G hardened, Kylie became more intense, and they coupled as one, all arms, legs, and grinding bodies, totally lost in the moment as they groped and kissed, with no idea where their passions would lead them.
Kylie broke the hunger between them and unwound herself from the tangle of limbs, stood up and took hold of G’s hands in hers and said, “Come with me.”
G was shell-shocked but silent as he looked up at Kylie with lustful eyes.
“My bedroom, G. Not here. We’re not twenty-one anymore.”
“Kylie, Dad told me about Sammy,” said Cait, genuinely concerned about her friend and legal confidant. Cait realized that she was so tied up in her own world of trouble and complications that she had been viewing events around her with blinders on. The Gift should have allowed her to foresee where their investigations had been taking them, and Kylie did warn her about the potential of retribution by the Warlocks, but everyone assumed it was Cait who had the problem, not anyone else.
“How are you handling things? I know what’s it’s like to lose someone you love. Tell me how you’re feeling. Like a part of you is missing, I bet.” Even though they were speaking on the phone, Cait still naturally drifted into the role of a healer, her voice taking on a soothing, empathetic lilt. Unbeknownst to her, she was becoming a mirrored reflection of Jools: a natural therapist, able listener, mentor, counselor, adviser, and spiritual physician.
“No, all good Cait, but thanks in any case,” said Kylie, manner-of-factly. “It was just the initial shock that took my breath away for a while there. Now we’ve buried Sammy I can move forward on this. There’s nothing to be gained from feeling sorry for myself. It won’t bring her back.”
“I’m so pleased to hear you say that,” Cait said. “We need you on the team now more than ever. Those bastards have deeply touched us both. It’s as if we’re blood sisters now.”
“I never thought of it like that, but you’re right of course,” replied Kylie. “I . . . no, sorry, we . . . are going to nail those pricks. They crossed the wrong people in us, didn’t they? I’ve certainly witnessed your one-eyed determination, but they haven’t even scratched the surface of my wrath.”
Kylie hesitated momentarily to let her boiling anger settle. “I didn’t get to where I am in the legal profession by letting people walk over me. I warn you, I can be the bitch from hell.”
“I’ve got your back, Kylie, always remember that. I know you think all this Gift stuff is a load of crap, but trust me, I see things, feel things . . . I know things. Sometimes you just have to believe me.”
“Cait, I’ll take whatever input I can get on this. We need to keep in constant contact. We’re a team, girl. You know the old saying: ‘Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned.’”
“Yeah Kylie, but you can double that. There’s two of us now. And I know what we’ve got to do next.”
“Which is?”
“We have to locate Frog. He’s the missing link—the linchpin who’s going to prove central to us finding Boss-man and breaking this open. I know it, Kylie. You have to trust me on this one. I won’t tell you how I know, but I just do.”
“Okay, we’ll add it to the facts . . .”
“Do you actually remember who Frog is? I warned you about him a few weeks ago, just after I returned from Asia. He’s the one who grabbed me when I was walking home down the lane back from 21 Squares, then hog-tied me and kicked me in the guts. He’s the bastard who broke my ribs. And he’s going to pay for that one.”
Cait was subconsciously winding herself up, driven unknowingly by the powers of revenge that she swore she would mete out when the time was right.
“No Kylie, we’ll start working on it now. Today. I told you, you just have to go with me on this. We’ve got a window in front of us that may well close if we leave it too long. I’ve seen Frog, and he’s scared. But he’s not here in Melbourne. He’s being held somewhere, confined in a small place. And he’s not happy.”
Frog stepped off the bus at the interchange in Harry Chan Avenue and was assaulted by the sheer weight of the oppressive humidity enveloping him. It was as if he had just walked into a sauna. The air-conditioning in the Greyhound bus had been working overtime, and the dry, cool air inside the vehicle hadn’t prepared him for the muggy tropical heat outside.
Thrusting his arms skyward, Frog touched the clouds as he stretched to unwind his coiled six-foot-five body that had been cooped up on and off in the confines of a cramped seat for the past fifty-five hours and thought to himself, So this is Darwin. Even to his dulled olfactory senses, Frog became aware of how the lingering sweet perfume of frangipani hanging in the moist evening air was tainted with the acrid smell of diesel fumes as buses arrived and left from the terminal like trains at a busy railway station.
