clues point him in many directions, including an ex-bikie ice trafficker, two masked figures in a warehouse, and even the victim’s fiancée, who may have wanted Matt’s cousin out of her way.
Now, Matt has unwittingly exposed those he loves to a ruthless black-racketeering syndicate, and he must track a killer before they take out his family.
On his own and up against heavy odds, he exposes a horrific crime with devastating consequences, which will affect the town forever.
~~~
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More from Evolved Publishing
We hope you loved TALL DARK HEART as much as we did, and that you’ll take a moment to post your heartfelt review at whatever retail site you purchased it. Your reviews are so important to what we do as a small independent press, and to our authors, of course.
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Crime Fiction from Evolved Publishing
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n every murder investigation, there are rules—how fast you learn them can mean the difference between life and death.
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“With some utterly believable characters, a unique storyline and a well-paced mystery, this is a heart-stopping tale that will enthrall any reader.” ~ Readers’ Favorite Book Reviews, Anne-Marie Reynolds (5 STARS)
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PROLOGUE
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My name is Payden Beck and I am not a good man.
I don’t know if my condition is hereditary or if I’m simply a product of my environment, upbringing or any number of variables. I only know I exist to serve myself. As we all do at the most base level.
I can’t honestly say I’ve ever been happy. But I think I might have been once.
That was quite a story. Stories always end.
And, while some people on this earth derive meaning—take away some good or some lesson—from events that occur to them or they make happen, for me every story’s end is a zero-sum game. Nothing is gained without something lost. Sometimes it works contrary to consensus. Sometimes what’s gained is the negative. The game is the same, nonetheless. The rules don’t change to suit any man.
I was raised by a father who was a good man. My mother never existed to me. She left my father long before I can recall and my father was always the loser, where the game was concerned. But he taught me, through his actions and words, how to be a good and decent human being. And he encouraged me when I mimicked his actions and regurgitated his philosophy. I never told him he didn’t make a difference. I never told him it wasn’t his fault.
If you can feel sympathy for me, and you don’t believe my initial statement to be true, you may be right. I lack the properly-functioning moral compass most people take for granted. And I do try to impersonate my father. To act like the good man he was. Perhaps, one day, the repetition will break me and turn me into the good and decent human being he wasn’t pretending to be. I only know what I feel and what my mind tells me is true.
My name is Payden Beck and I am not a good man.
One day, this world may prove me wrong. I doubt that will ever happen. I don’t feel good about it and I don’t feel bad about it. I simply accept it. It just is.
My name is Payden Beck and I’m still waiting.
I
~~~
Payden Beck sat in the passenger seat of the city police cruiser with his field training officer Richard LaMont. They’d barely spoken a word since they’d been slapped together, almost as an afterthought, during morning roll call at the beginning of the week. Payden had shown up on his first day where they’d told him to and when they’d told him to, feeling exactly how they’d told him to. Aside from meeting a few other rookies who shared his misery, nothing much had changed in his first five days on the force.
The salty bulldog Payden had been stuck with, Richard LaMont, didn’t like to talk. He just did. And he did with enthusiasm that crossed the border of disturbing. He didn’t have stories to tell about himself or the job. He didn’t have advice to give him except bone up on his typing skills and keep his eyes open, watch and learn. Though he was a homicide detective, Richard only talked about himself in the sense that he was a police officer, like everyone else on the force. Richard was older, in his mid-fifties, and close to the finish line but he wasn’t interested in grinding out his days and making it home to what the other, more experienced, officers at the station called his ‘little girl’. More like his ‘little woman’. A beautiful wife who was far too young for him, at twenty-three years, according to those definitely-interested officers. The running joke was if the job didn’t kill him, she would. He was in no shape to keep his young, energetic wife satisfied in bed. Why she married him, no one knew. No one, in fact, had any idea how they’d found each other.
Payden considered asking Richard about the pictures of himself and his wife he kept on his desk. About why she wore spot make-up in all of them. Always in different places. Especially the ones where it looked like she coated it on her arms and around her collarbones. But he didn’t want their relationship to start with mixed feelings, confusion or doubt and, according to the talk he heard around the station, Richard was a personal guy. Which meant he didn’t like to talk about his home life either.
