Sentinel Rising: The Reardon Files #1

by Andrea Drew

  Why couldn't he break out of his mould, the god forsaken cage of being a man? A lifetime of training, that's why. His mother had brought him up tough. Left by her husband when Connor was nine years old, Casey Reardon had done her best under the circumstances. That included no money, and a case of overwhelming anger that hardened her shell.

  Casey Reardon, despite keeping her married name, loathed her ex-husband with vicious intensity, nattering about him to burst the boil of caustic poison Connor somehow knew as a child had invaded his Mothers entire body.

  Couldn't Gypsy see that? Why didn't she understand? She'd been a psychic years ago, but had stopped at his insistence during their final venomous battle. Interfering in his police investigations to find criminals had helped at times, but once it got her shot and lingering at death’s door, there was no going back to her old ways.

  He'd delivered an ultimatum.

  Turn off the psychic lever, hard, or lose him forever. Thankfully, she'd chosen him.

  So how could he now tell her that he wanted her to backpedal, to reverse the switch, so she could see his innermost pictures nestled within his mental filing cabinets, lurking at the back covered in dust?

  He couldn't. Plus, there was the other factor which swirled around inside his skull, and he didn't dare pin it down in case he'd have to look at it too hard. As a Sentinel, a guard, he could and had in the past, blocked psychic signals including hers.

  She could read minds and talk to the dead but couldn't read his, so he let her walk away. One day, just maybe, there'd be a meeting of minds again, but until then, he'd be content with what he had. A son, the son he'd dreamed of, a gorgeous fiance who still loved him, and a job that he didn't mind, even if now second best to his former years in the force.

  Ryan, his son in law and only contact in the police force would understand the pressure and possibly have information on the Lauren Whitehouse case. He'd call him. Soon.

  #

  Chapter 3

  Doing his best to erase his last appointment with Helen Reeves from his mind, Connor reset himself mentally, set his shoulders back, and looked at the clean slate of the Lauren Whitehouse investigation. He'd begun a case folder, and although most investigators conducted most of the work via computer, there was something to be said for notebook and pen to get the investigatory juices flowing. As he began to write, his phone pinged with a quiet ring to alert him to a voice mail message.

  When he'd called earlier, Connor got the voicemail greeting for Ryan Sheehan, his brother in law, Senior Constable in the Criminal Investigation Division at Carlton police station. The vapour of nostalgia for his days in the force had largely vanished although not completely, replaced by a grim acceptance, a determination to go it alone. He grimaced.

  The message on his phone was probably Ryan returning his call.

  Connor bit down on the end of a pen. Calling his brother in law Ryan had been the easy option, a Sergeant in his old station, Carlton, but Ryan didn't know Jarrod Whitehouse personally.

  The answer just might be Cliff Jenson. Cliff had retired four years ago and Connor hadn't stayed in touch, but that was how life rolled. He and Cliff had always got along. Big Cliff, as he was known, had gone through more scrapes than he could count, but somehow emerged unscathed. Cliff was one of the good ones, a genuine nice guy, and the bureaucracy of the force irritated him even more than it did Connor.

  Cliff had cut corners, roughed up suspects who'd later complained, and pissed off the wrong people. Somehow, despite the enquiries, and internal affairs investigations he'd managed to stay in the force. Connor didn't mind; Cliff was a genuinely nice guy and if his actions were viewed by some as questionable, particularly the weasels in internal affairs, Cliff's motives were always the right ones, the supreme test as far as he was concerned. Too many cops had forgotten that part of their job involved getting off their arses and knocking on doors, to put the bad guys where they belonged.

  Cliff had divorced over a decade ago and over drinks one night had talked about it, unheard of for most cops who were renowned for internalising job stress. He'd been drunk enough to tell his story, the despair, his anger, hopelessness, and grief that he'd probably never see his son again, who at that stage was only twelve. The marriage was Cliff's second, and this time he'd married a much younger woman, obviously, a gold digger, not that anyone dared mention it to him.

