Only the Dead (15 page)

Devereaux said, ‘Didn’t realise you were planning on clipping him.’

‘Contingency,’ he said. ‘In the event he decides to clip us.’

He holstered the weapon above his right hip. He relocked the safe, slammed the lid.

‘I’d offer you one as well, but I understand you’re prone to premature discharge.’

They rounded into the street. The elevator core and emergency stairwell accessing the upper levels were tucked next to the restaurant, on the alley side of the building. The street-front door was open, tiled foyer empty. The elevators required swipe-card entry. McCarthy took a multi-tool from his pocket and crowded close to the fire escape door. He kept his eyes on the exit and jiggle-picked the lock one-handed, touch only. A deft, ten-second job, and they were in. The Don led the way up, jacket pinched closed with one hand. They stopped outside a door on level four. McCarthy tried the handle: feather-light, fingertips only. Locked.

The corridor was empty. McCarthy let his jacket gape and knocked hard. He turned square to the door and stepped close, filling the frame.

A woman’s voice from inside: ‘Who is it?’

McCarthy said, ‘Use the peephole.’

‘Is that Don?’

‘Good guess, Monique. Open the door.’

‘What do you want?’

‘I just told you. I want you to open the door, please.’

‘Shane’s not here.’

‘Open the door anyway.’

‘Aw, now’s really not a good time. Can I just come out and talk?’

‘Monique, either you open it or I bust it. You choose.’

‘You can’t bust it.’

‘Five. Four. Three.’

‘Okay, okay, okay. Don’t break anything.’

The door eased back; a wary ten mils only. The Don braced one outsized palm at mid-height and pushed it wide. He strode in: a swarm of blue suit that filled the little entry hall. Devereaux chased his wake, nudged the door closed with his heel.

The entry hall expanded into the living area. A picture window neighboured by a strip of metal louvre gave a view of the harbour. Cardboard boxes were stacked chest-high. The woman named Monique fingered long hair behind one ear and propped an elbow up on a stack. It wobbled, but she held the pose and took her weight on her feet. Feigned insouciance. She might have been thirty. Stonewashed jeans lined with thin white rips. A grey sweatshirt with the cuffs rolled, thin taut limbs protruding. A ticking neck pulse betrayed anxiety. Her eyes stayed with McCarthy as he did a loop of the room.

‘Who’s this?’ she said.

‘My plus-one. He’s making sure I don’t get too out of hand. Nice view.’

‘What do you want?’ she said.

‘I need to know where Shane is.’

‘Told you I don’t know where he is.’

McCarthy said, ‘We’ll see.’

The kitchen was left of the entry, a long counter segregating it from the living area. McCarthy wove a casual route through the boxes and raised a cordless phone from a cradle and hit redial. He saw the number displayed and set the phone down again.

‘You called his number,’ he said.

‘Yeah. So?’

‘Don’t wind me up, Monique. I’ve got a gun.’ He pinned his jacket back on his hip, showed off the Glock and a Big Bad Wolf grin.

Nobody spoke. Devereaux was still in the entry. He eyed up the boxes: computer units, DVD players, GPS systems. A dusty cardboard odour hung light. Monique’s eyes skittered between the pair of them, unsure how to read the play.

‘Where’d you get all this stuff?’ McCarthy said. He’d barely paused, maintaining aimless loops of the room, gaze in constant motion.

‘None of your business.’

‘What’s your drug use like these days?’

‘Nothing to do with you.’

He broke stride and sidestepped in front of her, caught her jaw in two fingers and angled her face towards him. ‘How’d those pupils get so dilated? It’s not even that bright in here.’

Devereaux said, ‘Let her go, Don.’

Two sets of eyes on him: the girl’s, desperate, above a horribly pinched mouth, McCarthy’s, faintly surprised over his shoulder.

‘First name terms,’ he said. ‘That’s good.’

But he let her go. She was still leaning against the stack of boxes, pretence of calm undermined by the tears in her eyes. She worked her jaw and roamed her tongue behind her cheeks. Panelbeating out The Don’s pinch.

‘Gotta say,’ McCarthy said, ‘in light of the fact you’ve been
convicted of receiving stolen goods, all these boxes seem a bit suspicious.’

He looked at Devereaux. A long, narrow gaze that told him to get in line. Devereaux dealt deadpan calm in return, pulse hammering with the knowledge that if McCarthy touched the girl again, he was going to have to do something.

Monique blinked. She traced her bottom lids with the tip of a cocked pinkie. Precision tear eradication. She began to follow him around the room. ‘It’s none of your business.’ Dangerous waver in her tone. Terseness yielding to tears.