Today, he would have asked one of the other officers at the station—probably his academy friend, Bryan Verrill, but certainly not Bryan’s FTO, Franklin Dodge, who treated him like garbage for no reason—about the beautiful young woman in the pictures, but Richard had arrived early. Right when Payden worked up the guts to open his mouth and pretend he belonged there.
At twelve thirty, they’d just finished eating a quiet meal together. Payden brought a sack lunch but threw it away when Richard advised him if he wanted to be a real cop he’d grab a dog or two with him around noon and quit eating the kind of food food ate. When noon rolled around that day, Payden wasn’t surprised Richard hadn’t been talking his way around suggesting he was going to buy him a ‘welcome to the precinct’ meal. If he hadn’t had money on him, it wouldn’t have been the worst thing that ever happened. Tossing the lunch he’d made from food that looked like it might not be going bad may have saved his life.
They cruised the streets with the radio on. Police radio only, though the car picked up all standard bands. Richard found the constant back-and-forth between dispatch and other cars on duty soothing. They’d yet to receive a call in their neighbourhood, though Richard guaranteed Payden they would before the day was out. He’d been right every day so far. In his words, the city they worked in was a sewer he wouldn’t wish on a rat.
“So what do we do when no calls come in?” Payden asked as he looked out the window. “I only ask because, no offence, I’m getting a little bored watching you do our job. Not that you don’t do it well.”
“We serve,” Richard replied, tapping the police radio to make sure it was working. “You know that. And how is watching me do my job boring? You want to be out there, fucking people up. I can see it.”
Payden turned to face Richard. “No, I mean what do we do when no calls come in? No disturbance, no cat stuck up in a tree. Nothing.”
“Does that happen?” Richard pulled the car to the side of the road. Right next to a house that looked abandoned, though six or seven teenage males wearing bandannas and over-sized plaid shirts were enjoying the comforts of the front porch. “I’ll tell you what, Beck. I’ve got a broom in the trunk. If you want, you can get out and sweep the fucking sidewalk. Serve this community like you’re so desperate to.” And, though Richard had finally said something that confirmed he had a limit, there was no anger in his voice. Nothing that indicated he was annoyed by the volume of stupid questions he’d been asked over his years as an FTO. “Or we could just walk up on these wannabe gangsters and take their money.”
Payden looked at the youths on the porch. “No, Richard—”
“My mother calls me Richard, kid. How many times do I have to tell you?”
“I’m sorry. All I’m saying, Dick—”
“What the fuck did you call me?” Richard’s eyes went dead and his shoulders tightened up.
Payden moved his head back an inch as he felt himself sweat. “I didn’t call you anything. That came out wrong. I just—”
Richard smirked. “Shut the fuck up, kid. I’m just busting your balls. How long before you stop pissing yourself?” Payden looked at him, nonplussed,
as Richard stared out the front windshield and chuckled. “Did the switched-up code seven fuck with your head that bad?”
“The code what?”
“Lunch,” Richard said, patting his stomach. “You get a bad dog in you?”
“No.” Payden’s eyes flitted around. Not sure where to look. “I was just making conversation. It’s getting lonely being here with you.”
Richard looked at him for a moment, trying to keep a stiff upper lip, and let out a genuine laugh. “I’m not much of a people person.”
The police radio squawked. “We have a two seventy-three D. Two seven three D. Four seventeen Westwood. Four one seven Westwood. Any available units.”
Richard pulled the portable radio from his belt and spoke. “Car four eighty—zero four eight zero—on it. We’re in the area.” The voice from dispatch double-confirmed and Richard muttered a ‘ten-four’ as he holstered his radio and pulled away from the kerb.
“Two seventy-three D,” Payden said, patting his gun. “That’s bad, right?”
“You tell me, kid. Didn’t they teach you that bullshit in the academy?”
“It’s domestic, right?”
Richard patted Payden on the top of his head. “Correct.” He chuckled. “Just say what it is. Only use codes when you’re fucked and got no time to talk. And for shit like ‘ten-four’ that never goes away. Thank truckers, country music and that one piece-of-shit movie.”
“So it’s—”
“Domestic abuse. Violence,” Richard said, throwing his cap in the back seat, motioning for Payden to do the same. “You want to see some action? Can’t wait until next week? Get rid of the cap, kid. Most it’ll ever do for you is make you chase it on windy days.”
Payden threw his cap in the back. Keeping his smile on the inside. Loving the actionable advice. “Thanks, Dick.”