Only the Dead (30 page)

Devereaux stayed on his haunches. He checked left and right. No bystanders. Dark and dreary housing looked on forlornly. The dog he’d seen earlier slunk in silhouette across the road ahead. He patted McCarthy on the shoulder. ‘Don’t tell me you weren’t warned.’

McCarthy spat blood. ‘The gun’s not loaded.’

‘Doesn’t make a difference to the person you’re pointing it at.’

He stood and looked around. Blood spray against the road markings. This dismal little scene. He wondered what other squalid conflict had come and gone in that same moment, under that same moon.

He removed his cellphone and called Comms. Paradise Inn: one Auckland listing, a nearby address. Devereaux considered
requesting an ambulance, but decided not to. Let him bleed. He thanked the operator and ended the call.

McCarthy had crawled to the footpath. He was sitting on the edge of the kerb, head tilted back, pinching the bridge of his nose. Knots of Devereaux’s hair weaved through his fingers. Twin crimson trails ran out along his cheeks, like some garish moustache. Devereaux stood and watched him a moment. A winking aircraft light slid high across the nightscape, a slow and distant arc.

Devereaux looked at the Blair house. All the windows were lit. He heard children crying. He got into the car and drove away.

T
HURSDAY
, 16 F
EBRUARY
, 3.00
A.M
.

L
et’s all take a drive and have a chat.’

Rowe’s suggestion. The destination was unspecified, but Hale didn’t push it. ‘Chat’ seemed euphemistic: he sensed strong-arm cease-and-desist tactics were probably intended.

The car was a silver Chrysler 300C sedan, parked down on Fort Street. Beck normally drove, but Hale’s presence shook up the status quo: Rowe took the wheel, Beck sat in the back with Hale.

Rowe drove them out onto Queen Street and turned left, uptown. The Chrysler’s reflection tracked them ghostlike, a grey distortion leaping big then small, one window to the next.

Hale said, ‘You can start explaining now.’

Rowe tipped his head back, firmed up his tie knot against his throat. ‘Watch your manners in my car.’

Beck laughed.

Rowe said, ‘I’ve acted for some really shitty people, and not all of them were in a position to pay.’ He found Hale’s eyes in the mirror. ‘So bear in mind I’m owed favours from some pretty unsavoury individuals.’

They stopped at a red light, all alone on that quiet street. To the left, Vulcan Lane fed through to High Street. He thought of the Escort parked there, the shotgun concealed in the back seat. He almost smiled at the stupidity of it.

Rowe propped an elbow on the sill, picked a thumbnail. ‘Your ethics are a little concerning,’ he said.

Hale didn’t reply.

Rowe said, ‘I would’ve thought a cornerstone of professionalism is that you investigate a job only when asked. I didn’t think — how did you put it? Civic responsibility — would factor into it.’

‘I’m quite progressive.’

Rowe laughed. He looked at Hale in the mirror. ‘Your services are no longer required. I get the feeling you’re going to take a bit of persuading to agree to that.’

‘What happened to your daughter?’

‘You’re wasting breath.’

‘You wasted my time. Three days’ worth.’

The light went green. They eased onward. Beck sucked a tooth, watched shop fronts film-reel past.

Rowe said, ‘And I offered to pay you. I’m struggling to see the issue.’

‘Pull over up here. I’m done with this.’

‘No, you’re not.’

‘Is this a kidnap, is it?’

‘No. You got in the car voluntarily.’

‘Problem lies in the fact I can’t get out again.’

Rowe shrugged. ‘It’s No Parking all along this stretch.’

‘I’ll pay the fine.’

‘Bad luck, sunshine.’

‘Then I’m sorry.’

Rowe’s crinkled eyes in the mirror. ‘Why’s that?’

‘If I’m abducted, I’m pretty well licensed to do anything short of murder.’

Beck didn’t see it coming. Hale dealt him a low, left-hand jab, struck him in the side of the gut. Beck crumpled into it,
dropped his arms in reflex. Hale came over the top with a big right and punched him twice in the face: mouth, then nose. He felt stitches rip, pulled back in agony.

Rowe said, ‘Jesus, Beck. Don’t just take it.’

The head-hits left Beck stunned and bleeding. He aimed a straight-right for Hale’s nose. It was a poor blow. The seat cramped him. His belt held him back. The shock wasn’t helping. Hale locked the guy’s wrist and held on. Rowe swung them to the roadside: a graunch as the high kerb chewed polished wheel rims, a hard lurch as he ripped the brake. Hale kept his grip on Beck’s arm. He popped his seatbelt and landed another punch. Beck caught it on the ear and slumped against the window.

