But on the flip side of his physical coin, Macillicuddy was sharp and incisive, and perfectly fit the role of an investigative journalist, which was all that mattered in the end. Cait needed his reach to get the story out there that she wanted him to run with and publish, and so as far as she was concerned, he could have had two heads and been naked. What mattered was the story. Nothing more.
“Sure do. But first I need your assurance that there’ll be no names printed as to the source of what I’m about to tell you.”
“Goes with the territory, Cait. I think that you know by now you can trust me.”
“Okay, so we’ve traced Rishi’s murder and my subsequent kidnapping to an outlaw motorcycle gang called the Warlocks. Really nasty bunch of reprobates,” said Cait, moving forward to the edge of her chair and leaning on the table between them, glancing around cautiously as if she was concerned about being overheard.
“Yes, I’m certainly aware of the Warlocks. But they’re only small fish in a much larger pond. Bloodsuckers who’re part of the problem. They’re certainly not major players; they only operate around the edges,” replied Macillicuddy knowingly.
He paused momentarily, feeling a tad let down if this was all she had to tell him, then continued, “Cait, you just mentioned ‘we.’ Can you tell me who you’re referring to? I’ll protect their names of course, but I need to know who I’m dealing with here as the source.”
“Ah—my father of course, and my godfather Steve.” Cait was reluctant to give any more details than just their first names. “But also a family friend, Kylie—she’s a big-time barrister in town—and her private investigator. An ex-cop named Irish, who’s tough as nails but seems to know all the bad guys. Well, certainly enough of them to be able to find out what we couldn’t.”
“Okay, understood. That’ll do for now. So go on,” said Macillicuddy.
“Robert, I can assure you that these bastards might not have the physical numbers or the name of the Rebels, the Comancheros, or the Bandidos, but they’re bad, really bad, and we’ve found out they have a major meth manufacturing and distribution operation. Looks like they even supply the other rival gangs from time to time.”
Macillicuddy’s antennae for a story suddenly shot up. He leaned forward toward Cait and said in a serious but slightly questioning tone, “That’s heavy-duty information, but still, it wouldn’t surprise me what these outlaw bikie gangs are up to. How’d you find that out?”
“Sorry, no names, remember? But we’ve got positive IDs and photos that link much of this together. I’ll give you the information and the photos, then it’s up to you to string it all together.”
“Okay, fair deal. But I may need some help pulling it into a story, and I’ll no doubt have some questions. But first I need to know more.” Macillicuddy was warming to Cait’s offer, but he wasn’t totally on board yet. Not until he had something more concrete to go on.
On that note, Cait proceeded to fill Macillicuddy in on what Kylie, Steve, Irish, and her father had found about the Warlocks—the tattoo parlor, the drug ring, the extortion tactics, Boss-man being the sergeant at arms, and the fact that the bikies had gone to ground.
“What about the police? What’re they doing about all of this?”
“Well, that’s the issue,” replied Cait. “Basically they’ve just shelved everything we’ve given them—the photos, the connections, the motive for my kidnapping, the money laundering through the tattoo parlor, the crystal meth operation. It’s like they don’t want to know about it.”
“That wouldn’t surprise me either. Serious Crime and the Drug Squad have got so much on their plates at the moment, especially with the new laws attempting to prevent association between known offenders in the outlaw gangs, that they’re up to their ears in doo-doo.”
“Yeah, that’s what Kylie told us,” said Cait.
“Look, getting back to the Warlocks, you can speak to me about them at any time.” Cait could see this drifting off at a time when she needed to finish her discourse. She sensed—intuitively felt—that she almost had Macillicuddy convinced.
Just a bit more charm and logic and he’s mine.
“And if you play your cards right, I should be able to get Kylie to talk to you. But Irish is definitely out. You won’t get near him. And I don’t want Steve or my dad involved. That’s the deal. Right?”
At that moment Cait knew that Macillicuddy was onside—she picked it in one when he looked up at her after she’d finished filling him in on the Warlocks—so now she was simply laying the ground rules, because the deal was done, even if Macillicuddy wasn’t aware of it yet.
