Only the Dead (32 page)

T
HURSDAY
, 16 F
EBRUARY
, 6.58
A.M
.

M
cCarthy took him upstairs. They went out onto the deck, rooftops and early sun dead ahead of them.

I know what you did
. McCarthy hadn’t replied, and Devereaux didn’t push it. He waited to see what would happen.

McCarthy leaned and put his arms on the rail. ‘I don’t know why I’m so civil with you,’ he said. He took a peek over the edge. ‘Part of me wants to just toss you on the road.’

Devereaux didn’t reply. He wouldn’t have put it past him. He had his hip against the rail, arms folded, watching The Don in profile.

McCarthy said, ‘How does it feel to take someone’s life?’ A cruel smile. ‘Twice.’

‘He isn’t dead yet.’

‘He’s getting there; I round to whole numbers.’

He sounded like he knew the story. Bowen probably kept him apprised of salient bloodshed.

Devereaux said, ‘I had to do it.’

McCarthy shrugged. ‘Either way, people are hurt and dead, and it’s your fault. Hell of a sensation; you’re not ever going to forget it. You’ll dream about it for years. You’ll relive it incessantly and convince yourself you couldn’t have done any different, when in fact all you had to do was not pull the trigger.’

‘I had to do it.’

‘And I’m sure people will back you up. Then again, you can guarantee there’s some jaded son of a bitch out there who thinks you just outright wanted to kill people. And you’d better hope he’s not the one deciding whether or not you get to keep your job.’

Devereaux checked the time. He’d been in the house three minutes. ‘I’m not going to lose my job.’

McCarthy laughed. ‘Well. I hope you don’t. I think we’ve got the same blood in our veins.’

‘I’m nothing like you.’

McCarthy smiled. ‘Cling to that thought.’

Devereaux said, ‘I read the file work for the January shooting.’

McCarthy held him in the corner of an eye. ‘You can find out all kinds of things when you’ve got my keys on your side.’

Devereaux didn’t answer.

McCarthy said, ‘You could have just asked. I might have saved you some effort.’

‘What happened to confidentiality?’

McCarthy knuckled his nose plug. ‘It’s pointless now. It’s over.’

‘So talk.’

McCarthy was quiet a long time. He palmed something off the rail, dusted his hand on his shoulder. A car passed slowly on the street below them, white exhaust scurrying to keep pace. He said, ‘The shooting in January was tied in with the robberies. Long story short, one of the heist guys got cold feet and called for police protection. His colleagues got wind of it and killed everyone.’

A flashback to his stolen file, taken from McCarthy’s office: William Rankin, convicted armed robber, dead by shotgun. Police officers Ian Riley and Kyle Miller, granted the same hard farewell.

Devereaux said, ‘Who set up the protection?’

‘It was unofficial. The guy being watched was already a suspect in the robberies. He got in touch with a police contact and said he needed help.’

‘William Rankin.’

‘Yeah, Rankin. We pulled his phone records. January twenty-ninth, evening before the shooting, he placed a call to this guy Kyle Miller, who’d interviewed him back in October about the Savings and Loan robbery. Rankin called him, said he had information about the robberies, and that he needed protection. Miller obviously called this guy Riley and roped him in.’ He looked out across the street. Morning wearily climbing the stairs. ‘And then by sun-up they were all dead.’

Loose ends resolving: Doug Allen’s smashed downstairs window. Maybe Rankin had broken in, stolen Doug’s robbery takings, then demanded police backup. Doug gets wind of it, masterminds a retaliatory dawn raid.

Devereaux said, ‘Douglas confessed before I shot him.’

The Don’s eyebrows came up. ‘Dying breath?’

‘He’s still alive.’

‘He’s in limbo. I think his last words have probably been spoken.’

Devereaux didn’t answer.

McCarthy said, ‘What would yours be?’

‘Excuse me?’

‘What would your last words be? If you could choose.’

‘I don’t know. I think other people’s words are the ones that count.’

McCarthy was quiet a moment. He said, ‘What did Douglas tell you?’

‘He said he drove the getaway car on the morning of the shootings. I asked him who else was involved, and he said it
didn’t matter because they’re all dead.’

‘He killed his own teammates?’

‘Apparently. I think he drove them somewhere and killed them.’

‘So where are they?’

‘I don’t know.’

‘You didn’t ask him.’

‘He didn’t tell me. But I’d guess somewhere along the line we’re going to find a burned-out car.’

‘With two very crisp passengers.’

‘Yeah. Something like that.’

McCarthy glanced at him. ‘Did he apologise?’

