Private Oz Page 13

  I let out a deep sigh. “Okay.” I put my hands palms down flat on the table. “It’s done. How is it?” I nodded toward her hand.

  “Just a scratch.”

  “Yeah right! A sixteen-stitch scratch!”

  “God!” Mary exclaimed. “Can’t a girl keep anything secret around here?”

  The phone rang.

  “Mr. Gisto,” Ho Meng said down the line. “I need you to come here to my home immediately. There has been … a development.”

  Chapter 80

  JOHNNY WAS WALKING toward the exit gate at the Old Quarantine Station where the cabs were lining up when he heard someone call his name.

  He turned just as a black limo pulled up. Micky Stevens had his head out the window, a big grin on his face.

  “Jump in.”

  Johnny strolled over and peered inside. There was a stunning girl on the back seat next to Micky. She had mile-long legs and a perfect model pout. Hemi was in the front passenger seat next to the driver.

  “I’m good, Micky.”

  “Dude! You’re coming to the after-gig party, right?”

  “Party?”

  “My place. Come on, hop in.” He spread his arms. “Plenty of room.”

  “Okay.”

  The car pulled away as the door closed and Johnny landed on a seat facing Micky and the girl. There was an ice bucket in the middle of the floor, two uncorked bottles of champagne inside. Next to that, a mirror with half a dozen lines of coke. Johnny noticed white powder on Micky’s upper lip.

  “Johnny … meet Katia, my girlfriend. Katia, this is Johnny, a good friend of mine.”

  The girl looked at him seriously, didn’t move a muscle. She had jet black hair cut in a severe bob with a high, straight fringe, huge dark eyes and amazing cheekbones. She was dressed entirely in black except for what looked like a miniature sword about an inch long on a pink ribbon at her incredibly pale throat.

  “I know you don’t drink, Johnny, but do you …?” He nodded toward the cocaine.

  “Er … no, thanks, Micky.”

  “How dull,” Katia said. Her English was almost perfect with only the merest hint of an accent Johnny couldn’t quite place.

  “Each to his own,” Micky said matter-of-factly. “Katia is a brilliant guitarist, Johnny. She’s Russian and was in a band in Moscow. They were called Khuy.”

  “Which translates as penis,” the girl said blankly.

  “Isn’t that fuckin’ great, man? I fell in love with her when I learned that. Six months ago … Longest relationship I’ve ever had!” He turned to the girl. “And I love her.”

  Katia smiled for the first time and leaned in to kiss Micky. They stayed glued together for five minutes while Johnny looked out the window at the buildings flashing past.

  Finally Micky pulled away, wiped his mouth and refilled his and Katia’s glasses.

  “So man, you like the show?”

  “I was knocked out,” Johnny replied earnestly.

  “Excellent. Excellent.” Micky downed the champagne. “Well, I think you’ll enjoy the party even more.” And he gave one of his huge smiles.

  Chapter 81

  MICKY’S SYDNEY PAD was a penthouse in Woolloomooloo. Spartan, clean lines, massive windows looking out toward the harbor, a ten-mill price tag.

  By the time the limo got there the place was packed. Micky and Katia vanished and Johnny was left to wander around clutching another glass of orange juice. The place was filled with the sound of ridiculously loud rock music.

  Part of him was still in a state of shock just knowing Micky. He was, after all, just a poor boy from the Western Suburbs. At least that’s what so many people wanted him to believe. He never had accepted the label and that was partly how he’d clawed his way up the food chain. Now he had real friends, people who appreciated him, a great job, prospects. But meeting Micky and finding him so easy to be with … that had been totally unexpected.

  He felt a tap on his shoulder and turned to see Katia.

  “Can I speak with you?” she said seriously.

  “Sure.”

  She led the way across the main room, a vast space filled with men in suits, a couple of recognizable faces from TV and YouTube, a lot of beautiful young women. Johnny noticed Graham Parker talking to Micky on the far side of the room. Katia motioned toward the balcony just as Johnny saw Parker hand Micky a small package.

