Only the Dead (33 page)

McCarthy shrugged. ‘I got called out on January thirtieth, after the shooting. I searched the house and found two hundred grand in a duffel bag under the floor in a bedroom.’

‘And you took it.’

‘There are worse things in life.’

‘That moral relativism again.’

McCarthy ignored the comment. He was quiet a long time. Eventually, he said, ‘Life’s such a big crazy place; it’s amazing you can get locked into just one thing.’

Devereaux stayed silent.

McCarthy shook his head. His eyes narrowed: that gaze could raise blisters. He bent in close. Devereaux felt his breath. McCarthy said, ‘Honestly. You don’t know what obsession or addiction is until you’ve had your nose to it. Honestly. You just cannot understand.’

Devereaux didn’t answer. The room smelled of blood and steam. Cheek to the floor, the grid-mesh tile grouting seemed to stretch forever.

McCarthy rolled shut the drawer. A pair of nail clippers in each hand. He worked them idly. ‘I just wanted to know who hurt the girl. Just that. Just that one simple thing. You’re not going to scream, are you?’

Devereaux didn’t reply. His mouth was full of blood. He wasn’t sure he could have screamed if he wanted to. McCarthy
looked calm. Docile, even on the brink of bloodshed. He said, ‘Listen to me a moment.’

Devereaux spat his mouthful. ‘I’m listening.’

McCarthy said, ‘I wanted daughters. I wanted three girls.’

Devereaux said nothing.

McCarthy’s face was empty. He gestured with the clippers. ‘People who take people’s lives. It’s like a giant fuck you to all those others who want children more than anything else in the world. All I wanted to do was find who hurt that girl. Can you understand that? Does that make any kind of sense to you?’

‘You’re going to kill me.’

‘Yeah, but you’re different. You accepted the inherent risk in fucking with me.’ He shook his head. ‘I’m talking about the innocent.’ He thought for a moment. ‘People shouldn’t have to put up their lives as collateral against a normal routine. Do you know what I mean?’

Devereaux didn’t answer.

McCarthy said, ‘Edgar Allan Poe said something along the lines of man’s happiness being derived from the idea something better is just around the corner. There isn’t anything better around the corner. This is the peak of the hill. I hope you take some comfort from that. You would have struggled on in this vein for the rest of your life and never made a difference to anything.’

He dropped one pair of scissors, grabbed Devereaux’s jaw in one hand.

The bathroom door opened.

Pollard stepped in. Devereaux heard his breath catch. He pictured the view from the threshold: blood everywhere, he himself rag-doll and beaten, McCarthy in his shirtsleeves, poised to take life.

Pollard was shouting: ‘Jesus, Don. Let me see your hands. Real slow. Let me see your hands.’

McCarthy glanced over. He didn’t look surprised. He looked as if everything was unfolding as per the grand plan. He released Devereaux and drew the gun from his belt, slow.

Pollard said, ‘Jesus Christ. Don’t. Don’t make me shoot you.’ Knees and muzzle both wavering.

McCarthy ignored him. He reversed his grip on the pistol, slipped his thumb through the trigger guard. He put the muzzle in his mouth.

Devereaux kept his face blank. A tough look-away-or-keep-watching dichotomy. He didn’t want to indulge the guy’s desire to evoke shock. Maybe a last sick wish, unfulfilled.

Pollard said, ‘Oh, shit. Don’t. Don, don’t.’

McCarthy smiled, tombstone teeth light on the barrel, like holding a fat cigar. ‘I’ll be seeing you, sonny,’ he said. ‘Rest easy. Only the dead know your bad side.’

And then he pulled the trigger.

The shot blew out the back of his head. Skull and brain matter sprayed the tiles behind him. The bath caught a big gore arc. Pollard ducked in reflex.

McCarthy’s head tipped forward, chin to chest. A slack arm released the pistol. It hit the floor with a thud. The muzzle leaked a careful, gentle plume. Devereaux crawled away, tried to stay clear of the blood.

Backup arrived shortly afterwards. They were separated for questioning. Pollard was interviewed downstairs, Devereaux stayed in the living room. A uniformed sergeant took his statement while a paramedic patched him up. Devereaux kept details lean. He said he’d arrived at the house and McCarthy had assaulted him. He said The Don shot himself when
confronted by Pollard. He didn’t explain why he was in the house. He omitted details of the conversation that preceded the attack. They pushed him for specifics. Devereaux said he’d discuss the matter with Lloyd Bowen.

