Shot Clock

by Blair Denholm

  ‘What was that?’ said the male, eyes wide, all attention.

  ‘Too angry. He scored seven points, got four rebounds and then fouled out in the first quarter of the trial match. He abused the refs and blew what little chance he had. He was quicker to f-fire up than our Operations Manager, R-Rod Parata.’

  ‘Our lead investigator mentioned Mr Parata had a fiery temper.’ The male constable sipped his milky sweet tea. ‘Can you tell us more about him?’

  ‘You didn’t want to be around Parata when he got mad, let me tell you!’

  ‘Why not?’ said the female, nibbling a sugary cinnamon donut. A white line of crystals settled on her top lip. Corbyn looked over his shoulder as more customers entered, setting off a bell attached to the door with string.

  ‘He’d frighten the life out of a Hell’s Angel biker, that bloke. Mean and angry, even about trivial stuff. Never liked him, to be honest.’ The little bell dinged again and Corbyn glanced over his shoulder. ‘Hey, it’s getting real busy. Jimmy over there’ll p-panic and get all the orders m-mixed up. I’m not sure I can help you any further. I’ve been out of the loop for a year, you know.’ He’d been following the team’s fortunes closely, but only on the court. He was clueless about the internal stuff.

  ‘Just one more question, if that’s OK,’ said the male.

  ‘What?’

  ‘After 16 years as a top-level sportsman, you end up working your arse off in a road-side petrol station. I don’t get it.’

  Corbyn pulled the tea towel from his thick neck, revealing a small scorpion tattoo, rubbed his hands with the towel. ‘I like to work, what c-can I say? I’m not qualified to do anything else, so why not help my p-parents out with the business until the National Times gives me a g-gig, huh?’

  ‘Fair call, and full credit to you for pursuing your dreams,’ said the female, picking up her hat. ‘If we have any more questions we’ll be in touch.’

  ‘What did you make of him?’ Smith closed the door and buckled up.

  ‘No involvement whatsoever. The guy’s a dreamer.’ Wilson fired up the motor. ‘A wannabe with ambition above his station. Did you get a load of his neck tattoo?’

  ‘What are you being so judgmental for? I reckon he’s OK. I know DS Lisbon said Parata doesn’t look good for the murder, but you heard what Corbyn said. The Ops Manager’s a powder keg.’

  ‘Let’s get back to the station and–‘

  The radio crackled to life. Donna Chan at the dispatch desk. Serious domestic dispute in Gasnier. Neighbour reports a male and female screaming at each other. Male has a history of violence. Urgent assistance required. Any units in the vicinity?

  Wilson picked up the radio receiver. ‘Constables Wilson and Smith.’ Gasnier was 40 kms west as the crow flies. Dry heat, dust and aggro awaiting them. ‘We’re on our way.’ Dispatch gave the address as Wilson spun the steering wheel and floored the gas. Jack Lisbon would have to wait.

  Chapter 23

  The Inspector wrapped his insectile arm around Kylie Smith, led her into his office. The constable’s body juddered, racked with sobs. The domestic dispute out west had gone horribly wrong. Not her or Wilson’s fault. They were simply too late. Distances and bad roads in the bush don’t always allow for a rapid response. Jack grabbed Wilson’s sleeve on his way into Batista’s den.

  ‘You OK, man?’

  ‘I think so. Poor Kylie, though. She’s never attended a scene like that. Neither have I, to be honest. Heart breaking.’

  ‘What happened?’

  Wilson quickly explained. The man, convicted for armed robbery but out on parole, had stabbed his wife several times in the stomach with a meat carving knife. He left her to die writhing on the kitchen floor. By the time he and Smith got there, the man was flaked out on the floor beside his wife, an empty bottle of Bundaberg Rum by his hand. Out in the yard an old kelpie on a chain lay dead, its throat cut and swarming with flies. Beside the dog, two snot-nosed toddlers cuddling each other despite the stifling heat.

  ‘We somehow revived the bastard,’ Wilson said, his breathing uneven. ‘We cuffed him and brought him in. He admitted to the killing straight away. Says she cheated on him while he was in prison and continued to do so after he got out. There was blood everywhere, DS Lisbon. Rivers of it. Like someone had poured red paint from a great big tin.’

  ‘What happened to the kids?’

