Only the Dead (21 page)

The Haines/Allen residence was two minutes past the liquor store. Double-storey weatherboard, an empty carport annexe to the left. A narrow frill of deck along two sides of the upper level.

Hale left the Escort around the corner and walked back. No car, no sign of indoor activity. He cupped his face to a downstairs window. A parted curtain revealed a kitchen and living area, free of furniture. Maybe a down stairs flat, awaiting tenancy.

Timber stairs accessed the upstairs deck. He went up and knocked on the kitchen door. Nothing. He stood back against the adjacent wall and waited. The neighbouring house on the corner was only single-level. It left the deck exposed to street views on both sides. It was quiet, but he didn’t want to hang around. He gave it another minute, and then he picked the lock and went in.

He’d half-expected long abandonment, but the air smelled fresh. The newspaper on the table was a day old. He stood and listened. Summer heat had the fridge on a steady hum. No creaks of cautious feet, but he did a quick walk-through to confirm vacancy. Everywhere the signs of recent use: toothpaste scum in the bathroom sink, a damp shower curtain, a battery-powered radio, still running.
Where are you, Dougie
? It had been a quick trip from the store, but at a stretch the woman could have called in time for him to drop everything and leave.

A fake name and a history of violence. It felt like progress.

He went back to the kitchen and hunted for a cash-stash. The cupboards held flatware only. He circuited the living room. Nothing in the furniture. The television was LCD, slim construction precluded concealment. The medicine cabinet content was lawful. Nothing under the mattress in the bedroom. He checked beneath the bedframe: a shoebox worth of receipts, a plastic container of nine mil hollow points, a box of 10-gauge shells.

He nudged a curtain aside and risked a glance out. Still all clear. The radio’s news bulletin predicted drawn-out balminess. He browsed the receipts. Nothing eyebrow-raising. He delved on: a manual for a ’98 Toyota Hilux pickup, an envelope with a passport in the name Douglas Allen. Now we’re getting somewhere. Doug looked late thirties, short dark hair and a sparse goatee. An earnest clench-jawed stare, like he was trying to melt the camera lens.

He returned everything to beneath the bed and checked for a gun safe. Nothing in the closet, nothing above the cupboards in any of the other rooms. It wasn’t great news. He didn’t want to hang around if the guy was packing something chambered for 10-gauge ammunition.

He headed back to the living room. A false name, an assault record, evidence of gun ownership. The robbery connection had to be more than just idle chance.

It
must
be progress.

He used his cellphone and tried Devereaux’s desk line again. No answer. He sat down in front of the television. A photograph on the wall behind depicted a Doug/Leanne headshot. It could have been a wedding snap. Doug was beardless, their smiles bore a ’til-death-do-us-part glow. He wondered how long it had taken to lose the gleam of optimism.

A car pulled up further down the street. He headed down the hall and checked the bedroom window view: one ’98 Toyota Hilux parked kerbside, twenty metres up the street. Unobtrusive, but for an off-tune turbo diesel.

Hale stayed at the window. He watched Douglas Allen slide out of the cab and walk towards the house. He had what might have been a Remington 10-gauge shotgun held along one leg.

Shit. Leanne must have tipped him off.

Hale left the window and walked back to the rear of the house. His pulse ramped up. Internal access to the lower floor was boarded off: entry would be via either the kitchen door or the living room ranch slider. The deck was too exposed for him to take the guy as he came up the stairs. He sifted cutlery drawers: forks and non-serrated butter knives only.

Shit
.

Footsteps ascending — make a decision. Hale stepped back into the corridor just as Douglas’s head crested the stairs. He led with the shotgun, closed in on the kitchen door. Mistake one: Hale hadn’t relocked it. Mistake two: Hale’s cellphone was still turned on.

You fucking amateur.

Douglas propped the shotgun one-handed and popped the
kitchen door off the latch. It squeaked and yawed a half-metre. Not quite enough to sidle in. But Doug was patient: he stayed on the threshold, gun up. Quiet settled, blanket-soft. The radio commentary was still running, distant and static-laden. The fridge stood at ease, blind to the tension.

A crisp tap of muzzle on glass, and the door swung open. Footsteps on lino: tentative, predatory. Hale pictured him standing there, a squint along a cocked barrel. He backed up, glacier-slow. Fingertips to the wall, toe–heel steps. Sweat beaded his hairline, he willed it not to drip and leave a trail. Tactics were still undecided: part of him advised rushing the guy while he still had run-up space. Part of him cautioned that head-on versus a Remington offered poor odds.

