by Chris Taylor
Declan stared at him almost uncomprehendingly and then shook his head. “She talked to you, too? I guess I should thank you for the show of support,” he said wearily.
“Was she there? The IA bitch with the big tits? Was she there when they arrested you?”
Declan pushed aside a twinge of irritation and nodded grimly. “Oh yeah, she was here. Her and some other IA meathead I’d never seen before. He was the one who slapped the cuffs on.”
“Christ, you have to be kidding? They cuffed you?”
“Yep.”
Charlie paced the length of the open-plan living room, shaking his head and muttering his disbelief. Declan hoisted himself off the couch and headed toward the bar in the far corner of the living room. It faced the view of the lake.
The myriad of twinkling city lights illuminating the wide expanse of water normally served to calm him after a stressful day, but right now, nothing seemed to be able to penetrate the dull fog that had descended upon him since his arrest.
He pulled open the door of the bar fridge and tugged out a cold Crown lager. Flipping open the bottle top, he slugged half of the contents in one gulp.
“Do you want one?” he asked, indicating the bottle in his hand.
Charlie stopped his pacing and nodded. He walked over to the bar where Declan stood and leaned his elbows on the countertop.
“I’m sorry, mate. I’m sorry you had to go through all that.”
Declan tugged another beer out of the fridge and handed it to his friend. “It’s not your fault, mate.”
“Would it help if you talked about it?”
Declan’s lips twisted in derision. “Probably not. Talking’s not going to change anything.”
“Did they tell you how they found out? Who it was who pointed the finger at you?”
Declan shook his head and took another slug from his beer. “Nope, but that’s not going to stop me. It’s obvious whoever the bastard was that went to them is the one who has set me up.”
Charlie turned away and took a sip from his beer, peering through the wall of glass on the opposite side of the apartment and into the night beyond.
“We’ll get to the bottom of it, mate. I promise you.”
Declan walked around the bar and returned to his seat on the couch. “I’ve been told to stand down until it gets sorted out. My access to the station has been restricted.”
“But mine hasn’t.” Charlie turned around and looked at him, his face grim with determination. “I’ll find out who did this to you, mate. I swear it.”
CHAPTER 6
Charlie stared through the windscreen and into the darkness toward the Master’s mansion on No. 32 Boland Drive. It sat well back from the road and was bordered by a high sandstone fence. Through the double black wrought iron gates, he could see that the place was ablaze with lights, warm and welcoming in the cool spring night.
They beckoned him inside, but he knew better than to fall for their light-filled treachery. The Master had made it clear: Charlie was welcome to spend time with him at his office; his house was strictly out of bounds.
It was one of the reasons why Charlie found himself drawn to the building. Time after time, during the restless hours when sleep eluded him, or like tonight, when his thoughts lay uneasy on his mind, he’d find himself outside No. 32 Boland Drive.
Thoughts of Declan weighed heavily. It had been more than a month since the arrest. A month where he’d had to keep up the pretense of friendship with a mate he’d betrayed. He thought of what he’d done and what he still had to do and experienced a twinge of concern.
Had he done the right thing? Declan had been nothing but friendly during the year they’d worked together. The two of them had enjoyed a lot of fun times, going to the football games, hanging out in bars, swapping shoptalk. But the problem was, Declan didn’t know. Declan didn’t know the truth. Only the Master knew and only the Master could truly make Charlie happy.
Familiar shame surged through him. He was in his thirties and he still hadn’t found the courage to be himself, to stand up for what he believed in, to be proud of the man he was.
His mother’s constant vitriolic criticism, which had started when he was a teenager, had set him back a lifetime. For years, he’d despaired of ever being brave enough to stand up to her and her narrow-minded prejudices. But then, he’d met the Master and his mother’s approval no longer seemed important.
The meeting had been pre-destined. A memo had arrived on Detective Superintendent Julian’s desk requesting the presence of Charles Stanford to assist in the implementation of a policy-related operation that was to be conducted from the Home Affairs Office. The memo was a little vague on details, but Charlie’s interest had been piqued. Being handpicked by the office responsible for his employment was an honor he refused to take lightly.
When he met the Master and discovered the man’s proclivities were peculiar to his own, he was buoyant with the possibilities. Here was the opportunity he’d been looking for: The chance to leave the dark shadow of his mother’s disgust and revulsion behind him forever and to become the man he wanted to be. At last, he could live his life the way he wanted.
Of course, it hadn’t quite worked out that way, but he hadn’t given up hope that the day would come when he could throw off his mantle of deceit and live openly the way he dreamed of.
He was smart enough to realize the Master could help him achieve his goal. When he was with the Master, anything was possible. He felt as strong and as brave and as determined as he needed to be to throw off the constraints he’d lived under for so many years—and to be proud of the real Charlie Stanford.
It was a shame his friendship with Declan had to be sacrificed, but it was a small price to pay. Besides, the Master needed Charlie. He needed him to help protect the Master against the very real danger Declan posed. The Master had told him all about it.
