Open Wounds

by Camille Taylor

  Darryl logged into his computer. Donovan glanced up from the folder she’d been reviewing.

  “Doyle reported in,” she said. “Lambert hasn’t shown any signs that he knows they’re tailing him.”

  “He won’t, either, if Matthews is driving,” he replied. Dean had mastered tailing people, just as he mastered everything he put his mind to. The man was skilled.

  He reviewed the recent interview, pissed that they had to let Lambert go. He knew in his gut the man was guilty but that didn’t hold up in court. Still, he hated to lose. It was another thing he had in common with Donovan other than a strong work ethic. Neither of them wanted to go home before a case was closed and put to bed. It was probably the reason why they worked so well together.

  “I just hope he leads them to his boss,” Donovan said.

  He nodded, agreeing. He’d noticed Lambert’s fearless attitude, and knew just as she did that he wasn’t the one calling the shots. It didn’t sit right with him to allow a murderer to go free, but whoever was behind the order needed to be taken out. A man who could lightly sentence two men to death in such a callous way was someone he wanted off the streets.

  Harbour Bay has its fair share of crime, but thankfully nowhere near that of Sydney or Melbourne. Their days were usually filled with robberies, car thefts, domestic disputes, or vandalism. There was the occasional hit and run, or suicide, and an increasing number of murders, whether vehicular, accidental, or intentional.

  Not that long ago, he had seen more than enough murder victims to last a lifetime when the Butcher had come to town. He had been secondary on the taskforce. A case nobody had wanted simply because the man had been a ghost, a transient with no morals.

  He’d almost killed Natalie, Matt’s psychologist wife, although they hadn’t been married at the time. He remembered the way Matt had looked after taking the Butcher down and how close he’d been to losing Natalie. Darryl knew he never wanted to be put in that position. A relationship proved hard enough for a police officer—the long hours, constantly being on call. He didn’t want to add occasionally being a target for homicidal killers to the list.

  Donovan stood and stretched, breaking his rapidly declining thoughts.

  “I’m going to the gym for a while to clear my head and work off some of this excess energy,” she said. “When I get back, you and me will go over what we have.”

  He nodded. “I’ll bring the pizza. It’s going to be a long night.”

  ***

  Kellie reviewed each of Amelia’s arrest files in hopes of finding a pattern—or rather, a lack of one. She took what Detective Hill had said about Amelia being a woman into consideration. In what could be defined as a man’s job, or at least held the monopoly of men over the years, it would be hard for a woman to join the ranks and certainly not without proving she was just as good or even better than some of the men.

  He had a valid point and she’d wanted his opinion. As Amelia’s partner, he worked with her the most, and had seen her in different circumstances and situations, both threatening and non-threatening. She wanted a proper assessment.

  Even Kellie, when she’d first been hired in Internal Affairs, had to work harder than everybody else to show them she wasn’t just a pretty face or simply a receptionist to bring them coffee when they so desired. She knew how people saw her and admitted to using that to her advantage once or twice. Like with Michael Lambert earlier. People saw what they wanted and most thought her brainless. Lawyers and cops from other cities were the main culprits, those who did not know her personally. She was always surprised how often they underestimated her. They all left wide-eyed and open-mouthed after deciding how badly she’d screwed them.

  She tried to think about the situations Amelia might face on the job, applying Detective Hill’s logic. Men saw women as obstacles, nothing more. Even a woman wielding a gun or some such weapon weren’t considered a credible threat. They simply believed they could work around her. Turn themselves from prey to predator, stalking her, intimidating her until she backed down.

  She scoffed. She could imagine Amelia’s response to that. From what she’d learned, her old friend would gladly hand them their balls.

  It took a strong woman to control such a situation. Men had more strength. It was just a fact of life. No matter how hard you trained, all it took was one second of distraction and they had you. It would be easy to forget your own strength when fighting for control and compliance. Overcompensating in an effort to subdue a less than cooperative criminal—especially when the adrenaline would be pumping.

