Shot Clock

by Blair Denholm

  ‘I’m genuinely worried, Claudia.’ Jack swallowed the last of a flat white coffee purchased from a fast-food outlet.

  ‘About this job?’

  Jack laughed and shook his head. ‘Of course not. We’re working with the Feds here. What could go wrong?’

  Taylor stared out the window, observing the council workers who could barely move in the sweltering heat. Jack took her silence as an invitation to elaborate. ‘If we don’t crack the Collins case before Gomez goes public with the reward, Batista will have a stroke.’

  ‘Don’t worry, something will turn up.’

  ‘I’m not so sure, Claudia. What have we got? Weird interpersonal relationships we’re only guessing about, vague witness accounts, useless DNA. Hell, all I can get out of Wayne Cooper, who was actually in the crash, is stories about his scary dreams.’

  ‘Wait, back that up a bit. Did we get Baumann’s DNA results back already?’

  ‘Yeah, the e-mail came in late last night. I asked Proctor to fast track it.’

  ‘She agreed?’

  ‘I promised to buy her a chemistry set for Christmas, like.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘I’m kidding. Batista gave her the hurry up. I’ve never seen him so keen to solve a case. Imagine having that miserable son of his hanging about the house. I reckon he’s praying Jordan breaks into the big league and he can give the lad his marching orders.’

  Taylor laughed. ‘Yeah, like that’s gonna happen.’

  A sombre silence descended inside the squad car, punctuated by intermittent comments from dispatch, the dull drone of talkback radio and commercial jingles. Apart from this current stakeout, there was nothing exciting planned for law enforcement in Yorkville today. The way it usually was and the way Jack liked it. Recently he’d been reading about the Blue Helmets, the United Nations Peacekeepers who didn’t interfere even with brutal wars and genocide raging all around. They walked around looking tough but didn’t do anything. Nice job. Maybe he’d apply one day.

  ‘There she is.’ Taylor pointed at a woman with a short spiky hair-cut dressed in torn jeans and a red singlet. The woman bounded up the external stairs like a gazelle, tapped on the front door and immediately switched to a slouched posture. A minute later a scruffy skinny man stepped out onto the small landing. He was fidgeting about like gnats were biting him, extracted something from his shorts pocket and dangled it in front of her.

  ‘What’s he got there?’ said Jack.

  Taylor peered through a pair of Steiner P-series binoculars. ‘As per intelligence. Something white that looks like powder in a clear plastic bag.’

  ‘I dunno why dealers insist on packaging the gear that way. Makes our job too easy.’

  ‘I guess it’s for the convenience of the transaction. The punters can see what they’re buying straight up.’

  ‘Bullshit. It guarantees nothing. Could just as easily be talcum powder. They may as well put the coke in brown paper bags. I would ‘n all.’

  ‘Stop yacking, will you? Emma’s counting on us.’

  Jack patted the Glock in his pocket. ‘Should we move in, d’ya think?’

  Taylor gave a sharp nod. ‘Why not? I’m sick of sitting here. Let’s nail this bozo.’

  Jack leapt out of the car and dropped to a squat. The heat haze from the road hit him in the face like a right jab, his nostrils stung from the amplified stench of the road tar drifting on a warm breeze. Taylor was already on the footpath, low to the ground. She advanced with a confident stride, both hands wrapped firmly around her pistol. The black bullet-proof vest looked huge on Taylor’s medium frame. Jack’s was snug. Shed another two kilos and it would fit like a dream. He adopted a semi-crouch, duck-sprinted ahead of Taylor and followed the line of parked cars towards the mark’s address.

  He propped, spun around, placed fingers to his lips. ‘Shh. Wait a second. Check your weapon.’

  Taylor examined the clip, tapped the barrel in her palm. ‘Ready.’

  ‘After me.’ He pushed off with his right leg, dashed through a gap between a Honda Civic and a VW Golf, keeping as low as possible. He sensed Taylor close behind.

  Three more cars to go.

  Two. One.

  Jack stopped, felt Taylor bump into his back and utter a breathy oops, sorry. He held up his hand, peered over the bonnet of a red utility. The heat radiating from the metal was like a furnace blast. The woman at the top of the stairs stood a good metre and a half away from the man.

