by N. R. Walker
“He’s trying to block me,” August whispered. “Or sideline me or send me on one wild goose chase after another. This has been going on for eight years. I’ve been trying to get someone to listen to me for eight fucking years.”
“Then you need to get their attention another way,” Jake said.
August stared at him, and Jake could see a light spark in his eyes. He was definitely concocting a plan. “Yeah, maybe I do.”
Jake put his forehead to August’s. “I know you want to bust some heads, but you need to tread carefully. Now more than ever. Don’t get fired. Don’t get suspended. Benching you is one thing, and it might seem like they’re trying to derail your investigation. There will be ways around that. But closing down your cases completely or putting you on leave or transferring you, that will see a permanent end to everything you’ve worked for.”
August closed his eyes. “I know.” He sighed; his anger and frustration seemed to melt away. “Thank you, little voice of reason.”
Jake chuckled and kissed him. It was soft and slow and tasted a lot like goodbye.
When Jake ended the kiss, August’s face fell. “I don’t want you to go.”
Jake grinned at that. Such a small admission from this man who never spoke about his feelings felt like a milestone. “Well, those jeans of mine you borrowed? I’m going to leave them here, totally by accident. And you’ll have to bring them up when you visit.”
The corner of August’s lips curled upward. “When I visit?”
“Yeah, we get four-day weekends every two weeks. We need to synchronise that shit.”
August smirked. “It would be more economical to mail them. The jeans, that is.”
Jake gripped his face, their foreheads still pressed together. “You will get your arse on a plane, Detective. You hear?”
“You’re being bossy again.”
Jake chuckled. “I thought I was the little voice of reason.”
“You’re a bossy little voice of reason.”
“Maybe every second visit, I could come here. I’m not opposed to going out to fancy city restaurants for romantic dinners. I will allow you to wine and dine me.”
“You’ll allow me?”
“I’m generous like that.”
“A generous, bossy little voice of reason. Got it.”
Jake kissed him again, slower and deeper this time. If they’d had more time, it was the kind of kiss that would lead to more. August held him tight and even when Jake broke the kiss, August seemed reluctant to let him go. Jake knew this was harder for August. He’d finally, after so many years, opened his life to someone. He’d opened his mind and heart to the prospect of being with someone new. And now Jake had to leave . . .
“Hey,” Jake whispered. He lightly scratched August’s beard, searching his eyes. “It’s not goodbye. You’ll be seeing me again, I promise.”
“Next rostered days off, right?” August replied, though he hardly sounded convincing, as though he thought Jake had given him the ‘Don’t call me, I’ll call you’ line.
“I’m not bullshitting you, August Shaw. I’ll pay for your tickets,” Jake said. Just then, his phone beeped with a message with his flight details. He sighed and showed the screen to August. “But right now, I need to get to the airport.”
August scrubbed his hand over his face. “I’m just going to assume Deans doesn’t know you’re in Parramatta right now. Or, where Parramatta is in relation to the airport.”
“I can catch the train, if that’s easier,” Jake said.
August looked a little offended. “Or I could drive you.”
Jake smiled, but it was the mention of that that seemed to remind them both that Constable McNeill had been found dead, and they both still had jobs to do. “I wish I could go with you,” August whispered.
“I’ll be sending you a copy of the file as soon as I get to the office. The cases are linked. They can’t argue that.”
August frowned. “It’s not just that . . .” He searched Jake’s eyes. “The killer is more than likely still there.”
Jake gave him a wide grin. “And apparently every cop from the northern half of the state is in Tallowwood. The killer isn’t going to be that stupid.”
August didn’t smile. “He’s not stupid, Jacob. But he will be scared and desperate and probably feel like a fox caught in a hen house.”
“Jacob? I’ve had your tongue and your dick in my mouth, and I slept in your bed. I’m also buying you plane tickets so we can have romantic weekends together, so I think you can stick with calling me Jake.”
