‘I guess not.’ The voice was suitably subdued.
‘I’ve given you enough cash to get by for a couple of months if you’re not extravagant with the spending.’
‘I’m controlling it.’
‘Good. Keep it that way. You’ll get the big bonus as soon as I can covert some assets into cash.’
‘I know you won’t let me down. Have the police questioned you yet?’
‘No. I’m sure they will eventually, but I’m ready for them. From what I can see, the cops have no idea about anything. Still, we don’t want to be drawing unnecessary attention to ourselves, not even for the slightest reason. Keep your head down for another couple of weeks. It can’t be too hard, can it? Don’t go to any pubs, nothing like that. And definitely no social basketball. Or the beach.’
‘Of course not. I guess I wasn’t thinking straight. Not quite cabin fever, but, ha ha, you know…’
‘I’ll contact you when it’s time to relax. Then you can come back to Yorkville. Or get a job there and join that local team. Whatever you want. Just wait for my signal before you come out of your box.’
‘How? You just told me to throw my phone away.’
‘I’ll reach out to you on Facebook. On your normal phone.’
‘Are you sure that’s smart? That’ll be easy for the cops to trace. Social media is the first thing they look at these days.’
‘I hadn’t finished. Use the fake account I set up for you. You memorised the password, right?’
‘Yep. First letter of each word in the first line of my favourite song.’
‘Good. I’ll tag you on a post with a bunch of other people, maybe twenty. A video with highlights of Larry Bird from the Celtics.’
‘Gotcha.’
‘I’ll do it via the Scorpions’ fan page. Keep an eye out for the post.’
‘Don’t worry, I’ll be checking every day. I’m keen to get out of this fucken lockdown.’
‘Promise me you’ll stay in the apartment whenever possible, and don’t do anything stupid.’
A heavy sigh. ‘I promise.’
‘What are you doing next?’
‘Huh?
‘What’s the next action you will take.’
‘I’m taking the elevator down to the Chinese joint at the bottom of the apartment complex and grabbing a chicken Chow Mein.’
‘Incorrect. You’re taking a taxi down to Greenmount and throwing the phone into the sea.’
‘Understood.’
The lad was obedient and certainly not the bluntest tool in the shed, but would he keep his promise? One had to trust he would. They’d been friends – or the nearest thing to it – for years and he’d always been solid. Don’t lose faith now.
The string concerto had two minutes to go. He poured himself a Cab Sav, spread out on a recliner. Music treat over, it was time for some painful viewing. It was, ironically, a “favourite” bookmarked clip, but not because he enjoyed the match. Watching it made his face florid with anger. But he was addicted to it. Probably seen it fifty times. Highlights of that arsehole Steve Sarsby’s last ever game in professional basketball. At the point Sarsby received his fifth foul, Camry driver yanked the flip-flop from his right foot, took careful aim and hurled it at the screen. Direct hit! Dead Dale Collins’s smug fucking face.
Chapter 19
McGrath’s Gym in the morning. Hallelujah! The perfect start to the day. This was Jack’s Salvation, his Religion, his Heaven. Yesterday was pure Hell. Never again would he awaken so hungover, feeling like seven flavours of shit. No more falling off the wagon. Yesterday was a mistake, and it had to stop. For good this time.
One more thrust upwards on the York bench. His shoulders and elbows wobbled like rubber. He’d never done twenty reps at this weight, whatever it was. Jack never took note of the numbers, he just pulled the pin out and slotted it in the next hole down. This time the pin sat towards the bottom of the stack of weight blocks. Perhaps it was 70kg, or maybe it was 80kg, 110kg. Who cared? As long as the exercise tested his strength, made him sweat and strain, that was all he needed to know. Distilling exercise into an exact science was best left to others. Jack couldn’t be arsed with that malarkey.
Lots of others worked to well-planned routines NASA could have devised. So many reps on this apparatus, so many on that. Then they’d hop over to the weight bench. Then do a round of skipping. He sometimes observed how these guys and girls consulted a piece of paper detailing what they had to do next. Bugger that. This was a place to not only exercise your body, but your freedom. He preferred to keep it random and unplanned. Like his life in general. The most organised thing about Jack’s gym routine was showing up. Yet even that simple part hadn’t been working out too well.
