A Tropical Cure (A Darren Mangan Thriller Book 2)

by John Hollenkamp

  Having met Simon Rowe paved the way for Matteo to rid himself of a thorn in his side. He’d been in cahoots with a car dealer from Cairns for a year or so. That arrangement had run its course, at least as far as Matteo was concerned. The car dealer, Bruce, had become too greedy and pompous for the Italian’s liking. Bruce rarely came down to Magnetic Island, so it was up to Matteo to organise the drops and pick-ups; he was like the middle-man, who didn’t get middle-man’s profits.

  The Englishman sailor, he could see through Matteo’s unhappiness. Thus, the discussions changed rather quickly, dropping Brooce as kingpin, bestowing that title on himself, as negotiator and buyer of drugs.

  And Bruce, well, he wasn’t big-time. His uncle, yes, he was a man to be feared.

  Matteo was shocked by the bank manager’s violent death, and he’d never connected Simon’s murder to his uncle in Melbourne.

  Until now.

  It was only a fool who would ask questions about the family business.

  But the phone call from his irate uncle wanting to know Steve’s whereabouts did make him think about an article in the newspaper he’d seen a few days ago, about a violent home-invasion that had ended in death. The newspaper report also highlighted the deceased was not known to police and was not a Townsville resident. His identity and motive had remained a mystery.

  Was it coincidence?

  Regardless, he would have to be very careful now.

  ***

  Wilder’s desk was a mess of paperwork as usual. Notes with hand-drawn text-boxes connected to each other with arrows, question-marks penned in red ink, laid out in front of him. A puzzle. Few arrows jutted from the boxes with answers attached.

  The mystery man had thus far remained a mystery. Databases for fingerprinting and DNA comparison hadn’t turned up anything relating to the dead home-invader.

  “We might not have his name, but at least we know, he’s Simon’s killer. The young boy’s slayer.” Adding the last, as an afterthought.

  The investigators eyed each other in silence. Knowing ‘who dunnit’, was of little consolation, when the ‘why-he-dunnit’ was murky. Except for killing Billy. Getting a name tag, other than John Doe, tied around the corpse’s toe would help them track down, where and who was behind this.

  A random but persistent flicker came from the ceiling fluoro-light, nearly symbolic of their investigation efforts.

  “Think your light is about to blow, Richard,” Joel remarked looking up at the light fixture. Joel had a reluctance to call his boss ‘Dick’, so he stuck with a formal Richard. It reinforced their relationship as professional and official, despite Joel’s off-the-cuff humour. Wilder ignored the observation, as if it was a criticism of today’s result.

  “How’s the girl going?” Wilder asked.

  “Which one? Gibbs or Ruby?”

  “I meant the English girl, but since you are asking…”

  “Gibbs is on the mend. Not sure, when or if, she’s coming back to work.”

  The paunchy detective frowned, “She’s having doubts about returning to the job?”

  “Do you blame her?”

  Joel’s reply was off-beat. It failed to make sense to Wilder, when officers on the job became self-appointed victims after getting hurt on the job. He ignored Joel’s comment again.

  “How’s the English girl, she out of hospital yet?”

  “Yeah, she’s fine. At home. Darren’s looking after her.”

  Wilder nodded approvingly.

  He sat up and moved forward, resting his elbows on the cluttered desk, and rubbed his hands, “I think we should contact our friend down south. Maybe he can throw some light on the identity of this John Doe.”

  “What about this Eddie character? When are we moving on him?” Joel asked.

  “We’re not. It’s out of our hands,” Wilder responded with indifference.

  “Out of our hands? What does that mean? We can nail him, can’t we? Blood sample from the shoe, DNA comparison and all that.” Joel’s face tensed.

  “Circumstantial.”

  “Bullshit, boss.”

  “No, it’s politics. The New South Wales boys want Eddie, they want him badly. Killing a cop outweighs the importance of pinning a murder of a local cab driver on him. Especially, when it concerns a foreign cab driver.”

  “Bullshit. And who’s going to chase after him?”

  “Hasn’t been sorted. But not us,” Wilder said impatiently. “Please ring this Adam fellow in Sydney.”

