by Andrea Drew
“It’s Connor. He’s being questioned about the abduction of Joanne Seyers. She was found at his property.”
There was a pause.
“Oh, my God, are you okay?”
“No, of course I’m bloody not.” I ran my fingers through my hair, which was quickly growing back. “I’m sorry, Leah.” Another pause. “I really need to talk to him, but his phone is going straight to voicemail. What time do you think you’ll be here to collect me for this fun-filled adventure we call sharing a place?”
“Funny, Gypsy.” I heard Leah push out a long breath. “Glad to hear you're still a smart-ass. I’ll be there straight after work, probably around six thirty.”
“I’ll see you then.” As I pulled the phone away from my ear, I heard Leah’s voice from the telephone handset calling me back.
“Gypsy, you still there?”
I pulled the phone back to my ear. “Yeah.”
“Is that cop still posted outside your room?”
“What? Yeah.”
“Good. I’ll see you tonight.” I heard the dial tone as she hung up.
I resumed packing my bag with more energy, stuffing clothes into the bag with greater force. If Leah didn’t get here in time, I would just head to plan B and discharge myself with a taxi to take me to the place I was longing for, home. The frustration was doing my head in, so much to do and so little time.
*****
Connor knew that if he had to look the chief in the eye seconds after his public humiliation he would do or say something he may regret later. What the hell—his career was over anyway, so what did he have to lose? He followed the chief down the corridor, which ran behind the press conference hall. Their shoes clomped as they came to an abrupt halt outside the elevator entrance that would take them to the fourth floor.
“You could have told me,” hissed Connor once they were inside the grey steely box.
The chief's eyes were focused at an imaginary point on the door. “I would have if you’d turned up. A man is only as good as his word.” His voice bounced off the elevator walls as the doors slowly closed.
“My word? Are you kidding me? What about respect? How’s that for a word?” The elevator door opened and Connor strode ahead, overtaking the chief, fists swinging. Damn the man, he was a stickler for the book and for keeping up bloody appearances.
Connor pushed the door open hearing it knock against the doorstop before bouncing back an inch. He’d learned over the years to rein in his temper and let it simmer within. The pot was bubbling over, but he’d mastered the art of reining in the wild colt. Jack didn’t need another excuse to denigrate him.
He paused near the doorway, his breathing heavy as he looked out of the window into the dark street below. He heard the sound of the rain washing against tires as automobiles hurried across the waterlogged road, ploughing their way home. He wished he was one of those drivers at that moment, travelling somewhere pleasurable, comparatively insignificant, to dinner at a restaurant maybe. Restaurants caused his mind to move to the night he met Gypsy, and he hoped she hadn’t been paying attention to the news. His attention snapped back into the brightly lit room as the chief pushed roughly past him, knocking his body into a chair.
As Connor felt his shoulders sag, he raised his chin slightly and saw the plants on the filing cabinet behind the chief were brown and thirsty, dying a slow death. The dust on the bookshelves was thick. Piles of paper on the desk were so high they threatened to topple over.
“Your badge and weapon, Reardon.” The chief's mouth was almost closed. He brought his purple-lidded eyes up from the piece of paper he had shuffled across the desk to glare at Connor. Connor felt a heaviness move through his gut, the doubt a morphing mass, before it settled to a stone.
“Seriously? Just like that? Hand over my badge and weapon? How many years have we worked together? You know how I operate. Doesn’t that count for something?” Connor was doing his best not to sound hysterical, but it was proving more difficult than he thought. After all the years, the long hours, time away from his family, the breakup of his marriage, had it really come to this? His case close rate was legendary, and here the chief was asking for his badge and weapon out of fear of public opinion?
“Don’t make this any more difficult than it should be.” The chief shook his head, his expression somber, and his chin moving closer toward the desk.
