‘I’ve never been in his car. This is bullshit.’ Zane sniffed and rubbed his forearm along his septum.
‘Not bullshit, mate. It’s true. Either be a good responsible citizen for a change, or risk another stretch in prison. What’s it to be?’ said Jack.
‘Oh Mary, mother of God. Give me five minutes and I’ll be with you.’ Zane’s voice shook and his hands trembled. Jack’s wish for a co-operative witness looked like it might be coming true.
Meek as a lamb, Evan Zane sat with his hands clasped together as if in silent prayer. There was less dirt under his cracked nails than before, but only a high-pressure cleaner would get the rest of it out. His cheeks had a just-scrubbed pink glow. He wore a cleanish pair of camo shorts and a button-up checked collared shirt that had more wrinkles than Jack’s old Portuguese grandad. He’s trying, the poor sod, but it just ain’t working, thought Jack.
‘Let’s not muck about, hey, Evan?’ Jack wanted this to be over quickly. The aromas coming from the man’s body made both detectives wince. Whenever Zane turned slightly in his chair, a waft of stink reached their nostrils. Despite Zane’s intentions to mask his BO, the deodorant product he’d applied perversely enhanced it.
‘Yes, sir.’
‘I appreciate the fact that you’ve not made a fuss about coming to the station.’
‘You’re welcome.’ Zane blinked a couple of times.
Jack grabbed the underside of his chair and shuffled forward a few centimetres. Taylor sat in the corner of the interrogation room, legs crossed and a large notepad on her lap. Batista observed from behind the mirror.
‘We’re recording this conversation, but it’s purely for protocol, okay? I assure you it’s merely unofficial enquiries at this stage. You’re not in any trouble. Do you understand?’
He nodded twice. ‘Uh huh.’
‘What do you know about the death of Owen Kennedy?’
Zane’s eyes darted about. ‘Nothing. Just what I seen on the telly ‘n that.’
‘I find that hard to believe.’
‘What would I have to do with someone like him?’
‘Owen was murdered, his rival trainer is Terry Bartlett, and your phone number was found in Bartlett’s car. You don’t have to be Einstein to see the link here, do you?’
‘Well.’ Zane scratched his knee with vigour. ‘Maybe he just found the piece of paper.’
‘No dice, champ,’ said Jack. ‘Not even a jury composed of certified idiots would believe that. You’ve got priors for dealing in substances that Bartlett’s fighter copped a fine for taking. You’ve been selling to them, haven’t you?’
‘Them?’
‘MMA fighters. Danny Sharpe. Maybe to others, weightlifters and bodybuilders. Why don’t you admit it?’
‘I ain’t admitting nothin’.’
‘Listen, Evan. If you can help us find Bartlett, we may decide not to proceed against you.’
‘Proceed against me? I thought you said this was a friendly chat. Now you’re making threats. I’d like to go now, if you don’t mind.’
‘Not so fast, Evan.’ Taylor was now standing next to Jack, dropped a ziplock bag containing a white substance on the table. She turned on her mobile, showed Zane half a dozen photos she’d taken inside his house. Among the items was a bong full of brown water, two meth pipes and what looked like roaches in an seashell ashtray. ‘Quite a collection, there, Evan. Did you have a party at your place last night?’
Zane frowned and pulled his head into his chest.
‘Although we’re investigating the murder of Owen Kennedy, at this point our focus is on finding Terry Bartlett,’ said Jack. ‘The living get priority over the dead. If we don’t find him soon…we may even be too late.’
‘How long’s he been missin’?’
‘Over a week.’ Jack’s pulse jumped, Zane was showing interest. ‘And no one has any idea where he is or they don’t want to tell us.’
‘Right, right,’ Zane said pensively. ‘Yeah, youse have got reason to be worried I guess.’
‘I’m going to be honest with you, Evan. We’ve seen your rap sheet, and it makes for interesting reading. Now we’ve got loads of physical evidence you’re up to your old tricks. This is your one and only opportunity to save your arse from a custodial sentence.’
Jack could picture the wheels turning in Zane’s head. To cooperate or not. He was almost on board, it wouldn’t take much to tip him over the edge.
‘What’s with all the dirty nappies at your place?’ said Taylor. ‘You got a kid living with you?’
