Kill Shot

by Blair Denholm

  Jack shuffled closer to the boss. Batista puffed hard and Jack was keen to get some of the second-hand smoke into his nostrils. Sucking lozenges was a poor alternative to the real thing but Jack would make no compromises on his quitting journey. Not in front of the boss, anyway. ‘The lawyer was a surprise package. Came over all demure and uncertain then fired up when we got serious about the stealing charge.’

  ‘You got that right.’ As with all major interviews, the Inspector had watched the show through the one-way mirror. ‘You still think Sharpe’s the killer?’

  ‘I don’t know, sir. He’s certainly looking good for it. He’s got a solid motive and I’m positive he took the ring from the body. How else did he get it?’

  ‘Maybe Kennedy gave it to him, like Sharpe claimed.’

  ‘No fucking way.’ Jack scuffed his shoe. ‘He’s implicated, I’m just not sure how. I’ve cobbled together the framework of a case and passed the matter on to the Director of Public Prosecutions. We’ll get the coroner to tell them the ring had to have been stolen. Meantime, we can dig harder to nail Sharpe for the murder.’

  Batista pulled out his smokes, pointed the open packet at Jack who frowned at it. ‘Sorry, I forgot you were giving up.’

  ‘I’ve given up, sir.’ As if to prove it, he stuffed a piece of nicotine gum in his mouth, starting chewing with exaggerated relish.

  ‘Might explain your tetchiness.’

  ‘Sorry?’

  ‘You seem a bit out of sorts, lately.’

  ‘No more than usual, boss, you know me. The grumpy English git.’

  Batista chuckled. ‘Yeah, that’s you. Not sure I agree with your self-assessment, though. You were a bit out of line in there, particularly with the lawyer present.’

  ‘Come off it, sir. Normal policing tactics. Make ‘em uncomfortable so they reveal key information.’

  ‘Listen.’ Batista flicked ash into an empty coffee can. ‘I’m aware you left the London Met in, shall we say, unusual circumstances.’

  ‘Now, hang on a second. I resigned of my own free will.’

  Batista waved his protest away. ‘Don’t bullshit me, Jack. I know you were asked to leave. I don’t know all the details, and to be honest, I don’t want to know. But you’ve acquitted yourself with distinction in Australia. Everyone remembers the bank robbery you foiled in Brisbane a couple of years ago.’

  ‘Thanks, boss.’ Jack looked away, felt his face blush. Yes, he’d single-handedly taken on two violent villains, killing one in the process. He was off duty and unarmed, so they made him out to be a hero. He even got a medal from the Queen. What nobody knew was the reason he was in the bank in the first place. Changing dirty money. He turned back to Batista. ‘Any other copper would have done the same.’

  ‘No they wouldn’t. I know plenty who would’ve run a mile or frozen without a weapon on them. Be that as it may,’ he tapped more ash into the can. ‘it still can’t excuse the language you used in the interview just now. Especially with his brief sitting there. You might think I’m a dinosaur, but I don’t like profanity in front of women. Especially when they’re fucking lawyers.’ He smiled gently at his own joke. ‘All this stuff’s recorded, you can’t be as cavalier as we were in the old days. As tempting as it is, you can’t call people dumb fucks, even if they are.’

  ‘Got it.’ Jack stared at a patrol car nosing into the lot. Two uniformed constables inside were laughing their heads off. A handcuffed woman in dressing gown and curlers sitting in the back seat was not.

  ‘Have you?’

  ‘Yeah. No more calling villains dumb fucks.’

  The Clash interrupted the conversation. Taylor.

  Jack pressed the green button ‘Hang on, Claudia. I’m putting you on loudspeaker. The Inspector’s here.’

  ‘You’re not going to believe this.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Andy Harlow’s rocked up and he’s mad as hell.’

  Chapter 13

  ‘What’s all the ruckus?’ Jack strode into the station’s reception area, Batista half a step behind. The duty sergeant stood a metre behind the counter, probably trying to avoid a shower of spit.

  ‘I demand to talk Danny!’ Harlow, red faced, was yelling at Taylor, who stared back at him blankly. ‘You have to release him. He’s done nothing to deserve this, you fascists!’

  Taylor flashed a look of frustration at the two cops. ‘I’ve tried reasoning with him. I told him Sharpe’s been charged with a serious offence, but he won’t shut up.’