  ‘With the old woman next door until officers from Child Safety arrive.’

  ‘Jesus, Wilson. Are you sure you’re going to be all right?’

  ‘Dunno, sir.’ He offered a plucky smile.

  ‘How do sick fucks like that even get to ask for parole, let alone have their wish granted?’

  Wilson had no time to reply to the unanswerable question. Batista stood at his door, gravity taking the lines out of his face, waving the constable in. ‘Come on, Ben. Kylie needs you right now.’

  Jack grabbed Wilson’s sleeve. ‘Give us five minutes when you’re done, OK? I want to go over your interview with Corbyn Howard.’

  A silent nod from Wilson before he shuffled away, shoulders slumped.

  * * *

  Jack wanted to yell at Wilson for being such an idiot. He couldn’t, though. Not in these circumstances. The man’s eyes were darting all over the place, a long spell of rest looming. Still, how could he and Smith have been so thick?

  ‘Why didn’t you press him about that Sandor Katz guy? I already said Parata was low priority. You had a fresh lead there to pursue.’

  ‘I’m sorry, sir. Corbyn Howard had more to say about Parata.’

  ‘Of course he did,’ Jack hissed, then reigned it back a notch. ‘He spent, what, one day with this Katz compared to a couple of years with Parata. That’s going to reflect in how he views the world, innit?’

  ‘I guess, sir.’

  Jack took a deep breath. ‘It’s OK. You go home now. I’ll talk to Howard again myself.’

  ‘I apologise for…’

  ‘Stop it. You’re a good officer. You’ll learn with experience. Just file this one away for next time, all right?’

  ‘Sir.’

  Taylor sat opposite Dieter Baumann, engrossed in the contents of a manila folder bursting with papers. The ex-Scorpion stared impassively at an internal white brick wall. Jack’s grinning face appeared at the door; he gave a fake cough to announce his return.

  ‘Right, folks. Where were we?’

  ‘I was going to sign a form granting my consent to DNA tests and the temporary use of my mobile phone,’ said Baumann flatly.

  ‘Oh, yes, that’s right.’ Jack sat and passed Baumann two typed forms. Their guest scribbled his signature on both before sliding the pen across the metal desk. ‘Now you’ve got a nice fresh fingerprint on that pen to add to the file.’ A shiny iPhone followed. ‘On that, too.’

  ‘Indeed.’ This bloke’s a barrel of laughs, Jack thought to himself. ‘Before we go and take the swabs and hand your phone to our IT guys, I’m gonna ask you a couple of questions.’

  ‘Not going to ask if I mind?’

  ‘Do you mind?’

  ‘No. Only I wouldn’t want to take up too much of your time. Time that could be spent looking for Dale’s murderers.’

  ‘You know there are more than one?’

  Baumann’s eyebrows bunched. ‘It’s all over the news you’re looking for two men. Do you think I’m an idiot?’

  He’s either being deadpan or reactive, Jack noted. No consistency. ‘Of course not. I was checking to see if you were keeping abreast of the case.’

  ‘Ask your damn questions so we can get this over and done with. I need to go back to work. My clients are very demanding.’

  ‘As am I. What do you know about Sandor Katz?’ said Taylor.

  ‘Who? What a curious name.’

  ‘It’s Hungarian, apparently,’ said Taylor

  Jack smiled inwardly. His partner often went the extra mile in her research.

  ‘If you say so,’ said Baumann.

  ‘Your
ex-team mate, Corbyn Howard, says this Katz fellow unsuccessfully trialled for the Scorpions four years ago,’ said Jack. ‘A bloke with an analytical mind like yours would remember something like that.’

  ‘Sorry. I didn’t play many practice games. Usually that was left to bench players like poor old Corbyn. He turned into what they call a “basket hanger” by the end of his career. Ran the court like a lame hippo.’

  ‘Sixteen seasons ain’t bad for a bench player,’ Jack remarked.

  ‘He slowed down a lot as the years went by. I don’t know why management kept him on, to be honest.’ Baumann seemed to relax with each passing minute. Jack flexed his hands under the table. He had nothing new to put to the man. Digital and physical forensics might show something up, but the German was so cocky, Jack had serious doubts.

  ‘OK, let’s go and get these swabs done shall we?’

  Baumann stood, his head almost brushing the ceiling in the interview room. ‘When do I get my phone back?’