“You make my public suspension sound like a formality, a procedure. This is my life we’re talking about. No one is more committed than I am.” Connor’s arm swept across his body in a sweeping gesture, his palm turned in a slicing motion. Over the last ten years there hadn’t been a single officer disavowed during a press conference. Whatever the hell the chief’s hidden agenda, he needed to dig it out, and fast. “Any idea how the media scrum out there knew about the investigation?”
What Jack wouldn’t say was a chain around his neck weighing him down. For him to come out like that and publicly suspend him was an aberration, bizarre beyond belief. Jack was saving face, but for why or for who was yet to be determined. There was no way he was going to make this easy, not a chance in hell. Connor crossed his arms, leaning back in the chair.
“You heard them.” Jack Reynolds pointed a finger at the wall. “Joanne Seyers was found at your property. You must know how this looks.”
“My investigation and suspension is a damn formality, we both know that. A farce to keep the papers happy. We heard them say they know that Tiran was killed by my nephew. I’m pretty sure DNA will prove that he didn’t. How does that look? Is that really what this is all about? Perception? PR? For real, Jack?”
Connor's eye was drawn to the chief's throat, where the Adam’s apple bobbed as Jack swallowed.
Snatched by a rush of resentment, Connor held up a palm partially obscuring Jack’s face. “Let me guess the strategy here is to take any possible power out of negative press. A disgraced detective. The only flaw in that plan is that other than a piece of paper, you have nothing on me, not a shred of damn evidence! To hell with the team, the force itself, all that matters is how it looks to the blokes holding mikes. The least you could do was call me before the press conference. Isn’t that what phones are for, Jack?”
His career was over, Connor had tried to control his anger, but it had all come rushing out. The years of frustration, the late hours on the job with little to no acknowledgment. Most cops didn’t do it for a well-timed pat on the back, but when faced with uncompromising disloyalty, he’d cracked, his anger pushing him over the brink into a confrontation he’d been resisting for years. He’d pissed Jack off and his career was in tatters.
Jack sagged back in his chair. “Listen, I don’t like this any more than you do, Reardon, but think about the implications. Until this is over, I want the force's reputation intact. I’ve moved to damage control. As soon as the evidence is in, you’ll be reinstated. We both know this is only a formality.”
A formality?
Connor wasn’t capable of pushing the argument. His bones were aching and his hands trembling. Better just to hand it all over.
He reached into his jacket and felt the cold solidity of his weapon. It had been his constant companion. It had shot a man dead. He wrapped his fingers around the handle and withdrew it, dropping it onto the desk with a clatter. Jack held his head in his hands.
Connor reached into his back pocket to slide out his badge and grimaced, the heat behind his eyelids searing as it built to an ache. At that moment, he realized it was over. This was the end.
“Nothing can make this any worse than it damn well is,” said Connor, his deep voice rippling through the small office.
The veins in the chief's cheeks were red. He ripped off his hat, throwing it at the cupboard in the far corner of the room.
“We’re here to make damn sure law-abiding citizens are free to live without danger, but not at any cost, Reardon. It’s time to give up for a while, a few days. It’s over. Take some time out. We’ll talk next week.”
&
nbsp; “That statement’s true. That’s something, I guess. We’re a team, except your team includes politicians, journalists and internal affairs, which I want no part of. Let me guess, they’re here already, right?”
The chief shuffled a piece of paper on his desk. “Right down the corridor. They’ll cover the few questions that need to be asked. Starting with where the hell you were on the night Joanne Seyers was abducted.”
“Bite Me? Great,” muttered Connor.
“Excuse me?” said the chief, his head jolted up.
“Bite Me. Bittern and Meagher, you know the pride of the force.”
Jack glared at him.
“Oh, you weren’t aware of their pet names,” said Connor. “What the hell, in for a penny…” He started to move out of the chair.
The chief shuffled his papers awkwardly, clearing his throat. “Well, that’s it for now. I had hoped this could be quick and painless.”
“Perfect, just fucking perfect,” Connor whispered. The pain in his back surged upward as he stood. He turned to go, and leaned over to the chief.
