About the Book
About the Author
Also by James Patterson
Title Page
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Chapter 51
Chapter 52
Chapter 53
Chapter 54
Chapter 55
Chapter 56
Chapter 57
Chapter 58
Chapter 59
Chapter 60
Chapter 61
Chapter 62
Chapter 63
Chapter 64
Chapter 65
Chapter 66
Chapter 67
Chapter 68
Chapter 69
Chapter 70
Chapter 71
Chapter 72
Chapter 73
Chapter 74
Chapter 75
Chapter 76
Chapter 77
Chapter 78
Chapter 79
Chapter 80
Chapter 81
Chapter 82
Chapter 83
Chapter 84
Chapter 85
Chapter 86
Chapter 87
Chapter 88
Chapter 89
Chapter 90
Chapter 91
Chapter 92
Chapter 93
Chapter 94
Chapter 95
Chapter 96
Chapter 97
Chapter 98
Chapter 99
Chapter 100
Chapter 101
Chapter 102
Chapter 103
Chapter 104
Chapter 105
Chapter 106
Chapter 107
Chapter 108
Chapter 109
Chapter 110
Chapter 111
Chapter 112
Chapter 113
Chapter 114
Chapter 115
Chapter 116
Chapter 117
Chapter 118
Chapter 119
Chapter 120
Chapter 121
Chapter 122
Chapter 123
Chapter 124
Chapter 125
Chapter 126
Chapter 127
Chapter 128
Chapter 129
Chapter 130
Chapter 131
Chapter 132
Chapter 133
Chapter 134
Chapter 135
Chapter 136
Chapter 137
Chapter 138
Chapter 139
Chapter 140
Chapter 141
Chapter 142
Author’s Note
Copyright
P.I. Craig Gisto, head of the latest branch of Private, is enjoying the glamorous launch party with his new team when their celebrations are interrupted by the bloodied arrival of a boy with his eyes gouged out.
The boy is the kidnapped son of one of Australia’s richest men – but investigating his death isn’t their only pressing case. The rock star Micky Stevens is convinced someone’s trying to kill him, and believes Private are the only ones who can help.
As if that wasn’t enough, someone is murdering the wealthy wives of the Eastern suburbs, in the most brutal way imaginable. And if they don’t catch the killer soon, the next victim could be someone close to Private …
JAMES PATTERSON is one of the best-known and biggest-selling writers of all time. He is the author of some of the most popular series of the past decade – the Alex Cross, Women’s Murder Club and Detective Michael Bennett novels – and he has written many other number one bestsellers including romance novels and stand-alone thrillers. He lives in Florida with his wife and son.
James is passionate about encouraging children to read. Inspired by his own son who was a reluctant reader, he also writes a range of books specifically for young readers. James has formed a partnership with the National Literacy Trust, an independent, UK-based charity that changes lives through literacy. In 2010, he was voted Author of the Year at the Children’s Choice Book Awards in New York.
