Tropic of Death (18 page)

The place was a combination dance venue, gambling saloon and sports bar. On the walls between metallic light fittings hung the iconic images of boxing champions past and present. It was like a gallery of testosterone, their muscled torsos, biceps and triceps glistening. Beyond the bar, steps led down to a dance floor with mirrored ceilings and Gothic tracery.

So this was the intended destination of Rachel Macarthur as she headed for a rendezvous that was never supposed to happen.

The thought was depressing, as was the interior of the club itself.

Equally gloomy was the official roadblock on the investigation.

Rita was beginning to regret accepting the invitation to join it. The case didn’t need a profiler. It needed a commission of inquiry.

With nothing better to do, Rita sauntered up to the bar. Her movement caught the leery eye of the nearest drinker until her hostile stare warned him off. She was in no mood for presumptuous fools. She looked at her watch - just past midday. A little early, but what the hell. She ordered a Scotch and ice and moved to a table away from the counter.

The first mouthful tasted remarkably good. The soothing mellow flush of the alcohol was what she needed to clear her thoughts and chill out. Sometimes that was the only way to shrug off a problem - dissolve it in a smooth glass of single malt whisky. As she sat there quietly, scanning the customers again, she suddenly recognised one of them - the young man drinking alone. His photo was in the case file. It was Rachel’s boyfriend, Freddy Hopper.

An idea struck Rita - one that came out of that grey area where detectives and informers operate under the radar. Crossing paths with Freddy could be a happy coincidence, an opportunity for some lateral digging. The more she thought about it, the more it offered a potential detour around the barrier facing her.

It would require Freddy’s cooperation, but he already operated outside the law so she could apply some pressure to that end.

While she observed him, the gambit grew on her. He was young and fresh-faced but far from innocent-looking and, although rather downcast, his expression was alert and streetwise as he kept watch on his surroundings. As a hacker who’d chalked up a cyber-crime conviction and jail time, he’d know how to keep his mouth shut.

She decided it was worth a try so, after studying him for a few minutes, Rita got up and carried her drink over to the booth.

‘Mind if I join you?’ she asked.

Freddy looked up sharply from his vodka and Red Bull. ‘Who are you?’

‘My name’s Rita Van Hassel.’

‘Is that supposed to mean something to me?’

‘No.’ She shook her head. ‘But it will.’

Understanding dawned in Freddy’s eyes. ‘You’re a cop.’

‘I’m the one who’s going to catch Rachel’s killer.’ Rita slid onto the seat opposite. ‘If you’re willing to help me.’

Freddy’s reluctance was obvious. ‘It’s not what I do.’ He glanced around uncomfortably. ‘Cops and me - we don’t get on.’

‘I’m the exception,’ smiled Rita. ‘You’re going to get on just fine with me.’

Freddy looked at her suspiciously. ‘I’ve got a lousy feeling that translates into harassment.’

‘Call it mutual self-interest. You talk to me off the record, and I’ll protect your back from any police action.’

‘The cops are the least of my worries.’ He grunted. ‘Anyway, what’s in it for me?’

‘Apart from bringing Rachel’s killer to justice?’ Rita sipped her Scotch. ‘No comebacks. And my promise of an advance warning if I see problems coming your way.’

‘Does that include government shit?’

‘Any shit.’

Freddy gave Rita a hard stare. It was obvious he wasn’t used to this type of approach from a police officer.

‘I’ve never seen you before,’ he said. ‘You’re not local.’

‘I’m a criminal profiler,’ she said, lowering her voice. ‘Drafted in from Melbourne to track down a serial killer who doesn’t exist.

You see, Rachel wasn’t simply murdered, she was executed. Just telling you that could get me into deep trouble. You understand what I’m saying?’

‘Not exactly.’ Freddy swallowed another mouthful of vodka before tipping more Red Bull into his glass. ‘First up, I’m not agreeing to anything till I’ve got an idea of what I might be getting myself into.’

‘Fair enough,’ Rita conceded. ‘All I want from you is information.

It won’t be logged, filed, recorded or even written down. It’ll stay between you and me. I’m not interested in your hacking or petty criminal activities - only what bears on Rachel’s death. I’m prepared to cross a line here, break the rules.’

‘Why?’

‘Because I’ve been ordered not to by senior officers.’ She took a deep breath. ‘Because I won’t stand by while Rachel’s death goes unpunished.’

Rita was looking directly into Freddy’s eyes. It got the reaction she wanted. He blushed.

