City Of Fear E-Book

Sean O'Leary

• Herausgeber: Next Chapter
• Kategorie: Krimi
• Sprache: Englisch

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2022

Beschreibung

Carter Thompson has left the Prosecutors Office, and has been working as a private investigator ever since. After receiving a call from a distraught father to find his missing daughter, Thompson takes the case.

His search for the girl takes him into the world of model agencies, nightclub owners and drug-dealing gangsters, many of whom he has a past with. And if that's not enough, Carter's old boss from the Prosecutors Office also needs him to help out with his son, who's started to mingle with the wrong crowd and dabble in hard drugs.

To solve the case, Cater will need to trust his instincts... and defeat some old enemies along the way. But can he find the girl before it's too late?

Leseprobe

CITY OF FEAR

CARTER THOMPSON MYSTERIES

BOOK 2

SEAN O'LEARY

CONTENTS

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

Acknowledgments

About the Author

Copyright (C) 2022 Sean O'Leary

Layout design and Copyright (C) 2022 by Next Chapter

Published 2022 by Next Chapter

Edited by Tyler Colins

Cover art by CoverMint

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without the author's permission.

I try to leave out the parts readers skip.

Elmore Leonard.

CHAPTERONE

Carter Thompson had spent a big chunk of the previous night playing poker in the back room of a hookah bar on Enmore Road. An invitation-only game, where he had won, if not a huge amount, then at least two-months’ salary for an average Joe who stacked shelves or did the 7-11 thing.

His mobile phone was ringing. He woke up, stuck out a hand from underneath the doona, reached for it on the chest of drawers, succeeded only in knocking it to the ground. Put his head back under the doona.

Smiled.

Hugged himself.

It was 3:00 pm.

The mobile rang again. He threw back the doona, reached down, picked up the mobile, stabbed the green circle with his middle finger, said, ‘Yep, Thompson.’

‘Carter Thompson?’

‘Yep.’

‘Can we meet?’

‘Who is this?’

‘Your lawyer told me to call you. I want to hire you. To find my daughter.’

‘My lawyer?’

‘Chantal Adams. This is urgent, Mr Thompson.’

‘Oh, that lawyer. Urgent right.’

They were all fucken urgent.

Chantal had been a mistake.

‘Look, I got your number now. Let me get my shit together. I’ll call you back in an hour or so, right?’

‘Yes, please call me. I don’t know what else to do.’

‘What’s your name?’

‘Doug Lever. Please call.’

‘An hour, no sweat.’

* * *

Cash stood up naked, his girlfriend Aimee had been in bed with him when he fell asleep. She’d be working at a café she waitressed in on King Street, Newton. He walked to the kitchen, shook his head, changed his mind. Walked into the bathroom, straight into the shower, got the hot going, adjusted it with the cold. Leant against the shower wall as the water pummelled him. Finished, towelled off. Looked in the mirror. Still smooth, light brown skin. Women thought him handsome: dimple in his chin, dark chocolate eyes, tall. Dark brown hair cut short in an old-fashioned, short back and sides. Went back to the kitchen. Found pods, strong pods, number 12, inserted one in the machine, opened the fridge, got a plastic cup filled it with milk from a shelf in there. Put it all in motion. He hated proper coffee machines, too much fucken mess. He used the microwave, not the steamer cos the steamer never got the milk hot enough. Re-loaded the machine with a second number 12 pod, coffee … strong now.

He sat at a red Laminex kitchen table on a red cushioned chair. Aimee’s idea, even though she didn’t live there. He had bought the place in Erskineville after an uncle died a year before. Not outright, he had a small mortgage according to the bank. Small being two-hundred K. An uncle he had barely known.

Cash was an Indigenous bloke, a Gadigal man, ex-investigator with the Prosecutor’s Office. Named Carter, nicknamed Cash because he walked the line. He had his Private Inquiry Agent License now, worked freelance. He liked to pick and choose jobs rather than be assigned them, as he had been with the Prosecutor’s Office. His uncle had been a pearl fisherman in Broome. He had gone up there once as a teenager. The uncle had paid for the trip. Cash had it tough in Redfern; his parents were good people, but money was scarce. His uncle was a great bloke, a real larrikin, worth a fortune. The trip had been the best thing in his life. His uncle left the pearl farm and a house to his son, another smaller house to Cash, who sold it, bought Erskineville, which was a small, terraced house a few streets back from Enmore Road.