  She’d been in the same situation once and when you’re fighting against an unknown factor, you’re not interested in playing fair, only in being victorious. But to be absolutely sure, she would have to see Amelia Donovan in action.

  Chapter 8

  Michael Lambert strode through the side entrance of Dick Coleani’s restaurant, hiding the fear consuming him. That cop scared the crap out of him. He hadn't allowed it to show, knowing Coleani had his back and soon he would join the ranks of the men Coleani trusted most. He made his way past the shelves of supplies. Coleani had made it clear, he was never to enter via the front. He understood. The five star restaurant was his main place of business and his most lucrative although there wasn’t a piece of Harbour Bay that Dick Coleani didn’t have control over.

  A man he aspired to be. Even if he wasn't sure he could stomach how he was getting there.

  He found the man in the office behind his mahogany desk. He stood when Michael approached. Coleani was not a young man, closing in on fifty. He’d been running Harbour Bay since his teenage years and the hard work showed on his face and in his ice cold grey eyes. His hair was peppered with grey, and his face held a few days’ growth as it always did. His lean body was strong even for a man of his age, though he delegated most of his jobs out to his men.

  “Ah, Mike, you’re late,” Coleani said.

  He hastened to apologise as he always did when Coleani used that tone of voice. The tone of a disappointed father, which was the role he played to all his men, having watched them grow up within his organisation.

  “Sorry, Mr. Coleani. I had some legal problems.”

  He nodded. “Yes, so I heard. You’re looking a little purple around the edges.”

  He gingerly touched his swollen face.

  “Nothing I can’t handle. They have nothing on me. No fingerprints, nothing, only that some neighbour saw my car speeding away from the scene. Sorry, Mr. Coleani, for not anticipating that. If it will help, I can remove the witness.”

  He prayed for the affirmative. Anything to prove he wasn’t a screw-up, that he could do as he was asked.

  Coleani shook his head. “No, that would not be wise, not with the police nearby. Tell me, what about the scene?”

  “They found just a smidge of cocaine. Nothing to link the killings to you. I policed the brass and did as I was told.”

  “So everything went as planned, except for the car?”

  “Just an oversight, Mr. Coleani. It won’t happen again.”

  “Good. I don’t like my boys to fail me.”

  He flushed with embarrassment at the reprimand.

  “Tell me, Mike, what about these detectives, do they pose a threat?”

  Michael shook his head adamantly. “No, not at all. They have their own problems at the moment.”

  Coleani appeared intrigued. “Tell me about them,” he said. A demand, not a suggestion.

  He swallowed hard. Being in Coleani’s presence always made him nervous.

  “Well, there was Detective Hill and a Detective Donovan—a chick. There was another chick, too. But she’s not a detective. She introduced herself as being Internal Affairs. She was the one who released me.”

  Coleani raised an eyebrow. “The IA chick, did you happen to catch her name?” he asked.

  He tried to remember. He’d mostly been terrified. “Munroe, I think. A hot blonde.”

  “Donovan and Munroe,” he repeated ou
t loud.

  “What is that, like Cagney and Lacey?” he joked, his smart mouth covering the anxiety twisting his insides. He'd thought nothing of killing. But the reality was different from his imagination. As were the consequences.

  Coleani pinned him with a look that said he didn’t appreciate his brand of humour.

  “No. Donovan and Munroe both lived in my neighbourhood years ago. They were a real nuisance to me. Although…I thought I got rid of that problem. Nevertheless, if they choose to interfere again, I will have to do something permanent.”

  ***

  Dean watched as Lambert exited the restaurant and moved toward his car. Beside him, Nick hit the oval button on the digital camera and in the silence of the car the click, click sounded loudly as a succession of photos were taken. Nick looked briefly at his work before grunting, telling Dean in his own way that they’d gotten what they needed.

