Not Dead Yet

CHAPTER 32

  The next morning, Gary interviewed a couple of potential clients. The first was a shop owner who wanted to find out which employee had his hand in the till; the other an embittered wife who wanted to know where the husband she was divorcing had hidden his assets. Both wanted Gary to start work immediately; neither wanted to make an advance payment. That was contrary to his revised business plan and he showed them the door.

  Just after noon, a knock on the door. He opened it and saw Detective Constable Karen Phillips standing outside, wearing a crème blouse and tight navy skirt.

  "Hi, what're you doing here?"

  "I was in the neighbourhood and thought I'd drop in." She strolled into his office and scanned the cheap furniture.

  "I'm trying to keep my overheads down."

  "You're doing a good job." She noticed the bandage on his right hand. "What happened to your hand?"

  "I lost a finger."

  A surprised expression. "How?"

  "Got a bit excited in the kitchen. Never been much of a cook."

  She lifted both eyebrows. "Really?"

  "Yes."

  "Jesus, bad luck follows you around like an old dog, doesn't it? Your apartment got blown up; you got kidnapped; you lost a finger in … what? … a cooking accident. You're lucky to be alive."

  He shrugged. "True. Fortunately, God's saving me for a special purpose."

  She almost laughed. "Don't kid yourself."

  "How can I help you?"

  A wintry smile. "I want to buy you lunch."

  Now he raised his eyebrows. "Really?"

  "Yes, but somewhere cheap - I'm a poor cop."

  "Don't worry, I don't know anywhere expensive."

  As he followed her down the stairs, he wondered why she'd warmed to a few degrees above freezing, but soon focused on her firm calves.

  He took her around the corner to a small Italian restaurant, where a waiter took their orders. After he left, Gary said: "How's your investigation going?"

  The detective leaned forward. "That's why I wanted to have lunch. I think I know who planted the bomb in your apartment."

  Gary lifted his eyebrows. "Who?"

  "Detective Sergeant Brian Pringle."

  She'd hit the jackpot. Gary hid his shock. "You mean, the drug squad cop?"

  "Yes."

  "Wow. You know, I used to work with him. How'd you find out?"

  She leaned forward and narrowed her eyes. "Stop pretending you're surprised. You've known it was Pringle all along, haven't you?"

  He didn't know all along: he only found out a couple of weeks ago. So he spoke truthfully: "No, I haven't."

  A frown. "I don't believe you."

  He leaned back. "That's up to you. Why do you think it was Pringle?"

  She explained that Pringle was the only drug cop who claimed Gary was dirty and she later discovered that Pringle went up to Byron Bay to investigate after Gary was kidnapped. "I've also heard rumours he's crooked. But the clincher was in his personnel file. He did a couple of bomb disposal courses. The guy knows all about bombs. He obviously knew how to put one in your TV set."

  Gary was impressed with how cleverly she strung together the clues.

  She said: "What I don't know is why he tried to kill you. I'm hoping you'll tell me."

  Gary was tired of lying to her. She'd done her job well and deserved to be given the last few pieces of the puzzle. He leaned forward. "You really want to know?"

  "Yes," she said determinedly.

  "Off the record?"

  She hesitated and nodded. "OK."

  "Good, because I won't give you a statement."

  "I understand."

  "Alright. And don't think I've been holding out on you. I only discovered the truth quite recently."

  "I accept that. Tell me what you know."

  "OK. About three months ago, a drug dealer called Pedro Garcia got murdered, along with a guy called Morales. Remember that?"

  "Yes. I wasn't involved in the investigation, but I heard about it."

  Gary described how Pringle and Tony Thompson killed Garcia and Morales and stole eight kilos of coke. Pringle then eliminated Thompson to stop him talking.

  "Thompson's girlfriend, Trixie Powell, knew Pringle was the killer. So, when Barbara Thompson employed me to find her, Pringle got nervous and planted a bomb in my apartment."

  "He must have thought you were dangerous."

  A smile. "I am dangerous. There's also a lot of bad blood between us. He didn't need a big excuse to blow me up."

  The detective listened carefully. "You found Trixie Powell, and got all this information from her, didn't you?"

  Gary didn't want to put the cops on Trixie's tail. "I'd rather not say."

  A sigh. "OK. And, just out of curiosity, what was your relationship with Robyn Parsons?"

  "We were friends."

  She looked dubious. "You never slept with her?"

  "Correct."

  "Why not?"

  He shrugged. "Never got around to it."

  "At her funeral, you looked shattered."