He felt like a cigarette. He had cut down from a pack a day to only ten or twelve, evenly spaced out during the day. Worked out at Hector’s Gym in Redfern. Named after Hector Thompson, no relation. Did boxing training. But that first cigarette of the day was the one he seemed to crave the most. It was July, freezing cold, but Aimee was coming back later; she would smell it, so he put on some jeans, a windcheater, sat on the back step, smoked there, drank his coffee.

Missing daughter he thought. Doug Lever. Never heard of him. He had a one-night stand with Chantal that turned into a bit of an affair that Aimee found out about, wanted to cut off his balls. Took months of pleading to get her back. He was forty-four, had a wife, daughter too. Separated from both. His life was messy enough even before he met Chantal. Thing was she was good for bringing in the work. She was a lawyer with a big firm that had offices on Broadway, in that huge building that had greenery growing all over the outside walls and on top of it. Supposed to be the building of the future or something. It looked nice, he had to admit that. Her office was high up with views of the city, a glimpse of the famed harbour.

He was in the habit of walking to a Turkish café on Enmore Road. The girl who worked there had huge brown eyes, those other kind of Asian eyes. Like dark diamonds. His girlfriend Aimee was Chinese-Australian with cats’ eyes. The Turkish girl was young, taut, beautiful, and flirty. He could smoke out the front. Two cigarettes were his allocation there. It was close to Café Sofia, which was always packed with people dressed in black, leaving him also dressed in black, but solo with time and space to think. He was wearing black jeans, dark blue cord shirt, black suit coat, Docs on his feet.

He sat there now, looking at Azra as she walked away from him. She was twenty-three, in love with a guy called Rusty, who played in a band. Cash had never met him. Didn’t want to. It would spoil his fantasies. He smiled at the thought of it. Lit a cigarette, took a sip of the strong, syrupy, Turkish coffee. His mobile rang. He looked at it. Steele, his ex-boss from the Prosecutor’s Office. He hadn’t heard from him for at least a year. Thought he might be gone from his life.

He answered, ‘Yep, Thompson.’

‘Carter?’

‘Mr Steele.’

‘How are you?’

‘What can I do for you?’

‘I want to hire you.’

‘As part of your team or …’

‘It’s personal.’

‘Isn’t everything?’

‘My son might be using heroin. At least, his sister thinks he is. Might be dealing too. He lives in a share house in Glebe. Doing a BA, majoring in politics. He’s super smart, still getting great marks. I don’t know how to say this, um …’

‘Say it, boss.’

‘Boss? Old habits, Carter?’

A beat.

‘I want him clean. Not only for him. It means I can be got at. Leverage and so on. A bad position for me. Criminals being criminals.’

‘You sound more worried about you than him.’

‘Look, heroin users go through a honeymoon phase but when that ends, money becomes an issue, he starts owing money. Leverage. Blackmail.’

‘Understand. Sounds like you’re getting in early.’

‘Adam is book-smart, not life-smart, not yet. Living in a share house, he’ll either grow up or get dragged down. If he’s using heroin, bills come into play. Are the house members using? His sister tells me the place has a reputation. To party, to score. Again, I’m not certain about anything.’

‘Text me the address of the house. Your daughter’s mobile number. Adam’s mobile number.’

‘You’ll take the job then.’

‘Four hundred a day, plus expenses. A week in advance; cash if you got it. Your daughter’s name too. Sorry, I forgot it.’

‘Lily.’

‘Sweet name. How old is she?’

‘Twenty-three.’

‘Adam?’

‘A year younger.’

‘I’ll send my cousin to your office to pick up the first week’s cash in a few hours. You still work till late?’

‘I do. I’ll have the cash.’

‘Good to hear your voice again.’

‘You too, Carter.’

Cash ended the call. He had a few debt-collection jobs that he had to do with the help of his younger cousin. Name of Mick Birch.

He called him now.

‘Carter.’

‘Yeah, Mick, need to do those small collection jobs now. You right to go?’

‘Yep, pick me up.’

‘Be there in half an hour.’

He had to walk back home, get the old Valiant Safari. A white sedan, the one with the famous slant six engine. It had black Venetian blinds on the back window. Bench seats front and back. No nodding dogs.