“Hope you sleep well tonight.”
*****
My bags were packed neatly and waiting patiently beside the bed. There were only so many times they could be packed and repacked. I decided to pass the time by flipping magazines, staring out the window, or walking around the ward, but after what seemed like many hours, it had lost its appeal. Surely, this was straightforward. They couldn’t keep me here without my consent, could they? I walked out of my room yet again, and stood in the doorway, arms folded, tapping my foot, waiting until I caught someone’s eye.
“Yes, Gypsy, the doctor knows you’re waiting. He won’t be too long.”
I glanced across at the police officer posted outside my room—a different one today, curly and red-haired—and caught the eye of a nurse at the station. I couldn’t give them too much of a hard time. They held my fate in their hands, but I figured a bit of badgering of a young greenish looking policeman could help pass the time.
“Lucky you, you get to knock off early today. No more standing outside the grumpy woman’s room.” I saw the ghost of a smile slide across the officer's face as he looked at me through the corner of his eye. “It’s okay, I won’t bite,” I said. “I’ve asked for an early discharge. They’re just working it all out now.” The silence was deafening. Okay then, back to my room.
I closed the door loudly and resumed my position on the bed, flipping on the idiot box. I wished someone would hurry up or I’d end up calling a taxi and to hell with the consequences.
The daytime soapies were playing and I let out a sigh. Surely, television executives didn’t imagine we were that desperate for entertainment. Like most of them, this one could be watched once a quarter whether I wanted to or not; so mind-numbly repetitive that I could miss three months of it, come back and take up where I left off.
I thought I heard the self-important tones of what was probably a doctor outside my room.
“This one here, this is Ms. Shield's room? She’s ready?”
Yes, I am, I’ve been waiting here for ages, growing cobwebs, just damn well send me home!
The door opened and a man in a grey suit walked in. He looked to be in his late fifties, his grey hair freshly combed and wet. He flicked a look at me as he stood at the bottom of my bed.
“Ms. Shields,” he said, raising an eyebrow, “I’ve been told you’re eager to go home.”
“That’s right,” I said, one arm set across my chest. “There’s absolutely no reason to keep me here. I can walk unaided, my speech is fine, my rehab is done, I think. The best thing for me now is the comfort of home.”
“Well, that’s strictly a matter of opinion.” The doctor didn’t sound convinced. “I’ve been advised that you were the witness to a crime, which of course is the reason for the police guard. Are you really sure you want to go home at a time like this? The care team is concerned about your well-being, and we aren’t convinced going home is the best idea at this time.”
Great. I folded my arms. I felt like pacing around the damn room, but knew it wouldn’t help my case. “I’m a grown woman, and the police escort, well, that was arranged without my knowledge. I’m been told by a senior detective that there will be police cars driving past my premises, and that's apart from the fact that my sister has said she’ll be collecting me. She finishes work around 5.30 tonight, so we’re really only talking about a matter of hours on my own…”
Mr. Grey-Suited doctor thrust his hands into his pockets. “Ms. Shields, I’m still not a hundred per cent convinced. If anything untoward happens…”
“But nothing will happen. Fort Knox is protecting me, for God’s sake.” I rubbed my brow hopefully to shove away the beginnings of another headache. “So you’re telling me that you are going to keep me here? Whoever did this has no idea where I live, and in the time it takes to find me, my sister will be there to pick me up. The odds of someone tracking me down over a couple of hours are so small. I’ll be fine. I understand the need to be safe, but I’m going stir crazy in here.”
The doctor rubbed a hand over his chin as he frowned, and jammed a hand into his trouser pocket. “Maybe. You really are miserable in here, aren’t you?”
An indefinite pause.
“Leave it with me. I’ll need you to sign some paperwork, though…”
Yes!