Jack smiled approvingly at his partner. This could be the clincher.
‘Yeah, as it happens. Her mum’s on parole and I offered to put them up ‘cos no one else would take ‘em in.’
‘Are you the father?’
‘Vicki tells me I am.’ A hint of fatherly pride flashed in Zane’s eyes.
‘How old is the little girl?’
‘Just over a year.’
‘It wouldn’t be nice for her dad to get locked up, now would it?’ said Jack. ‘Mum’d be out on the streets again, sleeping rough in the park. Soon after that her parole gets revoked and then she’s in jail with baby snatched away by the Department of Child Safety. Adopted out to who knows what kind of people. Be an absolute tragedy for the kid.’
‘Okay, okay! I’ll co-operate.’
‘Good lad.’ Jack opened a dark blue manila folder, extracted a handful of large glossy photographs. The ones of potential suspects were lifted from online sources, added to the mix were mugshots of five random crims from the Yorkville CIB files. Like a card dealer at a casino, he flung them towards Zane one at a time.
‘Cast your eyes over that lot. Tell us if you recognise any of them.’
Zane studied each photograph, uncertainty in his eyes, as if choosing the wrong one would see him sent to the execution chamber.
‘I-I-I’m not sure I recognise any of these guys.’
‘Not sure?’ said Taylor.
Zane rocked back and forth, his whole face seemed to be break dancing at a hundred miles an hour.
‘N-n-no.’
Jesus, he’s having withdrawal from something, thought Jack.
‘Come on, dammit!’ Jack slammed his fist on the table.
‘You don’t understand.’ The shock of Jack’s fist slam sobered Zane. At least for now. ‘I mix with some rough people. If I dob, I could end up in the billabong with the crocs.’
‘Billabongs are home to freshwater crocodiles,’ said Taylor. ‘They’re not known as maneaters. Jack here’s the one you’ve got to worry about.’
‘Whatever you reckon,’ said Zane in a monotone. ‘I’m putting my neck out for a bloke I don’t even know.’
‘Okay, Claudia. Read him his rights and arrest him.’
‘Wait, wait, wait. I recognise this guy here.’ Zane pointed at a photo in the middle of the pack.
‘What’s his name?’
‘Andy something.’
‘Last name.’ Taylor demanded.
Zane scratched his head. ‘Dunno, lemme think. Barlow…no, Harlow.’
‘And why do you recognise him?’
‘You promise not to arrest me for the…stuff at my place?’
‘I promise.’
‘I sold him some HGH and steroids.’
‘How much?’
‘Shitloads.’
‘Ever sell to Danny Sharpe or Terry Bartlett?’
‘Never had nothing to do with either of those guys. Were they in the photos you just showed me?’
Jack nodded.
‘Then I woulda pointed to ‘em wouldn’t I?’
‘I guess you would have.’ Zane again proved he was no fool.
‘When did you last sell to Andy Harlow?’
‘End of October.’
‘Just before Terry Bartlett disappeared,’ said Taylor. ‘Bit of a coincidence, don’t you think?’
‘So what?’ Zane said, desperation back in his voice. ‘No c-c-connection to me whatsoever. Y
ouse are on a fishing trip.’
‘It’s called a fishing expedition, you muppet.’ Jack tugged his lower lip, let Zane stew for a while. After thirty seconds Jack broke the silence with a blunt question. ‘When did you last take a ride in Bartlett’s car?’
‘I’ve never been in his bloody car. Couldn’t even tell you what kind it is.’
‘It’s a Mazda 6. This one.’ Jack flipped over a photo of the abandoned vehicle in situ. ‘Recognise it?’
‘I never seen it in me life. I swear.’
‘Then how do you explain the fact this was on the floor of Bartlett’s car?’ The note with Zane’s phone number floated onto the table like an autumn leaf.
Zane shook his head. ‘No idea.’
‘Is that your handwriting? Take a close look. We can always get the calligraphy experts to analyse it.’
‘Yeah, s’mine, I guess. Don’t remember writing it, though. Me memory’s not what it used to be. Listen, I’m not sure I can give youse much more. I identified Harlow. Can I go now?’
‘Sure. But we’ll be watching you,’ Jack pointed a forefinger at Zane. ‘I suggest you get a proper job, Evan. I’m not happy with drugs circulating in my community.’
