Kill Shot

by Blair Denholm

  ‘No idea, mate. I’ve told you all I’m going to say. Gimme the bloody phone book.’

  Jack buzzed the duty Sergeant and requested a physical copy of the Yellow Pages. Sharpe’s flushed face got redder and redder as he spent ten minutes ringing law firms, every call going to voicemail. He hung up on all of them, garnished with a side order of profanity, dialled the next number. Finally, he got through to a live person. Sharpe had the volume of his mobile up and the entire conversation was loud enough for Jack and Taylor to earwig without straining. The firm, fortunately, had a chirpy female lawyer working back late after business hours. Sharpe said he was desperate and could afford their fee. He’d only need their services once because the cops would soon figure out they’d got the wrong man. Unfortunately, the woman on the other end of the phone wasn’t a specialist criminal lawyer and none of her colleagues could assist after hours. The best Sharpe could hope for was for someone to attend an interview with him in the morning. The police would have to let Sharpe go soon because they couldn’t detain people for prolonged periods without charging them.

  ‘So, your lot will help me?’ Sharpe’s voice as he barked into the phone had more hope in it than a cancer patient asking about their scan results. ‘Great. I’ll call you as soon as I find out the interview time.’ He placed the phone in his pocket, stood with his hand extended. ‘Right, take me home officers and I’ll be back in the morning.’

  ‘This is murder we’re talking about, Mr Sharpe, not jay walking,’ said Taylor, looking up from her notebook. ‘No, I’m afraid you’ll have to spend the night in the cells here at the station.’

  ‘But you haven’t charged me with anything.’ Tiny tears welled in the corners of the tough fighter’s eyes. ‘You don’t have the right to keep me here without evidence. The lady from the lawyers said you can only hold me for eight hours, and I’ve already been here for…’ He glanced up at the clock. ‘Jesus, over four.’

  ‘We already applied to the magistrate to have that period extended and, lucky for us and not so much for you, the request has been granted.’ Jack grinned broadly. ‘You’ll be enjoying a lock-up breakfast. Got any dietary requirements, Danny? Vegan, perhaps?’

  ‘Fuck you! The lawyer I just spoke to said…’

  ‘I don’t give a monkey’s what the lawyer said,’ Jack growled. ‘I have legitimate concerns you’re gonna do a runner in that 10-year-old BMW of yours. I’m terminating the interview now at…21:16 hours. We’ll resume tomorrow morning.’ Jack switched off the camera. ‘I want you to do one more thing for me before the nice uniformed officer takes you to your cell.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Hand over the ring.’

  Jack called into Dave’s bar after the interview with Sharpe. He didn’t know why, it was like the car turned into the entrance all by itself. As soon as he stepped into the air-conditioned comfort of the lounge bar, the urge to drink hit strong. He made his way to the exact seat he’d occupied last time, eyed the top shelf bottles. He could start off gently, just half a nip. Maybe that would be enough. If he progressed to a second, that would be his limit. A muddled head on the resumption of questioning Danny Sharpe tomorrow would be a bad idea. He beckoned to Dave as the barman finished serving cocktails to a yuppie couple. They wore elegant clothes you’d expect to see at the ballet or opera, not a Yorkville bar on a Tuesday night.

  ‘Good to see you back again, Jack.’ Dave winked.

  ‘Likewise.’

  ‘Must have been my sparkling company, hey?’

  ‘Yeah, that’s it.’ Jack placed his phone and wallet on the bar.

  ‘I knew it.’ Another wink. ‘What can I get you?’

  ‘Bundy rum and a coke.’

  ‘In the same glass? That’s the way most people ask for it.’

  ‘Nah. Keep ‘em separated, as The Offspring said.’

  ‘Sorry?’

  Surely the song wasn’t that old. ‘Never mind, sunshine.’ Jack gave a weak smile.

  Dave returned with both beverages, placed them with exaggerated reverence on coasters. ‘Want to watch the sports channel? I remember you enjoying the fights last time you were here. There’s a ripper from the archives tonight.’