In half an hour, he was outside his old commission house in Redfern. His two cousins had started out renting it from him in an off-the-books deal, but the Government had agreed the older cousin, Aaron, could be the new owner. Aaron was a professional student. His latest course was social work at UTS on Broadway. Mick was waiting out the front when Cash pulled up. He was tall, rangy, darker skinned than Cash, with a shock of thick black, curly hair. Thick Zapata moustache too. He got in the car, put his seatbelt on, looked at his cousin, said, ‘Any fuckwits?’

‘Could be one. He’s a Turkish guy called Andy Sadak. Owes my friend Eyden ten thousand. A loan for which the interest is skyrocketing every day. Eyden says he’s got the cash but doesn’t like to part with it unless necessary. We make it necessary.’

‘Andy, that a new-wave Turkish name?’

Cash smiled, couldn’t help himself. ‘Yeah, Andy, very Turkish. Eyden is a friend of mine. We get this done first, then the other two are simple. Both for Don’s Second Hand Car Yard. Three thousand for one and two thousand the other. Both married guys. One lives in Ultimo, the other one in Annandale. White guys.’

‘Where does the Turkish guy live?’

‘Bondi Junction. One of those god-awful high-rises. Let’s go,’ he said, slipping the Safari into drive on the column shift.

They got there in half an hour. Traffic a breeze, a unique thing in Sydney. Cash parked outside the high rise where Andy lived. Leant across his cousin, opened the glove box, took out a Glock 9mm, said to Mick, ‘For the one-two.’

‘Got it.’

They both got out. Cash faced the street, checked for CCTV, none around, tucked the gun into the holster under his black suit jacket. They walked in through the electric doors as someone walked out. No security guards or doorman present. Took the lift to the tenth floor. Cash said, ‘1008.’

They walked along the corridor until they reached it at the end of the hall. Mick stepped up, hit the door hard with his fist twice, loud. Nervously, they smiled at each other, waited for action. Cash remembered he forgot to call back Doug Lever.

The door opened. A woman in baggy blue jeans, black singlet, flat-chested, no bra, teeth chipped, broken, stood there, her eyes red-rimmed, a couple of sores on her face, said, ‘Fuck you want?’

Cash gave Mick a be-cool look. Mick bowed his head, smiled to himself; what a wreck, he thought. Cash said, ‘Andy home?’

‘Yeah.’

‘Want to speak to him.’

She looked at them like they were from outer space or something, said, ‘Yeah, um, wait.’

She turned back into the room, they barely heard her say, ‘Two guys lookin’ for ya.’

Inside, Andy nodded at her. She came back to the door, ‘Come in.’

They both walked in. Andy was dressed in old blue jeans, a blue-and-black check flannelette shirt. Same bloodshot eyes and fucked-up teeth as the girl. Why hadn’t Eyden told him they were ice junkies? Andy was standing in the hallway. Black hair, slim, nervous, jerky, high on ice like his girlfriend. He said, ‘You came for the cash for Eyden?’

‘Yes,’ Cash said. ‘Can we do this quickly? Need to be somewhere else.’

‘Take a seat,’ he said smiling, looked at the girl who smiled back, said, ‘You okay babe?’

‘They want the cash.’

Cash and Mick didn’t sit; they stood in the narrow hallway facing Andy and the woman. Cash turned to look at Mick. The girl saw the holster, said loudly, ‘Gun, gun, he’s got a fucken gun.’

Andy looked around. His head ticked nervously, dry-mouthed but saliva in the corners of his mouth. He reached behind him under his shirt, brought out a handgun, pointed it at Mick, Cash said, ‘No. NO. NO.’

He fired, hit Mick high on the right side of his chest. The girl turned, looked at Andy, said,

‘Fuck, fuck, ha-ha-ha. You fucken shot him, ha-ha-ha.’

Cash pulled out his gun, shot the guy in the thigh twice, and put a third bullet into his knee. The gun dropped out of Andy’s hand. He fell to the ground, face twisted, contorted, screaming. The girl kept on laughing. Cash shot her too, but in the stomach; she stood stock-still, looking at Cash. Put her hand to her stomach, felt the blood, looked at her hand. Ran at Cash. He shot her again in the thigh, twice. She kept trying to run at him but collapsed. Cash shook his head, bent down for a few seconds, took some breaths; he couldn’t see, couldn’t think, got up, scrambled for the dropped gun. Put it in his jacket pocket. An ancient snub-nosed thing. Went to Mick, puts his arm around him, whispered, ‘You’ll be alright mate, you’ll be alright.’

