City Of Sin E-Book

Sean O'Leary

• Herausgeber: Next Chapter
• Kategorie: Abenteuer, Thriller, Horror
• Sprache: Englisch

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2022

Beschreibung

In the stifling heat of a Sydney summer, young Rhia is being hunted.

She was in the wrong place at the wrong time; now, both the police and a right-wing group of fanatics are after her. The only one on her side is Indigenous investigator Carter Thompson from the Prosecutors Office.

In Rhia's possession is a stolen USB full of secrets that could destroy the New Light Church. After NLC sets their attack dog, P.I. Sally Bois on the case, Thompson and Bois clash and race against time to find Rhia.

With a dangerous plan in motion, can Rhia and Carter clear her name - or is it already too late?

City Of Sin is the first book in Sean O'Leary's riveting crime series set in Sydney, Australia.

This book contains adult content and is not recommended for readers under the age of 18.

Leseprobe

CITY OF SIN

CARTER THOMPSON MYSTERIES BOOK 1

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

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Next in the Series

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 Graham (Fading Street Services)

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.

So I will not look on them with pity or spare them, but I will bring down on their own heads what they have done."

Ezekiel 9:10

CHAPTERONE

Three AM, Kings Cross, Sydney. Carrington Motel. A shabby run-down dive on Darlinghurst Road. A huge man with an enormous gut was having sex with Rhia, a young female sex worker. He had black and grey hair covering his chest, belly, back, and arse. Rhia could hardly breathe, turning her face to the right to get some clean air. Trying not to look at the sweating fat bald man pumping harder and harder. Petite, small-breasted Rhia pleaded with the gods to make him come, then like a gunshot, he stopped. His whole weight fell onto her.

The air-conditioner pumped out stale, barely cold air. It was still a sticky twenty-eight degrees outside, the humidity high. She dug her fingers and hands into the fat at his hips, gulping for air as she tried to push him off. She put her right knee between his legs, forcing him out of her. She dug the fingers and hands into the fat, pushed and pushed until finally, she got a whole arm clear, then a leg and rolled out from under him. She got to her feet covered in his awful sweat, pubic hair from his body attached to her skin. She ran to the shower, turned it on, got underneath the cold water until it turned hot, stayed there until every inch of her body was clean from him.

Rhia wrapped a towel around her breasts, walked back into the main room where he lay on his belly.

Dead.

‘What the fuck am I gonna do?’ she whispered to herself.

Rhia thought she had come across every conceivable problem in her young, short, working life but now this. The doozy. She dressed in her red satin panties, short blue denim skirt, yellow bra, and black camisole. Put her big lace-up black boots on. Fuck a duck. I’ll leave him. CCTV she thought. The Carrington doesn’t have any. This is why he asked her to join him there. CCTV on the streets around might have picked up her or him coming to the motel. He came to the room first. Not seen together then. This was her second visit with him. She had said no at first because he was so gross, but he offered her double. Rhia had a kid to clothe and send to school, so she said yes. He had called her from a public phone booth. She hadn’t thought they still existed. He had checked in. When she arrived, he said that he had paid for the night. He had things to do after she left. She didn’t give a damn what he had to do. She wanted wham-bam-thank-you-old man. Goodbye. Now, this. Again, she thought, no CCTV at the Carrington. What did she need to do now? The Night Clerk? She had never seen him before. He could be a problem to her.

Who is the fat slob she wondered? He carried a small man bag with him. She went across to it on the chair by the bed and dug around in it. She pulled out a wad of cash in a sealed plastic sandwich bag, unzipped it, and counted it slowly. Five thousand and forty dollars. His cell phone. She didn’t touch it. Left it in the bag. She checked through the bag some more. Found a wallet with six hundred in cash and two credit cards. He had the cash ready for her. Twice her usual fee. She usually got paid first but this guy was always going to pay her. He did now. She found a piece of paper with 26784 written on it. It would be his pin she thought. Dumb fat slob kept it in his wallet. Too stupid to remember it. She was getting angry at him for fucking up her night, possibly her life.

There was a cash machine on Springfield Ave, just off Darlinghurst Road, a stone’s throw away, that didn’t have cameras. It was her profession to know this kind of thing. Part of the rich fucken tapestry of her life.