Bowen showed at seven forty-five. Devereaux was outside on the deck. The inspector walked to the door of the bathroom and stood there a moment. He and The Don went back years. The suicide news must have left him numb: a crime scene tech’s question bounced straight off. He ran a hand down his tie and turned and came outside onto the deck. He was keeping it together well: a good blank face was on display.
A hard edge of a man
.

Devereaux was propped on the rail, facing the window.

Bowen stood beside him and looked out over the street. He removed silvered aviator shades from a jacket pocket without looking down. Two neat clicks as he unfolded them. ‘I told you not to leave the motel.’

‘I needed to come here.’

‘So you could drive him to suicide?’

Bowen donned the glasses and looked at him. Devereaux saw his own reflection: a distorted miniature in each curved lens. He said, ‘I didn’t drive him to anything.’

‘You don’t look like you should be standing.’

He didn’t feel like he should be standing either. His head was throbbing. His mouth felt raw. But he didn’t want to take a stretcher and risk having Bowen bedside. The idea of being talked down to didn’t thrill him.

‘What are you doing here, sergeant? And don’t fuck me about. I haven’t had my coffee.’

Devereaux told him. Bowen listened blankly: calm verging on boredom. ‘You think he was in possession of stolen money?’

‘Yes.’

‘A senior police officer complicit in theft?’

‘I’ve heard of stranger things.’

‘But that’s your contention?’

Devereaux nodded. ‘I think he was complicit in all kinds of stuff.’

Bowen eyed him humourlessly. ‘Who needs respect for the dead, eh?’

Devereaux turned and put his hands on the railing. ‘He was going to kill me. The respect might take a little while to surface.’

Across the road he could see kettle steam condensing against a window. A half-height curtain framed toast being buttered. Maybe nobody knew they had a dead neighbour. The buildings all huddled on their narrow streets, the lives within so perfectly separate, devoid of overlap.

Bowen said, ‘I don’t know whether to hope you’re wrong or not.’

‘If I’m wrong, he wouldn’t have beat the shit out of me.’

Bowen didn’t reply.

Devereaux said, ‘I told him I knew he’d stolen money from the crime scene after the shooting in January. He denied it and told me to leave. I didn’t, so he attacked me.’

‘And then shot himself?’

‘Pollard walked in on everything. I guess he felt he didn’t have many other options.’

‘What was Pollard doing here?’

‘I called him from the car before I came inside.’

‘A cynic might interpret that as some kind of premeditation.’

Devereaux said, ‘A cynic might interpret that as a naïve and PR-centric remark.’

‘PR-centric?’

‘If McCarthy was a crook, you’re not going to come out of this looking too good.’

Bowen let the comment slide. He said, ‘Why did you feel you needed to call Pollard?’

‘I thought there was a good chance of things going bad.’

‘But you didn’t want to wait for more backup.’

‘Bad is relative. I thought things might get uncivilised as opposed to horrific.’

Bowen watched him a while. He said, ‘You’re keeping it together well.’

‘I don’t find it all that sad.’

Bowen turned and looked at his reflection in the ranch slider. He folded his arms. ‘You think we’re going to search the place and find stolen money?’

He wouldn’t have bet his life on it. He said, ‘I’d bet my life on it.’

Bowen said, ‘So what’s the motive?’

‘Not like you to actually believe something I say, Lloyd.’

‘It’s inspector, or sir.’

Devereaux didn’t answer.

Bowen said, ‘What’s the motive?’

‘He wanted to find who hurt the girl during the fight club robbery in January.’

‘That doesn’t sound like a motive.’

‘He issued a contract to find who was responsible. He had a lawyer named Alan Rowe looking into it. Rowe hired a private investigator to work the case, on the basis it was Rowe’s own daughter who’d been hurt.’

Bowen contemplated for a moment. ‘And I’m guessing this aforementioned investigator is your old colleague John Hale.’

‘You don’t miss much.’

Bowen stepped to the ranch slider. ‘Wait here. If you leave the scene, I’ll have you arrested.’

‘I thought you’d want to stay and bargain with me.’

Bowen moved back to the railing, looked down at the street. ‘You sound like you’re building up to threaten me with something.’

‘I was actually going to make a request first.’

‘First.’

Devereaux didn’t push it.

Bowen said, ‘I’m listening.’

Warm toast smell riding a warm breeze. Devereaux said, ‘I want to keep my job, and I don’t want any charges brought against John Hale.’