  Connor remembered their last meeting. They'd arranged to catch up at the Sportsman Arms Hotel in Richmond, a dingy old pub with sticky bottle green carpets and no trace of trendiness. He suspected the venue had been chosen due to its lack of popularity with cops. Jenson wasn't exactly known for his tendency as a social butterfly.

  Connor’s eyes had adjusted from the searing sunlight to the dark bar. He'd scanned the room and spotted Jenson in a booth in the far corner.

  Connor stood beside the booth where Jensen was bent over his beer.

  Jenson turned to him, eyes rounded. He managed a faint smile. Although the pub stunk of hops and stale cigarette smoke, Jenson attempted to shuffle out of the booth to greet him. Connor knew from his breath that he'd been drinking for quite a while, possibly most of the day and it was early on a Sunday afternoon.

  "Don't get up, mate." Connor gestured with his left hand and sat down on the cracked red vinyl bench seat opposite him.

  Jenson looked back down at his half empty beer glass, and then cupped it with both hands.

  "What's happening?" Connor said.

  Although Jenson had met with him after hours in the past, to exchange information about a case, that had been years ago. He wasn’t sure if this was a personal call rather than one to exchange work information.

  "Turned to shit," Jenson mumbled, so much so that Connor wondered if he'd heard him correctly.

  "What's turned to shit?"

  "My life, that's what." Connor thought Jensen’s face might fall into the glass, or slam dangerously onto the grey and red flecked Formica table top.

  Connor paused, sensing a response wasn't required. The last thing he wanted to do was stop him mid flow. Apparently, he needed to talk.

  "The bitch left me." Jenson brought his head up, and only now did Connor see the bloodshot watery eyes, the grey stubble, and the haunted look on Jenson's cavernous face. "Took Noah with her. Left me a note."

  "I'm sorry." The hoarseness in his voice struck him as appropriate to the situation somehow.

  Maybe his colleague would sense his solidarity. He'd certainly proved himself in days gone by, which was obviously why he'd chosen Connor to offload to.

  "Yeah, me too. Says she doesn't love me anymore." He brought his hands up and ran his fingers through tousled hair. "We've been together fifteen years. Who wakes up one day and decides they don't love their other half anymore?"

  Connor's stomach tightened, a hardened ball of sharp glass. He had no idea what to say. He was no expert on women, far from it.

  "Have you contacted your ex?"

  "Tried her mobile and her parent's places. Mobile's switched off and her parents reckon they don't know where Vicky or Noah is, which is bullshit." Jensen’s words were now noticeably slurred.

  Connor paused again, out of his depth.

  "They could be dead for all I know,” Jensen continued. “Her parents are lying through their arses, but then they never liked me. My life is down the toilet."

  Connor wanted to tell Jensen he still had something to live for, that he could try and get custody, that maybe Vicky would come back, but the words seemed hollow in his mind, not worth saying.

  "You wouldn't...do anything stupid?" Connor, without realising it, had mirrored Jensen's body language, hands face down on the table.

  "You mean top myself? Well, I'm drunk enough to tell you I thought about it. Any cop that says he hasn't is lying"

  "Come stay with us, Cliff."

  Jensen met his gaze. They didn't speak, and the silence highlighted the loud conversations of fellow patrons which echoed through the bar.

  "I
don't need your help, mate, but I appreciate it. I need someone to listen, and you were always good at that."

  And so, Connor listened to Jenson tell him that his life was over and that if he couldn't ever see his son again, he didn't want to live anymore. His friend spilled his guts, until an hour and six drinks later Connor made sure his old friend got in a taxi in the hope of getting him home in one piece.

  Jensen had called him months later, telling him he'd been recommended for counselling, with the department issuing a slap on the wrist for drinking on the job. Vicky the ex had divorced him, and Jensen had eventually got custody once every second weekend, although it had taken a year and a half. They'd kept in touch even if only for Jenson to tell him about the jarring reality of child custody logistics.

