by Cat Connor
I smiled.
“You mean body parts strewn all over town and a lunatic out to get me? Nah, shouldn’t think so.” There was touch of dismissive flippancy to my tone. “New Zealand should be warm at least.”
“I can hardly wait,” he replied.
“You know what I want?” I said.
“Tell us what you want,” Sam said.
Lee interrupted Sam by launching into a Spice Girls’ number.
I grinned. “Spice Girls? I think not!”
“What is it, SSA?” Sam said, stifling his amusement at Lee’s interlude.
“I want to know who this Hudson Hawk bastard really is. I want his name and a confirmed identity.”
Then I’d like to hollow out his head and use it as a planter.
The boarding call sounded.
“We’re going to get him, Chicky Babe,” Lee said without a trace of doubt.
Six
We Got it Going On
We passed through customs in Auckland in the middle of the night, met with an American attaché and now carried documentation which allowed us to wear guns. She’d notified police we were in the country and requested that all case information be delivered to our Christchurch hotel as soon as possible. The detective heading the investigation, Detective Faye Jones, was Wellington-based and would meet with us as soon as she could. Meanwhile, a Sergeant Terry would meet us at Christchurch and be our liaison officer. We spent what was left of our night, in an Auckland hotel jetlagged and unable to sleep.
At five minutes to midday on Monday, the four of us stood at the baggage carousel in Christchurch airport, waiting for our bags to bump along conveyor belt. We were ready to collect our bags and tired as hell. We’d lost days in transit, yet hadn’t. It was a bizarre feeling being catapulted into the future. There was no sign of our liaison.
People were milling about. Some were waiting like us, others were greeting friends and family, a good percentage were scurrying to check in. Then there were the lucky ones heading off out the doors to their lives. I envied them.
Sam and Lee stood out like dogs’ balls. It amused me. Kurt wasn’t quite so out of place but he still stood out. We wore jeans. He wore a very nice suit.
Sam nudged me, “Give?”
“Look around. I think we’re kinda obvious.”
Lee overheard and turned to me. “Hiding in plain sight, damn we are good!”
“Damn, we are American,” I replied with a tired laugh. “Although people will probably think you two play football, and I’m your fuc’n groupie.” I nodded towards Kurt. “And he’s your manager.”
Sam’s head lifted as he snorted with laughter. “We can only dream, Chicky Babe. Anyway, Special Agent Ridiculously Good Looking is too pretty to play football.”
“Pretty? I don’t think I’m pretty,” Lee scoffed as Sam enjoyed the joke at Lee’s expense. “You’re full of shit.”
“Settle you two.” I noticed a number of people had turned to see what was happening. I kept an eye out for the police officer who was supposed to be meeting us. Suddenly two girls screamed and ran for us. Sam and Lee stepped toward them, blocking me.
I love it when they pull stunts like that, as if I can’t shoot straight. Kurt moved in closer.
“Whoa little ladies, what’s going on here?” Lee asked. He turned on some Southern charm. Any self-respecting girl would swoon in the presence of Lee; his smile could melt ice and his Southern manners made most women weak at the knees. I was immune.
Both girls clutched autograph books.
The tallest girl, a blonde who stood about five foot one in heels, spoke, “You’re American.” She looked like a five-year-old standing in front of Sam and Lee. I suspected she was about thirteen, maybe not quite.
“Yeah, we are,” Sam replied. “Can we help you?”
The blonde spoke again, “Are you with Grange?”
Lee and Sam shook their heads grinning.
Grange equaled stadium rock on a par with Bon Jovi. They were also from New Jersey.
“Sorry to disappoint, girls. I wish we were,” Lee replied.
I piped up, “Not as much as I wish you were.”
So Grange was in New Zealand. Good timing on our part. We’d seen the aftermath in Auckland of a recent Bon Jovi tour as we waited for our flight to Christchurch. Hundreds of people wearing Bon Jovi tee shirts boarding planes, chattering non-stop about their concert experiences, as we waited for our flight to Christchurch.
“We’re sorry,” the girls said again and started to leave.
