Only the Dead (29 page)

T
HURSDAY
, 16 F
EBRUARY
, 2.42
A.M
.

M
cCarthy knew the streets. He was a dab hand at South Auckland navigation. They pulled up three houses shy of the Blair address.

McCarthy winked. ‘What do you want: good cop, or bad cop?’

‘I’ll be good. You can do whatever you want, long as it’s legal.’

McCarthy thought about it. ‘Legal. Doesn’t sound quite as fun as outright fucking badass.’

Devereaux said, ‘Let me take the lead.’

McCarthy laughed. ‘No way.’ He opened his door, put one foot on the road. He looked back across his shoulder. ‘Think of this as a complimentary tour. Keep your hands to yourself, and don’t interrupt the guide.’

Devereaux didn’t answer. They got out of the car and walked towards the house. Ahead of them a stray dog slipped lean and low-headed along darkened frontages. A single window in the Blair house was lit, like a one-eyed doze. A security light clung to an eave, but it stayed blank as they reached the front door.

McCarthy balled a fist, knocked three times. ‘Police. Open up. Open up.’

The house stayed quiet. McCarthy didn’t relent: he
maintained a high-tempo hammering. Devereaux heard feet scurrying, a faint voice crying,
Mum, Mum
.

‘She’s got kids in there, take it easy.’

McCarthy paused, fist cocked. He said, ‘Fuck off. My issue isn’t with the kids.’

He hit the door again. Something gave a brittle crack.

‘Police. Open the door.’

From inside: ‘Okay, okay. Just give me a sec.’

Steel bolts sliding free, and then the door pulled back a fraction. A classic McCarthy entry: a one-hand shove, a sudden surge inside. Devereaux followed. Straight into the living room: a decaying couch, plastic lawn chairs, curled carpeting, smell of alcohol. Like walking into a hangover.

Leanne Blair back-pedalled, trying to keep The Don at arm’s length. ‘Who are you? What the—’

‘Police. Sit down and shut up.’

She tripped and fell back against the couch. She was wearing grey sweatpants and a faded red T-shirt, the neck stretched to accommodate neck and shoulder. Hair bird-nested by sleep. In a doorway, two boys perhaps eight or ten years old peeped around the frame. Wide-eyed and teary as Devereaux approached.

‘Don’t you do anything to my kids. I swear to God. You leave them alone.’

Devereaux squatted and smiled. ‘Hey, why don’t you fellas pop back to bed?’

Quiet suddenly in the room. He felt McCarthy’s eyes on his back.

The elder boy said, ‘He can’t do that to our mum.’ Delivered on a wobbling lip.

‘He’s not doing anything. He’s just going to have a chat.’

‘About what?’

‘He’s just going to ask her some questions.’

‘What’s your name?’

‘My name’s Sean. What’s your name?’

He stood up and took the kid gently by the upper arm.

‘Isaac.’

‘What’s your brother’s name?’

‘Storm.’

‘Well, bring Storm, and we’ll get you back to bed.’

Their room was narrow; a thin cartoon print curtain across the window, two foam mattresses pushed side by side on the floor. One wall was a collage of skateboarding posters, a magazine fold pattern crisply inlaid.

‘You two just stay here for a little while, okay? We’re not going to be here for long.’

‘Don’t let him hurt Mum.’

Devereaux looked down. The kid met his eyes beseechingly: a bruised and desperate stickman.

‘Nobody’s going to hurt her. But you have to stay in here. All right?’

Through the wall he heard McCarthy’s voice on high volume:
Are you Leanne Blair? Is your name Leanne Blair
?

‘Are you a policeman?’ the kid said.

‘Yes.’

‘Is he a policeman too?’

‘Yes. He’s a policeman too.’

He felt sick as he left the room.

Back in the lounge, and McCarthy was standing waiting for him. He said, ‘Thanks for that, Mary Poppins.’

Leanne Blair drew her legs up, hugged her knees. ‘What do you want? It’s, like, three friggin’ a.m.’

McCarthy half-turned and folded his arms. He looked down at her along the aim of an elbow. ‘See if you can guess.’

‘Already tried that.’ She shrugged. ‘Just came up with nothing.’

McCarthy put a foot up on the seat beside her. The cushion pinched with a squeal. ‘Where’s Douglas, Leanne?’

‘I don’t know.’

‘I know you’re lying, don’t dick me about.’

‘I ain’t dicking you. Jeez. You haven’t even showed me ID or nuffing.’

‘Where is he?’

‘I don’t know. No idea.’

McCarthy watched her closely, switched tack. ‘Tell us about yesterday afternoon.’

