by Cenarth Fox
The old trick failed and Vlad waited for both to lunge before stepping forward causing the attackers to almost stab one another. The third fisherman saw all this from the cabin. Vlad used his military combat training and for the crew, this didn’t go as planned.
Vlad had the first two backing away. From the cabin, the skipper produced his party piece, the ship’s artillery. It looked like a “hand gonne” carried by Christopher Columbus in 1498. Was it loaded? Would it fire? Vlad didn’t wait to find out, so snatched a wooden crate and leapt overboard.
The victorious crew jeered and watched their passenger bobbing, drifting away in the choppy sea. Vlad tried to calculate the direction of the jungle. It’s wild and spooky creatures and choking vines now appealed. Forget this drowning caper. He opted for direction A—the wrong one—and began dog paddling.
After an hour, his body was reasonable but his mind came under pressure. Give it up, my son. His body prepared to follow. Then he heard an unusual sound. Could it be a speed boat? What the hell?
Hearing someone yelling, and in English, did wonders for his soul. Do drug runners have a soul? As he bobbed up on the latest swell, the rescue craft slowed as it approached. He was fished out of the ocean, wrapped in a protective blanket and sped away to the mother ship.
This was a Caribbean cruise liner sitting low in the water, packed with obese seniors. The captain was off course in search of exotic fish.
‘You were very lucky, my friend,’ said Captain Verholven, a Dutchman. ‘We sent out a drone to find the big fish and we found you. So tell me, how did you get to go swimming in the Caribbean?’
Vlad gave a truthful but disingenuous tale about falling overboard from a fishing boat. He was given a shower, change of clothes, medical check and a slap up meal.
The first mate reported to the skipper. ‘Well, am I right?’ asked the skipper. ‘Our visitor is involved with drugs?’
‘Has to be, Captain. He even had money in his underpants.’
‘So we can say he was swimming in cash.’
The first mate groaned, and the captain radioed the authorities in Barbados and Florida. A West Indies rendezvous was agreed.
Vlad was treated with respect and advised he would need to clear Customs when they arrived in Barbados. Being sans passport didn’t faze Vlad with his gift of the gab and a stash of cash in his bum crack.
He didn’t know the Americans enjoyed a good working relationship with the authorities in the Windies who were happy to hand over drug-running escapees. Welcome home, Mr Cocaine.
Vlad got thinking. If the DEA jail or release me in Miami, Cam’s men will get me and gut me. Having survived the jungle massacre, the jungle, and the ocean, Vlad reckoned his 9 lives were up. He needed a way out. Help me, Mr DEA, please.
Vlad woke in a clean Florida cell and reckoned he was in Paradise. He got breakfast in bed and when the “butler” mentioned a chat with the DEA, Mr Cocaine worked on his elevator pitch.
He knew he was in deep shit with Cam who would believe Vlad planned and executed the coke bust, and any guy who robbed the Mob was a dead man walking. Looking over his shoulder for the rest of his life was now Vlad’s default position. He needed help.
The DEA guys got chatting and Vlad rolled over. His thinking was simple. With Cam, I’ve got no chance. With the DEA, I might, just might make it to old age.
‘I wanna make a deal,’ he said.
The DEA officers knew every offer going. ‘No promises, no guarantees, buddy, but we’re listening.’
Vlad let rip. ‘I’ve been running drugs from Colombia to the US for years. I’ve just survived a mini war between drug lords. My boss thinks I stitched him up.’
‘And did you?”
‘Oh sure,’ said Vlad with sarcasm. ‘I’ve got ten mill in me jocks and a ton of coke up me arse. Great stitch up. Look, there’s already a price on my head. If you guys help me disappear,’ he hesitated, ‘I mean get a new start with a new ID, I’ll give you the works on one of the most successful cocaine dealers in the US. Deal?’
The cops smiled. ‘Not so fast, ah, how do say your name?’
‘That’s not my name. You guys are gunna give me a new one.’
They smiled, liking his attitude. ‘We offer nothing and give you less until you tell us everything, and even then, we may pass.’
‘But that’s crap,’ protested Vlad.
‘Take it or leave it.’
Vlad shook his head. The DEA would love to nail a drug lord but no way would they do Vlad any favours unless he came up with some pretty impressive intel. He did.
