‘Nah. Austin’s a good bloke, far as I can tell. He’s been hit as hard as anyone by this tragedy.’
‘We’ve heard rumours the wife was sleeping with one of the players,’ Taylor sniffed the Scotch before taking an exploratory sip. Nice one, thought Jack. There had been no rumours, only their own speculation.
‘You can’t be serious? She worshipped the ground Dale walked on. She’d be the least likely to stray with a player.’
‘You sure?’ Taylor pressed. ‘She got all hot and bothered when we mentioned Leroy Costa. And he’d have a huge incentive to kill Dale. Anger. I can only imagine the frustration the lad must feel having to wait for his Lakers contract.’
Parata pursed his lips. ‘Listen, this is just between us, off the record, OK?’
Jack sensed it would be worth being sneaky to get what was coming next. He and Taylor were cops, not journalists – all information received was potential evidence. Jack selected his words carefully, implying agreement with Parata’s terms while not actually giving it. ‘Off the record. What is it?’
‘Gomez has no idea, nor does anyone but me and Leroy. The Lakers have already paid him a ton of money. He signed a pre-contract contract, if you will. He’s agreed to ignore all other offers and join the Lakers when he’s able. That could be at the end of this season if we win the championship, or after three years when his contract with the Scorpions expires. So no, Leroy’s not as pissed off as you might expect.’
‘How much did they pay to lock him in?’
Whisky swirled in Parata’s glass. ‘Now that’s something I’m not prepared to tell you. Suffice it to say, you can scratch Leroy from your list of suspects. I’d bet anything on it.’
‘We’re eliminating no one at this stage. I may request a warrant to see that contract.’
Parata shrugged. ‘Go ahead. As long as Gomez doesn’t hear I told you about it.’
‘You’ve forgotten what I said before.’
‘What’s that?’
‘We play by my rules. So I’m going to ask you again, how much did the Lakers pay?’
‘Three million up front. A mill for each year of his contract. And that’s peanuts compared to what he’ll earn once he joins the NBA.’
‘Incredible,’ said Taylor. ‘In the meantime he could sustain a career-ending injury and the Lakers are suddenly three million dollars out of pocket.’
‘It’s a risk they’re prepared to take, apparently. Go figure.’ Parata poured himself another measure of Scotch.
Jack knew Parata was right about Leroy lacking financial motive. Not a romantic one, though. That line of inquiry would need to be pursued by questioning Leroy himself, maybe getting Taylor to win Fil’s confidence and get her to confess to an affair. Time for another angle. ‘What about past players? Ones who got cut or fired or transferred or whatever? Maybe one felt hard done by, held a grudge against the coach and finally snapped?’
A wrinkled brow told Jack the idea was registering in Parata’s brain through the fog of booze. ‘We’ve had a couple of hundred players since the club started, it’d be a lot of work going through them all.’
‘Would they be on that list you provided me?’
‘No. You only wanted the current list.’
‘My bad. Let’s be updating it then, hey? Since Collins took over as coach.’
Parata repeated the process with the flash drive, handed it back. ‘You sure you don’t want the roster going back to the 1980s?’
‘No need to be cheeky, sunshine. Just one more thing before we get out of your hair’
‘What now?’ Frustration increased the volume of Parata’s voice.
‘Did Collins have a computer here at headquarters?’
‘Sure, it’ll be in his office.’
‘Mind if we borrow it?’
‘I was going to pack everything up and send it to Fil.’
‘You do that. I’ll return the computer to her personally.’
Parata fetched a laptop from an adjoining room, handed it to Jack. ‘Here. I don’t know the passwords or anything like that.’
Jack laughed. ‘I’m sure that’ll present no obstacle.’
‘I guess not.’ Parata flashed a mildly inebriated smile. ‘Hey, I think I heard a car horn. Please, let me see you out.’
Jack raised the whisky glass to his lips, felt the burn of alcohol on his lips. Drink it or not? He placed it back on the table, stood and shrugged on his jacket. ‘Enjoy the party. We’ll be in touch.’
Chapter 12
‘How was your Sunday, DC Taylor?’ Jack grinned inanely. ‘Rest up for the tough week ahead?’ He pitched for nonchalance, feared it came out as desperate.
