by Ben Sanders
O’Dwyer didn’t come back to the car for him.
A female officer transferred him to another marked vehicle and drove him to a police station. He didn’t recognise the route. Night homogenised the view to a meaningless light show. Someone had traced the word PIGS with a finger against the glass. He sat and watched the letters appear and disappear, phased to passing streetlamps. Once or twice he saw the driver looking at him in the rear-view mirror, but she didn’t speak to him, and Sean pretended he didn’t notice her watching.
Now he’s sitting in a room with a grey-haired woman named Lynette, who has told him she’s a lawyer and that she has a little girl Sean’s age. Lynette repeats a lot of the questions O’Dwyer has already asked, and it takes a long time because she has to write everything down. When she’s finished she lays her pen on her paper and leaves the room briefly and when she returns she sits down and doesn’t say anything. She has a smile on her face though, and everything she does is very quiet and unrushed. It doesn’t feel uncomfortable being there with her.
The room is very plain. He and Lynette are next to each other at a circular table. The chair is too tall for him, and his feet don’t reach the floor. The carpet is hard and grey, like in a classroom. On the wall is a poster showing a mother hand-in-hand with two children. A policeman is crouched, talking to one of the children. Everyone is smiling. Sean thinks that most people who need to talk to the police wouldn’t look that happy.
The door has a little window with wire mesh in the glass, and he gets a glimpse of O’Dwyer, outside in the corridor. The top of the window only reaches his shoulder, and he has to stoop for a peep. Lynette gets up, still smiling, and steps outside to talk to him. She leaves the door ajar. O’Dwyer’s voice is deep, and he can hear a faint murmur when he speaks, like a sleep-talker in the next bedroom.
Then the door opens and they both walk in. Lynette sits down beside him and aims the smile at him for a short spell. O’Dwyer’s carrying a pad of paper, and also a cassette recorder. His jacket’s off and his shirtsleeves are rolled up. The sleeves are rolled neatly, but a wide tongue of shirt hem has escaped his pants, and his hair is still a mess.
He puts everything on the table and sits down. The pad slips off the top of the recorder and lands neatly in front of him.
‘How we doing, bud?’ he says.
‘Good.’
‘You sure you don’t need anything to eat? We can get you something to eat if you want. Or a Coke?’
‘I’m not really hungry.’
‘OK. That’s fine. Now, I’ve got a recorder thing here, so we can tape what we talk about. All right?’
‘Why do you need to tape it?’
O’Dwyer leans forward on folded arms. ‘When you get to be as old as I am, the things you put in your brain don’t tend to stay there too well.’ He winks, pats the recorder. ‘Pays to have a backup copy.’
Sean nods but doesn’t say anything. O’Dwyer turns the thing on and says ‘Testing …’, then winds the tape back and hits play. When he hears his own voice he rewinds a second time and presses Record. It looks like something he’s done many times, and Sean thinks this whole thing isn’t very exciting for him. He thinks it strange that someone’s idea of what’s normal could be shifted so greatly.
O’Dwyer states everyone’s names, then the date and time. He states the time to within a minute without looking at his watch. Then he reads aloud some things he’s written down on his pad.
O’Dwyer looks up. There’s a smile in place, but the man underneath looks tired. He looks like he’s had enough of today. He says, ‘I’m going to run through some questions with you, but before we get into that, is there anything at all you want to tell me, or ask me?’
The recorder makes a quiet rhythmic click as the tape spools reel-to-reel. Sean watches it and says, ‘Derren killed her.’
He knows it isn’t true. He knows the wife killed herself. But Derren needs to pay.
O’Dwyer’s face doesn’t change, but he runs a hand through his hair. Grey strands flatten, then spring to attention. Sean thinks O’Dwyer’s holding back a bigger reaction: he looks at Lynette, but they don’t say anything. Lynette’s notes are on a pad of lined paper, and she raises the first sheet and reads something on the second. She does this very quietly so the recorder won’t register the crackle. Sean wonders if the right sort of news would make her smile go away.
He says it again: ‘He killed her.’
