Redemption Point

by Candice Fox

  When the second hand came around to the end of my two hours, Jett got out of his seat. He scooped Lillian up off the floor before me just as the minute hand clicked into place.

  Everyone prepared to leave, Linda and Sharon taking last longing looks at the toy box in the corner. Kelly sidled up to me. I thought she was going to say goodbye.

  “That girl you work with now,” she said instead. “Amanda Pharrell. The killer.”

  “What about her?”

  “What’s she like?” Kelly searched my eyes.

  “Amanda is a wonderful person,” I said, finding myself in my cop pose again, shoulders back, chin high. “She’s a very good partner. An absolute crack investigator. A very good friend.”

  “Oh,” Kelly said. “You’re friends, then.”

  I dropped my shoulders, confused. Was Kelly asking me if my “killer” friend was dangerous? Or was she asking if we had feelings for each other? What the hell did that mean? I looked at my wife, trying to make sense of her now, a woman who I’d thought had completely reassembled her broken life after me. She had a male friend who she obviously trained with, who she seemed to keep close enough company with that our daughter was quite happy to be picked up by him, lugged around on his hip. Why did she give a damn about the women in my life?

  “We’ve gotta go, Kel,” Jett said, coming close to us. I took a chance and reached up, patted Lillian’s warm head, tugged on her velvety soft ear, the way I used to when I was the only man who could hold her without upsetting her.

  “See you next time, Boo-Boo,” I told her. “I love you.”

  Lillian let go of Jett’s collar and put an arm out to me. Jett took a step back. I felt my teeth lock.

  “Let her go,” Kelly told him. “She wants to go to him.”

  Jett’s neck and jaw flushed red, a blossoming rage color creeping up around his cheeks. He let Lillian lean out. I took her into my arms.

  “Oh, my baby,” I found myself saying. I turned away from them. From confusing Kelly and her fury-filled boyfriend and the stares of the FACS women. I walked to the window and held Lillian, trying hard not to squeeze the air out of her. “My baby. My baby. My baby.”

  I stood there, faced away from them all, feeling her tiny arms around my neck, her chin on my shoulder. I rocked her. Smelled her. Cradled her head in my big hand and tried hard to hold on to the thrilling sensation that perhaps when I turned back around we wouldn’t be in a stale office in an ugly building, surrounded by hostile faces. That perhaps when I turned back around, I’d find I’d been standing at the living room window of my home the whole time, looking out on the yard, my happy baby in my arms, my loving wife at my back, alone.

  “I love you, Lil,” I told my child. Her fingers were in my hair, playing with a curl at the nape of my neck.

  “I love you, Daddy,” she said.

  * * *

  In the elevator, riding toward the ground, Linda and Sharon at my back, I wiped the tears that were falling safely now that the doors had closed on my family. Soundlessly, discreetly, so the two monsters accompanying me wouldn’t be tempted to make fun. I was surprised when Linda spoke, his voice high above me, deep, like the growl of a god.

  “You want us to crush that guy?” he said.

  “What?” I turned briefly. “Who?”

  “That faggot with the eyebrows,” Sharon said.

  “Wha—No, I—No, I don’t want you to … to crush him.” I cleared my throat. “But thanks for the offer. Really.”

  One of them gave a disappointed sigh.

  Pip Sweeney had seen many households in crisis. She knew the signs. All usual maintenance activities were arrested immediately. Dishes piled up in the sink. Plants sagged in their pots, thirsty. Dogs wandered aimlessly between the people squeezed into every conceivable corner, confused by the universal sadness, the occasional flicker of rage. When she arrived at Michael Bell’s home in Redlynch, the scene beyond the rickety screen door was exactly as she expected it. The kitchen to the right of the small living room was acting as a base camp for a young woman hiccupping with desperate tears and two plump, middle-aged companions, maybe her mother and aunt, trying to rub and smooth the distress from her. There were pizza boxes on the corner of the counter, hasty sustenance that would soon delight a trail of ants creeping in from the window frame. A peace lily on the windowsill beginning to wilt, its long green spears slowly turning south. It was surprising how a dozen hours of grief could trash a place, leave the aftermath of a party that never happened. People wandered through, treating themselves to coffee, food, beer, bringing with them the supplies they thought a father would need as he progressed through the horror of losing a child. Takeout containers of leftovers beside the overstuffed fridge. Bags of bread. Pamphlets for counselors and psychologists. No one opened the front door for her, she simply walked in. The ritual of knocking and waiting to be permitted was abandoned in the case of a death—all doors to the house opened, all privacy washed away. If news of a death could not be contained, then there seemed no point in containing anything within the household.