Being needed by the Master was the sweetest feeling in the world and Charlie cherished it like a child cherished a favorite toy. Nothing and no one would come between them.
He glanced at his watch. Its chrome-plated face was illuminated by a nearby street light. Registering the time, he sighed. It was late and he was rostered onto work in the morning.
Shooting a final, wistful glance at the Master’s mansion, he started the ignition of his car and eased out onto the street. As the distance between him and the Master widened, he couldn’t help but yearn for the day when he could be part of the Master’s life—in every way possible.
* * *
Chloe frowned at the words on her computer screen and then deleted the paragraph she’d just written. She had two days left to serve the Brief of Evidence on Agent Munro’s lawyer and there were parts of it that were still giving her a headache.
She’d requested the transcripts of the statements of the offender, the main witness and Gary Julian for inclusion in the brief, along with the CPU’s computer log records and timesheets. What was giving her grief was her summary of the offences.
Declan Munro didn’t fit the profile of a pedophile. It was as simple and as complex as that. Not that there was any magic formula, but this man was a pillar of society, well liked and respected by his family and his colleagues, including his boss. The statement he’d made to her and the demeanor with which he’d delivered it rang with truth and sincerity—and yet the evidence indicated otherwise.
Then there was the statement made by Agent Stanford. A man who described himself as a friend of the offender. A close friend, if she was to believe Stanford’s account. And why wouldn’t she believe it?
He’d come across as an honest officer and appeared genuinely horrified at the thought that his friend might be a pedophile. Chloe had run a check on Stanford and although his family background left a little bit to be desired and his colleagues were not quite as gushing in their praise, he was nevertheless considered a good agent and sported an unblemished record.
With a sigh of frustration, she sat back in her chair and rubbed at the ac
he in her neck. Which one of them was lying?
“What’s the matter, Chloe? You look like you can’t find the word to match the last clue to a five thousand-word crossword.”
Chloe summoned a tired smile and looked across at her work colleague. Jack Webber had been her partner and sounding block ever since she’d arrived in the somewhat stilted halls of the IA. Before he’d taken on the role of IA investigator, he’d had over twenty years of experience in the field. It was this kind of experience and his ability to read a situation with uncanny accuracy that Chloe had depended upon during her first few years in the job.
Being an investigator for IA was a difficult job and one that not a lot of agents were willing to do. But while Chloe found it incredibly stressful at times, especially when her gut instincts were in full argument with her head like they were now, she also found it enormously rewarding.
The majority of Federal agents were hard-working, honest people who took pride in keeping their country safe. Every now and then a rogue officer slipped through the ranks and put the whole organization in jeopardy. The media could rarely be found when the AFP got something right, but invariably turned up in force if things turned sour—particularly if the source of the problem came from within. Journalists salivated about breaking the story of a cop who’d turned bad.
“It’s this case I’m working on. The one involving Declan Munro. It’s…complicated.”
Webber pushed away from his desk and closed the short distance between them. “How so?”
Chloe’s shoulders slumped. “He’s an exemplary officer. Everyone I talk to sings his praises, even his superiors. He’s been in the game for more than a decade and there’s not even a hint that something might be amiss. He’s sinfully good looking and has the charm of the boy next door. I spoke to some of his female colleagues. Nobody had a bad word to say about him. The only thing I will say is I couldn’t find a woman in his office that he’d dated. Not that it means he’s a pedophile,” she hastened to add. “There could be any number of reasons why he doesn’t date his coworkers.”
“I know a certain young woman who’s never gone out with a man from her office,” Webber teased, the crows’ feet at the corners of his eyes crinkling with humor.
Her lips turned up in a tiny smile. “Exactly. Refusing to date coworkers isn’t a crime in anyone’s book.” She sighed again and shook her head. “I’ve looked at the witness statements, I’ve made my own enquires, I’ve studied the hard facts, but no matter how I consider it, when looked at as a whole, it doesn’t fit.”
Webber propped a hip against her desk and shrugged. “Evil comes in all guises, Chloe. It’s often the ones who least look the part that are the most dangerous. Believe me, even I’ve been caught out.”
Chloe grimaced, recalling another man who’d duped her with his easy charm. It had been a decade and a half ago, but she could still remember like it was yesterday—and she couldn’t forget her solemn vow never to be taken in by a Colgate smile again.
Determination surged through her. There had to be something on Declan Munro that she hadn’t found, something that explained his penchant for child pornography.
With a nod of thanks in Webber’s direction, Chloe straightened in her chair and reached for her keyboard. Within moments, she’d accessed the New South Wales Police database. A few keystrokes later and she’d found what she was looking for: Declan Munro’s State Police file.
Scanning the first few pages, she digested the enviable array of recommendations and honorable mentions he’d been awarded over the course of his career as a New South Wales police officer. They were impressive; but then, she knew they would be. She’d already read his AFP file.
His initial application to the AFP had included references from his State colleagues and commanding officers, as well as mandatory background checks. Everything had come back clear, which was no more than she expected—he’d been accepted into their ranks, after all.
