by C T Mitchell
“The dates don't match. Twelve weeks ago was when Jody and lover boy Nick were driving around Ballarat on business. Business my arse.” He raised his voice to be heard over Jody's sobbing. “You knew exactly what you were doing...or should I say who. Tell me, Jody, were you going to pass off the kid as mine or would you pressure Nick for money?”
“I'm sorry, I'm sorry,” was all Jody could say through her tears.
“Now you can't do either, you bitch. Lover boy is dead and I see through your games.”
Jody wiped her cheeks, smearing her mascara in the process.
“I confronted Nick the night of the party. I wanted to tell him that I knew Jody was pregnant and it might be his. I found him cleaning his golf clubs in the carpark of all things. The guy is running a multi-million dollar company into the ground and he's cleaning his precious golf clubs like he didn't have a care in the world. Narcissist prick,” Marco ripped out in a hateful, angry tone.
Jody swiped a hand across her makeup and tear-stained face again.
“He listened, but he didn't care what I said. He didn't care that he had ruined Jody’s and my life. I wanted him to listen. I needed him to understand exactly what he had done. So I got his attention. This would be the last life that scumbag Nick Turner would ever affect.”
Jack closed his eyes. He knew what was coming next. It was ironic that Marco thought Nick ruined both his and Jody’s life when, really, he did just fine with that all on his own.
“I grabbed a golf club and I swung it at him,” Marco continued. “A bloody Honma golf club, of all things, probably bought by Nick on his corporate credit card flushed with funds since he never paid his staff their superannuation.”
“I meant to only get his attention, maybe hit him in the knees and break his kneecap, or on the shoulder. But my aim was off. I didn't mean to kill him, but I definitely wanted to hurt him. I just wanted to get his attention. I just wanted to get his attention. He ruined my life!”
Jack opened his eyes. He felt sorry for Marco, but the law was the law and he needed to follow it. “Marco Rossi, you are under arrest for the murder of Nick Turner.”
EPILOGUE
Jack turned off the TV. Another day, another press conference poor Jo had to give a statement during. Better her than him, though. She had the kind of face made for TV.
“He's taking a plea deal, you know,” Jo said when she rejoined Jack at the police station. “I think the judge is going to take it easy on him. He's a first-time offender and with a pregnant girlfriend, if she’ll still have him. He doesn't exactly scream criminal mastermind.”
“What did I tell you about a crime of passion, Jo?”
Jo rolled her eyes. “I know, I know. Do you want me to actually say it? 'You're right, I'm wrong.' I just...I just feel bad for him, Jack. It's weird, isn't it? We spent all this time trying to crack the case, and when we do, we don't like the outcome.”
“It is what it is,” Jack said. “You'll get used to that someday.”
“So what next?” Jo asked.
“Go home. Take a break. Don't go looking for cases. They always have a way of finding us. For me, I’m off to see Melissa. It’s been too long.”
Jo smiled and gave Jack a nod of reassurance that not only was he a good dad, but also everything would be all right with Melissa.
DEAD STAKES
By
C T Mitchell
CHAPTER 1
Could I get an entrée with steamed dim sums, followed by sweet and sour pork, and a small fried rice? Jack said as he folded the menu and returned it to the waitress. Detective Jack Creed was spending another Saturday night without his family in Cabarita Beach, something he didn’t relish doing, but for the moment, couldn’t be changed. He was here doing a job while his family resided an hour away in Brisbane; a better place with better medical facilities for his daughter Melissa.
But knowing that didn’t ease the pain of missing them and the loneliness that sometimes engulfed him. Sitting back in his chair, back straight and legs comfortably crossed, Jack put on his best ‘I’m in control’ look for the surrounding diners. Traffic noise from the main street added to the vibe of the café as patrons filled the popular eatery.
Jack liked to sit outside, enjoying the cool night air and not be under scrutiny from some seven-year-old kid asking his mother why that old man was dining alone--inferring he had no friends. There was a good sprinkling of locals and tourists dining in tonight, but the young kid delivering takeaway orders seemed to be in overdrive as he regularly brushed past Jack on his way to feeding the masses, who preferred to stay in and devour their spring rolls in front of the telly.
