A Time For Justice (42 page)

Joe Kovaks drove into Liberty City at nine that evening and
cruised the streets slowly, making sure that he wasn’t being
followed. He couldn’t afford to be caught out on this one, either
by his own side or the other. This was his little operation and its
success depended on no one else knowing about it.

Kovaks looked cynically at the streets where in 1980 the whole
world had been made aware of Miami’s race problems; four days of
rioting had left eighteen people dead. A white face here was still
unwelcome. Now, even though he was streetwise, unafraid and armed,
he kept his windows closed, door locked and never stopped at a
traffic light.

Once he was satisfied he was alone, he drove out west to a
rundown motel just on the edge of Liberty City and made straight
for Room 103. After knocking in a particular way, he let himself in
with his own key.

The room was untidy, but at least the bedclothes were clean.
Laura lay motionless in the bed with the duvet wrapped tightly
around her head. She hadn’t heard him either knock or
enter.

In the corner of the room a TV set blared out. Fast-food
cartons, their contents half-eaten, were strewn on the floor.
Kovaks switched the TV off and went into the kitchenette where,
after clearing and wiping the work surface, he emptied the bag of
groceries he’d brought into the relevant cupboards.

As he was doing this, Laura surfaced. Wearing only a pair of
panties she sat up, head in hands, rubbing her face.

‘
Joe, you got it? I need It, Joe!’ she said through her
fingers.

‘
I got it. Be patient.’

‘
Come on, man. I need it. You promised.’

‘
I always keep my promises.’ Kovaks returned to the bedroom.
‘But first you gotta do something for me.’

‘
Yeah, yeah, anything, Joe.’

‘
Clear the fucking place up or you get nothing -
understand?’

It took a few seconds for his order to reach her brain. Then,
without a murmur of dissent, she got to it. In a matter of minutes
the room had been tidied. The fast-food cartons were in the bin,
the bed was straight, clothes and shoes were put away.

Kovaks sat on one of the two easy chairs and watched her
scurrying about the room. He’d always known about the power that
pimps and dealers had over drug addicts, but had never imagined how
easy it was to get in such a position of dominance. You had what
they wanted and they’d do anything for you to get it. A very simple
equation. Power went to the people who had the drugs and were not
users themselves. People like Corelli.

Kovaks had always found it difficult to understand addiction,
but thanks to his short association with Laura he was learning
fast. In her lucid moments, the black girl was bright, intelligent
and articulate. What had been her downfall was circumstance, lack
of money, lack of guidance.

But he didn’t really care about that. He had decided to use
her and use her he would. He exerted power over her now and that’s
what mattered. She would do anything for him, just to feed her
habit.

‘
There,’ she said, standing up, pushing her dry hair back,
‘done.’

She moved in front of Kovaks and stood there. Her body was
still painfully thin. Her ribs protruded through her skin and her
knees stuck out gnarled and unsightly. ‘Anything else? I need it,
Joe. Come on, man.’

He took hold of her wrist and pulled her gently down towards
him.

Her thin body was easy to bend.

‘
How much do you want it?’ he teased.

‘
You know how much.’

‘
Will you do anything for me?’

‘
Yes, I will.’ Her bloodshot eyes looked pleadingly into
his.

He had been leading up to this, never actually saying it,
always insinuating it, prodding, pushing her in the right
direction.

‘
Will you kill Corelli for me?’ he whispered.

She didn’t even have to think. ‘Yes, I will,’ she
gasped.

Kovaks couldn’t suppress a grin of triumph. Laura had lived in
this motel room since her discharge from hospital and Kovaks, at
his own risk and expense, had nurtured her, clothed her, fed her,
provided drugs for her and now she was completely reliant on him.
He was her world. She loved him. He was her provider. And he didn’t
beat up on her, abuse her or want to fuck her ass.

She didn’t know that he really did want to fuck her. But fuck
her good and proper.

Kovaks reached into his pocket. He handed her a brown bottle
which contained a bright green liquid, rather like Crème de Menthe.
It was methadone, heroin substitute. Twice her daily requirement,
provided by a ‘doctor’ Kovaks knew who owed him a
favour.

She unscrewed the cap and swigged the contents in one, wiped
her mouth and smiled at him as warmth spread into her stomach and
from there into her bloodstream.

‘
What about my baby?’ she asked.

‘
I’m negotiating. It looks good.’ It was a lie.

‘
Joe, I love you,’ she said dreamily. She put her arms around
his neck and sank her bony frame onto his knees, curling up like a
child.

‘
I want you to kill Corelli,’ he whispered in her
ear.

‘
I will,’ she said. ‘Give me a gun. I’ll do it.’

‘
You’re a good girl.’ Kovaks sighed. Suddenly a surge of guilt
whipped through him, but then it was gone. It was the only way, he
assured himself. The only way.

Damian lay under the bed for twenty minutes before he dared to
move. He was not a brave man. He’d heard the outer door of the
apartment open and close but hadn’t had the courage to emerge just
in case it was a ploy.

He tried to stand up but his legs were so weak and shaky that
they wouldn’t bear even his meagre weight. So, on all fours, stark
naked, he crawled slowly towards the door.

He was terrified of what he would see. The reality was far
worse than anything he could have imagined.

The living room was swathed in blood. Slashes of it swept
across the ceiling and right down the walls, like some sort of
modern art form. The couch was drenched in it.

Damian gagged. Using the doorknob for support he levered
himself to his feet and stood there wobbling unsteadily.

Then he saw her.