Picking up his half-finished cappuccino, Macillicuddy took a sip, even though by this stage it was cold, and processed what he had just heard.
“Okay Cait, you’re on. When do we start?”
Cait was pleased with herself. Without a great deal of effort, she’d managed to maneuver Macillicuddy to exactly where she wanted him. Now it was just a matter of getting the ball rolling.
“What I suggest is that you go over what I’m about to give you, read my notes, check out the photos, and I’ll contact Kylie tomorrow and see if she’ll speak to you. It may be on the record or off the record. That’s up to her.”
“Sure. Sounds fair. I’ll also chase up a few of my own leads and see what I can find out, now that I’ve got a direction.”
“With luck I’ll get back to you tomorrow with a heads-up. You around in the afternoon?” said Cait.
“Yep. Plan to be in at the Tribune all day.” Macillicuddy was impressed. Extremely impressed, to say the least. Chatting to the person in front of him was like talking to two completely different people compared to the Cait he first interviewed. A few months ago, Cait was a fractured, hurt, emotionally fragile young girl who was obviously suffering from PTSD and unsure of the way forward. Now the woman—not the girl—was oozing with confidence, highly organized, frighteningly convincing, and had a purpose about her, one with the power of a magnet that drew you in and almost forcefully held you there.
Macillicuddy sensed that Cait was about to say her goodbyes and leave, but he was fascinated as to how she had made this unbelievable transformation. He had to know more.
“Cait, just before you go, can I ask a couple of questions about you, the woman who’s just amazed me with her new persona?”
“Sorry?” Macillicuddy’s question caught Cait off guard. “Ah yeah, I suppose so. Shoot.”
My God she’s direct. Straight to the point.
“Well, for starters, you’ve wowed me. How did you end up like this? You’re nothing like the person I first met.”
As Cait gave him a carefully worded overview of her “recovery” in Asia, being mindful of leaving out all reference to her newly developing powers and connections with the Otherworld, Macillicuddy’s reporter brain saw yet another story emerging: victim’s recovery post major trauma. But not wanting to detract from the story at hand about the Warlocks, he left it at that and didn’t push the PTSD side any further.
“As a final comment, would it be all right if I spoke to your brother, Dec?” asked Macillicuddy, almost obsequiously.
“I think it’d be great to get some background information from someone who knows what’s going on but isn’t intimately tied up with the case.” Macillicuddy actually had an ulterior motive here, because he could see that Dec would lead him into the PTSD story down the track, as he was with Cait when she’d had her epiphany in Asia.
“Hey Dad, check out page ten of the Australian Tribune. Macillicuddy’s feature article on the Warlocks has been published.” Cait was expecting the article to appear any day now. As soon as she woke each morning, out came the iPad to check the online edition of the paper. Macillicuddy had told her to expect to see his piece, so it had just been a matter of wait and see.
G was propped at his kitchen bench with a bowl of fruit, homemade muesli, and yogurt in front of him, coffee in hand, when Cait excitedly pushed aside his half-finished bowl as if
he really didn’t need to eat anymore, and made a space for her tablet.
Macillicuddy’s article was prominently displayed on the screen in front of him. As if he could miss it.
“And good morning to you too.” G glanced at the iPad with mock disinterest, trying to stir his daughter up.
“Dad, you’ve got to read it. Like now!” pleaded Cait, taking the bait. It was a father-daughter thing. G liked to get a rise out of her from time to time by being jocular in a lighthearted way.
“Thanks, Caitie, I’ve actually already read it,” replied G in a more serious, “I was only joking” tone. “It’ll certainly stir the pot. The article paints the Warlocks as total lawless reprobates. You might even say anarchists.”
“Well, that’s exactly what they are,” replied Cait. “They’ve no respect for the law, for other people, or property. They’re lowlifes who don’t deserve to live in society.”