McCarthy, still traipsing round, ramrod rigid: ‘Monique, Monique, Monique. I pulled the property details for this address. I know your father owns the apartment.’ The threat struck a chord: she started to say something and caught herself, lips parted in heightened fear. He turned and faced her. She met his gaze. The height differential tilted her gaze back.

‘What would Daddy say, if he knew you were harbouring stolen electrical equipment—’

‘It’s not.’

‘—and doing drugs—’

‘I’m not. I swear I’m not.’ Wringing her hands, panic building.

‘—and keeping a shitbag like Shane Stanton around for company?’

‘I’m not, I’m not. I swear.’

‘Where’s that phone? Maybe I’ll give Daddy a buzz right now.’

She jostled in front of him. ‘No. Don’t.’

‘Why not? You said you’re not up to any mischief.’

‘I’m not but—’

‘But what?’

She didn’t answer.

McCarthy dipped his knees, aligned himself face to face. ‘So then: Tell. Me. Where. He. Is.’

‘I told you.’ She choked, glanced at Devereaux, pleading. ‘I don’t know.’

McCarthy shrugged. ‘Okay, Monique. Okay. We can do it that way.’

He pushed past her, a solid shoulder-on-shoulder nudge that spun her in a half-turn. He stepped back into the entry hall, into the bathroom, the girl at his heels.

‘You can’t just search my place. You can’t do that, what are you doing?’

‘Nothing, nothing. Just having a casual poke around. You know how it is.’

Devereaux backed up to the front door. Part of him berating his own failure to step in more decisively, part of him knowing if he intervened and helped the girl he’d be unemployed by sun-up. McCarthy caught his eye again through the door: a sharp sneer as he rifled the woman’s medicine cabinet, testing how far he could push before something dropped. The girl was beside him, clawing at his arm, pleading for him to stop. Band-Aid boxes toppled, scissors clattered to the floor. She crouched and scrabbled for them, tear drops bright on the tile. The Don trapped them with a foot, caught her finger in the process. She shrieked and crawled away and sat against the edge of the bath, legs hugged to her chest.

Devereaux watched from the bathroom door, fists clenched so tight his nails had drawn blood. McCarthy was still at the cupboard, nosing idly. His back was turned, arms raised. His torso was exposed. One kick would do it. Hard enough and with a bit of luck, he might rupture a kidney and kill the bastard.

Do it. Take him down
.

The girl looked up at him from the floor, tear-stained and
defeated, misery an instant sanction for what had crossed his mind. He waited.

Do it. He’s way, way out of line
.

The cupboard door closed a fraction. The exterior was mirrored and McCarthy caught his face in the glass. Such confidence in that quick glance, resolute certainty of continued inaction:
don’t kid yourself you’d actually do something
.

The moment passed. He stayed in the door. McCarthy reached up and felt above the cabinet.

‘Whoa. This feels promising.’

He removed a worn and faded toilet bag. He unzipped it and peeped inside, expression faux eagerness.

‘Heavens. What’s this?’

The girl didn’t answer, near catatonic on the floor. McCarthy inverted the bag. Half a dozen three-mil hypoderms dropped and ticked gently into a wide scatter across the tilework. Cotton wads, a tourniquet, three zip-lock bags of white powder followed suit. McCarthy stepped back from the mess, lined up a big kick, and swung through. A zip-lock bag went airborne and hit the girl in the forehead and fell in her lap.

McCarthy dropped to his haunches. His cuffs hiked: white socks, rolled over a half-inch. ‘Don’t push me,’ he said. ‘You pathetic little shit.’

No reply.

McCarthy pouted. ‘Who do you want me to call first,’ he said. ‘Daddy, or the Drug Squad?’

‘Please. Just leave me alone.’

‘Please won’t cut it, sweetheart. Where’s Shane-o?’

She wiped tears. She bit her lower lip.

McCarthy took his phone from his pocket. He waggled it in two fingers. ‘Daddy or Drug Squad. Daddy or Drug Squad?’

He thumbed a key. Close walls amplified the tone.

‘Okay, okay. Don’t. He’s gone to Pit. He’s gone up to Pit.’

‘When?’

‘Earlier.’

‘Give me numbers, Monique.’ He waved the phone in her face. ‘Specificity keeps the hounds off your heels.’

‘I dunno. Around six.’

McCarthy thought for a moment. ‘Pit the bar?’ he said.

She snorted hard. ‘Good guess, you fuck-head.’