The dark-haired kid spun around and squealed, “You look like Tony! Oh my God … it’s Tony!” Her voice hit fever pitch.
I did a double take. Who looked like Tony? Tony who? Tony Sharron. The lead guitarist from Grange, of course.
Sam punched Lee playfully in the shoulder and drawled, “She’s gotta be talking about you, boy. You’re the pretty one.”
Lee’s mouth flapped for a few seconds. The kid launched herself at him. He untwined her tightly-clenched fingers from his shirt and lifted her off the floor at arm’s length.
“I am not Tony,” he growled at her then shifted his gaze to me. “I do not look like Tony Sharron.”
The kid struggled for freedom from Lee’s grip. He held her about twelve inches from his face and said with a firm, quiet voice, “I am not Tony.”
He set the kid down.
There was a crazed look in her eyes: she didn’t believe him.
Sam intervened placing himself between Lee and the kids.
“Shouldn’t you two be squealing over that little Beiber kid and not Grange?” he said.
“He’s just a boy,” the blonde scoffed.
I couldn’t believe the derision in the kid’s voice.
“Hate to break it to you but you’re just a girl,” I replied under my breath.
The dark-haired kid shrieked again. “It is Tony!” as she dove past Sam.
Behind me, I heard running feet. Twenty or thirty screaming women and girls were bearing down on us.
I tapped on Sam’s shoulder and pointed.
“Christ,” he grumbled.
Lee grimaced as he removed the dark-haired kid’s arms from his leg. “This is not going well. I’d like to go now.” His eyes smoldered and not in a good way.
“We need crowd control,” Sam said.
Screaming twenty- and thirty-somethings surrounded us with a few teens peppered through the horde.
The noise vibrated in my head like a jackhammer. Flashes from cameras lit the area. Cell phones were pointed in our direction, no doubt capturing the whole ugly scene for YouTube with their built-in cameras.
Screaming. Crying. Hysteria. My god, people are stupid.
“Hang on a minute,” I said. “This is so wrong on so many levels.”
Only Sam heard me. The screaming had intensified.
“Chicky Babe, they don’t care. These loons don’t know their asses from their elbows.”
Lee spoke, “We gotta get out of here.”
“No fuc’n kidding. Got a plan, genius?” I asked and watched his hand stray toward his hip. “That doesn’t involve drawing on kids?”
“I’m going for our bags,” Lee stated with grim resolve. “Even, if I have to step on a few kids to get them.”
“I want pepper spray,” Sam growled as he shook two girls off his leg.
“Fuck that. I want a Tazer,” I replied. All of a sudden, there was a piercing whistle and I realized it came from me. It caused an abrupt break in the noise. I whispered instructions to Lee – he caused the chaos and he needed to fix it.
Lee bellowed, “Listen up!”
The silence overwhelmed us for a second, then Lee calmly said, “You’re all wonderful an’ all, but if we don’t get out of here, there will be no concert.” A general drone hummed through the crowd.
Thinking on our feet. That’s why we get paid.
He continued once the buzz died down. “I want you all to wait over there. Until we get our bags
then I’ll sign those books.” Lee pointed to a wall about twenty yards away.
With a strange herding instinct in play, the horde of screamers backed off.
Lee beckoned to the pair who began the hellish yet amusing interlude.
They came forward watched closely by the throng. We heard random squeaks, signaling the hysteria of the group was barely controlled.
“What is it with you? Grange are old men compared with you,” Sam said.
The darker headed one spoke, madness began to edge its way back into her voice. “Grange are gods … we love them.”
Kurt tapped Lee. He’d spotted our bags. They disappeared to retrieve them before they went round again.
“Can’t you love that Beiber kid? At least he’s within the right age group,” Sam said. “Tony Sharron and Rowan Grange are old enough to be your fathers.”
I watched everyone’s eyes follow Lee. It was unnerving the way the whole wall seemed to be nothing but eyes.
The other kid sobbed. “You don’t understand. We love them.” The dark-haired kid looked at me. “Are you married to Tony?”
