by Angus McLean
Meandering away with my drink in hand, I found a good observation point inside a clothing store across the other side of the atrium. It would have been better if I hadn’t been asked to take my drink outside by a sales assistant. She was as wide as she was tall and had more war paint on than an Apache warrior.
Tail between my legs, I abandoned that OP and spent several minutes browsing the calendars in a pop-up stand. I was tossing up between the cute kittens and one of the Kardashians (I didn’t know one from the other, but ultimately, did it really matter?) when I spotted Kyle on the move again. They’d finished the Colonel’s finest and were walking hand in hand towards a women’s fashion store.
A quick kiss and she disappeared inside. He headed back downstairs and made directly for his car. He was almost at the sliding doors to the car park when he slowed, stopped and turned. He came straight back to where I’d been a moment before, only now I was in a store, showing an unhealthy interest in a set of floral placemats with matching coasters.
I sensed Kyle passing within a foot of me and held my composure, even though a little voice inside me wanted to run from the store, waving my hands in the air and shrieking “Oh my God I’ve been burned!”
The price sticker on the placemats bought me a few seconds and suddenly he was gone, straight for the doors and away. I gave him a few seconds before slipping out behind him, mingling with a family group who were dawdling along. I sidestepped away from the doors and watched Kyle get into the Celica. He pulled out sharply, cut off a people mover and headed for the exit.
He was on the road by the time I was coming out of my parking space and I let him run, keeping tabs on him with the device. It only took me a minute to realise that, despite me wasting no time, he was well ahead. He had to have been rolling through red lights to open up such a big gap, and there was only one reason I could think of for that.
He’d been spooked.
If he hadn’t actually burned me personally then he’d realised he was being followed by someone. Neither was a good option for a criminal, nor for me.
I sat at an intersection, waiting for a green arrow, and silently cursed myself. At least I had the device on his car so I could still track him, but it was never good to get burned.
The chances of getting The Saint’s car back now were looking as slim as a Kardashian butt was big.
The little man living in the light box finally relented and gave me a green, and I followed the blinking red dot out towards the North Western Motorway. The dot was heading west but, just as I was about jump on the motorway to follow suit, it jumped off. I pushed into the lane to go straight ahead instead of the on-ramp to the left, causing a blast of horns behind me.
I waved my apologies and crossed the motorway, swinging right onto Great North Road then ducking off into the first side street. This was a cul-de-sac beside the Museum of Transport and Technology and Western Springs Park. I spun around and faced the main road again. MOTAT was a great place to visit, and right now it was a more than suitable lay-up point.
The red dot was coming back towards me now at speed, and I recognised a classic counter-surveillance move. If you think you’re being tailed, head one way in the fast lane then dive off at the last second and double back. Any watchers are likely to either miss the exit or let it go to avoid being burned.
The fact that Kyle was employing such a move told me two things: firstly, he believed he was being followed, and secondly, he knew what to do about it. Obviously my earlier assessment of him not being aware was well off target. My respect for him went up a notch, and it also reinforced my belief that I was on the right track.
I sat and waited, seeing the white Celica go past me towards the city a few seconds before the blinking red dot past my blue one on the tablet screen. He had slowed to a normal speed and blended into the flow of traffic. I gave him twenty seconds before pulling out and picking up the follow.
We carried on east on Great North Road through Western Springs and Grey Lynn into Karangahape Road. K Rd was at the top of the city, the traditional red-light district now populated by bars, tiny clubs, sushi joints and tattoo parlours. People cruised, hookers strolled, and life went on; the ebb and flow of nightlife in any big city.
Kyle dropped down into Queen St and off into a side alley. The tracker told me he’d parked up there so I cut into the side street before it. The street I was in was home to an old church, its tall spire piercing the sky above me, foreboding eyes of stained glass looking out at the world going past with shame and judgement.
