Not Dead Yet

by Peter Menadue

CHAPTER 40

  The next morning, Detective Constable Karen Phillips stood in the middle of Gary's office, red-faced and glaring. "You planted the bomb, didn't you?"

  Gary feigned ignorance. "You mean the bomb that killed Pringle?"

  "Yes."

  He'd already rehearsed his lies. "Of course not. I mean, I read about it in the paper, but that's all I know."

  "Don't bullshit me - you're in this up to your neck. You planted the bomb to avenge Robyn Parsons."

  He held up his palms and tried to look innocent. It was not a natural expression. "I had absolutely nothing to do with that."

  She frowned. "Then where were you yesterday?"

  Gary had already arranged an alibi with Ray Boland. "I went fishing with a friend."

  "Who?"

  "A guy called Ray Boland."

  "Where?"

  "Off some rocks at Malabar."

  "Bullshit."

  Gary knew that an innocent man, in his situation, would get angry. He put an edge in his voice. "You're crazy. A lot of people wanted Pringle dead, including all the cops he ratted on. Why accuse me?"

  "Because you're the only one smart enough to find out where he was hiding and plant a bomb. In fact, you made sure that Pringle died the same way as Robyn Parsons, didn't you?"

  Gary shook his head. "You're giving me way too much credit."

  "No I'm not."

  "I promise you, I had nothing to do with his death - nothing. Anyway, why do you care? Are you investigating it?"

  "No. But murder's a crime and I'm a cop."

  "You're getting carried away. Whoever killed Pringle did the world a big favour. He deserved to die."

  "You're a sick man, you really are." She turned and stomped out of his office.

  Gary gloomily watched her leave. He really liked her, particularly when she was angry. But too much separated them, like the murder of a crooked cop. Best to forget her.

  He did some paperwork for about half-an-hour, until there was another knock on the door. He opened it. George Oliviera stood outside.

  Shit. Oliviera was the restaurateur who employed Gary to find out if his business partner, Robert Zacharias, was stealing from him. Gary had installed two spy cameras in one of their restaurants but, so far, had only filmed Zacharias shagging Oliveira's wife. Gary still hadn't mentioned that to Oliveira.

  Oliviera looked unhappy. That wasn't surprising, because Gary hadn't contacted him for more than a month.

  "Hello Mr Oliviera, come in and take a seat."

  Oliviera entered and claimed a chair facing the desk.

  Gary shut the door and sat behind his desk. "How can I help?"

  "I've been trying to get in touch with you for weeks. Where have you been?"

  "I've been very busy: had an urgent job. Sorry about that. Now I can finish yours."

  "You don't need to."

  "Why not?"

  "You weren't around, so I watched the surveillance tapes myself. Guess what I saw?"

  "What?"

  Oliviera leaned forward, looking excited. "Bob Zacharias fucking my wife."

  Gary feigned surprise. "That's terrible, really terrible."

  "You know, I had no idea they were humping - absolutely none. What a shock."

  "What did you do?"

  "At first, I was really pissed off. Then I calmed down and realised it was my fault. I've been a lousy husband - I treated her like shit. I'm not surprised she cheated on me. Anyway, I'm not going to do anything about it."

  "You mean, you're not going to tell her to stop shagging Zacharias?"

  "Correct."

  "And you're not going to tell him to stop either?"

  "Correct."

  Gary was stunned. "That's a matter for you. I'll remove the surveillance cameras and send you a final account."

  "Umm, don't remove them. Leave them where they are. In fact, I want to buy them off you."

  Gary was perplexed. "You mean you want to keep using them?"

  His face reddened, slightly. "Yes."

  Oliviera was obviously a very sick puppy. Gary didn't want to hear any more. "OK, OK. I'll bill you for the cameras."

  "Thanks."

  As Oliviera left, Gary reflected that it was good to have a satisfied customer with the means to pay his bill. The reason for his satisfaction was much less important.

  Ten minutes later, Gary strolled into Angelo's café to meet the solicitor, Terry Fraser, for a chat over coffee. Terry already sat at a corner table. For once, he didn't have a mobile phone in front of him.

  Gary sat down. "Where's your mobile?"

  "I left it at work so you wouldn't complain."

  "Can I frisk you, just to make sure?"

  Terry looked hurt. "You don't trust me?"

  "I never trust phone addicts."

  Terry rolled his eyes and leaned forward. "Did you see that someone killed that dirty cop, Brian Pringle?"

  "Yes. Blew him to bits. Did you know him?"

  "No. What about you?"

  "Yes, and didn't enjoy the experience. Pure evil."

  "The bugger was in the witness protection program, yet someone found him and killed him with, I must say, considerable panache. I bet the Commissioner is kicking arses left, right and centre; careers are being shoved through a blender. But I guarantee they won't catch the bomber. He sounds like a real pro." A smile. "Wasn't your American friend, was it?"

  Terry was obviously joking, thankfully.

  Gary said: "No. He went back to the US about a week ago."

  "Did he do what he came to do?"

  "No."

  "He was an interesting guy."

  "That's an understatement."

  A waiter arrived and they both ordered coffee.

  Gary said: "How's life? Has Alison come home yet?"

  Terry's 13-year-old stepdaughter recently ran away to live with her biological dad.

  Terry smiled broadly. "Yes, Margaret followed my advice and stopped calling her. Then, a week ago, Alison got the shits with her dad and trotted home. Now she won't even talk to him. So everything's hunky-dory in the Fraser household."

  "Good. And how's your search for spirituality going?"

  "What do you mean?"

  "About a month ago, you were listening to freaky music and boring me rigid with talk about meditation. What's happened to that?"

  "Oh, that. I've moved on. Didn't have the patience for meditation."

  "Thank God you've woken up. I thought your brain was turning to puree."

  He fiddled with a sugar satchel. "You busy?"

  "Not particularly."

  "Good. I've found you some work."

  "What?"

  "One of my clients manages the shopping centre around the corner. He needs someone to guard the nativity scene."

  "Hah. Will I be armed?"

  "No. All you have to do is sit on your arse for a couple of weeks and make sure that nobody messes with the Baby Jesus. Even you couldn't fuck it up. Want me to give the guy your name?"

  "How much?"

  "About $50 an hour."

  It was a lousy job for lousy pay, but he had bills rolling in constantly. "OK, tell him I'm interested."

  Their coffees arrived and Terry described a worker's compensation surveillance job he would soon brief Gary to do. Then Gary paid the bill and they split up.

  Soon after Gary got back to his office, someone knocked on the door. He answered it and found a tall, sweaty looking guy wearing a courier uniform standing outside.

  "Gary Maddox?"

  "Yes."

  "Got something for you."

  He handed Gary a gift-wrapped package.

  "What's in it?"

  "Champers, I think."

  "Who's it from?"

  "Dunno, will you sign here?"

  The guy offered Gary a delivery slip for signature.

  Gary ignored him, tore off the wrapping and saw it was a bottle of top-range Dom Perignon. He looked at the writing on the small card attached to it: "Well done
- glad to see you stopped talking." No signature.

  Gary's stomach churned. He couldn't drink this champagne. When he killed Pringle, he thought he was doing the right thing. Maybe he was wrong. But, if so, he made a genuine mistake. He wasn't a hitman and didn't want praise from a hitman.

  "Will you sign here?"

  He signed the delivery slip and proffered the bottle to the courier. "Here, you take it."

  A look of surprise. "You don't like champagne?"

  "I like it, but I don't deserve this bottle. Go on, take it."

  After a short hesitation, the guy grabbed the bottle, thanked Gary and scuttled down the stairs.