by Andrea Drew
"So, what gives?" said Connor
Ryan lifted his chin and stared through the windscreen, across an expanse of lush grass to the bending saplings at its border. "A body turned up."
Connor waited.
"I wondered if it was this missing woman, you know, your crazy client's sister?" Ryan’s lips twisted, before he rubbed at his mouth. He lifted his gaze to the rear vision mirror rather than the floor.
"How do you figure that? You never met her." Bile rose from his stomach, and a flicker of heat ignited in his gut. Intuition told him Ryan knew who’s body it was by peeking at his files without his permission
"The night the loose cannon attacked you."
"What about it? You mean the night you and Gypsy closed ranks to try and shut me up in a hospital?"
"Shit, how’s this weather where did it come from?" Ryan rubbed a palm across the right leg of creased black pants, and then tucked the hand under his armpit.
A pathetic attempt from Ryan at changing the subject and not answering the question. "Probably the same place you ID’d my client’s sister, outta nowhere. They haven’t found a purse yet, right?" He blew out a breath, his mouth forming an O, and then slammed the steering wheel with his open hand. Ryan must have been snooping through his case files to have the information he did, on the night Joe Reeves hit him. While he’d been in the shower. He hadn’t told him.
"It's our job to join the dots, remember?” Ryan said quietly. “That's all this is."
"’Course it is. Every cop can't look his father-in-law in the eye, and the only reason is ‘cause he's done his friggin' job. Don't insult my intelligence." Connor pinned Ryan with his gaze.
"This game's an exercise in frustration, I get it, but no way in hell am I letting you pin this one on me. Wrong target, Connor." Ryan scowled.
Connor put both hands on the steering wheel, pulling his shoulders back to stretch them. "Whatever. Why would you tell a PI that's sold their soul to the devil, otherwise known as clients, about the discovery of a body?"
"I give a shit, that's why. Closure for the family, locating a suspect within 24 to 48 hours of a crime scene." Ryan's face reddened, and the muscle in his right cheek pulsed. "She's in her forties, blonde. If I can get a copy of Lauren's photograph, and your client can identify her..."
"You probably already have it. You snuck a look in one of my files, right?” Connor shook his head. “I'll have to talk to Elizabeth. She'll most likely identify her"
"I could lose my job for telling you this."
Connor glared at him. "Where's the investigation at?"
"Forensics are all over it. Until they're done, we've got Buckley’s chance of getting anywhere near it. I could get you maybe up to the tape, but you don't know about this, so..."
"How was she found?" The oil slick in his gut had spread, its dark edges slithering upwards.
"Guy walking the dog. Shallow grave, the dog sniffed out the tip of a finger poking above the earth. Out at Wilson's Point, half an hour past Rosebud."
"Time of death?"
"No idea yet, but a bit of info is filtering out. Word is she might have been there three days. Possible head injury. Cause of death looking like suffocation."
"Holy shit." Connor’s throat ached. "Start talking to Jarrod Whitehouse. I did a some digging and found a series of payments to a builder over the last few months, Hugh Fraser."
"Okay." Ryan hung his head, his voice a low rumble.
Connor paused. "Not small change either, more than a hundred grand. Murder for hire, blackmail, or at best, fraud. A supposed refinance for renovations."
"Evidence?"
"I'll have to talk to my client first. Technically, the findings are hers, but I haven't had a chance to go over it with her. No time like the present, I guess."
Connor lifted the phone from the holder beside the steering wheel and swiped the screen. His habit of speaking to clients on speaker phone would be cast aside for now; letting Ryan listen in on phone conversations would be pushing the friendship past the boundaries of progressing the case.
Ignoring Ryan's round eyes and parted lips, he held up the index finger of his left hand as he dialed the number.
Elizabeth Metcalfe answered, her voice croaky. "Connor?"
"I have some information for you."
"You do?" The pitch of her voice swung upward at the end, her gasp breaking through the receiver.
"It'd be better in person, if possible. Can you drop in to see me?"