Jack’s in-control look consisted of long gazes at his mobile phone, flicking through his emails, responding to updates on Facebook, and secretly hoping his phone would ring, preferably from his family. Jack was no big Facebook user, considering it to be a waste of time. His account only boasted 89 friends, many of who seemed to be nice when they connected, even if they were from Kazakhstan or the Philippines. Somehow those friendships never really seemed to develop especially when Jack told them he was a policeman and happily married. But Facebook was Melissa’s request to stay in touch and he happily obliged her.
Time was pressing on and Jack was feeling a bit peckish having missed lunch today. An hour had passed and still no dim sums. There’s only so much a 56-year-old guy can do on a mobile phone while trying to look comfortable. Behind Jack sat a couple; he in his late 40s, gelled hair creatively styled into a peak down the center of his scalp, a colorful paisley patterned, tight-fitting shirt and a pair of Italian loafers; no socks of course. Jack immediately thought wanker except for the Italian loafers which Jack himself was sometimes accustomed to wearing.
His dinner guest was a good 20 years younger, blonde, oozing an air of Chanel No. 5 and a look on her face that even made Paris Hilton look intelligent. Jack smiled thinking that it took all types to make the world go round.
Don Sauve calls the waitress over to his table greeting her with “Ni ho ma”, obviously trying to impress his friend and hoping this would ensure him some dessert back at his place later on.
“Sorry Sir. I’m from Cairns. I don’t speak Chinese,” the Asian waitress replied, looking a bit bewildered as to why this guy assumed she could speak the language just because she was Asian. His female friend raised her eyebrows, shrugged her shoulders and then buried her head back into the menu, hoping her flushed red cheeks, caused by embarrassment, would subside quickly. Jack subtly smiled, giving her some reassurance while confirming she was dining with a tosser.
Jack’s phone rang. His eyes dropped quickly hoping this was a call that would end his pretense that he was actually having a good night out at the Happy Chopstix Restaurant. His stomach growled reminding him that his entrée still had not arrived as he reached over to accept a call from Jo, guessing full well it would not be good, being 8:30 p.m.
“Feeling lonely?” Jack quipped as he raised the phone to his ear while carefully cupping the mouthpiece to drown out the road noise and the chatter of surrounding dinner patrons.
“Sounds like you’re out Jack. Not playing MasterChef at home tonight,” Jo fired back. “I think you'd better get over here. Got a guy who’s been chopped up with a meat cleaver, I’d guess. Hopefully you’ve eaten. This might be a long one. The forensic science team are on their way.”
CHAPTER 2
Jack hummed into the quiet suburban street, his ’67 Mustang announcing his arrival. The police panda car with its lights on flash indicated where the crime had occurred. Jack gazed at the locals who had gathered on the footpath; a barefoot guy, three-day growth comforting a short squat, five by five foot woman. She sported a pair of cow print pajamas under a fluffy dressing gown, and both were fixated with what was happening at the duplex at number eight. Jack guessed that the box wasn’t televising anything great tonight to have such a crowd on the street as he made his way to the front door.
Unhinging the handle on the
screen door, Jack made his way into the lounge to be confronted with the severely slashed body of an Asian gentleman lying in a pool of blood.
“Evening Jack. Our body is that of David Tan, a chef at the Happy Chopstix Restaurant. Forensics reckon by the blood splatters on the ceiling, he had been struck seven times.”
“That explains everything,” Jack replied while looking at the ceiling and only seeing six patterns. “I’ve been waiting for over an hour to get my entrée of steamed dim sums at the Happy Chopstix; they were obviously short-staffed tonight.” Pointing his finger to the ceiling he reminded Jo that there are only six blood patterns on the ceiling.