She put the credit cards in the pocket of her denim skirt. The cash into her black handbag. There was a driver’s license in the man bag too. His name was Robert Norton. It said he lived in Penrith, in the big wide western suburbs of Sydney. He came all this way for her plus whatever he had planned for later. She found Viagra in his little bag too. He was up for a big night. A boy perhaps or another girl. Fucken degenerate. He looked truly disgusting lying there, dead rubber, spit coming out of his mouth.

She picked up his suit jacket. Started to go through it but tripped and fell onto the brown, crusty carpet, her right hand protecting her fall hit the jacket pocket. Something stuck into the palm of her hand. Flat and small like she didn’t know what. She took a switchblade from her bag that she kept for protection, not use, more to scare. She carried a taser too, which she had used more than a few times. Part of the life again. She took the switchblade, cut open the material. It fell to the ground. A light blue mini-USB. Maybe 16 gigs. Tiny but with enough information to hold all the secrets of a dead man. She put it in her pocket. Stood up. It might be of use. She didn’t know how but Salem would know.

She checked all around the room, making sure there was nothing left behind. Still thinking of what to do about the motel night clerk. She had never seen him before even though she had been to the Carrington many times. But not of late, that was true. She wiped down all the surfaces, even the man bag in and out. She knew her DNA was there, but she had never been in jail. Never been charged with anything or even arrested. Sex work was legal; she didn’t do hard drugs anymore. Never really did except when Salem was in jail. Ninety-five percent of her work was now online or by mobile. If she propositioned anyone on the street it was a calculated attack, well thought out. She’d been around long enough to pick the right guys but that’s what they all said until it was too late. She skated around on the edge of criminality, breaking the law now, stealing money, wiping her prints away. Heading for the cash machine with his credit cards.

She opened the motel door, wiped the doorknob with her handkerchief. Wiped her brow and the back of her neck. Sydney in summer could kill you at times. She exited the room; it was the one farthest from the street. Closed the door behind her, wiped down the outside doorknob. Walked along the balcony, no lights in the other rooms. It was four am. She took the stairwell to the threadbare reception area. The night clerk had his head on the desk asleep. The fat man’s death would be known when housekeeping came through in the morning.

She walked quickly to Springfield Avenue, cut down through the square to the cash machine, which was hidden from the main streetlights. It was stuck in the wall of a family convenience store shut down for the night. She put the first card in the slot, entered the PIN. It didn’t work. She put the second card in the slot, entered the pin. Bingo. The fat guy had eighteen thousand dollars. The daily limit was two thousand. She withdrew it. Stuffed the cash into her bag. Walked quickly back towards Darlinghurst Road but stopped right near the end of Springfield Square, about five metres from Darlinghurst Road. There was a grille-covered drain. She dropped the first card down it. Held onto the second card, the magic one that worked, for a bit longer. Sixteen thousand. Creased her brow, squinted her eyes, kept it.

Put it in her bag.

Friday morning ten past four am. Summertime in the city of sin. Darlinghurst Road was still lively as Rhia hit it, turned right, heading for home. Mostly cafés, bars, sex shows but con men and women too. Down-market sex workers hooked on the life. Spruikers shouting, pleading with tourists, hipsters, suburban boys and girls, mums and dads, to come into their world of sex, overpriced, watered-down alcohol and drugs. Dime bags of grass and more expensive powders and hallucinogens, all available with the right eye contact to the right person. A dangerous game when dealing with the scum of the earth.

She walked to the takeaway joint at the taxi rank. Thinking about the night clerk. Not waking him up was the right thing. Whoever Norton was, his wife, his friends, his business associates wouldn’t want it known how and where he died.

She grabbed two slices of pizza. Sat down on the dirty step in front of the store, tired. She ate hungrily. I can’t do this shit anymore she thought. The tipping point had been reached. But how many times had she said that to herself? She got up, continued on through the thinning crowd onto the flyover above the expressway, onto Victoria Street. She walked past closed cafés, Thai Restaurants, hotel entrances, a newsagent. Café Uno—famous for its big breakfasts, past the Green Park Hotel, turned onto Burton Street, past the park with the bandstand. Turned right into Darley Place, then cut down an old laneway, littered with used syringes, which didn’t even exist on Google Maps. Through a backyard, up the back wooden steps to the back door of the little two-bedroom apartment she shared with Salem and her kid, Molly.