It feels good. The thought that his actions have the power to influence Derren’s future. Instead of the other way around. He doesn’t think about hindsight, or about the weight of future guilt that could be ascribed to that simple claim. He just sits there, swinging his legs gently, hands jammed under his thighs, as O’Dwyer starts to ask his questions.
FORTY
THURSDAY, 16 FEBRUARY, 4.01 A.M.
Lloyd Bowen was never far out of the loop: fifteen minutes post-bloodshed and Devereaux took a call from him on his cell.
Bowen said, ‘Christ, twice in one week.’
‘I’m not happy about it either.’
‘Yeah, I’m sure.’
Devereaux didn’t answer.
Bowen said, ‘Stay there. I’m about twenty minutes away.’
Devereaux hung up on him. Instructions to stay put only made departure more compelling. He had McCarthy’s keys in his pocket. He walked across the road to the Camaro and got in. The creak of leather, some brass shells rolling loose in the passenger footwell. The spirit of the bastard alive and well. Devereaux started the car and drove away northbound, a dozen thoughts fighting for front and centre.
Empty streets: he barely had to lift his foot off the pedal all the way back to town. The city stark and regal ahead of him, neatly bejewelled by window lights. He wondered who else with blood on their hands passed unseen at that moment.
He drove the Camaro into the basement garage and left it in The Don’s slot. The night watch was still coming off shift. The lift was full of tired uniformed cops with thoughts of home. He merited some nods, but no hellos. He walked through to CIB. More empty coffee cups than people. He sorted through McCarthy’s keys until he found one that fitted his office door, and let himself in.
He flicked the light. Still and airless, like he’d taken the place by surprise. McCarthy must have visited since Devereaux had last been by: the room was scrupulously neat. No desk mess, just the computer, and the photographs.
He swung out the chair from behind the desk and sat down. The filing cabinet key was present in the bunch. The small size made it an easy find. He freed the lock and removed the file on the January thirty shooting. Quicker than a bent paperclip.
He sat at the desk and read. Fatigue fuzzed out the print. He could smell the gun smoke on his hands. More importantly: he could smell closure.
So close.
Endorphins kept him going. This is what he lived for: the rush of the final straight. That brief elation as he broke the tape.
McCarthy’s landline trilled at his elbow. He ignored it. At five a.m. he felt his own phone ring in his pocket. Don McCarthy’s name lit up the screen. He kept him waiting a half-dozen rings, and then he answered.
McCarthy said, ‘I don’t know what I’m going to do with you.’
He didn’t sound agitated. He sounded like the gears were meshing.
‘Did you call yourself an ambulance?’
‘No. I’m tougher than that.’
A long stretch of quiet on the line. McCarthy read something in it. ‘Oh, God,’ he said. It sounded almost gleeful. ‘Don’t tell me you killed him.’
A voice in his head piped up: we’ll see.
Devereaux said, ‘I won’t miss you.’
McCarthy didn’t answer.
Devereaux closed the file. He dropped it back in the cabinet and rolled shut the drawer. ‘You recognise that sound?’ he said.
McCarthy hung up on him. Devereaux stood in the middle of the room with his hands in his pockets, looking at the desk. After a moment he w
alked out and closed the door behind him.
He dozed at his desk. Far from comfortable, but he’d done it before. He was tired enough he could have slept standing. The cellphone woke him. He came awake like he’d been dropped, checked the time as he answered: six a.m.
John Hale said, ‘I’ve been arrested.’
‘What for?’
‘I beat up a client.’
‘Rowe?’
‘Yes. Him.’
Devereaux wanted to tell him about the shooting. He wanted to admit he’d almost killed another man, and that he feared he’d never forget it. He wanted to hear John Hale declare it a righteous deed, and say Don’t worry about it.
Hale said, ‘You still there?’
‘Yeah. Where are you?’
‘Auckland Central lock-up. You’re my phone call.’
‘I’m still in the building. I’ll come down.’
‘No, just stay on the line. I’ve got some stuff for you. You got a pen?’
‘Just talk.’