“The first strike draws blood but does not splatter. You need to add one more to get the exact number of blows,” Jo told Jack with a Cheshire grin, unable to hide her enthusiasm for getting one up on the boss. Jack stared back in disbelief knowing that Jo had probably been schooled up on this just a few minutes earlier. But she wasn’t letting on and he decided to let it slide.
*****
Jack and Jo moved to the adjoining duplex to question the elderly Chinese neighbors. Unlike the flat of the victim, their duplex was more homely with a dark redwood dining table, Asian styled chairs and a leather lounge. Asian paintings adorned the walls, and the ever-faithful rice cooker sat proudly on the kitchen benchtop. Guessing the couple were in their 80s, Jack already presumed this was going to be a tough assignment. Letting out a sigh as he and Jo sat on the sofa opposite, Jack tried to get a feel for the victim’s neighbor.
Jack spoke in some sort of broken English; very deliberate, emphasizing almost every word as if he was expecting that they didn’t speak a word of English. And he was right. The blank looks on their faces told him so--loud and clear. Jack hated this line of questioning and his frustration grew. Often gripping his hands to the point they went blood red, while biting his lip and looking around the room trying to pacify himself. Jack didn’t have a lot of patience at the best of times, and resented foreigners being in an English-speaking country like Australia and not being able to speak the language.
With his frustration growing, his voice raising and his remarks becoming more blunt, Jo stepped in trying to get a handle on the neighbor, hoping her female touch would make them feel more comfortable. Maybe secure enough that they might open up a little; albeit with just a few words of English. Realizing that a fellow sister was sinking, a female constable stepped in and uttered that the couple are the parents of Jackson Chan, the manager at the Happy Chopstix. She showed Jo a business card that the couple had given her earlier, dispelling all sense of genius that she was somehow fluent in Chinese. Jack felt relieved that not only were they getting somewhere but that he didn’t completely suck at interviewing foreigners. Jo was pleased that one of the girls had shown up the guys so far. Jackson Chan had been called to come to his parents' place and interpret.
But Jack’s impatience was growing. Pacing around a room waiting for Jackson was not in Jack’s demeanor. He wanted answers and he wanted them now. Summoning Jo to give up her futile attempt to get any answers from Mr. and Mrs. Chan, Jack hot-footed it out of the property, past a few wide-eyed gazers and headed straight to his car, keys at the ready.
“Let’s pay Mr. Jackson Chan a visit at the restaurant,” Jack huffed as he planted his foot giving the Mustang an almighty roar, oblivious to the neighbors trying to enjoy some peaceful quietness. Jo fumbled with her seat belt and tried to steady herself as Jack cornered the suburban street like a NASCAR racer. He headed back to the Happy Chopstix Restaurant, most likely fueled with bad memories of having to wait over an hour for his dinner earlier. The hunger pangs growling from his stomach added to those memories.
CHAPTER 3
Jack pulled up in front of the restaurant and strode in like a man possessed; his gate over a meter apart and his eyes firmly fixed on the front door. Knocking on the sliding glass door, a man appeared and waved Jack and Jo away. Thinking they were late night diners, only to feel a little embarrassed after the detectives pressed their ID cards against the glass.
“Sorry we are closed,” the man responded as he slightly opened the door; enough of an invitation for Jack to barge in with Jo in hot pursuit. Another man, slightly older, wearing a suit, white shirt unbuttoned at the neck and his tie loosened, welcomed Jack and Jo with “the manager said we are closed.”
Giving the man the stare of death, Jack announced he was looking for the manager, Jackson Chan. Showing his ID as he glared at the seated gentleman, the face of which Jack was somewhat familiar, having seen him in the local newspaper recently.
Jackson Chan identified himself, flicking his eyes from Jack back to the other gentleman, obviously a guy with authority in this restaurant. With his mouth slightly open and a startled look as to why the police were looking for him, made Jackson a little uneasy. He was hoping to get some reassurances from his boss, but the gentleman was keener to exert his authority over Jack Creed.
“I take it you are the owner of the Happy Chopstix, Mr.?” Jack said, waving his hand, palms open and an inquisitive look on his face.