  Safe to proceed.

  Jack stood, levelled his weapon. The mark was within easy range if Jack wanted to plug him. ‘Hands up, Evan! Walk down the stairs, nice and slow.’

  The junkie-turned-dealer swivelled his head to locate the source of the command. His eyebrows elevated as he clocked DS Lisbon. He spun on his heel, eager to get back inside the house, away from the imminent threat. The woman on the landing was too quick. She dropped the packet of narcotics on the top step, looped her arm around the Evan’s neck and spun him viciously to the right, at the same time twisting his head to the left. He sank to his knees, his screams carrying down the street. The woman dug an elbow into the middle of his back, eliciting more hysterics.

  Jack and Taylor hared across the street and tore up the stairs, two rungs at a time. Red singlet saw help arriving, let go of the man and stepped back. Jack grabbed him by the left wrist, yanked his arm half-way up his back almost to the shoulder blade. Evan screamed again. ‘Lemme go!’ He wriggled under Jack’s tightening grasp.

  Taylor stood close, feet spread wide apart with her gun drawn. ‘Anyone else inside we need to worry about?’

  ‘Nah. Oi, that fucking hurts.’ The wriggling transformed into spasmic jerks.

  ‘Man up.’ Jack wrestled Evan’s other hand down, slapped on a pair of zip cuffs.

  ‘You’ll break my arm!’

  ‘Tough shit. You let me down badly with that sting operation last year. No more leniency.’

  ‘Come on. You were setting me up for a fall.’

  ‘Bullshit. I cut you a deal and you ran out on me. This time you’re going away for a couple of years. I’m sick of punks like you.’

  ‘What about my wife and kids?’

  ‘They’re better off without you.’

  A marked police car pulled up in the driveway with a screech. Jack and Taylor marched Evan to the back of the van where Constables Trevarthen and Semmens waited with the double doors open. The uniforms took over and flung the suspect unceremoniously into the back, slammed the doors shut.

  ‘What about reading my fucking rights?’ Zane’s voice reverberated inside the paddy wagon.

  ‘Are you going to read the prisoner his rights?’ said Taylor.

  Jack sighed, thumped on the door. ‘You have the right to remain silent. Use it.’

  ‘No! I want my lawyer,’ Zane screeched.

  ‘Call him when you get to the station. We’ll meet you there with a charge sheet and a cup of tea. Safe trip now, Evan.’ Jack smacked the door twice with his palm.

  Trevarthen drove off with Semmens and Federal officer Emma Griffiths in the front, one confused and angry drug dealer in the back.

  ‘You don’t like Evan Zane much, do you?’ said Taylor as she opened the car door.

  ‘I’d like to see the prick rot in jail for the rest of his life.’

  ‘That’s a bit harsh for a two-bit street dealer.’

  ‘That guy out at Gasnier who knifed his wife to death yesterday? He confessed Zane was supplying him with high-grade crack.’

  ‘Jesus.’

  ‘Yep.’ Jack started the engine. ‘Anyway, enough doom and gloom. Breakfast? I’m starving.’

  Chapter 26

  Christmas shopping in the tropics. He hated it with a passion. Worse even than the entire morning he’d spent processing Zane. The smelly toe-rag had lied and obfuscated for hours. I’m a victim here. Let me go. The gear wasn’t mine! Bawling and snot-faced, he reluctantly fingered the 2-IC of the outlaw biker gang that supplied Yorkville’s str
eet dealers with crack and crystal meth. Zane pleaded for immunity, begged and wailed. They’ll kill me, they’ll kill me! Jack offered nothing, told Zane to take it up with the prosecutor. Zane’s state-provided legal-aid lawyer shook his head occasionally and made perfunctory interventions. But the brief’s heart wasn’t in it. Finally, at 15:46, the hopeless reality of Zane’s situation hit home. The only way he might get a reduced sentence was to plead guilty. He spilled his guts, gave the name of the Head Honcho, a man the Feds had been monitoring for two years. Jack thanked everyone for their contribution to the legal process, even the dry-retching prisoner, and hightailed it out of the station. He left Taylor and Emma Griffiths to do the paperwork. He had more important things to do.

