Shot Clock

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Shot Clock Page 19

by Blair Denholm


  ‘Gotcha!’ said Jack.

  Chapter 30

  The Vautin Building gleamed like a diamond in the bright midday sun as Jack cruised up towards the entrance in the Kia Stinger. One thing he loved about Yorkville – no parking problems. Just stop on the side of the road, lock your car up and you’re good to go. Not today, though. Cars were lined up along the entire street. Must be a sale on at the nearby Harry Norton’s outlet. He parked a block away and trudged to his destination, mood worsened by having to walk in the sapping heat.

  The citadel’s interior brought instant relief, the sweat turning cold in his armpits. The type of cool you only get in giant, modern buildings insulated thick enough to withstand aircraft penetration. A handful of smartly dressed men and women milled about in the foyer, chatting and laughing. Others wore grim faces like they’d prefer to be somewhere else. Jack casually showed his ID to an overweight security goon with a try-hard man bun at the information desk and headed for the bank of elevators.

  “Up” arrow. Step In. Press “12”. Hum to the muzak. Arrive at Warren Data Inc reception.

  ‘Nice to see you again, Olivia. I need to see your IT man, pronto.’

  ‘Which one?’ said the officious Olivia, unimpressed by Jack’s approach.

  ‘I believe you called him Deets last time I was here.’ Jack looked at his watch. 12:15pm. ‘The great big German bloke.’

  The young woman gave Jack a condescending glare. ‘I’m afraid Mr Baumann isn’t in at the moment.’

  ‘Where is he?’

  She shrugged. ‘No idea.’

  ‘Look, I admire the way you’re protective of your boss but–’

  ‘He’s not my boss. Her office is at the other end of the corridor. Perhaps she can help you.’

  Jack pressed his face up close to the plastic barrier. The beat-up nose Jack took with him everywhere he went was known to frighten small children and animals. Olivia shied away as it came closer. ‘I don’t want to speak to your boss. I want…to speak…to Dieter Baumann…now!’

  She flinched but remained firm. ‘I’m sorry, but I’ve been instructed to direct you to his email address.’ She slid a business card under the partition. ‘His mobile number is on there, too.’ Jack had to respect the lass’s loyalty.

  ‘Well, that’s the thing, Olivia.’ He pulled a ziplock bag from his jacket pocket. Inside, an iPhone 10. ‘I’ve got his mobile and I’d like to return it to him.’

  ‘Leave it here,’ she smiled. ‘I’ll make sure Mr Baumann gets it.’

  ‘You don’t understand. He specifically told me to hand it to him personally.’

  ‘He said no such thing.’ The woman had gumption. ‘He told me if anyone arrived unannounced with his phone, I was to ask them to leave it at reception.’

  Admiration for the woman was turning into frustration. ‘How can he receive important calls without his phone? Surely he needs it for work. Tell me where he is and I can hand it to him. Much more efficient that way.’

  She shrugged. ‘Sorry, I have my orders.’

  ‘And I have mine.’ Time to lay it on the line. ‘Your colleague, Dieter Heinz Baumann, is now our number one suspect in the murder of Dale Collins. In fact I came here to arrest him.’

  The smugness disappeared from Olivia’s face like road dust after a North Queensland cloudburst. ‘What?…No way!’

  ‘Yes way, Olivia.’ Jack held a sheet of paper against the Perspex. ‘There’s the warrant, petal.’ Jack watched her lips twitching as she read the document. The magistrate had approved Jack’s application with no hesitation, based less on the strength of the evidence than on his record of arresting and successfully prosecuting villains.

  ‘Still, I…I…can’t.’

  ‘Would you like me to come back this afternoon with another warrant, one with your name on it? I can dress up your obstructive behaviour as, I dunno, aiding and abetting, perverting the course of justice. Me and the magistrate are like that.’ Jack crossed his index and middle fingers. ‘You reckon you’d enjoy a stint in Copperhead Jail? I hear the women there are a special breed.’

  ‘Jockey Club,’ she spat out.

  ‘What was that?’

  ‘Yorkville Jockey Club. It’s a turf track out past Meninga. He’s gone to a race meeting.’

  ‘Now that wasn’t so hard, was it?’

  Olivia’s cheeks quivered, tears welled in her eyes. ‘No.’