Find out more at www.jamespatterson.co.uk
Become a fan of James Patterson on Facebook
Private (with Maxine Paetro)
Private London (with Mark Pearson)
Private Games (with Mark Sullivan)
Private: No. 1 Suspect (with Maxine Paetro)
Private Berlin (with Mark Sullivan)
Along Came a Spider
Kiss the Girls
Jack and Jill
Cat and Mouse
Pop Goes the Weasel
Roses are Red
Violets are Blue
Four Blind Mice
The Big Bad Wolf
London Bridges
Mary, Mary
Cross
Double Cross
Cross Country
Alex Cross’s Trial (with Richard DiLallo)
I, Alex Cross
Cross Fire
Kill Alex Cross
Merry Christmas, Alex Cross
Alex Cross, Run
1st to Die
2nd Chance (with Andrew Gross)
3rd Degree (with Andrew Gross)
4th of July (with Maxine Paetro)
The 5th Horseman (with Maxine Paetro)
The 6th Target (with Maxine Paetro)
7th Heaven (with Maxine Paetro)
8th Confession (with Maxine Paetro)
9th Judgement (with Maxine Paetro)
10th Anniversary (with Maxine Paetro)
11th Hour (with Maxine Paetro)
12th of Never (with Maxine Paetro)
Step on a Crack (with Michael Ledwidge)
Run for Your Life (with Michael Ledwidge)
Worst Case (with Michael Ledwidge)
Tick Tock (with Michael Ledwidge)
I, Michael Bennett (with Michael Ledwidge)
Sail (with Howard Roughan)
Swimsuit (with Maxine Paetro)
Don’t Blink (with Howard Roughan)
Postcard Killers (with Liza Marklund)
Toys (with Neil McMahon)
Now You See Her (with Michael Ledwidge)
Kill Me If You Can (with Marshall Karp)
Guilty Wives (with David Ellis)
Zoo (with Michael Ledwidge)
NYPD Red (with Marshall Karp)
Second Honeymoon (with Howard Roughan, to be published July 2013)
Torn Apart (with Hal and Cory Friedman)
The Murder of King Tut (with Martin Dugard)
Sundays at Tiffany’s (with Gabrielle Charbonnet)
The Christmas Wedding (with Richard DiLallo)
The Angel Experiment
School’s Out Forever
Saving the World and Other Extreme Sports
The Final Warning
Max
Fang
Angel
Nevermore
The Dangerous Days of Daniel X (with Michael Ledwidge)
Watch the Skies (with Ned Rust)
Demons and Druids (with Adam Sadler)
Game Over (with Ned Rust)
Armageddon (with Chris Grabenstein)
Witch & Wizard (with Gabrielle Charbonnet)
The Gift (with Ned Rust)
The Fire (with Jill Dembowski)
The Kiss (with Jill Dembowski)
Middle School: The Worst Years of My Life (with Chris Tebbetts)
Middle School: Get Me Out of Here! (with Chris Tebbetts)
Middle School: My Brother Is a Big, Fat Liar (with Lisa Papademetriou)
Middle School: How I Survived Bullies, Broccoli and Snake Hill (with Chris Tebbetts, to be published June 2013)
I Funny (with Chris Grabenstein)
Confessions of a Murder Suspect (with Maxine Paetro)
Daniel X: Alien Hunter (with Leopoldo Gout)
Maximum Ride: Manga Vol. 1–6 (with NaRae Lee)
For more information about James Patterson’s novels, visit
www.jamespatterson.co.uk
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This ebook is copyright material and must not be copied, reproduced, transferred, distributed, leased, licensed or publicly performed or used in any way except as specifically permitted in writing by the publishers, as allowed under the terms and conditions under which it was purchased or as strictly permitted by applicable copyright law. Any unauthorized distribution or use of this text may be a direct infringement of the author’s and publisher’s rights and those responsible may be liable in law accordingly.
Version 1.0
Epub ISBN 9781448134502
www.randomhouse.co.uk
Published by Century, 2013
2 4 6 8 10 9 7 5 3 1
Copyright © James Patterson, 2012
James Patterson has asserted his right under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988 to be identified as the author of this work
This novel is a work of fiction. Names and characters are the product of the author’s imagination and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental
First published in Australia in 2012 by Century Australia
First published in Great Britain in 2013 by
Century
Random House, 20 Vauxhall Bridge Road,
London SW1V 2SA
www.randomhouse.co.uk
Addresses for companies within The Random House Group Limited can be found at: www.randomhouse.co.uk/offices.htm
The Random House Group Limited Reg. No. 954009
A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library
Hardback ISBN 9781846058905
Trade paperback ISBN 9781846058912
I’D SEEN PICTURES of Justine Smith, Jack Morgan’s No. 2 at Private LA, but she was far more beautiful in the flesh.
I stood at Sydney Airport International Arrivals and watched her waft out of customs with a trolley looking like she was ready for a model shoot – no clue she’d just been on a 14-hour flight. She was here to launch the latest branch of the Private franchise created by Jack Morgan in LA – a top-notch investigative agency for top-notch people.