  ‘Sure, why not.’ Jack sipped the coke slowly, watched kaleidoscopic colours dance in the ice cubes. Not MMA this time, tonight it was boxing. A replay of the 2017 WBO welterweight title fight when Australia’s Jeff Horn defeated reigning world champ Filipino Manny Pacquiao. A close bout with pundits divided over who should have been declared the winner. Either way, it was a great day for three reasons. The local boy stole the crown from the champ, he did it on home soil in Brisbane, and Jack was at the match in a seat with a prime view of the action. Try as he might, Jack was unable to conjure the excitement of the live match and drove home with one 10 oz coke under his belt and a Bundy Rum on melting ice left on the bar.

  It had been a long day. No work out apart from a friendly tussle with a murder suspect. Although he played it cool with Sharpe, the encounter got Jack’s adrenalin pumping. If it hadn’t been for the Glock, no doubt he’d be eating through a straw for the next couple of weeks. Still, a solo workout was in order.

  No weights, just a run.

  At 22:55, he strapped on a jogging headlamp and hit the deserted streets. Still humid after the recent rainfalls, slick puddles glistened on black asphalt under the filtered streetlights. Cane toads croaked their grumpy, endless chorus as he found his groove, slipped into a rhythmical pattern. No buds in the ears, no music to accompany the run tonight. Only the sounds of nature, even it that was an imported pest no one could get rid of. A bit like me. Jack smiled at the comparison. A life of hard knocks and setbacks wouldn’t kill him. He’d toughen up and survive, as the hunted and persecuted cane toad had done. Flourished despite all efforts to eradicate it.

  Another two blocks and he turned for the return leg. The familiar rabid barking of a protective German shepherd let him know home was around the corner. Up the elevator. Stretches on the small balcony. Wipe down. Shower. Couch. TV.

  Nearly midnight, tired as a dog, sleep was an unfulfilled wish.

  The plan was to reinterview Sharpe tomorrow as soon as the suspect’s brief arrived. It’d be after the legally allowed holding time, and Sharpe’s new lawyer could make waves if they were on the ball. He grabbed his mobile, speed dialled Taylor. He expected her not to answer at this hour, and if she did, she’d probably be mightily pissed off. She picked up, but her voice was surprisingly calm, almost soothing.

  ‘What is it Jack? I was in the middle of a nice dream.’

  ‘Was I in it?’

  ‘I said a nice dream.’

  ‘Ha ha.’

  ‘So, do you have a good reason for disturbing me after midnight?

  ‘This thing with Sharpe in the lockup. It’s got me worried. If the lawyer he’s contacted doesn’t get there nice and early, we’ll be in breach of holding him in custody too long.’

  ‘So we let him go.’

  ‘Are you serious?’

  ‘Absolutely. We drive him home in cuffs, take the cuffs off, make him a cuppa, then rearrest him.’

  ‘On what grounds?’

  ‘Stealing Kennedy’s ring.’

  ‘You’re a genius, Claudia.’

  ‘I know. But something tells me you might have had the same idea.’

  ‘Maybe.’

  ‘Maybe nothing. Good night, Jack.’

  Chapter 12

  Jack pulled up a plastic chair next to Batista, looking resplendent in his dress uniform. Taylor sat on the other side, all business and sporting a yellow scrunchie. She’d told Jack the significance of the colour but he’d since forgotten. Before them sat Yorkville’s finest media representatives. Holly Maguire was first to speak after the Inspector made the introductions.

  ‘Inspector Batista, what progress have you made in the investigation into the murder of Owen Kennedy. The public are looking for answers but getting nothing from the police.’

  ‘If I may, si
r?’ Jack shot Batista an arched eyebrow. The boss nodded. ‘Thanks for your question, Holly. I’m pleased to say we have someone in custody who is assisting us with our enquiries. I’d also like to add that all crocodiles have been eliminated as suspects.’

  Uproarious laughter and clapping bounced off the walls of the small media room. No doubt Maguire’s channel would edit that bit out. The rival channel certainly would not.

  ‘Is it Danny Sharpe?’ snapped Johnno Peroni before a red-faced Maguire could recover from the jibe.

  ‘Yes. However at this stage he is not officially charged with murder.’ Jack chose not to add Sharpe would be charged with theft and interfering with a corpse. He hated press conferences and couldn’t wait for the show to be over.

  More questions about potential suspects and motives were lobbed at them and fielded by Batista, who fudged and deflected with great skill.