  Lambert pulled the Saab out of the parking spot and into traffic. After a beat, Dean followed, losing himself in the flow. Should the kid happen to look back in his rear-view, it was doubtful he and Nick would be spotted.

  They followed him for another ten minutes until he pulled off the main road and into the tenant’s parking of a run-down, low-income housing apartment building. The building itself, the name Houston faded on the side, had seen better years. It had been built back in the seventies and allowed to rot when the owner went bust and the government took over the deed. Several windows were broken, a few taped closed with plastic bags. It was the kind of place where cockroaches the size of Chihuahuas roamed about, mould and rust just another colour scheme.

  Four young men approached Lambert as he made his way toward the open front door of the building. Obviously security was not a priority for these kids. Dean heard the camera snapping away photos and knew Nick was hoping to capture the perfect shot. The gangly teenagers surrounded Lambert and from the looks of it were singing him praises, high fiving him and patting the man on the back. Apparently, they believed he’d done something pretty fantastic.

  These morons were most likely the alibi he’d supplied. Their type stuck together so long as there was something in it for them.

  Dean waited as the light began to fade, the sun sinking behind the building. The kids welcomed Lambert like a conquering hero. And to think, it had only taken two lives. But then life was cheap around these parts. Dean was disgusted. He’d seen enough life snuffed out during his tour overseas.

  The son of scholars—both professors at Harbour Bay University, his father in mathematics, his mother in English—it had been assumed he’d follow in his parents’ footsteps and teach, or become a doctor or lawyer. But he’d had no intention of sitting down all day and knew he wasn’t cut out for a desk job. To say John and Georgia Matthews were surprised when he’d told them he’d enlisted in the army was an understatement. But they’d supported him without question through his entire career and was thankful to have such wonderful parents.

  “By the looks of those guys, they’re going to be partying all night. I doubt we’ll need to stay and keep watch. I’m going to head home. You want me to drop you somewhere?” he asked.

  The youths all disappeared into the building and Dean started the engine and pulled away from the kerb. He rubbed a hand over his eyes, feeling as if someone had rubbed sandpaper over his corneas. He needed about eighteen hours sleep, but he would be lucky to squeeze in four or five.

  “Yeah, back at the LAC. I’ll grab my car and head home. It looks like we caught the shit end of this investigation, huh? Following Lambert.”

  Dean shrugged. A job was a job and he’d taken on his fair share of shitty assignments; this one didn’t even come close. “Someone’s got to do it. It may as well be you and me. Besides, I doubt this case is going to be glamorous no matter what your task.” He smirked. “But I reckon you just want to be around Munroe, am I right?”

  Nick glared at him. “You know I don’t screw around with people I work with. Kellie is a friend, nothing more.”

  Dean gave him a sidelong glance. He was the type who could easily be the playboy with his good looks and no effort charm, but he wasn’t and Dean admired him for that. Especially when women did practically everything to get in his pants. Nick was a chameleon, fitting easily into any role. The charmer, the sleaze, the kidder, the stoic—it impressed the hell out Dean, and even though Nick pissed him off half the time with his joker attitude, there was no one else he’d rather be partnered with.

  Especially since he was no prize. He knew he was a moody S-O-B. Never the prankster, always the serious one. He’d seen too much to float around life with a glass half-full outlook. Pessimistic, not optimistic. That was how his co-workers thought of him, an introvert who liked to keep to himself and never shared his thoughts or bared his soul.

  Dean Matthews was damaged. He’d lost a part of himself on his last tour which he could never get back. His colleagues could never understand why he kept his distance, why he had to remain detached. He couldn’t care. It caused him too much pain. Caring only made a man weak and vulnerable and easy to hurt and manipulate. Just look what it had done to Tony, he reminded himself. He steered away from the horrid memories because he knew the nightmare had been a reality. Screams, blood, begging, watching someone he cared about die.

  One thing was for certain. Dean would never fall in love, would never care about a woman so much he couldn’t live without her.