McCarthy tipped his head back and laughed. ‘What a charmer.’ He stood straight, shook his hands in his pockets to get his trouser cuffs settled right. He looked at Devereaux and jerked his head. ‘Let’s go, hotshot.’

The girl was huddled in the corner as they went out the door.

T
UESDAY
, 14 F
EBRUARY
, 8.33
P.M
.

D
evereaux led the way back down the stairs. He kept a quick trot, but The Don slipped ahead on the second floor landing and boxed him in tight against a corner. Whiskers in close-up, a soft hiss of breath through a small smile. McCarthy spread both arms and placed his hands flat against the two adjacent walls. Devereaux’s eye line reached the cleft in his chin.

‘What was that all about?’ McCarthy said.

‘What?’

No response. The stairwell was a tall concrete chamber. The question’s echo lingered. Devereaux assessed options. The John Hale conflict doctrine stipulated ‘Take him down hard’. Tempting: The Don’s solar plexus was a short straight-right away. Both his knees were in heel-jab range. A head-butt would break his front teeth, both storeys.

Devereaux took a breath, went for it. ‘You were out of line,’ he said.

A long, long pause. The Don’s gaze was deliberately above his head, highlighting the height advantage. Devereaux could see a slow pulse ticking: barely one per second. Coma-calm. McCarthy’s weight shifted from one foot to the other. Devereaux braced for a knee in the balls.

‘That’s troubling,’ McCarthy said. He flexed his hands slightly against the walls. ‘What are you going to do about it?’

‘Probably less than I should have.’

The Don let out a long breath. Devereaux felt it on his forehead.

‘Here’s the great thing, Sonny Jim,’ McCarthy said. ‘I’ve been around such a long time, what I say tends to matter. If I say that Sean Devereaux shouldn’t have killed that guy like he did, and needs to be gotten rid of, you can bet your back teeth someone’s going to take it as gospel.’

Devereaux smiled. ‘If I spread the word about what just happened in there, you can bet your back teeth someone’s going to take it as gospel.’

McCarthy smirked it off. ‘I’ll put it in binary terms for you: either shut up and maybe keep your job, or blab and definitely lose it.’

He squared up Devereaux’s tie knot for him. ‘You didn’t do her any favours. In her eyes, you’re passively responsible. She only hates you slightly less than she hates me.’

He stepped away and put his hands in his pockets, started back down the stairs. ‘Don’t try to take me on, Skippy. I’m The Don.’

Pit was uptown, a ground floor unit in the back of a long, low-rise stretch that fronted onto Queen Street. The bar itself was below street level, at the base of a wide pool of carpark that dipped down from the road behind the building. Age and weak light did no favours: the place looked like a black eye.

The Don turned in off the street and parked in the lot. It was near capacity. A crowd had spilled out onto the entry stairs. Two bouncers just inside the entry, facing the room. The Don approached, badge raised, Devereaux on his coat-tails. The
crowd pulled back in a fat vacant wedge. The bouncers turned as McCarthy reached them. Their gazes did a neat two-step, Devereaux to The Don. They were big men in their thirties. Peppery buzz cuts hugged bald crowns. The Don had two inches and ten kilos on both of them.

‘Gentlemen,’ McCarthy said. Ambient bar chatter made him shout.

The guy on the left tilted from the waist and read the ID details. ‘Inspector. What can we do for you?’

McCarthy flashed a Shane Stanton mug. ‘Seen this man tonight?’

Two ‘No’s’, in unison.

McCarthy looked between them a couple of times. The two guys maintained far-off stares, palace guard-style. ‘We’ll have a look around anyway,’ McCarthy said.

‘We haven’t seen him.’

‘We’ll have a look around anyway.’

‘What’s that you’re packing on your hip?’

McCarthy smiled, fastened a jacket button to keep the Glock obscured. ‘Contingency,’ he said. ‘In the event things get uncivilised.’

Guy on the right said, ‘Take it easy. Got a good vibe going at the moment.’

McCarthy looked at him and nodded. ‘What’s with the crowd?’ he said.

‘Got a gig starting up later.’

McCarthy smiled at him. Devereaux didn’t think he was the sort of guy who’d had any trouble, two on one, with bar security. ‘We’ll be sure to let you know if it changes,’ he said.

He took a step and then paused, nodded at their haircuts. ‘I’ve had a few close shaves in my day, too.’ He winked.

They nudged through. The bar was to the right of the door,
people thick around it. They turned sideways to cut through the crowd. Devereaux spotted pseudo-celebrities: a musician, a novelist, a radio broadcaster. They reached the middle of the room. A door marked
Private
led off to the left. McCarthy turned. He cupped Devereaux’s ear.