  To her left, Andrew’s bedroom door stood open, tossed for evidence by detectives she had sent over hours after the death notice. Sweeney glimpsed tangled sheets, a Sepultura poster on the wall—skulls and torn flesh. It was an unopened packet of cigarettes on the cluttered desk that caught her eye. Andrew would never smoke them. The simple fact of his having bought and left them there seemed desperately unfair. He had not known in that moment, handing over the cash, taking the small box, that his last hours were ticking by. Becoming mere minutes. Seconds to the end.

  She paused inside the front door and hugged her folder of papers to her chest, briefly filed through what aspects of the investigation were already in action. She had officers reviewing traffic cameras to see exactly which vehicles had been on the highway near the Barking Frog in both directions, chasing down those drivers, receiving explanations for where they were going at such an ungodly hour and checking those explanations. The forensic examination of the crime scene was well underway, and all the samples taken from the bar would be rushed through analysis—there would be a team of specialists to separate out biological matter from what was collected and try to connect that matter to people who had reasons for being in the bar, particularly in the back kitchen area where the murders had taken place. There were an extraordinary number of samples to be taken. Sweeney had assigned officers to take DNA samples from every employee at the bar, including the owner, Claudia Flannery, and any maintenance or delivery personnel who might have walked through the kitchen area in the course of their duties. Then there were the friends and lovers of the staff who might have hung out in the kitchen area during the evening while the boss was away, young people coming through to grab a free snack and a chat.

  She had assigned officers to the analysis of the bloody footprints found at the crime scene, in order to obtain the type of shoe worn by the assailant, the size, any interesting foreign material transferred from the sole of the shoe to the kitchen tiles as the killer walked through. Her phone bleeped as she was about to walk forward into the Bell family living room—a constable reporting that they had visited the house directly behind the bar and found the old lady there was the only one home the night before and that there was nothing unusual to report.

  In the living room, Michael Bell sat in silence, surrounded by the hairy, burly kinds of men who could only be brothers or workmates. There were beers everywhere. In hands. On the carpet. Being used to drown cigarettes. People stopped speaking as Sweeney entered. She cleared her throat, standing by the end of the couch, snapping the grieving father from his daydream.

  “Mr. Bell?” she said, straightening the front of her crisp white shirt, a garment she’d bought as part of a suit for her first day out of uniform.

  “What’s happening?” the heavy man on the couch looked up, anxious, mouth downturned. “Did you catch him?”

  “Not yet,” Pip said. “But we will. May I sit down? I’d like
to ask you a few quest—”

  The screen door of the house slapped open, startling the men around her. She felt her heart sinking as she recognized the familiar squeak of sneakers on the floorboards.

  “I’m here!” Amanda announced triumphantly, throwing her tattooed arms up as she reached the end of the hall. “Don’t panic, everyone. I’ve arrived.”

  “What the fuck have you been doing?” Michael twisted, watched Amanda stride through the living room. “You haven’t been answering your phone.”

  “Oh, mate, I’ve been running around like a mad chook,” Amanda puffed. “Making calls, chasing up leads. You’re way down the list. My last priority. I assume if you had any good ideas you’d have told me when you hired me.”

  Michael and Sweeney watched her, speechless.

  “What the fuck have you been doing?” Amanda looked around the room, the mess on the counters. The washing basket at the foot of the couch, full of clothes that looked fresh from the dryer. “This place is trashed! It’s a disgrace! My god, it’s like a bomb hit!”