  A young reporter from the Yorkville Times asked the last question. ‘Have you made any headway into the disappearance of Terry Bartlett?’

  The Inspector touched Taylor on the wrist and squeezed softly. ‘Yes,’ said Taylor flatly.

  ‘Can you elaborate on that?’

  ‘No. However, we would like anyone with information to get in touch with us as a matter of urgency.’

  ‘So you haven’t made any headway?’

  Batista coughed into his fist and tapped the microphone. ‘I’m afraid that will be all for today, ladies and gentlemen. As and when more facts come to light we’ll let you know via press release. When charges are brought for murder, we’ll call another press conference.’

  On the smoking landing after the media had packed up and gone, Jack and Batista agreed the briefing had gone better than expected. They particularly looked forward to tuning into Channel 11’s news bulletin to savour Maguire’s humiliation.

  DC Taylor was waiting for Jack in the interview room. She wasn’t alone. Seated opposite her was Danny Sharpe, still in his singlet, shorts and flip-flops and smelling like he could do with a long shower. Next to him sat a jittery bespectacled female in a navy blue pants suit. The eleventh-hour brief’s attire reminded Jack of Hillary Clinton in the 1990s. She even resembled the ex First Lady in younger years, except her tousled hair tended more towards ginger than blonde. Her highly mobile features hinted the young woman was low on experience and high on enthusiasm.

  Taylor made some adjustments to the camera facing the interviewee and his off-the-rack representative. Jack made preliminary remarks regarding the continuation of Sharpe’s questioning, introduced himself and DC Taylor, indicated for the lawyer to do the same.

  ‘My name is Denise Hutchison, of Chapman, Kinberg and Associates. I’ve been engaged to represent Mr Sharpe. I’m not going to mince my words, officers. I demand you release him immediately.’

  ‘Do you now?’ Jack rolled up his shirt sleeves as leaned forward in his seat.

  ‘I certainly do. According to the record of yesterday’s interview, Mr Sharpe was arrested at his home and has been held in custody for more than 13 hours. He tells me you used violence against him, which I shall be bringing up at a later stage if he decides to pursue the matter after you release him. Even considering the magistrate’s extension, you have abused your authority, as well as Mr Sharpe. I insist–’

  ‘Which is it?’ said Jack, leaning back in his chair, hands interlocked behind his head.

  ‘Pardon?’

  ‘Has he been held in custody for that time, or are you including the time from arrest until now?’

  ‘What’s the difference?’

  ‘You see, I arrested him more than 13 hours ago, that’s true. But he’s been here, held in custody in a cell, for less than 12 hours.’

  ‘That’s pointless semantics. I’m pretty sure the definition means from the moment of arrest and includes time in transit and so on.’ The lawyer didn’t look the officers in the eye, kept scrawling on a legal pad.

  ‘Pretty sure? Geez, Danny. If this is the type of legal representation you’re banking your freedom on, I wish you the best of luck, mate.’ Jack twirled a pencil in his hand. ‘But let’s play it your way, Ms Hutchinson.’ Jack stood, gestured towards the door. ‘Danny, you’re free to go.’

  ‘Really?’ Sharpe exchanged a look with the lawyer.

  ‘Sure. Only we’re going to follow you home and re-arrest you when you get there.’ Jack paused, inviting the question he knew must follow.

  ‘Youse never charged me with murder like you was threatening. You’re full of shit. What ya gonna arrest me for?’

  Jack placed the championship ring on the table with a flourish. ‘For theft, numb nuts. This little sucker’s got Owen Kennedy’s DNA all over it. You’re not gonna be such a tough guy in prison. There are bigger and badder men than you inside. Some of them would love to get to know you, try their luck, if you get my drift.’

  ‘I’m not scared of no one. Anyway, possession is nine tenths of the law,’ Sharpe said hopefully.

  ‘Not when the stolen object’s got the other man’s fucking name etched into it!’ Jack threw his hands up in the air. ‘You’re done, son. Bang to rights. You really are a dumb fuck.’

  A look of horror passed over the lawyer’s face. She turned to Sharpe. ‘You didn’t mention this to me’.

  He shrugged. ‘That’s not what they brought me in for.’