It was six-thirty when he left for McCarthy’s house. Daylight had arrived, but rush-hour traffic hadn’t. It took Devereaux less than fifteen minutes to get down there. The narrow streets; the houses high and hard-edged. The gleaming sedans nosing cautiously into the world.
He parked the Camaro on the street outside The Don’s house. He placed a quick call on his cellphone, then got out and knocked on the door. Footsteps on the internal staircase, and then McCarthy opened the door. He’d changed to a fresh suit. A long cut marred his forehead. Tissue paper plugged one nostril. His hair was shower-fresh. He stood there calmly and didn’t move aside.
‘Bit soon for round two, isn’t it?’
‘I wanted to bring the car back.’
‘All that hoo-ha about not hurting people and you go and shoot a man. Great irony.’
Devereaux tossed him the keys. They hit him in the chest and dropped, and he caught them one-handed without looking down.
Devereaux said, ‘I know what you did.’
FORTY-ONE
THURSDAY, 16 FEBRUARY, 6.58 A.M.
McCarthy took him upstairs. They went out onto the deck, rooftops and early sun dead ahead of them.
I know what you did. McCarthy hadn’t replied, and Devereaux didn’t push it. He waited to see what would happen.
McCarthy leaned and put his arms on the rail. ‘I don’t know why I’m so civil with you,’ he said. He took a peek over the edge. ‘Part of me wants to just toss you on the road.’
Devereaux didn’t reply. He wouldn’t have put it past him. He had his hip against the rail, arms folded, watching The Don in profile.
McCarthy said, ‘How does it feel to take someone’s life?’ A cruel smile. ‘Twice.’
‘He isn’t dead yet.’
‘He’s getting there; I round to whole numbers.’
He sounded like he knew the story. Bowen probably kept him apprised of salient bloodshed.
Devereaux said, ‘I had to do it.’
McCarthy shrugged. ‘Either way, people are hurt and dead, and it’s your fault. Hell of a sensation; you’re not ever going to forget it. You’ll dream about it for years. You’ll relive it incessantly and convince yourself you couldn’t have done any different, when in fact all you had to do was not pull the trigger.’
‘I had to do it.’
‘And I’m sure people will back you up. Then again, you can guarantee there’s some jaded son of a bitch out there who thinks you just outright wanted to kill people. And you’d better hope he’s not the one deciding whether or not you get to keep your job.’
Devereaux checked the time. He’d been in the house three minutes. ‘I’m not going to lose my job.’
McCarthy laughed. ‘Well. I hope you don’t. I think we’ve got the same blood in our veins.’
‘I’m nothing like you.’
McCarthy smiled. ‘Cling to that thought.’
Devereaux said, ‘I read the file work for the January shooting.’
McCarthy held him in the corner of an eye. ‘You can find out all kinds of things when you’ve got my keys on your side.’
Devereaux didn’t answer.
McCarthy said, ‘You could have just asked. I might have saved you some effort.’
‘What happened to confidentiality?’
McCarthy knuckled his nose plug. ‘It’s pointless now. It’s over.’
‘So talk.’
McCarthy was quiet a long time. He palmed something off the rail, dusted his hand on his shoulder. A car passed slowly on the street below them, white exhaust scurrying to keep pace. He said, ‘The shooting in January was tied in with the robberies. Long story short, one of the heist guys got cold feet and called for police protection. His colleagues got wind of it and killed everyone.’
A flashback to his stolen file, taken from McCarthy’s office: William Rankin, convicted armed robber, dead by shotgun. Police officers Ian Riley and Kyle Miller, granted the same hard farewell.
Devereaux said, ‘Who set up the protection?’
‘It was unofficial. The guy being watched was already a suspect in the robberies. He got in touch with a police contact and said he needed help.’
‘William Rankin.’
‘Yeah, Rankin. We pulled his phone records. January twenty-ninth, evening before the shooting, he placed a call to this guy Kyle Miller, who’d interviewed him back in October about the Savings and Loan robbery. Rankin called him, said he had information about the robberies, and that he needed protection. Miller obviously called this guy Riley and roped him in.’ He looked out across the street. Morning wearily climbing the stairs. ‘And then by sun-up they were all dead.’