  ‘Thanks for your help. We’ll be in touch later with further questions. And…’ Jack stabbed his finger against the barrier ‘…if you even think of giving him the heads up on some other phone or via email or effing smoke signals, I’ll be coming after you with an even worse attitude than I’ve got now.’

  Olivia’s soft sobs faded to silence as Jack he sprinted to the lift.

  In the car, sweating from his exertions, he called Taylor. ‘You busy?’

  ‘At your disposal. I’ve just finished sorting those children out with an emergency foster family. The couple have six of their own, so two more’s no extra burden.’ The compassion in Taylor’s voice was like a mother’s hug.

  ‘That’s great.’ Jack was genuinely pleased, he knew his tone didn’t reflect it. ‘I need you to meet me at the Jockey Club.’

  ‘When?’

  ‘ASAP. Fascinator optional.’

  As a wee lad in East London, Jack would sometimes run little notes to the betting shop on the corner. He never hesitated because his father allowed him to buy a couple of pence worth of sweeties. It was an easy job. Hand the scraps of paper together with Papa’s modest stake to the lady with the purple perm. Once in a while Alfonso Lisbon would send little Jacky back to collect a couple of pounds in winnings. Most often, there was no return trip to the betting shop, and Alfonso would vow to get all the money back next time.

  The complexities of horse racing baffled Jack. Especially the gambling side of things The weird configurations with enticing names – trifecta, quinella, exacta. Racing was more than a sport in Australia, it was a massive industry, more tracks than any other country in the world. It employed thousands of people. At the same time it relieved the weak, the desperate and the hopelessly addicted of money they needed to buy food, to pay the rent, to clothe their children. Jack couldn’t understand the attraction of this equine and human circus and he had no opinions on its merits or otherwise. As long as it was legal, c’est la vie.

  The Clash erupted in his pocket. He’d set the ringer to full volume in order to hear the phone above the noise of the crowd. ‘Yeah, wot?’

  ‘It’s me, Jack.’ Taylor nearly shouted. ‘Just got here. Where are you?’

  He stood at the bottom of the track’s only open viewing stand, a white colonial-style structure decorated with filigreed iron work. Foot traffic flowed back and forth in front of him. ‘Can you see the Ted Webb stand?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘I’m waiting for you at Gate B. I’m the gentleman with the handsome profile and the ill-fitting suit.’

  Taylor approached holding aloft two cylindrical yellow lumps.

  ‘What the hell are those?’ Jack gaped.

  ‘Dagwood dogs. Sausages on sticks dipped in batter, deep-fried in hot oil. Tomato sauce on top. Thought you might be hungry.’ She handed him one together with a napkin.

  ‘What’s wrong with normal bleedin’ hotdogs?’ Jack bit into his, mentally retracted the question. These were better.

  ‘Listen,’ said Taylor. ‘Are you sure Baumann’s even here?’

  ‘Since we’re at a race track, I’ll call it an even-money bet. I scoped out the car park for his Audi earlier and couldn’t see it, which makes me think he isn’t. Then again, he could’ve cabbed it, planning on having a few drinks if he picks some winners. But if young Olivia was lying to me after I rattled her cage, she deserves an academy award for acting. Which makes me think he is.’

  ‘How are we going to find Baumann if he is here? It’s mental with all these people.’

  ‘Once we flush him out, his head’ll be bobbin
g above the crowd like a beachball on the crest of a wave.’

  ‘How poetic, Jack,’ Taylor smirked.

  ‘You’ll keep. Anyway, I’ve posted Trevarthen and Semmens at the exits. There are only two, so he can’t escape. I’d rather have him in custody now, show him we mean business. Maybe embarrass him in public, know what I mean?’

  ‘That’s petty.’

  ‘I disagree. He’s a murderer who deserves no favours.’ He took a sideways bite of the dagwood dog, sauce splashing beside his shoe. ‘In five minutes there’ll be an announcement over the PA system.’

  Taylor grinned. ‘What have you come up with?’

  ‘Can’t I just enjoy my…thingy?’ Jack and Taylor attacked their lunch as people flowed around them and waited for the announcement.

