Trick Shot: an absolutely gripping mystery and suspense thriller (The Fighting Detective Book 3)

by Blair Denholm

  Marietta readdressed her dessert, an elegant slice of lemon cheesecake dwarfed by a plate the size of a manhole cover. Jack couldn’t imagine where she put it all. She’d already wolfed down a 600 gram ribeye steak with half a dozen oysters au naturel while Jack still had half a chicken schnitzel left on his plate. Most impressive, though, was the way she tilted back her head and let the salty bivalves slide down her long neck. If those babies worked their aphrodisiacal properties, Jack was in for a wild night. She’d also gulped down a carafe of deep purple cab sav before switching to the lighter pinot. The alcohol appeared to be having little effect on her, speech clear and movements coordinated.

  ‘How is everything?’ said an eager waiter, hovering over Jack’s shoulder like a mosquito.

  ‘Fine,’ Jack forced himself to reply politely. He would have obtained immense satisfaction by giving the runt a slap about the ears.

  ‘And you madam?’ Marietta looked at the fawning server sideways, pointed a finger of one hand at the cake-laden fork she was holding in the other. She emitted a low growl and the man minced to another table, the tail of his apron flapping behind him.

  ‘Well done, sunshine,’ Jack smiled. ‘You sent that fussy little toe-rag packing.’

  ‘I don’t suffer fools and I don’t like being interrupted while I’m eating.’ Marietta laid the spoon on the side of her dish. ‘Or when I’m doing…other things.’ She grinned, ran her tongue around her bright red lips, dabbed the corners of her mouth with a linen napkin.

  The display made Jack blush. ‘I…ah…ah…’ he stammered.

  She reached across, rested her hand over the top of his. Her hand was slightly bigger, minus the gnarled knuckles. ‘What, don’t tell me the wild boy I took home the other night has gone all demure on me, has he?’

  ‘No, no, of course not. I’m just not used to women being so…forward…in public.’

  ‘Are you intimidated by strong, liberated females?’

  ‘Not at all. I’m rather old school in some ways, I guess.’

  The glib answer seemed to satisfy Marietta, who enthusiastically dug back into her dessert. Jack skipped the last course, having already let his belt out a notch on a trip to the bathroom. If romance was on the cards tonight, he didn’t fancy approaching the task with a distended stomach.

  ‘The press are hinting this murder case has got the Yorkville police baffled,’ said Marietta, rounding up stray pastry crumbs with a finger. ‘Do you reckon you’ll find the killer soon?’

  ‘To be honest, no. Which is a right pain in the arse. If that plane takes off for London without me I’ll be lucky if I get speak to my daughter again before she’s fifteen years old.’

  Marietta nodded. ‘I’ve got a daughter myself. She left the nest a couple of years ago. Danila’s a daddy’s girl who’d prefer to spend her free time with my ex-husband. She doesn’t want much to do with me.’

  ‘That’s a shame.’

  She shrugged. ‘It is what it is. Danila’s much more feminine than me. Make-up and clothes are her thing. Always taking duck-face selfies and posting them online. She can’t relate to me and my obsession with natural physical health and exercise.’ She paused. ‘Or my pansexual lifestyle.’

  Jack gulped. ‘Excuse me?’ He wasn’t even sure what that word meant, but it didn’t bode well.

  ‘Does that shock you?’ she laughed. ‘Not a good fit with your old-school values?’

  He didn’t know what to say, so he closed his eyes and took a long sip of his cappuccino. He tried to marshal his thoughts so he could add something apropos to the conversation. No good, nothing clever came to him. Instead, he grinned like an idiot and said, ‘Not for me to judge.’

  Mariette smiled back, perhaps satisfied with his diplomatic answer. But no, there was more. ‘I’m only joking, Jack.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Despite my androgynous appearance, I only go for men. Big strong ones like you, complete with their outmoded morals. Hairy chests are a bonus.’

  ‘Phew,’ he ran the back of his hand across his forehead. ‘For a moment there I was…’

  She squeezed his hand. ‘Getting back to the case. I think I might have a juicy lead for you.’

  If Marietta had told Jack she was Arnold Schwarzenegger in disguise he wouldn’t have been more shocked. ‘I beg your pardon?’