  ‘And I won’t stop until Danny’s been freed. With a damn written apology.’

  ‘My colleague is right, Mr Harlow. There’s no point carrying on like this,’ said Jack. ‘He’s hired himself a defense lawyer, so you may as well butt out. Let the legal process take its course.’

  ‘Fuck that! He’s fragile. If he stays locked up any longer he’ll be mentally scarred for life.’

  Batista took a step forward with a conciliatory smile, held out his hand. Harlow, eyes fluttering as the giant cop loomed before him, shook it reflexively.

  ‘I’m Inspector Joe Batista. Please, come into my office. Detectives Lisbon and Taylor will accompany us. Hopefully we can put your mind at ease.’ If ever there was a Wikipedia entry for “good cop”, Batista’s performance right now could score an entry as the perfect example. There was something hypnotic and calming about Batista’s modulated baritone. When he needed to defuse a situation, a word or two was often enough. Jack envied the ability. His own typical response to aggression was to meet it with even more aggression. Often it worked, many times it failed.

  As he and Taylor trailed Batista and Harlow into the Inspector’s office, Jack made a quick assessment of the accused’s second-string trainer. Late forties, 5’9” to 5’10” tall, 90 to 100 kg. A barrel stomach and perky man boobs under a mauve polo shirt spotted with sweat marks. Pink shaved head a pre-emptive strike against male pattern baldness. Too much cologne. On the end of powerful arms hung bunches of thick sausagey fingers. He walked on shiny R.M. Williams boots, legs apart, probably chafed thighs inside his too-small khaki chinos. Jack guessed Harlow was a bully at heart whose life-long mission was to make life miserable for anyone who stood in his way. He might’ve been a decent brawler in his younger days; even now the tree-trunk arms looked like they could do some serious damage to a face. Jack could imagine the thrill Harlow got every time the boy in his corner beat the crap out of an opponent. Bullying by proxy.

  Batista closed the door gently, beckoned for Harlow to take a seat behind a wide teak desk. Jack and Taylor stood either side of Harlow, gave him no more than a metre of breathing space. The Inspector smiled again, but their guest was having none of it this time.

  ‘Let’s hurry up and get this farce over with,’ Harlow barked. ‘My client has anxiety issues, he’ll go into meltdown imprisoned here.’

  ‘As the Inspector told you,’ said Taylor. ‘Mr Sharpe has secured legal assistance – an excellent advocate, by the way. Rest assured we are treating him well. However he’s about to be transferred to prison. As the duty sergeant must have told you, he’s been charged with stealing while we continue our investigations into the murder of Owen Kennedy. We strongly suspect him for that, too.’

  ‘He never killed no one. He couldn’t.’

  ‘Don’t make me laugh, Mr…what was is again?’ Jack squinted as if trying hard to remember the man’s name.

  ‘Harlow.’ The man twisted in his seat and sneered at Jack. ‘Andrew Harlow, but everyone calls me Andy.’

  I’m sure that’s not all they call you, Jack wanted to say but held his tongue. ‘How did you know we were holding him?’

  ‘He called me.’ Harlow waved his mobile phone. ‘You aren’t too clever for a big-shot detective, are you?’

  Jack folded his arms across his chest. ‘Well, isn’t that amazing. We’ve been calling your phone number for a while now. No answer. You hiding something, Andy?’

  ‘What, ah, no. I never answer private numbers. Too m
any scammers out there.’

  ‘We’re not an effing call centre selling solar panels. Our number always shows. We’ve left several messages asking that you contact us urgently,’ said Taylor.

  ‘I’m not the one being investigated, here. I have no obligation to do anything you tell me.’

  ‘No, that’s right.’ Batista played with a couple of paperclips, looped them and made a little chain. ‘But avoiding us doesn’t look good. We start to think you’ve got something to hide. Not only is your lad now charged with theft, your colleague Terry Bartlett’s gone AWOL.’

  ‘For heaven’s sake. I’ve been on holiday in Sydney with the wife and kids, getting away from it all. We only flew back last night. Then I get this call this morning from Danny, tells me not only is Tezza missing, but the cops have arrested him and one of ‘em even assaulted him. Would that be you?’ Harlow glared at Jack.

