Inlet Boys

by Chris Krupa

  I grabbed Vicki’s shirt with both hands and reefed her away. ‘Run! Come on!’

  I managed to get her out in front of me, running down the hall past the kitchen, and pushed her enough to keep her moving. I followed her, not knowing which direction to go.

  We half stumbled into the laundry. I stopped and looked back down the hall—no sign of Paul. I could still hear Sue’s voice on the answering machine, but couldn’t make out the words.

  Vicki unlocked the back door and ran out into the night.

  The answering machine beeped. I heard Vicki’s retreating footfalls on the grass, and then the house fell into silence.

  I edged my way back down the hall to the living room, and rounded the corner to the alcove.

  Paul sat with his back against the wall, legs splayed, shoes spread out around him... crying.

  I picked up my crowbar and held it to my side.

  His natural stoicism had evaporated, and in front of me sat only a damaged man, wallowing in hopelessness. He slowly shook his head from side to side. ‘There’s nothing left.’

  ‘That’s not true, Paul. Put the gun away.’

  He blinked and rubbed his forehead with his gun hand, as if exorcising demons from his mind.

  My heart raced and I felt giddy, adrenaline coursing through me, and everything gained an almost supernatural clarity.

  He put the gun to the side of his temple. ‘I’m going to count backwards from thirty, and when I reach one, I’m going to pull the trigger.’ He sniffed, took a deep breath, and exhaled slowly. ‘Thirty... twenty-nine... twenty-eight....’

  I had to say something, but I didn’t know what. ‘Paul, you don’t have to do this.’

  ‘...twenty-six... twenty-five....’

  ‘It doesn’t have to end like this.’ I didn’t know what in hell to say.

  ‘...twenty-two... twenty-one....’

  ‘I don’t know what I need to say to stop you from doing this.’

  ‘...sixteen... fifteen... fourteen....’

  Paul’s face fell blank as his eyes stared at something beyond sadness.

  ‘Jesus Christ, Paul, do you think Rory would have wanted his dad to kill himself?’

  ‘...nine... eight....’

  ‘Fuck! Stop, Paul! Put the fucking gun down!’

  ‘...four... three... two... one.’

  Chapter 26

  Detective Inspector Will Asher questioned me about my statement regarding the night I found George’s body on Stuart McCaskill’s property. McCaskill had come out of an induced coma, and confessed his connection to Paul Green. He’d been accused of indecent assault on a minor, and Green had promised to keep his name out of the court if he helped Green take care of the Demich matter.

  ‘Yes,’ I said, ‘I had suspicions George was in danger, and I entered the property on that condition only.’

  ‘Did you hear a scream or something that alerted you to that fact?’ Detective Inspector Asher hit me with leading questions.

  I caught on quickly. ‘Yes, I heard something that alerted me and provided cause for me to enter the property.’

  Of course, George was already deceased by the time I arrived, but a scream or a yell, from anywhere in the vicinity, was enough cause for me to investigate, and therefore clear me of any suspicion.

  Ultimately, they deemed the evidence inconclusive, but he issued me a stern warning about my conduct, and the possible suspension of my investigative licence in the future if I stepped out of line.

  Ballistics traced the bullet wound in George’s body to Paul Green’s service pistol, and conclusive physical evidence enabled the conviction of Stuart McCaskill to seventeen years in gaol for manslaughter, assault, and several counts of indecency against a number of minors.

  I stayed another day in the motel, to sleep and recover, then spent Saturday afternoon with Annette before packing the ute and hitting the road back to my unit in the Gong. I promised Annette I’d stay in touch, and come visit often.

  She seemed happy about that, but our parting peck felt anything but passionate.

  Within ten days, Reggie, true to his word, consulted with Fabian Poulos and drew up some affidavits, supporting the fact that Michael Le Mat was in Randwick at the time of Rob’s murder. He was charged with possession and given a bond.

  On my next day with Alice, I took her down to Belmore Basin, where she swam in the calm waters for hours, diving, jumping, and waving to me.

  I wondered if I would kill someone if they ever assaulted her, didn’t like where my mind went to, and quickly came back to the present. I also put aside my feelings about Rob and George, not wanting them to spoil Alice’s day.