  “How do you think the IA case is going to go down?” Nick asked, breaking the silence.

  Dean shrugged. He had no idea. It was a fifty-fifty chance. Although he believed that if Donovan was kicked off the force, it would be a colossal mistake. The sassy, tough-talking, back-chatting woman didn’t know the meaning of giving up. He’d worked with her on and off for years and respected the hell out of her. Sure, she was rough around the edges but she was an asset, and he had to pity the person who couldn’t see that.

  “No idea. I just hope your friend knows what she’s doing.”

  “Kellie’s a professional,” Nick assured him.

  He hoped so.

  Ten minutes later, Dean pulled his car into the loading zone at the LAC. “See you tomorrow,” he said, and with that, Nick climbed out of the car and shut the door.

  Chapter 9

  Amelia worked off her suppressed anger in the gym. Her face taut with rage, her lips nothing but thin strips. Her body coiled tight, she pounded the boxing bag hard, causing it to rock precariously back and forth on the chain attached to the roof of the gym. Bottled up emotion fuelled her. She sensed Kellie’s approach and felt the familiar burn inside her. She didn’t look up or acknowledge her old friend as she hit the bag harder than before. She wasn’t mad at her; she was mad at herself, at the past, and at the situation.

  Kellie stood to the side, just within her peripheral vision, and Amelia knew it was deliberate. She gave the bag a left jab followed closely by a right hook and another left. Quick puffs of breath exited her mouth as she exerted herself. She darted an annoyed look at Kellie. She stood with her hands resting on her hips, in an unflattering pair of black stretch pants and a tight pink tank top but she managed to work the ensemble, looking elegant with her hair pulled back off her face in a ponytail. Amelia knew it was nothing she tried to accomplish; it was natural and ingrained in her. She had looked that way for as long as she could remember.

  Amelia could feel Kellie assessing her, probably determining just how volatile she was at the moment. She was amazed she’d even approached her. Many of the men at the LAC knew when she hit the bag she was not in a good mood and it was best to keep clear of her, but Kellie had never been one to put up with her crap and had fought her all the way. Until she hadn’t.

  Not the easiest teenager, she hadn’t changed much—only gotten worse. Her temper had shortened with age, and her patience wore thin much quicker these days.

  She’d had a habit of putting herself down and was easily discouraged. A memory skittered across her mind of Kellie refusing to
let her give up. Back then they’d been inseparable, both born in a section of Harbour Bay known as Coleani’s territory.

  A sadistic man, he oversaw every criminal element in town. Years ago it had only been a twelve block radius of his strip club, the Satin Thong. The neighbourhood was a breeding ground of druggies, prostitutes, and a healthy number of homeless. The council liked to pretend it didn’t exist and thus Coleani was free to continue ruling over the inhabitants and making their lives more miserable than they already were. Amelia had lived with her grandparents at the caravan park, whereas Kellie and her mother had resided in a tenement a few blocks south.

  “I’m sorry it had to be me.” Kellie’s voice came through her self-reflection.

  Amelia shrugged. If it hadn’t been her, it would have been some other IA agent with a career to make for themselves. Looking at it objectively, she was better off with Kellie. She wasn’t the type to stab someone in the back just to get ahead. She worked hard, and from what she had heard around the office, got to the truth and never made any decision without being absolutely sure.

  She was certainly the Kellie she remembered. Even back then, she’d been honest and loyal. The blonde hair and blue eyes often fooled people into thinking she was either brainless or a push-over, but growing up in their neighbourhood, nobody had the luxury of being one or the other.

  “Are we going to talk about it?” Kellie asked softly.

  “What’s to talk about?”

  Kellie caught hold of the bag as she took another swing, the impact reverberating along her arm since she was unprepared for the lack of motion in the punching bag.

  “You’re obviously angry with me.”

  She narrowed her eyes. “I think I have a right. You’re the one who walked away and destroyed ten years of friendship.”