Before changing buses and moving on to Darwin, Frog had six hours to kill until he left on another bus from Alice Springs. He’d managed to grab a brief shower but now, twenty hours and fifteen hundred kilometers later he stank—he knew it, as he could smell his own putrid BO, so it must have been bad.
“No wonder that dude sitting next to me got up and changed seats,” he chuckled to himself. “Stiff shit. Gave me more room, but.”
Pulling out a squashed packet of Gudang Garams, Frog grabbed a bent cig from the soft pack and straightened it before flicking it into his mouth, lighting it with his Zippo, and drew the strong clove-laced smoke deeply into his lungs before exhaling a puff of smoke that would have rivaled a coal-fired power station.
He grabbed his kit bag and helmet from the cargo hold of the bus and then scoured the area, but there was no sign of Dirtbag or any of his mates.
Typical, he thought. Just traveled thirty-eight hundred kilometers and the pricks aren’t here. Arseholes.
“Hey mate,” Frog inquired at the ticket counter inside the bus terminal, “how do I get to the Hotel Darwin? It’s just around the corner somewhere around here, isn’t it?”
“You Frog?” said Dirtbag in a gruff tone. Frog was doing as he’d been told and trying to blend in, but he looked about as normal as a whore in a nunnery. He was out back of Hotel Darwin in the beer garden and had positioned himself in the shade under a giant umbrella, smoking a Gudang Garam and necking his second stubby of Corona—without that stupid slice of lime clogging up the mouth of the bottle.
He finished his swig, downing half the stubby in one mouthful, let out a frothy burp, and nodded. “Yeah, you Dirtbag, I presume? Boss-man said you’d meet me here. Good to see ya, mate.”
“Hey, anybody let you know that you stink? Get downwind, will ya. Fuck me, when ya last have a shower?” Dirtbag dragged out a stool from under the bench and eased his huge frame onto it, positioning it upwind of Frog, letting out a grunt as he sat down.
Dirtbag signaled for the waitress. “One quick beer, then we’re off. Your round, Frog. But none of that homo beer you got. Gimme a schooner of Carlton Draught. And a packet of nuts.
“So Mongrel tells me you got to lay low for a while. Gettin’ a bit hot for you in Melbourne I heard. Well, you’re in the right place. If it was any more laid back up here everyone would be horizontal.”
Dirtbag didn’t even ask. He reached over and grabbed Frog’s cigarettes and helped himself.
“You got a light?”
“Sure,” said Frog, pausing to light Dirtbag’s cigarette, then continued. “Reckon I’ll be here for a month or so. The shit should have settled by then.”
“I believe you got a package for me from Boss. Payment for babysitting you.”
“In my pocket. Give it to you outside.” Frog may have been about as bright as two pissed-on candles, but he wasn’t about to pass over fifty grams of crystal in a crowded beer garden. Unbeknownst to Dirtbag, Frog also had a further kilo of ice in his kit that he had to deliver to a new contact in Darwin that Moose had been cultivating, and this was the first shipment of what Moose hoped would be a steady and regular supply. Mongrel had made it totally clear to Frog not to get caught when he was carrying,
as he was a mule with close to a million dollars’ worth of ice. Frog had to keep his mouth shut about this deal; there was no way the Nunyas were allowed to find out as the Warlocks were invading their turf big-time.
“That’s why you’re traveling by bus—no security screening and no searches, so just stay out of everyone’s way, don’t get noticed . . . and no club colors. You got that?” Mongrel had read Frog the riot act just before he left Melbourne two and a half days ago. “You fuck this one up and you’re dead meat. Just hang in there on the bus with the backpackers and the old farts.”
Frog was mighty pissed off with having to up and leave his Harley behind . . . and his wife and kid, if it came to that, but when Mongrel gave an order, no one questioned it: Mongrel was the president, and he wielded the power of life and death over all his Warlock brothers. Frog knew that if he screwed this one up, on the slim chance that Mongrel didn’t personally kill him, Boss-man certainly would. There was no second chance here.
