On the Run

by Colin McLaren

  ‘Especially a cop as warped as Mack,’ said Leigh. ‘He’s odd.’

  Spud looked at them. ‘I’ve got an idea. Last chance. Give me one more chance.’

  Three hours later Cole parked his squad car in the underground carpark of the ACA building. Jude was in the passenger seat; both were seemingly unable to open the car doors. Cole leaned over to her. He ran his fingers softly over Jude’s cheek, then down her neck and across her chest. She let her head drop onto the back of her seat. His fingers disappeared further into her blouse. She closed her eyes and enjoyed the feel of his touch. Quite suddenly, she grabbed his wrist and pulled his hand from her blouse and looked solemnly at him. She buttoned up two of her wayward buttons, leant into Cole and deliberately straightened a few errant whiskers of his large moustache before getting out of the car, and walking purposefully to the lift area.

  Cole headed for the stairwell entrance, his usual method of entering the office to avoid the gossip of coming and going with Jude. It was then that he spied Leigh loitering at the fire door to the staircase. There was the sound of a fire engine in the distance. Nothing too unusual there, he thought. What was unusual was what Leigh did next. With the handle of a screwdriver, Leigh quickly and very purposefully smashed the protective glass cover of the fire alarm, and depressed the red fire button. He turned to find Cole watching.

  ‘What the fuck are you doing?’ asked Cole, bemused.

  ‘Don’t ask. Just follow me.’

  The two of them sprinted up the first flight of stairs to the office. Cole grabbed hold of Leigh and said, ‘Is there a fire?’

  Leigh whispered, ‘Just pretend there is and shut up. I’ve done the three alarms.’

  When the door swung open, a wave of staff carrying boxes gushed out.

  ‘Get out,’ they said. ‘Get out!’

  Cole could see smoke oozing from the gap underneath the door of the stationery vault. The sirens were now so loud that it was obvious the brigade had arrived.

  Spud was moving quickly, heading straight for the front door, yelling, at every opportunity, ‘Get out! There’s a fire!’

  ‘Fuck, Spud, give us a hand to grab our boxes,’ said Cole as he watched more smoke pour from under the doorway.

  All Spud would offer was a ‘Shhhh … don’t worry about it,’ before he once again yelled, as loudly as he could, ‘Fire, quick, get out!’

  In no time, the only people left standing in the now sealed office were Spud, Cole and Leigh.

  ‘This better be good,’ said Cole.

  ‘Come downstairs with me. Sandra’s got the boss down there dealing with the fire brigade. You’ll know more later. Just play along.’

  Cole reluctantly followed Leigh, leaving Spud alone in a room that was slowly filling with smoke.

  Spud sprinted into Mack’s office and grabbed the organiser, just as he heard the automatic fire-alarm locks snap into place on the security door. He had the luxury of at least five minutes with the Inspector’s organiser before the fire-fighters unsealed the door.

  He moved quickly with his prize into his own room and a tangle of pre-arranged infra-red jacks and leads hooked up to his laptop computer. Fingers trembling, Spud turned on the organiser. He knew the password was up to twelve digits. He also knew he only had three attempts. Get them wrong, and the organiser would automatically shut off for two hours. Game over.

  He had come up with three possible passwords. He went for the easiest first, G-E-C-K-O. Rejected.

  Two minutes left.

  He went for the harder of his options as the fire brigade officers could be heard forcing their way through a sealed door in the next office. Very quickly he keyed G-R-E-E-D-I-S-G-O-O-D and hit enter.

  The menu flashed up.

  A screen welcomed him on board. Spud fell back into his chair, almost shocked that he had broken the code. He stared at the illuminated face of the organiser and scrolled down the index, selecting the telephone listings. With the touch of four keys on his laptop keyboard, he set up the command for the spy-ware to beam the telephone database to his computer. His eyes locked onto his wrist watch, knowing the clever technology came at a cost. About thirty seconds. And each second was a tick.

  He heard the slow heavy jogging of a group of fire-fighters moving along the outside corridor towards the Anti-Mafia cell security door. Nervously he blew air across the face of his watch, as if to push the second hand faster, until the laptop screen flickered a faint blue colour and formed the words ‘task completed’.