Tabbing through the various entries on the screen in front of her, a small heading caught her eye. Clicking open the file, she discovered a report from five years ago that involved a complaint against one Declan Andrew Munro.
She scanned the contents. Uneasiness morphed into shock. Discovering the proof she’d been seeking should have filled her with elation, but instead she felt nothing but coldness and an overwhelming sense of disappointment.
The phone at her elbow rang. With her eyes still focused on the screen in front of her, she answered it.
The IT expert on the other end didn’t mince words. The laptop confiscated from Declan Munro’s apartment during the execution of the search warrant had been forensically examined. More than a hundred deleted images of child pornography had been found on the hard drive.
Chloe’s shock of only moments ago congealed into icy anger. She couldn’t believe that even for an instant, he had taken her in. It just went to show, as far as her instincts went, that lately she couldn’t be more off kilter.
Reaching for the phone again, she punched in the number for Munro’s lawyer.
* * *
Declan pulled into a parking lot within walking distance of the AFP headquarters. It was just after lunch in the middle of the working week and the car park was nearly full. Despite the fact he was on a motorbike, he rode through several levels before he eventually found a vacant spot.
As he made his way into the building which housed Senior Investigator Sabattini, he wiped his damp palms on his suit pants and tried desperately to hide his nerves.
He hated feeling this way. He hated that his life had spiraled so far out of control that he no longer recognized it as his own. He hated the fear and uncertainty that stared back at him in the bathroom mirror. But mostly, he hated the feeling of hopelessness that enveloped him every time he thought of the charges that had been brought against him and the nameless, faceless witness who had instigated all this.
The telephone call from his barrister had taken him by surprise. Apart from his family, calls to his cell phone had been few and far between. He hadn’t even heard from Charlie for over a week. Busy at work, Declan assumed, wishing he could make the same complaint.
In accordance with the timetable set down by the court, the prosecution had two more days before the brief had to be served, so it was unlikely Roger was calling about the contents of that.
After the briefest of greetings and an exchange of even briefer preliminaries, Roger had gotten straight to the point: Senior Investigator Sabattini wanted to speak with him and she’d requested the presence of his lawyer.
Declan refused to get his hopes up that the nightmare of the last few weeks could soon be over. Surely, that was the reason for the summons? Why else would she contact his lawyer and order both of them to her office without delay?
Declan entered the elevator, grateful to find it empty. Punching in the number of the floor that housed the IA offices, he moved toward the back and waited for the doors to close. In less than a minute, he was transported to the fifth floor.
The sleek, silver doors slid open and he stepped into the hall, his footsteps muffled by the light gray-and-navy colored carpet that lined its length.
The nerves he’d managed to suppress returned in full force and he swallowed with a throat that was suddenly sandpit dry. The sight of his lawyer waiting for him outside the interview room helped only slightly to ease his tension.
“Roger, thanks for coming at such short notice.”
The barrister held out his hand and Declan shook it. “That’s what you’re paying me for, son.”
“Yes, well, even so, I appreciate it.” Declan angled his head in the direction of the closed door. “Do you have any idea what this is all about?”
Roger shook his head, his expression grim. “I couldn’t get anything out of her, which makes me nervous.”
“So, you don’t think she’s called us here to tell us she’s dropping the case?”
Roger’s lips compressed. “There’s nothing that would please me mor
e, Declan, but unfortunately, experience tells me something different.”
The lawyer noticed Declan’s disappointment and stepped forward to give him a comforting pat on the shoulder.
“I’m sorry, son, but I’m not going to bullshit you. If this was good news, I’m sure it would have been relayed over the telephone. Chloe Sabattini knows I’ve had to drop everything and hop a plane from Sydney to be here. I wish I could give you more hope, but you’re not paying me for fairy tales.”
Roger looked uncomfortable, but Declan barely noticed. His thoughts had snagged on one word: Chloe.
So, that was her name.
Chloe. Somehow, it suited her.
His thoughts were interrupted when the door to the interview room swung open and he was treated to another close-up of Senior Investigator Chloe Sabattini.
She greeted both of them with a firm handshake, her expression unreadable.
“Mr White, Agent Munro. Thanks for coming.” She turned and moved across the room to check the video recorder on the shelf in the corner. Declan’s gaze shifted around the stark interview room.
The only difference he could ascertain since his last visit was a second plastic chair had been added, he guessed in deference to his barrister. Seemingly satisfied with the status of the video machine, Chloe indicated the seats with a wave of her hand and then made her way around the standard-issue laminate desk.
Declan busied himself with taking a seat and did his best not to notice how well her knee-length, tailored, navy skirt cupped the curve of her rounded butt or how her pale yellow blouse set off the golden tones of her skin. When she took the only remaining chair, he averted his gaze, but not before he caught an enticing glimpse of shadowed cleavage.
Christ, what was wrong with him? This woman held his life in her hands. Surely, he could lift his thoughts above his navel and concentrate his efforts on convincing her of his innocence?