“Just do it, arsewipe, and don’t get caught,” was Mongrel’s parting comment.
“You still owe me from last time. You think I’ve got shit for brains or something? I told you before, piss off.” Steve was talking to Tangles, and as dim-witted as he appeared to be, Tangles hadn’t forgotten about the two and a half grand in cash that Steve had promised him last time if he provided him with the information he needed to find out about Boss-man. Which Tangles had, but he’d failed to find out Boss-man’s birth name, so Steve held back on the second tranche.
“Tangles, have I ever gone back on my word? Have I ever not paid you what you’re owed? I told you that you’d get the two and a half large when you gave me Boss-man’s real name, which you never did, so no information, no pay. That’s the rules.”
“Bullshit. You still owe me,” Tangles spat back at Steve.
“Mate . . .”
“I told you before, you’re not my mate, arsehole. Stop callin’ me that.”
“You want the two and a half, you got it. I just need to know where Frog’s gone,” persisted Steve.
“No way. He’s one of the brothers. I ain’t snitching.”
“I reckon another grand on top of the two and a half might help you overlook brotherly love for an instant.”
Tangles went silent, letting Steve’s offer churn.
“Double it. Five grand, but this time all up front. I’ll tell you when you hand over the folding stuff, otherwise no deal.”
Steve knew he would have to horse trade with this lowlife, and this was an expected outcome.
“Okay, deal done. Usual place tomorrow. Two p.m. Five grand in cash. But you better deliver, or you get nothing.”
“Patrick O’Hearn. Long time no speak. It’s Irish.” Irish needed a favor, so he had called one of his junior detectives from back when he was in the force. Paddy had left Victoria Police and moved to Darwin eleven years ago where he joined the Northern Territory Police in search of promotion, and he was now a superintendent.
“Superintendent Patrick O’Hearn, if you don’t mind,” replied Paddy in a mocking tone. They were old friends and always got on like a house on fire.
“So Irish, what’s up, you old bastard? What do you want?”
“Ah Paddy, you haven’t changed a bit. Not since you joined my squad as a junior detective, what, twenty years ago? Direct and to the point as usual. No pleasantries, that’s to be sure.”
“Well my old friend, I’m sure you haven’t rung me to talk about the weather. Am I correct?”
“Well, there’s a wee hint of truth in that, yes. I need a small favor. Nothing that’s going to compromise you. Just some information, that’s all, if you could be so kind.”
“Yes Irish, ask and you shall receive . . . maybe.”
“Well Paddy, it seems that a rather nasty character has moved up to your patch in Darwin to escape the heat down south. He’s a bikie from an outlaw gang down here called the Warlocks. I’d just like to be informed if any of your officers stumble across him in the course of their duties. I imagine that he’ll come to your attention sooner rather than later, as trouble seems to follow this gang around. If he surfaces, would you be kind enough to let me know?”
“Sure Irish, that doesn’t seem like too much of an ask. What are his details?”
Irish breathed a sigh of relief, as Paddy and he hadn’t spoken since Paddy left Victoria, so he could have just said no.
“Goes by the name of Frog. Don’t know his real name, but you’ll know him if he’s picked up. Six foot five, has a tattoo of a large cobra down his forearm. But watch out, he’s dangerous. The snake might jump off his arm and bite.” Irish was making light of the matter, as he didn’t want to spook Paddy.
“He’s a bad one, Paddy. He needs to be put away,” added Irish as an afterthought.
“Okay old friend, will do. Now tell me about you. What’s happened over the last eleven years? I heard on the grapevine that you left the force and you’re out on your own now.”
“Got a name for you, Irish. This guy Frog? Well his name’s Jean-Paul Dubarry.” Paddy’s boys had made a positive ID the day before. “We’ve got him in remand for possession of half a gram of ice. Not enough to hold him without bail, but he had a fake ID which we discovered when we got a hit on his prints. He’s been a busy boy, it seems. Has quite a rap sheet—in and out of the nick all his life, so I can authorize his detention for a few more days, if that helps. But eventually he’ll have to go before a magistrate, and then he’ll be put on bail. You know how it is.”