"I'm picking Raleigh up after work today. His car’s in for a service. I can drop in to see you after that, say around 4.30?"
Connor checked the time on his watch. An hour and a half away.
"Yes, I'll be there,” he said. “I have a favour to ask."
She paused. "What kind of favour?"
"I have a contact in the police force. He's asking for a photograph of Lauren. I've also discovered some financial...irregularities. Giving him a copy of the information may progress the case, but I need your permission before I do that."
Her voice shattered, splintering and falling like rain on glass. "Oh, god. They've found her"
Connor paused before speaking quietly. "Nothing is confirmed. Best to take things one step at a time... I'll see you soon. "
"I'll kill that bastard I swear..."
The snuffling of her breathing combined with the cauterized pitch of her voice meant Connor had to hold the phone a couple of inches away from his ear.
"Let's not get ahead of ourselves,” he said. “The case is progressing, step by step. Don't jump ahead on me, okay? Do I have your authority to pass this information on to my contact in the police force?"
"So long as the information doesn’t get passed on to my bastard brother-in-law. He deserves to hang."
"No, not your brother-in-law, someone I trust, working in CID."
"All right."
Connor opened his mouth to say goodbye, but she'd hung up.
He sighed. "I need a drink"
Ryan lifted his head "Huh? Did you say a drink?"
"Yeah."
"Haven't seen you knock one back in a while." Ryan’s eyes glittered.
If he wanted to know what was going on in his head, Ryan could join the queue.
"Today I need a drink," Connor said.
The next unsavoury task would be to ring Helen Reeves, wife of Joe Reeves, the bastard that smashed him in the back of the head. Whoever questioned Jarrod Whitehouse would be interested to see the photos of Mr. Reeves, with Jarrod in the background. Cross dressing plus large payments to Hugh Fraser for services unstated could prove motive at the very least.
Maybe Lauren discovered his secret and they argued about it. Whitehouse killed her during a tussle and buried her in a shallow grave. Either that, or Hugh Fraser found out about his penchant for dressing up in women's clothes and threatened to reveal Jarrod's secret. Why he would approach Hugh Fraser to kill his wife, he hadn't quite deduced, but Ryan and contacts would put him under enough pressure that they'd squeeze it out of one or both of them.
He turned the ignition and put the car into reverse.
"Where to?" Ryan said.
"Sportsman’s Arms." He wanted to sit somewhere seedy, a rough hotel unfrequented by cops.
"Mate, you're driving."
"You can drive us home. There’s not many I trust with Betty so consider yourself privileged. I'm not planning on downing a dozen, more like one or two."
They left the park, and he turned right. They would reach the freeway in a couple of minutes. Given the time of day, traffic would be light.
"What's up with this Fraser character?" Ryan said. His shoulders had dropped from beside his ears, and both hands rested on his thighs.
"Builder. Hit the media about a year ago when he bailed and left investors in the lurch, payments but unfinished building. One of them rocked up at his place and shot at him. He escaped through an underground cellar."
Ryan shifted toward Connor. "An underground cellar, that's a ne
w one."
"Isn't it? After I asked too many questions, including asking to see the cellar and tunnel he escaped through, he cracked the shits and told me to get off his property, saying it was all a private deal. Pretty much the same response I got from Whitehouse, but I didn't expect much else."
"Nah. Remind me of why we're on our way to one of the grungiest pubs in Melbourne at 3 o’clock in the afternoon?"
"A drink or two won't hurt. I've had my fill of crazies this week. The sharp edges need a bit of alcoholic sandpaper and there won't be many cops at the Sportsman’s Arms."
Ryan rubbed his fingers across the stubble on his chin.
After a decade in the force, Connor wondered when the durable shell he'd accumulated had cracked. Sure, he'd been attacked by a man experimenting with his sexuality, had met with a frantic sister, investigated a frazzled cop nearing retirement and his shady business pal, and in an hour and a half, would ask Elizabeth Metcalfe to identify a body, probably the body of her murdered sister.