  When he’d had been called in to give a character reference as part of his later internal enquiry, Connor had gone in to bat for Jensen. He heard on the grapevine that after retirement, Cliff had moved out to Phillip Island, a seaside suburb nearly a two hours’ drive from Brunswick where Connor lived. The Jenson family home had been sold off as part of the divorce. Connor hoped Cliff had spent his days fishing off a pier somewhere. He'd been to the retirement party years earlier but hadn't been in touch as much since then. He figured Cliff would understand part of life meant that he didn't stay in touch with a lot of the gang from the old days in CID.

  After more than forty years’ service in the force, Jensen knew most of the cops and had watched them come and go. Connor wanted to call Cliff and find out what he knew about Jarrod Whitehouse.

  If Jarrod had a reputation as a bent or even slightly bent cop, Cliff would know.

  Connor did a search on his mobile for Cliff's number. He was sure he had saved it there. Yep, there it was, a land line number.

  Rather than pick up the clunky beige handset, he pressed the screen of his mobile and dialled.

  It rang and rang. Cliff clung to old habits, resenting technology, and didn't agree with things like mobile telephones or having a voice mail greeting which he told Connor were signs of society’s decay.

  On the tenth ring, a gravelly voice said, "Hello?"

  "Cliff? Cliff Jenson?"

  "Who's this?"

  "Connor Reardon. We used to─"

  "Reardon! I remember you, you old bastard. How the hell are ya?"

  Connor smirked at the rough warmth in Jenson's voice.

  "Not bad. How about you?" Connor smiled. He stood from his desk chair and began walking toward the front porch so he could look through the blinds and get a sense of space, as the room had closed in on him. "I'm a PI now, and I'm engaged. We had a boy, Mark, two years ago."

  Jensen coughed. "Gone for the big money, eh? Good on ya, mate, things worked out for you, hey? You officially resigned?"

  "Well...kind of a leave of absence which became a resignation, yeah."

  "Hmm. Doesn't surprise me. The brass doesn’t give a damn about cops on the ground, too far up their own arses. It's been a while since we talked, let me guess...you rang me for old times’ sake?"

  Jensen wasn't stupid. He probably figured that if Connor had called him out of the blue, he wanted help, more than likely something out of the ordinary.

  He wasn’t wrong.

  "I need a favour. Do you remember Jarrod Whitehouse?"

  "That snake, yeah, I remember him. I hope he's deeper in dog shit than an old bloody boot" Jensen coughed again.

  Connor needed to get inside Jarrod's head, to know what made him tick. It would make a difference in understanding the state of their marriage, and why Lauren might have left.

  "Oh, yeah, why do you say that?" Connor shifted as he peeked out of the blinds.

  "Just rumours, mate. You know how it is. He was always a rude prick back in the CID days, knew better than everyone else, not big on cooperation."

  "And the rumours?"

  "That he smacked his wife around, never proved. At some of the social dos, his wife seemed nervous and withdrawn, and when she spoke, he gave her the look of death. Vicky and I wondered if he smacked her around, or controlled her every word."

  "But no proof, huh?"

  "Nah. Couldn't stand him on sight, arrogant prick. Didn't go out of my way to talk to him, and avoided him like the plague. But a couple of times we needed to work together, share info, and the arrogant bastard treated me like a brainless junior constable. Over the years, he'd pissed more people off than you could poke a stick at. So, is he in the shit then? I hope so."

  Connor’s slow smile had built from budding to fully fledged. "Maybe, maybe not. His wife went missing a week ago, and her sister thinks he killed her. She asked me to investigate"

  Cliffs voice dropped. "Murdered? Lauren was a good one, hard to believe. Be good to see him behind bars, but wife killer...Not so sure."

  "That's why I called. I figured if anyone knew the guy, you would."

  "Follow up the wife beating path, mate. He's a dodgy prick no doubt."

  "Thanks. I'll visit him soon, and I'll expect a hostile response."

  The cough, at first what sounded like a tickle, was now fully-fledged. Connor wondered if Jenson had given up smoking.

  "Connor, it goes without saying but if I can help you, mate, I will. I'll ask around and let you know if I hear anything. Maybe I'll drive over there and catch up."

  "Be good to see you. Thanks for the info, mate. Talk soon." Connor tapped the screen and hung up.