  No one spoke. Sweeney felt sweat running down her ribcage inside her pristine shirt. Amanda dropped to the floor beside the washing basket and plucked out a pair of boxer shorts, folded it neatly into quarters and placed it on the carpet beside her. The men nearest her exchanged looks.

  Sweeney took Michael hesitantly through what was being done on the police side of investigations, watching Amanda folding and stacking the clothes, pairing socks. Michael listened, his jaw set.

  “I have to ask you about Andrew’s mother.” She looked at her notes. “One Silvia Bell? We haven’t had any luck finding a current phone number or address.”

  “She’s probably not a Bell anymore.” Michael waved dismissively. “Good luck finding her. I haven’t seen her in seven or eight years. She ran off with some arsehole from down south.”

  “Jeez, you’re not having much luck, are you?” Amanda snorted from the floor, folding a T-shirt. “Dad dead, son dead, wife run off with a southerner. You’re cursed, mate.”

  “Hey.” One of the men nearby frowned at Amanda. “Take it down a notch.”

  “Can we talk about the weeks leading up to Andrew’s passing?” Sweeney interjected. “Did he tell you about any problems he was having? People who might have wished him harm?”

  “Andrew was a good kid.” Michael glanced around menacingly, in case any of his cohorts decided to challenge the notion. “He had a few rough mates, but everyone does. Some of his friends were into the drugs’n that. But not Andy. Not in this house. His bedroom is the front one there, so I have to pass it every time I come in, and every time I go out. Nothin’ but cigarette smoke and bad music has ever come outta that room.”

  “The autopsy will probably show that,” Amanda said. “They’ll do a tox report.”

  “Amanda, please,” Sweeney sighed.

  “What?”

  “What about…” Sweeney turned her body toward Michael, tried to keep her breathing even. “I understand that, um … As Amanda mentioned, your father…”

  “See?” Michael was suddenly red-faced, giving dangerous eyes to the men nearby. “Not twelve hours in and they’re already onto it. The biker connection. Yes. My father was a patched member of Los Diablos, okay? And you fucks in blue didn’t do a thing about his being knocked off by some Malo Sicario boys.”

  “I thought you said they were Satan’s Saints,” Amanda said.

  “Malo Sicario!” Michael snapped.

  “Sorry.” Amanda returned pleasantly to her folding. “Sometimes I don’t listen.”

  “I’ve been legit my whole life.” Michael fixed his eyes on Sweeney. “I told the cops this morning in the official interview. I’m telling you again. I do not, and have never had, anything to do with bikers.”

  “You look like a biker,” Amanda said. Michael reeled around to face her. “What? You’ve got the body for it. Big chest, thick arms. You look like you’ve been in a few pub brawls. That nose is flat as a pancake.”

  “I drive trucks,” Michael Bell growled. “I don’t own a bike, have never owned a bike. My criminal record speaks for itself. Yes, I’ve been in a few pub fights. But I’m legit. Andy was legit. We’re all legit.” He motioned to the men around the room.

  “What about the pub,” Sweeney said. “Did Andrew enjoy working there?”

  “He had other things in mind for the future but he seemed to like it fine.”

  “I bet he loved it,” Amanda chipped in, folding a shirt on her lap. “Free booze. Free staff meals. Working side by side with your sexy chicky babe? Who wouldn’t love that?”

  “No.” Michael cleared his throat, the big, angry men suddenly uncomfortable. “Stephanie in the kitchen there is Andrew’s girlfriend.” He gestured to the girl with the eyes puffed from crying, still being patted by her companions.

  “I’m his girlfriend,” Stephanie confirmed, tapping her chest, the women comforting her looking very nervous at her side. She was on the edge. Sweeney felt a pull, a restless desire to go to the girl, to wipe a hand over her tear-stained cheeks. Amanda’s voice broke through the fantasy like a car horn.