‘But you said–’
‘Never mind what I said.’ Jack buzzed the duty desk. ‘Someone come and collect Mr Zane. He needs a ride home.’
Chapter 17
‘He might be telling the truth.’ Batista stared at his computer screen. ‘He’s a pathetic crook, but he’s never told serious lies to the police. Says here in the file.’
‘Don’t believe everything you read, sir. Especially reports written by detectives.’ Jack pulled on his elastic metal watch band.
‘Not in this station, right Claudia?’ Batista gave her a wink. ‘Only facts in our reports.’
Taylor rolled her eyes. ‘Sure.’
‘Do we all agree it’s highly probable Harlow was riding in Bartlett’s car and it was him that dropped the paper with the phone number?’ said Jack.
‘That would seem to be the logical conclusion,’ said Batista. ‘We’d better get Harlow back in to explain himself.’
‘How about we search his house,’ said Taylor. ‘We’ve got a witness telling us he sold drugs to him, the same drugs that Sharpe got banned for.’
‘Let’s not be too hasty.’ Jack poured himself a glass of water from a carafe. ‘We don’t want to spook him. Besides, Zane’s record may say he doesn’t tell porkies, but it’s a convicted drug dealer’s word against Harlow’s. As far as I’m aware, Harlow’s clean. Not sure we’d get a warrant based on any statement from Zane.’
‘Maybe Bartlett was involved in some kind of distribution role,’ postulated Taylor. ‘Perhaps his vehement opposition to drugs is a smokescreen?’
‘I see where you’re coming from,’ said Jack. ‘Yes, he had a proven drug cheat in his camp, and yes, we found a heap of illicit substances at Bartlett’s house. But I believe his son’s assessment.’
‘Really? It seemed like they hated each other. At least Charlie hates his dad.’
‘I’m not sure about that. I reckon Charlie’s got some deep affection for his old man, despite what he did to Mrs Bartlett.’
‘So how come Bartlett’s number one client got caught?’
‘Like Charlie said, it’s a fit-up.’
‘Who would do that? Owen Kennedy or his coach?’
‘Trainer.’
‘For heaven’s sake, Jack! Does it matter?’
‘No, sorry. I can be a pedantic git at times.’
‘Ya think?’
‘Sorry.’
‘Anyway, Armbruster told me Owen enjoyed the fact Sharpe could never beat him, liked having him as the perpetual contender. My feeling from chatting with Vince Armbruster was the old trainer’s a cleanskin.’
‘That’d be a relative term in the fight game, Claudia. None of them are 100 percent clean.’
Batista reached into his pile of paperclips, stirred them around before selecting the next one to play with. ‘What next?’
The three of them decided it wouldn’t hurt to go back and trawl through Bartlett’s list of clients, paying special attention to the fighters, see if there was any more information to be squeezed out of them. After a couple of hours on the phone, Jack and Taylor reported back to Batista.
‘I spoke to one, a female by the name of Natasha Riordan,’ said Jack. ‘She’s a twenty-year old lightweight fighter who’s rising up the ranks. Works as a barista at a downtown coffee shop. She reckons Bartlett took her from zero to hero in the space of a year. He’s taught her so well she’s confident of winning every fight she takes part in.’
‘Does she always win?’
‘I checked her records. Since moving from another trainer to Bartlett her record is four and oh.’
‘That’s not many fights.’ Taylor chewed the end of a pen.
‘This isn’t Vegas. There isn’t a full card of bouts at the local casino every Friday night. One every few months if you’re lucky. Bottom line, she denied using drugs herself and any knowledge of drugs or HGH being taken by any of the other fighters in Bartlett’s camp.
‘Did she have the hots for him like some of the other women?’ said Batista.
‘I didn’t ask. What do you take me for, boss?’
‘Why not?’ said Taylor. ‘It’s a legitimate question. Bartlett’s son said his dad was sleeping with a younger woman. Maybe it was her?’
Jack shook his head. ‘I’ve got you there. This one’s a lesbian.’
‘Did she tell you that?’
‘No. A woman answered the phone and when I asked to speak to Riordan she called out “Honey, there’s a man on the phone for you.” I kind of inferred it. How did you get on?’
