Death on Demand (23 page)

The guy standing at the bench pushing bacon around a frying pan, the guy who'd brought in the Alfa, was Greg “G-Force” Cropper. He was a ranking member of a criminal gang called The Firm, named after the outfit headed by the infamous Kray twins that operated out of the East End of London in the 1950s and 60s.

Although physically unremarkable, Cropper radiated malevolence. On meeting him Jackie's first thought had been, “I bet this dude owns a pit bull.” Compared to his sidekick, though, G-Force was as intimidating as a door-to-door missionary. Spencer “Big Dog” Parks was gigantic, one-eyed and dreadlocked, with garish tattoos and a roadmap of ragged scars criss-crossing his wide, brown face.

Cropper put the bacon on a plate and began cracking eggs into the frying pan. “Here he is,” he said. “Sleeping Beauty.”

“What are you guys doing here?” said Vlukovich, his voice cracking as he forced words from a dry throat.

Cropper grinned wolfishly. “Have a guess.”

“Hey, man, everything's cool,” said Vlukovich. “It's just that we would've had a problem with our people in Aussie if we'd—”

“The fuck it is,” said Cropper. “Everything's very fucking uncool, man. The cops are hunting high and low for you, and if we can find you, it's on the fucking cards they're going to.”

“Okay then, I'll piss off. I'll go to Croatia, I've got family there.”

“Is that right?” said Cropper. “Croatia, eh? The old country. Isn't that what you Dallies call it?”

Vlukovich nodded uncertainly, not sure whether Cropper saw merit in his suggestion.

“Breakfast's ready,” said Cropper. He placed two heaped plates on the table, which at least gave Big Dog something other than Vlukovich to fix his harrowing monocular stare on.

“You know what?” said Cropper, projecting through a mouthful of churning protein. “You should be having a feed, not us. Like in the old days, when they chopped cunts' heads off or put them up against the wall or whatever, they always gave them a hearty breakfast. I reckon it'd be wasted on you, but one bite and you'd spew your ring out.”

Cropper's point – that if they could find Vlukovich, so could the cops – was borne out sooner than he'd expected, or indeed allowed for. As he and Parks guffawed over the spreading stain centred on Vlukovich's crotch – the imminent prospect of having his face blown off proving a bridge too far for his bladder – the back door was smashed off its hinges as Ihaka and his team stormed the kitchen.

To make room for the plates of bacon and eggs, the toast, cups of tea, salt and pepper and the bottle of genuine Texas-style kick-ass barbecue sauce, Parks had moved the shotgun to the other side of the table, out of easy reach. He lunged for it, belly-flopping down on the table, which crumpled under his 140 kilos. As he wallowed among the wreckage, Ihaka took a couple of long strides and booted him concussively behind the ear.

Cropper didn't even think about trying for the shotgun. Notwithstanding Ihaka's exhibition of unarmed combat, it was pretty clear these guys wouldn't need much encouragement to use the semi-automatic pistols they were pointing at him. He sat back down and put his hands on his head.

Ihaka stood over Vlukovich, who'd crawled into a corner and assumed the foetal position. “I think you should come with us, Jackie. As safe houses go, this place leaves a lot to be desired.”

 

The cops hit every known or suspected Firm hangout. They found drugs, drug-making equipment, unregistered firearms, implements designed or adapted to inflict grievous bodily harm, wanted persons, unwanted persons, missing persons, persons who were out way past their bedtimes, and a cornucopia of stolen goods. They didn't find Arden Black's laptop or personal organizer, but in the rat's nest that served as Cropper's bedroom they found the linen jacket which the late gigolo was wearing when last seen alive.

Parks had nothing to say, which was true to form. The total number of words he'd uttered in his various police interviews over the years was zero. For Big Dog, being staunch meant not saying anything to the pigs, ever. G-Force had plenty to say, but it was all foul-mouthed bravado which didn't shed any light on why Black, and presumably his sister, had got so far offside with The Firm.

 

Sensing he was on a roll, Ihaka asked Miriam Lovell out for a drink. She suggested a wine and tapas bar on Ponsonby Road.