Andy lay a few feet away, groaning. The girl’s mouth gurgled with blood. He wanted to shoot her again, kill her. He punched 000 into his mobile. Held onto Mick with his other hand. ‘Ambulance,’ he said, gave the address, asked for police too, saying it was a shooting.

Andy lay on the ground looking at the roof, twitching like he might rise, try some superhuman recovery, go for Cash. The girl wasn’t moving anymore, lying on the ground, groaning softly. Cash now hoped like hell she didn’t die. He didn’t want to be facing a manslaughter charge. He had fired at her stomach because he didn’t want to miss, he had learned to shoot at the police academy, aim for the thigh if you want to take them down, thickest part of the leg but he had wanted to hurt her, put the fear in her. Cash held onto Mick, whose eyes were closed, while he watched the two ice-fuelled losers until the ambulance and cops arrived. He was exhausted from it all. Shaking a little bit. He rang Steele, said, ‘Need you, boss.’

His cousin was like a son to him.

When the paramedics finally arrived, they saw him, arm around Mick, still talking to him, the ice-crazed woman lying at his feet moaning, the other ice freak only six feet away, groaning on the carpet.

CHAPTERTWO

Cash walked out of the Waverly Police Station on Bronte Road. He’d spent a couple of hours in there being grilled by a Detective Milano. Steele carried a lot of weight. Milano didn’t like that. Didn’t like being told what to do. His first question was, ‘Do you have a license for the Glock?’

‘What’d you think?’

‘Do you have a license for the Glock?’

‘Yes.’

‘Tell me what happened from the moment you knocked on the door.’

It was a fair question, but Cash had already told them at the scene.

‘Jesus.’

On and on it went. Made Cash go over and over it. Milano couldn’t hold him. Chantal had met him there too. Acted as his lawyer. He hadn’t been charged with anything. Mick was in ICU, the ice-addict bitch too. Andy, the shooter, was in hospital starting to go through withdrawal; there was a uniformed cop outside his door. He was handcuffed to the bed. Was given morphine for the pain and withdrawal. There would be a cop there 24/7. It hadn’t made the news, not yet … might never.

Chantal drove Cash back to his car at Bondi Junction. He had a ticket. Grabbed it off the windscreen, scrunched it up, threw it in the gutter. Chantal said, ‘As your lawyer, I advise you to pick it up, put it in the car, pay it later so you don’t find a wheel lock on your car.’

‘Fuck,’ he said, went to the gutter, picked it up. ‘What a shit show that was.’

‘Tell me again.’

‘My friend didn’t tell me this guy was an ice addict. I hope he didn’t know because if he did, I might, ah fuck. I got to go home. Have a drink, maybe score some weed. I don’t know. What’s the best drug for this situation, would you say?’

‘My place might be better.’

‘It might but I can’t get in any more shit today, seriously. I called my other cousin. He is not happy. He’s at the hospital. Blames me, I think. Fair enough, I guess.’

‘We can talk here for a while if you want. What time does your lady get home?’

‘After ten. What is it now? Seven, hmmm. I better go home. Thanks for your help in there at the police station.’

‘You seem pretty wired, Cash. You sure you’re alright to go home alone? I’m not making fun either. This is a serious thing. Maybe the worst you’ve faced since I’ve known you.’

‘I’ll come to your place until nine-thirty. Then go home to Aimee. I haven’t called her yet. Not something you can easily explain on the phone.’

‘No.’

* * *

They took separate cars to Chantal’s place in Surrey Hills. It was an old warehouse near the train line. A loft, she called it. Industrial space is what the real-estate agents might have called it. Huge open-plan, bare-brick interior, exposed wooden beams, two big expensive leather sofas. One dark green, the other black. A monster wooden bench in the kitchen. A huge wooden dining table in a separate space. Latest oven, latest microwave, fridge, every known utensil to womankind. Bare lightbulbs hanging from the ceiling. Massive, massive smart TV in a far corner with another huge black leather sofa opposite it. A small coffee table with three remote controls. The bedroom was protected by screens, but Cash knew it well.

‘How do you feel?’ Chantal asked him.

‘I’m hoping they both don’t die. My cousin because I love him, the girl because it would be big trouble.’