  With the fast-food delicacies half consumed, trumpet fanfare heralded the start of the race. The crowd surged forward for a better look of the track, many streaming for the finishing line. Jack glanced at his watch. Race 3 was bang on time. Three minutes to run. Then the fun and games would begin. The spectacle. Thundering hooves past the finishing post, the smell of horse flesh mingling with human sweat and a hundred kinds of deodorant and perfume, a chorus of demented, cheering punters.

  And then it was over.

  The race proved a fizzer. The favourite won by five lengths, other short-priced horses filled the places. Not a great result for the tote or the bookmakers, a nice one for the punters. Spectators tore up their tickets on the spot or dispersed to pick up winnings, headed back to the bookies to lay more bets or the bar to drown their sorrows.

  The public address system carried a woman’s nasally, booming voice across the race track: Would Mr Dieter Baumann please make his way to the information booth near the main entrance. I repeat. Dieter Baumann to the main entrance. A family emergency requires your immediate and urgent attention.

  ‘C’mon, Claudia, let’s go.’

  ‘How do you know he’ll respond to that? He’ll work out it’s a set up.’

  ‘He might. I’m banking on his sense of family.’

  ‘What family? I thought he was a loner.’

  ‘He is, but he’s got folks back in Germany. I heard his sister was dying a few years ago. Dieter ran a shit load of miles to raise money for her.’

  ‘Did she pull through?’

  Jack raised his shoulders in a half-shrug. ‘Dunno. Didn’t stick around for the end of the story.’ Jack pointed. ‘Look, there he is, striding along like he’s late for his wedding.’ Baumann’s head stuck out clearly above all others. He marched with a determined stride, elbowing minnows out of the way. Jack turned back to Taylor. ‘Go over to that last bookmaker there. Hide behind the latticework with ivy creeping up it. When you see me engage Baumann in conversation, walk up slowly behind, stick your shooter in his back. I’ll cuff him while you radio for the uniforms. Understood?’

  ‘Roger.’ Taylor hustled to get behind the screen. She showed her badge to a ruddy-faced bookie in a peaked cap with a big leather bag shielding his pot belly. Behind him was a board that looked like the information screens at airports, covered in a jumble of names and numbers. Taylor exchanged a few good-natured words with the man before he shuffled slightly to the right to give the detective room. He carried on as per normal, yelling out his odds to attract clientele. Jack smiled to himself, such a cooperative member of the public was an asset to the community.

  Jack made for Baumann, walking as fast as he could without running. Getting closer to the information booth. Ten metres, five, two, one.

  ‘What’s ze emergency you paged me about?’ The German accent prominent now. Stressed.

  ‘It’s right behind you.’

  * * *

  Jack felt something stinging his cheeks. Again, harder this time. He blinked three times. Taylor’s angelic face hovered above his, her hand extended ready to deliver another wake-up slap. Had he died and gone to heaven?

  ‘Jack, get up. He’s getting away!’

  ‘What? Who?’

  ‘Baumann. He belted you a beauty with a right elbow.’

  ‘Impossible. No way…he…’

  Taylor grunted as she dragged Jack to his knees. A pain shot in a broad line from his lower jaw to the middle of his temple. A bolt of agony in the knee. His tongued probed a tooth, coppery blood oozed from its root, but thankfully not loose. He scrambled to his feet, staggered for a second.

  ‘He back heeled you in the knee,’ said Taylor. ‘Spun around and got you with a left hook. It was a blur, you had no chance.’

  Jack’s reaction time was rubbish. More work on the speed ball was required, fast twitch muscle development, high-intensity weight lifting. No more drinking. ‘Where’d he go?’

  ‘That way.’ Taylor pointed in the direction they’d come from. ‘What’s at the other end of that long avenue?’

  ‘No idea. This is my first time here. Come on, let’s move.’

  The two detectives ran, Jack with a distinct limp as he fought the pain. They yelled for people to get the hell out of the way, waved their pistols above their heads like exclamation points. People who didn’t step aside copped Jack’s forearms, working like battering rams to clear a swathe through the crowd. Taylor tucked in close behind him like a cyclist in a slipstream. They tore past a bar, its inebriated guests leaned over a veranda railing and cheered the detectives like it was another horserace. Huffing and perspiring, Jack and Taylor reached the start of the Ted Webb stand. A pathway ran behind it. Jack nodded towards a sign that read Stables. Restricted Area. ‘I’ll go that way, you go straight ahead. Be careful.’