  ‘You haven’t forgotten I used to work in a law firm, right?’

  Marietta had indeed given Jack a patchwork description of her background. She’d worked as a paralegal in a Cairns law firm, Robinson, Brinkworth and Clayborne, before she left the job two years ago to become a florist. Jack had planned to ask her to make enquiries around the North Queensland legal fraternity, perhaps she could turn up something useful. But this was even better. She was offering up information without being asked. ‘I remember, sure. You told me last night before we had se… ah…made love.’

  She tossed her head back and snorted before gathering her composure. ‘You are a dead-set prude, Detective Lisbon.’

  ‘I am not!’ Jack thought of himself as being an open-minded man, however the Amazon across the table was having a disconcerting effect on his machismo. ‘Anyway, what’s this lead and why didn’t you tell me last night?’

  Marietta screeched with laughter. Jack said, ‘It’s not funny.’

  ‘It’s hilarious. Whether you want to admit it or not, we were both horny as rabbits and only had one thing on our minds.’ She slowly leaned across the table, put on a serious face. ‘I can’t believe I didn’t see the connection before.’

  ‘What connection?’

  Marietta folded her napkin and leaned back in her seat. ‘The law company was approached, maybe four years ago, by this young businessman. He’d just moved to Yorkville from Brisbane with his wife. One night he was out with a bunch of new friends he’d made and got involved in a bar-room brawl. He put another man in hospital with serious head injuries.’ She drained the rest of her wine, beckoned the waiter and he refilled her glass. Jack kept silent, determined not to interrupt.

  ‘Now, where was I? Oh yes, this guy was desperately seeking someone to defend him against a charge of aggravated assault. He was shit-scared, claimed there were witnesses lined up to testify that he whacked the other bloke, who was just an eighteen-year-old kid, with a barstool, then stomped on his head. Look, I can’t be sure, it was a while ago and we had a lot of clients, but I think the man could have been Cueball Snyder. I saw the mug shots in the paper this morning and, well, the likeness rang a bell.’

  ‘But Snyder has no record in Queensland.’

  ‘That’s the thing. He should have. A week before the matter was scheduled to go to court, we got a call from Cairns police, a man saying the charges had been dropped.’

  ‘Who made the call, do you remember?’

  ‘Ray Hook.’

  ‘You can be sure of that but not the name of the client?’

  ‘Of course. Hook spoke to me at length. His name is well known, always got his fat face on the TV. At that time he was the most famous person I’d ever spoken with. Of course I’m going to remember that.’

  Jack rubbed his face. ‘I knew it. He’s either paid off those witnesses or threatened them. Probably even the effing victim. Jesus Christ, what a snake.’ Jack drained his coffee, called the waiter over and paid the bill. He could almost hear his bank account crying out in pain, but Marietta deserved the treat. For a number of reasons.

  Chapter 22

  Typical, Lisbon. A dream date only you could fuck up. Tonight’s workout was supposed to be in bed with Marietta, not alone in the cramped gymnasium of his apartment block at quarter past midnight. His last dinner date, with then girlfriend hot-shot solicitor Denise Hutchinson, had ended in unmitigated disaster, so it should have come as no surprise when this one did too.

  Roughing up villains and scaring the bejesus out of witnesses, that was a piece of piss, as the Aussies say. Women, though, that was a tough audience. Jack had no problem telling bawdy jokes and being crud
e with men, but the minute a woman starts licking her lips like a vamp, he goes to water. Why the hell did he suggest her higher-than-average libido was a result of promiscuity? Only an idiot would have said what Jack said. A complete fucking moron. He knew it the instant it was out of his mouth, but it was too late, the damage had been done. I suppose you’ve slept with tons of men, hey? And just like that, the date was over. Marietta storming out of the restaurant, all eyes on her, was an image that’d be haunting Jack for a long time.

  Would he ever learn how to read the room?

  Perhaps not.

  But he’d work on it. Maybe read some self-help books.

  The evening wasn’t a complete disaster, thankfully. The information about Hook getting Snyder off a serious assault charge was worth its weight in gold. It was insurance for the future, should Hook pull through and start making demands on Jack.