The alley that Kyle had gone into was home to another large building, a long-standing establishment where men went to pray at a different altar. Squire’s was the biggest, highest-profile brothel in the city. It had a bloody history of takeovers in years gone by and last I’d heard it was run by Asian organised crime.
It was exactly the sort of place that the Kings of the City would hang out. They say that every girl loves a bad boy and it may be true. In my book, crooks and hookers went together like ham and cheese.
I killed the engine and sat in the dark, waiting. While I waited I thought. Right now I had a lot of pieces floating about, loosely corralled by suspicion and conjecture. Suspicion and conjecture are close cousins of the gut feeling, and the gut feeling had served me well over the years.
All well and good except some thieving mongrel still had a classic car in their possession and I needed to find it. Poor old Dearlove was paying big bucks for me to do that, and I wasn’t in the business of letting clients down.
Problem was, I didn’t have a lot of glue holding all the pieces together. I needed the glue, something solid that would confirm my suspicions and pull it all together.
I was still mulling all this over – mulling is not a fast business – when the red dot began to move again. Whatever Kyle had been doing at Squires was done and he was on the move again.
I started the car and slipped it in gear. The red dot moved past me and back up onto K Rd, heading west. He was going back the way we’d just come.
Interesting.
I tagged on and kept the follow from a distance, biding my time and staying in the flow. Grey Lynn became Western Springs then we were onto Great North Rd and into Rosebank Rd. It was a long road that ran through the heart of Avondale, a working class suburb that bordered Mt Albert and New Lynn.
I saw the blinking red dot turn into a side street, take a couple of turns and go stationery. I pulled over a few blocks away and checked the address, running it through Google Maps.
The street view option showed me an industrial premises of some sort, high tin fences all around with a large building inside the compound. Undergrowth on one street side of the building. Not much of interest around it, seemingly all being industrial and commercial properties.
A quick look on homes.co.nz showed me that the property hadn’t been sold for twenty years. I’d have to do a proper property search to get the owner’s details. The question now was, what was in there and what was Kyle doing there?
I sat and mulled some more. It was mid-evening on a Thursday. Not much traffic around in an industrial area, so I couldn’t afford to hang around too long. I moved off, turned into the street Kyle had gone into and cruised past the address. It was all closed up but had external lights showing in the compound and lights on inside the building. With the window down I could hear voices and a car engine revving.
I went by without slowing and took the next turn, making my way back around to another street where there were a couple of apartment buildings. There were plenty of cars parked on the street and I slotted in at the kerb, disappearing in the crowd.
I had a compact pair of binoculars in the glove box for small jobs, but this job demanded something bigger and better. The bag in the boot contained a quality Bushnell spotting scope with 20-60x65 lenses. I tucked it into my daypack, changed my hoody for a black jacket and legged it back towards the compound.
I wasn’t so interested now in whether Kyle stayed or went; the comp
ound had piqued my curiosity and I wanted a look inside. I reached the street and waited in the shadows of a darkened building, watching for several minutes. I could no longer hear the car and voices, but it was still well lit up. Nothing moved.
The building beside me was three stories high, much higher than the compound I was watching. In the alley round the back of it I found a rickety fire escape leading to the roof. A running jump and a mad scramble of feet against the bricks got me onto the first landing and it was plain sailing from there.
The roof was filthy dirty from years of neglect but it had a great view of the compound over the road. I squatted down near the edge with an upward-angled skylight at my back. I scanned the compound with the scope, spotting Kyle and another dude standing near his car.
The compound was partially lit by spots. It was full of junk, bits and pieces of cars lying everywhere. Neat stacks of wheels and other car parts that I guessed had no serial numbers. I’m no car guy, but I know a chop shop when I see one. There was a workbench set up to one side with a roof over the top, and another dude was sitting in the shadows in an old armchair. He was smoking a cigarette and swigging from a bottle of Steinlager.
Like the other guy with Kyle he was a tattooed white boy, late twenties. The three of them chatted for a minute before the guy heaved himself up from his chair and they all shuffled off. The building had a delivery bay with a pedestrian door beside the big rollers. They went inside and shut the door. I couldn’t see anything of the inside from my angle.