  ‘No one assaulted him. People imagine all kinds of stuff in stressful situations. Not a bruise on him. I’ll tell you what, how about I take you in to see him? As far as I’m aware, his lawyer’s still there. I’ll leave the three of you to formulate your next move. You’d better come up with a good plan, otherwise Danny’s going to prison for a long stretch.’

  Harlow grunted something.

  ‘I’ll give you an hour,’ said Jack. ‘Then we can talk about Terry Bartlett.’

  Before Harlow could respond, an orange light flashed on Batista’s desk phone quickly followed by a loud ring.

  ‘Hello?’ Batista snatched at the phone. ‘Sure. Just one second, the detectives working the case are here with me. Should I put you on loudspeaker? No?’ A pause. He jotted a few words on a piece of paper. ‘OK, thanks very much.’ He looked up, lips tight in a flat line. ‘Bad news.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘We’ve been told to let Sharpe go.’

  ‘By whom?’

  ‘The DPP. I’m afraid they’ve overturned your referral, DS Lisbon.’

  ‘What the fuck! It’s a bit early for them to be poking their head up, innit?’ Jack’s crows feet compressed tight.

  ‘I’m not sure how, but that lawyer, what’s her name…?’

  ‘Denise Hutchinson,’ said Taylor.

  ‘She’s got some clout,’ Batista sighed. ‘Apparently, with no legitimate owner of the ring–’

  ‘He’s fucking dead!’ Jack slammed a fist on the table, rattling the chief’s monogrammed coffee mug.

  ‘If you’ll let me finish. They tell me if there’s no one pressing charges, we can’t proceed. I should have seen this coming.’

  Taylor shook her head. ‘We all should have, but it’s an unusual case. I can’t blame Jack for trying.’

  ‘Well I can.’ Harlow was already on his feet. ‘Take me to Danny. Now!’

  Chapter 14

  ‘I can’t believe our number one suspect in a murder investigation walked away like that.’ Jack slammed the Inspector’s door behind him.

  ‘Where’s DC Taylor? I wanted her to hear this,’ said Batista.

  ‘She drew the short straw.’ Meaning Jack had left the unwanted job to her. ‘She’s dealing with the paperwork for Sharpe’s discharge.’

  ‘Fine, you can pass the message on. I just got an email back from our legal team. It seems the DPP could follow through against Sharpe if they wanted to. Technically, they don’t require there to be a distressed victim to proceed with a prosecution.’ Batista remained seated, untangling the paper-clip chain he’d made earlier.

  ‘Is that so?’ Jack was sure steam was coming out of his own ears.

  ‘They have the discretion to do so, yes.’

  ‘Then why don’t they? Who’s the person in charge I need to talk to?’

  ‘Just let it rest, will you.’ Batista couldn’t hide the mild annoyance in his voice. ‘Maybe it’s not Sharpe after all and the gods are sending us a message. Look harder for the killer.’

  ‘We’re doing all we can, sir.’

  ‘Glad to hear it. There’ve been more salacious stories in the media, saying we’re incompetent. Once they get wind of our “wrongful” arrest and detention of Sharpe, they’ll have a fucking field day.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘We need to put this thing to bed. I don’t want the State Commissioner of Police giving me a bollocking due to your overzealousness, do you understand me?’

  ‘Is that even a word?’

  ‘Of course it is.’

  Jack closed one eye contemplatively. ‘One thing strikes me as odd. If Sharpe’s the real owner of the ring, like he claims, why hasn’t he demanded we return it to him, huh? Silent admission of the bastard’s guilt, if you ask me.’

  ‘I’m not asking you.’ Batista unbent a paperclip into a straight line, wiggled it until it broke in half.

  ‘How about we get a warrant to search Sharpe’s apartment?’ Jack wiped a palm across his three o’clock shadow. ‘I’m sure there’s something there to tie him to everything.’

  ‘His clever lawyer will be onto us for harassment.’

  ‘Let her try. He remains a legitimate suspect in Kennedy’s murder.’

  ‘Very well. Call the magistrate and get a warrant. Make sure you cover all bases. Put in the application we’re looking for forensic digital evidence likely to prove…I dunno, use your fertile imagination, Lisbon.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’ Jack popped a Nicorette in his mouth. He wasn’t hopeful of finding conclusive evidence at Sharpe’s flat, but a search was always a good place to start. Then a flash of inspiration. ‘I’ll say we’re confident we’ll uncover illicit drugs.’ He failed to mention to Batista he still had the little yellow bottle he swiped from Terry Bartlett’s place.