‘I’ve already been questioned by cops twice over,’ he said defensively. ‘I don’t know anything. I wasn’t even here when she was killed.’

‘There’s one thing in particular I need to know about. A Whitley Sands printout given to Rachel.’

Freddy raised his eyes to the ceiling. ‘Fuck!’ He sat back heavily.

‘I bloody knew the Sands was out to get her.’

‘And the rest,’ she said, and drank more Scotch while she watched him fuming.

‘Okay,’ he said at last. ‘If that’s what this is about, I’ll help, as long as what I say goes no further.’

‘Deal.’

Freddy hunched forward, dropping his voice. ‘I took a look at the printout. It was full of technical details and cross-sections

- blueprints, that sort of stuff - about an R&D project using electromagnetic emitters, accelerators and scanners. Not my area of expertise. Besides, the data was incomplete and only partly referred to the computer system that drives it, which is what would turn me on. They call it the Panopticon Project, which sounds like a bullshit label to me. There wasn’t enough for me to make sense of it, but it came with a rambling introduction saying the system produced life-threatening levels of radiation.

Rachel was ecstatic.’

‘When did she get it?’

‘A couple of weeks before the big demo. She was saving it up for that. Big announcement in front of TV cameras.’ Freddy bowed his head. ‘And you’re saying that’s why she was stopped.

Shit. And the printout?’

‘Gone. Vanished when she was killed.’

‘So it was important after all.’ He sagged forward on his elbows.

‘The gold dust she was looking for.’

‘
Das Rheingold
, actually. It’s an extract from a report burnt onto a disk disguised as an opera DVD. Which brings me to your pal, Stonefish.’

‘If he’s to blame for Rachel’s death -‘

‘No. He’s just a go-between. What’s his real name?’

‘That’s just it. He hasn’t told anyone. All we know is he’s a Kiwi who can get his hands on any sort of software, including a military code-breaker. That takes some doing. He’s also an acid bore and a beer snob.’

‘Well I need to speak to him.’

Freddy’s fist slammed the table. ‘We’re all looking for that arsehole!’

‘All?’

‘Yeah, and now I know why.’

‘Freddy, who else is after him?’

‘Me, for a start. I need a completely new rig since a bitch called Audrey firebombed my loft!’

‘Slow down. Firebombed?’

‘She triggered a power surge that blew my decks.’

‘Are you saying you’ve met Audrey Zillman?’

‘If that’s her name, yes. An online face-to-face in the middle of a virtual hack. Got all the way to the core data at the Sands before she zapped me.’

Rita was genuinely impressed. ‘Amazing. Is she after Stonefish?’

‘She told me she wasn’t, but she might be the one who sent in some American psycho called Kurt. He paid me a visit last night with another pair of muggers in suits. Kurt damn near castrated me and said he’d finish the job if I didn’t deliver Stonefish. I’m in deep shit either way. If I don’t track him down I lose my balls, but if I do find him I think we’re both stuffed anyway. We’ll end up as floaters over the reef.’

Rita was trying to digest all the information she’d just heard when her mobile rang. It was Jarrett calling.

She gave Freddy a warning look as she answered. ‘Hello, Detective Sergeant Jarrett.’

He caught an odd tone in her voice. ‘Where are you?’

‘At the Diamond,’ she replied. ‘Chatting to Freddy Hopper.’

‘Is he cooperating?’

‘Yes, he’s answered all my questions.’ She watched Freddy tense but waved a hand at him to lighten up. ‘Nothing new though.’

The words reassured him. Freddy’s expression relaxed, their verbal agreement sealed.

‘I’ll join you there,’ said Jarrett. ‘There’s been an interesting development. One that’s got Bryce stumped.’

He hung up.

‘My colleague’s on his way here,’ Rita told Freddy. ‘Better make yourself scarce.’

‘No sweat.’

He downed the rest of his drink.

‘Before you go,’ added Rita. ‘Is anyone else looking for Stonefish?’

‘Yeah, the guy who owns this joint. I work for him on and off. The odd bit of hacking.’

‘Who is he?’

‘Billy Bowers - local hard nut.’

Rita froze. ‘Billy “The Beast” Bowers?’ she asked. ‘Ex-boxer?’

‘Yeah, that’s him. Ex-champ, ex-primate. You know him?’

‘Only too well.’