  Their angry eyes met fleetingly, prompting Joel to leave in a steaming huff.

  Traipsing the corridor with hard steps, Joel spied an unoccupied interview room, and ducked in. Pulling up one of the six chairs to set himself up at the table, he vaguely recollected Adam’s last words. “Keep digging. But not here.” He’d give it go regardless. The plain white clock on the wall said it was after nine, pm. After hours for most, but for those looking after the citizens, there were no after hours, only more hours.

  “…Sorry, I can’t take your call…leave a message, and I will contact you.”

  Joel rolled his eyes, and sighed, tapping his fingernail, waiting for the auto operator messaging service to shut up, “Hi Adam, Joel Shallowater, from Townsville. I have information which you will want to hear about.” Leaving a message sure to evoke a response, he hoped.

  Not three minutes later, Joel’s mobile vibrated in his trouser pocket.

  “Joel here.”

  “It’s Adam, you left me a message, something about information.” Polite and businesslike.

  “Thanks for the return call. Guess you still had my number,” Joel replied.

  “Rainy day stuff. What have you got for me?”

  “We have an unidentified body as a result from a home-invasion gone wrong. That’s the official line. Unofficially, this guy forced his way into Darren Mangan’s friend’s house to track him down. Things got messy, the killer misjudged his opponent and wound up with a rather large screwdriver in his brain. Darren had been stalked by this guy. We’re pretty sure he was responsible for the murder of the bank manager, the same one you spoke to Darren about. Same bastard is also responsible for the torture and killing of a young Aboriginal boy.” Joel paused. The mention of Jilli’s nephew, Billy, always angered him.

  “Darren kill him, did he?”

  “No. His girlfriend did, after she was attacked and stabbed a few times.”

  “Shit. Is she alive?” Adam sounded concerned.

  “She’s okay and will recover. Her attacker didn’t realise she’d spent time in an infantry squad. In Iraq.”

  A short pause through the line.

  “I hear Eddie has surfaced in Cairns. Shame. Looks like he’ll be going to Sydney under escort,” Adam spoke a matter of fact.

  A different subject.

  “Yeah, my boss just informed me about that,” Joel said sighing. “Back to the other issue. Who is this dead guy?”

  “Why ask me?”

  “I think you know more about this guy than we do.”

  Adam sighed.

  “Our sources tell us that a hitman, by the name of ‘Slice’, real name unknown, has been seen in Townsville. Works for, and in organised crime circles, top end of town. He’s closely associated with one of the Italian families in Melbourne. And you’re right, he was sent to punish the bank manager for his disloyalty to the family. Because Darren did a dodgy mortgage deal with this bank manager, he’d be on the list to be dealt with. It’s about punishment and lessons. Stop other wannabes from fucking with the family fortunes. We know nothing about this hitman, other than he existed and his trade name was Slice. Secretive, a ghost in the night. Whatever, you want to call him. A bit like the infamous Jackal.”

  “Sounds like he comes straight from a movie script.”

  “The world is made of clichés, my friend.” Adam breathed with a sniff. “Anything you can tell me about him?”

  “His hair was dyed. He had dark coloured contacts in his eyes. Traces of make-up. About a
hundred and seventy-eight centimetres tall. A fake driver’s licence, in fact a few fake driver’s licences with different names, and photos of him with a beard, blonde hair, moustache, without moustache, you get the drift. Let’s see, most interesting of all, a custom-made under-shirt holster for his knife. Beautifully, crafted knife, like an Asian type design. Made for one thing.”

  “Dispensing humans,” Adam interrupted.

  “That’s what it points to, pardon the pun.”

  Quickly adding, “We also found a .357 Magnum is his car.”

  “A man in that profession can only be successful by maintaining his anonymity. You’re unlikely to unearth any clues from his identity. Your dead guy could possibly be the man known as Slice. Is there anything to be gained by finding out his real name? Other than for engraving on a grave-stone. Close your file. Sweep it under the carpet. Easy enough to add another John Doe to unsolved crimes, seeing as he was a killer anyway.”

  “Just like that, eh,” Joel said defeated.

  “Go and find Eddie. Help Darren.” Adam ended the call.