Devereaux paused. He didn’t want to divulge those last shared seconds in the motel. He didn’t know why. He couldn’t have explained why a good as dead criminal warranted discretion. ‘Does it make a difference?’

McCarthy shrugged. ‘I always wonder whether these people feel remorse.’

‘I think he feared imprisonment. Or death.’

McCarthy shook his head. ‘People fear the transition, not death itself.’

‘Well, whatever. I think he regretted what he’d done.’

McCarthy nodded slowly. ‘That’s nice.’

Devereaux didn’t reply.

McCarthy said, ‘I know you’ve got a gun on your right hip.’

‘Don’t forget about it.’

McCarthy stretched one leg behind him, like easing out cramp. ‘I might have opened the door and kicked you in the balls if you weren’t carrying.’ He kept his elbows on the rail. ‘But now we’re a metre apart, you couldn’t clear belt before I broke your nose.’

‘Let’s test the theory.’

The Don laughed. ‘You’d kill a respected policeman on his own deck? Jesus.’ He smiled to himself. ‘Three shootings in four days. It would have to be some sort of record.’

Devereaux fought the urge to back off. He said, ‘They didn’t recover any money from the house after the shooting.’

‘On the thirtieth?’ McCarthy nodded. ‘You’re quite correct.’

‘The file said you were first on scene.’

‘You’re two-for-two.’

‘The money from the bank jobs was in the house. You took it.’

McCarthy didn’t move. ‘I’d be careful about the claims you make.’

‘There was money in the house. The money was the whole point of the raid: Douglas wanted his cash back. He didn’t get it. He told me they couldn’t find it.’

‘We’ll never know for sure. He’s going to die.’

‘I think he was telling the truth.’

McCarthy shook his head. ‘Nobody trusts you. You’re shit. Your testimony’s worth nothing.’

Devereaux stepped things up: the trump card. He said, ‘I know you put out a contract. I know you asked Alan Rowe to investigate the fight club robbery.’

McCarthy didn’t reply.

Devereaux said, ‘Normally, this is the point people start denying.’

‘No law been broken; I’m not going to waste energy on a defence.’

‘You used stolen heist money to finance an unofficial investigation.’

McCarthy turned away from him, faced the street. Devereaux checked his watch again. Eight minutes inside. McCarthy said, ‘Every little piece of your life accrued to bring you to this
moment. All you needed was a single different decision out of decades’ worth of choices and you could be somewhere else at this instant. But you’re not.’

‘So?’

‘Maybe there’s something malevolent nudging you towards a bad ending.’

‘I’ve dodged bad endings all week. I’d say something’s trying to nudge me towards a good one.’

McCarthy laughed drily. ‘Get out of here. I’m done with you.’

Devereaux didn’t move. ‘I’ve got proof. They’re going to send you to prison.’ He wanted to clap him on the shoulder: befittingly McCarthyish for a parting jibe.

McCarthy said, ‘Get out.’

Devereaux swallowed: copper, like blood or bullets on the tongue. He said, ‘Why don’t you come in and answer some questions?’ The first time he’d laid that line on a policeman.

The Don said, ‘I used to love saying that.’

Devereaux didn’t answer. McCarthy said, ‘I’m not going with you. Get out of my house.’

Devereaux held his ground. McCarthy flipped his jacket hem back — fast. He slipped something off his belt. Fist-sized, metallic: that mythic .380. He kept it waist-high, muzzle on Devereaux’s gut.

Devereaux said, ‘What will the neighbours think?’

‘Go back inside.’

‘This isn’t very smart.’

‘Go back inside.’

Devereaux felt behind him for the edge of the slider, stepped indoors. He nearly tripped on the runner. McCarthy followed, pulled the door to behind him. Devereaux looked around. The room wasn’t worried: a copy of
Time
magazine lay splayed on
an armchair, a mug sat almost empty atop a coaster. A reading lamp’s glow had been bleached out by morning sun.

McCarthy raised the gun. Devereaux visualised the trajectory. He pictured a sucking chest wound.

‘Hollow point ammo,’ McCarthy said. ‘Shit’s going to get ruptured.’

Devereaux didn’t answer.

McCarthy said, ‘And to think you could have walked out of here under your own steam.’

‘You don’t want to shoot me in your living room.’

‘I could. I can dress this up anyway I like. You turned up here with a gun. You’ve already killed two people this week, maybe you decided to make me snuff number three. Top the antagonising boss.’

‘Have you killed anyone before?’

McCarthy didn’t answer.