  "Of course I did. I'd just got her killed. I'll always feel guilty about that."

  "You must hate Pringle."

  "That's an understatement."

  She leaned forward. "Is that why you set fire to his boat?"

  He cursed himself for not expecting she would hold something back. "I don't know what you're talking about."

  "Really? About a fortnight ago, Pringle's boat went up in flames. My guess is you were responsible. In fact, I reckon you tried to kill him and missed."

  Gary realised Pringle must have torched his boat, probably with Moses Hapeta's body still inside, to destroy any evidence. "You're wrong."

  She leaned back and smiled. "Don't worry. I don't care if you tried to knock him off. I just want to charge him with murdering Robyn Parsons. But I've got no evidence that would stand up in court - zero. And now he's skipped into the witness protection program."

  "Have you tried to interview him?"

  "Of course. I contacted the WPU, but they won't tell me where he's hiding. He's their star snitch. They don't want me to ruin his credibility and make them look stupid. They don't call it the criminal protection program for nothing."

  "Even if you contact him, he won't talk. He's too smart."

  She sighed. "I know."

  "So, what'll happen to your investigation?"

  "Unless I find some solid evidence against Pringle, it'll become another cold case and he'll get off Scot free. What are you going to do?"

  Gary lied: "Nothing - this is a matter for you guys."

  A frown. "Bullshit. You want to kill him, don't you?"

  "No, but even if I did, I couldn't: while he's in the witness protection program, he's invisible."

  "True."

  The waiter brought their pasta meals. For a while, they ate in silence. Gary kept glancing at her broken nose, dying to ask how she broke it.

  She finally looked up. "I'm afraid I misjudged you."

  "What do you mean?"

  "I thought your apartment got bombed because you were involved in something illegal - maybe even drug dealing. Sorry about that."

  He wasn't upset. In her shoes, he'd have thought the same thing. "Don't worry, you're paid to be suspicious. And it's no secret that a lot of drug cops go bad."

  "You didn't?"

  "No, I stayed pretty clean. My father brought me up to follow the rules."

  She leaned forward. "A while ago, I asked you why you quit the force, remember?"

  "Yes."

  "Want to tell me now?"

  "Why do you want to know?"

  She shrugged. "Just curious."

  He didn't like discussing his resignation, but he liked her a lot and wanted to open up a little. So he hesitantly explained how his father revealed, on his death bed, that he had buried $300,000 in his backyard.

  "Wow. What a shock. Did he tell you how he made it?"

  "No, though he obviously did something di
rty."

  "You mean, he brought you up to follow the rules and didn't follow them himself?"

  "Yes."

  "And that's why you quit the force?"

  "Yes."

  "But you did nothing wrong. You could have stayed a cop."

  "If I did, I'd have continued a family tradition that was bullshit. I'd have felt like a phoney." He shrugged. "I was also getting tired of the job and all the dickheads in charge."

  She leaned forward. "What did you do with the money - spend it?"

  He blushed. "No, I gave it to a couple of charities."

  She laughed. "You're kidding?"

  "No. Now, I wish I'd kept some."

  "I bet you do. But you did the right thing, I think. So how do you feel about your father now?"

  Time had blunted his anger and his attempt to kill Pringle made him feel less morally superior. Pringle deserved to die. But killing him would be murder. Gary couldn't deny that.

  He said: "Maybe I was a bit judgmental. We get handed lots of shitty choices in life, and it's hard for a cop to stay honest."

  "Very true."

  Time to change the topic. "Anyway, I've told you about myself. Tell me this: how'd you break your nose? Making an arrest?"

  She smiled. "No, my brother broke it, when I was about ten."

  "How?"

  "We were playing backyard cricket. He hit a ball and I didn't duck fast enough."

  "Ever consider getting it re-set?"

  "Of course. But I thought: stuff it, it's part of me. You don't like it?"

  "I think it's great."

  While they finished eating, Gary got her to describe some of the murder investigations she'd worked on. She was a wry and interesting raconteur. The more she talked, the more he liked her.

  When the bill arrived, he tried to grab it, but she was too quick.

  "I promised to pay, remember?"

  "OK. But, if you do, you've got to let me take you out to dinner."

  She looked flustered. "I can't."

  "Why not."

  "For a start, you're still a witness in a Homicide investigation."

  "Come off it. You know Pringle did it and you're about to close the file."

  "I haven't closed it yet."

  "So, when you close it, you'll have dinner with me?"

  She frowned. "No, you're not my type."

  Gary hid his disappointment behind a smile. "You can't blame me for trying."