  Dead end street on this one. Joel mused staring at the clock in the room. Find Eddie. Help Darren. Wonder what Wilder would say, if I passed that message on.

  CHAPTER 64

  A CASE OF BALI BELLY

  Eddie unlocked the heavy-duty padlock securing the thick metal chain suspended over the driveway of the caryard. Life for him seemed far removed from the wild days with the Devil’s Sinners. He unlocked the office and went through, passing the mirror where he paused taking in the image of the new, groomed man, glaring through eyes that would never change. A white, crisp and ironed shirt, the stiff collar kept perfectly rigid by the navy-blue, dotted Hugo Boss tie. Clean-shaven, with a slicked-back haircut styled after Pacino, in Godfather 2.

  Eddie looked down at his glassy, black shoes; they felt like tight bandage wrapped around his feet. The soles annoyed the shit out of him, they made him sound like he was wearing high heels. Click clack.

  It was all very remote compared to his beloved biker boots, a faded black T-shirt, black jeans, a three-day stubble with a generous goatee, and shoulder length hair. Though, his eyes were still the same: dark, cold, suspicious and calculating. Always calculating.

  A month had seemed like a year.

  The pipe rattle lasted only a second or two, water spluttered from the tap while he held the small glass. One finger scraping the inside of the box of paracetamol, with the others he turned the tap off. Finding the foil strip with his nail, he popped the last two tablets, slamming them back with water from the glass.

  Yes, this morning everything was a challenge. Hung over and trying to maintain, full recovery from last night’s antics would only be achieved by a good night’s sleep. That didn’t happen last night.

  Bruce was a man who kept his business interests close to his chest. It wasn’t until last night that Eddie realised his cousin had his fingers in another honey pot. A very sweet one.

  In the last week, life in Palm Cove opened up …

  Cocktails after work, by the pool. Relax, put your boardies on, pal. Time for you to meet some of my friends. The first few occasions were, tame. Hey girls, this is Eddie, my cousin from the south. He’s come to live the good life.

  Eddie was being groomed, and liking it.

  It was, “…swimming pools and movie stars…”, although the girls weren’t quite movie stars in Bruce’s entourage, they were young, pretty and played out their roles nicely: drooling over fast cars, lip licking glasses of champagne and nibbling on Spanish olives and smoked salmon.

  Finishing off the night with a late swim, listening to Vangelis, the girls would say their goodnights and leave. That was last week.

  Last night, Bruce opened the gates.

  “Young Boris. Tonight, we’re having a celebration.”

  “And what are we celebrating?” Eddie’s temperament was a basic flatline, if seen on a monitor; Bruce’s would look like a tropical tide chart, with large variations in highs and lows.

  “Your introduction to our tight-knit society. You’ll see.”

  “Another one of your ‘girls only’ evenings?”

  “Problem with that?”

  “No. But, I must admit that beer, bourbon and beast on the spit was always a night to look forward to.” Adding, “With the boys. The brothers.”

  Eddie’s expression remained flat.

  Bruce laughed a little, “Sure. I’m sure it was fun.”

  ***

  For tonight, Bruce had selected only his prized ponies. Getting invited this evening was part of the inclusion in Bruce’s empire. Every couple of months, it was an invitation bestowed randomly, and any new girl would get one. No RSVP required. All the cocaine you wanted, beautiful food, the best champagne, and make sure you are clean and smell like a Parisian model.

  Bruce doesn’t hurt us, so don’t worry. God knows who will be his guest tonight. Be prepared for lots of fucking. All night. And don’t pass out.

  The new girl nodded, glancing at the full moon sitting just above the ocean, as the three of them got out of the limousine.

  Cocktails and finger food first.

  Outside on the balcony, the new girl could see the moon had risen. The Margueritas had been delicious, now glowing behind her eyes. A wineglass clinking from a cocktail spoon, but it wasn’t going to be speech time, was it? She went in, leaving the sudden screeching of cicadas behind.

  “We’re havin’ a private party, tonight. Five of us.” Taking his shirt off, strutting around like Mick Jagger to the song, Little Queenie, he ordered the girls to do likewise, “Let me see those beautiful titties.” Snatching the remote from the coffee table, turning up the music for the rest of the world to hear, holding high his empty glass.