He spilt the beans, peas, pumpkin and potatoes. He gave names, dates, places, distribution networks, and even Cam’s golf handicap. The DEA nominated Vlad for DEA Snitch of the Year.
He was given a choice. Get a new ID, extensive plastic surgery and a large wad of cash but hang around and keep feeding the DEA new data, or, get a new ID, minor plastic surgery, 500 bucks and a plane ticket to anywhere other than Mars. Vlad made his choice, Option 2, and Cam became top of the DEA’s most wanted list.
So the DEA wanted Cam almost as much as he wanted Vlad. And that’s interesting because to date, nobody who crossed Camilo Gonzales has survived.
Chapter 6
BILLY HUGHES DROVE with Jo beside her. ‘Thanks for inviting me, Sarge, but what’s wrong with the others who’ve been on this case from the off? Or do you want a woman’s touch?’
‘I want a smart detective’s touch. Now tell me the real story of what happened in Paris.’ She was serious. Whatever else you got from Billy Hughes, there was never any bullshit.
‘As I said, Sarge, it was scary, but Michael Chan was his usual brilliant self and I got lucky with the article I posted online.’
‘Ah, luck,’ said Billy. ‘Some wise person once said, “The harder I work, the luckier I get”.’ Jo felt good. ‘So you and the DI; all good is it?’
That hurt. What does Billy know? ‘Fine, why wouldn’t it be?’
Hughes paused and the tension got busy. ‘Tread carefully, Senior,’ she said and left it there.
North Melbourne was a short drive from Homicide. They parked and Hughes explained the situation.
‘The murder suspect you heard about, and he’s the only one, claims he was in this block of flats when his ex was brutally bashed and murdered 70 kays away in Frankston. If his alibi holds, we’re in trouble. We interviewed his mate who lives here and who supports the suspect’s alibi. So now we’re working through the other flats to see if anyone can give us anything to prove or disprove the mate’s story. There are still a few residents to interview. I’ll lead but you can do your magic routine any time you like. Are we good?’
They looked at one another. ‘I have a magic routine, Sarge?’
Hughes gave a forced grin and led the way. They entered the block of flats and knocked on doors. Most residents were at work and the two who were home didn’t recognise the suspect from the photo.
On the third floor, a door was opened by a woman, 30s, plus size figure, attractive and half asleep. The cops showed their ID and explained their mission. ‘May we come in?’ asked Billy. ‘It’s important.’
The woman turned and walked inside. The detectives followed and sat in her lounge. It exuded taste. Hughes ran through the usual questions, showing the photo. The woman offered nothing.
Jo chimed in. ‘Do you live alone, Dani?’
She looked surprised with Billy intrigued. ‘How did you know my name?’ Dani was more angry than curious.
‘The letterbox downstairs says “D. Walsh” and the birthday card in your hall says, “Happy birthday, Dani”.’
Hughes purred and Dani settled. ‘Yes, I live alone.’
Jo nagged. ‘So no visitors on the 9th between 6 pm and midnight?’
‘No.’
‘You may not have seen the man we’re talking about but any visitor coming or going might help us.’
Dani got short. ‘I told you, I live alone and don’t have visitors.’
‘What,
never?’
Jo went too far. Dani got nasty. Hughes took over. ‘Here’s my card, Dani. If you hear anything about the man we’re investigating, or remember something later, please give me a call.’
They stood to leave. Unseen by Hughes, Jo looked at Dani and placed her card on the hall table. Outside, Hughes reprimanded Jo. ‘I see the overseas trip hasn’t stopped your ability to push too hard.’
‘She’s lying, Sarge.’
‘Of course she is but having a secret lover or hosting a baby shower on the night in question may tell us nothing about our killer.’ Pause. ‘And yes, I did see the cigarette butts with and without lipstick.’
‘And the man’s shirts hanging in the bathroom.’
‘Bugger,’ said Hughes. ‘I missed them.’ They drove to see the pathologist. ‘Look, Jo, we need help with this, and rubbing a possible witness up the wrong way doesn’t help. If anyone saw our suspect or sees or hears something tomorrow or next week, then we want their help. Telling someone they’re lying about a boyfriend, about anyone, even if they are, doesn’t make you popular.’