‘I’ve found him in here a couple of times so we could get lucky.’ He paused. ‘I’ll go lead. If you call me out again, I’m going to bust your front teeth.’

Devereaux looked up at him, nothing in his face. ‘Good luck,’ he said.

The Don laughed and stepped away, clapped Devereaux on the side of the head, hard enough to set his ear chiming.

The Don pushed for the side door, shoulder-nudging oblivious drinkers. He reached the door and pushed it open, Devereaux trailing close. Space was tight. Three guys reclined on couches, boxing in a low cluttered coffee table. The guy facing the door was Shane Stanton. Their arrival zipped him out of a drowse. He recognised The Don before he was half through the door, twitched forward and cleared the coffee table, faster than a stomped rat’s nest. His reaction panicked the others, but McCarthy’s proximity kept them seated: one stride from the door, and he practically loomed above them.

‘Sign on the door says private,’ Stanton said.

He had mid-length blond hair cut curtain-straight, a beard strengthening a weak jaw.

‘I didn’t want to do this in public,’ McCarthy said. ‘I take it that was icing sugar you cleared off the table?’

The two others’ faces went slack, jail time scenarios parading the mind’s eye. Stanton’s eyes ran back and forth. He shrugged. ‘Wouldn’t be able to do anything, if it wasn’t,’ he said. ‘You’d have needed a warrant to get through that door.’

‘Why you been missing my calls, Shane?’

He shrugged. ‘Probably wouldn’t have if I knew you’d get this uppity.’

‘Probably wouldn’t have either, if you knew how much stuff I conned Drug Squad into ignoring.’

The two others shared a glance, dabbed brow sweat.

Stanton said, ‘What do you want, Donald?’

‘Just a moment of your precious time, run some questions by you.’

Stanton pouted, weaved his head back and forth. ‘Or I could get the bouncers to chuck you out.’

McCarthy laughed. ‘I’m good for four on one with bar security. They might need to call some friends.’

Stanton thought about it. He looked like he believed it. ‘Where do you want to go?’

‘Will here not do?’

Stanton shook his head. ‘Here will not do.’

‘Outside then.’

He shook his head. ‘There’s a queue. I’ll never get back in.’

‘Can the bathroom take three people?’

Stanton sucked a tooth audibly, mulled it over. His eyes drifted wide, and he smiled at some private memory. ‘Yeah,’ he said. ‘It can take three.’

It was cosy. Stanton stood backed up against the bowl, The Don next to him, back to the wall, almost too broad to stand square. The door was locked, Devereaux hemmed in beside it. The cistern hissed faintly, trying to keep to itself. A frosted glass window high on the wall was open a crack, smell still sharp enough to trigger a puke.

McCarthy said, ‘Don’t think I’m an idiot. I know you were either buying or selling something in there.’

‘Whatever. Either cuff me or piss off.’

‘Look, dipshit. I keep all kinds of people off your back, just so you can give me info when I need it. So when you stop keeping me in the loop and missing calls, I start having a serious think about talking to the lads at Drugs. Or Burglary.’

Stanton held his gaze, but licked his lips. ‘What do you want?’

‘What do you know about these robberies? And don’t say, “What robberies?”’

‘Robbery isn’t my field any more.’

‘You’ve diversified. Congratulations.’

‘No, like, I’m not privy to the inside goss.’

McCarthy paused. He sniffed, nodded at the toilet. ‘Anything in there?’

Stanton checked over his shoulder. ‘Nah. Empty.’

‘Maybe give it a flush anyway.’

Stanton thumbed the lever. The S-bend recycled with a roar. McCarthy waited for quiet before continuing. ‘Here’s the deal: we’ve got half a dozen guys we’re currently looking at, many of whom have files as thick as Dickens, and many of whom have you listed as a known associate.’

‘Associate. Associate.
Associate
. Doesn’t mean I did anything.’

‘Yeah, but people brag, people talk. And you’re a nosy little shit: don’t tell me you heard about what happened on October eight, and November sixteen, and January third, but it never occurred to you to ask around about what might have happened.’

Stanton said, ‘Don, Don, Don, Don, Don. I don’t like your tone.’

McCarthy smiled. ‘We popped in to see Monique just before. She was chirpy enough when we arrived, but she looked fairly miserable by the time we were on our way.’

Someone knocked on the door. Devereaux felt the shock of it
through the back of his head. McCarthy called out ‘Occupied’. He freed his jacket button, let the Glock show.