Lights spilled out from the building and this was obviously where all the action happened. I doubted they’d let me in for a nosey and a quick chat.
Maybe I’d have to try another angle.
Seven
A mid-morning workout with Molly had left me shattered.
I did my best to remain stoic but she knew me better than that. She’d made me do shuttle runs up Amy Street, which had a steep incline, and my lungs and legs were burning. We dropped down into the Michaels Ave Reserve and did a lap to prevent me having a stroke, before launching into a series of lunges, burpees, squats and press ups.
On the verge of throwing up, it was music to my ears when Molly told me to get up and follow her. She’d been doing this ridiculous routine for a few weeks now and was conditioned to it. The tautness of her form beneath the tight black active wear told me that, and as I trudged along behind her for another lap of the park, it was near enough to bringing on the stroke again.
Chest heaving, every muscle burning, I collapsed in a sweaty heap when she called a halt. I was still there when she finished her warm-down stretches.
‘Get up, fatty,’ she grinned. ‘I’m done.’
I scraped a tongue of sandpaper across lips that I could no longer feel. I rolled onto my side and gradually got up.
‘Oh my God,’ Molly said. ‘You really need to do this more often.’
‘Huh.’ I put my hands on my kidneys and arched my back. I was afraid something might break. Or I might give it a Linda Blair special. ‘Not…likely.’
‘Come on.’ She tugged my T-shirt sleeve and recoiled in horror at the touch. ‘Yuck. Even your sleeves are sweating.’
I forced myself into a walk and we made our way home, a quiet cul-de-sac off Michaels Ave itself. We had bought the crappiest house in the best street that we could afford, stretching ourselves beyond our limits. It had hurt initially but paid off now with the crazy Auckland house prices.
After a long stretch and a shower I felt slightly more human and we made our way to the office. Molly was going grocery shopping so she drove. Pulling into the back car park, we found the same red BMW in our slot.
‘They’ve got a cheek,’ I growled as I got out. ‘I’m going to get it towed.’
‘Good luck with that,’ Molly smiled. ‘Take a breath first.’ She grinned impishly. ‘Oh that’s right, you haven’t got your breath back yet.’
‘Goodbye,’ I said pointedly and closed the door.
She drove off and I took a photo of the car on my phone. Mike was in the office when I arrived, heading for the door with his jacket in one hand and a folder in the other.
‘You like death,’ he said. ‘Are you sick?’
I grunted.
‘Molly thrashed you, didn’t she?’ He grinned. ‘Good job.’
I scowled.
‘I’m just shooting out to get the last statement for that insurance file, then I can get rid of it. I put a note on your desk. That dude from the SFO rang.’
‘To apologise, I hope.’
Mike shrugged. ‘Dunno mate. Was that red Beamer still in our park?’
‘Yeah, I’m going to get it towed.’
Mike pushed the door open. ‘I’ll do it. I think I saw the driver earlier.’
I raised my eyebrows. He ignored the obvious question and went out the door. I put the jug on to make a green tea – it would balance out the coffee I’d have later – and looked at the note on my desk. Having ignored his earlier call to my mobile, I still had no interest in ringing the SFO investigator. But it did remind me to complete the invoice for the bank.
We might have lost the case but we weren’t a charity.
***
When Mike had arrived a few minutes before Dan, he’d seen the red BMW in their slot and a woman walking away from it. He hadn’t seen her get out of the car but gut instinct told him it was hers.
By the time he’d parked the Ranger in a public spot the woman had disappeared from view towards the main drag. All he’d seen of her was long chestnut hair hanging loose, a dark pant suit and a heels. A confident walk.
He’d let it go then but when he got down to street level again he spotted her in the bakery by the walkway through to the car park. Standing near the window, talking on a mobile. Watching the traffic go by. Waiting.