Footsteps resumed. Hale moved left, caught a glimpse of matt-black shotgun barrel. He sidestepped into the bathroom. Toilet opposite, a combined bath and shower stall right of the door. A thick odour of stale steam. The mirrored cabinet bore the ghost of it. He reached the bath. Two tiptoed strides, an agonising held breath. The curtain was partly drawn. He slipped around it into the stall.

Quiet again. He braced for a shot through the curtain. The radio in the bedroom switched off. He backed up closer to the wall, taps and the showerhead nudging him hard. A squeal of floor joist as Douglas came back down the corridor. His search scheme wasn’t logical: he was retracing covered ground.

He entered the bathroom. Hale heard his breathing as he passed the door. A lump of shadow against the mildew-sprayed partition. He hoped he wasn’t backlit from this side. The drain at his feet gurgled hollowly.

The muzzle nudged the curtain end. A tar-black two-inch stub. It tracked slowly towards him, material bunching against it. A sodden green concertina. The support rings chimed faintly.

The gun paused. Hale waited, pulse raging. Contorted against the stall end, glued awkwardly in situ.

Seconds of ear-bleeding quiet. And then his phone rang.

Hale lunged.

He got a hand on the barrel, just as the gun swung towards him. He pushed it away, dived sideways through the curtain. The sound of the shot was massive, deafening in the bathroom confines. Pellets spewed wide and blitzed the enamel. The spent shell arcing and rattling against the walls of the bath. A skein of burnt powder smoke spreading.

He struck the guy with his shoulder. The impact sheared the curtain pole off the wall. They tumbled in a mess of lime-draped limbs. Hale still had a hand on the barrel. He twisted hard. A scream and a clean crack, like a finger caught in a trigger guard.

Don’t hang around
.

He clawed hands and knees for the hallway, made the kitchen door at a sprint. He was bleeding — Jesus. Abdomen, left side, above the hip. He pulled the kitchen door, vaulted the deck railing one-handed, hit the carport roof. A jarring drop to the ground, a limping dash across the neighbour’s back yard. Damage assessment: his shirt was scarlet, armpit to waist.

He reached the street, glanced back at the house. No sign of Douglas. He was probably still fighting the curtain. Hale’s hand shook as he keyed the Escort’s lock. He fell in and tore away northbound.

W
EDNESDAY
, 15 F
EBRUARY
, 1.32
P.M
.

D
evereaux stayed at his desk and processed paperwork. Progress and interview reports for week-old minor enquiries, a watered-down recountal of his visit to Pit with The Don. Bare-bone facts, no allusion to witness intimidation. No insinuation of improper conduct. It knocked an inch off his in-tray, and let him keep a low profile. He didn’t want to run the risk of bumping into Bowen or Thomas Rhys, couldn’t be bothered with the requisite snide exchange should he meet Frank Briar.

He couldn’t remember feeling so tired. He ascribed it to massive stress: Monday’s shooting, Bowen’s debriefings, his run-in with McCarthy. Maybe bad events conspired to coincide.

He was working hard to suppress a migraine. Stress had triggered it. Two cigarettes and a walk up and down Vincent Street hadn’t helped. Two pain killers had eventually tamed the pulsing. Much longer, and his eyeballs would have shot blood geysers. Escaping home was out of the question. Absence would contradict the notion he had nothing to hide. There was a big difference between staying low and going AWOL.

The phone was off the hook to eliminate distractions. He checked his messages at two p.m: two missed calls from John Hale. Devereaux called the office down on High Street and got no answer. He tried his mobile, hung up when the phones in
the robbery incident room all rang in unison.

He rolled closer on his chair, glimpsed a harried Frank Briar grab a desk line. It was a quick conversation: maybe fifteen seconds, all incoming traffic. Briar finger-combed a mussed hairdo and headed out of the room.

Something urgent. Something
big
.

Devereaux caught him at the door.

‘What’s happening?’

Briar ignored him. He brushed past and headed for Bowen’s office. Devereaux stepped into the incident room. Summer office climate: whirring desk fans, flushed faces, sticky shirt backs. No one offered acknowledgement. Briar had shunned him. Even eye contact would constitute collusion with the enemy.

He picked up Briar’s phone, checked the history. One incoming call, thirty seconds prior: Northcom police dispatch. He redialled and identified himself to the operator, asked for a repeat of the message that had just come through.

‘Sergeant, we’ve had a one-one-one report of a possible firearms offence; we were told to notify this number of any activity on that location.’

Devereaux said, ‘What’s the address?’

The operator told him. It meant nothing. But it had to be robbery-related, otherwise why dial this line?

Devereaux said, ‘What was the call?’

‘I can play it back to you.’

‘No, just give me the gist of it.’