  Outside, a mellow breeze ruffled the water.

  “I’m sorry I was so rude earlier.”

  Johnny shrugged and thought how refined her voice was. She was clearly educated. “You weren’t …”

  “I didn’t realize you were the guy from Private. Micky’s been singing your praises.”

  Johnny looked stunned.

  “I’m very concerned for him,” Katia went on.

  “Because of this Club 27 business?”

  “Of course.”

  “He’s convinced that Graham Parker …”

  “I’m very aware of that … But,” Katia said, her voice thick with … what? Concern? Irritation? “But … oh, I just don’t know … I’m worried Micky’s losing it …”

  “Drugs?”

  “Everything, Johnny. Everything. It’s almost as though he has some weird death wish.”

  “So you think Graham Parker has nothing to do with it?”

  “You’re the PI.”

  He fell silent, looked back to the room filled with people. There was a sudden commotion. A woman ran over from a doorway in the far wall. She was shouting something, but Johnny couldn’t make it out over the thumping music.

  Katia was at the door to the main room. Barged her way through the packed room sending drinks flying. Johnny followed in her wake.

  The music stopped abruptly and a hundred threads of conversation died with it.

  They had reached the far side of the room and Johnny followed the girl through a door. The woman who’d rushed into the main room a few seconds before was now back, standing in the doorway. Katia ignored her and plunged into a cavernous bathroom, Johnny a second behind. Three men stood around a prone form on the floor. A fourth was leaning over the figure, an opened case beside him.

  “Fuck … Yob … Govno,” Katia screamed, mixing her languages. She fell to the floor.

  Micky was semiconscious, drenched in sweat, foam at his lips. His arms and legs twitched.

  Katia suddenly seemed to recognize the man with the case. “Dr. James …” she said.

  The man ignored her.

  She went to grab Micky.

  “Please!” the doctor snapped.

  Dr. James pulled a syringe from the case, squeezed the plunger a fraction of an inch letting liquid dribble from the tip. Then he leaned forward, and with one shockingly violent movement he thrust the syringe into the middle of Micky’s chest, right through to his heart.

  Micky jolted upright. Then, as the doctor withdrew the needle, the rock star slumped back, his eyes snapping wide open. He rolled to one side and vomited.

  Johnny noticed the package he’d seen Parker hand to Micky ten minutes earlier. It was opened on the floor, a used syringe and an empty vial lying on a rectangle of cloth.

  Chapter 82

  HO WAS SITTING on his living-room couch, dressed in cream chinos and a polo shirt. As he rose to shake my hand, I could see that he’d shaved badly, a line of bristles missed close to his chin.

  “What’s happened?” I asked heavily.

  “Dai has disappeared. I called his cell and home number half a dozen times. Went to his apartment. No response. I let myself in. There were signs of a struggle. A gun had been fired into the wardrobe.”

  “Any blood?”

  Meng shook his head, gazed at the plush cream living-room carpet.

  “And you haven’t contacted …?”

  Ho looked up. “No, Mr. Gisto, I haven’t called the police.”

  I sighed. “There’s more, isn’t there?”

  “A ransom note. Same as before. Either I do as they say or my son die
s.”

  The man looked drained, his skin almost translucent in the light from ceiling halogens.

  “An ultimatum?”

  “Midnight tonight. I say ‘yes’ or Dai …”

  I nodded.

  “And there was this. He leaned over to a side table, picked up a small cardboard box, removed the lid and handed it to me. I peered inside and saw an ear nestled in a bed of bloodied cotton wool.

  “This changes everything,” I declared. “Forget about us trying to catch the two goons who kidnapped and killed Chang. We have to get the police involved and go much higher up the gang hierarchy.”

  Ho closed his eyes for a second.

  “This has gone too far for Private to deal with alone,” I insisted. “And actually, by not going to the police you’re in danger of breaking the law yourself.”

  Meng sniffed at that but slowly nodded. “I know.”