She loved them more than life itself.

All the lights were off. She got a drink of water from the kitchen tap without turning the lights on, walked to her bedroom, took off all her clothes, found a clean white T-shirt hanging on a chair, got clean white knickers from a top drawer, and slipped into bed. Put her arm around the sleeping Salem, nuzzled into him, whispered, ‘I’m home baby.’ Thought of the extra money. She wouldn’t have to work for a while. She was getting out of the whole thing. Maybe it could be a new beginning.

CHAPTERTWO

Carter ‘Cash’ Thompson parked his Hyundai I30 in an undercover parking lot on Ward Ave known for its drug dealers. The Hyundai was a reward from his boss in the Prosecutors Office for his years of service. He laughed whenever he thought about it. Piece of shit it was. But it wasn’t a car that you looked at and said, cop. That’s why he was given it. It was efficient, reliable, and had more grunt than he expected. Maybe it was growing on him. He worked on his own. That was the deal. If he needed anyone, he had a guy.

Thompson had light brown skin, was handsome, an indigenous bloke. He was tall at a touch under 195 cm with long, strong, sinewy arms. He worked out, ran, bodysurfed, swam in the pool at the Diggers Club too so he wasn’t bulky more tough, wiry, and strong. He had the sweetest straight right hand when it was needed too. From when he trained at Hector’s Gym in Redfern. Had a few fights too. Knock you on your back it would. He always wore black Levi’s or black suit pants, a black T-shirt, or a long-sleeved black shirt in winter with a brown leather jacket, like a suit jacket in style. Strong heavy black shoes summer or winter. That way he didn’t have to think about things.

He walked along Ward Ave smoking a cigarette, it had been raining, making it even steamier than the day and night before. The temperature in the mid-thirties. He cut right up Roslyn Street past the Piccolo Bar, Round Midnight. Walked across a near-empty Darlinghurst Road into the Carrington Motel. Went up to the third floor to room 308, the last one on the floor, furthest from Darlinghurst Road. Dropped his cigarette, crushed it under his heel before he reached the yellow and black tape. The crime scene guys were there. It was one pm. He signaled to Kholi to ask if it was OK to come in.

‘Yes, we’re just about done.’

Kholi was Indian. A short stocky man with thick wavy Bollywood hair. A handsome guy.

The fat man lay on an orange stretcher waiting for the body bag to be zipped up.

Thompson said, ‘Is that stretcher reinforced because he is one fat motherfucker?’

Laughter from a few of the crime scene boys. Kholi offered a wry smile, and said, ‘You know who he is?’

‘I got told, yeah. Norton. Mr. Big at New Light Church.’

‘You know how he died?’

‘Steele said he fucked himself.’

‘Yep, died on the job.’

‘What else did you find?’

‘Man-bag with no cash in the wallet, mobile phone, his license, health insurance card, nothing else. No credit cards. Small piece of paper with a number on it. His PIN I think.’

‘Dumb shit,’ Thompson said. ‘I’ll have to see how much she drew out, whoever she is right? Unless it was a boy? You’re gonna tell me now, right?’

‘A girl, we know that from his cock. Some light brown hair on his face too. No prints anywhere. She scratched the area around his hips, both sides, perhaps trying to get out from under him. I doubt it was passion unless he paid extra for it. Might be some skin under her fingernails, which might also have been washed down the drain under the shower she took. I’m hoping for a DNA match.’

‘Me too, Mr. Kholi. What time did he die?’

‘Estimate only, about three or four am.’

‘Found?’

‘Ten this morning by the housemaid.’

‘Anything on his mobile?’

‘Haven’t cracked the password yet but that’s not my area. Steele said his wife doesn’t know it. He said he’ll get the tech guys onto it.’

‘Appreciate it, Mr. Kholi.’

‘You want one last look at him, Thompson?’

