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.
Chapter 4
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.
Chapter 5
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.
Chapter 6
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.