‘Neighbour reports what she thought was a single shotgun blast from indoors.’

‘Okay. When did this come in?’

‘Seventeen minutes ago now.’

He heard his own phone ringing.

‘I’ll let you go; I’ve got another call coming.’

He ran back to his desk and answered. John Hale said, ‘I tried to reach you earlier. Twice.’

‘What’s happening?’

‘I got walked in on during a house search.’

‘We just got a report of shots fired at a place down in Otara.’

‘That was me. It was the Haines house.’

Haines. Devereaux drew a momentary blank and then clicked on the name: the fight club robbery, January third. Haines was the caravan man, taking cash.

Maybe bad events conspired to coincide
.

‘Shit. What were you doing in there?’

‘I got a tip-off he was using a fake name. I checked out his house, and he walked in on me with a shotgun.’

‘Are you all right?’

‘He got off one round.’

Devereaux sat down. His shirt neck breathed a stale odour. ‘Yes. But are you all right?’

‘I’ve got some minor pellet damage.’

‘Are you bleeding?’

‘A bit.’

‘Did you leave any in the house?’

‘Probably in the bath.’

‘Christ. What were you doing in there?’

‘Hiding.’ He paused. ‘At the least I can go down for unlawful entry. If they read it wrong, they could implicate me as part of the robbery team.’

‘Are you badly hurt?’

‘I think it’s minor.’

‘You think.’

No answer. Devereaux checked his watch. Almost five minutes since the initial call. He didn’t want to give Briar too big a head start. ‘What did you touch?’ he said.

‘No prints; I had gloves. It’s the blood I’m worried about.’

‘How much is there?’

‘I don’t know. My shirt caught most of it.’

‘So what happened?’

‘He knew I was in the house. He came home with a shotgun and searched the place. We scuffled, he got off one round.’

‘Where are you now?’

‘In the car, on the way home.’

‘And where is he?’

‘I’m not sure. I know he left the house. He tried to follow me, but I lost him.’

‘Can he identify you?’

‘Probably not. I don’t think he got a good look at me. But a witness I spoke to will confirm I was asking for his address about thirty minutes before everything happened.’

Devereaux cupped the back of his neck. His palm came away damp. ‘Ah, shit.’

‘Yeah. But things will be a hell of a lot easier to ride out if there’s no evidence putting me inside the actual house.’

Devereaux didn’t answer. His temples throbbed: the pain-killers hadn’t yet trounced the migraine.
This cannot be happening
. He said, ‘Okay. They’ve got people moving on this now; I’ve got to head down there and cool this out. All right?’

‘All right.’

‘I’ll drop by later. For God’s sake keep your head down.’

Hale hung up. Devereaux swung his suit coat off his chair back and shrugged inside it. He passed Bowen’s office on the way to the stairs. No Bowen or Briar. Maybe they were both heading out. He reached the exit and swore and ran back to his desk. Migraine throb matched him step for step. He dialled Northcom. The same operator answered.

‘Who’ve you got responding to the Haines callout?’

An agonising stretch of keyboard patter. ‘Sir, we’ve got three local patrol units on site. Otara CIB has detective teams inbound, plus an Armed Offenders Squad unit.’

Too many. Last thing he needed was a packed venue.

‘Cancel the CIB and the AOS.’

‘Sir?’

‘The suspect is no longer on the premises, so cancel AOS. And tell the local units that we’ll handle everything from this end. We don’t need the backup. Keep the patrol teams on the perimeter, but pull CIB out. We don’t want anyone going in.’

‘Sir, I—’

‘Is that clear?’

‘Yeah, but—’

Devereaux hung up. He took the stairs three at a time, was on the road a minute later. He figured Briar had maybe a seven- or eight-minute head start. He drove lights and siren. Southbound motorway traffic was light enough to weave. Long vacant stretches let him nudge the car up to one-thirty. He was down there by two thirty-five. Tired housing watched him pass, frail and desperate for attention. The Haines place was one site back from a side street that ended in a cul-de-sac. A patrol car occupied the kerb out front. Two more patrol cars and an unmarked blocked each intersection leg.

Devereaux parked up beside the unmarked. The house was drab and run-down: grey curtains and grimed windows. Movement upstairs: uniformed officers, a suit that could have been Frank Briar. Devereaux locked the car and walked over, badged past a trio of armed officers at the kerb. The guns cued a flashback to Monday. He walked up timber stairs to the first-floor deck, came face to face with Frank Briar stepping out a ranch slider. The harsh outdoor light made him squint. He raised a forearm to shade his eyes. A clown wig of chest hair peeped
through a popped shirt button. He looked genuinely disgusted.