  ‘When we’ve finished with it.’ Jack could be deadpan too.

  Jack started the engine of his late-model Toyota Hilux, switched the aircon fan to hurricane setting. He was hot under the collar, thanks to the stinking weather and the arrogant son-of-a-bitch Baumann. Something didn’t gel with the guy.

  He waved good-bye to Taylor as she headed off in the Stinger. He didn’t envy her. She’d volunteered to do follow-up work on the domestic homicide out at Gasnier. In other words, she was on her way to check on the children; one of their parents was now dead, the other set to spend the rest of his miserable existence in Copperhead Jail. Unless the parole board fucked up again. Always a possibility. Poor bloody kids.

  He used bluetooth voice command to place a call to Parata. Jack had half an hour left on his shift.

  ‘Rod speaking.’

  ‘Jack Lisbon. I need to ask you a couple of questions.’

  ‘Couldn’t it wait? We’ve got a big match tonight.’

  ‘I’m fully aware of that. Only my officers have been out in the blistering heat dealing with a murder scene that looks like a slaughter house. On top of that, I’m desperately trying to find who killed your coach. So, no, sunshine, it can’t effing wait.’

  Silence for a moment.

  ‘What do you want to know?’

  Jack drove past a liquor store. He felt his mouth moisten and his stomach tighten in a knot. ‘We spoke to one of your former players, Dieter Baumann. He mentioned the name Sandor Katz. I quizzed Baumann, reckons he never heard of him.’

  ‘I remember Sandor. The man had lots of talent, but he wasn’t the right fit for the Scorpions. Or any team in the NBL for that matter.’

  ‘What do you mean?’ Jack could hear clanking sounds in the background, snatches of mumbled conversation. Like Parata was in a restaurant. A bar more likely. He’d be filling up with Dutch courage before the nerve-wracking start to the semi-final play-offs. The Scorpions were rank outsiders on the enemy’s turf.

  ‘He was way too violent. More cut out to be a cage fighter going by his temperament.’

  Just like you, Jack thought. ‘Understandable. Not a good image for the franchise. Hot temper aside, was Katz good enough to play against the pros?’

  ‘I think so. But no club would touch a guy like him with a barge pole. I guess no one will ever know.’

  ‘Thing is, Rod, we don’t seem to be able to find him. We called his parents, they have no idea where their son is. He’s never had a job in Yorkville, been on welfare his whole adult life. Which should make it easy to find him, but it’s like he’s vanished into thin air.’

  ‘Can’t help you I’m afraid.’

  ‘One more thing. How on Earth did he even get a try out?’

  ‘You know I can’t remember. There’s probably not even a record of it. Perhaps one of the other players suggested him.’

  ‘Could you check your files when the team flies back from Darwin?’

  ‘No problem.’ Jack heard tetchiness in Parata’s voice. ‘But the fact he didn’t make the cut reinforces my firm belief we should take players vetted through the system, not off the street.’

  ‘Does that apply to Inspector Batista’s lad?’

  ‘I wouldn’t be allowing it. It’s a farce and the kid will be gutted when we reject him, but Gomez insists. He’s keen to get the police on side with the investigation.’

  ‘We are on your side, for fuck’s sake!’ Was Parata kidding?

  ‘No need for that kind of–’

  ‘I’ll speak to you how I fucking like, mate. Have you already forgotten how you attacked me in front of witnesses?’

  Another silence, not counting the increasing volume of background ambient noise. Then: ‘No, I haven’t forgotten.’

  ‘Good. I’ll be checking in with you later. Good bye.’

  As soon as Jack hung up an SMS alert appeared on the screen. Forensics. Baumann’s digital footprint on his phone showed he was on the road, 10 kms out of Trinity Beach, exactly as he claimed, at the time of the hit-and-run killing. Nowhere near the murder scene. Fuck it. DNA results were still a couple of days away, but Jack had a feeling they would also be negative.

  The urge to turn back to the liquor store was strong.

  The desire to stay sober and catch the killers was stronger.

  Hands steady on the wheel at ten-to-two, internal compass set to “home.”

