Fatal Mistake

  To my gorgeous husband Stuart. My real life hero and the best man I know (besides you Dad . . .)

  AND

  To my two beautiful daughters, Liah and Tara. You are my greatest achievements.

  In the shadows of a deserted park, a lone figure lingered, sipping from a bottle of beer, waiting for chaos to erupt.

  An explosive blast shook the ground and orange flames shot high into the sky. More fire spewed from blown windows, shattering glass and sending debris everywhere. Embers floated down from the heavens like blackened rain, landing in gutters and on lawns, sparking new fires.

  What a spectacular display. The violent hisses, the crackling and popping sounds of the inferno in full flight were intoxicating, like something out of a movie. It was hard not to feel proud, in awe of one’s own abilities and the sense of power the scene produced.

  People ran from their houses. Some stood paralysed, shocked. Others rushed in courageously, like soldiers on a battleground, to assist the individuals who stumbled, charred and wounded, from the flames; they fell into the street, screams inaudible over the roar of the blaze, before being dragged out of harm’s way. The flashing lights and sirens of ambulances, police cars and fire trucks added a sense of urgency to the already impressive scene.

  It was not long before the building was a mere skeleton of its former self. Flames had engulfed most of the foundations. Some sections had disintegrated; other parts had come crashing down. Singed rafters were exposed, some dangerously defying gravity. Black smoke clouds hung in the air. Rescuers yelled at each other as they trampled through the remains, hauling equipment and spraying giant hoses. The paramedics attended to the bodies littering the ground, loading them onto stretchers and carrying them away.

  The carnage had been enjoyed long enough – it was time to go. It would be stupid, cocky, to risk staying any longer. The remnants of the beer were drained, the bottle dropped to the ground and kicked into nearby bushes. Then the figure walked past a line of suburban houses towards a car parked a few blocks away. The streets were empty; everyone had rushed to the flames like moths. Still, you could never be too careful. The figure cautiously examined the surrounds before throwing their disguise – a black moustache and wig – into a nearby bin.

  The job was done. The target was eliminated.

  The old man would be happy. Very happy indeed.

  He had just been provided a ticket out of gaol.

  CHAPTER 1

  Detective Sergeant Brad Sommers silently cursed Lexie Rogers, and not for the first time today. It was her fault he was lumbered with Trainee Detective Bernadette Kirk, whose whiny voice he was unsuccessfully trying to block.

  ‘Seriously, some of these idiots should be shot,’ Berni, as she insisted on being called, snorted. ‘Who do they think they are?’ She was referring to the parade of colourful characters wearing a trail in the footpath outside the Assassins Outlaw Motorcycle Gang’s clubhouse. Today Sydney’s Eastern Suburbs chapter was hosting the club’s annual bike show. It was open to the public, and other bikie gangs, so to deter any antisocial behaviour resulting from an excess of testosterone and alcohol consumption, a strong police presence was required.

  ‘Don’t get any ideas about shooting anyone,’ Brad replied flatly. ‘We’re outnumbered by far. Besides, too much paperwork.’

  Berni failed to notice his sarcasm. ‘Can we go for a walk, get a drink?’ she pleaded, chomping on a piece of gum. ‘I’m dying of heat exhaustion and my butt is numb.’

  Brad took a deep breath. They were sitting on a park bench beneath a huge oak in a reserve opposite the clubhouse, a position Brad had picked because it was shaded by a canopy of branches, making it the perfect vantage point to observe while remaining well concealed. Police in attendance had been instructed to keep a respectful distance to avoid aggravating the already strained relations between bikies and law enforcement. Brad was complying with that request. He was fully aware that, even adorned in T-shirt, shorts, baseball cap and runners, he still looked like a cop – tall, with cropped hair and carrying extra kilos around his waist, not to mention other areas – he could only attempt to appear unremarkable. The bikies knew the game. Just as a good cop could pick a crook, a good crook, or bikie – often one and the same – could pick a cop. But to unnecessarily get in their way was not only defying orders, it was asking for trouble.

  ‘We have the best position,’ Brad said simply. ‘No need to move.’