I held back, let her family greet her first. There was her sister, Greta, and husband, my new buddy, Brett Thorogood, the Deputy Commissioner of New South Wales Police, their kids, Nikki, eight and Serge, ten. Then I stepped forward, shook her hand.
I’d parked my Ferrari 458 Spider in the pick-up zone. The Thorogoods headed off after we’d all synchronized watches for the launch party tonight and we were off, pulling out of the airport and onto the sun-drenched freeway.
None of us could have known what a fuck of a week we were about to have.
HE CAN SEE nothing.
He can hear nothing.
He runs, gasping, hits a hard object – face first. His nose shatters, sending a cascade of agony through his head and down his spine. Falls back, slams to the floor. His head cracking on concrete. More pain.
He can see nothing.
He can hear nothing.
The sack hood over his head stinks of sweat and blood. He tries to loosen the ties, but it’s no good.
He vomits, it hits the fabric, splashes on his face.
He thinks he’ll choke and part of him doesn’t care, wants it. But the survival genes kick in and he panics, pulls up, the spew running down his shirt front. He reaches out and touches the wall. Moves left as fast as he can. He feels the vibration of feet, people running toward him.
A burst of terrible agony in his back. Two thumps propel him to the wall. He smells fresh blood. He smells tire rubber. Another crunch, his thigh exploding. But he keeps to the wall, sweat running down his ruined face, blood drips from his nose, his leg, his back. He feels wet all over. He’s a leaking sieve, his life draining away. The pain in his legs screams. The hood fabric sucks into his mouth.
He has to keep going. ‘MOVE OR DIE … MOVE OR DIE,’ a voice bellows in his head. Shrapnel clips his ear. He screeches, feels his guts heave. Another bullet thunders past his head, but he doesn’t hear it, just feels the air tremble. Dust and concrete chips hit him in the face. His legs start to buckle, but he refuses to give in.
‘MOVE OR DIE. MOVE OR DIE.’
He feels a door, pushes, stumbles through, trips, hits the concrete again. Blood splashes across the floor, up the walls. He pulls up once more.
He’s on a roller coaster, at the park with Grandma. He’s four years old. Then he’s floating in space. No reference points.
He can see nothing.
He can hear nothing.
He senses the air tremble again.
He touches wood. Another door. It moves forward. He’s falling … and dies before he hits the ground.
I HEARD THE crash from the other side of the room and for a second I thought one of the hired caterers had screwed up. But then a woman screamed and I was dashing across reception.
I caught a glimpse of my right-hand woman, Mary Clarke, spin on her heel. She’s a big, muscly girl but has the reaction time of Usain Bolt off the blocks.
I saw the blood first. A smear, then a dark pool spreading out across the marble. The man lay spread-eagled on the floor, face down, torn apart, gaping holes in his back, his right leg shattered, twisted obscenely under him. A hood over his head.
I crouched down as Justine Smith ran up.
Pulling a tissue from my pocket, I wrapped it around my fingers, turned the body over and tried to remove the hood, but it was tied fast. I glanced up to see Deputy Commissioner Thorogood.
“Jesus!” he said as he lowered beside me.
“Multiple gunshot wounds. Twice in the back, leg,” I said and tilted the body so Thorogood could study the ragged circles in the guy’s linen jacket.
Darlene, Private’s tech guru, squatted down close to the body. She’s usually in a lab coat over jeans, but tonight she was wearing a red cocktail dress that accentuated her incredible curves. She pulled on latex gloves, removed a sharp implement from her clutch purse. Leaning forward, she cut the ties of the hood and eased up the fabric.
“Holy Christ!” Thorogood exclaimed.
HIS EYES HAD been gouged out. There were two red craters in their place. The skin was jagged, blood oozing. A gray bundle of nerves snaked from the left socket and stuck to the skin of the man’s cheek.
It was hard to tell for sure, but he looked like a young kid, maybe late teens, twenty tops. The rest of his face was smeared, his nose smashed to hell.
I heard Johnny Ishmah, the youngest of my team, behind me. I turned to him. “Johnny get everyone out.” Then I saw Mary. “Come with me.”
The Deputy Commissioner straightened and pulled out his cell as he walked away.