Rita sat on a bar stool putting together a mental jigsaw puzzle to which Freddy had supplied several new pieces. Perhaps the most illuminating involved the man whose picture she’d only just noticed in pride of place behind the counter. The ringside close-up showed his gleaming physique towering over a defeated opponent, the title World Champion emblazoned above his ferocious head in gold lettering.

When Jarrett arrived he climbed onto a stool beside her, his eyes doing a quick sweep over the clientele.

‘Was it worth the visit?’ he asked.

‘Oh, definitely,’ said Rita.

‘But Freddy gave you nothing fresh?’

She brushed that aside. ‘Forget Freddy. I’ve found my connection to Whitley.’

‘What is it?’

She pointed at the gilded photo mounted behind the bar.

‘Him.’

‘You’re kidding,’ said Jarrett. ‘Billy Bowers?’

‘Uh-huh.’ She nodded.

‘Bugger me. That’s a bit of a jaw-dropper, if you’ll pardon the pun. You met him in the course of your inquiries?’

‘That’s right.’

‘With Sex Crimes?’

‘Oh, yes.’

‘That means your name in a dead man’s boot leads straight here. Could be a bit awkward.’

‘Why?’

‘Billy’s a local hero. Not to mention a multi-millionaire.’

‘Hero? Because he runs a sleazy club? I assume you know he’s got a criminal background.’

‘I know some of his associates are crooks, yes. But it’s not just this club he owns. He’s got a whole business portfolio - a restaurant, a gym and a charter boat company for game fishing on the reef. He’s also into showbiz promotions and property development - he’s building a resort complex up in the rainforest.’

Jarrett paused, frowning. ‘Of course, that brought him into direct conflict with Rachel Macarthur and the environmentalists. She organised protests and Billy was none too pleased. But he’s got a lot of pull with the council.’

‘In spite of his gangland credentials?’

‘Lots of businessmen up here have got a shady past, councillors included. It’s par for the course. The accepted wisdom is: don’t knock what’s good for the local economy. He’s even on the board of the sailing club.’

‘Don’t tell me - he’s one of your drinking mates.’

‘As a matter of fact, yeah, we’ve enjoyed a few beers together.’

Jarrett caught the disappointment in her expression. ‘Why are you looking at me like that?’

‘Do you know how he got his nickname?’

‘“The Beast”? He told me it’s from his fight style. Because he’s a brute in the ring.’

‘Then the laugh was on you,’ she said with disgust. ‘It’s got nothing to do with boxing.’

Jarrett was peeved. ‘What then?’

‘It’s a nasty joke his manager came up with because of Billy’s proclivities.’

He looked at her askance. ‘No! Not bestiality?’

‘Yes, but not in the way you think. He forces women to do it and laughs while he watches. It’s a sadistic sport to him.’

‘And your connection?’

‘I arrested him for it. It was my first year in the squad. I found out after a young hooker broke down in hysterics when I was questioning her about something else. She was nineteen.’

‘Well, don’t stop there. What happened?’

‘Billy took some of his gangland pals to a brothel in Carlton -

along with a pair of German shepherds. Three girls were working there that afternoon and they got slapped around until they complied. Billy entertained himself and his mates with a sex show between the girls and the dogs.’

‘That story never came out.’

‘He was never charged. I was a rookie detective and couldn’t make the allegation stick. The girl who spoke to me vanished, the other two vigorously denied the story and Billy had plenty of chums to give him an alibi. No case. And I got a lecture about being impulsive.’

‘But you were right.’

‘I heard later why the other two girls were so emphatic in their denials. I was told, off the record, that the nineteen-year-old was chopped up and fed to the dogs.’

There was a strange glint in Jarrett’s eye. ‘It may interest you to know he still keeps German shepherds. Guard dogs at his villa.’

He glanced over at the brassy women in the booth. ‘I wonder if any of the girls here could tell us a story.’

‘Or the man in the mud,’ said Rita. ‘Maybe that’s why my name was in his boot.’

‘He might’ve been planning to give you an update. If only we could identify him. Somehow I don’t think Billy will help. Have you asked if he’s around?’

‘Billy’s gone fishing, schmoozing up to a Hollywood veteran with a macho self-image.’

‘Your profiling tell you that?’

‘No, the barmaid,’ smiled Rita. ‘She says it’s a producer who
wants to hook a marlin like Ernest Hemingway
.’

Jarrett gave a grunt. ‘What - a fish with a beard?’

‘So what’s your news?’ she asked.

‘Something out of left field. We’ve been summoned to attend a meeting at the research base. Bryce, me and - wait for it - you.’