Garry Disher - Cross Kill

The Bentley stopped to let an ambulance through. Wyatt stiffened instinctively at the siren. So did Towns. When the car moved on again Wyatt said, ‘Take me to Kepler, or I’ll simply keep hitting you. One day I’ll hit Kepler himself. Take my word for that.’

‘What sort of deal?’

‘Take me to Kepler.’

By now the Bentley had gone around the block. It was creeping in traffic a few metres from the flower-choked footpath again. People glanced in exhaustion at the glossy flank of the big car before plunging down the station steps. Towns shifted in his seat. ‘Anything you want to say to Kepler you can say to me.’

Wyatt shook his head, close to frustration. What was it with Towns? Why were they negotiating on this? The shutters lifted from his face and he began to fire the.38. Shots smacked into the seat close to Towns’s left thigh, waist and shoulder.

The Bentley swerved violently, bumped over the kerb and stopped at a skewed angle across the footpath. The driver turned around, eyes wild. Wyatt waved him on with the gun. ‘Just drive,’ he said. He fired into the seat again. The puncture marks were dark in the cream leather.

Towns had frozen at the first shot. He seemed to wish himself smaller. Finally he breathed in, expanded his chest. ‘Okay, okay.’ He leaned toward the driver. ‘Take us to Kepler.’

‘The penthouse?’

‘The penthouse.’

Wyatt looked out, his heart thudding. The driver was sweeping them past Hyde Park. The trees were torn and leafless. There had been two days of freak spring storms and Sydney was sodden and steaming, a city of edgy, cooped-up people and wind-stripped gardens. The late afternoon sunlight angled through the bare trees. A couple of black sailors from a US warship were kidding with schoolgirls on a park bench. People strapped with cameras, packs and money-belts ambled along the paths, joggers and cyclists slipping in and out among them. Wyatt saw a kid snatch a purse and run with it on roller blades. Everyone watched the kid dart past them but no one stopped him. That sums up this city, Wyatt thought. He didn’t speak again, and willed calmness on himself.

The penthouse was on the marina at Darling Harbour. ‘Stay with the car,’ Wyatt told the driver.

The driver looked at Towns, Towns nodded.

Towns used a swipe card to get them into the building. They crossed the foyer, a place of dark marble and thick glass. Towns pressed the lift button and they rode to the top.

The doors opened onto a small hallway. Towns used the swipe card again to let them into the penthouse. Wyatt looked around. The carpet was thick, the sofa was leather, and Kepler had tacked Ken Done paintings over the walls. There was no sign of anyone. ‘Where is he?’

Just then they heard a manufactured squeal coming from one of the other rooms. Towns regarded him neutrally. ‘Take a wild guess.’

‘Let’s check on his performance,’ Wyatt said, prodding Towns with the gun. Towns led him to a corridor to the left of the main room. The sounds of passion were more pronounced now, with plenty of unimaginative dirty film dialogue. Towns stopped outside the room where all the heaving was going on and said, ‘He’s not going to like this.’

Wyatt prodded him with the gun. ‘We might learn something.’

It was the woman who had twice tried to kill him in Melbourne. She had very long legs and they were waving in the air. She was making all the noise but her eyes, still scarred and bruised, were open and aimed abstractedly at the ceiling. Any noise Kepler made was muffled because he had his mouth stuck to her neck. He had a massive wattled trunk, skinny agitated buttocks and thin legs.

‘Hope you haven’t got a dicky heart, Kepler.’

The noises shut down at once. Kepler went still, then the woman pushed at him and he splayed onto his back, looking gluey, red and limp. The woman sat up, drew her knees to her chin and slowly grinned, taking in Wyatt’s exhausted, prohibitive face. He read it as a challenge and ignored her. ‘I want you both under the covers.’

The woman’s grin widened. ‘Don’t tell me I make you feel uncomfortable?’

‘Shut up,’ Kepler said wearily. He swung his legs to the edge of the bed. ‘Let me get dressed, and we’ll have a talk.’

Wyatt shot out the tiffany lamp next to the bed. ‘Under the covers.’ He waved the.38 at Towns. ‘Join them. Then we can talk.’

Wyatt started with the woman. ‘She’s been trying to kill me.’

Kepler lifted his pudgy hands and let them drop again. ‘It’s what she does.’

Wyatt stared at her. ‘Have you got a name?’

‘Rose.’

‘Rose what?’

‘Rose will do.’

She was low in the bed between the two men, only her head showing. She was watching him, gauging him, her face small and white and her bruised eyes dark like two discs in a mask. Now and then he caught a flicker, as though she were telling him they shared a history and had to play out its consequences.

‘Are you payroll or freelance?’

‘What does it matter?’

It mattered to Wyatt. If she were freelance she would always be a problem, wanting to settle her grudge. If she were in Kepler’s pay, Kepler would have to persuade her that this job was off now, the contract cancelled. Wyatt turned to Kepler inquiringly.

‘She works for me,’ Kepler said.

‘Exclusively?’

‘Yes.’

‘What about the three heavies she had working with her?’

‘Hired help,’ Kepler said. ‘We won’t be using them again.’

Wyatt turned to the woman. ‘Rose, I’m no longer a target. Mr Kepler is about to explain that to you.’

‘Really?’ Kepler said. He had folded his arms over the grey mat of hair on his soft chest. ‘Why would I do that?’

Wyatt pulled a matchbox from his inside pocket. He opened it with one hand. Glassy chips the size of fingertips thudded onto the quilt of the bed like fat drops of rain. ‘Your diamonds,’ he said, ‘worth a hundred thousand grand.’

‘I’d like to know how you knew about that.’

‘Shut up. Diamonds, a hundred grand. Cocaine, another hundred grand. Loss of goodwill and business from your gambling mates-’ Wyatt shrugged ‘-incalculable damage.’

Kepler stared at the diamonds, then heaved up out of the sheets to pick them up. ‘You’re off your rocker. What’s this all about?’

‘As I just said to Rose, you put a price on my head and now I want you to remove it.’

Kepler laughed. ‘Why should I do that?’

‘To save yourself more grief.’

Kepler shrugged. ‘I’ve got a large and loyal workforce. We’ll hunt you down.’

Wyatt ground the barrel of his.38 into a bulge in the quilt that was Kepler’s foot. ‘Kepler, I’m doing the hunting now. Can’t you see that?’

The foot jerked, then stopped. ‘I’m genuinely puzzled. Why don’t you just take the diamonds and piss off overseas?’

Wyatt shook his head. ‘I like it here.’

‘Or go underground,’ Kepler said.

‘I don’t want to run. I don’t want to be looking over my shoulder for the rest of my life.’

Kepler gestured irritably. ‘You’ve got the drop on me here, I’m defenceless, so why not kill me?’

‘It might still come to that.’

‘No, seriously,’ Kepler said. ‘I want to know.’

‘Having a price on my head interferes with the work I do. I want to continue doing what I did before all this. I want to operate freely. I can’t while the contract’s still active, wondering if every punk I meet intends to prove himself by going up against me.’

‘And if I don’t cancel it?’

‘Then I’ll kill you. Maybe not now-maybe I’ll let you stew a little. And I’ll keep hitting your operations until no one trusts you, until you’re ruined.’