  We had fish and chips, and salt and pepper squid from Levendi, then walked up to the Mr. Whippy van for a soft serve. Alice had pink sherbet on hers, and I had the choc top. I soaked in the whole experience, knowing she wouldn’t be eleven forever.

  I handed my ute over to Raf, a brilliant mechanic I knew, who worked his magic on the front panel, bonnet, and driver’s side door. I considered posting a copy of my findings to Carmine but decided against it.

  I wrangled another day off with Reggie, and drove back down to Sussex to meet Carmine at the automotive shop. Even though he seemed frail and shook my hand limply, he was obviously grateful I’d made the trip. We shuffled into his quiet office and shared a whiskey. There wasn’t much to say, and I offered to return his retainer in full.

  He refused outright. ‘You do your job,’ Carmine said. ‘If you no do your job, maybe we never find George.’ With both sons gone, and no other legal beneficiary, Carmine considered selling up and entering retirement. Everything about him felt broken and lost.

  I had no clue how to console him. I only wished I had something more tangible to give to him, with McCaskill in gaol and Paul dead, the resolution still felt like a horribly redundant one.

  I thanked him for the drink, promised to catch up with him in the not-too-distant future, then left him to his thoughts and drove back home.

  I drove over to see Zio Fausto and found him, once again, in the backyard by his small patch of garden.

  He stared at my face, uttered a single, ‘Jesus Christ’, poured whiskey into two glasses, and passed me one. We went downstairs, through the garage, and out the back, where we’d sat the previous Sunday.

  I went through the whys and wherefores of what happened in the inlet.

  ‘Rory couldn’t sleep alone. He was sharing his mother’s bed. Vicki and Paul must have grown apart, physically and emotionally. Their whole life for a year revolved around Rory’s needs. I think Rory’s death proved the catalyst of all that followed. Paul lured Rob out to the construction site, maybe just to threaten him, but the argument turned physical and Rob ended up dead. Paul proved more calculating with George. He pulled George off the highway in the patrol car, which is why George complied. Ballistics stated the wound in George’s head was a result of being shot from behind, which is consistent with a police officer conducting a search on somebody, placing their body against the car.’

  Zio took a big pull on the scotch and nodded.

  ‘I overthink things, Zio,’ I said. ‘I can’t help but look at everything from every angle.’

  He laughed. ‘You’d be shit at your job if you didn’t.’

  I couldn’t help but smile. ‘Maybe it’s just me wanting to do the right thing.’

  ‘Listen, dickhead, you think too much. You found the fuckwit who killed them both, and he blew his fucking brains out. End of story.’ Zio shrugged and raised his hands. ‘You told me everything, and I believe you. You’ve never bullshitted me. There wasn’t a fucking thing you could do. That fuckwit Green wanted to blow his wife’s brains out too, but you stopped it. You saved her life.’

  ‘But not George’s.’

  ‘Shut the fuck up. And what about the other fuckwit? Rob? Jesus Christ! Drug dealer. He was killed for a fucking reason. Yes?’

  I drunk a mouthful of scotch and nodded. ‘Rob wasn’t the type to co
ntribute to society in a positive way. His life was drugs, booze, and getting high. Nothing good comes out of that. But, Zio, I believe people can redeem themselves, and even though Rob’s crimes were horrible, he never purposefully took a life, even if his actions drove someone to take theirs.’

  ‘But it fucking happened. It was a circle. They started their own shit. The copper hassled Rob and Rob hassled the copper. Who was the better person? Mannaggia, that fucking cop brought it on himself, fucking arsehole. And I don’t care how you look at it, Rob killed his son. He did all that fucking shit and he copped a fucking rock in the head. George was no fucking better. You exposed those arseholes, and that’s more than that other Mooregold fuckwit did.’

  I blinked. ‘You knew about that?’

  Zio put his hands up in surrender. ‘Your Zia didn’t want to say anything.’ He ran a thumb across his mouth. ‘I didn’t say shit. Mi dispiace.’

  I felt the sting of betrayal in my gut. They knew Carmine had hired another private investigator but hadn’t told me. So maybe there was truth to my suspicions—my family didn’t trust my investigative abilities.

  Sorry isn’t going to cut it.