Cait flipped her iPad around so she could see it, scrolling through Macillicuddy’s article until she found what she was looking for. Pointing at the screen, Cait started to wind up and said, “What about Kylie’s quote here?”
COMMENT
Crystal Bikies:
How the motorcycle gangs are killing our kids
Crystal meth is the forgotten killer; it’s back in vogue, and it’s in your neighbourhood.
This debilitating drug is crossing generational boundaries, breaking up families, indiscriminately killing our kids and leaving a trail of death and destruction wherever it goes. And thanks to the outlaw motorcycle gangs it’s as easy to get as buying a paper if you know where to go.
According to Kylie Fitzpatrick, a prominent Melbourne barrister who has successfully defended many of Melbourne’s underworld figures, “My sources have informed me that the motorcycle gangs play a major role in the manufacture and distribution of crystal meth, and a prominent and emerging local player is an outlaw gang known as the Warlocks.” . . .
Robert Macillicuddy
Senior Features Writer
“Gee, that sounds pretty damning to me,” said Cait, her voice faltering slightly with a concerned tone. “Do you think she’s gone out on a limb here? Surely Macillicuddy didn’t misquote her.”
“I’m sure as it’s a direct quote that it’s a true representation of what Kylie said,” replied G, spinning Cait’s tablet back in his direction and skimming over Macillicuddy’s article again. “But you’re right, she’s left nowhere to hide on this one. Kylie must have some pretty positive evidence to back herself up. She’s never been one to roll over and take it.”
“Well, all I can say is, I hope that she’s done her homework.”
“Caitie, Kylie’s a bit of a moral crusader in many ways, and she’s always been one to stand up for the underdog.” G picked up his coffee and drained the cup with a final slurp, reflecting on what they had just discussed.
“Caitie, for some people, when injustice is the norm, resistance and action become an obligation, a.k.a. Kylie.”
“Oh my God. No, it can’t be! No, no, no.” Kylie half screamed as she stood at the front door of her house, transfixed to the spot, turning grayer as the seconds ticked by. Dropping her shoulder bag at her feet and letting her keys fall from her right hand onto the tiled portico, she raised both hands to her gaping mouth and gave in to the shock of the moment, her chest heaving violently as she burst into tears.
Kylie tore herself away from the horror that confronted her and quickly spun around 180 degrees, hoping that it would go away, that it was an apparition. She turned back to face the door again, knowing the awfulness of what was nailed to her front door, hoping and praying that it was all some silly joke; a prank.
But no! There was her companion—her friend, her confidant, Sammy, her pet cat of some thirteen years—nailed to her front door, upside down, its throat slashed from ear to ear, disemboweled, its guts hanging out like a large bunch of red grapes, looking as if she had committed seppuku, blood dripping down the door and pooling in an oozing crimson puddle directly underneath.
It’s strange, Kylie later reflected, how when you’re in the death zone the weirdest, almost nonsensical thoughts rush though your brain like a messenger with a to-do list: I’ll have to buy a new mat, I’ll never get the blood out.
Oh God, I’m going to be sick . . .
Kylie tore her herself away from the carnage that was confronting her, immediately turned and ran over to her garden next to the entrance and vomited so violently that her partially digested lunch spread like a shotgun blast over her newly planted azaleas, with the overflow spurting unpleasantly through her nose.
Sucking in large gulps of air, Kylie recovered enough to spit out the remnants of vomit from her mouth, and rubbing her nose on her forearm with a swiping motion, she made her way back to the bloodbath. Something was there that she first saw when she’d arrived, then overlooked when the shock of Sammy’s slaughter became apparent.
A note, nailed to her front door next to her cat, scrawled on an 8.5” x 11” piece of white paper, moving from side to side in time with the slight breeze, covered in smudged blood, the writing scrawled in thick black Sharpie lettering as obvious as the nose on your face:
FiRsT WaRNiNg – BaCK Off
Kylie was a mess.
