Ocean Kills (Ocean Breeze) (8 page)

I
came to work early, not because I was brown-nosing the captain, but because I
still
hadn't found any contact details for Ocean Breeze. No online information at all, and I refused to believe she was a ghost. She was real. I didn’t imagine her, no matter how much my brain refuted. 

After working all night, frustration seared my veins. My eyes were rocks in my sockets, my brain a platter of scrambled eggs. But it didn't matter if I ran on fumes of adrenaline, I’d find her. Defeat wasn’t an option.

I blinked.
Finally.

Four hours of hacking every database I could: Hotmail, Gmail, Yahoo—all the public domains—I finally found it.

Ocean Breeze's email.

My heart did a stupid stutter. I was about to commit a serious breach of privacy. I clicked on her inbox.

Two emotions hit me hard: relief and jealousy. Relief to find she only wrote to one person. Jealousy because that one person was a man. Maurice Green. Who the hell was he? Her lover?

I swallowed, hating myself for reading her personal messages, but unable to stop.
How low have you stooped, Callan?
I gritted my teeth and ignored rational thinking.
  

Hundreds of emails dated back ten years or so. Each one I clicked on stole my breath. Ocean telling Maurice
the deed was done.
That
everything went to plan
. Questions from Maurice asking where she was, was she safe? Did she complete her mission?

One email made me freeze. It seemed Ocean and Maurice had a fight. Half a year ago Ocean told him to stop caring for her.

From:
[email protected]

Date:
10 December 2011

Subject:
Let me die free.

Maurice,

I’m sorry you’ll wake up and find me gone. Believe me when I say it has nothing to do with you. I need distance between us while I still can. Your concern over the marks has become too much for me to bear. Not because of your love for me, but because I’ll only cause you more hurt when I don’t listen.

You’ll always mean so much to me, but I can’t be around you. I need to do what I’ve always done. Let me die free, Maurice. Forget about me. I’m gone already.

Love, Ocean.

What the bloody hell did that mean? And this Maurice loved her? That left a harsh taste in my mouth. I could see why she’d be loved, and she obviously loved him too. Deeply.

 A cold boulder settled in my gut. There was no point chasing her. Yes, I wanted to know her secret of vanishing, but I also wanted to know the woman. Something inside me connected with her on a deeper level—the same level that her icy exterior protected. And now she was off limits.

Hope unfurled as I read Maurice’s reply.

From:
[email protected]

Date:
10 December 2011

Subject:
You are free, but you will come home.

My Dear,

It was not a surprise to wake up to an empty house. I expected as much after our argument. I will not accept your guilt for causing me pain. To not have you in my life would be ten times worse than what I’ll feel if you disobey me.

Take the time you need to rid yourself of your worry. I will wait every day for your return. I have no doubt I will see you again. Until then, Sweet Girl, I will wait, and try to figure out the meaning of the marks.

Love, Maurice.

The language. Could Maurice perhaps be older than her? Would a lover call her ‘sweet girl’? The boulder in my gut lightened to a cloud. Maybe she wasn’t off limits after all.

The more I learned about this woman, the deeper I sank into trouble. What was she up to? Marks? What was that? Code?

I opened up my own email, fully intending to write to her, demanding that she see me again, but how to do it so she thought I was guessing? She'd despise me if she knew I hacked her personal space.
I
despised myself for stooping so low. My fingers hovered over the keyboard.

“Bliss.”

I jumped a mile, guilt plastered all over my face, as Captain Gray stuck his head in my shoebox. His sideburns were meticulously groomed, his moustache the same color of wish-washy brown on his head.

Swallowing, I tried to resemble stoic innocence. “Eh, yes, sir?”
Be cool.
He doesn't know what you're up to.

“You're to accompany Wade and a few of the newbies. Someone discovered a body in the Cross,” Gray muttered, then stormed away with all the air and grace of a magistrate—and the station was his kingdom. He never minced words or lingered. My kind of man.

I looked at my blank email. Shit. I just found what spent me hours to find, and now my day job decided to get interesting.

After deleting all evidence of my hacking, I stood and clipped on my police utility belt. It was bloody uncomfortable to wear while sitting at a desk. I checked it was complete: cuffs, taser, walkie-talkie, gun, baton, and water bottle. Ready and armed for the masses of morons who seemed to think they were above the law.

Swiping my hands through my hair, I ran straight into Wade, who bolted past my office. “Jeez, Mark. Where's the fire?” Pudgy Mark Wade wasn't the sharpest wombat in the Outback, but he was a nice guy. I didn't mind being partnered with him. He gave me the space I needed to work the way I worked. However, I caught him watching me now and again, eyebrows drawn together. Did he suspect I was completely over qualified for this humdrum job?

“Ready?” Wade asked. He rubbed his forehead with his arm, a sheen of sweet appeared on his sleeve. “I hear there's a lot of blood.” For a cop, he had a weak stomach.

“Civilian? Or perp?” Death of an innocent never failed to make me boil with anger. Death of a perp, well, I can't say I didn't enjoy it. That would be a lie.

“Mongrel Mob. I overheard Scott say there's gang tattoos around the guy’s shoulders, and his leather jacket and patches puts him in the top rank.”

Excellent. One less prick I’d have to chase and lock up. My mind instantly jumped to considering who might’ve killed a Mongrel boss.

We made our way in silence to the basement garage, and signed out a police car. As we drove out of the gloom, bright sunshine stabbed my eyeballs. Trust me to forget my sunglasses today.