  He ignored Berni’s grunts of frustration, keeping his gaze fixed upon the front entrance of the clubhouse, an old converted warehouse in Randwick. The Assassins had relaxed security somewhat: the steel gate, usually bolted shut, stood wide open, allowing a glimpse into the forbidden grounds behind fortified concrete walls. Not that there would be any sneaking into this fortress unnoticed, Brad thought. The surveillance cameras were no doubt activated. Barbed-wire swirls stretched along the eaves and all the windows were barred.

  ‘Consider yourself lucky you’re not in uniform. Those poor buggers would be sweltering out there on patrol.’

  It was the uniforms the bikies baulked at the most. A symbol of power superior to their own self-professed authority.

  ‘We shouldn’t have to work under these conditions. It’s too hot.’ Berni had been complaining since the beginning of their shift – their second together.

  Brad gritted his teeth, said nothing, reminded himself to stay calm while considering what he could have possibly done to piss his boss off so terribly that his punishment was to be encumbered with this little upstart. Temporary partner. Only temporary . . . But what if Lexie doesn’t come back?

  ‘Can we go back to the car and get a drink? Please . . .’ Berni stood, stretched her short legs, then promptly slumped back down.

  Brad used a handkerchief to wipe beads of perspiration from his forehead. She had a point – not that he’d admit it to her. Even protected from the harsh summer sun, the humidity was stifling.

  Berni glanced at her watch and let out a heavy sigh. ‘Aren’t you thirsty? It’s like forty degrees.’ She started to shake her legs restlessly. The bench vibrated. ‘If we were at school, we would be sent home, you know.’

  ‘We’re not at school though, are we, Bernadette?’ Brad’s voice was curt.

  ‘It’s Berni,’ she shot back, folding her arms across her chest petulantly.

  ‘You should be taking notes, descriptions, number plates. This is good experience for you and a great intelligence-gathering opportunity.’

  Met with a steely silence, Brad regarded Bondi Junction’s newest detective from behind his dark sunglasses, trying to pinpoint what it was that irked him so much.

  She had sailed into his office three months ago under a cloud of rumours and innuendo. And although Brad made it a rule to ignore idle gossip, preferring to assess individuals on their own merits, it was hard to ignore her self-righteous attitude and continual complaining. Berni was in her mid-twenties and had shoulder-length auburn hair that framed a reasonably attractive face, besides her thin mouth. She was not tall, but toned, muscular and always well presented. Brad had observed the way she exploited her perceived assets, batting her eyelids and flirting when she thought there was something to be gained by such behaviour, though he doubted she had enough substance to realise – or even care – that her actions were transparent. Brad imagined Berni went through life pretending; had become adept at covering her shallowness and inadequacies with a show of unfounded superiority. He had no time for arrogance in any form, but at her age and junior rank, it was deplorable.

  Then there were the consistent references to Assistant Commissioner Kirk – her father. Brad presumed everyone was meant to be impressed by her link to the top of the police hierarchy. Or intimidated, perhaps? He couldn’t be sure
, but her basking in the glory of a powerful connection only served to irritate him all the more.

  ‘Can we get something to eat and drink? Seriously . . . please, Brad.’ Then, said with a hint of derision, ‘I mean Sergeant.’ She glanced at her watch anxiously. ‘You have a duty of care to ensure your troops don’t keel over due to dehydration or lack of nourishment, you know.’

  And with that threat, Brad finally gave in. Another trait of Berni’s: she had a tendency to complain about her colleagues for just about anything. While walking on eggshells was not conducive to an amicable working relationship, Brad certainly didn’t need a complaint file on his hands right now. Besides, he reasoned, not having eaten for a couple of hours himself, he too was in need of sustenance.

  Being off the smokes again meant he’d been eating twice as much as usual, and that was saying something. Lexie was forever on his case about his expanding girth, but what could he do? He was a big boy who loved his food. Easy for someone blessed with ‘skinny genes’ to cast judgement. Anyway, Lexie wasn’t here to admonish his eating habits; she had deserted him. Well, not really. Lexie had taken an opportunity and he couldn’t begrudge her that, though it didn’t prevent him selfishly wanting her by his side.

