CHAPTER 13
The next morning, Gary decided to visit what was left of his apartment. In case the bomber was lurking about, waiting for him to return, he paid off the taxi driver a hundred metres away and strolled about doing a threat assessment. Nothing unusual caught his eye.
He approached the apartment block. Ray Boland was right: he wouldn't get his bond back. His small balcony was now a gaping hole blackened around the edges. All the surrounding windows were blown out. Broken glass crunched underfoot.
The fire brigade had placed a wooden barrier across the main entrance and erected a large sign forbidding entry. Gary gingerly climbed over the barrier and slowly mounted the stairs, chest aching, to the top floor. His shredded front door lay half-way along the corridor. Crime-scene tape crisscrossed the charred opening.
Gary tore off the tape and entered. The living room was a blackened cave with bits of burnt furniture. The firemen's hoses had turned the ash-laden carpet into a soggy mess. Its stench was terrible. Fire and water had expunged all traces of Robyn Parsons. Not even a drop of dried blood.
His bedroom was the only room the fire didn't reach. But it still had extensive smoke and water damage. All of his clothes were ruined, which had to be a good thing.
Leaving the bedroom, he heard feet squelch through the front door. He ducked into the kitchen shell and drew his pistol.
A short, fat man in a light-grey suit came around the corner. Though he looked harmless, Gary stepped out and aimed at his head. "Who the fuck're you?"
Colour drained from the guy's face and Gary realised he couldn't be the bomber: he was a sheep, not a goat.
The guy's eyes locked on the pistol. "I … umm … ahhh … own this building."
Gary had always dealt with a real estate agent. "Got a card?"
"Umm … ahhh … yeah. Sure."
Still staring at the pistol, the man fumbled around inside his jacket and took out a wallet. He extracted a business card and handed it to Gary, who glanced down.
Robert Fredericks
Managing Director
Paradise Properties
Paradise, my arse. Wasn't before and certainly wasn't now.
Gary had dealt with lots of landlords and hated them all. He tucked away his pistol and smiled. "Mr Fredericks, I'm sorry I frightened you. I'm Detective Connolly from the Homicide Squad. What're you doing here?"
Fredericks licked his lips. "Trying to find the tenant, Gary Maddox. I understand he's still alive."
"That's right."
"Do you know where he is?"
"No. Why do you want to find him?"
Fredericks rolled his eyes and frowned. "Are you kidding? Look what he's done to this fucking apartment."
Gary looked around sympathetically. "It's a bit of a mess, isn't it?"
"It's a disaster. I've been a landlord for a long time and had lots of lousy tenants. Some are like animals: they piss on carpets, dig holes in walls, start fires, shit in bins. But nobody ever blew up his apartment. Jesus, what a catastrophe."
"We don't think Mr Maddox planted the bomb."
"I don't care. He was the tenant - he's responsible."
"What'll you do when you find him?"
"Sue him of course. By the time my lawyers have finished with him, he'll be begging on the streets."
"Aren't you insured?"
"Yes, but the policy doesn't cover man-made explosions."
Gary frowned. "Well, I'd think twice before suing Maddox."
The landlord scowled. "Why?"
"Because he's a very dangerous man. In fact, we think he's committed several murders. That's why his apartment was bombed. Someone wanted revenge. If I was you, I'd leave him alone."
The landlord's Adam's apple did a nervous jig. "Are you telling me that, if I sue him, the police won't protect me?"
Gary shrugged. "Oh, we'll do our best. But we're under-resourced and can't give guarantees. Like I said, he's a very dangerous man. In fact, the guy's a psychopath." Gary loved stretching out that last word.
The landlord rose onto his tiptoes and puffed out his chest. "I'm going to sue him anyway."
"Good on you. Now, I have to ask you to leave, because this is a crime scene."
The landlord frowned and stomped out of the apartment, Gary on his heels. "Fucking tenants - scum of the earth."
Outside, the landlord turned to Gary and snapped: "What'd you say your name was?"
Gary reckoned the guy should show more respect to someone he thought was a cop, and felt offended. "Detective Connolly."
"If you find Maddox, let me know, OK?"
"Sure, I'll give you a call."