  This year, Jack made a conscious effort to avoid the usual Christmas scenario – last-minute panic-buying on the evening of the 24th of December. This time Jack was on top of things, seeking out a present for Skye ten whole days ahead of the calendar. He’d tossed around the idea of wiring money to his ex, so Sarah could buy the kid something in London, but that wasn’t well received last time. Sarah was livid. What were you tinkin’ mon? You don’t care a whit for dat girl! She tink you don’t love her no more. You’re a disgrace, Jack Lisbon. He didn’t miss that Jamaican ire one bit.

  But even if he could find the perfect present, there was a big problem. His daughter lived on the other side of the world. The postal system was clogged with goods criss-crossing the globe at this time of the year. The present would never get there on time. Taylor had come to the rescue. Over breakfast of sausage rolls and cappuccinos at a Baker’s Delight café, she told him about a courier company that guaranteed delivery in eight days – for a honking great fee. There was nothing to be done about it, he’d be engaging their services just as soon as he could figure out what the hell to buy.

  Everything he looked at seemed wrong, wasn’t good enough, not reflective of his love. Dolls, clothes, books, puzzles, gadgets. It was all too effing hard.

  Waiting at the check-out with a roll of red-and-green wrapping paper – the only thing he could decide on – under his arms, thoughts drifted to what it would be like to have his own family here in Australia. Nothing would replace his first-born darling, of course, whom he adored so much he’d die for her in a hail of bullets. Still, he wasn’t getting any younger. Could he find domestic bliss with Denise? Unlikely. Taylor? No way. He desired her, would never have her, so forget it. No, he’d have to wait for the stars to align or, heaven forbid, start looking online.

  Next please!

  Jack smiled at the officious clerk, paid for his wrapping paper and exited the discount store into one of the centre’s broad aisles that connected sixty-seven retail outlets. He still had no idea what to get. He followed the crowd, moving like fish in a current, swept here and there with little control over their movements.

  What to get, what to get?

  Eyes switching from one shop front to the next, hoping to spy that magical gift, Jack started paying attention to the bleeding obvious. Yorkville Palms shopping mall had taken on a fresh, new look this festive season. In addition to the traditional Christmas decorations that festooned the ceilings and covered the walls, orange and black balloons and streamers caught your eye wherever you looked. The Scorpions NBL franchise had captured the hearts of the people of Yorkville like never before. In two nights’ time they’d be hosting their first play-off match in ten years. Jack strolled past a 2 metre x 1 metre light-box poster of Leroy Costa soaring through the air on his way to a slam dunk. Parents stopped to take pictures of their smiling kids standing next to it. Jack decided what he was going to buy Skye for Christmas.

  Chapter 27

  ‘What’s in the bag?’ Denise glanced over her voluminous glass of chilled Albanian pinot gris. Bruno’s Italian Ristorante, renowned for its eclectic wine list, was Batista’s suggestion. Jack should have listened to his own advice and taken her to the Pelican Pub. This place wasn’t his style at all, packed with Yorkville’s beautiful people, its movers and shakers. Jack had never been there before. Bruno’s stuffy formality and eye-watering prices meant he’d be avoiding it in future.

  Jack set down his fork, reached under the table and pulled out a Scorpions singlet emblazoned with the name Costa, Number 6. He held it up with a flourish. ‘What do you think?’

  ‘Too small for you.’ She smiled, forking strands of sauce-covered spaghetti and twirling them in a spoon. ‘You need an XL.’

  ‘It’s for Skye.’

  ‘Is she a fan of the Scorpions?’ Incredulity coloured the question.

  A waiter discreetly topped up Denise’s glass, Jack made do with sparkling mineral water. The garlic prawns he’d eaten for entrée had screamed out for a nice lager accompaniment. He stoically resisted the temptation.

  ‘She will be. After I send her a photo of me at a press conference announcing how I caught the hit-and-run killers.’

  ‘What difference will that make?’

  ‘Well, there’s a link then, innit? The gift will have more meaning for her. The Scorpions uniform and dad cracking the case of their murdered coach.’

  Denise looked up slowly. She’d made an extra effort with her makeup tonight. Usually she was sparing, tonight the layered components had been applied rather liberally. ‘You seem to me making this all about you, Jack.’ The unsaid words: like always. A mouthful of twirled pasta disappeared into her mouth.