Lean, average height, minimal make up. Subtle jewellery. A crisp blue shirt under her jacket. Even in profile he could tell she was attractive.
Mike diverted, figuring he could always grab lunch on the way out to his inquiries. The wizened Chinese man behind the counter knew Mike by sight and acknowledged him with a nod and a smile. The man’s wife was working the coffee machine, and a couple of other customers were eating at one of the small Formica tables.
Mike grabbed a Mizone sports drink from the fridge, glancing at the woman as he did so. Their eyes met and she looked away quickly. He smiled to himself. His T-shirt was deliberately tight and his biceps were bulging. He'd done arms before work. The ladies loved the gun show.
He turned to the food cabinet and selected a chicken salad sandwich on Vogels. Behind the counter was a long mirror and he could see the woman watching him, her phone tucked away now.
He paid the man and turned to go, the barista calling out to the woman. The woman had already stepped up and Mike bumped into her, inhaling her perfume as he did so. It was strong and buttery and made his spidey senses tingle.
‘Sorry,’ he said with a smile. The gun show and a charming smile; a guaranteed winning combo.
She frowned at him. ‘Mind where you’re going,’ she said. She sidestepped him and he blinked.
Left with little option, he made an exit.
A minute later when the woman reached the red BMW she found a charcoal-grey double cab Ford Ranger parked across its rear. Mike was leaning against the truck, ankles and arms crossed, watching her approach.
She gave him the frown again. She was definitely attractive, mid to late thirties. Looked like a lawyer or some other high flier. Mike’s ex-wife Penny was a lawyer.
‘You’re going to have to move,’ she told him, bleeping the locks on the Beamer.
He shrugged. ‘Not really. You’re in my spot.’
Her frosty demeanour remained solid. ‘Sorry about that,’ she said. ‘Now would you mind moving?’
He shrugged again. ‘As it happens, I’m on the way out.’ He eyed her, noting the hand on the cocked hip and direct gaze. This was a woman used to getting her way.
‘Then I
’ll be following you out,’ she said. She smiled, showing even, white teeth. He liked her smile. She took a moment to look him up and down.
‘That’d be great. Everyone’s a winner.’ He used his head to indicate the sign on the wall in front of her car. The red lettering screamed a warning about being towed for parking without authorisation.
The woman glanced at it then back at him. She gave him coy. ‘Do you know, I didn’t even see that there?’
Mike chuckled. ‘I’m sure you didn’t, Miss…?’
It was her turn to chuckle. ‘Maybe we’ll run into each other again,’ she said.
Mike pushed off from the truck and opened the driver’s door. ‘Maybe.’ He paused, feeling suddenly self-conscious. ‘It’s Mike,’ he blurted.
The woman nodded and grinned. ‘That’s nice,’ she said.
He felt his cheeks redden, knowing she was playing him. He climbed into the truck. It was time to make tracks before he really embarrassed himself.
Eight
The compound was lit up and the gate was closed.
We walked it from all sides, staying on the opposite side of the road but trying to look as natural as possible. The neighbourhood was a mix of commercial and residential and I didn’t want someone calling the cops on the suspicious couple sloping around late on a Friday night.
Our car was parked a block away, tucked in amongst residents’ cars. We were casually dressed in jeans, jackets and sneakers.
I was tossing round the idea of going back up on the roof when a car approached at speed. We were back on the street where the gate was, about to complete the full 360. It was the only car we’d seen so far.
‘Be cool,’ I muttered to Molly, holding her hand in mine. Just a couple out for a Friday evening stroll, not a pair of crack private eyes on the job.
The car rocked past, braked hard and nosed up to the gate. It was a plain grey Mazda Demio, nothing flash but currently the most stolen car in Auckland. The driver tooted the horn and the gate slid open. We walked on by, engaged in a conversation of gibberish. Another car sounded behind us but I kept my eyes to the front. It was normal for car knockers to travel in convoy so there was always someone available to run interference on the cops if they got bumped.