I heard him say “Inspector …” His boys would be here in minutes.
“Well, not your average gatecrasher,” I heard Darlene mumble as Mary and I headed for the door.
“Blood trail.” I flicked a glance at the floor just beyond the door.
“Passage ahead leads to the garage,” Mary responded.
There was a slew of blood across the concrete, up the walls. Picking our way round the puddles I leaned on the second door and we were out onto “Garage Level 1”. Plenty of blood still, oval droplets on the rough concrete. The sort of splashes someone makes when they are running and bleeding at the same time.
The poor kid had stopped here, blood had pooled into a patch about two feet wide that was rippling away toward a drain in the floor. The trail led off to the left. Three cars stood there, a Merc, a Prius and my black Spider. Tire marks close to the bend, more blood.
I bent down and picked up a shell casing, holding it in the tissue still in my hand.
“.357 Sig,” Mary said. She was ex-Military Police, knew a thing or two.
“Pros.”
“Must be cameras everywhere.” She glanced around.
“Small garage. There’s a guard at the gate. He has a security camera system.” I turned and led the way back. The road narrowed, a barrier twenty yards ahead. Next to that, a booth.
I could see immediately the place was hit. Glass everywhere, the guard slumped unconscious, a row of monitors an inch from his head. The cable to a hard drive dangling. Standard system … record the garage for twelve-hour rotations on a terabyte hard drive. Wipe it, start again.
“Took the hard drive,” Mary said nodding at the lead.
I crouched down beside the guard and lifted his head gently. He stirred, pulled back and went for his gun. That had gone too.
“Whoa buddy!” Mary exclaimed, palms up.
The guy recognized me. “Mr. Gisto.” He ran a hand over his forehead. “Holy shit …”
“Easy, pal.” I placed a hand on his shoulder. “Remember anything?”
He sighed. “Couple a guys in hoodies. It all happened so bloody quick …”
“Alright,” I said, turning to Mary. There was a sudden movement beyond the booth window. A cop in a power stance, finger poised to the trigger.
A second later Deputy Commissioner Thorogood appeared in the doorway, touched the officer’s arm. “Put it down, constable.”
It was then I saw the third guy, standing next to Thorogood. Middle build, five-ten, hard, lived-in face. I recognized him immediately and felt a jolt of painful memories. Covered it well. I knew he instantly recognized me, but he pretended he hadn’t. The devious son of a bitch.
A COP CAR pulled up to the gate, tires screeching. Close behind, a van, “FORENSICS” on the side.
Outside, Thorogood made the introductions. He seemed oblivious to the animosity in the air. “Craig Gisto and Mary Clarke, Private Sydney – a new investigative agency started by a friend of mine, Jack Morgan in LA. These guys head up the Sydney branch. Craig, Mary … this is Inspector Mark Talbot, Sydney Local Area Command.”
“And what are they doing here?” Talbot studied my face. I half-smiled back.
“We have an arrangement …” Thorogood responded.
“Arrangement, sir?”
“Didn’t you get my memo? We help Private, Private helps us … Understand? So what do we have here, Craig?” the Deputy Commissioner turned to me.
“Lotta blood. Your forensics guys’ll have fun. The hard drive for the security cameras walked.” I flicked a glance toward the booth. “And I found this.” I pulled the tissue from my jacket pocket and handed the bullet casing to Thorogood.
“That should have been left where you found it …” Talbot remarked angrily.
“.357 Sig.” Thorogood ignored the Inspector. “Okay, so what do you want from us, Craig? Mary?”
“Give Darlene access to the crime scene and ten minutes with the body before it’s taken to the morgue.”
Thorogood nodded. “Fine.”
“What!” Talbot exclaimed and glared at us. Then he saw Thorogood’s expression and shut up.
THE PARTY ROOM was almost empty. Most of the Police Forensics team were still down in the garage, dusting, photographing, videoing, gathering samples. The guard was en route to hospital. A single police scientist in a blue plastic boiler suit crouched beside the corpse. The man looked irritated.