‘What, you’re going to shoot me?’

‘You going to give me a reason?’

‘This is why I hate talking to you; you’re always on the front foot.’

‘I’m
always
on the front foot because you
always
piss me off. Don’t push it, Shane. Your missus is a bit of a repeat customer in court.’

‘What’s that supposed to mean?’

‘Means if I take her in for possession again, chances are they’re going to lock her up for a while.’

Stanton shrugged. He shook his head. ‘Man. I really don’t have time for this. You want a sit-down heart to heart, you get me in formally, but right now I need another drink.’

‘Give me something good, I’ll shout you.’

‘I don’t know anything good. If I knew something good, I would have rung and told you about it.’

McCarthy laughed. ‘You’ve never called anyone with good news in your life.’

Stanton looked offended.

‘Don’t hold back on me, Shane. The smell’s killing me.’

Stanton said, ‘Look, I don’t have any names.’

McCarthy smoothed a palm down his tie. ‘Why don’t we start with what you do have, and we’ll work from there.’

‘It’s all just whispers.’

‘That’s okay. Whispers are good. I’m partial to a good whisper.’

Stanton bunched a fist, cracked his knuckles. His shirt front bore coke residue. He said, ‘Some drug guys I know are after them.’

‘That sounds better than a whisper, if they’re people you know.’

Stanton, hand raised. ‘No. That’s not what I said—’

‘Yes, it is. You said you know them.’

‘No. Well. What I meant was, I
know
them, but I heard this stuff through some other people I know. I didn’t get it direct, you know? It was just info from a friend, about another friend.’

‘And all you have to do is repeat it. So easy, Shane. So easy.’

Stanton scratched his head. He looked uncomfortable. He looked set to capitulate. He said, ‘Okay, look. I know a few guys in the business.’

‘What’s “the business”? I’m old, Shane. I need this shit in plain English.’

Stanton, defensive, shoulders hiked: ‘I know guys who deal drugs, okay. There it is.’

McCarthy laughed. ‘Is that meant to be some sort of revelation?’

‘I don’t know. I don’t give a shit.’

McCarthy wheeled a finger. ‘All right. Keep it rolling.’

‘There’s nothing to roll. I heard some guys in the biz are after the crew that did those robberies.’

McCarthy smiled. ‘We’ll take this in baby steps: who are the guys in the biz?’

‘There’s a dealer after them. Don’t ask me why, that’s all I’ve got.’

A dealer after them. Devereaux sensed links forming. He recalled what Hale had said earlier:
they got some drug dealer fired up as well, and now he’s looking for them, too
. It was corroboration. It was progress.

McCarthy said, ‘Names, Shane. This is nothing to me without names.’

Stanton didn’t answer. He patted for a cigarette, came up empty.

McCarthy said, ‘Who’s the dealer?’

‘Name’s Leonard.’

‘That his first or last name?’

‘I dunno. I think he’s just got the one. Like that Ronaldo guy that plays soccer.’

‘So who is he?’

‘I dunno. Look him up in the phone book.’

McCarthy clicked his fingers, rapid fire. ‘More names, Shane. Who’s he after?’

‘I don’t know.’

‘Yeah, you do. I know you. You love being in the loop. You always know more than you let on.’

Stanton said, ‘Whatever, I’m done with this shit.’

McCarthy hit him a straight left: effortless, no build-up. Stanton never even picked it up. His arms were still at his sides when the blow caught him in the gut, high on the solar plexus. He doubled up, breathless, went down beside the toilet. The Don moved in and stomped him on the shoulder to get him sitting. A heavy impact: the polished loafer with the deep heel.

Stanton raised an arm. ‘Stop. Please stop. Someone said the name Glyn Giles. I think they’re after a guy called Giles. That’s all I heard, I swear. Giles.’

McCarthy moved in for another kick. His back was to the door, he didn’t see Devereaux move in. It was well-timed: Devereaux flipped the hem of McCarthy’s jacket, exposed the butt of the Glock, grabbed it free of the holster. He jacked a round. The muzzle was aimed at McCarthy’s face by the time he turned.

He froze, genuinely surprised. ‘Holy shit. That’s ballsy.’

Stanton looked up from the floor, a gash through his hairline from where his head had struck the bowl.

Devereaux looked down at him. ‘Out.’

Stanton didn’t need telling twice. He scrambled out from
beside the toilet, hands and knees. Shaky fingers freed the lock, and he was gone. Devereaux kicked the door closed behind him. McCarthy lowered the lid on the toilet and turned slowly and sat down. Shock had been short-lived, he was back in control.