The landlord hopped into a late-model BMW and drove off.
Gary's battered Pulsar was the only car left in the car park. Were the big dents in the hood due to the explosion or were they there before? He couldn't remember.
He crawled underneath and checked for a bomb. Everything looked factory installed. Despite that, when he turned the key in the ignition, his hands sweated. The engine coughed a few times before idling roughly.
He drove over to his office and parked outside. While climbing the concrete steps, he realised the door to his office might be booby-trapped. It had a heavy Yale deadlock. But the bomber was very resourceful.
Gary closely inspected the lock, looking for scratch marks, and saw none. Gently, he turned the key and nudged the door open. The hinges squeaked. No shattering explosion.
Warily, he slipped inside, closed the door behind him and searched the whole office for a bomb. He even took the cover off his computer monitor to look inside and found nothing.
He phoned Detective Inspector Marks at the Homicide Squad.
The detective's grumpiness was a health hazard. "You should have called me before leaving the hospital. Why'd you leave so soon?"
"Because I wanted to keep breathing."
"I gave you some guards."
"You kidding? When I looked at them, I just knew I was gonna die. How's your investigation going?"
"Not much progress. When can you come in and look through your old files?"
Gary didn't intend to help the Homicide cops, because he alone would exact vengeance. But he wanted to look co-operative and tap them for information. "Any time you like."
"Good. Come in today. When you get here, ask for Detective Constable Phillips."
Gary didn't take the Tokarev to Police Headquarters because the metal detector at the entrance would have a heart attack. Instead, he left it in a filing cabinet in his office.
He reached Police Headquarters just after noon and, after passing through the detector, asked to see Phillips. The constable on duty phoned her and said he'd arrived. Five minutes later, she emerged from a lift. The last time he saw her, he lay in a hospital bed. Now he could examine the whole package. She was quite stocky, with a strong face and slightly broken nose. Most women would have had it straightened. She obviously didn't follow the herd. He liked that.
A firm handshake. "Thanks for coming. Let's go upstairs."
They strolled over to the lifts. While waiting, she said: "Have you been back to your apartment since you got out of the hospital?"
Best to lie. "I drove past it, but didn't stop. Why?"
"I spoke to the owner this morning. He claimed he met a Detective Connolly from the Homicide Squad at your apartment, and Detective Connolly pointed a pistol at him."
Gary raised his eyebrows. "So?"
"We don't have a Detective Connolly."
Gary shrugged. "Not my fault."
She frowned. "So I got him to describe Detective Connolly. Funnily enough, he described you."
"I have very common features."
She scowled. "Hardly. You claimed you were Detective Connolly, didn't you?"
"Of course not."
"I don't believe you."
"I can't help that."
She looked at him sternly. "Listen to me very carefully, Mr Maddox. Don't ever impersonate a police officer again. If you do, I'll have you arre
sted, understand?"
"Like I said, I don't know what you're talking about."
"Don't treat me like a fool."
Gary was tired of lying and shrugged. "OK. Maybe I did impersonate a cop. So what? Most of the people in this building do that every day. In fact, they get paid to do it."
A smile flitted across her lips. At least she had a sense of humour. "The landlord was threatened with a pistol. I hope you're not carrying it right now."
He raised his arms. "You can search me if you want."
To his surprise, she pulled back the lapels of his jacket and glanced inside. Obviously, his credibility wasn't high.
They left the lift on the fifteenth floor. Instead of taking him into the Homicide squad room, she led him down a side corridor to a small office. In the middle was a large metal table, piled high with files.
She said: "These are the files of all investigations you were involved with on the Narcotics Strikeforce. Look through them and tell us who might still have a bad grudge against you."
"There'll probably be quite a few."
She put her hands on her hips. "That doesn't surprise me one bit. Make a list anyway. I'll be back in a couple of hours."
"Could you bring me a cup of coffee?"
She frowned. "No."
"Thanks."
The detective disappeared. Gary thumbed through the files and recalled his years working undercover, when he feasted on the big jolts of adrenalin you don't get in normal life. To do his job, he befriended drug dealers by listening to their problems, laughing at their shit jokes and massaging their fragile egos. He often became the best friend they'd ever had. So, when he arrested them, they got a huge kick in the guts. They were less upset about going to gaol - that was an occupational hazard - than the fact their best mate sold them out. That made them feel cheap and used.