I walked over. Darlene was on her knees, her face close to the dead kid’s back. The forensics officer was holding a plastic sample bottle in one gloved hand, a pair of tweezers in the other. Beside him in a metal box lay half a dozen more sample bottles.
“She with you?” the guy asked without moving his head. “She’s really pissing me off. This is a crime scene.”
Darlene treated him as though he wasn’t there.
“We have clearance to observe,” I told him.
“I’ll need that officially verified.”
“No you won’t,” Darlene snapped. “But, if you insist, I’ll have my good friend, Deputy Commissioner Thorogood, remind you … Oh, and …” She nodded toward the box of samples. “I’ll need access to those too, please.” She gave him a killer smile.
SUMMER RAIN HIT the windshield as I pulled the Ferrari out of the lot and headed for the North Shore. My mind was churning. Not only because of the dead kid at the drinks reception. My head was buzzing with just three words: “The Bastard’s Back”. Mark fucking Talbot had returned to Sydney and he was going to get right up my nose, just as Private starts in business. I punched the wheel in frustration, glared at the girders of the Harbour Bridge and the memories started up, couldn’t stop ’em.
I’m twelve. My crack-head mom is burned to a crisp in the London project I grew up in. Poor little orphan Craig is shipped out to Sydney and Uncle Ben. Within a week, I go from a mildewed tenement in winter to a four-bedroomed house in Narrabeen and sunshine.
The Talbot family meet me at the airport and there’s my cousin, Mark, giving me the sort of hostile look he’s never lost. He obviously hates me straight off the bat.
Four years later, I’m alone doing my homework. Mark bursts into my room with a couple of mates. They’ve been drinking. They stink. I go to get up and Mark slams a fist in my face. One of his friends kicks me in the balls. I spit blood onto the carpet. They hear my uncle turn the key in the front door, run. I spend the next day under the covers pretending I have flu so Ben doesn’t see my face until I can come up with an excuse.
Then sweet release. I’m eighteen and go to university to study Law. In my second year I join an exchange program with UCLA, spend a year in the States. It turns out to be the best year of my life. I return home to Oz at Easter – it’s the last thing I want.
Ben picks me up at the airport. We jump in the car.
“Mark’s engaged,” he says.
I look stunned.
“Why so surprised?”
I shake my head. “Nothing … just. I didn’t know he was even seeing anyone …”
“All been a bit quick, I admit. Becky’s a babe though. There’s a party tonight.”
Mark has changed, almost friendly. Amazing what love can do, I think. Then I see Becky and I understand. Love at first sight.
I still don’t know how the fight started. I was chatting to Becky in the kitchen and Mark must have thought I was flirting with her – which maybe I was. He was drunk and abusive. He took a swing at me, and that was it. We crashed into the lounge, parting stunned guests like a knife through an engagement party cake. Would have killed each other if it hadn’t been for Ben and three other guys pulling Mark and me apart.
When I’d recovered enough to see straight, I realized Becky had slipped away unnoticed.
The next day she called Mark to call off the engagement. It was to be five years before I saw her again.
DARLENE’S LAB STOOD along the corridor from where Private’s launch party had been. It was her fiefdom. In here, she felt relaxed, isolated from the troubles of the outside world. Which was a little ironic, considering what was in the case she dumped on the counter.
She had designed the lab herself and been given carte blanche to install the best equipment available. Better still, through her contacts, she had some technology no one beyond Private would see for years to come. She was very proud of that.
Police forensics had worked through the night and catalogued everything before passing on the samples to Darlene an hour ago. A courier had delivered a case of test tubes and a USB at 6 am. She’d already been at Private for an hour.
She opened the clasps of the sample box and looked inside. Each test tube was labeled and itemized by date, location and type. They contained samples of the corpse’s blood, scrapings from under his fingernails, individual hairs from his jacket. She had a collection of her own photographs and a file from the police photographer.