  Taylor nodded and hightailed it towards the public lawn, crowded with spectators anticipating the start of Race 4. Jack darted down the side path, oddly quiet and deserted away from the main attraction. The brown stable doors were 30 metres away. The smell of horses and their by-products much stronger than trackside. There were two narrow paths running either side of the stables, the entrance to a covered tunnel at the end of one of them. It was a three-way bet. Did Baumann sneak inside to hide among the horses, down the left-hand path or take his chances in the tunnel? He could see from here the other end of the tunnel ended near the main gate; if he scarpered that way the uniforms should grab him. So, Jack had to choose – down the left-hand path leading who knew where, or into the stables to play horsey hide-and-seek.

  Then, luck.

  There he was. Baumann. Not all of him – his distinctive neat, gelled hairline, hovered just above the base of a horse’s neck. The man’s dark trousers were almost invisible on the other side of the thoroughbred, blending in with the chocolate colour of the stable walls. The chestnut beast, led by a stable hand, ambled along, not a care in the world, its hooves hypnotically clip-clopping on concrete. Jack sensed his quarry was unaware he’d been spotted, but it was clear the man was taking precautions. Delaying the inevitable, of course, but experience told Jack even the smartest people, educated men like Baumann, acted irrationally when they were desperate.

  The horse and its guide passed the stable door and the top of Baumann’s head disappeared. He’s gone in. Hopefully there was no door for him to escape through at the other end of the barn. Jack scurried after him.

  Stalls lined either side of the interior, hay strewn everywhere, straps and ropes hanging from beams. The pungent stench of horse manure and urine made Jack wince. He dropped to a crouch, pulled the Glock from his belt. He checked the first two stalls – one left, one right. Empty except for blankets, buckets of water, haybales, helmets and other riding gear. Next two, also empty. It was another fifty metres or so to the end, maybe sixteen more stalls, eight each side. Two more empty stalls. Jack saw curious horse heads poking above the stall dividers. There was a door at the end, but it was closed and locked with a thick chain.

  Jack swept his arm from side to side, gripping the weapon tightly. His breathing quickened. Next stall on the left contained a jittery grey horse with a black mane. No Baumann. The one on the right, a black horse, snorting a
nd stamping its front hooves. The other animals were also growing agitated, perhaps sensing the anxiety of the two men in their territory: the hunter and his prey. Jack took a deep breath. Expect anything from this guy. Slow steps, crouching lower, he continued the sweep, dodging black nuggets of horse droppings as he went. Half way down the aisle now. He had to be in one of these. Surely he hasn’t done a Houdini on me.

  Second-last stall on the right. Empty but for the usual racing accoutrements and a mini-wall of three haybales in a suspiciously straight line.

  ‘Come on out, Deets.’ Jack couldn’t resist.

  ‘Fuck you!’ The horse in the next stall whinnied at Baumann’s outburst. ‘Why are you harassing me?’

  ‘A better question would be: why are you lying in shit in a horse stable?’ Jack scoffed.

  ‘Your partner came at me with a gun. I was scared.’

  ‘She came at you because you slugged me.’

  ‘I felt something hard poking me in the back. I acted reflexively. Nothing wrong with that. Self defence. Then she’s screaming and running at me. What would you expect me to do?’

  ‘You’re trying my patience, sunshine. Bad news, I’m afraid. You’re under arrest for the murder of Dale Collins. Now get up, slowly, with your hands visible in front of your body. You caught me off guard before. It won’t happen again, I assure you.’

  Baumann stood, unfolding his ungainly body, a smug smile creasing his cheeks. ‘You’ve got nothing.’

  ‘Now walk over here and lie on your stomach, hands behind your back.’

  Again, compliance. Jack applied the zip cuffs on the man’s thick wrists in a flash. From his prone position Baumann said: ‘You’re going to regret this, Lisbon.’

  ‘I doubt it.’ Jack made a quick call to Taylor, told her to get to the stables and bring the uniforms in case the prisoner got aggressive again.

  He pulled Baumann up by the armpits, plonked him on a haybale. ‘Let’s sit here and wait for my colleagues to arrive, shall we? They won’t be long. Then it’s down to the station for tea and scones.’

 

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