It wasn't far to the center of Kings Cross and crap, did it look nasty at that time of day. At night the neon nightclubs turned the drab, seedy buildings into jeweled music boxes, promising a life of happiness and excitement. In this light, it was nothing but dirty streets and garbage.

“Don't you think Kings Cross is like a hot woman in a bar?” I asked Wade as we ducked under the police tape at the bottom of an alley between an herbal high store and sex shop.

“What?” Wade's eyes went wide. “How do you figure?”

“You know. The hot woman. Perky boobs, luscious lips. Long flowing locks. With a taut stomach and ass—the perfect package.”

Wade continued to watch me with a weird look.

“Then you take home this hot little sheila only to find she's wearing spandex, which turns her from a size twelve to a size eight. She's wearing a wig, her lips are Botoxed, and the boobs—well they're just chicken fillet implants in her bra.”

Wade coughed a laugh. “Interesting analogy there, Bliss.” He slapped me on the back. “You speaking from personal experience?”

Hell yes I was. Hence my reluctance to fall for the pretty package; nine times out of ten, it was fake. But Ocean, she deliberately
unprettied
the package, and still interested me more than any other woman before. With or without the vanishing trick.

The forensics analyst was bent over a corpse. A black stain seeped in a large puddle beneath—the remains of a life. Whoever killed this man did a good job prolonging it. Death by blood loss could be a slow process.

Catherine Smith raised her head, hazel eyes sharp. She was a fantastic forensic analyst, but she was a mean-ass bitch.

“What's the cause of death?” I asked, squatting beside her. The reek of body fumes was only just beginning. I’d place his time of death somewhere around nine hours. I never let on I held a degree in forensics as well as law. Too many pieces of paper labeled me a perpetual student. And not all my accolades were gained by reputable institutions. 

Glaring at me, Catherine muttered, “Cause of death was by an oyster knife, stabbed into his femoral artery.” She pointed to the nasty slash in his thigh, then to a plastic bagged knife.

My eyes travelled the corpse. I sucked in a breath and my throat latched closed.
Holy hell!

Where there should have been a penis—there was a nasty fleshy stump. My own equipment shrunk in horror. Fuck, that would hurt!

Catherine saw my look and chuckled. “The eunuch procedure happened before the stab. I've been searching for prints, DNA, anything to show who might’ve done this, but all I detect is alcohol residue and baby wipes. Whoever did this sliced him and cleaned up thoroughly.”

A cold sensation settled on the back of my neck, even as hot disbelief filled my veins. Ocean was in this area the night she was arrested. Could she? No. . .

I needed to find out who the dick-less man was. “Identification of the vic?” My voice was cool, level. No evidence of the riot of confusion inside me. Could she have done this? And how did I feel about it if she did? Was that what all the emails implied? Missions being completed? ‘Missions’ being code for murder?

Catherine tossed me his wallet. “Bart Matthews.”

I didn't need a computer to know who this bastard was. His mug shot was center place on our wanted criminals board. He was linked to two murders and recently, the rape and murder of a sixteen-year-old boy.

Shivers caused the hair on my forearm to stand to attention. “Well, that's good news for the rest of the population.”

Wade took the wallet, flicking through the credit cards and cash. “Who killed him? Another gang member? Is this the beginning of a turf war?” He swallowed. “Hell, it could get real messy if they're fighting over the Cross.”

For some reason I didn't think that was the case. If Ocean had done this, then she did the police a favor. If we had, by some miracle, arrested the son of a bitch, we wouldn't have had him for long. The Mongrel Mob was notorious for paying obscene amounts to lawyers and cops to avoid jail.

Another shiver ran over me, this time in stark realization of the truth. Ocean
killed.
Everything in my police code told me that wasn’t okay, but we worked toward the same goal, however differently. I swore under my breath to admit I approved of her choice of victim in this case.
I’m pro-vigilantism now?
Holy hell.

The next few hours were spent casing the area, taking notes, and interviewing sleepy-eyed and grumpy shopkeepers. No one had seen a thing.

By the time we returned to the precinct, my uniform was gritty with street grime, and all I could think about was the sea.

There was one more thing to do before I could leave.

Opening up a new email window, I typed a ridiculous message and pressed ‘send’. Nerves sent electric shocks down my back. I was one step closer to solving the mystery that was Ocean Breeze.

But right now I was clocking off, I needed food and a surf. The ocean was calling my name. And soon another Ocean would be, too.

Chapter Eight: Ocean

T
he time difference meant I left New Zealand in late afternoon, and arrived in South Africa late morning. The sun lurked behind smog-heavy clouds; the light tinged with dimness. Century City presented itself as a shiny new penny, despite the gloom. Windowed buildings, sparkly water features, and saplings lined quaint walkways.

I wasn't fooled. A city could be as perfect as a postcard—it didn't mean the same evilness, the same black sludge of human vileness, didn't lurk in the new-fangled architecture.

My back was ramrod straight as I stalked through the pretty streets. I changed my money into local rand, and I was ready.

Time to hunt.

By the end of the day, I’d have blood on my hands. If I didn't, I'd be pissed.

Palm trees bowed toward traffic, adding a touch of exoticness to local amenities such as McDonald's, and other well-known chains. It didn't look like a place where child slavery happened. But I'd learned from experience: appearances deceived. Just like that blasted freakin’ cop. Why was I thinking about him again?
It didn't help I kept imagining him half-naked with a surfboard.

Growling, I prowled to my first point of contact. An internet cafe.

I chose Y2K Internet—a black dungeon full of bug-eyed gaming geeks and a sprinkling of tourists—and paid for one hour of access.