A smile eventually won out. “Romantic weekends, huh?”
“Yeah, it’s a nicer way to say we’ll be spending our days off together in bed.”
August blushed a little. “Is that right?”
“One hundred per cent. And if you think I’m bossy out of the bedroom . . .”
August’s blush deepened and he cast his eyes downward, but he couldn’t hide his smile. “Okay,” he whispered.
“Okay, what?”
He looked up at him, a little confused. “Okay . . . ?”
“Okay, Jake,” Jake answered for him.
“Okay, Jake,” August repeated. Then he searched his eyes, his smile fading slowly. “Just promise me you’ll be careful.”
Jake was going to make another joke but given August had lost Christopher to this killer and it had blown his whole life to hell, he simply nodded instead. “Yeah, of course. I’ll call you with every lead, every detail. We’re gonna catch this arsehole, August. We’re close. I can feel it.”
August gave the barest of nods. “If you need to be on that plane, we better get moving.”
Jake threw his few things into his bag, deliberately leaving his jeans behind, and they made their way to the airport. Traffic was shit and August spent most of the drive speeding and swearing, which was probably a good thing because it left little room for him to overthink anything. When they arrived at the terminal, he pulled up in the no-parking zone, which was also a good thing, because it left no room for small talk.
“Just as well we don’t have time for goodbyes,” Jake joked. “Because that’s not what this is. I’ll call you tonight, and we can discuss work rosters and days off.” Then he leaned over the console for a kiss, but August didn’t lean in—he was frowning out the window, obviously trying to avoid eye contact and goodbyes. So Jake reached over, grabbed August’s collar, yanked him over, and planted a kiss on his lips. “A non-goodbye kiss.”
Jake opened his door and got out, grabbed his bag off the backseat, and laughed at August’s stunned expression. He was all wide eyes, flushed cheeks, and a half smile, and it made Jake’s heart bang against his ribs.
“I know you’re planning something. Just don’t go pissing Reinhart off,” Jake said through the window. “Well, any more than you already have. Try not to swear at him again today, at least.”
August smirked. “Your advice is duly noted, thanks.”
Jake laughed, and tapped the turret of the car as his goodbye. August drove off and Jake disappeared into the throes of travellers, all headed for check-in. Though it was such a rush to get to his gate, he didn’t even have time to think about the shitstorm he was going home to until he stepped onto the plane.
And saw that Bartlett was seated three rows back.
Chapter Seventeen
August cleared the traffic at the airport and found the first quiet side street he could pull over in, shoved the car in park, and took a deep breath, trying to get his thoughts in order.
Was he just about to do this again? Was he just about to jeopardise his whole career for this case?
For the victims, long forgotten by the world. For the lives he could save in the future if this was stopped right here and now. For young McNeill, the latest victim, who died doing his job. For Mustafa and Simon and Miles, Jason, David, Mark, Filipe, Perry, and Tristan. And for Christopher.
Always Christopher.
And now August had Jake to thi
nk about. Not just his personal relationship with him, but Jake’s career as well.
August was about to ring a bell that could not be unrung.
What choice did he have though? He was being thwarted at every turn by his own department because someone, somewhere had something to hide. And the only way to find out who and what that was, was to blow the whole thing wide open and apply pressure from every angle.
So, yes. He was going to do this. He had no other choice.
He scrolled through his phone contacts and found the name he was after, and he pressed Call.
“Linden,” the gruff voice answered.
“Hello, Phillip Linden? I’m not sure if you remember me, my name is August Shaw. Detective August Shaw.”
“Of course I remember you.” It sounded like he shuffled the phone and perhaps moved to a quieter spot. “The last time we spoke you gave me a front-page headline.”
August didn’t smile. “Uh, can we meet somewhere?”
“Absolutely.”
“I can be in the city in fifteen minutes. Are you still on Harris Street?”
“Sure am. Give me twenty minutes. I’ll meet you up the block and around the corner on Thomas Street.”