  Spud pulled the jack from the organiser and ran with it towards Mack’s office, turning it off before crashing his shoulder against the door jamb. Miraculously, the organiser landed squarely face up on Mack’s desk.

  Spud heard the automatic locks retreat from the security door. He threw himself in a passable attempt at a stunt roll across the front of the stationery vault door and lay motionless.

  Seconds later, four burly firemen bounded through the office. One stopped immediately in front of Spud and yelled, ‘We’ve got the fire, and one’s down. Get an ambulance.’

  18th April

  Any excuse for a BBQ was the culture in most police environments. Yesterday’s fire at the ACA office, although nothing more than a smoke screen, was a good enough excuse for a mid-week soccer game. After all, the office had to be vacated for the day to allow the carpenters and fire-alarm contractors to make good the security doors and to reset the alarms, as well as the health and safety inspector to satisfy himself that the office was adequately clear of the toxic fumes.

  The sausages sizzled and wine corks were pulled at the park immediately opposite headquarters. The office had been divided into two teams, Australia versus the rest of the world, six a side. The other fifty or so staff watched, sipping cheap Beaujolais, eating snags and dribbling tomato sauce down their forearms. Inspector Mack sat proudly at the front of the festivities, just far enough away from the rest of the squad. Alongside in a matching garden deckchair sat his pretentious and rarely seen new wife Dorothy, who was the focus of many curious eyes. Dorothy had elegantly draped their own private card table with a white linen cloth to host the lavish picnic basket she had stuffed with chicken legs, lobster claws and a Caesar salad. Topped off with two chilled champagne flutes to which she added a fine drop of Pomeroy. Mack lowered his glass temporarily to blow the starter’s whistle. The players jogged onto the field to a hearty round of applause and a few catcalls. Dorothy gently squeezed Mack’s arm as he sat down, congratulating him on the well-organised event. Half-a-dozen players dressed in the national green and gold colours took to the field, looking fearfully fit and dangerously threatening. They urged the rest of the world onto the muddy turf.

  From behind a fat oak tree, where he had hastily pulled on his soccer shorts to the audible delight of the younger office girls, came a prancing Leigh, Brazilian colours proudly displayed. His arms raised in presumption of victory, announcing over and over, ‘Pele, Pele, Pele, Pele!’ At each call of his name the bystanders prefaced his cheer with the word ‘banana’, much to Leigh’s disgust. Katherine, the office administrator, was next on the field, wearing the all black uniform of New Zealand, and was clearly interested in keeping up with Leigh’s cheekily short shorts. Closely following in his hometown Maltese colours was Spud, dribbling the ball professionally between left and right feet before head-butting it across to Leigh. He was targeting his antics towards the pretty security officer, who seemed more occupied chatting to a younger, tall investigator next to her.

  The next round of applause welcomed the Italian pair of the team, Jude and Cole. Both forced, due to recent circumstances, to dress in matching azure Italian colours. The crowd announced a raucous chorus of ‘Mafia, Mafia!’ The loudest cheer of all was reserved for Sandra, the captain, dressed top to bottom in the colours of the Union Jack. She bounded onto the field calling her team-mates to a pre-game huddle. Mack’s second whistle blew and the ball was thrown into the centre as both teams collided in an afternoon of hilarity, poor
athleticism and good high jinks.

  Across the park, sitting in a car hidden among dozens of other cars, was an unmarked drug unit vehicle. The autumn sunshine silvered the windscreen. Sitting alone behind the steering wheel was the infamous Donny Benjamin, a suspected corrupt investigator, famed for running his own race and his own scams. He turned the ignition and placed the gear in drive, taking one last look into the park. His glance ignored everybody except Cole.

  19th April

  No need for sunglasses this morning. Leigh was feeling fighting fit, spurred on by his victorious effort of three goals the day before. Before he got to the glass panel reception desk, he checked himself, sucking in the two spare kilos above his belt, and straightening his otherwise firm body. He plastered a dazzling smile across his face, just in time to confront the pretty security officer. The smile instantly dropped away and his belly with it, as he stared hopelessly at the massively built, oily skinned Tongan female who had crammed her vast womanhood into the uniform a few hours earlier and was now squeezed behind the desk. He went through the motions of proving his identity before ascending the stairs and coding himself into the Anti-Mafia unit, shaking his head all the way.