“No. And that’s not Tony. His name is Lee. We’re cops.”
She shook her head. “But you don’t look like cops. ’Cept for him.” She pointed at Sam. “He looks like one.” To me Sam always looked the least like a cop and the most like a nightclub bouncer. The bouncer, the rock star and Kevin Costner. I checked my thoughts. Kevin Costner? Where the hell did that come from? Furtively I glanced in Kurt’s direction. Maybe it was his sandy hair, or his size. But I saw the resemblance again and I just knew it would be bad.
Lee and Kurt placed our bags on the ground. All eyes returned to watch the four of us.
“Can I leave you guys here for one minute?” I asked quietly. “I’m going to find a bathroom and I’ll thank you not to shoot anyone while I’m gone.”
“With these loons around?” Kurt asked.
I shrugged. “No sleep and too much coffee. When you gotta go …”
He smiled. “I saw a bathroom sign back the way we came in, on the left.”
“Be right back.”
The crowd remained entranced by Lee. I slipped behind the men and sought out a bathroom. Kurt was right. I found it easily.
I pushed open the door. Glaring lights startled me almost as much as the strong smell of bleach. Underneath the bleach was the unfortunate odor of pine cleanser, the smell of public bathrooms worldwide. At least the bathroom was clean. Judging by the strength of the smell, it had been recently cleaned. A row of cubicles on the left, mirrors and basins on the right. At the far end of the room were hand dryers
I chose a stall to the far left of the occupied one. A few minutes later, I was washing my hands. I gave my hands a quick shake over the basin and then plunged them into the hand drier. One of the air curtain type. Not a fan of them at all. Even less of a fan of bleach. I wanted to get out of there as quickly as possible.
One glance in the mirror told me the middle stall was still occupied and all the others free. It also told me I needed a touch of mineral powder to give me some color. I fished out a small compact and a sable brush from my handbag. A bit of a swirl over the mineralized powder and a light dusting was all it took. Welcome to the human race.
The middle cubicle remained closed. Maybe the door was jammed and it wasn’t occupied after all. I noticed a photograph stuck to the wall above the drier. How did I not see it before? For a few weird moments, my brain denied the images in front of me.
My throat tightened.
Carla walking into school.
Thump.
I spun around, my hand tightened on the butt of my still-holstered Glock.
The middle stall door remained closed. A hand poked out from underneath. My eyes flicked from the picture to the stall and back. I pulled my phone and called Kurt.
“Conway?”
“Problem. Women’s bathroom.”
“You okay?”
“Yeah, it ain’t me.”
I took a deep breath and forced air through the tightness in my throat. I held the phone tightly to stop my hand shaking and sent a text message to Carla. Arrived safe. All well. Love you.
Running feet sounded out in the corridor. My phone buzzed in my hand. I read the text from Carla. Don’t forget my present. Goodnight x. Relief swamped me. She was okay. Kurt, Sam and Lee burst into the room.
“S’up Chicky Babe?” Sam asked attempting to mask panic with a cloud of cool.
“That.” I pointed to the hand. “And this …” I pointed to the photograph.
All three men snapped on latex gloves. Sam was the only one who noticed my questioning look. He threw me a pair of gloves. “Kurt carries gloves in his bag.”
Of course. He was traveling with his medical bag. Would be stupid not to have gloves.
Screaming from outside found its way into the bathroom.
“You brought your fan club?” I asked Lee.
“They weren’t invited.”
Sam took photographs of the bathroom and the picture, then dropped the picture into a small plastic bag. He shook his head. “Not good.”
Lee leaned in for a look. “Carla.”
Kurt knocked on the stall door.
No reply.
He looked underneath.
“She’s fallen against the door.”
He stood on an adjoining toilet and hoisted himself over the thin wall. There was a thud followed by some hefty lifting noises and the door opened.
“Verdict?” I asked.
“Deceased. Come over here.”
I hadn’t realized how close to the exit I was. I moved closer to Kurt. At the cubicle door, I could clearly see a bloodied woman wearing a New Zealand Police uniform.