The line went dead, and August tried to bolster himself. He was doing the right thing. He just had twenty minutes to convince himself to go through with it. And by the time he got through five miles of roadworks, he found Thomas Street and he knew why Linden had chosen it. There were about two hundred university students scurrying up and down the footpath. He pulled the car over in a no-stopping zone, and before he could even begin to scan the faces of the crowd, the passenger door opened and Linden slipped in.
“Morning,” he said, seemingly pleased by August’s surprise. “It’s been what? Eight years? And you haven’t changed one bit. More handsome though. The silver in your beard would melt the hotpants off the go-go boys at Dusty’s.”
August smiled and pulled the car out into traffic. “Haven’t been in Dusty’s in eight years.”
“I know. I’d remember you.”
Linden also hadn’t changed too much. The lines around his mouth were a little deeper, his lips were thinner, and his hair would be greyer if it weren’t dyed brown, but his eyes still had that glittery green that August remembered well. It also helped that his stage name was Emeralda Iris.
“So, August,” Linden said, like he enjoyed the way his name sounded. “How have the last eight years been treating you?”
The last eight had been pretty damn awful, if he was being honest. But the last week had sweetened it a bit. “Tough. It’s been hard . . . since Christopher’s death. But maybe it’s looking up, I don’t know.”
“Sweetheart, I know what it’s like to lose a loved one,” Linden said, and August recalled a conversation they’d had all those years ago. When August had explained that Christopher had died, Linden had understood the loss because the love of his life had died of AIDS in the late 80s. “But looking at life through a monochrome lens is the saddest part of all. We queers were given the rainbow for a reason, honey. You must live your life!”
August smiled, because that was kind of how he felt. That his life, since Christopher had died, had been monochrome. Black and white and a hundred shades of grey. No vibrancy, no flashes of colour or bursts of light. Except now there was Jacob, and maybe the monochrome filter was starting to fade out a little.
“I’m working on that,” August admitted. “Small steps.” And August had to remind himself this small ray of sunshine after a decade of miserable rain wasn’t hinged entirely on Jacob—sorry, Jake. Not Jacob. Their relationship, if it could even be called a relationship, was too new for August to pin the entirety of his happiness on Jake being in his life. But Jake had shown August that the rain clouds were finally clearing, and that it was okay. It was time for some sunshine in his life. Because he knew all too well that for a flower to bloom, it required both rain and sun.
So no, it wasn’t hinged entirely on Jake. But God, August wanted it to be him. Which was crazy and premature, but damn, there was something about him . . .
“You still with me, honey?” Linden said with a smile. “I lost you there for a moment. Should you be driving?”
August chuckled and shook off his thoughts of Jake. “Yeah, I’m fine.” He realised then he’d taken them back through the city and were heading toward Oxford Street. Subconsciously, he was drawn to where he felt he belonged.
“So, are you going to tell me what you called me for?” Linden asked. “Or are we headed to Dusty’s for old time’s sake?”
Here goes nothing. God, August felt like he was walking a tightrope. “Okay, so what I’m about to tell you is kind of big. It’s going to be really big. And Linden, before I tell you anything, you need to know that this information could be dangerous to know.”
“I’m listening.”
“It’s about the murders I told you about last time.”
“The same murders?”
August nodded. “But there’s more. There’s eleven now, that we know of, possibly more. Same killer or killers. I can’t be certain yet.”
“Serial killers? That’s a higher body count than Ivan Milat,” Linden whispered. “Christ almighty. How is this not common knowledge? Is it to protect the public? Because I’d think they have the right to know who to be on the look-out for.”
“It’s not the public they’re protecting. Someone’s covering this up.”
Linden’s eyes went wide. “Legitimately covering it up? Like underground mafia style cover-ups?”