“Paddy, you’re a marvel. You always were one of the better cops on my team. I’ll be up there within forty-eight hours. I have to interview him while you have him in on remand. I’ll fill you in when we catch up. You have to trust me on this one. It’s really important.”
“G, I have to handle this one. Just stay in the background and let me do all the talking.” Irish was coaching G before they stepped into the Darwin Remand Centre to interview Frog. Irish wasn’t happy having G tag along as he was used to working alone, but Cait had insisted on it, and in his softhearted way, he’d caved in to her request and reluctantly allowed G to accompany him.
I just can’t understand how Cait has gotten so under my skin. But I have to help her. I’m not going to see another girl with her life in front of her destroyed by thugs like these.
Cait had contacted her father early this morning to give him a heads-up about her latest vision.
“Dad, I saw Frog last night—or what’s his name, Dubarry, wasn’t it? Something French and so unlike what you’d expect someone with a name like that to be. Well, he’s pacing back and forth in his cell. He’s coming down off ice, is nervous as hell, and super worried. You’ll be able to crack him. I just know it.”
“Okay Caitie, we’re seeing him this morning. But Irish is the man in control here. I’m just an observer. Dealing with these crims is his field of expertise. He’s got some unbelievable stories to tell. They’d curl your hair.”
Cait brushed aside G’s small talk and got down to basics.
“Dad, I know how to get through to Frog. Tell him Boss-man’s screwing his wife. That’s the key that’ll break him open. Trust me.”
G was running over Cait’s comments in his head as they entered the Remand Centre and thinking of the best way to raise them with Irish, as he was totally aware of Irish’s skepticism when it came to Cait’s powers of insight. He decided that the sledgehammer approach was the best way to tell Irish, as he was such a capricious character that taking anything other than the direct approach would fall on deaf ears.
“Irish, I’m not going to tell you how to suck eggs, but Cait told me how to crack Frog. You need to listen.”
“And what would that be? Maybe she’d be liking you to do the interview now, would that be it?”
G knew this wouldn’t be easy, but he continued.
“Irish, it’s your interview, I totally understand. But when the time’s right, tell Dubarry that Boss-man’s screwing his wife in Me
lbourne. That’ll crack him open.”
“How would you be knowing this?”
“Look Irish, for once get off your high horse and chill out with the fucking chip on your shoulder and woe-is-me attitude. Just listen to something that you might not agree with and do it, okay. It’s Cait we’re talking about here, not some young dipshit girl who doesn’t know her arse from her elbow.”
“Ah, I like that in a man. Standing up for his family. I was wondering when you’d join my grumpy, cynical world. Okay G, I’ll consider using it in the interview.”
G watched Irish interview Frog behind two-way glass and thought to himself how he would hate to be on the receiving end of Irish’s violent, caustic tongue. He was just ruthless, tearing Frog to pieces, belittling him, dominating him, and totally controlling the interview. It was as if Irish had the power of ten men, the way he overpowered—controlled—the space between them. Yes, as Kylie once told him, Irish was the best in the business. Then when Irish chose the perfect moment to throw Cait’s comment at him—by the way, Boss-man’s screwing your wife—almost like a throwaway line, G knew that the interview had achieved its purpose. Frog would be back in Melbourne at the earliest opportunity, and he would flush out Boss-man for them.
G had watched on in awe as Irish broke the tough guy in front of him into a thousand pieces, and he recalled the rest of Cait’s prophecy which he was reticent to fully inform Irish of because it was just too out of left field: “Frog will escape and return to Melbourne and lead us to Boss-man. I’ve seen it, Dad. That’s how we’re going to close this out.”
“But how’re we going to be able to follow Frog?” G had replied.
“I’ll tell you when it happens. Just trust me on this. He keeps cropping up in my visions constantly. It’s almost like I’ve attached a GPS tracker to him. I can see him, feel him, smell him—he stinks of BO and those damn awful clove cigarettes, so I can’t miss him.
The Cait Lennox Box Set Page 44