So why was he so angry and out of his comfort zone here? Could it be that his own conflict about what he could do and his own abilities as a Sentinel was getting to him?
It wasn't like he hadn't been in stressful situations before. The unpredictable nature of being a business owner didn't help. The insurance company, previously a steady stream of income, had asked for a brief hiatus of four weeks in their fraud investigation schedule, for reasons unspecified. They hadn’t given a reason, and it gnawed at him. He wondered now if Hugh Fraser found out about his abilities, maybe the insurance company too, and he’d lost a pocketful of steady cash.
He applied the brakes at the punt road freeway exit. Clients paid well for his services, but there was something to be said for a regular pay cheque from Victoria Police, even if the bureaucracy of said force jarred.
Ryan broke the silence. "Pondering a career change?"
"It's crossed my mind once or twice." Being the driver had its advantages. He didn't want to look his son-in-law square in the eye.
"It has? First time you've admitted it."
Connor turned the heater on to a low setting. "I know Gypsy would rather I stay out of the force. We've both got used to me being at home at the same time, but I'm not sure how much longer I can stick in with this entrepreneur game. Something to be said for a cop's wage. It's not flash, but it doesn't change from week to week."
"They’re looking to add to the team at CID."
"I know, you already said." The keys hanging from the ignition jingled as his foot hit the accelerator, hard.
"Don't leave it too long. They'll hire someone else."
Connor rubbed his fingers along the steering wheel. "I said I'll think about it. Talk to me once this case plays out, and I can see clear."
Thankfully, Ryan left it at that.
Connor flicked on the indicator to turn left into the pub car park. Only a few vehicles dotted the parking area. He pulled in and turned off the car.
"Can't wait to explain this to my team leader. Visiting the pub on a Thursday afternoon, all in the name of identifying a body."
Connor snorted as he climbed out. "The burdens of solving a case."
"You owe me one."
"I'd do the same for you."
"Let's hope it never comes to that," Ryan said. He strode beside Connor, his boots clipping the concrete.
When they stepped inside the pub, Connor squinted as his eyes adjusted to the dimly lit drinking cave. Hops and stale cigarette smoke hit him in the face. He’d forgotten about it since the last time he’d visited, to talk to Cliff Jensen.
"No shortage of seats. How about the booth in the corner?" Connor said.
He tried to ignore the stickiness of the carpet. The wooden table had seen better days, and the red vinyl bench seats was ripped in places.
"What'll it be? Better be a good one to break the drought." Said Ryan
Connor suppressed a wry smile. The lure of a bourbon and coke had tugged at him for days. He couldn't let himself down by choosing anything else.
"Bourbon and coke please."
Ryan raised his eyebrow. "Bourbon and Coke, and a diet Coke it is." He placed both hands on the table and pushed himself up to exit the booth.
"Diet Coke? Wussing out on me?"
"Technically, I'm on duty, remember?"
Ryan walked off to the bar. Connor realised he'd put a dark raincoat on, possibly to cover up his uniform. The thought of reliving the memory of drinking alcohol didn't dent his conscience. He'd earned it. Considering most cops drank a hell of a lot more than one or two drinks, he wondered why Ryan made such a big deal out of it. Yeah, it was 3.30pm on a Thursday afternoon, but there were worse things he could be doing.
He should probably start up running again but motivation had deserted him long ago. Running was always associated with a day on the beat, to relieve the pressure of another day dealing with the dickheads at the top. Somehow, it didn't seem right to allow himself the luxury of a run when he'd shifted to the dark side, private investigation. It made no sense, but life generally didn't play strictly by the rules of logic.
Ryan approached the table with two drinks. He slid into the booth, took a sip, and looked at him with fingers interlaced.
"What, should I sell tickets?" said Connor, propping himself up moving one elbow to the table.
"Not paying a cent. I took a couple of hours off for this. Let's see what you got."
"There are worse things than having a drink, it’s not like I’m snorting a line off the table."
Ryan snorted. "Not sure I'd pay to see that, either."