  “You were a girlfriend,” Amanda corrected, a finger in the air. “Keema was seeing Andrew also. That makes two girlfriends.” She raised a second finger.

  “What?” Stephanie burst forth, stopped short by the kitchen bench that announced the start of the tiny living room. She seemed to hesitate, not committed to walking around it to confront the investigator on the floor. “What are you talking about?”

  “Amanda,” Sweeney warned.

  “Oh, Schweppes! Should this have come out later?” Amanda grimaced at Sweeney. “Were you guys holding that information back?”

  “We don’t have any information about—”

  “Holding what back?” Stephanie pushed at her sweat-slick hair. Her neck was reddening. “There’s … There’s nothing—”

  “Andrew was sleeping with Keema.” Amanda shrugged. “It likely has nothing to do with the murders. I assumed you knew, Sweens. I assumed you all knew. Did you not know? I mean, it’s so obvious.” She looked around the circle of men, every face turned toward her, some darkening with skepticism, insult. Others confused, curious. “I mean, the cars. The necklace.”

  “What are you talking about, Amanda?” Sweeney snapped. Her patience was gone.

  “I’m gonna lose it.” Stephanie’s chin was trembling. “I’m just—I can’t.”

  “Let me explain, for everybody who’s apparently had their heads stuffed in the sand.” Amanda rolled her eyes. She reached into her back pocket, glanced at the notebook she extracted. “Keema’s British, right? She hasn’t been in Cairns very long. Four weeks. She arrived in Sydney, stayed there for two weeks. She did two weeks in Byron, two in Brisbane and then she settled here. For a month. Must have liked the weather.”

  “Would you get to the point?” Stephanie inched nearer, her fingers closed into fists.

  “When she died,” Amanda continued cautiously, “Keema was wearing an opal necklace. It’s in evidence now. It was a hell of a necklace. Not the dodgy little opals you get in those little clear plastic boxes in the tourist shops. The cheap ones. This was a biggie, and the setting and the chain were genuine. Real deal. Authentico. What does it mean? It means she was sleeping with Andrew.”

  “What the fuck?” Michael growled at Sweeney. Amanda was building momentum, almost rambling, her words slurring together, fast as machine-gun fire.

  “It’s an expensive necklace. You don’t bring it over from England. Not when you know you’re probably going to spend most of your travels in backpacker lodges, leaving your shit around for anyone to pick through while you go to the shower or go out for the night. Not when you know you’ll likely be picking fruit on big farms, or working a stop ’n’ go sign at the roadside for cash while you get around the big Down Under. She got the necklace here in Australia.” Amanda drew a long breath. “It was given to her here. By someone who didn’t foresee her picking fr
uit and working at the roadside and staying in crappy hostels. By someone who thought, or hoped, she’d stay in town. Which she did. For four weeks. Double the time she spent in any of her other stops around the country.”

  “This is all bullshit,” one of the men said. “This is—”

  “You don’t wear a big-arse rock like that to work,” Amanda continued, folding shorts and shirts, stacking them and pushing on their flattened surfaces like she was trying to stamp down creases in cardboard. “Not when you’re leaning over bins, changing them and lining them, the pendant dangling down, threatening to be lost in all that junk. Not while you’re wearing a pair of faded black jeans and a Kmart T-shirt, an outfit that will be soaked in beer and reek of cigarette smoke by the end of the night, a functional outfit strikingly ill-matched to your big fat expensive necklace. You’d only wear a rock like that to work because you knew you’d see the guy who gave it to you there, and you didn’t want him to think you didn’t like it.”

  “Some customer could have given it to her,” a man by the hall said.

  “Nope,” Amanda said.

  “Why not?”

  “Because it was an opal,” Amanda said. “Not a diamond. Not a pearl. Not—”

  Stephanie stormed out of the room, ripping herself from the hands of the women in the kitchen as she went. There were filthy glares among the curious glances now, everyone in the room besides Michael Bell trying to stare Amanda down. Michael Bell looked curious. Thoughtful. No one spoke. Sweeney stood and gestured for Amanda to follow her out.