Dark City Blue: A Tom Bishop Rampage (13 page)

The room was stale. Even the walls were sweating.

Bishop was beat. He sat on the floor in a corner of the room and watched the judge; the only movement he had made in the past ten minutes was to sit up straighter. But now all the weight of his heavy head seemed to lie in his face, and his eyes had a look in them, bleak.

Bishop dragged his body off the concrete and stretched. His back cracked in six places. ‘You tried to help them. I get that,’ he said. ‘You’d rep them in court. Get them into foster homes, counselling. But what always happened? The same old shit. Inside ten minutes, they’d be back out on the street selling off their little pussies for next to nothing.’ Bishop paced around the room, trying to get his blood flowing again. ‘It was pointless, wasn’t it? They all headed down the same path as your daughter. They were all going to end up just like Sam.’ He softened his tone. Leaned over Jenkins’ shoulder. ‘So you gave them somewhere safe to go. Somewhere they could work and stay and not get hurt. Everyone else had failed them: their families, the system, everybody. Everybody except you.’

Jenkins’ head fell forward. He was almost there.

‘You did a noble thing,’ Bishop lied. ‘And Chloe, she was a good girl, wasn’t she? Why did she have to be punished?’

‘I didn’t … I don’t remember who you mean …’

Bishop rearranged the photos spread over the table, selecting one in particular and placing it on top: Chloe’s last school photograph. It had an immense effect on the judge. It was as if the image itself was a memory, a doorway into a mess of emotions. All his pride and composure fell away, leaving only what appeared to be a frail old man.

Bishop placed a hand gently on his shoulder. ‘How could you forget?’ he asked quietly. ‘She was stunning. All you have to do is look at this photo to see that.’

‘She …’ Jenkins struggled for his voice. ‘She came through the system like all the others. Arrested for solicitation. Fourteen years old. Sweet girl. Even under the bruises, I could tell she had something special.’

Bishop nodded kindly.

‘Such soft, pretty eyes,’ he agreed. ‘And I bet there was a way she’d look at you, a look she never gave anyone else.’

Jenkins glanced up at him, surprised. ‘How could you know that?’

‘Because you were the only one who’d ever cared enough to take an interest in her. You kept in touch. With no wife, no daughter anymore, your evenings were your own. How did it begin? Coffee? Drinks? Did she come back to your place? Sit on your desk while you wrote her a cheque? Just a little something to keep her going. Her soft little legs dangling over the edge. Her thighs slightly parted. She’d do that just for you. Sometimes you’d see her underwear and she’d let out a giggle.’

Jenkins’ breathing had become shallow. Sweat ran down his cheeks. ‘I didn’t kill her,’ he said.

‘You must have been lonely after your wife died. Why did your daughter leave?’

‘What?’

‘Why did she leave?’

Jenkins was exhausted, confused. ‘I don’t know.’

‘Yes you do.’

‘I don’t.’

‘That’s bullshit.’

‘She ... just left.’

‘You’re a liar.’

‘I—’

‘She left because of you.’

‘No.’

‘You fucked her?’

‘No …’

‘You fucked her. You killed her? Sam couldn’t take you anymore. She had enough of you. Sleeping in the gutter was better then sleeping with you. She left because of you. Then along comes Chloe. Poor lost Chloe. You tried making her into Sam but she wasn’t Sam and she tried to get away from you. You wouldn’t have that, not again. So you stabbed her in the chest, three times. You made sure she wasn’t going anywhere.’

‘I loved her,’ Jenkins sobbed. ‘I loved her.’ He tried catching his breath, but it was as if all the air had been sucked out of the room.

‘Did you kill her?’

‘I loved her.’

‘Did you kill her?’

‘I loved her.’

‘I …’

The door swung open and it was all over. Commissioner Mackler barged through with Wilson in her wake.

‘This interview’s over,’ she hissed.

Sunlight and fresh air flooded into the room, washing away any chance of a confession. Jenkins was beaten, guilty and safe.

Mackler helped the judge to his feet. He had a difficult time peeling his gaze away from the image of Chloe Richards that stared up at him from the table.

Bishop let out a sigh and dry-rubbed his face to wake himself. He had aged a lifetime in the past twelve hours.

‘He’s not Justice. He killed that poor girl, there’s no doubt about that, but he’s not the mastermind. It was too emotional for him.’ Bishop turned his tired eyes toward Wilson. ‘You going to let me have it now?’ he asked.

Wilson shook his head. ‘It doesn’t matter.’