There was no ID on the body. The victim was male, Asian, between eighteen and twenty-one years old. Both eyes removed with a sharp instrument. Wasn’t a professional job. By the condition of the wound, it was done at least thirty-six hours before death. Sockets were infected. He was a mess, his clothes badly soiled. They stank of sweat, urine and excrement. He’d probably been in them for days, held captive some place. But the jacket he’d worn was expensive – Emporio Armani – and his hair had been well cut, maybe two weeks ago. He was obviously from a wealthy family.
So it seemed likely they were looking at kidnap, Darlene mused. Maybe the kid had escaped his captors. Maybe he’d stopped being useful. No way of knowing … yet.
She removed a selection of test tubes from the case and walked over to a row of machines on an adjacent bench, each device glistening new. She slotted the test tubes into a metal rack, pulled up a stool, switched on the machines and listened to the ascending whir of computers booting up and electron microscopes coming on-line.
The first test tube was labeled: “Nail Scraping. Left digitus secundus manus.” With the tweezers, she slid out the piece of material. It was a couple of millimeters square, a blob of blue and pink. She placed it on a slide, lowered a second rectangular piece of glass over it and positioned the arrangement in the cross-hairs of the microscope.
The image was a pitted off-white. Set to a magnification of x1000, human flesh looked like a blanched moonscape. She tracked the microscope to the right and refocused. It looked almost the same, only the details were different. She set the tracking going again, back left, past the starting position. Refocused. Paused. Sat back for a second, then peered into the eyepiece once more. “Now that is weird,” she said.
I WAS PULLING into the parking lot below Private when my cell rang.
“Hey Darlene. So what’d you find out?” I wiped away a trickle of sweat running down my cheek. My car’s thermometer read ninety-two degrees.
“The police have ID’ed the victim. His name’s Ho Chang, nineteen, left Shore School last year. His father is Ho Meng, a well-known and very wealthy importer/exporter. The boy was reported missing two days ago.”
“Well that’s something.”
“I found out some other stuff too.”
“Great … What?”
“I’d rather show you – in the lab.”
“See you in a minute.”
Mary and Johnny were in reception before me. I was surprised. It was only 8 am. I was even more surprised to see a tall man in a finely tailored suit getting out of one of the chairs across the coffee table. Beside him stood a guy in a gray suit. A bodyguard, I guessed. He had that boneheaded look about him.
Johnny retreated and Mary led me over. “This is Mr Ho Meng … My boss, Craig Gisto.”
We shook hands.
“I just heard,” I said. “Please accept my …”
He raised a hand, shaking his head slowly.
I was lost for words for a moment, then put out a hand to indicate we should walk along to my office.
Mary and Ho sat at opposite ends of my sofa and I pulled round a chair. The bonehead stood by the door, arms folded.
“Mr. Ho and I have met before,” Mary began. She was wearing cargo pants and a tight, short-sleeved tee that accentuated the girth of her arms. “Mr. Ho was a Commissioner in the Hong Kong Police Force. I met him when he delivered a special lecture at the Military Police College a few years back.”
“I would like you to find my son’s killer,” Ho responded. His voice was remarkably refined. I guessed Oxford or Cambridge.
“I assume the police are …”
“I do not trust the Australian police, Mr. Gisto.”
I watched him. He’d drifted off into grief for a second, but then his expression hardened, a carefully constructed shield against the world.
“Well, of course, Mr. Ho. That’s what we do.”
“My son was reported missing more than two days ago. His death was preventable. The police did nothing.”
“I’m sure they tried.”
“Don’t make excuses for them, Mr. Gisto.” He had his imperious hand up again. “They’re either incompetent, lazy or lack resources. Whatever it is I won’t work with them.”
“Mr. Ho, what can you tell us about your son? Any clues how he got into trouble?” Mary asked.
He sighed. “Chang was a wonderful boy. Headstrong, for sure. He was profoundly deaf, but struggled for independence. He was a brilliant lip-reader. Insisted he have his own apartment as soon as he left school.”
“He was deaf?” I said, surprised.
Ho nodded. “From the age of four.” He glanced at Mary. “I would be the first to admit that this is partly my fault. I’ve not exactly been a model father. Chang’s mother died twelve years ago. I’ve been obsessed with my business. I could never find the time. I shouldn’t have let him leave home so young.”