  ‘There’s really no arguing this one, Danny.’ Taylor grabbed at her scrunchie, red today. ‘You’ll likely be held on remand until the matter goes to court.’

  ‘What, for allegedly stealing a bloody ring?’ said Hutchinson.

  ‘I’m going to tell the DPP we believe your client lifted the ring from a dead body,’ said Jack. ‘So that’s at least interference with a corpse, and high suspicion of involvement in the murder of Owen Kennedy. Plus motive to get rid of his number one rival, the only thing between him and the title.’

  ‘You’ve got to be kidding!’ Hutchinson slapped a hand on the table, any residual timidity gone. ‘You arrest my client on suspicion of murder with zero evidence, can’t charge him for it, so you downgrade it to theft of a bit of novelty man-jewellery.’ She picked up the ring, analysed it from a few angles, put it down again dismissively. ‘That’s the strategy is it? Descending order of seriousness. What next? Illegal parking?’

  Taylor spun a piece of paper around. ‘Look at this. Estimated value of the ring. Read it out loud.’

  ‘Please, don’t turn this into a circus.’ Hutchinson looked at Taylor while resting a hand on Sharpe’s wrist. ‘Don’t pay attention to this nonsense. You’ll be out of here soon.’

  ‘How much?’ said Sharpe as the lawyer glared at him. ‘What’s it worth?’

  ‘Between $4500 and $5000.’ Jack whispered for extra gravitas. ‘That’s a conservative estimate based on its composition. The fact it belongs to an MMA champion – or should I say belonged to – would make it even more valuable. Once the investigation into Owen Kennedy’s death is concluded, it’ll be returned to the deceased’s next of kin in Western Australia.’

  ‘You can’t prove I stole it. Owen gave it to me as a present.’

  The peel of laughter from Jack’s wide-open mouth made Taylor shrink into her body. ‘You’re in the wrong profession, Danny. Comedy’s your calling, sunshine. The only lasting gift Kennedy gave you was the unnatural angle your nose is pointing at.’

  ‘Whatever.’ Neither Danny nor his mouthpiece found any humour in Jack’s observation. Taylor smiled impishly. ‘Anyway, I’m saying nothin’ more to you bastards.’

  Jack shuffled papers like a news anchor. ‘Is that your final word?’

  The suspect nodded twice.

  ‘Now,’ said Hutchinson. ‘Either charge my client with theft or let him go. It’s clear he doesn’t want to answer any more questions.’

  ‘Not a smart idea to call my bluff, Ms Hutchinson. Daniel Lloyd Sharpe, you are hereby charged with stealing Owen Kennedy’s championship ring.’ Jack made sure to read the man his rights comma perfect. No mistak
es, no room for comeback later. ‘Interview concluded at 10:43.’ He buzzed an intercom. ‘Could someone come and take this clown to his cell?’

  ‘Don’t worry.’ Hutchinson placed a hand on Sharpe’s shoulder. Perhaps Jack was imagining it, but he thought he detected a dreamy lust in her eyes as she touched the brawler’s muscled flesh. He’d heard of those nerdy types with a hidden wild side. Jack had to admit to himself that he found her dead attractive. In other circumstances he himself might even muster the courage to ask her on a date. ‘I’ll make sure we get you out of here.’ She leaned in and whispered something to Sharpe, whose face brightened a fraction. She stood, tucked a briefcase under her arm. ‘I know when a person’s innocent. This is going to blow up in your faces, big time, detectives.’

  ‘I’ll give you and your client some time now to get started on a defense.’ Jack stood, threw on his jacket. ‘We’ll arrange for your transfer to Yorkville jail pending trial.’

  Sharpe said nothing; the thought of going to a real prison seemed to have removed his power of speech. Hutchinson wrote something on a legal pad and said without emotion, ‘Sure.’

  A uniformed officer knocked, entered the room, escorted Sharpe away with Hutchinson hot on the detainee’s heels. Such was her haste she almost tripped up on the back of his flip-flops.

  ‘What did you make of the interrogation?’ Inspector Batista exhaled a plume of smoke. He and Jack stood on a small square landing overlooking the back parking lot, the station’s traditional spot for a quiet chat and a cigarette.