  Tomorrow, he’d go to Marietta’s old employer, Robinson, Brinkworth and Clayborne, get the names and addresses of the witnesses who retracted their statements, maybe pay them a surprise visit.

  First priority, however, was to get the frustration out of his system. Time to beat the horse hair out of the heavy bag. Stretching exercises and a set of barbell squats over, Jack slid his hands into his Everlast boxing gloves. He pulled the Velcro flap of the left glove over with his teeth, pushed it snugly into place with his chin. Same with the right. He stood, waggled his head from side to side, rolled his shoulders and addressed the bag. Jack’s stance and snarling expression would have scared off a robber’s dog. He started slowly, tap, tap, dab, dab. Left jabs, then switched the stance to southpaw, right jabs, nice and relaxed. Ease into the task until the sack attains some momentum. He imagined the swinging object was Assistant Commissioner Raymond Ogden Hook, proceeded to thwack the damn thing with lightning combinations, mean jabs and savage rips and, fittingly, brutal hooks. The DS punched and punched and punched until he hadn’t the strength to hold his arms horizontal or the breath left to continue.

  Sweat poured from Jack’s skin, splashed onto the floor in droplets the size of ball bearings. His body temperature climbed, neared the maximum possible before blood boiled and steam emerged from orifices.

  He collapsed in a heap on the floor, thought of nothing for a couple of minutes, then clambered to his feet.

  Upstairs, showered and rehydrated, Jack was easing his weary body into bed when The Clash decided to split the silence of the night. “London Calling”, demanding an answer.

  No way! He was supposed to be on death’s door. Jack picked up his mobile. ‘Is that you, Lazarus?’

  ‘What,’ came the croaked reply. ‘No, it’s…me…Ray…’

  ‘I know it’s you, you pillock. Don’t you know your bible stories?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Pity, ’cos I reckon you’ll be meeting the good Lord sooner than you’d counted on. If not because of your dodgy ticker, it’ll be because of the shit storm I’m gonna unleash on your sorry arse.’

  ‘What the hell are you talking about?’

  ‘Where do I start? Lies about a secret child…’

  ‘Stop right there. I don’t know what you’ve heard, but it’s bullshit.’ The most unconvincing denial Jack had ever heard from a high-ranking police officer. And he’d heard a few.

  ‘Whatever,’ Jack scoffed. ‘Nothing a paternity test and a re-examination of an old assault case won’t clarify.’

  Silence, apart from the faint blips and bleeps of medical equipment.

  ‘Are you there?’

  ‘Yes. Where else would I go? I’m in a hospital bed, for fuck’s sake. None of what you said matters to me right now, Lisbon. What matters to me is that whoever murdered Cameron is caught and punished. Get back onto Randall Sowell. He’s your man, I know it.’

  ‘He might be, yeah. But there’s no concrete evidence.’

  ‘Lean on him harder. I’ve heard how you operate. Beat a confession out of him. They say you’re free and easy with your fists.’

  ‘Rumours, Ray. Anyway, I’m hamstrung at the moment. We’re still awaiting final forensics results. If the science points to Sowell, I’ll have him in cuffs before you can say triple bypass. Now, what can you tell me about a sum of $250,000 that was used to set up a trust fund? You’ve got some explaining to do, sunshine.’

  Breathing laboured, as if each inhalation could be the last. ‘It’s the subject of a confidentiality agreement. National security. I can’t comment on it, I…’

  ‘Bullshit!’ Jack roared. ‘Tell the truth for once in your life.’

  Click.

  Fuck you, Jabba, you coward.

  Jack placed his mobile on the bedside table next to the book he’d been reading, one agonisingly slow chapter at a time. He thumped a fist into his pillow. Sleep was elusive, his mind filled with visions of Snyder lying in a pool of blood, the blurred face of his killer hovering above the body. Who is it? No good, he couldn’t shake the imagery. He switched on the light, picked up the paperback, a biography of champion boxer Rocky Marciano, removed the bookmark and started reading. Two minutes later, the book dropped from his hands and landed on his face. He closed the book, rolled over and within minutes was fast asleep.

  His dreams were not of Snyder. They were of sweetness and light, of innocence and love. Skye spoke to him, begged him to hurry home, she could hardly wait to see her daddy again.