Connor took a swig of his drink, savouring the feel of the warm liquid sliding down. Within seconds, it all come back to him, his muscles unknotting, and the blanket effect of thoughts switching off. A whole lot easier than running.
"What's the plan?" he said, leaning forward with both elbows on the table.
"I'll make a call. Whitehouse will hang up and call the union, probably on speed dial."
"Or you could use what I so generously gave you as leverage."
"Maybe. Or I get sprung for aiding and abetting a drunk."
"Ease up, I've got a way to go yet."
"You got fifteen minutes."
"Will you invite him for a pleasant chat down at the station?"
"That's the boss’s call, not mine. Word is plenty would line up to see him in lockup for the night."
"Yeah." Connor drained his glass, and then placed it back on the table with a clunk. "Come on, you're not keeping up."
"I'm not on the hard stuff."
"Not sure that I'd call a bourbon with coke hard. More like a shot of tequila. Speaking of which..."
"We're outta here." Ryan shuffled along the seat and stood up. "This is getting ridiculous. The sooner we get back, the sooner we can put the hard word on Whitehouse."
Connor wondered why he’d ended up at a bar on a whim. He tried not to think about the spur of the moment events. He’d surprised himself. The force with which he’d fought back at Joe Reeves had overtaken him, almost from nowhere. The hidden reserve of anger had spewed forth; from a dark place he didn’t know existed. Maybe that was what propelled him to the bar for some reason, hidden away, a return to the days of old when drinking had been part of his promotion to detective.
Plus, he and Ryan very rarely disappeared on their own to speak without their spouses. He needed time to think, somewhere different, which might get ideas sparking.
"And the sooner I get to ring Helen Reeves. Gimme a minute, will you?"
He didn’t have Helen Reeves on speed dial. Groaning as he pushed himself up and out of the booth, he headed for the main entrance to cut down on the noise of the bar. Striding toward the car, he unlocked it and got in.
"Wait up, will you?" Ryan said, out of breath behind him.
Connor started up the car and scrolled through his phone to find previously placed calls. There it was. He pressed the screen, and the Bluetooth activated itself. He’d need to tu
rn the volume up to be heard over the throb of Betty’s engine. Shit, Ryan would get to hear this one, but then he might be on the scene to witness the aftermath.
"Hello?" the woman who answered sounded tentative.
"Mrs. Reeves?"
"Yes, who is this?"
"It's Connor Reardon. I investigated that rather delicate matter on your behalf."
Her words came out in a rush. "Oh, my goodness, I'm so sorry. So, so sorry. I had no idea..."
"Me, either," he said. "How are you doing?"
He couldn’t bring himself to ask about the wellbeing of his attacker.
"I'm okay. Joe's out of hospital, but he's angry and talking about pressing charges. We argued, and he took matters into his own hands. I wish I'd kept my mouth shut, but it turned out more difficult than I thought."
Perfect, just perfect. To top the day off, he could be served with papers for an assault charge if the peon went ahead with his plans. Then again, talk was cheap.
"I'm not calling about that. I'm calling about another case. One of the photos I presented to you showed a person in the background, a person who is likely a suspect. I’d like your permission to pass it on to police?"
"Police? Oh, I'm not sure about passing confidential information on to police..." She loudly cleared her throat.
"I can assure you that the focus is not your husband. The focus is resolving a murder case. It is a matter of life and death. It is going to a specific contact, who I trust implicitly. You have my word on that."
"Well, I don't know..."
"You'd be helping a family bring closure to the disappearance of their sister and daughter."
A long pause.
"When you put it like that…" Helen Reeves’ voice trailed off.
"Can I tell my contact you don't mind? That you'd be happy to be of service to the grieving family?"
"I guess." Her voice faltered.
"I'm sure they'll appreciate it, thank you."
Helen Reeves didn't reply. Now was not the time to remind her that if her husband laid charges, his lawyers would be sure to bring up all the sordid details of the investigation she had asked him to complete on her behalf.