  “Lola, where’s the lines? Got them ready yet, honey.” Not a request.

  One hour later: one litre of Tennessee’s best down the hatch, and working on the next bottle, with three naked girls sitting on the bar, arms behind, legs up, spread wide. One swig, one slurp. The girls took turns kissing each other, passionate and erotic.

  Eddie had never been to a party like last night’s.

  And he wasn’t at all sure if he liked the new character in the mirror.

  ***

  The phone rang.

  “Bruce’s Autos,” Eddie answered.

  A direct reply was not forthcoming. Eddie frowned.

  “Hello. Can I help you?” Eddie spoke harshly into the phone.

  “Is Boggo there?” Finally, a voice.

  “No mate, it’s Ed. Who are you?” The gruff guy was back.

  “A mate.” The caller paused, “Where is he?”

  “Who wants to know?”

  “Hey, buddy, I’m not into cat and mouse shit. If he ain’t there, say so,” the caller replied with venom.

  “What do you want?” Eddie was getting impatient.

  “Tell him Gainesy has something to tell him. Make sure he gets this message.” The caller hung up.

  Eddie slotted the handheld into the base, his hand remaining on the phone, he wondered how long before his cousin would let him into his secret world. Rebirthing a few stolen cars and rebuilding insurance write-offs was child’s play. He used to know backyarders doing that on weekends. Fair enough, Bruce had let him in on a few drug deals, but Eddie thought it was only the tip of the iceberg, unless his cousin was bullshitting. No, Bogdan wasn’t a bull-shitter. He was fair dinkum.

  Last night, the induction ceremony into Bruce’s other business, the escort service he had alluded to on several occasions, how would he fit into that one? What the pimp at the door of the club? Fuck off.

  The car sales caper. If it weren’t for the clown outfit, he’d probably enjoy it. For a while.

  It was time to put on the good face, the first couple of tyre-kickers were coming through the gate.

  “G’day. And what a beautiful day it is!” Eddie exulted, he took large strides towards the young couple standing next to an Elantra. “Don
’t normally have one of them. It’s a great buy today.” Eddie’s face was beaming.

  ***

  This week Bruce ‘test-drove’ a 2009 Mustang GT, a glary yellow version with throaty sound. It was hard to miss him as the car thundered through the laneway behind the caryard. A repossessed, near new vehicle, handed to Bruce to sell a-s-a-p, one of Bruce’s finance company mates had asked him for an urgent favour. Eddie glanced over his shoulder as he paced back to the office, with an older lady in tow.

  “Here you are madam,” Eddie spoke politely. “Bring your husband and we’ll do a fantastic car deal for you.” She took the business card and nodded, before leaving the office.

  “See you’re a busy man,” Bruce commented on his way through.

  “Someone has to be here selling cars.” A snide remark.

  “Are you complaining about making a quid?” Bruce put his briefcase on the desk. “You’re about to get busier. That big friendly face of yours on the new ad.”

  Eddie eyes narrowed, tightening his lips. Eventually, he said, “Not sure if that was a good idea.”

  “What? A bit of candid camera in a local newspaper ad?”

  “What if someone recognises me?”

  “One fucking ad, with a tiny picture of a smiling salesman?” Bruce dismissed Eddie’s uneasiness.

  Eddie shrugged, and changed the subject.

  “Bloke rang here earlier. Wanted you. Said his name was Gainesy.” After Eddie relayed the info, he side-stepped his cousin without eye contact. Bruce lunged grabbing Eddie by the arm.

  Their eyes locked now.

  “Not so fast, mate.” Bruce smiled a little. “What did he want?”

  “No fucking idea. Cunt wouldn’t say shit to me. By the way, you can let go of me now.” Eddie’s eyes turned to Bruce’s hand grasped around his arm.

  Bruce let go.

  “Leave a number?”

  “No.”

  Eddie walked out casually flick-brushing his arm with the back of his hand. He felt Bruce’s eyes burning into his neck. Not that he didn’t appreciate Bruce’s hospitality or generosity, but he wasn’t going to be anyone’s fucking shoeshine boy, including Bruce’s.