‘Ah, Jesus. It’s you.’ He stopped and blocked the door. Behind him, another four uniformed patrol officers.

‘What’s happening?’

Briar laughed. Overlapping radio chirrups filtered from indoors. ‘You dipshit. What does it look like? I’m responding to a call. You shouldn’t be down here. Nobody sent you.’

‘I know, but we can get to the bottom of that later.’

‘Fuck you. You don’t need to check up on me.’

‘Maybe I do. You’ve got four guys trooping back and forth inside before the scene examination’s even done.’

‘Ah, Christ.’ Briar waved him off and stepped past. He walked to the deck railing and put a cigarette in his mouth, but didn’t light it. The patrol officers saw Devereaux standing there and filed out, heads bent like they’d heard the scorn. Devereaux went in. He caught gun smoke odour. Delicate roses of blood on the carpet. Impossible to remove without Briar noticing.

Sorry, John
.

He walked down a short corridor. Cordite tang strengthened. More blood on the carpet. Hale must have lost more than he thought. He stepped into the bathroom. The shower curtain on the ground, the L-shaped curtain pole clinging desperately by one end. A thin drool of water beneath the tap in the bath. A spent shotgun shell lolling in a puddle at the opposite end. A wide spray of pellet scars against the enamel. A black powder coat of soot against one wall, a smear of blood beneath it. He could bleach the blood in the bath, but there was no way to get the stains in the carpet without burning the place. And Briar would have seen everything on his walk-through. If he rigged the scene now, it would be obvious what had happened.

Shit. Hale’s blood was on file. Forensics would analyse the samples, and tie him unequivocally to the house.

Devereaux stepped to the door. He was new to crime scene tampering. It had never crossed his mind. He didn’t like the fact he’d even paid it serious thought. Anything that seemed to fit the Don McCarthy playbook felt off. A snippet of phone call flashback:
Head down there and cool this off
. He’d implied he could fix things. That paradigm of greater evils again: failing a friend versus breaking the law.

He checked out the house, front to back. The bedroom was in reasonable order. A quilt corner was peeled back from wrinkled sheets. An open dresser drawer showed a full com plement of folded clothes. He surveyed the bathroom again, saw the toothpaste residue in the sink. In the kitchen he toed the fridge open. A cool breath touched his midriff. Milk, beer. A limp piece of pizza draped across a plate, out cold.

He walked back outside. Briar turned and looked at him, the unlit cigarette jumping as he chewed the filter. ‘Everything up to scratch?’ he said.

‘Have you spoken to the neighbour who made the call?’

Briar didn’t answer right away. He said, ‘Why did you cancel the AOS callout?’

‘Who says it was me?’

‘Process of elimination. I know it wasn’t me.’

‘Comms said local units were responding, including AOS. I told them we didn’t need the backup.’

‘And who put you in charge?’

‘I don’t see anyone here who outranks me.’

‘How did you know the suspect wasn’t still armed and on site when you cancelled our armed backup?’

‘Same way you knew it was safe to stroll in here, I guess.’

Briar smirked and shook his head. He folded his arms and stood by the ranch slider and looked in at the living room. His faint reflection hung just beyond the threshold.

‘Don’t pretend I need to get permission for anything from you, Frank. You’re not my boss.’

Briar turned and faced him. He stepped close. The cigarette in his mouth almost bridged the gap. ‘I just find it funny you were so fucking desperate to get down here.’ He smiled. ‘I just got one of those tingly feelings you get when you sense something else is going on. You know?’

Devereaux didn’t answer.
Odeur de Frank
was near caustic.

‘Light that cigarette before it wilts,’ Devereaux said.

Briar gave him the finger and turned away. Devereaux went back down the stairs. He moved around the front of the house and glanced inside through a parted curtain. Darkened rooms, empty of furniture: a small lino-floored kitchen adjoining a living area. An empty light fixture hanging from electrical cord beneath a flaking plaster ceiling. He circuited the house. A shattered window on the rear side was backed by plywood.

He walked back around the front. A patrol sergeant was stationed on the footpath.

‘Know of any other callouts to this address?’ Devereaux asked.

The guy stepped off the kerb to drop his eye line. South Auckland liked its cops on the tall side. ‘Like what?’

‘Anything.’

‘The location’s flagged. If there’d been anything, you would have heard about it.’

‘If your guys talk to the neighbours, ask whether anyone knows about the broken window around the back.’

He gave the guy a card and walked back to his car. The interior was starting to bake. He got in and dropped his window and sat quietly and thought about things. The dash emitted a weak heat haze. Briar saw him from the deck and blew a kiss. Devereaux ignored him. He waited five minutes, and then he started the engine and drove away.