Lovell arrived twenty minutes late in a gust of apologies and expensive perfume, both of which Ihaka interpreted as encouraging signs. Being a regular, she recommended that they shared a plate of tapas and a bottle of the house red. They swapped “how was your day” small talk, Ihaka hinting that she could sleep a little sounder as a result of his exertions.

“I've got to say, this is a first for me,” said Lovell. “I've had a drink with cops in the line of duty, as it were, but never out of choice.”

“You got something against cops?”

“Well, I used to be quite left-wing. Probably still am in most people's books.”

“Say no more,” said Ihaka. “My old man was a commie. When I told him I was joining the police force he bloody near disowned me on the spot.”

Lovell's mouth fell open. “Don't tell me your father was Jimmy Ihaka.”

Ihaka nodded.

“That's amazing.”

“You wouldn't say that if you saw a photo of him.”

“But that's just it: I have seen photos of him. God, how thick can you be? You're practically peas in a pod.”

“Where did you see a photo of him?”

“When I was younger and definitely more foolish, I decided to do a Ph.D. The best part of a decade, a stalled career and a broken marriage later, I can just make out a pinpoint of light at the end of the tunnel, although knowing my luck it'll be a glow-worm. Anyway, my thesis is on communism in the trade union movement in the sixties and seventies. Your father cropped up quite a bit. He had this extraordinary appetite for confrontation. What was he like at home?”

Ihaka laughed. “I used to get asked that a lot as a kid. I remember a cousin whose old man was a bishop saying he got the same thing, people always asking what was it like to have a bishop for a father, as if he walked in the door in the evening and said, ‘Let us pray.' I wouldn't say Dad left his politics at the door, but those labels they pinned on him – firebrand, maverick, class warrior, all that stuff – meant bugger all to me. He was just the old man.”

Lovell nodded vigorously. “Yes, of course. We're all different people at home.”

“Plus Mum had his number. Whenever he started going a bit Jimmy the Red on us, she knew how to bring him back to reality.”

“What did she do?”

“Took the piss, mostly.”

Ihaka's cellphone rang: Firkitt. Ihaka made his apologies and went out onto the footpath.

“Where are you?” said Firkitt.

“Off duty.”

Firkitt grunted derisively. “No such fucking thing.”

“In case you hadn't noticed, I've had a pretty big day.”

“Bully for you, champ, but in case you haven't noticed, crime doesn't run to our clock. There's been another murder, so it's all hands to the pump. Charlton's giving a team-talk in half an hour. Be there.”

“This murder. Would it have anything to do with all the other murders we've had lately?”

“You bet your arse it does. The deceased is Phil Malone, that TV guy whose partner got knifed. You know, one of the ones Lilywhite picked out.”

“Jesus. What happened?”

“The cleaners found him in the bath, along with a plugged-in, switched-on hairdryer. The dryer belonged in the bedroom. According to his wife, he was so safety-conscious he wouldn't let her use it in the bathroom. He had headphones on, listening to his iPod. Probably didn't see or hear a fucking thing.”

When Phil Malone sold his company to the Brits, over his partner's dead body, he built a McMansion on a lifestyle block in rural South Auckland. He was home alone there when the killer came. His wife and daughter were at a hockey tournament in New Plymouth; his son, a Monday-to-Friday boarder, was at school.

The Malones loved the privacy of their lifestyle block. So did the killer. No one had seen him or her come and go. There were a couple of sightings of unfamiliar cars in the area, but they were hopelessly vague. Someone remembered seeing a late-model dark grey sedan, a Nissan or a Honda. Or maybe a Mazda. Come to think of it, it might've been a Mitsubishi – it's hard to tell those Japanese cars apart. Someone else saw a late-model light-coloured SUV. He was pretty sure it was a SsangYong until he remembered a guy at work had been talking up his brother-in-law's new SsangYong and the name might have just stuck in his head.

Ihaka sat at the back of the room, half-listening to Boy Charlton's briefing. Charlton had the jargon down pat, and his slick presentation was testimony to a hundred Toastmasters breakfasts. When all was said and done, though, he'd dragged people into Central at eight o'clock at night or away from whatever they were doing to tell them what they already knew: there were no leads.