Jo wanted to ask, “Do we want to be popular or effective?” but didn’t. She liked DS Hughes for many reasons, one of which was she never pulled her punches.
As they drove, Jo remembered her strange Strange phone call. She didn’t mention it to Hughes, and they entered Pathology to find two pathologists examining the injuries suffered by the battered Christine.
Strange looked up. ‘Well, well, well, the prodigal daughter returns. How was the overseas sex jaunt, Detective?’
Jo was shocked and embarrassed. Hughes simply took it as typical banter from the woman who called a spade a forkin’ shovel.
‘Good morning, Doctor,’ said Jo. ‘I trust you are well.’
‘I am but she’s not.’ She nodded at the corpse being examined—again. ‘Have you met Dr Laudi?’ Jo and the new pathologist nodded. ‘I’ve conducted a further examination, Detective Sergeant, as per your request, with nothing new to report. The attacker was right-handed as are about 90% of humankind, and could not have done what he, and you’ll note I said “he”, did in less than fifteen minutes, possibly longer.’
Jo took her first look at the body and felt nauseous. The deceased suffered multiple wounds and was seemingly attacked post mortem.
‘No other evidence under nails, inside the body?’ asked Hughes.
‘I do thorough the first time, Detective. What I found is in my report which went to Forensics. Them’s the ones to hassle.’
Hassle? The detectives were confused and disappointed. Why were they being attacked for doing their job? Why was the pathologist being exceptionally sarcastic, beyond even her normal level of rudeness?
Hughes kept her cool. ‘Thank you, Doctor. I appreciate you going the extra mile. We’re frustrated because we reckon we have the killer but can’t crack his alibi. We’ll leave you to it.’
Hughes left. Jo looked at Strange who nodded at her. ‘Chop, chop, Detective, run along,’ she said and Jo felt sick.
‘What’s eating her?’ asked Hughes as they went to Forensics.
‘No idea, Sarge. I rang her last night and she gave me short shrift then hung up. She was fine before I went overseas.’
‘Any chance you can do some snooping?’
Jo looked at Hughes. ‘Snooping? Are you joking, Sarge?’
‘You’re the only Homicide member who has a relationship with her. She’s a brilliant pathologist and we need her fit and firing. If she’s gone off the rails, we need to have her put back or put out to pasture.’
‘Am I a Homicide detective or a psychologist?’
‘Well you’re bloody good at sorting murders. Why not give the mystery of the loopy pathologist a spin?’ Jo didn’t have an answer, and Billy’s raised eyebrows spoke volumes.
They entered Forensics where Jo spotted the love-struck scientist, Alastair Dean, the poor sap she once led on, only for him to seek revenge and embarrass her. He saw her and felt an urgent need to pass water. The scientist handling the Frankston material had nothing new, meaning nothing to report. This case was grinding to a halt and fast.
That night, Jo changed and headed out. She bought some expensive dark chocolates and parked in North Fitzroy. No phone call, and no prior warning before she gave the door a knock.
Mumbling rumbled down the hallway. Gabrielle opened the door, saw her visitor, turned on her heel and headed back to the kitchen. Jo took that to mean she could enter. She did. Not a word was spoken.
In the kitchen, an open bottle of red and a glass of wine stood ready. Gabrielle placed a second glass on the table. Jo worried. Gabrielle’s recent drinking problem meant she lost her licence. She claimed to have given up the grog but clearly was now back on the turps.
‘I brung some choccies,’ said Jo, placing the box on the table. Gabrielle wanted to smile. She poured wine in the second glass and pushed it to Jo who said, ‘Thanks,’ and raised her glass. ‘Cheers.’
Gabrielle acknowledged Jo with her glass but remained mute.
They looked at one another. Jo opened the box of chocolates, helped herself and pushed the box across the table.
Gabrielle selected her favourite and chewed. With chocolate in mouth she finally spoke. ‘I get it. He’s thrown you over, hasn’t he?’
That hurt mainly because in one way it was true. Jo copied her companion and stayed silent. Finally she spoke.
‘Tell you what, Doc, I’ll give you chapter and verse on my sordid saga provided, when I finish, you do the same.’