  Chapter 24

  Two minutes before tip-off. On the coffee table: two family-size packets of potato chips, a bowl of salted peanuts, a giant bottle of Coke and two frosty ice-filled glasses. An hour prior he’d taken a quick run through the warm evening streets, all but deserted as the good citizens of Yorkville prepared to tune into the biggest sporting event in years. Then twenty minutes tossing dumbbells and bench-pressing like he had a title fight the next day. The euphoria from the workout was still coursing through his bloodstream.

  Jack turned to his guest. ‘Refill?’

  ‘Sure.’ Wayne Cooper produced a silver hipflask and tipped a good measure into his own glass. The sweet scent of the whisky triggered the godawful binge memory in a compartment of Jack’s brain. For some reason he thought it was called the amygdala. Or frontal cortex or some such thing. In any event, he decided he wasn’t going to be the annoying killjoy host. Let him drink. At least Wayne hadn’t produced a bag of blow and cut a line on the table. And even if he had, so what? Jack liked to think of himself as a libertarian when it came to personal drug use, but a relentless pursuer of those who profited from trafficking narcotics.

  ‘How’s the rehab?’

  ‘Physio or the one Amy Winehouse wouldn’t go to?’

  Jack nearly spat out a mouthful of cola, swallowed before he made a mess of the coffee table. ‘That’s fucking hilarious. For a stock broker.’

  ‘Thanks. As it happens, I’m feeling better. A few tingles in the neck, but ibuprofen takes care of it. Worst of all is the nightmares.’

  ‘Sorry to hear it, mate.’

  ‘Not your fault.’

  ‘Yeah, but still. It’s what people say, don’t they? Hang on, it’s starting.’

  The volume had been muted during the seemingly endless pregame entertainment, including a schmaltzy tribute to Dale Collins. All players in black arms bands again. Jack made the green bar dart to the right until the volume was sitting just below what you’d expect in a cinema.

  ‘Ready?’

  ‘Sure am, Jack. I’ve got $50 on the Darwin Dragons to win.’

  ‘You wot?’

  ‘Sorry. The wallet rules the heart. I’m a–’

  ‘Yeah, an effing stockbroker.’

  ‘Congratulations, sunshine.’ Jack winked, extended his hand and Wayne shook it.

  ‘Thanks.’

  ‘How much did you win?’

  ‘Doubled my investment.’

  ‘You’re not exactly over the moon about it.’

  ‘I’m not. I can make more than that in five minutes trading on the stock market.’ Wayne tossed a peanut into his m
outh. ‘I’d’ve gladly done my dough on this game, though. Never mind.’

  ‘What about the Scorpions? You reckon they can recover from that loss?’

  ‘Their nerves were obvious. Pressure told on the more inexperienced players. Welsh and Costa carried them as usual, but the others will step up on Friday. They’ll be favourites at home.’

  ‘Even though we went down by 12 points?’

  ‘We’ll beat the Dragons by that and more with the crowd behind them.’

  ‘You reckon?’

  ‘Put your pay packet on it.’

  ‘I just might.’ Jack sauntered to the kitchen, flip-flops slapping on tiles. He returned with another bottle of soft drink. ‘Mate, before you go home, can I use you as a sounding board? As someone at arm’s length from the investigation?’

  ‘I’m not, you know. I was there!’

  ‘Sorry, that’s not what I meant.’

  ‘Yeah, I know. Go for your life.’

  An hour later, Wayne was as apprised of the details of the case as any officer in Yorkville CIB. All the suspects, all the motives, all the statements, all the scant evidence. Unfortunately for Jack, like those officers, Wayne Cooper didn’t have a clue and had no theories to offer.

  Chapter 25

  Jack and Taylor relished the cool comfort of the squad car while they had the chance. They’d selected a spot behind thick pink-and-white oleander shrubs, a hundred metres or so from the target address: a ramshackle two-storey clapboard house in a squalid outlying suburb. They had a perfect view of the action through a gap in the branches. When the mark appeared at the front door, they’d see him, but he wouldn’t see them.

  Diagonally behind the detectives, approximately 50 metres distant, a team of council labourers toiled and sweated. Kitted out head-to-toe in overalls, helmets and gloves, they struggled to fill a pothole with molten asphalt. Steam rose from the black goo as the men guided the lava with shovels as it poured down a chute from the back of a truck. The acrid smell leaked through the car’s air vents. Jack and Taylor wrinkled their noses. The temperature outside was 32 degrees Celsius, humidity like a Swedish sauna.