  ‘What?’ He stabbed a meatball, shaking his head. ‘No I’m not.’

  ‘You know, your daughter won’t mind what you get her for Christmas. How old is she?’

  ‘Seven and a half.’

  ‘Believe me.’ Denise half raised her glass. ‘I’ve raised two daughters. It’s when girls get to their teens, that’s when you have to start worrying.’ Denise reached across the table between plates, stroked the top of Jack’s hand. She smiled encouragingly.

  ‘I’m always worrying. That I’m far away from her, that I only get to talk to her on the phone or see her on the occasional video chat.’

  ‘Why only occasional?’

  ‘You’ll have to ask Sarah. She’s got all the control.’

  ‘Why haven’t you been back to England for a visit? It’s been a few years now, hasn’t it?’

  The simple answer was he was scared shitless. He’d committed a heinous crime before emigrating to Australia. Jack had killed a man in cold blood, a letter opener to the jugular. The homicide was investigated thoroughly, never solved. He’d covered his tracks beautifully, however there was always a chance some keen detective back in Blighty was working on the cold case, lying in wait for him. He’d return to his homeland one day. Just not yet. ‘I…I…I can’t seem to save the money for a ticket.’

  Denise placed her cutlery on the table, wiped her mouth with a napkin. ‘That’s rubbish. You can afford it.’

  ‘You don’t know my financial situation?’ How dare she.

  ‘I know you bought yourself a fancy new Hilux in July. A vehicle like that would have cost you well over $40,000.’

  ‘Oh, so you’re a fucking car valuer as well as a smart-arse lawyer now, are you?’

  The teeth-aching scrape of chair on concrete made heads turn at every table. ‘I’m done with you, Jack.’ Denise’s words were barely a whisper. She grabbed her mesh clutch bag, glared daggers at Jack. ‘You’ve got issues you need sorting out, mate. Don’t ever call me again.’

  As Denise stormed between tables, almost knocking over a pot plant near the exit, Jack clicked his fingers and called over the waiter. He needed a big, cold beer.

  The good thing about light beer is it allows you to stay out longer. Drink enough of them, though, and you still end up inebriated. That was the bad thing about light beer. And it was the reason Jack changed his mind at the last minute at Bruno’s Ristorante. Instead of ordering a frothy lager, he paid the exorbitant bill, thanked the waiter for his attentive service and walked out calmly. He sensed a hundred eyes follow him out the door, but he was beyond caring.
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  ‘Hey, DS Lisbon.’ Dave the barman approached, wiping the inside of a glass vigorously, like there was an indelible layer of gunk inside it. ‘Didn’t think we’d be seeing your smiling face for a while. Last time–’

  ‘Never mind about last time. Just give me a pint of ginger ale, and put some bitters in it so I think I’m drinking an effing Scotch.’ He pointed at a rack of crisps and nuts. ‘And something tasty from there.’ He’d abandoned his half-eaten meal at Bruno’s, now hunger pangs gnawed.

  ‘Rough day at the office?’

  Jack shrugged off his jacket and hung it over the back of his barstool. ‘You could say that.’

  Dave placed the drink on a coaster advertising a boat charter company. Checked up and down the bar to make sure no impatient punters were waiting to be served. ‘What happened?’

  His disastrous date with Denise would be left in the drawer, no one needed to hear it. Much better to tell him a cops and robbers tale. It turned out to be a wise decision. The story of Evan Zane’s violent arrest and interrogation elicited smiles and chuckles from the barman. ‘Sounds like you enjoyed nabbing that junkie.’

  A smile crept across Jack’s lips. ‘Sometimes those special moments make the job worth all the dramas.’ Denise was a drama, he decided. She asked him not to call, and he’d respect that wish. The relationship had been at a standstill anyway. Let her go, mate.

  ‘I bet,’ said Dave.

  Jack took a sip of his drink. He pointed at the orange and black bunting adorning the pub. ‘You lot getting into the Scorpion spirit too, I see.’

  ‘The whole town is. Can you blame them?’ Dave leaned closer across the bar, lowered his voice. ‘Are the police making any progress with this awful Collins thing?’ Dave’s eyebrows danced a jig as he spoke. Looked like he’d love some juicy gossip. Typical bartender.