‘Not really.’ Taylor’s tone was curt. ‘I’ve been busy.’
Here’s trouble.
Jack’s forearm descended like the mechanism at a tenpin bowling alley, cleared a swathe through the pile of detritus littering his desk. In the middle was a packet of aspirin. He popped one and sluiced it down with water from a plastic cup.
‘Ah, yeah, me too,’ Jack lied. The merest touch of the Kiwi’s whisky on his lips on Saturday night had set off a train of events he’d rather forget. Which wouldn’t be difficult – he could barely remember the bender. He’d dumped his car at home after dropping off Taylor, cabbed it to the crowded Pelican Pub on the Esplanade and slammed down a flight of shots. That was followed by a failed attempt to summon Denise Hutchinson on a booty call. She told him to get fucked. Then more booze and some inane chat with Dave the barman while the Scorpions’ thrilling victory replayed on TV. A handful of the players were there, letting their hair down, but Jack decided he was too inebriated to question any of them without making a fool of himself. Finally, around 1:00am, common sense miraculously overrode the urge to continue and he went home and crashed. A few months with no alcohol intake had lowered his resistance. The amount consumed was tiny compared to the old days. All considered, that was probably a good thing.
But that wasn’t his biggest mistake. The absolute howler was the next morning, the dumb idea a “hair of the dog” would help. When he should have been hitting the heavy bag, jogging, reading the damned files, sobering up, he’d driven to the pub – probably still over the limit – and purchased a box of beer. He’d steadily put away twelve cans of lager between lunchtime, when he’d awoken from Saturday night’s frolics, until he passed out on the couch five minutes before midnight.
‘I’m guessing you spent your busy day sitting with an ice-bag on your head if your pasty skin and blood-shot eyes are anything to go by,’ said Taylor.
‘I, ah…geez…’
‘Batista called me first thing Sunday morning. After trying your number several times first, I might add. In case you’d forgotten, we’ve got a serious matter on our hands.’
‘He knows I don’t always pick up the phone on my day off.’ Jack had seen the calls coming in, a couple of texts, but chose not to answer. He would have been barely coherent considering the amount he’d drunk.
‘Wow, Jack. I’m not sure that’s the attitude to have while we’re investigating a murder. And not just any old murder. The murder of a beloved member of the community.’
‘It’s only supposition at this point,’ he snapped.
Taylor’s eyebrows shot up. ‘Are you for real? You’re the one who pushed like mad for the homicide classification. What’s gotten into you?’
‘Look, I’m sorry, OK?’ His response was a little too loud. Other officers turned in their seats. He lowered his voice. ‘I just wasn’t in the right frame of mind for contemplating police work yesterday, fair enough?’
She shook her head. ‘Batista said he wanted to see rapid progress on this. He stuck around after the game Saturday night and spoke with Gomez.’
‘Bloody hell. That’ll be a waste of time. Once Gomez meets that miserable sod of a son, he won’t be inclined to give the lad a try out.’
Taylor flashed an amused smile, quickly reapplied her serious mien. ‘The upshot of their meeti
ng was that Gomez said he’d give Jordan a trial if we put out a public call for information. He’s prepared to stump up cash for a reward if we can’t solve the mystery ourselves. He set a timeline of the grand final playoffs.’
‘Bloody hell. We were embarrassed by that businessman offering a reward last year ‘cos he thought we weren’t up to the job. Batista won’t want a repeat of that.’
‘Correct. So yesterday, which was also my day off, by the way, I wrote and sent out a press release. I take it you’ve seen the media coverage, especially since you had all day to lounge around and watch TV.’
Jack shook his head. ‘I leave the telly off over the weekend. And I only read the papers after I get into the office, so you can hardly blame me for missing that.’
She pushed a copy of the Yorkville Times across the table, turned it around and tapped the headline. POLICE TURN TO THE PUBLIC FOR HELP.
‘Excellent work.’ A warm flush coursed through his cheeks. He’d been feeling maudlin while Taylor had been doing the hard graft.
‘There’s already been announcements on the radio and TV conveying the same information with more scheduled for tonight.’