‘What bit?’ She looked genuinely confused.

‘I’m not the first person to ask about Douglas, am I?’

‘No. A dude asked me yesterday.’

‘Specifics, Leanne. Who’s the dude?’

‘The PI or whatever. The John Hale guy.’

‘What did he want?’

‘He was asking about Doug and I told him and then he left.’

‘And then what did you do?’

‘I dunno.’

‘Yes, you do.’

‘Man. Leave me—’

McCarthy bent forward from the waist, close in for a holler: ‘Yes, you goddamn do!’

She flinched, raised an arm in reflex. ‘Okay. I called him. I said there was a guy asking for him.’

McCarthy eased upright. ‘Right, there we are.’

A telephone console was fixed to the wall beside the couch. He ripped it free one-handed without shifting stance and dumped it in her lap. She hunched into the impact. The handset lolled free and hit the floor, tethered by the spiralled cord.

‘Man. It’s fixed to the wall. It’s meant to stay on the wall. The landlord’s going to flip.’

‘I’m crying inside, Leanne. Ring Douglas now. And don’t tell me you don’t know the number, because you just told me you called him yesterday.’

McCarthy spun as Devereaux grabbed his shoulder. He almost looked surprised. Devereaux kept his tone even: ‘Don’t shout at her, don’t rip things off the wall.’

McCarthy pushed him back: a big hand hard on his chest, like pushing through the front door. ‘Piss off,’ he said. ‘I told you to stay out of the way.’

‘We haven’t even been here two minutes; you’re already frothing.’

McCarthy smirked. ‘Wait fifteen years, get a bit of clout, and then tell me what to do.’

He turned away. Blair looked up at him. ‘Ring him why?’ she said. Like she’d had the question on hold the whole time.

McCarthy said, ‘Because I said so. Because I want to know where he is.’

She looked up at him, sealed shaky lips. She sucked some air through her nose, stoking the bravery. ‘How about yous both just piss off?’

McCarthy backhanded her casually. She caught it across the mouth, snapped sideways with the force of it. A rope of spit waved pendulously. She cried out and shied away from him. Her mouth was bleeding. She spat a blood-basted tooth chip.

McCarthy flipped his coat-tail back, freed a holstered Glock, levelled it at Devereaux. ‘I saw that look in your eye. Don’t go doing anything silly.’

‘Don’t hurt her.’

‘She’s trash; don’t sweat it.’ He nodded at the gun. ‘And I guess we’re even now.’

He laughed, dropped the Glock to his side. The woman stared up at him, wide-eyed and ashen. The exchange with Devereaux seemed to shock her more than the slap. Violence hinted at a mean streak, threatening a colleague implied outright psychopathy.

She leaned forward. A shaky hand found the fallen phone.

‘What’m I supposed to say?’ she said.

‘Oh, you’ll think of something. Just don’t forget about the gun in my hand.’

‘Please don’t hurt me.’ She dribbled some blood down her front.

‘Then do as I say. Obedience is a virtue, if you want to avoid getting shot in the head.’

Devereaux inventoried the room: the television would do some damage. A plastic chair wielded correctly could cause injury. Or he could just take The Don on without a weapon. Two steps and he’d be across the room. That torturous dilemma: take McCarthy down now while his back was turned, or wait and see if the woman could be coaxed to divulge something useful. The risk with the latter was he could end up complicit in Male Assaults Female. Or homicide.

McCarthy turned around and looked at him. ‘Don’t move, boyo. Don’t say a word. In fact, hold your breath, if you can manage.’

Leanne whimpered, looked up imploringly. ‘I don’t know what to say.’

McCarthy glanced down. ‘How’s this: ring his number, tell him it’s you, ask him where he is. All right?’

‘And he’s going to say, “Why you ringing at three in the morning?”’

‘And you can tell him that you’ve been wanting to call, but the police have only just got out of your hair.’

She glanced between them, looked at Devereaux. He tried to smile. ‘Just do as he says. It’ll be fine.’

‘Yeah,’ McCarthy said. ‘It’ll be fine.’

‘He mightn’t believe me.’

McCarthy said, ‘Make him believe you. I don’t really give a shit what you say, I just want to know where he is, okay? If you can manage that, I’m going to disappear, and you’ll never have to see me again.’

‘I don’t think I can remember his number, just off my head.’

‘Well, why don’t we just push redial, and see who picks up, eh?’

‘Okay.’

‘That thing got a speakerphone?’

‘I think so.’

‘Good. Turn it on, and then hit redial.’

She did as instructed. A short pause, and then Doug Allen’s ring tone sounded: an obliviously mirthful rendition of the
Friends
theme song.