‘I don’t have unilateral control.’

‘But you have clout. You can make stuff happen. Or stop it from happening.’

‘Why would I want to do that?’

Devereaux directed a nod indoors. ‘You’ve got a senior detective implicated in major crime. You really need to keep a lid on it.’

‘You’re not going to spread the story.’

‘If I’m no longer employed, I’ll have no reason not to.’

Bowen didn’t answer. The sunglasses obscured inner workings.

Devereaux said, ‘Certainly, John Hale isn’t obliged to keep his mouth shut.’

Bowen looked at him. ‘You seem very confident.’

And yet he wasn’t feeling it. Devereaux said, ‘You don’t seem all that shocked he’s dead.’

‘Neither do you. And it’s your reaction that’s most important.’

‘Because?’

‘No reason. You normally carry a gun around with you?’

‘Only when accusing people of theft.’

‘You know how he sustained those head injuries?’

‘I don’t want to discuss this any further.’

Bowen smiled. ‘The number of guilty men I’ve heard say that.’

Devereaux didn’t answer.

Bowen moved back to the slider. ‘You’ll know by the end of the day,’ he said.

‘About what?’

‘If we find cash on the premises, you’re off the hook. Otherwise, I need to book you in for a talk.’ He paused on the threshold. ‘You’d better pray to God Doug Allen doesn’t die.’

He stayed on the deck a long time. Nobody joined him. People knew his place in the scheme of things:
he was here when it happened. He saw Don McCarthy shoot himself in the head
.

Frank Briar showed up. He checked out the bathroom, but he didn’t hang around. He saw Devereaux through the glass and came outside to join him.

‘You prick. You killed him.’

‘If only.’

‘What’s that supposed to mean?’

Devereaux didn’t answer. Briar came close. Devereaux smelled alcohol: maybe a swig of something before he left home, to take the hard edge off the news.

Briar said, ‘People know you didn’t like him. People know you were scared of him. You’ll go down for this. You are going to fucking burn.’

Devereaux didn’t move. Briar was bigger than him: one nudge would send him backwards onto concrete. Devereaux said, ‘I know what you did to Leroy Turner. I know what that pig Blake did to Howard Ford. I only hope you have the decency to do what McCarthy did, before I have to do it myself.’

Last straw: Briar grabbed him by the throat and shoved him
hard, screaming something wild, arching him back over the rail, his torso hanging in fresh air. He clung to the rail, eyes clenched, until the slider opened and the officers from inside pulled Briar away from him.

He went outside and found a patrol car and shut himself in the back. That sudden lovely quiet. He called custody at Auckland Central Police and asked for Hale.

‘This isn’t reception at the fucking Hilton.’

‘Put John Hale on.’

He waited out a spell of complaining.

Hale came on the line. He said, ‘What happened?’

‘McCarthy’s dead.’

‘You killed him?’

‘No, he shot himself in the head.’

‘So it’s over.’

‘Yeah. It’s done.’

‘Tell me what happened.’

Devereaux walked him through the morning. When he’d finished talking Hale said, ‘I’m going to get a dog.’

‘Why?’

‘Because I want one. I met one called Gerry the other day.’

‘Who does he belong to?’

‘Hopefully, nobody yet. I’m going to go and get him from the SPCA.’

‘You haven’t had a dog in ages.’

‘I know. I had an epiphany in jail. I need a dog.’

‘Okay.’

‘When you visit we can walk it.’

Devereaux watched cops and ambulance men exit McCarthy’s front door. A latex symphony as gloves were torn free. He saw an empty stretcher carried out. He could smell
his own blood on the hand holding the phone. He said, ‘All right, good. We’ll do that.’

The call came through that afternoon: gold Nissan Maxima found abandoned south of Auckland, two men KIA in the back. Devereaux had taken the afternoon off, but Comms dialled him direct. He decided to check it out. He wasn’t dire: a doctor had diagnosed mild concussion. He’d been given painkillers and a dental referral. A drive wouldn’t be fatal.

The car had been left on the verge of a small country road, not far off the main highway. It had probably been sitting there since January thirtieth. Passing traffic was meagre: two weeks before someone twigged the Nissan was more than just your standard breakdown.

Devereaux got down there just before two. He was calm. McCarthy’s death hadn’t rattled him. It was relief more than shock. He’d made it to the end credits, and he couldn’t help but feel good about it.