“When did you last see your son?” I asked.
“Thursday night. A family dinner … rare.” Ho stopped speaking and looked away.
“So that would be three days ago?”
“Yes. I went to his apartment on Friday morning. He wasn’t there. I tried to SMS him, emailed him. Nothing. I reported him missing by late afternoon.”
“The police called me just after midnight when they’d identified Chang’s body. I went to the morgue at six this morning.” His voice was brittle. “I saw what they did to him.” He looked at Mary and then at me, his face like a mannequin’s. “You have to find the killer Mr. Gisto. I am a very wealthy man. I don’t care what it costs.”
DEPUTY COMMISSIONER THOROGOOD was coming through the main doors just as Ho Meng was leaving. I met him in reception and we walked along the corridor.
“That was the father of the murdered kid,” I said as we sat down. “He’s mighty pissed with your people.”
Thorogood’s face creased into a frown.
“He can’t understand why you didn’t save his boy.”
“So, he’s come to you?”
I nodded.
“Well, you know our agreement, Craig. We share Intel.”
“He doesn’t want to talk to the police.”
The Deputy Commissioner blanched, anger building in his eyes. “Well it’s not up to him, is it?” he snapped. “If he’s withholding evidence …”
I let it go, went to change the subject. There was a knock on the door. Darlene poked her head round. “Bad time? You said you’d …”
“Sorry, Darlene,” I said quickly. “Come in.”
“Deputy Commissioner, you’ve met Darlene Cooper, haven’t you?”
He stood up, extended a hand. “We … ah … met last night at the …”
Darlene gave the man a brief smile. The girl was a cool paradox, beautiful and brilliant – the only nerd who could grace the centerfold of Playboy. She’d done the whole modeling shtick for a year after finishing her degree in Forensics at Monash, became a disciple of Sci, Jack Morgan’s resident lab genius at Private LA. Then she’d come back to Oz and our Private.
“You wanted to know the latest,” she began before flashing her baby blues at the Deputy Commissioner.
“Absolutely,” I said.
She handed me a couple of sheets of paper. They were covered with graphs and numbers. I turned them sideways, then back again.
“Analysis of skin samples, and DNA,” she explained.
“Oh, great.”
“That was bloody quick!” Thorogood said.
“So what’re your conclusions?” I asked.
“I took a range of samples from the body. Unfortunately I haven’t been able to get any prints, but I found three distinct DNA profiles. One of these is certainly the victim’s.”
“Any luck finding a match for the other two?”
Darlene shook her head. “Nothing close on any database.”
“Anything else?” I asked.
“Well yeah, actually. I took a sample of material from under Ho Chang’s fingernails.” She handed me a photograph. I stared at it for several moments, passed it to Thorogood. He sat back, held the photo up to the light.
“It’s human skin. I suspect there was a serious struggle. Ho must have taken a chunk out of the other guy.”
“But what’s the blue?” Thorogood asked, studying the image. It showed a highly magnified ragged rectangle of skin. One corner was dark blue.
“Stumped me,” Darlene replied, “… for a few seconds. Then I realized it was probably a bit of a tattoo.”
Thorogood looked at Darlene, back at the picture.
“Very clever,” I said.
“Oh, I’m even cleverer than that.”
I flicked a glance at Thorogood who was now giving Darlene a skeptical look.
“I took a sample and ran it through a gas chromatograph that separates out the constituents of a blend. Tattoo ink is a cocktail of many different ingredients. The gas chromatograph pulls these away from each other and gives a readout to show everything that makes up the blend. This is what I got.”
I took another sheet of paper from my science whiz. It showed a graph with different colored bars lined up across the paper.
“There were forty-seven different compounds or elements in the ink – vegetable dyes, traces of solvent, zinc, copper. But one thing stood out.”
I handed the sheet to Thorogood.
“An unusual level of Antimony.”
We both looked at Darlene blankly.
“Only Chinese tattooists use that type of ink. It’s most commonly found in the tattoos of Triad gang members.”
Three Years Ago.