But from now on he’d pay a visit to McGrath’s Gym every day, personal and work commitments allowing. Even on the weekends if he felt particularly motivated. He was honest enough to admit his resolve of steel could turn to butter and melt away at any time. Didn’t matter. It was how he felt now.
The weight lifting continued on the reclining bench. Now it was pectoral and lateral back muscles screaming for him to stop the torture. Jack refused to hear them. They were criminals, he would show no mercy. Until one more rep was impossible. Now, that point was reached. He’d pushed himself to breaking point and could lift no more.
Exhausted, he stared at the metal bar, sucked in deep breaths. He slid out from under the barbell, returned to his reserved spot on the wooden bench that lined the wall. Water, water and more water. An entire litre down the hatch in four glugs and headed to the water cooler to refill his bottle. Jack noted how it was almost warm in this gym: airconditioned, but with a miserly touch. Some upmarket gymnasiums in town were so cold and dehumidified you barely broke a sweat no matter how hard you worked. Where was the value in that? You needed to feel the sweat to know you’d put in an effort.
He screwed the cap onto the bottle and looked up as someone entered the building. Up to now, Jack had been the only customer. Not surprising since it was only 6:00am. The new punter was Wayne Cooper, head bobbing as he listened to music through extra-large headphones. Wayne spotted Jack, smiled and walked over. Whatever was being channelled through the headset put a wiggle in his step. He massaged off the headphones and rested them around his neck.
‘Hiya, Jack. Good to see you.’ A hand thrust out for a firm shake.
‘G’day, Wayne. Are you sure you should be back here so soon after the accident?’
‘I cleared it with the doctor. As long as I don’t do anything too strenuous, I’ll be all right. I figure a light workout’s going to take my mind off things better than anything else.’
‘You’re a wise man, Wayne. It beats hoovering cocaine up your nose.’
‘I haven’t touched it since you saw me last. I’m having enough trouble sleeping as it is. I keep having visions of the lunatic’s teeth grinning through the ski mask as he ploughs into me.’
‘Jesus, I can imagine.’
‘Can you?’ Wayne’s shoulders slumped a fraction.
‘Nah. Not really. It’s just an automatic response, innit?’
‘I guess so.’
‘You get your car back?’ Jack tried to sound cheerier.
‘Yeah. Your guys couldn’t find anything useful after they ran all their tests, so they gave it back. I didn’t keep it for long, though,’ Wayne snickered. ‘It was a mechanical write off, way too much damage under the hood to justify fixing it. The insurance company did the right thing and now I’ve got a brand new car. Silver linings, hey?’
‘I guess.’
‘See you around.’ Wayne turned and headed for a treadmill. Good choice, a gentle jog on that won’t do the lad any harm. Jack decided to call him back for a quick word before the headphones went back on.
‘Mate, are you sure there’s no detail that’s come back to you about the driver? Maybe on a subconscious level, in your dreams?’
A slow shake of the head. ‘Nah, mate. Like I said, it happened s
o fast and the dude was all in black. I wish there was something, but there isn’t.’
Jack rested a hand on Wayne’s shoulder, gave a gentle squeeze. ‘S’orright, mate. Go and enjoy yourself.’
Instead of showering and heading for the office, Jack took another fifteen minutes to beat the stuffing out of a heavy bag. By the time he hit the change room, his knees shook, his knuckles were bleeding and he could barely lift his hand to turn on the water. He smiled as the water trickled down his body.
Chapter 20
The squad room was jammed with suits and uniforms, all hands on deck. Batista stood at the left of two matching whiteboards on wheels. Detectives Lisbon and Taylor sat on desks at the front of the bullpen, legs dangling and swinging. The rest of the station’s officers sat dispersed in plastic chairs, eyes fixed on the words Batista was writing – people’s names. The black marker pen darted across the first board. Above the words, attached with magnets, were a large colour photo of Dale Collins, one of the mangled wreck of the Camry, and computer-generated artist’s impressions of the two suspects. The latter were based mainly on the statement made by Zach Hyman. Jack thought the two men depicted resembled a giant Ninja and a clothing store mannequin respectively. Both were devoid of facial features and were therefore as useful as an inflatable dartboard.