Hale’s door opened behind him. He felt hands on his shoulders, around his neck. Rowe dragged him out onto the road. He watched his own splayed legs slide backwards across the seat, dropped and thumped against the pavement. A bleaching dazzle of headlights, a panicked horn blare as a car chicaned past. Instinct made him keep his face protected: he took two punches on raised forearms, then spun and kicked out. He made shin contact. Rowe backed away and took off up Queen Street. Hale rolled over and found his feet.

Beck was out of the car. His nose was bleeding: both nostrils gushing full on. He came in hard. Boxing tactics: arms raised to parry headshots. It left his lower torso and legs exposed. Hale kicked him in the groin. Beck retched and dry-heaved, then folded forwards, one arm raised weakly. Hale tracked around him, a crab-stepped quarter-circle. The injury slowed Beck down: he couldn’t match the move. Hale stepped high, kicked him hard in the cheek with his heel. Beck’s head boomed and bounced off the sheet metal. He spat a loose arc of blood and hit the road.

Hale said, ‘You wouldn’t have been much work for Sugar Ray.’

He walked around the back of the car, a man-shaped shroud
across one brake light and then the other. He popped a collar button and checked inside his shirt. Dougie’s bullet wound had bled through the bandaging. He should have considered seepage before donning the suit.

The hazard lights were blinking patiently amber. Somehow Rowe had thought to flick the switch.

Hale looked left, saw Rowe southbound on Queen. Hale pursued. The stitches pegged his sprint back to a limping jog.

Rowe turned and saw him coming. ‘Jesus.’ He raised an open palm, trying to ward him off. Hale swung a wide kick mid-step and swept Rowe’s ankles from under him. Rowe tripped and went down. He crashed on outstretched arms.

‘Christ. Don’t hurt me.’ He rolled over.

‘I got shot yesterday; still took you guys two-on-one. Stay on the ground.’

He checked his shirt. It was showing evidence of scarlet ooze. He rebuttoned the suit jacket. Down the street the car stared at him, headlights a fierce white, road in vivid relief. Beck was up on one knee, leaning against the bonnet.

Hale said, ‘What happened?’

‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’

Hale put a foot on his throat. He applied gentle pressure. Rowe bucked and gagged, clawed at his ankle. ‘Jesus. Don’t.’

‘Answer the question. If you sit up, I’m going to kick your teeth in.’

A car passed by on Queen. Alone there on the pavement they were unmistakable, but it didn’t slow down. Rowe watched with sick longing as it diminished. He said, ‘People owe me favours. You’ve got no idea how much shit you’re in.’

‘I’ll sleep with one eye open.’ He trod hard across Rowe’s fingers.

‘Fuck. That’s my tennis hand.’

‘Start talking.’

Rowe snatched his hand back, brought the arm close to his chest, like comforting something feeble. ‘Beck had a thing for her.’

‘Your bodyguard had the hots for your daughter?’

‘Yeah. She’s a looker; he’s only human.’

‘Keep going.’

‘Look, it’s no big deal. He made a move on her, she wasn’t interested. He got kind of wound up, roughed her up a little bit.’

‘Roughed-up is a bit of an understatement.’

‘Well. She’s okay now.’

‘Where is she?’

‘She doesn’t live with me. It’s fine; I send her money. It’s all totally, totally fine.’

‘You kept the bodyguard and got rid of the daughter.’

‘He’s good at what he does.’

‘I know; I saw the pictures.’

‘So he’s wound a little tight.’ He shrugged. ‘I took it as a good sign.’

‘There’s nobody around, maybe I should kill you.’

‘Don’t kid yourself.’

‘I’ll tell them you tripped and broke your neck.’

‘No, don’t. Please don’t.’

‘What should I tell them then?’

‘Don’t hurt me.’

‘Why did you have me looking into the robberies?’

‘Just money.’

‘You thought I’d find the loot and give it to you? You’ve got to be joking.’

‘No, there’s a contract out.’

‘How much?’

A car had pulled up alongside the Chrysler. Hale saw a
woman climb out of the passenger seat.

Rowe said, ‘I could call out.’

Hale shrugged. ‘It’ll take them a while to walk over here. Longer than it would take me to break your arm.’

Rowe shut up.

Hale said, ‘How much was the contract?’

‘Half a million.’

‘Why didn’t you just tell me that to start with?’

‘Well. It’s kind of unofficial.’

‘Who posted it?’

Rowe told him.

The dilemma: call for backup and hit the motel with armed support, or satiate the urge to finish things himself.

Devereaux called for backup.

The same Comms operator answered. Devereaux explained the situation. The operator told him to wait. Devereaux said the suspect had been potentially tipped off about an arrest, and he had to move now. He didn’t wait for a reply.