Thompson shrugged, bent down, looked at the man. Bloated fat son of a bitch. Supposed to be the 2IC at New Light Church. Christian Evangelists. Thompson didn’t care for religion. He was a cop. He had seen the evil of it. But fuckwits were drawn to New Light. Some heavyweight fuckwits too. Well-known actors, businessmen, and women, all grades of ‘celebrity’. Before the most recent election, Bob Ellis, the Conservative Party Prime Minister had started off his campaign at the New Light Church on a Sunday afternoon in Bondi Junction. Hallelujah Brother. Bring the votes in.

‘I’m done Mr. Kholi, this is your area. Anything more you can tell me?’

‘Not really. Died on the job as I said. We’ll have to test him for drugs and alcohol. No drugs in the room. The girl or woman took a shower, went through his belongings, stole the credit cards, wiped down everything else, and left.’

Thompson looked around the room. Saw the jacket on the floor.

‘What’s going on there?’

‘Ah, yes, sorry, Cash. Important too. Somebody cut a hole in the inside pocket of the jacket. And I mean a hack job, with a pocketknife or similar.’

‘Right, bit odd.’

‘Bloody odd. Must have seen or felt something was in there.’

‘Steele say anything about it.’

‘None of my business apparently.’

‘Oh.’

‘But it was our girl?’

‘Who else?’

‘As I understand it the night clerk checked him in,’ Thompson said, ‘but he went home at seven am.’

‘Yes. The room is yours,’ Kholi said. ‘I have work to do.’

Two ambulance guys came. Hefted the overweight Norton out on the stretcher and along the balcony.

Thompson stood in the middle of the room and said, ‘Why did you come here? Why this girl?’

CHAPTERTHREE

Rhia woke up at ten am. Slowly raised her head from the bed. Rubbed her eyes, then put both hands back, leaned on them, getting her bearings, thinking of last night, the walk home. The fat repulsive man she had to push out of her with her knee. She thought of the cash. What she could buy with it. Fuck-a-duck. There might be trouble still. That night clerk. She had to fix that. She didn’t know how much to tell Salem if anything.

She let herself fall back on the bed, closed her eyes. When she opened them again, a small face was peering down at her. She had light brown hair, wearing multi-colored pajama pants, a stained pink T-shirt with a black bear on it. She was seven, nearly eight years old. Rhia smiled back and said, ‘Love you, baby.’

‘Time to get up, Rhia.’

‘Call me mum, baby.’

‘Time to get up with me and Salem on the couch, watch movies, it’s Saturday, no school, you promised you’d get up.’

‘Can you get mum her cigarettes from the kitchen?’

‘Get ‘em yourself, ‘the kid said, running back into the lounge.

Rhia sat up. Salem hadn’t woken up when she snuggled into him last night. She thought there might be an old pack of ciggies in the chest of drawers, leaned over, opened the top drawer. She dug around in the panties and socks, came up with a soft pack of Kent. A light blue lighter too. She tapped one out, lit it. There was an ashtray under the bed. She bent down, pulled it up onto her lap, lay back, lit the slightly bent cigarette. Salem put up with her smoking because he felt guilty about not working. He was on parole. He did so-called soft time in a prison farm near Wollongong. But Salem was slight in build, had no money, was easily bullied in a place like that, it wasn’t a soft time for him. He appeared in the doorway with tech glasses on. The only person in the world to wear them anymore. A marketing failure of the highest order but Salem dug them still. Never took them off. He said, ‘Alright, babe?’

‘Yes, thank you.’

He laughed and said, ‘No drama last night?’

‘No. Come and hug me. Take the damn glasses off.’

He walked across to her; she lay the cigarette in the ashtray on top of the chest of drawers. They hugged tightly. She stood up. Salem cupped her right bum cheek in his hand, and said, ‘I love you more than pancakes.’

She laughed, he raised his tech glasses, kissed her smoky breath. She slid her tongue into his mouth, mimicked him by grabbing his arse, they kissed for another minute or so, then he pushed her back onto the bed, and said, ‘Have a shower, clean your teeth, stinky.’

‘Oh, you,’ she said smiling. Salem turned, walked back to be with Molly in the lounge room watching old movies on TV.