‘Detectives Lisbon and Taylor, please fill everyone in on what you’ve found out so far.’
‘Sure.’ Jack leapt to his feet, pointed at the first name. ‘Let’s start with Leroy Costa. He seemed one of the most likely to be involved. Maybe not as one of the perps – as you can see, both of the men in the pictures are white – but as an organiser. However we’re able to scratch the original obvious motive. The Lakers have paid him a packet to take up their offer after he’s fulfilled his obligations to the Scorpions. He’s keen to win the championship, a naturally driven athlete who forgets about the size of the pay cheque when he’s on the court. I’d rule him out with a high degree of confidence.’
‘Next, acting coach Austin Gould,’ Taylor took up the narrative. ‘He’s got the potential motive of wanting his name on the trophy. But there was never any guarantee Gomez wouldn’t have appointed someone else after Collins’s death. I’d scratch him, too.’
‘The widow?’ said Batista.
Jack gestured for Taylor to debrief on this one. She tapped a pen next to the name Fil Collins. ‘At first we thought she was looking good for putting out a contract on Dale, and she remains in our sights. She lied to us about her personal affairs. With her husband dead, she’d be in a better position to pursue her relationship with Helen Sarsby, wife of ex-player Steve Sarsby.’
‘The three of them rub me the wrong way.’ Jack thrust his hands in his pockets as he addressed the room. ‘DC Taylor thinks otherwise, but I wouldn’t be surprised if they were all somehow involved in the killing, but without evidence, we have to look at other options.’ He turned to the Inspector. ‘I suggest we keep a close eye on them, from a distance though. Fil threatened to make waves if we continued to “harass” her. Which sets off alarm bells in my head, since that’s the last thing we’re doing.’
‘What about Parata, the Operations Manager?’
‘He’s got a short fuse. If he were to murder someone, it’d be in the heat of the moment. I don’t rate him as someone to make an elaborate plan of revenge if Collins had somehow pissed him off about something.’
‘And the owner, Gomez?’
‘I can only think of one possible motive,’ said Taylor. ‘He has this dream of being the first owner to bring the title to Yorkville. With that prize tantalisingly in reach, he might’ve thought the idea of a martyred coach would spur the players to play like supermen. I mean, they did the other night to reach the playoffs, right? On the other hand, they were in top form anyway, so a gamble like that might have backfired in the worst possible way.’
‘Plus he’s offering a huge reward to find the killers. He’d hardly do that if he was the guilty party, would he?’ Jack regretted his sarcastic tone when he saw the Inspector’s face fall.
Batista grimaced as he drew a line through Gomez, as he had with Costa and Parata. ‘What about the rest of the current players?’
Constable Wilson shot his hand up. ‘Permission to speak, sir?’
‘This isn’t the fucking army, Wilson. Say what you gotta say.’
‘Sorry.’ He cleared his throat. ‘While Detectives Taylor and Lisbon were interviewing the American import players, I made some phone calls as requested. Constables Smith, Trevarthen and Semmens assisted. We managed to speak to the rest of the players on the current roster and two trainers. All were either already at the stadium at the time of the murder or en route in the company of others. So they’ve all got solid alibis. We’ve confirmed Parata and Austin Gould were also there. The only one missing was Gomez, but he’s about twelve inches too short to figure as a suspect, reward notwithstanding.’
‘Hilarious,’ said Jack. ‘But we still have to keep on open mind. The perps could’ve been extra-tall men outside the basketball world hired to do the job.’
‘Do you honestly believe that’s likely?’ said Batista.
‘Like I said, we need to be open to all possibilities at this stage. Even the most hypothetical.’
‘I’d rather work with what’s probable, not what’s possible. Hypothetically, it could’ve been organised by a long-lost relative of Lee Harvey fucking Oswald, couldn’t it?’
Jack shrugged.