The only dealer who didn't blame Gary for his arrest was a Gypsy Joker bikie called Ugly Tony, who claimed he'd never get caught because his scrawny Labrador could smell cops. But the dog loved Gary, who took it for long walks. So, when Ugly Tony got arrested, he kicked the shit out of the dog until Gary stopped him.
Most of the dealers he arrested were either too spineless to plant the bomb or already dead. But several whackos, whose only emotion was hate, would have done it for kicks. Gary didn't have the time or energy to track them down and check their alibis. Best to let the detectives do the leg work and keep an eye on them. So he put their files on a separate pile.
By the time Phillips returned, two hours later, he'd gone through most of the files and put half-a-dozen on the wacko pile.
She said: "How's it going?"
"I forgot I had so many enemies. Most are harmless. But those bastards would plant a bomb in a kindergarten." Gary pointed at the wacko pile.
"OK. We'll check out their alibis."
"Good." Time for lunch. He reached for his jacket and considered inviting her along. Yes, why not? He liked her directness and throaty voice. She didn't act like a woman, she was one. "I'm going to get some lunch. Want to join me? I'll pay."
She hesitated and shook her head. "I'm sorry, I've still got a lot of work to do …"
"Listen, you should have lunch with me and pretend to be friendly. Then I might let down my guard and blurt out something I shouldn't. You never know what might slip out."
A tight smile. "I get the impression, Mr Maddox, that you're always on your guard."
"You'd be surprised. I'm quite a blabbermouth."
"I doubt that."
"There's only one way to find out, isn't there?"
She frowned and glanced at her watch. "Alright, but I don't have long."
"Sure."
At her suggestion, they went to a cafe under the building, where they sat and ordered focaccias.
He said: "Why'd you become a cop?"
"I know it sounds ridiculous, but for some reason, I thought it would be a great adventure."
"Hah. And it didn't turn out like that?"
"No. I feel like I'm wading through a sewer every day, up to my neck."
"I know what you mean. Tell me, you working full time on this investigation?"
"Yes. Marks is in charge, but I do most of the running around. A few junior detectives are helping me."
The focaccias arrived. As she took a bite, a heavy vein popped out on her forearm. He wondered how much she could bench-press. Probably quite a bit.
She said: "But let's talk about you - why'd you become a cop?"
Gary decided to throw her a scrap. "That's easy: my dad was a cop for 41 years."
She looked surprised. "You mean, your father was George Maddox?"
"You've heard of him?"
"Of course. He was a legend."
She was right. His father had a brilliant career, winning numerous commendations for bravery and excellence, before retiring as head of the Major Crime Squad. Gary was often told they didn't make cops like him anymore. "He sure was."
"And you decided to follow in his footsteps?"
"Correct. Never really considered doing anything else."
"When did he retire?"
"About five years ago."
"Is he still alive?"
"No, died a couple of years ago."
"Sorry to hear that. Do you miss being a cop?"
He smiled. "I don't miss the backstabbing, arse-kissing and mountains of paperwork. But I liked working undercover. I really enjoyed seizing drugs and arresting scumbags."
"Tell me about that."
So he told her about his time on the Narcotics Strikeforce: the buys, the raids, the busts. He told her stuff that he'd never told anyone. It just spilled out. He even told her about the time a dealer pulled out a gun and patted him down for a wire.
She said: "Did he find one?"
"Yep. It was taped to the middle of my chest."
"Christ. What did you do?"
Gary smiled. "I told him it was a pacemaker. Said I had a bad heart and if he touched it, I'd die."
She laughed. "You're kidding?"
"No, and the dumb bastard actually believed me. Kept apologising and got worried about my health."
"What an idiot."
"Well, you don't have to sit an exam to be a drug dealer, do you?"
"No. What happened to him?"
"As soon as he put the pistol away, I arrested him. Felt kinda bad about that. I mean, he really cared."
"Sounds like you made a lot of arrests."
"I sure did, because I was a damn good cop."
"But not a modest one?"
A languid smile. "I'm trying to be honest."