  Chapter 83

  PAM HEWES HAD just checked on the kids. They were both sound asleep. She went back downstairs and found a half-empty bottle of white wine in the refrigerator, plucked a glass from the cupboard over the sink and was walking through to the living-room when she heard a sound from outside the front door.

  She froze and listened. Nothing but the regular domestic sounds, the washing machine in the laundry going through the end of its cycle, the distant hum of traffic on Military Road, fifty yards away. Then it came again, a scratching, shuffling sound from just the other side of the front door. She tiptoed across the hall and put her eye to the spy-hole.

  There was nothing unusual there, the garden path, the gate to the street. A face reared into view making Pam scream and stumble back in shock. The glass and bottle slipped from her hand and shattered on the wooden floor sending wine and shards of glass across the hall.

  “Pam? It’s me,” came a fractured voice.

  It took her several seconds to recognize it. She yanked on the bolt and pulled the front door inwards.

  Geoff stumbled into his house, unshaven and disheveled.

  “My God, Geoff!” she exclaimed. “What the hell happened?”

  Chapter 84

  GEOFF PULLED HIMSELF upright, winced, but lifted a hand. “I’m okay.”

  “You don’t look okay, darling. You’re cut.” She went to touch Geoff’s face.

  “It’s alright, Pam … really.”

  “What can I get you?”

  “Look, I need to make a call.”

  “What?”

  “It’s super urgent. Then I’ll have a shower and eat something.” He pecked her on the cheek, turned toward his study and shut the door behind him.

  Pam couldn’t resist listening at the door. She heard Geoff walk round his desk, tap at the phone, then start to talk.

  “Brian.”

  Pam could just make out the words. Her husband was speaking deliberately softly.

  “Listen, buddy, I’ll tell you about it when I see you,” he said. “What’s happened at my Mosman place?… Yeah, Chester Street … Yeah … yeah. Damn, I knew it!”

  Quiet for a moment.

  “So, Loretto’s guys just turned up and ripped out the cameras? When? Bastard! Right, Brian … listen. I want you to go back to Chester Street tonight … Yes, tonight … I’ll pay you extra … yeah … come on!… Don’t worry about that … I want those cameras reinstalled.”

  Quiet again.

  “It’s got nothing to do with you, Brian. Don’t worry about Loretto … he won’t touch you … Yeah … I’ll take the responsibility … Of course I will … Good. Right, you got it then? Tonight … Right away. I’ll show that fucker …”

  Chapter 85

  THERE WAS A bad atmosphere in the briefing room at Police HQ.

  Five of us in the room, Mark Talbot, Brett Thorogood, a senior detective called Matt Yender who was in command of the police assault force, Ho and me. The Deputy Commissioner was commanding proceedings from the head of a large table.

  “Mr. Ho,” Thorogood said, looking directly at the man. “You know these people better than any of us. Do you have any idea of the identity of the men behind these crimes?”

  Ho sat still as a statue. In one sense he seemed to have diminished but in another way, he’d grown. He now possessed some sort of Zen-like calm that to my eyes covered a seething anger and horrible pain.

  “As you are aware, the lead operatives in Sydney are the Lin brothers, Sung and Jing,” Ho said stiffly. “They are 426s.”

  “Which means?”

  “The Triads have clear distinctions between ranks and positions in the gang. They are each given numbers based upon the I Ching numerological system. The leader of the Triad is 489. His name would be ‘The Mountain’ or ‘The Dragon’. I believe the gang in Sydney is a fragment of the Noonan, perhaps the most powerful of the Triads. The Dragon, the 489, is a man named Fong Sum. I met him once in Hong Kong. He’s there now.”

  “So he’d be like a Don in the Mafia?” Talbot asked.

  Ho nodded slowly. “There are many differences, but very broadly speaking, yes, he would. He controls a global network. The Sydney gangs are just a small part of it.”

  “And the Lin brothers … how many people work for them?” Yender asked.

  “That I do not know for certain.”

  “Ballpark?”

  “I would estimate perhaps forty to fifty foot soldiers in the city,” he responded.