‘I gotta get to the hospital,’ Bishop said. He was halfway out the door when Wilson finally mustered up the strength to stop him.

‘Tom,’ he said. ‘Alice never made it to the hospital.’

Aches plagued Bishop’s body. His nerves were on edge and he couldn’t remember the last time he had anything to eat, so he parked in the first spot he could find and walked to the Union Hotel. It was a shit hole. Its floor was nothing more than a concrete slab covered with beer stains and dried blood. Titty pictures of women bent over Harleys covered the walls and a handful of bikers in leather and tattoos seemed more interested in the football spewing from the television in the corner of the room than Bishop or the naked women on the walls.

He took a seat at the bar, ordered a beer, drank it and ordered another. All they had to eat was potato chips, so he had two packs of salt and vinegar and was halfway through his third beer when the football broadcast broke to a newsreader with fake hair and a fake smile.

The bikers abused the television. Bishop paid neither one any particular attention until the words ‘armoured truck’ bled from the speakers. Then the beer in his gut began to churn.

‘… that left twelve people dead and fifteen million dollars stolen. Police have been working around the clock and are currently searching for this man …’

A photograph flashed up on the screen. It was black and white and grainy.

It was Tom Bishop.

‘Ex-VPD detective Tom Bishop is believed to be the mastermind behind the daytime assault and robbery that left the community stunned two days ago. In an unprecedented move, the police department is offering a twenty-five-thousand-dollar reward for any information leading to his arrest.’

And in case some poor, money-hungry bastards missed it, they flashed his mug back up on screen a second time.

Bishop felt a tap on his shoulder, but didn’t look around. A useless gesture: the four bikers had already surrounded him, their eyes filled with dollar signs.

Doesn’t matter who you are, everybody second-guesses their life decisions with the barrel of a .45 buried in the back of their skull. The piece-of-shit biker Bishop had by the scruff of the neck was having just those kinds of thoughts as they barged out of the bar and onto the footpath.

Pedestrians averted their eyes, some crossed the street, others hurried past. None of them wanted any part of any of this.

Bishop turned the biker around. Buried metal into his dirty hair and used him as a shield against his three buddies, who piled out of the bar armed with pool cues and drunken thoughts.

‘Walk away and he lives,’ Bishop said. ‘You want your friend to live, don’t you?’

The bartender’s cue shook in his hand. He was going to make a move.

Bishop cracked his hostage out cold with the butt of his gun, then turned it on the others.

They each took a step forward, their faces twisted in frustration.

‘Just pick him up and go inside,’ Bishop said. ‘That’s all you need to do.’

They swapped glances three ways. Then, after a moment, they picked up their friend and went back into the bar.

Bishop parked on Errol Street two blocks away and crossed over Queensberry Street. He caught a glimpse of their reflection in a shopfront window. He had picked up a tail.

Sweat rolled down the back of his neck. His hands grew clammy and his stomach churned. The tail was too far behind for him to make them out. He counted the steps: six seconds behind. Anywhere between ten and fifteen feet.

At the end of the block stood a closed bank with vandalised ATMs lining one wall of the building. Bishop took the corner, slammed against the wall, yanked out his weapon and waited.

SIX.

One deep breath. Held it.

FIVE.

Gripped the weapon.

FOUR.

A couple turned and headed in the other direction.

THREE.

Got his footing.

TWO.

Don’t miss.

ONE.

The tail stepped around the corner. Bishop grabbed hold. Fingers in neck. Slammed against the wall. Gun to the skull. Hold back. Stop.

Ellison.

A strand of hair fell across her sweaty face. Her mouth opened, gasping for air. Bishop let her go.

He clocked the street. Rubbish chased rubbish down the footpath, but otherwise it was quiet. She appeared to be alone.

“Goddamnit, what are you doing?”

‘I came to help you,’ she said.

Bishop holstered his weapon. ‘Go home, Ellison. Just go home.’

Tired, his nerves shot, he stepped toward the Commodore. Ellison trailed behind him.

‘You can’t do this on your own,’ she said. ‘You need me.’

He yanked open the driver’s side door and shot a glance over the roof. ‘Ellison, go home.’

‘I know where the money is.’

For a brief moment, his heart stopped. By the time it started up again, a smile had grown in the corners of her mouth.

‘What?’

‘It was Rayburn all along, wasn’t it?’

Bishop bit. ‘How do you know?’

‘I hear things,’ she said. ‘Some people don’t think very much of me.’

‘Where’s the cash?’

‘Am I on the case?’

‘This isn’t a case.’