  The office wasn’t its usual hive of activity this morning—too many ankle injuries being nursed. Most were happy just to sit around and relive plays of the soccer match or talk about the strange fire. Everyone wondered how a wastepaper basket full of cigarette butts found its way into the stationery vault. Or how the wastepaper basket had burst into a ball of flames. But the most intriguing question of the morning was whose stationery vault key was broken and stuck inside the lock, making it impossible to open the door when the fire started. Most of the detectives couldn’t give a rat’s arse whose or how, preferring the dramatic end to the day.

  If everyone was happy about one thing, it was the fact that the fire brigade didn’t have to spray their mega tonnes of water everywhere, as once the stationery door had been prised open, all that was left was a smouldering dustbin full of ashes, which included the now burnt receipt for the spare key cut by Spud earlier in the day.

  Passing Leigh and on his way out of the office was Inspector Mack, who looked perplexed. He carried his electronic organiser in hand.

  ‘I’ll be back in a couple of hours, Leigh. How’s that study going?’

  ‘Yeah, yeah, good, Boss, and good again,’ Leigh returned as he took his usual chair among his team-mates.

  The first thing Leigh noticed was the quiet. Not even a ‘Good morning’ and definitely no mention of the shenanigans of the day before. Spud was tapping away on his laptop, Cole sat alone, still reading his film magazine, and Sandra was taping up the now full cartons. She peered over Cole’s shoulder every now and again at the article he was reading.

  ‘What’s got you fascinated, Cole, same story as before?’

  ‘You can read it after Sandra, Leigh. It’s a sweet yarn,’ Cole repeated as he placed the magazine, folded back to his favourite article, in the top drawer of his desk.

  ‘Help yourself, Sandra,’ he said. She nodded politely, continuing her packing.

  Suddenly, Spud jumped up and down excitedly, impatiently waving everyone over to him. Mack’s phone numbers had been fed into Spud’s system and he had a hit. Four pairs of wide eyes were soon staring at an illuminated screen. Spud pointed to a set of telephone numbers. When they remained none the wiser, he singled out one particular number, and more importantly, the subscriber’s name. Giovanni Carbone.

  ‘I know that name,’ said Leigh.

  All too well, in fact, better than his own uncle, or even his own brother. It was the name that was on the very top of their target list during their investigation into the Mafia of the past few years, the name of the only suspect who had escaped prosecution because of his old age. The old Godfather, Antonio’s uncle. And now, it was irrefutably linked to another name he knew well: Inspector Mack. Thanks to the clever work of a smart analyst, a Mr Minit key-cutting kiosk, and five minutes of a fire captain’s time.

  Sandra was running horribly late for a meeting that she had instigated. She jogged up the four steps and into the bar. It was 6 p.m., and she pulled her beige tweed coat in tighter around her. Standing at the side of the bar in a quiet corner were her three colleagues: Cole with a whisky sour, Leigh and Spud enjoying their boutique beers. Sandra’s long Bombay Sapphire and tonic sat waiting on the polished jarrah bench top, the ice slowly melting. She grabbed the glass.

  Spud was finishing a story. ‘Wall Street Lady was registered in his wife Dorothy’s maiden name, since its inception, two years ago.’

  ‘What value is her share holding?’ queried Sandra, slurping her drink.

  ‘Two hundred and seventy-three thousand dollars so far.’

  ‘Not a bad bit of lovely,’ said Leigh, using the crooks’ slang for money. ‘Why don’t we tip off the Toeys and get her twisted?’

  ‘And have us all looking over our shoulders for the next ten years?’ Cole said, knowing only too well that the internal investigations unit, known as the Toe Cutters, had more leaks than a colander. Cole’s world of cops was familiar with the fraternity that existed between high-ranking officers. How they stuck together with their dirty scams, occasionally tossing a sacrificial lamb to the slaughter to appease the media: usually a low-level rookie who’d fucked up. Just enough to keep the threat of a royal commission from the door. Meanwhile the more senior cops, the hierarchy, got away with their fun and games.

  ‘A wife with shares, so … what are we going to do?’ Sandra asked.

  ‘His wife owns a trendy café. They can easily explain the cash to buy shares,’ said Cole.

  ‘What if the amount of share purchases was twice that?’ Sandra asked.

  ‘Sure … that’s serious lovely for a cop … but not his wife,’ Cole pointed out.