‘You know if there’s been any response yet?’ Please let there have been a response. A close-up photo of the murderous driver would be perfect.
‘Zilch.’ It wasn’t Taylor who answered. The unhappy voice belonged to Batista, standing right behind Jack. ‘Apart from Gomez making good on his promise to me. Jordan will get to train with the Scorpions at the start of next season.’
‘Crikey, boss, you scared the crap out of me. How long had he been there? And, ah, well done with your lad ‘n that.’ Being police chief did carry some weight after all, it seemed.
‘Jack, I’m disappointed you decided to go AWOL on the weekend with so much happening.’
‘But, sir,’ Jack scrambled to formulate a defence. ‘It was my day off.’
‘I don’t give a fuck! The chief’s nose twitched. ‘If you ever blank me like you did yesterday, you’ll be sent back to Brisbane to pound the streets in uniform. If you’re lucky.’
‘Sorry, I–’
‘Save it. Get your head together, DS Lisbon. You’re better than this.’
Batista gritted his teeth and marched back to his glassed-in enclosure at the end of the open-plan office. Shut the door and closed the blinds.
‘Bloody hell.’ Jack popped a Nicorette and started munching frantically. ‘Has he forgotten all the good things I’ve achieved under his watch?’
‘Of course not. You’ve set the bar high for yourself. He expects you firing on all cylinders all the time. Look at yourself, Jack. You’re a bloody mess today.’
‘At least I made it into the office.’
‘Yes,’ she sighed. ‘You did. Are you ready to go through the printouts of the player files the charming Mr Parata gave us? I take it you at least had the brains to familiarise yourself with the player and staff profiles.’
‘Yeah.’
‘Really?’ One eye half closed and a head tilt from Taylor. ‘Who are the standout suspects from the list?’
A small plastic bottle of lemon-flavoured mineral water materialised on Jack’s desk. He despatched the contents down his neck and disposed of the empty bottle with the adroitness of a stage magician. The relief was instant on a parched throat, the shame would endure a while. ‘Christ, I needed that.’ The back of his hand drew across rough lips scarred from a hundred boxing cuts. He tried to suppress a burp. Failed. ‘Pardon me. Sorry, what did you say?’
‘Jesus, Jack. There’s enough fumes coming out of you to launch a space shuttle. What exactly did you get up to?’
All attempts to mask his folly had been in vain. He’d squeezed nearly a whole tube of Visine into his eyes to eliminate redness, chewed hot mints since he awoke, applied a good layer of moisturiser. Surely he didn’t look like a recovering alkie who’d tumbled from the wagon and caught his head in the spokes on the way down. He checked his reflection off the computer monitor. It was the hair, sticking up in all directions. He looked like his teenage idol, Johnny Rotten from the Sex Pistols, snarl intact but minus a paperclip through the septum.
‘I won’t go into the sordid details, but I had a little stumble along the path of righteousness.’ No point denying the obvious. ‘But I’ve learned my lesson, OK?’
‘Sure. So you haven’t been through the files at all?’
‘I didn’t say that.’ Somehow, over a meagre breakfast comprised of strong black coffee and deep breathing exercises, Jack read and digested some basic information. Knowing Taylor as he did, between them they might have a good handle on the squads, past and present. ‘I concentrated on the current list.’
‘Yeah?’ A narrowed eye of suspicion.
She doesn’t think I read any of it. ‘Because most of the previous players have moved on. It’s a transient business, innit?’ The truth was, it was a vastly shorter list, but he wasn’t admitting that. ‘They do a season with one team, a season with another. Then they’re tossed aside like yesterday’s paper.’ He picked up the Yorkville Times and shook it.
‘True, but there are four ex-players I’ve identified since Collins took over who are still in Yorkville.’
‘Terrific. But what’s to say the killer’s not a disgruntled player from five years ago? A bloke who harboured a deep grudge, organised the hit from his cosy home in, I dunno, New Zealand or New York for all we know.’
Taylor frowned. ‘For a man with a nasty hangover he’s trying to hide but failing badly, you actually have a decent point there.’