‘It’s nothing I couldn’t get you out of. The apartment was a shithole, right? They were both ice-affected, obviously addicts. Ice and smoking implements were found in the lounge room, bedroom, and bathroom. There were a couple of lines of speed on the kitchen bench. Cops took photographs of everything. A judge, a jury sees them, that shithole apartment.’

‘I forgot how good you were but Mick, shit, his brother wants an explanation. His mother in Dubbo probably wants to kill me.’

‘You can’t do anything now. They said the bullet hit his collarbone, took some flesh with it too. Not the heart. The woman I don’t know.’

‘She was laughing when the guy, Andy, shot Mick. Kept laughing as I shot Andy. Thought it was hilarious. That fucken drug, what it does to people.’

‘You want a drink?’

‘Water.’

‘Not something str—’

‘No.’

Cash was good. He didn’t go near her, but he wanted to. Wanted too badly. He was full of rage. Wanted to fuck it out of his system. But he drank water. They didn’t talk much. He left at nine-thirty like he said he would.

* * *

He opened his front door, walked down the wooden hallway to the kitchen. Aimee was sitting at the red Laminex table on a red cushioned chair. She said, ‘Mick’s mother rang the landline three times. You better ring her.’

‘What’d she say?’

‘Nothing to me. You gonna tell me what’s going on?’

He took a cigarette out of his packet of Marlboro Lights, said, ‘I’m not gonna smoke it. Just a prop, okay?’

‘Okay.’

‘Mick was shot.’

Her cats’ eyes widened. She blinked a few times. She was dressed in grey track pants, a loose black t-shirt, her long shiny black hair up in a bun. She rocked back; her breasts moved underneath the t-shirt. She asked, ‘How? What happened?’

‘I had a debt collection job for Eyden. The guy and his girlfriend turned out to be ice junkies. It went wrong, badly. I don’t know, shit. I shot the guy after he shot Mick. I shot the girl too.’

‘Carter, what? No? No? The police. What happened? What time was this?’

‘Mick is alive. He’s in the ICU at St Vincent’s Hospital. The ice junkie, the guy I shot, he’s under police protection in hospital. The girl, his girlfriend, she’s in ICU too. I went to Waverley Police Station. They let me go. I called Steele. It helped a lot. The cop, Milano, didn’t like it but I think he knew what happened. That the ice freaks fucken went crazy is what happened. But he wanted to tick everything off every single little thing. I was there for two hours.’

‘Fuck. You didn’t ring me?’

‘Not something I wanted to explain on the phone.’

‘Oh, what about a lawyer?’

He looked at the wooden floorboards.

‘You didn’t?’

‘Who the fuck else am I going to call?

Cash’s mobile went off. He didn’t recognise the number. But thought he better answer it. ‘Yep, Thompson.’

‘You didn’t call me back.’

‘Who is this?’

‘Doug Lever.’

‘Oh, shit, I’m sorry, Mr Lever. Bad day, shocking day. Can we meet tomorrow?’

‘Yes, please, every minute of every day matters now.’

‘You know the Valhalla Cinema in Glebe?’

‘Yes.’

‘There’s a café next door. Meet me there at 9:00 am. Outside table. I’ll be wearing a red shirt, black suit jacket, sitting on my own.’

‘Thank you, thank you. I … mean it I … thanks.’

‘See you there at 9:00 am, Mr Lever.’

Aimee looked at him. Said, ‘Since when do you meet people at nine am? You sleep until—’

‘I’ll be at the hospital to see Mick at seven, which means nine isn’t a stretch.’

‘I love you, Cash. But if you ever meet that Chantal bitch on your own again. I will cut your balls off.’

‘Understood. But she’s going to be my lawyer on this one. She’s a pit bull. I need her in my corner.’

‘If you meet her. I come with you and never at her place. That fucken trendy piece of shit in Surrey Hills. That fucken loft where—’

‘Mick is in hospital. Can we let it go, please?’

She shrugged. He said, ‘I’m going to be smoking more for a few weeks while this all plays out. I’m telling you bec—’

‘Go ahead, you do whatever you want anyway. I might go home.’

‘Oh.’

‘Give you some space.’

‘Oh … alright. When will I see you?’

‘I’m not going interstate. I usually go home for a couple of nights a week. I’m going earlier, that’s all.’ He looked at her with puppy dog eyes.