The Paradise Inn was north of the Blair address, a ten-minute drive up Great South Road. It was a long single-level building paralleling the road, set back behind low metal fencing and a tarsealed stretch of parking. Devereaux drove past and stopped the car on the opposite side of the road, fifty metres out. McCarthy hadn’t lied: the gun wasn’t loaded. He found a box of nine-mil hollow points under the passenger seat, fed the magazine with damp and jerky hands.

Come on. Get it together
.

His own advice kept seesawing. On the one hand: be patient and wait for some help. On the other: you’ve lost a lot of sleep over this. You’ve earned your starring role.

He got out of the car, and just stood a moment watching the
motel. A drape behind an open window waved at him limply. He crossed the street, shirt untucked to disguise the gun in his belt. There were half a dozen cars in the lot, no Toyota Hilux. Maybe Doug had dumped it. Or maybe he’d already fled.

There was a double-level admin annexe at one end. He figured reception at ground level, a live-in manager up top. The door to reception was locked. He put a hand-visored gaze to the glass, saw a counter protected by drop-down security mesh. A laminated sign above a magazine rack displayed an after-hours emergency number.

Devereaux rounded the corner of the building, out of sight of the attached units, dialled on his cellphone. A woman answered.

‘You realise this is the emergency number, not general bookings.’

‘I’m a police officer, I need you downstairs immediately. Don’t turn on any lights.’

‘What’s going on?’

‘Please just come downstairs.’

He moved back around to the door, watched the long row of rooms as he waited. After a minute a woman in her early sixties appeared behind the desk, obscured by the security grille. Glow from an adjoining room backlit her gently. He didn’t have his badge. She must have decided he looked like a cop. She came through a side door beside the counter and unlocked the main entry. Devereaux stepped inside.

‘I told you not to turn on any lights.’

‘If I tripped and fell down the stairs, you’d have a proper emergency, I tell you.’

Devereaux pulled the door gently. She sized him up.

‘Heavens. You’ve got a gun and everything.’

‘You had any new check-ins today?’

‘Two actually.’

‘Guy in a Toyota ute?’

‘That like a pickup sort of thing?’

‘Yeah.’

She nodded. ‘Yes, we did.’

‘Is he still here?’

‘Well, I guess so. Though I wouldn’t know if he’s left during the night.’

‘What room is he?’

‘Is he in a lot of trouble?’

Devereaux nodded. ‘Fuck-loads.’

‘There’s no need to talk like that.’

‘It’s been a long day. What room is he?’

She thought about it. ‘I put him in twelve. Only one we had free.’

‘You got a master key?’

‘You just going straight in?’

‘Yeah. We’ll see what happens.’

She moved back around the counter, removed a key from a drawer.

‘Any of the rooms have a chain on the door?’ he said.

‘Some of them do.’

‘Does number twelve?’

‘I can’t remember.’ She handed him the key. ‘Do you want me to do anything?’

‘No. Just stay here. There’ll be more police coming soon.’

‘Will you be okay by yourself?’

‘If not, it’ll be a sign of something.’

She didn’t understand what he meant. He thanked her and walked out. His pulse ran in double time to his step. The cold darkness and the weight of the gun in his hand. The concrete underfoot, the long row of doors, it reminded him of
his cellblock visits. Maybe this was what it was like to approach the electric chair. The last dark walk before the end. He made it along to number twelve and just stood there facing the door. The neat brass numerals staring back.

He waited and listened, square on to the door. Like summoning the guts to knock for a first date. Swap that gun for a nice bouquet. A car passed on the road and strobed him weakly. The Glock grips slick in his hand. His shirt clinging. Heart racing at blow-out tempo.

Suicide. You should wait for backup
.

He put the key in the lock. The slightest metallic grating. He turned the key and the knob at the same time and stepped inside, gun up.

The room was small. A breakfast bar separated a kitchen in the back from the main living area. A man was seated on the near side of the bar, a shotgun laid across a table beside him, muzzle aimed at the entry. A reading lamp on the wall above his head was switched on. The yellow glow diminished radially into a leaden darkness.

Devereaux said, ‘Put your hands on your head and lie down slowly on the floor.’

‘I thought you’d be coming.’

‘Put your hands up.’

He shook his head. ‘No. And don’t come closer. Just stay there. Just stay in the door.’

He looked scared, and stressed. Devereaux tried to sound calm. ‘I just need you to move away from the gun, Douglas.’

‘I can’t.’

‘Yes, you can. Of course you can.’

‘Don’t come closer. Just stay in the door.’

‘Okay. I’m staying in the door. Just keep your hands steady. I don’t want to shoot you.’

‘Suicide-by-cop, right? That’s what they call it.’

‘Yeah. But we’re not going to do things that way.’

‘You were lit coming to the door,’ the guy said. ‘I saw where your feet made a shadow. I could have shot you through the door.’

‘But you didn’t because you want it to end.’

‘I never thought that things would go this bad.’

‘I know you didn’t. But they have.’