  ‘What can we do, champer?’

  ‘What have we done?’ chipped in Spud.

  Everybody turned to Spud, who realised he was now the centre of attention. His wiry hair started to stand on end, his bald forehead glowed with heat.

  ‘What do you mean, Spud? What have you done?’ enquired a worried Leigh.

  ‘Well, we can’t just sit around holding our dicks waiting for someone to have a go at Cole or Jude,’ said Spud.

  ‘Surely nothing will happen to Jude; she didn’t carry the drugs. Only Cole,’ replied Leigh. ‘So what have you done?’

  ‘I’ve put the boss’s mobile phone off,’ Spud answered, stepping back from the other three, as if waiting for trouble.

  Sandra reeled back at him before raising her glass, discarding the straw, sculling the remaining contents and slamming it down hard onto the bar.

  ‘You are a dickhead!’ she said in a raised voice, enough to grab the barman’s attention, of which she made good use by ordering another round of drinks. Leigh broke out in a loud belly laugh, seeing the absurdity of the situation: bugging the boss’s phone.

  ‘You need a search warrant, stupid. How did you get that?’ asked Cole.

  ‘I didn’t. As from today the boss’s mobile is off for one week. I’ve got a mate in the phone-tap unit who’s on night shift for seven nights. He’s going to monitor it … covertly.’

  The barman interrupted the conversation with a fresh whisky sour, two more Grolsch beers and another tall G&T. Cole’s brain ticked away, trying to find a problem with tapping the boss’s phone.

  ‘Night shift … one week,’ he echoed, thinking to himself.

  ‘Yep, perfect, isn’t it,’ Spud said almost bragging.

  ‘What’s the bottom line?’ Cole asked.

  ‘No one will know,’ repeated Spud.

  ‘Anything that can be tracked back to an illegal phone tap?’ asked Cole.

  ‘No way, Jose. He’ll just have his head phones on and listen and scribble a note for us if anything is dirty.’

  The three investigators nodded. It all sounded very simple despite the illegality. They stared at Cole in silence, waiting for their se
rgeant’s acquiescence. It was as if Cole was scanning his brain, reliving every day of the past few years undercover, negotiating drugs, telling lies, ingratiating himself into the Mafia. He realised that his glass was empty, as was his tolerance for a boss he had long suspected of being corrupt. He also realised that if he allowed the illegal phone tap, he was not only breaking the law, he was also crossing the line in a brotherhood of cops that never sold out another.

  ‘Fuck him. Let’s bug the prick!’

  He placed his hand on the bar top, fingers splayed, something that he had done many times with his crew. Leigh’s hand reached over the top of his, as did Spud’s and finally Sandra’s.

  Cole yelled to the barman, ‘Another round of drinks, mate!’

  It was close to midnight as Leigh drove along Banner Avenue, Griffith, looking for somewhere to idle. Alone, he showed signs of the six-hour drive. His spare hand slowly rubbed the whiskers on his chin. One of those actions men do when they feel weary, and one of those actions that always feels good. His hand moved up into the still well-groomed hair—his best asset, he thought, good hair. He hit the off button on the CD player and the car crept silently along the street, past a length of shops with darkened windows. Not much happened in the main street of Griffith after dark. The real action was inside the packing sheds, at the back of the vast orange groves surrounding the town. Scenes of late nights of wheeling and dealing, before semi-trailers rolled out, laden with hundreds of boxes of juicy fruit and sometimes a few dozen boxes of green vegetable matter that wasn’t normally sold in greengrocers.

  Leigh wasn’t too worried about being alone in town, as his car was registered to a dodgy name. He’d get what he came for and head straight back to Melbourne, just in time to update the morning crew. Just in time to clock on, so the boss would have no idea he’d been, and returned.

  He was a little different from most cops, preferring to fly solo. There was good reason for that. The success of his enquiries into criminal activities depended on the women he met and dealt with. Leigh was a ladies’ man, an important asset to any team. As long as the detective kept his dick in his pants. And used his charm to gain information. Leigh did just that—most of the time. But he was happy with the way he played the game. Some of his best bed companions had been cute podium dancers, tough barmaids or the occasional good-looking crook’s moll. The types who had tired of the ways of their criminal beaus, preferring to sample the grass on the other side of the law enforcement paddock.