More silence. The tension became rich and the pauses would’ve made a Pinter play feel rushed.
Gabrielle swallowed more wine then topped up her glass. ‘Deal,’ she said. ‘Only I want every sexual position and all the dirty talk.’
Jo worried. Of graphic sex, of any sex with Pierre was there none. She’ll think I’m holding back. She’ll reckon I cheated and that means she won’t feel obliged to tell me her situation.
‘He’s married.’
Gabrielle was surprised, was expecting gossip, and immediately lost interest in matters prurient feeling sorry for her friend.
‘I bet he told you after he had his wicked way.’
Jo shook her head. ‘Two things; he didn’t tell me, and he didn’t have his wicked way.’
‘What? But I know you fancied him.’
‘I did and was ready, willing and able.’
Gabrielle panted. ‘Well come on, don’t keep me in suspenders.’
That further broke the ice. Jo’s vision of the plump pathologist in lingerie tickled both their funny bones.
‘Tell me,’ insisted Gabrielle.
‘We wined and dined in a romantic Parisian restaurant, flirted like teenagers, then arrived at the love nest ready for action only to be swamped by screaming journalists with flashlights. I fled. End of romantic interlude. Fade to black.’
Gabrielle became her old talkative self and bombarded Jo with questions. ‘Right, from the top; I want the whole story.’
Jo nodded. ‘Okay. Michael and I exposed the police corruption and how Pierre was set up. We got him released and naturally he was over the moon. His lawyer fancied me so I hid in a priest hole to escape his evil clutches. He was mightily pissed.’
Gabrielle shook her head. ‘You’re making this up.’
Jo ignored her. ‘Michael has always fancied me and when Pierre was released from prison, the lawyer and Michael stood there while Pierre and I kissed, and being in France it was clearly a French kiss.’
‘I like it,’ whispered Gabrielle.
‘Michael took off and came home, and the lawyer, in a fit of pique, told me his client was married.’
‘I’m shattered there’s no sex but it’s still bloody fantastic.’
‘You haven’t heard the best bit yet, Doctor.’
Jo paused, milking the expectation.
‘Well go on,’ snapped Gabrielle.
‘Years ago, Pierre’s wife killed someone, was found not gu
ilty by reason of insanity, and today resides in a psychiatric institution.’
‘Edward Fairfax Rochester,’ exclaimed Gabrielle. ‘Hello Jane.’
They high fived. One of the reasons Jo and Gabrielle got on so well, was they were keen on tales written by Jane Austen and the Brontës.
‘It gets worse or better. I know Pierre’s married but he doesn’t know I know. He’s coming home soon and from his latest phone call, I reckon he’s expecting to pick up where we left off.’
‘He wants to marry you.’
Jo hesitated. ‘That, madam, is not an unreasonable assumption.’
Gabrielle snorted. ‘What’s with the double negatives? You cops are obsessed. Just say, “That’s a reasonable assumption”.’
Gabrielle’s grammatical rant killed the storytelling. Both were unsure what to say. More wine sipping. Then Gabrielle remembered.
‘Did you say you hid in a priest hole?’
Jo laughed, ‘I did.’ She explained the father and son’s pathetic, some would say sordid, attempt at seduction. Now it was Gabrielle’s turn to laugh but her cackle stopped instantly when Jo spoke.
‘I think it’s your turn, Doctor; we have a deal, remember?’
The temperature in the cosy kitchen dropped sharpish. A chill set in. Jo sensed it. Whatever caused Gabrielle to start drinking again and be rude to Jo must be bigger than big.
‘Don’t speak until I’ve finished,’ said Gabrielle. ‘Understood?’ Jo nodded. Gabrielle spoke. ‘My parents are dead. Only my sister is alive although she’s dying. My mother shared a secret with my sister and made her promise to tell no-one. But because my sister is soon to cark it, she decided to tell me.’ Jo was hooked. ‘She has.’
After a dramatic pause, Gabrielle raised her glass then put it down without taking a sip or, in her current condition, a gulp.
‘My dying sister is my half-sister. The man who is her father is not my father although I always thought he was. I think he did too.’
Jo’s breathing changed. This sounded scary. It got scarier.