Jack grinned smugly. ‘Thank you. Besides, the list of ex-players who’ve departed the Deep North is too big for us to track ‘em all down.’
‘For you and me, yes. Let’s ask Batista to get Wilson and some of the uniforms onto it. Make some phone calls around the country and overseas.’
Jack nodded, stretched his arms wide and yawned.
‘Not boring you, am I?’ Taylor snapped. ‘Only I’d hate to be wasting your valuable time.’
‘Oh, no. I slept like a bastard last night. Tossing and turning. Worried about whether the present I mailed to Skye will get there on time for Christmas.’ He hadn’t sent anything yet, and time was ticking. Damn your selfishness, Lisbon.
‘Hmm.’ Taylor’s brow furrowed as she pulled a chair up next to Jack. ‘Let’s take a look at the list I’ve printed out. We can go over the current players together, see what jumps out at us.’
The woman was pushy sometimes, but something burned inside him when she was close to him. Something he liked, even when she was tetchy. ‘Sure. How many are there again?’
‘The current squad comprises thirteen players.’
‘You got that piece of paper? Let’s see who we’re dealing with.’
Taylor placed the A4 page in front of Jack. Three of the names were highlighted in yellow. The act of reading made his eyes hurt. ‘Why the highlighting? Are they the most suspicious in your opinion?’
‘No. I get why you say that, since Costa’s among those names. Actually, they’re the American imports. Costa, Daryl Billson and Jon Rosen. The league only allows three per team. It’ll be easiest to interview them first.’
‘Why?’
‘They share a house. Common heritage and all that.’
Jack nodded. ‘I thought I noticed another two African Americans on the court Saturday night. What’s the deal with that?’
‘You’re half right. One is Ramble Strummer. His dad is Calvin Strummer.’
Jack turned his palms upward, gave a sarcastic mini head wobble. ‘And?’
‘Oh dear, don’t tell me you haven’t heard of Calvin Strummer?’
‘I’ve heard of Joe Strummer. I think of him every time my bloody phone rings.’
‘I have no idea what you’re talking about. Anyway, this Mr Strummer was a US import player who came here back in the eighties, married a local Yorkville woman.’
‘Hardly an exciting story, DC Taylor.’
‘I hadn’t finished. He was a superstar in the league, got naturalised, even played for the Boomers.’
‘I take it that’s the boy version of the Opals Fil Collins mentioned,’ said Jack with his newly-acquired Australian rising inflection.
‘You’re quick on the uptake for a man breathing methane fumes. But that’s not the best part. He got involved in some big-time betting syndicate, helped lose games to win money. He got caught and did five years in Copperhead Jail.’
‘Holy shit. Perhaps young Ramble learned a few tricks from dad.’
‘Maybe. But I can’t see how that connects with murdering a coach in broad daylight.’
‘Neither can I. But that’s why we’re detectives, innit? To find the connecting threads.’ Jack paused, took a deep breath. ‘And what about the other black guy?’
‘African, not American. Deng Chol, son of South Sudanese refugees.’
‘Any juicy stories about him?’
‘Nothing stands out on the file. Keeps to himself, probably feels a bit of an outsider. I’d be putting him right at the bottom of our potential killers.’
‘That’s five down. Who else do we have?’
Taylor pulled her scrunchie out. Jack wasn’t sure, but he couldn’t recall having seen Taylor with her hair out. She shook it about before tucking it all back in place again. It was a brief performance, but it only made Jack want her more. ‘Sorry, I had a tangle that was tugging my skin. Hope I didn’t get dandruff on you,’ she laughed.
You could infect me with tuberculosis and I wouldn’t care, he wanted to say. Instead: ‘How’s about a coffee? This is going to take a while.’
‘You buying?’
‘Uh huh.’ He placed middle and forefinger in his mouth, whistled through the gap. ‘Oi, Wilson!’
The constable spun around in his chair, eyes bulging like he was expecting a reprimand. ‘Yes, sir?’
‘Grab me and the DC a couple of brews at the café round the corner. And one for yourself. And be hasty about it.’
As the officer donned his hat and ducked out the door, Taylor tut-tutted. ‘You’re horrible to that young man.’
Shot Clock Page 9