“I can’t say for sure who is protecting whom here. I wouldn’t even like to guess. But there’s missing police evidence relating to these cases and one count of a falsified evidence report that I know of.” August didn’t want to name the P7849 specifically or how it was entered in as evidence in 1998 but had since disappeared. Well, disappeared from records. Someone had it. August just wasn’t sure who.
“But you’re telling me because you don’t trust other cops in your command,” Linden deduced.
August didn’t have to answer that. Linden had been a journo longer than August had been a cop. He knew how to read between the lines. “The latest victim died yesterday. He was a cop. He was just a fucking kid, Linden, and maybe he witnessed something he shouldn’t have. Or someone.”
Linden’s eyes were wide. “Fuck. This is . . . this is . . .”
“Not even the half of it,” August said. “I’ll tell you everything you need to know, but there’s something I need to hit the public with first and it’s important. I have the feeling that for the last eight years, I’ve been boxed in and only fed information that my superiors want me to know. I can’t seem to get a straight answer from anyone in my department, so I figure asking the public is my only chance before . . .”
“Before what?”
“Before this guy kills again, or before my boss shuts me down.”
“Christ.” Linden shook his head in disbelief. “Okay, what is it?”
It was after one when August finally fell into his desk chair in his tiny office. He hadn’t seen Reinhart yet, though he didn’t doubt he’d have been told as soon as August set foot in the building.
He slid his phone onto the desk and turned his computer on when he noticed the small pop-up screen. You last logged on . . .
He snatched up his phone and was quick enough to grab a photo before the notice disappeared. Someone else had logged onto his computer this morning.
But why?
All his files were accessible from any records department in the state police system. So what the hell were they looking for?
Or, August realised, what did they plant?
And August’s tiny office felt even smaller, like the walls were closing in on him. He’d never suffered from claustrophobia before, but this was starting to feel like it. It wasn’t the walls that were closing in on him, or the filing cabinets, or the whiteboard Jake had been writing on. It was the people he worked with, worked fo
r. The whole goddamn system.
That blue line he’d spent his whole adult life defending felt as though it was tightening around his chest.
He stared at the screen on his phone, trying to pluck up the courage to make a call he never thought he’d ever make. Not in a million years. Not once before this very moment did he ever think he’d have to.
But then his phone rang in his hand, and even on silent the vibration scared the shit out of him. Until he saw the name on the screen. He hit Answer. “Jacob?”
“What have I said about you calling me that? I’d almost prefer you calling me Porter. Or Senior Constable.”
August’s smile was instantaneous, as was the relief. “Jake,” he replied. “You get home okay?”
“Well, Tallowwood yes. Haven’t had a chance to get home home yet.”
“How is it?”
Jake drew in a deep breath. “Deans wasn’t joking when she said there are a lot of cops here. It’s Hirsch’s worst nightmare come true. Kenny’s called rank and he’s overseeing command, so you can just imagine how happy Hirsch is about that.”
“Have you seen the body yet? Can you confirm he had the note and the cross?”
“I’ve seen photos. He was slumped up against a tree trunk about ten metres into the tree line west of the dam. The cross and the note were in his breast pocket, the razor on the ground at his thigh. August, the note . . .”
“Yeah?”
“It was written on the bread bag we gave him.”
August’s breath left him in a rush. “Fucking hell.”
“He was uh, taken to the coroner in Coffs. Schneider’s examining the body as we speak.” It sounded like Jake rubbed his hand over his face. “He was still in uniform, August. He never left that night. When we left him in the rain, at the gate? He went back inside and never left.”
“Oh my God.”
“Police are interviewing everyone in town, basically. Anyone who can’t verify where they were when that storm hit goes onto a shortlist for further questioning.”
“Christ.”
“And there’s something else you should know,” he said quietly. “Bartlett was on my plane. He’s in Coffs, and I’d bet anything you like he’s with Schneider right now. They were already saying it was an obvious suicide. His wrist was slashed, lengthways down the arm, like all the others. But he had his Glock, August. Why not use that? It doesn’t add up.”