  I started to understand what might have been the catalyst for the rift between Zio and Carmine, and that it wasn’t completely one-sided. Secrets were being kept on both sides of the front. Distrust and misdirection appeared to be techniques both men relished.

  He poured more scotch into my glass, and I drank a mouthful. It numbed my brain and calmed my nerves, but I couldn’t help but feel manipulated, even though I had volunteered to help Carmine.

  I happened to look down at the concrete by my foot and noticed a hundred ants scurrying over the remains of a skink. The impermanence of everything was so fleeting, and I thought of Carmine trying to pick up the scraps of his life.

  Zio must have read my face because he shrugged despondently, perhaps at the inevitability of the whole thing. They may have been estranged or separated by emotional and physical distance, but blood, after all, is blood.

  I left Zio on his own and went back upstairs.

  Zia Valeria cooked cannoli on her six-burner stovetop. She pulled me aside. ‘Fausto called Carmine yesterday.’

  I must have looked flabbergasted because she smiled broadly.

  ‘Thank you,’ she said. ‘Maybe this will bring them together.’

  I kissed Zia Valeria goodbye. This time she had no sausage casing on her hands, and drew me in for a hug.

  Chapter 27

  I emailed Constable Hunter, and worked on the notes for my case file over a solid belt of whiskey and water.

  She replied and requested a copy of my case file, and told me I might have to be available over the coming weeks.

  I was sitting in the second bedroom of my flat, my makeshift office, when the phone rang.

  It was Sue Hunter. She wanted to tell me more about Green and McCaskill. ‘They weren’t old friends at all. I came across a draft document on Paul’s PC with McCaskill’s name on it. It appears Green had evidence against McCaskill in relation to the indecent assaults, so Green held that as collateral over McCaskill, to use his car in getting from points A and B.’

  ‘Green had McCaskill over a barrel.’

  ‘That’s why McCaskill assaulted you at the warehouse. Not only did Green line up Michael Le Mat for a fall, he tried to cover his tracks with McCaskill.’

  I thanked her for the information and for joining up some of the loose ends that had bothered me.

  She didn’t exactly promise to keep in touch, but I sensed I had an ally in the blue and white brigade.

  I meditated on my actions in the investigation and their respective consequences. Looking back on the night in McCaskill’s kitchen, I scolded myself for wishing I’d punched him harder. I couldn’t expect to become a better person holding on to that particular avarice.

  Would George still be alive if I hadn’t fought back the night McCaskill attacked me with the baseball bat? I considered my actions: if one acted with honourable intentions, did that negate the results? I admitted to suffering a mild case of anxiety, brought on by a steady diet of antacids and late nights in front of the television. The pain in my groin intensified, maybe because I’d become hyper aware of its existence, which only exacerbated the matter—the snake eating its own tail.

  I had mixed feelings about my first murder case. I thought about the initial impetus I felt to take the case on at the urging of my uncle. Was I trying to prove myself to him or to myself? If I looked deeper, I might have used the case as an excuse to meet Annette.

  I started writing an email to Reggie requesting more insurance work, and pain shot through my testicle. I took it as a sign. I deleted the draft, turned off the laptop, poured a strong shot of Chivas Regal, cracked some ice cubes into a bowl, and took the whole lot into my makeshift office to finish off Magda’s book. I considered the possible reasons behind the rift between my uncles, and found myself taking on too many hypotheticals, too many scenarios unfounded on any facts. Had they crossed swords over a woman? Had they lost shares on a horse? A part of me felt bolstered by the fact Carmine had called Zio Fausto, and now with his sons in the ground, I hoped the reason for the rift between the two men could become part of their shared history.

  I logged into my Zoosk account, sent a message to Annette, and awaited her response.

  —-THE END—-

  But... don’t stop here. Please keep reading for more, including our Bonus Content—not just one, but two Special Sneak Previews:

  TALL DARK HEART by Chris Krupa

  and

  BROOMETIME SERENADE by Barry Metcalf

  Special Sneak Preview

  Be sure to pick right up with the second book in this “P.I. Kowalski” series, TALL DARK HEART, due to release in late 2019.

  ~~~

  ~~~

  Enjoy the 3-chapter Sneak Preview below.

  ~~~

  Please keep reading for....

  Chapter 1

  ~~~

  The red mist....