“She’s a cop. Any identification?”
Kurt removed a wallet from her pocket. “Sergeant Coral Terry.”
“Terry,” I repeated. “We were meeting a Sergeant Terry, or rather she was meeting us.”
I breathed in. A whiff of chlorine came off her clothes and hit the back of my throat. I could hear Sam talking by the door. He was talking to a uniformed officer.
Carla and a dead cop.
Our arrival had been anticipated.
Sam sidled up to me. “Photo?”
“Not sharing,” I whispered. “Not yet.”
I showed my badge and credentials then spoke to the officer. “We are here to work with New Zealand Police on a case. This may be connected. We have identified the body as Sergeant Coral Terry. She was supposed to be meeting us.”
He blanched. “I saw her half an hour ago at gate eleven.”
We came through gate eleven fifteen minutes later.
“Can you cordon off this bathroom?”
The young police officer stood motionless, staring wide-eyed at the body.
“How did she die?”
Kurt moved a little, revealing the woman’s bloodied matted hair. He joined me at the door to deliver his assessment of the situation. “Someone smashed her head – either with something or onto something – and then broke her neck.”
“Where?”
“In here, I think. A forensic scene examination will be able to confirm that,” Kurt said.
I added, “Someone has cleaned up. Can you smell bleach?”
The cop nodded. “There’s a bunch of screaming women outside.”
“It’s okay, they’re with him,” Sam replied pointing at Lee. “They’ll leave with us.”
“Who do you need to call?” I asked. I tried to clamp a lid on the Ghostbusters theme song that ripped through my head. Stop it! I could feel my body wanting to move. Never could resist that song. I ain’t afraid of no ghost. It’s real wrath of God stuff.
“My section Sergeant,” he replied. The young man pressed a button on his radio and spoke to Comms. Moments later another cop hurried in.
I introduced us all and explained we were in New Zealand at the request of New Zealand Police. One by one, we showed our badges and gave Sergeant J
im Calais a rundown on the events.
He and I took a walk down the corridor a wee ways.
“You got anything to do with that?” he asked, inclining his head toward all the noise.
“A little bit,” I confessed. “They all seem a bit high-strung, something to do with Grange apparently.”
“They’re doing a concert here later in the week. Rumor has it the band is flying in today sometime.”
“Lucky us.”
The eyes watched intently. I felt the daggers flying at my back.
“Sergeant Terry was here to meet us. It’s just a suggestion but you might want to start looking into who knew why she was here. From our end, only three people knew our travel plans; only one knew who was meeting us.”
“We can reach you?”
I took a card from my pocket and wrote the name of our hotel on the back. “My cell phone number is on the card. We’ll get going to our hotel and we’re not planning on leaving the country any time soon.”
“I’ll be in touch.”
“I’m sorry about your colleague,” I said and shook his hand. I really was sorry. More than he knew. If we hadn’t come, she’d probably still be alive. Sam, Lee and Kurt also expressed their condolences. Then gathered up our bags.
“Thank you.” He glanced down the passage and into the terminal. “Are you going to be all right with that crowd?”
“Sure.”
“Seems they’re interested in your friend,” the cop commented.
“Seems they’re not the smartest,” I replied.
He agreed.
The little blonde girl called over, “Would’ve been more fun if you were with Grange.”
“Be more fun if you were thirty not thirteen,” Lee called back, with a wave.
The kid glared at me as if it was my fault.
How sweet.
We headed out of the terminal amidst a chorus of screams, some of which were still recognizable as ‘Tony.’
We piled into a taxi and let the whole situation wash over us. I figured it was going to take a double rinse cycle even to begin to clear the terror I felt.
First Cassie and now a cop. And both times pictures most certainly left for me. Not good at all.
The taxicab careened down a long straight road and I started to wonder if there was a city around anywhere at all. The wide-open fields started to feel a little Twilight Zone meets Field of Dreams; I expected a baseball diamond to appear any second. And what was with the old time warplane standing on the corner of the road that led to the airport?