Now he was into the big rev-up, part motivational up and at 'em, part boot up the arse. Even before Malone, the media had been having a field day: the term “Murder City” was getting a workout on shock-jock radio, a columnist had actually used the phrase “the killing fields” and editorials dispensed advice in lofty generalizations. Down in Wellington the opposition was claiming that Aucklanders no longer felt safe in their own homes, and the Prime Minister had acknowledged that the public needed – and were entitled to – urgent reassurance that the police had the situation under control. The heat was on.

Ihaka glanced at his watch: 8.45. Miriam Lovell had told him to ring her if he got through before nine. If she wasn't soaking in a bath, they could reconvene at the tapas bar.

Charlton finished with a flourish. Ihaka was almost out the door when Charlton's voice cut through the hubbub: “Sergeant Ihaka, a word before you slip away.”

Firkitt followed Ihaka into Charlton's office. Charlton dropped into the chair behind his desk with a grunt of fatigue. Up close he looked wound up and worn out.

“There's a press conference first thing in the morning to announce a breakthrough in the Arden Black case,” said Charlton. “Your presence isn't required.” He waited for Ihaka's response, which took the form of a non-committal shrug. “I suppose you're thinking, here we go: I do the work, Charlton takes the credit. I wouldn't particularly blame you, but the way I see it, if I have to take the heat, I get to deliver the good news. And, believe me, I've taken some heat lately, mostly from McGrail.”

“He does have a way with words,” said Ihaka.

“Tell me about it,” said Charlton. “It's like being back at school. Having said that, I'm sure I'm getting less crap from him than he's getting from the Commissioner and the Minister. The higher you climb, the heavier it rains.
Still, I'm not asking for sympathy and no doubt I'd be crash out of luck if I was. I just wanted to say good job. You've earned the organization some breathing space, and we sure as hell needed it.”

Ihaka acknowledged the compliment with a nod. Having dished out this carefully measured serving of praise, Charlton switched his attention to his computer. Without looking up he asked, “Any thoughts on Malone?”

Ihaka flicked a glance at Firkitt, who was looking straight ahead, stony-faced.

“Just this,” said Ihaka. “I talked to Lilywhite, next thing he's dead. Ditto Yallop. Firkitt talked to Malone, now he's dead too.”

Charlton gave him a sharp look. “You reckon Yallop's part of this?”

“I don't know,” said Ihaka. “I'm just saying there's a pattern. Maybe the hitman's taking out everyone who can finger him.”

“How could they?” said Firkitt. “If they're like Lilywhite, they've got no fucking idea who he is.”

“Lilywhite called me his father confessor,” said Ihaka. “I don't think he was finished with me.”

“What are you saying?” said Charlton. “He wanted you to come back for another session, so he held something back?”

“Maybe.”

“Like what?” said Firkitt.

“I don't know what Ihaka thinks,” said Charlton, “but my guess would be that Lilywhite might've known more than he let on about those other cases, Malone's partner and the old girl.”

They both looked at Ihaka. “Hitmen don't make cold calls just on the off chance,” he said. “Someone put him on to Lilywhite and the others. Maybe Lilywhite had an idea who. He reckoned he'd done a lot of amateur sleuthing.”

“The go-between,” said Charlton. He got up and sat on the edge of his desk, clear-eyed and energized, as if he'd just had a power nap. “You're dead right. There's got to be a connection. All we have to do is find it. Find the connection, find the hitman, put five murder cases to bed in one go.”

“And we'll all live happily ever after,” said Firkitt.

Charlton showed his perfect teeth. “Steady on, Ron.” To Ihaka: “Sergeant, you need to wrap up Eve Diack ASAP because we need you back on this. That shouldn't be too hard. They're not exactly criminal masterminds, Cropper and Parks.”

“I thought you wanted me gone ASAP,” said Ihaka.

“Circumstances have changed,” said Charlton blandly.

“We still don't know why Cropper and Parks killed Black.”

“True,” said Charlton, “but if I was you, I'd assume it had something to do with drugs and proceed on that basis till you have reason to think otherwise. Now, gentlemen, if you'll excuse me, I'm going home to my wife and kids.”