  “Foot soldiers are the rank and file, right?” Thorogood queried.

  Ho nodded again. “They are known as 49s. I would suggest the men who abducted Chang and later Dai would have been their best 49s, men who are working their way up the pecking order. This would have been a big job for them.”

  “As this whole heroin project is for the Lin brothers too,” I remarked.

  “Indeed.”

  “Okay,” the Deputy Commissioner said. “So do we have a consensus as to what to do next?”

  I watched Ho, waiting for him to respond.

  “I have come to the conclusion that the only chance we have of saving my son is to convince the gang that I will do what they want.”

  “And that will provide us with a platform for a sting operation,” I added.

  Mark looked at me with contempt. “Us?”

  “We are happy to provide any assistance you wish,” I said directly to Thorogood, giving my cousin nothing. “But we’re not going to be part of this unless we’re armed – like the rest of you. My assistant, Mary Clarke and I are licensed to carry firearms.”

  “I appreciate your contribution,” the Deputy Commissioner responded, looking directly at me. “I think we can work together on this.”

  Chapter 86

  HO MADE FIRST contact from his home phone about 11 pm.

  The cops were at the house with tracking equipment. Talbot, Yender and Thorogood were there to babysit. I had Mary and Darlene with me this time.

  Ho tried to keep the call going, but the foot soldier at the other end wasn’t dumb. The call ended before the police expert could locate the caller to less than a square mile. Ho gave the anonymous Triad member a cell number. The guy clicked off before saying when he would respond. We just had to wait.

  “We brought along some technology that might help,” I said. Mark gave me his usual contemptuous look, but Yender and Thorogood were all ears.

  Darlene paced across the room carrying a couple of small boxes, put them on a low table and opened the lid of the top one. Then she plucked out a cell and removed the back cover. “Put your SIM in here,” she said to Ho Meng. “When they call you we can get a better trace on them than with the conventional gear.” And she flicked a glance at the police operator with his suitcase-sized tracking unit resting on the couch close to the home phone.

  Darlene then picked up the second box, prised open the lid.

  We could all see inside. A white pad with a black dot the size of an aspirin on top. “A micro transmitter,” she said. “We can place this anywhere on your body and it’ll pick up conversations and relay them
to a receiver. You’ll be close by in a van, right?” Darlene asked the cops.

  “I’ll be with the assault unit,” Yender replied. “Inspector Talbot will be in the van.”

  I glanced at him. He ignored me.

  “Okay.” Ho nodded. “So what happens now?”

  Thorogood looked up. “We’re ready when they are. Just need the word.”

  Chapter 87

  JULIE O’CONNOR HAD fallen asleep in front of Australian Idol and was dreaming about her father again. In her dream, none of the bad things had happened. He was still alive. She’d finished school, gone to college, become a Police Forensics officer.

  She was woken by the crowd on TV roaring and shrieking as the winner was announced. And it all came rushing back – the reality of her life. She closed her eyes again and there was her mother screaming at her. When she hadn’t reacted, Sheila had begun to torture her. She had kept her locked in her bedroom for days, forced her to shit in a bowl left stinking in the corner, gave her only beetroot to eat.

  Later, the torment got worse. Sheila would tie her to a chair in the kitchen, gag her and burn her arms with cigarettes.

  On her eleventh birthday, the first since her father’s death, she received nothing. Then, just before bedtime, Sheila tied her to the chair again and told her that if she made a sound she would have her feet put in the fire in the lounge. Her mother had then pulled out an incisor with a pair of pliers.

  This treatment continued for four years. She could never say a word for fear of worse torture. She hid the scars and the marks, made excuses for every lost tooth, every bruise. Then, one day something snapped inside her.

  On the evening of her fifteenth birthday, Julie knew she would be in for a traditional ‘gift’. As Sheila busied herself getting ready to go out, Julie slipped a kitchen knife into the back pocket of her jeans.

  Her mother appeared in the doorway to the kitchen. She was wearing far too much make-up. There were two lengths of cord in her left hand.