Devereaux said, ‘You’re in for some sleepless nights.’ McCarthy smiled. ‘You’re in for some lifeless nights.’

‘They’re going to search the house and find where you’ve put the money.’

No reaction.

Devereaux felt sweat in his hair. He came across braver than he felt: ‘We don’t have to wrap things up like this.’

‘Use two fingers and take the gun off your hip and place it on the floor.’

‘I’m pretty keen to keep it.’

McCarthy laughed. ‘Let me know if you’re going to get uncooperative, and I’ll get that dealt to.’

‘Deal away.’

Too glib: McCarthy stepped forward. He swung low, hit Devereaux in the stomach with the muzzle of the .380. The blow folded him. Devereaux hit the ground. McCarthy dealt
another big swing. Devereaux took it on the ear. His head bounced off the floor. He saw blue and red light: a motel flashback still very raw. He felt McCarthy’s hands at his belt, stripping his gun. Devereaux crawled away, knocked a half-closed door fully open. A quick, blurred glimpse: a ragged loose-leaf collage of paper on corkboards, crime scene shots from the Savings and Loan robbery, close-up snaps of dead men hand-dated thirty January. The Don’s home office-cum-brooding pen. A cream leather chair stood behind a desk loaded high with binders. Edward Hopper’s ‘Queensborough Bridge’ hung framed behind. Post-its bearing hand scribbles scattered here and there. He got a good gut feeling. It was The Don’s inner sanctum. It was prime territory for a stolen cash cache—

A hand on his collar, and he lost the thought. McCarthy dragged him out of the room. He watched his own clawed fingers raking backwards through carpet. He heard McCarthy nudge another door, and then they were through into a different room. Cool white tile greeted him. His blood so red and perfect against it. McCarthy dumped him against a bath edge. A light clicked on. The brightness seared. Devereaux raised an arm. He didn’t even see the punches coming: a quick one-two, cheek then mouth. He felt bottom-row dentistry break. He spat teeth. McCarthy was panting. He sounded crazy. Devereaux pictured him leering and frenzied. Hellbent on a good killing. Payback for all that pent-up resentment.

Devereaux spat blood on the floor. He was better at verbal conflict. Something told him to keep talking. He said, ‘It was a lot of risk for not a lot of money.’

It came out wet and gurgled. He lowered his arm. Panic bestowed shocking hyper-clarity: blood droplets were a rich and vivid scarlet, Warhol-garish. A high-tensile buzzing
underpinned aural input. He saw McCarthy run a sleeve across his mouth. Maybe he was calming down. He licked his lips, shook his head. ‘No. Big risk, big money.’

There it was: admission. Albeit nonplussed and anticlimactic. Devereaux said, ‘How much?’

‘Two hundred grand-plus.’

The Don tucked the gun in his belt, at the small of his back. ‘All you had to do was hold your tongue and you could have walked out of here with all your faculties. Including your life. I gave you the option; you could have left unscathed.’

Devereaux tried not to think about it. He wiped blood off his mouth. He said, ‘How was it so much?’

McCarthy’s eyes half-lidded. ‘What do you mean?’

‘The bank and the armoured van were only sixty grand, tops.’

McCarthy listened to the street a moment, face distant. Devereaux felt his phone ringing. There was blood all over his chin. McCarthy tuned back in. He pinched his jacket, two-fingered by the lapels, slipped it off carefully. He draped it over a towel rack and said, ‘You remember our talk with Shane?’

He wouldn’t ever forget it: the Q and A session with Stanton, that bathroom in Pit.

McCarthy said, ‘He told us he had a dealer chasing him.’

‘The Leonard guy.’

‘Yeah. The Leonard guy.’ McCarthy sat down on the edge of the tub. He leaned forward, elbows to knees, took Devereaux’s chin in two fingers. He said, ‘I’m thinking Douglas had run some thefts we weren’t aware of.’ He grinned. Spit gleamed on his teeth. ‘You’re not looking your best.’

Devereaux said, ‘He supplemented bank funds with stolen drug money.’ His mouth felt fat and loose. Supplemented came out shupplemented.

‘Yeah. Or the other way around.’ He pushed Devereaux away.
‘You thought you could take me one on one,’ he said.

‘I managed it once.’

McCarthy smiled. ‘You’re pretty lucid. We’ll see how long that lasts, eh?’ He leaned and pulled open a drawer.

Devereaux heard metal things. Scissors, tweezers, razors. Jesus. He was panicking. Survival instincts were at odds: fight him, versus keep him talking. He said, ‘Tell me how you took the money.’