Loose ends resolving: Doug Allen’s smashed downstairs window. Maybe Rankin had broken in, stolen Doug’s robbery takings, then demanded police backup. Doug gets wind of it, masterminds a retaliatory dawn raid.
Devereaux said, ‘Douglas confessed before I shot him.’
The Don’s eyebrows came up. ‘Dying breath?’
‘He’s still alive.’
‘He’s in limbo. I think his last words have probably been spoken.’
Devereaux didn’t answer.
McCarthy said, ‘What would yours be?’
‘Excuse me?’
‘What would your last words be? If you could choose.’
‘I don’t know. I think other people’s words are the ones that count.’
McCarthy was quiet a moment. He said, ‘What did Douglas tell you?’
‘He said he drove the getaway car on the morning of the shootings. I asked him who else was involved, and he said it didn’t matter because they’re all dead.’
‘He killed his own teammates?’
‘Apparently. I think he drove them somewhere and killed them.’
‘So where are they?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘You didn’t ask him.’
‘He didn’t tell me. But I’d guess somewhere along the line we’re going to find a burned-out car.’
‘With two very crisp passengers.’
‘Yeah. Something like that.’
McCarthy glanced at him. ‘Did he apologise?’
Devereaux paused. He didn’t want to divulge those last shared seconds in the motel. He didn’t know why. He couldn’t have explained why a good as dead criminal warranted discretion. ‘Does it make a difference?’
McCarthy shrugged. ‘I always wonder whether these people feel remorse.’
‘I think he feared imprisonment. Or death.’
McCarthy shook his head. ‘People fear the transition, not death itself.’
‘Well, whatever. I think he regretted what he’d done.’
McCarthy nodded slowly. ‘That’s nice.’
Devereaux didn’t reply.
McCarthy said, ‘I know you’ve got a gun on your right hip.’
‘Don’t forget about it.’
McCarthy stretched one leg behind him, like easing out cramp. ‘I might have opened the door and kicked you in t
he balls if you weren’t carrying.’ He kept his elbows on the rail. ‘But now we’re a metre apart, you couldn’t clear belt before I broke your nose.’
‘Let’s test the theory.’
The Don laughed. ‘You’d kill a respected policeman on his own deck? Jesus.’ He smiled to himself. ‘Three shootings in four days. It would have to be some sort of record.’
Devereaux fought the urge to back off. He said, ‘They didn’t recover any money from the house after the shooting.’
‘On the thirtieth?’ McCarthy nodded. ‘You’re quite correct.’
‘The file said you were first on scene.’
‘You’re two-for-two.’
‘The money from the bank jobs was in the house. You took it.’
McCarthy didn’t move. ‘I’d be careful about the claims you make.’
‘There was money in the house. The money was the whole point of the raid: Douglas wanted his cash back. He didn’t get it. He told me they couldn’t find it.’
‘We’ll never know for sure. He’s going to die.’
‘I think he was telling the truth.’
McCarthy shook his head. ‘Nobody trusts you. You’re shit. Your testimony’s worth nothing.’
Devereaux stepped things up: the trump card. He said, ‘I know you put out a contract. I know you asked Alan Rowe to investigate the fight club robbery.’
McCarthy didn’t reply.
Devereaux said, ‘Normally, this is the point people start denying.’
‘No law been broken; I’m not going to waste energy on a defence.’
‘You used stolen heist money to finance an unofficial investigation.’
McCarthy turned away from him, faced the street. Devereaux checked his watch again. Eight minutes inside. McCarthy said, ‘Every little piece of your life accrued to bring you to this moment. All you needed was a single different decision out of decades’ worth of choices and you could be somewhere else at this instant. But you’re not.’
‘So?’
‘Maybe there’s something malevolent nudging you towards a bad ending.’
‘I’ve dodged bad endings all week. I’d say something’s trying to nudge me towards a good one.’