“Of course, not a problem, I’m happy to sign whatever you need.” I didn’t want to let on that my heart had started pounding like a mad dog, didn’t want to scare them in my moment of triumph. “My sister Leah, will be here soon, like I said, so it won’t be a problem.” I tried my best not to squeal and dance. I wanted to skip and jump—hell yes, I was going home!
*****
Connor was standing in the corridor outside the chief's office when his pocket buzzed with a text message from Ian Robson. Sorry, mate, I honestly had no idea. Ian probably wanted to mumble how sorry he was and hang his head, but knowing the pressure forced onto him, Connor guessed his partner would have reached the press conference early, and after a browbeating from Darcy, the pressure too much to bear, and paralysis enforced his inaction. He scowled down at his phone, an index finger hovering over it ready to reply when a man dressed in a brown suit from the seventies walked toward him.
“D.C Reardon? A word, please.”
Oh great, it was Bittern, the Bite in Bite Me. Both Bittern and Meagher, the internal affairs reps were the butt of countless jokes, not only because of their dress sense, but because of the countless arrogant assumptions made by the only IA rep an officer usually had the displeasure of meeting. Officers talked at barbeques, usually right before Connor turned away to tune out of the conversation. He’d rather be alone than join in with the beer binges shared by some officers. He knew it was a one way ticket to tragedy.
“Not a good time, I have a victim to protect. She’s the only witness to the Seyers’ case, and if I don’t move soon, I’m concerned she’ll do a runner and discharge herself.” He now knew the prickles and pinging was Gypsy, doing her best to get in contact with him with limited success.
Bittern shoved his hands into his pockets. The lights shone on his almost baldhead. He’d spread the remaining threads of hair across it and his grey tie was loosened.
“I understand you’re busy, Detective Reardon, but this will only take a minute. This way…” Bittern gestured with an outstretched hand toward the conference room door. Connor resigned himself to at least ten minutes with a couple of half-wits.
The door creaked, as it swung open. There was Meagher in a grey suit matching Bittern's. His handlebar moustache and haircut meant Connor bowed his head slightly to hide a half-smile as he reached the boardroom table. Meagher extended his hand to shake Connor’s.
“I’d rather not,” Connor said, thrusting his hands into his pockets.
Meagher fell back into the seat at the long polished table, clasping his hands together. Connor wondered if this was an attempt to appear eff
icient, all show, and no damn substance.
“Look, I don’t have long,” said Connor, looking at Bittern and then back to Meagher. “As far as I’m concerned, this is no longer needed.”
“Look, Reardon, we understand we’re not the force favorites, but there are some questions.”
“You went to the press conference? My suspension is a joke.”
“What does that mean?”
“The whole bloody country knew about my suspension before I did.”
Bittern spoke first. “Well, ah, that’s not strictly in our control. Those decisions are made by the chief or commander.”
“I know, but after twelve years of service, who would have thought? You probably got a kick out of it. Did you, Meagher?” Connor pushed himself back in his chair, resting his legs on the table supports underneath.
Meagher cleared his throat, looking down at the table's wood finish. “That’s not for me to comment on. What I would like to talk about is the property in Laverton registered in your father’s name.”
Connor realized the reason for the hand clasping and paper shuffling. Bite Me had a copy of the property title on the table. Smarmy little pricks, they wanted him to see it.
“I see you have the deed to our warehouse there.”
“Just some due diligence,” Bittern said, eyes pinched.
“Due diligence? Is that what you call it?” Connor let out a snort. “Is that like the due diligence before I was publicly suspended?”
Bittern pushed his elbow further across the table, learning so hard on it that it slid across the table clumsily. “Look, Reardon, like I said, we’re here to ask questions, nothing more. The sooner we get answers, the sooner we’re all out of here.”
“It’s public record now. I had an instinct and needed to check it out. I was as shocked as Ian Robson to find the victim there…”
“What prompted your decision?”
“To visit the warehouse? Partial registration details of a van.”
“That’s it?”
“Well, a few things, when you consider them individually didn’t mean much, but in light of the witness account and the partial plate…”