‘I got hold of two men, one a fighter,’ said Taylor. ‘The other is a rich businessman who pays Bartlett handsomely to be his personal trainer. The fighter, Adam Dorsey, echoed what your Riordan said. He’s yet to have a professional fight, but he’s been doing OK in the amateurs. Lost more than he’s won but he’s starting to square the ledger. Like Riordan, he credits Bartlett for his improvement. He claims to be a grinder, not gifted like some, and Bartlett rings every ounce of potential out of him. He knows, or claims to know, nothing about illegal substances in Bartlett’s squad. He said Bartlett was forever threatening to boot people from the program for even the slightest indiscretion. He also reckons the business with Danny’s disqualification had to have been a fit-up otherwise he never would’ve parted ways with Sharpe.’
‘What about the businessman?’
‘Archie Thaiday, owns a car dealership downtown.’
‘I’ve seen the ads on TV,’ said Jack.
‘Yep, that’s him. I gotta say he’s a bit on the chubby side. Must be getting stuck into the pies after his workouts with Bartlett.’
‘Those are old commercials. Thaiday said he’s got new ones in the pipeline, all thanks to Bartlett’s training. He claims he’s now free of diabetes. As you can imagine, he owes a debt of gratitude to Bartlett.’
‘He sure does,’ said Batista.
‘And get this,’ Taylor continued. ‘He offered to post a reward for information leading to his discovery.’
‘How much?’
‘Up to $100,000.’
Batista whistled. ‘Jesus, that’s a lot of money.’
‘Yeah, but like I said, he credits Bartlett for saving his life. If we don’t find the trainer within the next few days, Thaiday’s going public with the announcement about the reward.’
‘Jesus Christ, we better find him soon. A civilian offering a reward like that makes us look bad.’ Batista leaned back in his seat. ‘So, that’s the client list pretty much exhausted. I’ll get Wilson and some of the others to keep trying the numbers that didn’t answer, drop by their addresses if need be.’
‘We can’t wait two more days for this reward to flush out information,’ said Jack. ‘Every day, every hour that passes, the higher the chances Terry Bartlett’s d
ead.’
‘Going back to Claudia’s suggestion to search Harlow’s place.’ Batista’s eyes were riveted to a fat Huntsman spider crawling along the outside of his office window. ‘I agree with Jack that it’s wiser not to do that. However, there’s nothing–’
Jack was already on his feet. ‘There’s nothing to stop us paying him a visit, right?’
‘You read my mind, detective. Both of you get over there now and see if he’s home. Push Harlow as hard as you can.’
‘Perfect,’ said Jack. ‘I’m just in the mood for some cage rattling.’
‘Just don’t punch him in the throat.’
‘Inspector, would I ever?’
Chapter 18
‘You reckon if Evan Zane sold more illicit gear he’d be able to afford a joint like this one?’ Jack yanked on the handbrake and killed the engine.
‘It’d have to be a hell of a lot more.’ Taylor glanced appreciatively at Andy and Louise Harlow’s palatial two-story marble façade mansion, one of only four homes on Inglis Avenue. ‘I know one thing for sure. You and I will never afford it on cops’ wages.’
‘You got that right,’ Jack agreed.
‘Unless we upgrade to a rich spouse like Harlow’s managed to land himself.’
Jack laughed. ‘You’re right again, DC Taylor.’
Back at the station, a cursory investigation into Mrs Harlow – in other words a Google search – was all that was required to learn the basics about her. The female half of the Harlow partnership, not Andy, was the one bringing in the big dollars via a beauty product company she’d been operating for more than ten years. A quick dig via the taxation system provided some general metadata on her business. Her empire, Lou-Har Pty Ltd, was run remotely: production, warehousing and distribution were all taken care of in Vietnam, while she looked after marketing and sales from Yorkville. The luxurious house bore testament to Louise’s business acumen; located in the salubrious suburb of Meninga, in Jack’s estimation the joint would fetch $4 million even in a poor real estate market.
Car parked beside the perfectly manicured couch grass nature strip. Clunk, clunk. Out of the comfort of the airconditioned car into oppressive humidity that sat on your head and shoulders like a microwaved wet blanket. A buzz on the intercom was answered by a laconic female. ‘Yes?’
Kill Shot Page 12