‘That’s also the same story we got from the three Americans players we spoke to,’ said Taylor. ‘Not about Oswald, I mean about them heading for training at the time of the murder. Solid alibis.’
‘Anything else, Constable?’ said Batista.
Wilson extracted a ballpoint pen from his mouth. ‘Yes. We’ve contacted a handful of players from the last five years who returned home, to other towns in Queensland, interstate or overseas. They all seemed genuinely surprised to hear from us.’
‘Haven’t they heard about what happened?’
‘Oh, yes, of course. How could they not have? The story’s gone around the world.’
Jesus, thought Jack. Global pressure on us now.
‘Thing is,’ Wilson continued. ‘None of them thought they’d be contacted in connection with the investigation. The consensus was it must be some kind of recent issue that led to the crime. Collins was well regarded by everyone we spoke to. Most had been following the fortunes of the Scorpions and were delighted about the turn-around in fortunes. A couple said they were jealous to be missing out on the play-off action.’
‘Did you speak to Ramble Strummer?’ said Jack.
‘Sure did.’ Wilson double checked his notes. ‘Mr Strummer was most cooperative. He was actually one of the most emotional, sobbed quite a lot.’
‘Did you ask about his father’s gambling history?’
‘No, why would I?’
‘You know what they say about the apple not falling far from the tree.’
‘You’ve got a point, Lisbon’. Batista gave a half-wink. ‘There could be a gambling element that’s worth considering. I’ll get in touch with Brisbane CIB. They’ve got a special unit that deals with gambling crime.’
‘What can they do for us?’ Jack popped a peppermint gum. The peppery taste of the nicotine variety was rapidly losing its already limited appeal.
‘Analyse activity on NBL betting markets since Collins became coach. See if there were any unexpected plunges, odds shifting at the last minute, that kind of thing.’
This made sense to Jack. ‘I get it. If the gambling markets went crazy and someone lost a bundle…’
‘Exactly. Someone who lost a pile of money when they were planning on making it might look at the coach as influencing the outcome.’
‘How soon can the Brisbane unit figure it all out?’ said Taylor.
‘No idea,’ Batista admitted. ‘I’ve never had anything to do with them before.’ A collective sigh passed through the squad room. The thre
at of Gomez’s reward hung over Batista’s head like the sword of Damocles; the crime had to be solved before the reward got posted or the chief would be unbearable to work with. ‘Pending a response from Brisbane CIB, we’re on our own. Taylor, you looked into ex-players still residing around Yorkville. What do we know about them?’
‘We’ve got two of these. The following information was obtained from Parata’s files. Dieter Baumann, a naturalised German national who was dropped soon after Steve Sarsby. Highly educated with an arts degree from an institution in Berlin. He’s also got a Masters in Information Technology from James Cook University in Cairns. He played ten seasons in the NBL, was in declining form by the end of his career and got traded by Collins to a club in Melbourne for his last season.’
‘When was that?’ Batista.
‘Three seasons ago.’
‘No record of any fallout with the club, the coach or any of the players. He returned to Yorkville after receiving a job offer in an IT firm which he holds to this day.’
‘Who else?’
‘Corbyn Howard. Dropped prior to the start of this season. At 36 years of age, perhaps time was catching up with him. Lives just outside of Yorkville, works at his family’s road house petrol station and diner on Highway 1. Apparently he was angry to be cut from the team, especially since no other clubs showed any interest. Eventually he bowed out gracefully and got on with his life.’
‘Have you spoken to them yet?’
‘No sir. But I’ve done some preliminary searches. Neither have criminal records, no scandals, social media seems pretty innocuous. Both have expressed sympathy online over the tragic death of their former coach, blah, blah, blah. I’m not too hopeful about them.’
‘I’ve thought of something.’ Constable Kylie Smith, usually a wall flower at team meetings, thrust her hand in the air.
‘Yes, Constable?’
‘I heard your son’s getting a trial with the Scorpions.’
The Inspector reddened slightly. ‘Yes, that’s right. Mr Gomez has kindly agreed to give Jordan a chance to prove himself. Surely you’re not suggesting Jordan…’
Shot Clock Page 14