The tune stopped. Static prevailed. A male voice said, ‘Hello?’

McCarthy wheeled an index finger:
Say something
.

Leanne said, ‘Doug?’

‘Ah, shit. Leanne.’ He sounded relieved. ‘I think I’m in trouble.’

McCarthy dipped his knees. He pointed at his lips, mouthed: Where are you?

Leanne’s voice shook. It took a couple of false starts to get the words out. ‘Where are you?’ she said.

‘At a motel.’

‘What motel?’ She paused, glanced up at McCarthy. ‘What motel? I can come see you.’

A long crackle-hiss on the phone.

‘Doug? Are you all right?’

‘I don’t know. I think I’ve been better.’

‘Where you at?’

‘I told you. Motel.’

‘I want to see you.’

‘Ah, shit, Leanne. Is that a good idea?’

McCarthy nodded furiously.

Leanne said, ‘What’s the place called, Doug?’

‘Paradise Inn, I think. Haven’t seen much paradise yet.’

McCarthy nodded, signalled a cut-off motion. The woman looked at him, the phone to her ear, lips shined and bleeding from where he’d hit her.

She smiled and said, ‘Sweetie, get—’

McCarthy was fast. He bent and slammed a palm against her mouth, muted her instantly. Her hands went to his wrist. McCarthy grabbed the console, swung it high and ripped the jack out of the socket. The cord snapped taut and then leapt free. He wound the phone back like a softball pitch and threw it at the woman’s face. It cracked off a raised forearm, and she shrieked. Devereaux heard movement behind him and turned just as the kid Isaac raced free of the door. Devereaux knelt and scooped the boy wailing and pulled him close. He rushed him back to the bedroom, the boy kicking and thrashing against his grip. The second kid huddled and catatonic in the corner.

Screaming in his ear: ‘He’s going to kill her. He’s going to kill her.’ So loud he had to tip his head away to stop his eardrum busting.

Devereaux dropped the child back down on the mattress. Urine smell: the blankets on the neighbouring bed were soaked in a ragged ellipse.

‘He’s going to kill her—’

‘No, he isn’t. She’ll be okay.’ Back to the door. He had to hurry. ‘I’m going to pay him back. I promise I’ll pay him back.’

He tried to help the woman, but she wouldn’t let him. Tear-streaked, hysterical. She screamed at him to get out. He left the house and sprinted back to the car. McCarthy was waiting for him.

Devereaux said, ‘I should have shot you when I had the chance.’

He sidestepped around the hood. McCarthy moved with him. He grabbed Devereaux’s collar, a two-hand choke grip, spun and slammed him against the passenger door. Breath hot with adrenaline.

‘Here’s my catch twenty-two, sergeant: I don’t like you very much, but I need you to help me take this guy down. See the problem? If he’s packing a shotgun, I’d rather have you than thin air backing me up.’

Devereaux didn’t respond. The edge of the roof bit hard across his shoulder blades. The Don’s fingers were savage: Devereaux felt temple-throb set in. He went up on his toes as McCarthy pushed him back further.

McCarthy said, ‘I loved that look on your face in there: distressed, but with a little hint of wanting to make some progress. Most people can’t go that far. Most people are pussies. Most people forget we’ve got people dead, and violent robberies dating back months, and approach it all “Yes, ma’am, no, ma’am.” Unbelievable.’

He cinched up his grip. Devereaux gagged and grimaced. McCarthy said, ‘I don’t think he’s been tipped off, but if he has, he’s long gone. So listen carefully: you can either get in line, and we’ll go pick this guy up, or I’m dumping you here.’

Devereaux raised his hands:
I give up
.

McCarthy loosened his grip. Devereaux grabbed The Don’s ears and head-butted him in the face. McCarthy’s nose cracked. He scythed a knee up, missed Devereaux’s groin, hit him in the top of the leg. Devereaux sagged, slid down against the car. He launched forwards and wrapped McCarthy in a waist-tackle, picked him up and slammed him on the road. The Don’s breath punched out of him. Blood erupted from his nostrils. Devereaux balled up and attacked his midriff: hard, short punches until McCarthy was a foetal wheezing mess. Devereaux tried to roll free, but The Don fought dirty: he felt hands in his hair, a wet tearing as clumps were ripped free. Devereaux pushed to his feet, stomped on McCarthy’s arms, his head, kicked him in the ribs.

McCarthy rolled back on his side and spat blood. Devereaux knelt and removed the holstered gun from his belt, took the keys to the Camaro from his pocket. McCarthy tried to swat him off, to no avail. He clutched his side, pinned him with one eye. ‘You piece of shit.’