  ‘Okay, let’s head back to the car for a bit.’ He stood and stretched his back. ‘We’ll get a drink and something to eat.’ Knowing it would be a long, hot day, Brad’s wife, Michelle, had packed an esky full of sandwiches, snacks and drinks. She’d even packed extra for his partner, although Berni had already informed him she didn’t do carbs – she had her own lunch box.

  ‘Thank god,’ Berni exclaimed. Jumping up with a flourish, her fingers ran tunnels in her hair as she fluffed it out to look like a messy halo around her head.

  They walked in silence along the buckled concrete pavement towards their unmarked police car. As they passed the clubhouse, Brad glanced in through the open gates. A variety of preened and polished motorbikes were parked in parallel lines across an expansive grassy yard. People milled around them, beers in hand, examining and admiring the machines. Music mingled with the sound of chatter and laughter and the tantalising aroma of sausages sizzling on the barbecue accompanied them down the street.

  They were almost at the car when it happened.

  There was a loud crack, the earth shook beneath Brad’s feet and an invisible force propelled him forward. He stumbled, nearly fell, yet somehow managed to stay standing. Spinning around, he saw an orange flash shoot a gaping hole through the roof of the Assassins’ clubhouse. Holy shit!

  Next to him, Berni began to scream. She rushed at him and clutched his arm, her face a mask of undisguised horror.

  ‘Get down,’ Brad yelled.

  She froze. Brad grabbed her arm, dragging her with him as he dived behind the police car a heartbeat before debris slammed against its frame. The windows shattered, spraying them with needles of glass. A large piece of corrugated iron clanged as it hit the car’s roof and bounced over their heads. Black clouds of smoke closed in around them. Noxious fumes filled Brad’s lungs and blurred his vision so much he could hardly see through the haze. He felt a wall of heat and for a moment was disabled by the ringing in his ears.

  In a blind panic, Berni tried to stand. Brad grasped at her T-shirt and pulled her back down.

  ‘Stay put or you’ll get yourself killed.’

  Berni stared at him with wide, terrified eyes.

  Heart hammering dangerously in his chest, Brad waited for the rush of adrenaline he knew would come. When it did, instinct and training took over. Brushing fragments of glass and god knows what else from his hair, he reached for the portable radio attached to his belt.

  ‘Bondi Junction, 100, urgent,’ he yelled over the roar of the fire.

  Berni clawed at his arm, digging her nails into his skin. ‘What’s happening?’ she cried. ‘This wasn’t supposed to happen.’

  Brad ignored her, knowing she would be no help. He kept a tight grip on her T-shirt so she couldn’t do anything stupid.

  ‘All cars stand by. Go ahead, 100,’ the operator replied.

  ‘Urgent assistance required to Lapis Street, Randwick.’

  ‘I can hardly hear you, 100,’ the operator interrupted. ‘Please repeat your location. What is the situation there?’

  Brad opened his mouth to speak but his throat tightened, then closed. Smoke burned his lungs. He started to cough and couldn’t stop long enough to get the words out. Berni tried to stand again. He held on firmly to her shirt.

  ‘The situation, 100?’ the operator urged.

  The radio crackled, or was that the snapping of burning timber? He could hardly hear anything over the hiss of the flames.

  ‘Are you still there, 100? Please advise the situation.’

  ‘I’m here,’ Brad gasped between coughs. The smoke was killing him. Clearing his throat, he swallowed hard, pushed the words out. ‘We need all emergency services urgently, radio. There has been an explosion, a bomb, I think . . . The Assassins’ clubhouse has been blown up.’

  CHAPTER 2

  Detective Lexie Rogers felt a chill invade her bones as she stared into the cold black eyes of a killer.

  The picture in her hand was of a man who resembled something out of a bad gangster movie. He wore all black: shirt, suit, shoes. The exposed skin of his face and hands was tinged orange; a bad spray tan, she assumed. His head was large, his mouth a thin line underneath a crooked nose. With black fuzzy hair, sideburns that ran down the length of his jaw and thick eyebrows that almost met in the middle of his forehead, he was not just unattractive, but downright ugly. Not to mention scary.