  Chapter 23

  Jack sat in the cool, austere waiting room of Robinson, Brinkworth and Clayborne. The hard plastic chairs were only marginally more comfortable than the wooden pews at the girls’ school. The senior partner on duty, Elmore Brinkworth, was dealing with a serious matter and, the receptionist promised, would be out shortly to speak with the detective.

  The digital clock on the wall glowed a green 10.13am. Jack had rushed directly to the law firm after oversleeping, no time to call in at the office for a catch-up with the team. Fit as he was, late night workouts weren’t agreeing with his middle-aged body. His raucous Sex Pistols alarm tune, “Anarchy in the UK” on full volume, had failed to wake him up. That job was done by sunlight pouring through his bedroom window. Had it been overcast, Jack would still be asleep. Now, he’d have to debrief with Taylor over the phone instead of face-to-face at the station.

  He pulled up his phone contacts, pressed the button marked Claudia and she answered immediately. ‘Have you seen Snyder’s NSW criminal history?’ said Jack, not one for telephone small talk. To ease nagging discomfort in his upper thigh, Jack crossed one leg over the other, outside left ankle resting on right knee. The extra set of barbell squats had been a bad idea.

  ‘Affirmative,’ said Taylor. ‘Our southern colleagues sent the email last night as per Batista’s request. Snyder’s rap sheet shows a total of three court appearances resulting in three good behaviour bonds. Batting a thousand, as the Americans say. Somehow, he’s avoided custodial sentences altogether, even though he was over eighteen years of age when the offences occurred. Two charges were for assault, one of them GBH only six months after the first charge. The third, get this, was for breaking and entering in the company of a Miss Lydia Bourke, who acted as a lookout.’

  ‘Not a very good one, since they got caught ’n all.’

  ‘Right. She was let off with a caution. Can you believe it?’

  ‘Yes I can. I’m assuming that’s our Lydia Snyder.’

  ‘Geez, Jack. I bet you won all the games of Cluedo with your little pals when you were a kid.’

  ‘No need for sarcasm, DC Taylor. Not the rarest name in the world. I mean, it’s not beyond the realms of possibility that he knew two girls called Lydia, is it?’

  ‘No, Jack. But it is the widow Snyder, as it happens. We matched the fingerprints data base with the ink blotches she provided us this morning. She also left a buccal cheek swab that Proctor’s pushed to the front of the queue. I asked Lydia if she had anything further to add to help us out. No joy. I could barely get a word out of her, just more tears.’

  Jack gnawed on a fin
gernail. ‘A death in the family and a tranquiliser breakfast will do that to a person.’ He paused a couple of seconds then said, ‘This reeks of interference. If Snyder breached a good behaviour bond and landed in court again soon after, he should have copped a jail sentence, even a suspended one.’

  ‘Yep. Amazing.’

  ‘But not unsurprising.’

  ‘Why?’

  Jack explained where he was and why he was there.

  ‘All that information courtesy of a date with your new gym buddy?’ said Taylor with a pronounced rising inflection.

  ‘Yeah.’ Let’s not dwell on that catastrophe. ‘Hook was able to exercise his influence not only here, but in another jurisdiction when his kid was younger. I’m not too much bothered by the historical charges in NSW, but I am going to amass all the evidence I can to prove Hook perverted the course of justice in Queensland.’

  ‘Then what? You figuring on getting him charged? The guy he got off is now dead. A jury might sympathise with a person his defence portrayed as a father who cared for his long-lost son, even to the extent of breaking the law. Seriously, what would be the benefit of prosecuting Hook?’

  Taylor had a good point, but Jack had a better one. ‘Maybe none. But he’s grossly abused his power on numerous occasions.’

  ‘You’ve never done that, right?’

  ‘Not at that level, sunshine.’ He’d done worse, much worse, but it was another country, another lifetime, and Taylor must never find out. ‘Look, you may have a point. But I’m gonna gather evidence, just in case.’

  Taylor sighed. ‘None of this is getting us any closer to who killed Snyder.’

  ‘How can you be sure? Maybe one of those lads who saw Snyder in action took revenge later for belting a mate half to death? It’s my duty to pursue and exhaust this lead as part of a thorough investigation.’