  It appeared in an instant, and just as quickly dissipated. I saw it during the quiet times, like now, transferring photos from my laptop to a flash drive. I became aware of a figure to my left, broke out of my fugue state, and noticed Reggie in the hall.

  He ushered me into his office. ‘You got five minutes?’

  I walked down the hall to Reggie’s corner of Cash Hendrix Specialist Law Firm.

  A large man occupied one of the leather seats, whom I clocked to be in his late sixties. He wore a tailor-made suit and tie with new leather shoes. Red scalp showed through his white, parted hair, and his wide, ruddy face regarded me apprehensively.

  Reggie pointed a pen in my direction and met his client’s eyes. ‘This is the guy who will find your daughter. I guarantee it.’

  The word ‘guarantee’ should never be used, particularly in private investigations—too many dead ends and false leads. I couldn’t read the situation, and I didn’t want Reggie’s Arizonan nature to shoehorn me into a bad position, so I lingered in the doorway.

  Reggie gestured in the man’s direction. ‘Matt, this is Mr. Jeff Lyons. His daughter, Tamsin, has been missing for eleven days. I told him you had a knack for finding people, and he’d like to hire you.’

  Lyons slowly rose to his feet. He almost came up to my 186 centimetres, and had all the hallmarks of a former front rower. His handshake was firm and icy cold.

  I took up a position in the spare seat. ‘Have you reported this to the police, Mr. Lyons?’

  ‘Christ, no.’

  ‘Can I ask, why not?’

  ‘Acting Deputy Commissioner of police Richard Peterson launched an investigation against me three years ago. Prick suspected me of fraud. Charges came up but nothing stuck, thanks to Reggie here.’

  Reggie offered a tight smile and Lyons continued. ‘Peterson tried everything in his power to convict me, but Reg put the kibosh on him.’

  That certainly cleared the situation, somewh
at.

  ‘If I hear you correctly,’ I said. ‘You haven’t reported your daughter missing because you believe the police have it in for you?’

  His face darkened, and any semblance of friendliness vanished. ‘Listen, if I report Tamsin missing to the cops, it will leak. I can’t risk something happening to Tamsin if this gets out to the media.’

  ‘You could file a missing person’s report with local police, ask they exercise discretion and don’t distribute it across the AFP.’

  The AFP were the Australian Federal Police.

  He regarded me sideways. ‘Don’t you know who I am?’

  ‘No. Should I?’

  Mr. Lyons had all the makings of a successful businessman, but I didn’t read The Australian, nor did I keep an eye on the Dow Jones or on which multinational was buying out which multinational.

  Reggie cleared his throat. ‘Mr. Lyons is the founder of Lyons Media. He’s a pioneer in online streaming.’

  I made a face I hoped passed for discernible interest. Besides Packer and Murdoch, I wasn’t up to speed with my multimedia personalities.

  ‘A lucrative business, I’m sure,’ I said. ‘I don’t know how many people watch free to air TV these days.’

  Lyons scoffed. ‘Bugger all. I’m about to launch a new streaming service that’ll put Netflix to shame. You can buy in for as little or as much as you like, Mr. Kowalski.’

  The official title didn’t go unnoticed. ‘Mr. Lyons, before we go any further, I assume you have a substantial amount of resources at your disposal. You could hire the best of the best out of Sydney, a top-notch team of investigators, and I’m sure they’d have your daughter back to you in a matter of hours. I have to ask you one question.’ I opened my hands, palms up. ‘Why me?’

  Lyons gripped the chair, leaned toward me, and grinned. ‘Because you did the world a favour and killed a fucking cop.’

  Last spring, I’d found the man who killed two of my cousins. His name was Paul Green and he was a sergeant at the Shoalhaven Local Area Command. My cousins, Rob and George, harassed and sexually abused Rory, Paul’s son. Rory had Down syndrome, and spiralled into a debilitating depression, until he finally jumped from a bridge. It didn’t kill him, but Paul turned Rory’s life support off, and his marriage crumbled soon after. I watched as he put his police issue Glock pistol to his temple and pull the trigger. A cloud of rest mist shot out of the side of his head. I saw the instant his eyes snapped to lifeless glass.