"Lots of drug cops go dirty, don't they?"
"Yes."
She leaned forward and stared hard. "Did you?"
He locked eyeballs. "You want the truth?"
"Of course."
"Then I admit it: I'm a drug kingpin."
She looked startled and frowned. "Hah, very funny."
He shrugged. "I knew you wouldn't believe me."
"I don't. So tell me: why'd you quit the force?"
Gary joined the force because of his father ... and quit because of him. The event that made him quit occurred a couple of years ago. A hospital phoned to say his father had a heart attack and was in Intensive Care. He raced over there and was shown into a sterile room with white walls, white curtains, white blankets and sheets. His father always looked like he'd swallowed an extra pint of life. Now he breathed through a respirator. All the vitality had been sucked from his unshaven face, leaving a flaccid mask. It was as if he was dead, but didn't realise that.
Gary held his father's hand and said all the right things: that he'd get better and everything would be alright. But his father knew he was dying and weakly shook his head. "No, not this time ... don't have long ... something I've got to tell you."
In a disembodied tone, his father explained how, while a cop, he "put aside" some money and buried it in a corner of his backyard. There was still about $300,000 left. "Dig it up and spe
nd it".
Gary didn't have to ask his father how he got the money. It was obviously dirty. All his life he fought to win his father's respect. That was why he became a cop. So, when his father told him about the money, he felt betrayed. If he stayed a cop, he'd be competing with a lie. He wouldn't do that and quit. After his father's funeral, he also dug up the money and gave it away to a couple of charities.
How could he explain all of that to Detective Phillips in a way she'd understand? He couldn't. Anyway, it was none of her business. He shrugged. "I'd rather not say."
She leaned forward. "Why not? Did you do something wrong?"
"No."
"Then tell me."
"It's none of your business."
She arched her eyebrows "OK then, tell me about Robyn Parsons."
A lump formed in his throat. "What do you want to know?"
"Did you have a relationship?"
"No, we were just friends."
She raised an eyebrow. "Really? You mean you didn't sleep with her?"
"Correct. Never got around to it."
"Why not?"
"Because we ran out of time. Have you spoken to her parents?"
"Yes. They're shattered, of course. Can't understand how their daughter got blown to bits."
Gary felt sick with remorse. "I bet they can't. I suppose I'll have to talk to them at some stage. I don't know what I'll say."
"Well, that reminds me: the funeral's tomorrow."
"Where?"
"Eleven o'clock at St Agnes in Darlinghurst. Will you be there?"
Robyn's funeral was the last event in the world he wanted to attend, but he had no choice. "Of course."
"OK. I'll be there too, so if you spot anyone who might be the bomber, let me know."
"Sure."
After eating their focaccias, they went back upstairs and he kept looking through the files.
An hour later, after putting a few more files on the wacko pile, he phoned Detective Phillips and said he'd finished. A minute later, she entered with Detective Inspector Marks behind her.
She said: "Finished?"
"Yep. If the bomber's someone I arrested, he's probably in in that pile." Gary pointed at the wacko pile.
She said: "Thanks. We'll start checking on them as soon as possible. What're you going to do now?"
"Keep a very low profile."
Marks said: "Where'll you stay?"
Gary shook his head. "Can't tell you."
"Why not?"
"Someone's trying to kill me, so I won't even tell myself where I'm staying." He got to his feet. "See you around."
"Make sure you stay in touch."
"Of course."
After Detective Phillips led Gary out of the building, she strolled around to Marks' office and found him seated behind his desk. She said: "Do you think he knows who the bomber is?"
"Not sure. But one thing's certain: he intends to deal with the guy himself; he doesn't want him arrested, he wants him dead."
"Agree. And I bet the bomber still wants him dead. It'll be an interesting contest, won't it? Who do you think'll win?"
Marks smiled. "Don't know and don't care. We've just got to be at the showdown and arrest the survivor."
"If there is one."
"Yes. So keep Maddox under surveillance."
"Surveillance? Are you kidding? We can't even afford a coffee machine. Where would I get the bodies for surveillance?"
"True. Then you'll have to keep an eye on him yourself."
"I'm already flat out."
"I'm not interested in excuses."