She couldn’t face entering her house through the front door, so she fumbled around with her keys, promptly dropping them again from her shaking hand, somehow managing to unlock the garage with her security remote control. Kylie was operating on autopilot and found herself standing in her kitchen-living area, looking around as if she was familiarizing herself with her own environs. She dropped her shoulder bag on the coffee table, and grabbing an unopened bottle of Wild Turkey from her drinks cupboard, poured herself a triple shot of bourbon. Urgently thrusting her glass under the ice maker on the fridge door, she almost willed the ice to drop into her glass, then swished the amber fluid around a few times and threw down a long, large swig, draining half the contents in a single gulp.
Kylie burped, pursing her lips and sucking in a deep breath of air through her teeth as she felt the burning glow of the bourbon reflecting back up her esophagus, then, rummaging around in her bag for her mobile phone called the first person she thought of.
“Oh G, I need to see you. Please. Now!” Kylie burst into tears again. “Sammy’s been cut up and she’s nailed to my front door.”
“Okay, I’ve cleaned up the mess. Apart from the nail holes in your front door, all’s good now. Spick-and-span,” said G. “Well, almost.”
G picked up his glass off Kylie’s travertine coffee table and leaned back, chilling momentarily to center himself, then took a sip of his shiraz that Kylie had just poured him. She was not only being hospitable, more so, she didn’t want to feel that she was drinking alone. That was for drunks.
“And I hosed in the liquid fertilizer that you applied to the azaleas. That’ll give them a growth spurt this spring.” G was being flippant in an attempt to lighten the moment.
Kylie smiled, even half laughed, which was a first for the evening.
“Thanks, G. You have no idea how much you being here means to me. I didn’t know who else to call.”
“I realize that it’s no doubt a sensitive point, but what would you like me to do with Sammy’s remains? I can take them home if you’d like me to deal with them, or maybe we can bury them in your garden. I know how attached you were to her.”
“No G, having her here will remind me too much of the trauma. Can you please deal with her remains as humanely as possible? But please, not in the trash.”
G sensed that Kylie was recovering from the shock of the mutilation of her pet and replied, “Kylie, what about I inter her remains into a weighted box and we bury her in the bay off Fig Jam on Saturday before the yacht race?”
Kylie melted inside at G’s thoughtfulness. You really are such an unbelievable person. Thank you, thank you, thank you.
“Oh G, that would be amazing. Would you really do that for me?”
“Sure. It seems like the right thing to do, and you’ll get closure on this. Consider it a done deal.”
They were seated side by side on Kylie’s white leather couch. G looked over to her, and putting his glass down, tenderly sandwiched her right hand between both of his, squeezed ever so gently in an almost passionate hold, and said, “I’m glad that you called me, Kylie. You know I’m always here for you. Any time. That’s what mates are all about.”
Kylie looked up at him and the space between them softened. As if there was a subtle gravitational pull that belonged exclusively to them, Kylie slid across to G in a fluid movement that was matched by G’s accompanying embrace as he drew her into him. She folded herself up in his tender hug and relaxed into G’s accommodating torso, enticed by the aroma of his manliness.
The gossamer mist between them carried their thoughts on the ether, igniting a latent passion that had been a secret, hidden undercurrent between them, always there but only fully recognized once before, months ago after a yacht race. Kylie seized the moment and ran her fingers sensuously up G’s back and on through his hair, giving in to her pent-up passion as it took control of her emotions. Cradling G’s head with both hands, she took in the strong lines of face, the strength behind his blue eyes, the day-old stubble on his chin, then gently pulled him toward her, planting her moist lips over his and devoured him, thrusting her darting tongue deeply into his accepting mouth.
Throwing caution to the wind, G responded with the ardent passion of a star-crossed lover, living his fantasies that in his wildest imagination he never expected to eventuate. He enveloped Kylie in an urgent, sensual embrace that ignited her ardor, and she responded by climbing onto his body, entwining him in an inescapable hold that resembled a spider’s web of desire, entrapping him in a world of lust and fervency.
The Cait Lennox Box Set Page 43