  ‘Thanks for leaving me with that lot.’ Taylor pouted, hands on hips

  ‘Hmm?’ Jack’s eyes were rivetted to the text on his monitor. Filling out the warrant application required total concentration. So much ridiculous detail required. Make a mistake and the thing could get rejected. It was valuable time wasted he could be using more productively. Like putting more pressure on a bunch of people who were telling lies. People like Carl Masiker.

  ‘I said thanks for making me deal with Sharpe and his mate. What a dodgy pair they are.’

  The final full stop. ‘Sorry? Oh yes. I apologise. Batista wanted me urgently, so–’

  ‘Don’t bullshit, Jack. You wriggled out of it nicely, you worm.’

  ‘Why thank you,’ he smiled. ‘What a lovely compliment.’ He hit the print button, asked Taylor to fetch him the form off the printer for him to sign. He then handed it straight back to her. ‘Tell Wilson to run this over to the magistrate’s office.’

  ‘Can’t I do that? I’m dying to get out of the office for a spell.’

  ‘Sorry, no. I’ve got another job for you.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Look here first.’ He nodded at his computer screen. On it, a syndicated story proclaiming the bungling Yorkville Police had wrongfully arrested a local sporting legend on a trumped-up charge.

  Taylor tut-tutted, pointed halfway down the screen and read aloud: ‘Danny Sharpe’s assistant trainer Andy Harlow intends to sue Yorkville Detective Sergeant Jack Lisbon for wrongful arrest and assault while restrained in handcuffs. Holy shit. It’s damage control time.’

  ‘Exactly. Get a press release out there immediately denying all wrong-doing on our part.’

  ‘Onto it.’

  His arms felt heavy, legs, leaden, he fought for each breath. His rib cage rose and fell more than a piano accordion at an Italian wedding as he sucked in the big ones. For the last fifteen minutes he’d been throwing combinations at the heavy bag, dancing around like Ali with itchy feet. Two seconds or less between punches, a fast, high-impact session.

  Time for a spell.

  Jack placed a small towel on the plastic seat; signs everywhere warned patrons the gym had high sanitary standards and if you wanted to continue using the facilities, you damn well better follow the rules. He flopped into the seat, spread his legs wide and tilte
d his head back, focused on the slowly spinning blades of the giant ceiling fans. Georgie McGrath’s was the best no-frills garage in Yorkville. Plenty of free weights and machines, bare concrete floor, bags to punch to your heart’s content, frayed leather skipping ropes that had done more rotations than the London Eye Ferris wheel. Sweat dripped from every pore and a prickly heat tore through his body. It felt like his blood was nearing the point where liquid turns to steam. The place had air conditioning, but the owner must be scrimping on power, because it barely made a difference. Jack cared little, though. Working out here was the equivalent of getting a free sauna.

  He stood, re-strapped his hands, winding the long strips on with care. No twists or lumps, nice and flat. Next, the white tape that combined with the cloth wraps to keep his fists aligned to deliver maximum wallop. Finally, the trusty black 16 oz Everlast gloves.

  Jack took up position arm’s length from the heavy bag, spread his centre of gravity to achieve perfect balance. He took a deep breath and led out with a crunching left jab. That was Danny Sharpe’s head. The warrant had been approved but the search turned up nothing. Sharpe was home and the man was ropeable but still sensible enough to keep his hands by his sides. Jack had been about to place the pill bottle in Sharpe’s toilet cistern and magically “find” it when a pang of consciousness made him stop. He’d solve this case, but not that way.

  A right cross that made the bag thwack drew admiring glances from other patrons. That was for the media in general, smug bitch Holly Maguire in particular. Making him out to be incompetent, someone who bashes suspects. He’d show her.

  The bag had some momentum up, swung in a pendulous ellipse. He ducked to the right of the incoming bag, slipped an imaginary head punch. He transferred body weight forward and down, launched a thunderous combination of body rips into the guts of all the lying bastards who’d been through the doors of the station in the last couple of days. Covering up, hiding the truth. Crack, crack, crack. A flurry of right and left hooks, dedicated to the miserable miscreants he’d killed to make the world a better place. A vicious left to the gut of the late Alex Gallagher. In tight to the bag again, body rips to the armed robber he’d garrotted to death in a bank’s computer room.