‘If you try to finish this by yourself, you’re not going to make it,’ she said.

‘It’s going to get a hell of a lot bloodier before this thing is over,’ Bishop said.

Ellison shot him a sly smile. ‘So long as I don’t break a nail.’

She shifted in her seat and tried to steer clear of Jay Franks’ blood, then poked a finger though the bullet hole in the windscreen that had created it.

‘Looks like you pissed somebody off,’ she said.

‘Some people are sensitive.’

She lit a couple of cigarettes and passed one to Bishop. He rolled down the window. A gust of hot air drifted through the cabin. ‘How did you get the address?’

‘Rayburn had me doing witness reports,’ she said. ‘All the witnesses were dead, so all that was left for me to do was interview the staff at the casino who loaded the truck before it was hit. One of the guards turned out to be Jay Franks, but he wasn’t one of the victims. I went to Rayburn; he and Cooper told me they were already on it, that Jay Franks was working with the stick-up men they arrested. Something about it smelled like shit. When they left, I followed them to this house. After twenty minutes, I snuck around the side and peeked through the window. I saw Rayburn, Cooper and Warren counting up slabs of cash, blocks of it. Then it all made sense: the robbery, Jay Franks, you. I sat with my ear glued to the radio waiting for you to surface. Picked up your trail at the hospital when a nurse called it in.’

Ellison’s story was cut short by the howl of a police siren. Bishop clocked the rear-view: a fleet with flashing reds and blues accelerated toward them. Bishop pulled over to the kerb, left the engine running.

‘They’ve been on us since we left,’ he said.

‘You didn’t say anything.’

‘I was hoping it was just a coincidence.’

The street was dead except for a couple of teenage future criminals in basketball jerseys three sizes too big with spray cans in their hands. They watched the show from the burnt-out shell of a car on the other side of the road, their feet aimed for a nearby alley in case things went south.

The uniforms took their time. Bishop watched them in the rear–view: both looked to be in their mid–twenties, and that they thought they knew everything worth knowing. One wore mirrored aviators and the other still had his baby fat. They climbed out of the fleet, strolled on over like a couple of kids playing cops and robbers. From Bishop’s point of view, it had only been a few years since they had.

Bishop, remembering the corpse of Mickey Franks in the boot of the car, drew his weapon, pushed it between his thigh and the seat. Ellison did the same. She was edgy, sweating.

‘Relax,’ he told her.

She didn’t, but tried to give the impression that she had. The uniforms flanked the car. The one with the mirrored shades leant down and rested his tattooed arm against the door. The Jay Franks paint job was the first thing to get his attention.

‘What happened in here?’ he asked.

With a shrug and a glance Ellison’s way, Bishop said, ‘Women. What can you do?’

Shades nodded his head slowly. He produced a breathalyser and flaunted it in Bishop’s face.

‘Blow in this, please, sir,’ he asked with a slight glance at Ellison’s breasts.

Bishop badged him, making sure he didn’t have time to get too good a look. ‘I’m Detective Fairbarn.’ He motioned to Ellison. ‘Detective Mason. We’re on the job right now and you’re kind of blowing our cover.’

Shades stepped back. On Ellison’s side, the other uniform lingered. His waist was all they could see through the window, but Bishop’s attention was drawn to his hand resting on his weapon. Nothing about this stop was routine. No matter what happened in the next couple of minutes, resisting arrest was how they were writing it up.

‘Can you open the boot, please, sir?’

Slowly, Bishop pulled the key and opened the door.

Shades blocked it with his hand and nodded his head. ‘From in there.’

‘Can’t,’ Bishop said. ‘Needs a key.’

The infant gave this some thought and nodded again. His grip eased on the door and Bishop stepped halfway out.

‘That’s far enough,’ the other uniform said.

‘Alright,’ Bishop tossed the keys to him over the roof of the car.

Chubby caught them, moved to the back of the vehicle, keyed the boot. Nothing. He jiggled the key: still nothing. And there wasn’t going to be anything either, so long as Bishop’s foot remained on the lever that opened it from the inside.

The uniform let a few profanities leak from his lips before giving up with a shrug. Shades moved to give his partner a hand.

‘It’s jammed or something.’

Bishop reached for his weapon, held it low and lifted his foot from the lever.

The boot bounced open. Bishop and Ellison moved. Before either of the uniforms could think about reacting to the bloody mess that was Mickey Franks, they each had the dangerous end of a shooter pointed at their chests.

‘Bet you regret opening that now, don’t you?’ Bishop said.