IT WAS ONE of those perfect Sydney mornings. Pristine blue sky, not a cloud in sight, a crispness to the air that made you kid yourself everything was right with the world. Even the traffic was light for 7 am and I had the roof down on the old Porsche convertible I’d bought fifth-hand ten years before.
We were en route to the airport. Becky, my wife of nine years, our three-year-old son, Cal, and me. Becky looked amazing. She was wearing a diaphanous dress and a thick rope of fake pearls. She was tanned from the spring sunshine. When she moved her hands, the collection of bangles at her wrists jangled. She’d put on a bit of weight and looked better for it. We’d made love that morning while Cal was asleep and I could still visualize her.
I glanced round and saw her long auburn hair blown back by the warm breeze. She was excited about our trip to Bali. We all were … our first holiday in two years. I’d been working hard to build up my PI agency, Solutions Inc., and I was only now able to take a week off, splash some cash on a fancy resort.
I’d woken up that morning feeling more relaxed than I had for years. I’d had nice dreams too. I was back on our wedding day. Nine years before. It was a bitter-sweet occasion. I’d bumped into Becky by chance one morning at Darling Harbour. The old spark was there, we were both single. It just happened. We were meant for each other. Within a year we were married.
Mark must’ve heard I was with Becky, but seeing as I hadn’t spoken to him since my second year in college, I had no idea what he’d thought about it. He would never forgive me for what happened at his party. I could hardly blame the guy. What did sting for a while was that only a few of my family turned up at the registry office in Darlinghurst. But hell, it was a long time ago and even that wasn’t going to ruin my mood.
Cal was strapped in the back, a suitcase next to him. On top of that was the brightly colored Kung Fu Panda carry-on bag he planned to wheel to the plane and put in the overhead locker. He’d not flown before, but I’d told him all about it the previous night in lieu of a bedtime story. Cal had the same auburn hair as his mother, the same eyes. In fact, there wasn’t much immediately obvious about his looks that confirmed he was mine. But he definitely had my temperament – patient and calm, but vicious when riled.
“So you looking forward to the trip, little man?” I called to Cal over the noise of the road and the wind and the powerful engine. “I know I am.”
He nodded. I saw him in the rear-view mirror, a big smile across his face, baby teeth gleaming.
“What you looking forward to most, Cal?”
He thought for a moment, forehead wrinkled. Then hollered: “Catching fish!”
I glanced over to Becky and we both laughed. I turned back and saw the pickup truck on the wrong side of the road coming straight for us. And I knew immediately that this was the end. I could feel Becky freeze beside me, watched as the ugly great vehicle covered the distance between us. With each vanishing yard, I felt my life … our lives together … drain away.
I DON’T REMEMBER the impact … no one ever does, do they? The horror began when I started to open my eyes. But at first, everything was blurred and I was stone deaf. I just saw colored shapes. Then my hearing came back … but I couldn’t make out a single human sound. Instead, a loud, shrill whine, the engine free-wheeling in neutral.
I felt a drip, drip, drip on my face.
My car had rolled and ended up driver’s side to the tarmac. I could see a shape close to, almost on top of me. Gradually my vision cleared enough to make it out. Becky’s face. Her dead eyes open, staring at me … droplets of her blood falling onto my cheek.
I tried to scream, but nothing came out. I couldn’t speak, just produced animal noises in my throat. Tried to pull away, horrified, I turned my head slowly. A pain shot down my spine. I could just see Cal in the back. He’d slumped to the side, body contorted.
I managed to twist in the seat and had the presence of mind to feel for Becky’s pulse. Then I saw the cut in her neck. She was almost decapitated.
I felt vomit rise up and I spewed down my front. I thought I’d choke and a part of me wished I would. I could visualize the new life if I were to survive. A life alone, my family gone … just like that.
I turned back to Cal, unbuckled my seat belt, gained enough leverage to slither into the rear of the car.
“Cal? Cal?” My voice broke. “Aggghhh!” I screamed again. Another stream of vomit welled up and out. I started to cry.
“Cal?” I pulled him up. His head lolled, blood trickling from the side of his mouth.