Sue lay on the couch, legs and arms splayed wide. Her throat
was cut and the rest of her had been literally ripped apart. Her
intestines had been dragged out and some organ or other was
hanging, shimmering on the edge of the couch like it was still
alive, ready to slither off.

Damian sagged back to his knees, then scuttled on all fours
back into the bedroom and into the en-suite bathroom, where he
managed to get his head over the toilet before being horrendously
sick.

He got dressed quickly.

At the bedroom door he composed himself for his re-entrance
into the living room. He placed his hands around his eyes, like he
was a kid pretending to make a diving mask, to give himself tunnel
vision. Then he ran across the blood-soaked carpet, down the short
hallway and out through the front door of the apartment.

Kovaks was back at his desk by 11p.m., having left Laura in a
state of drug-induced euphoria. At midnight he took a call. He
grabbed his jacket immediately and within half an hour was at the
front door of Sue’s apartment block.

The senior detective at the scene was Lieutenant Ram Chander,
from Homicide. He was one of the few Asian-Indians on the force, a
very good detective, completely ruthless and hard to offenders yet
with a genuine compassionate streak where victims and their
families were concerned.

Kovaks had worked with him occasionally, but they didn’t have
any particular bond. He was surprised when Chander came down in
person to greet him. They shook hands.

‘
She was once your partner, Mr Joe?’ Chander said. He spoke
with an American accent but with the odd inflection which betrayed
his Kashmiri roots as well as the Indian habit of referring to
people by their first names but with the preface of Mr or Mrs as
appropriate.

‘
She was,’ Kovaks confirmed.

‘
Was she a good friend?’

‘
Yes.’

‘
Then I must ask you to prepare yourself for an upsetting
sight,’ Chander warned Kovaks. ‘Would you like me to describe it
for you first, or do you just want to go and see?’

‘
I’ll go and see,’ said Kovaks impatiently. ‘I’ve come across
some bad things in my time.’

‘
Well, Mr Joe, this’ll be one of the worst,’ sighed
Chander.

Ram Chander was right.

It took Kovaks a good while to recover. Yes, he had seen
worse, but when it was someone you knew lying there, cut open like
a carcass at a butcher’s, it was different.

He was on the landing outside the apartment, talking to
Chander. Inside was a bustle of activity. Cameras flashed, videos
ran, the ME directed operations and the forensic people got to
work.

Chander was telling Kovaks everything he knew.

‘
The call came in just after nine,’ Chander said, referring to
his notes. ‘One of the neighbours walked past and saw that the
front door was open. Thought it was suspicious, that maybe the
place had been burglarised. The only time you leave your door open
here is to let yourself in or out. Anyway, very brave of him, he
went to have a look and found her. We arrived shortly
after.’

‘
Any leads?’

‘
Most certainly,’ said Chander. ‘The boyfriend is the prime
suspect.’

‘
Who - Damian?’

Chander shook his head, which actually meant yes. Just
occasionally, when he got excited, he reverted to this Indian way
of saying yes. Fortunately Kovaks understood the-body
language.

‘
He was seen by a neighbour leaving hurriedly.’

‘
I can’t believe that,’ said Kovaks. ‘Damian wouldn’t hurt a
fly. He’s not big enough to kill her.’

‘
I have a detective down at your place making enquiries. Seems
he was on leave and should have been at his mother’s over in
Clearwater until Sunday. Mother was contacted and said he’d left
early. Looks like he wanted to surprise the victim.’

‘
Come on - what would be his motive?’

‘
Until we get him, we can’t establish that. Maybe she was
seeing someone else. Maybe she’d dumped him. Jealousy? Anger?’
Chander shook his head sadly. ‘It would not surprise me, Mr
Joe.’

‘
Well, it would astound
me,
Ram. Keep me informed, will ya?’

‘
Surely - so long as you keep me informed too. The parties
involved may be Federal staff, but the murder is still our
jurisdiction...’

‘
No need to remind me.’

They shook hands.

The Coroner’s men were just emerging from the apartment with
the very heavy body bag. Kovaks dashed past them. He didn’t want to
see her being carried away.

At six o’clock, British time, on Saturday morning, six men,
all hard, tough and uncompromising assembled in a yard behind a
scrap-metal dealer in North London. There were three cars for them,
two Jaguars and a Mercedes. They were good cars, but a few years
old and unremarkable, except for the fact that they were the most
powerful models in the range and they were scrupulously clean -
from a criminal point of view.

The men paired off and chose a car.

Each of the cars had had some internal bodywork carried out. A
special compartment had been skilfully fitted underneath the rear
seats, which ran the full width of the vehicle, which was about ten
inches deep and ten inches across. These compartments could not
easily be found should the car ever be searched.

The men placed certain items of what they termed ‘merchandise’
into each compartment, laid the lids back on and slotted the rear
seats back into place.

Then they each put a holdall into the boots of the
cars.

They were ready to travel.

Each pair tossed up to see who would drive for the first half
of the journey. The lucky ones curled up in the back seats to get
some shuteye. As ex-soldiers, they were aware of the value of
sleep.

They set off in a convoy initially and headed north towards
the M1. Soon they were travelling individually because they did not
want to draw attention to themselves as a single entity.

This way, if one got into trouble for some reason, the others
would get away.

Each man knew his destination.

They were to meet up in Blackburn, Lancashire at noon. There
was no great hurry. They would be briefed today, recce the site,
see what equipment was available and what they needed to acquire,
make their plans and then bide their time.

They were good at waiting. But from all accounts they wouldn’t
have to wait too long.

Chapter Twenty-Three