“Yes I am Robert Foong and this is my restaurant, amongst other business interests both here and abroad.”
“Well Mr. Foong you are obstructing a police enquiry by keeping Mr. Chan here, and in this country which is an offense. When I call for a person who can help with my enquiries to come to a murder scene to assist me with my investigation, I expect the person to be there promptly. I don’t expect to have to come down to his place of work to get him,” Jack rolled out, in an authoritative and firm manner. Jo looked to Mr. Foong to see if this dog-pissing contest between Creed and Foong had Jack getting the upper hand.
Robert Foong never flinched. An international businessman running several casinos in Macau, London and Las Vegas was no pushover. He had come up against many Jack Creeds in his business dealings. To him this was sport, but Jack was an adversary worthy of Robert Foong’s respect.
Sensing the air was thinning between his boss and Detective Creed, Jackson chimed in with a somewhat nervous tone that David Tan was a well-liked employee.
“Clearly not the view of all people, Mr. Chan,” Jack retorted in a dry, if not sarcastic, tone as he escorted Jackson out of the restaurant back to his parents' duplex. “We need to know what your parents heard or saw tonight.”
CHAPTER 4
Jo got into the office early. She liked to get in early most days as it gave her time to think, to go over her case notes, all without Jack butting in every few moments pontificating his views on a case. She grabbed the forensic report on Mr. Tan, leaned back on her desk and carefully started reading through them while sipping a cappuccino, crafted by Matt; a late 20’s, easy-on-the-eyes barista, at the nearby café.
But her peace and tranquility were soon broken with a familiar clack of shoe leather coming down the hall. It was Jack looking pleased with himself that he made it into the station before nine a.m. Dropping his car keys on the desk, he turned and asked for an update on the dead chef.
“The forensic report doesn’t give us a lot more than what we learned last night. Mr. Tan was butchered with a meat cleaver, struck about seven times, causing death. And Jackson wasn’t able to get much out of his parents,” Jo responded in an unenthusiastic but not overly surprised manner.
“It’s called closed shop, Jo. A practice often carried out by ethnic groups when gweilos, that’s white people, like us, get involved in incidents like this.” Jack smarted, showing his frustration in dealing with people who did not speak English. “Are there any prints in the flat?”
“No everything seems to have been wiped clean. But of course we do have these prints we picked up off the coffee table of the Oriental Casino in Macau, the Cabarita Sails Caravan Park, and some sort of a family photo including the victim and a woman holding a baby,” Jo replied.
Their moment of focus was broken by an incoming call from Chief Superintendent O’Halloran summoning Jack to his office. “Wonder what I’ve done this tim
e?” Jack let slide out as he hot-footed it out of the office, down the hallway and up a flight of stairs. The risers creaking as he took them two at a time, to the chief super’s office. The corner office, as Jack referred to it, had the best views in the building, across Marine Parade, through the park and on to the ocean. Anybody occupying such an office would be hard-pressed to do any work with such a distracting view. And the chief super definitely fitted into Jack’s thought scenario; even without a view to distract him.
Jack opened the door and walked with confidence up to the seated chief super’s desk announcing his arrival with “You wanted to see me, sir?”
“Yes Jack. I hear you’ve been upsetting important people in this town again. Don’t you know who Robert Foong is, man?” O’Halloran grumped while giving Jack a look of disdain. He’s investing millions into getting a casino here in the region which will create thousands of jobs for the local community. And you, in typical Jack Creed style, are doing your very best to piss the man off.”
“Yes of course I know who he is but I’m not about to stroke his ego. Casinos are not my idea of entertainment, sir. There are many broken families who have lost everything to gambling,” Jack snarled.
O’Halloran read from a local magazine while allowing Creed’s speech to wash over his head, interrupted by announcing Mr. Foong was an active member of the Chamber of Commerce. He is also a recipient of an OBE, citing it is not easy for a Malaysian-born businessman to receive such an honor.
“And you knew all that and still pretended to not know his name. Sometimes Creed, you are your own worst enemy.”