  ‘You think he did it?’

  Rex Donaldson nodded. ‘Homicide do. His name is Angelo Mavaris, or Lucky as he’s known. He’s a mid-level supplier who operates from his place of work: Club Hellfire at Kings Cross.’

  While on the undercover course, Lexie had learnt that the drug world was no different to any other supply and demand business: the controller bought in bulk and sold to the next level down, who sold to the one below that. And so it went, like a flow chart. As the product went down the line, the cost increased.

  Rex handed her another photo, a crime scene shot of a young girl lying flat on her back, lifeless eyes staring vacantly, blonde hair plastered across her face like a dirty curtain obscuring most of her features. She was tall and model-thin. There was a blotchy red birthmark on her left hand and she was wearing a short, skintight red dress, but no shoes.

  Lexie glanced up at Rex, waiting for more information.

  ‘Her name is Kelsey Leech, twenty-five years old,’ he said. ‘She was found dead three months ago in a small reserve at Kings Cross. Her murder remains unsolved due to lack of evidence, although Homicide detectives think her location was a secondary crime scene, and that she actually died at Club Hellfire.’ Rex took a sip of the coffee Lexie had made him. ‘They’ve asked for our assistance. So anything we can find that may help them out we’ll pass on.’

  Lexie nodded. ‘Of course.’ She again glanced at the photo of Lucky. With his mean face and puffed-out chest, he looked capable of anything.

  Rex continued. ‘It’s alleged that Lucky was sleeping with Kelsey Leech behind his wife’s back, which wouldn’t surprise me at all. He’s a slippery one, comes and goes as he pleases. Often claims business elsewhere, though never states the nature of it. He’s smart enough to use an encrypted mobile phone that can’t be intercepted by the cops.’

  ‘So he’s no dummy.’

  The general public seemed to have a preconceived notion criminals were smarter than they were. Truth was, most were dumb; that’s why they got caught. And the more intelligent ones just took longer to catch.

  ‘How did the girl die? Overdose?’ Lexie asked.

  ‘It’s being ruled as that at the moment, but the Ds know there’s more to it. DNA has been found on the body, but there’s no match on the database. So if you get the chance to discreetly collect anything – hairs, cigarette butts, whatever �
� Homicide would be most grateful.’

  Lexie tried not to think of the logistics, or risks, associated with collecting items that might contain crucial DNA from a bunch of drug dealers.

  Rex handed her another glossy print.

  ‘This is Rocco Sanitouris, the club’s licensee and owner – on paper at least – and Lucky’s partner in crime. Their modus operandi is pretty much identical. They’re very thick. If Lucky is behind Kelsey Leech’s death, Rocco would know about it.’

  Lexie stared at the picture of Rocco, renowned businessman, nightclub owner, ladies’ man, criminal. Wearing a pink shirt under a three-piece suit, this one navy blue with pinstripes, shiny black shoes and an old-fashioned top hat that covered his bald head, Lexie could only describe his style as flamboyant. Clearly he liked to be noticed. Not that he needed to try so hard – he was the best-looking crook she’d seen for a while. And after almost ten years in the New South Wales police force, that was saying something.

  ‘We need you to get close to Rocco,’ Rex continued. ‘Find out anything you can about the death of this girl and get him to disclose his drug supplier.’

  Lexie’s heart rate accelerated. ‘Sounds simple,’ she said, sarcasm dripping off her tongue. When she’d been approached by the Undercover Branch five days ago to work with Rex – her friend and expert undercover operative – on a combined murder and drug operation, Lexie had been beyond excited. She’d been given an outline of the operation and her role in it, but hearing the finer details while sitting on a lounge in her undercover flat at Coogee – her home for the duration of the job – it was all becoming a little too real.

  The imminent meeting with two very dangerous criminal identities had suddenly lost its appeal and now seemed just plain scary. Especially since the general rule when undercover was to work unarmed. In Lexie’s mind, unarmed equated to defencelessness, vulnerability.

  You can do this. Rex is the one who’s done the hard yards, established a connection, built trust and rapport with the targets.