  He sat back on the office chair. Time to power up the software. He moved the mouse and the screen sprang to life. He shifted on the chair, anticipation building, and clicked on the Icon for the IntQuery software.

  Okay, Jarrod, if you're up to something, I'll find out about it.

  Although Elizabeth had given him the address for the Whitehouse family, he wanted to confirm it. He typed in the details, including name and the suburb fields, and six Whitehouse's appeared. He scrolled down to the entry confirming the address he had, and a second screen opened.

  His gut tightened. A second mortgage had been taken out on the property three months ago. For a hundred and fifty thousand dollars. Apparently for renovations and an extension.

  The smell of the hunt took over, and his pulse quickened.

  He grinned, pleased to be acting. It was the process, the chase that motivated him, the results satisfying, he enjoyed the search for the truth and cutting through the social veneer to find human motivations hidden beneath the tangled web of appearances.

  He minimised the screen and clicked on a second program, Finance Tracker. This program could log keystrokes and provide more details on financial transactions. In order to activate the keystroke logger software, he'd need to install it on Whitehouse's pc or laptop. He entered in Jarrod's address, date of birth, and phone number.

  A smaller window appeared with a circle spinning agonizingly slowly.

  Processing your request, blinked on the screen

  A ping went off. A real life one, detectable by his ears, as opposed to the internal pinging. He'd learned over time to reserve his judgement, until the facts became clear. He didn't have the full picture yet, but he would. He opened the second drawer of the dark wooden cabinet to his left, sliding out his notebook, which he used during investigations.

  Biting his lip, he had just put pen to paper when the phone chirped on his desk. The small rectangular display showed Ryan's direct line. He picked it up.

  "Ryan?"

  "Yeah, mate, another investigation? This is becoming a habit. Maybe you should come back into the fold for good."

  Connor paused, formulating an appropriate response. He didn't have one. His son-in-law brought up the issue repeatedly at various family events, but Connor had remained evasive, answering questions with another question. Ryan, of course, hadn't fallen for it, and the last few weeks he'd got more persistent. Connor didn't want to tell Ryan that he had considered coming back, but somehow returning felt like a sell-out. He didn't want to go back with his tail between his legs. He knew that popular opinion
within the department made him a gold digger, chasing the corporate money private investigation could offer. Pricks like Commissioner Reynolds were the reason he ran for the hills originally, that and Gypsy's close call. Over time, though, the oil of regret had sunk into his pores and memories tugged at him. Sharing a drink with the boys after work, the rush of adrenalin when he solved a case, but mainly the work itself. Three years after his resignation, he could admit that a private investigators life wasn't all it was cracked up to be. The grass, of course, was always greener on the other side.

  Not to mention, if Lauren Whitehouse ended up kidnapped or worse, as a private investigator, he'd be denied entry to the crime scene.

  "Well, I might for this case,” Connor said, “although hindsight’s a wonderful thing. Hopefully the Coroner won't be needed on this one."

  "Jarrod Whitehouse? A murderer? Hmm..."

  "I wouldn't say that. I haven't followed this down. There’s a few strings I need to pull. I'll see where it takes me."

  "Well, he's been in missing persons for the last four months. He asked for a transfer from CID."

  "Why would a senior sergeant with forty years’ experience working in a department most cops dream of, ask for a transfer to an outpost like missing persons’ months before retirement?"

  "A quiet life?" Ryan said.

  Connor's lips thinned. "Don't know about that. Seems a bit coincidental that his wife went missing how long after his transfer to missing persons?"

  "Four months."

  Connor made notes.

  "Thanks, Ryan. Anything else I should know?"

  "Yeah, he's been on stress leave for the last week."

  "Okay. It might be time to visit Jarrod Whitehouse, stressed or not."

  "Go easy, Connor."

  "Always, mate" Connor said, and he frowned as he put the phone down

  He moved his attention back to the computer to continue the initial online enquiries. The screen told him that Jarrod had a computer at home. Unfortunately, it wouldn't list keystrokes logged in the past, including any online searches or websites visited, but maybe, now that he'd established a digital connection by searching for and finding the Whitehouse internet protocol address, he could get the key logger software onto the Whitehouse computers.