Fatal Mistake Read online

  ‘Don’t look so worried. Ron and I have talked about what will happen with the operation.’ Rex sat forward, rested his elbows on his knees and gazed at her intensely. ‘He agrees: too much work has been put into this operation to just abandon it. I’ve cultivated informants, been collecting intelligence, doing surveillance, building rapport and spending time with Rocco and his cohort, who are certainly up to no good. And I’ve only scratched the surface. We can’t let them slip through our fingers just because my circumstances have changed. I have complete faith in you, Lexie. You are a survivor and you won’t be on your own.

  ‘I’m going to come to Rocco’s birthday bash at the club tomorrow night, tell him my dying mother needs me in Queensland and that you’ll be doing business for me in my absence. You’ve done drug deals before.’ He waved a hand in the air. ‘You’ll be fine.’

  Lexie pulled a doubtful face, trying not to appear totally overwhelmed.

  ‘A word of warning . . .’ Rex continued. ‘There are others you will meet, peripheral members of the syndicate who will be around, are aware of the organised crime going on but who are not directly involved. The only one I think you might need to be careful of is Tiffany.’

  ‘Tiffany? Is that a wife, a girlfriend?’

  ‘Neither. Tiffany is the club manager and likes to call herself “The Hostess”. I’ve had little to do with her and not much is known about her, not even her last name. Not being one of our targets, I wouldn’t normally mention her, but . . . it’s common knowledge she has a thing for Rocco, which means there’s a possibility she won’t like you, will see you as a threat.’

  ‘What’s the nature of their relationship?’

  Rex shrugged. ‘Rocco doesn’t give much away, but I don’t think it’s sexual. I just want you to be aware.’

  ‘I’ll keep that in mind,’ Lexie said, trying to catalogue and file away all Rex was telling her for later reference.

  ‘I’m concerned that, with me out of the picture, Rocco will focus all his attention on you, and I don’t want you to become merely a sexual target. To get around this, we’ve decided to introduce another UC to act as your boyfriend.’

  Lexie gave Rex a long, thoughtful look. ‘So, let me get this straight. You want Rocco to take a liking to me, yet you want another UC to act as my boyfriend so he knows I’m off limits?’

  Rex nodded his mammoth head. ‘Exactly. I’ll admit it’s a balancing act. We want him to want what he can’t have. So I have to ask: how will Detective Sergeant Josh Harrison feel about you cuddling up to a workmate who’s acting as your boyfriend? Is that going to be a problem?’

  Lexie rolled her eyes. ‘Josh is fine with me working undercover.’ He wasn’t really, but he had no choice other than to accept the situation. He knew better than to tell her what to do. ‘I hope my new undercover boyfriend is tall?’

  ‘He’s tall, I met him earlier.’ Rex smiled, the first she had seen tonight. ‘The look on his face when he realised I was one of the good guys was priceless.’ Seeing her confused expression, Rex explained, ‘He was at the search warrant you did when I was a Devil’s Guardian bikie, when we first met.’

  Lexie frowned. She remembered the search warrant well. Rex had scared the living hell out of her with his resemblance to Amitt Vincent, the bikie who had stabbed her.

  ‘He’s new to the UC Branch, but he’ll be perfect for the role,’ Rex continued.

  Oh no . . . Lexie felt her stomach drop. She had a feeling she knew who it was going to be.

  ‘His covert name is Dylan, though I believe you know him as Batman.’

  Lexie tried to keep her expression neutral.

  Rex saw through it. ‘What? Is there a problem?’

  ‘No, no problem,’ she said, way too quickly.

  Detective Senior Constable Sean Brown – Batman, who had earned his nickname due to his obsession for carrying lifesaving gadgets on his person at all times – and Lexie had once been workmates and on friendly terms. But when she’d broken up with Josh for a short time after his sister’s death, Batman had seized the opportunity to proclaim his romantic interest in her. Nothing had happened between them; still, when she and Josh got back together, Batman had put in a transfer to the UC Branch and left without even a goodbye. So working with him and playing a couple could be somewhat awkward. Not that Lexie would let a personal matter affect the job.

  ‘I get the feeling you’re not telling me everything.’ Rex gave her a you-can’t-fool-me glare. ‘After tomorrow night, it will be just the two of you, so you need to trust each other. If there are any issues that need sorting, do so ASAP. You need to portray a young couple in love and be one hundred per cent convincing about it. Because if you’re not . . . I don’t need to tell you there’s nothing more important than credibility when playing your undercover roles. Your lives depend on it.’

  CHAPTER 7

  ‘What the fuckin’ hell happened?’

  The television was replaying footage of the carnage caused by the bomb at the Assassins’ clubhouse and the reporter was reading out the names of the dead. Watching it again was empowering, though that feeling was short-lived. Because now, reality was like a punch to the head and the possible repercussions were suffocating.

  A cop had been killed. Only one? And not the intended one. What were the chances of that? The place would have been swarming with pigs. How could that be? It didn’t make sense.

  She was not one of them. It was not possible . . . The plan, all that hard work, had been for nothing . . .

  Stop shaking. Breathe. Get a grip!

  ‘Shit, shit, shit . . .’

  Six bikies – three Assassins and three Revolutionaries – were dead. No great loss there. Besides, it couldn’t be helped. At least the number of dead bikies was even. They could hardly blame each other and start another bikie war when there had been casualties in both gangs. Or could they?

  Not my problem . . . it didn’t matter. Calm down and think!

  The instructions had been to eliminate the target. To make it appear an accident so no questions would be asked, no leads were left to follow. The explosion was no accident but the intent had been to make it appear the target was collateral damage – wrong time, wrong place.

  A wave of impotent anger and self-reproach hit. This was just another fuck-up, another failure. Father was right. Some people are born useless . . .

  A beer would help ease the frustration.

  So would the cocaine in my pocket.

  The drugs and alcohol took effect almost instantly. The thunder inside eased. A calm settled over frazzled nerves and the fog lifted.

  So the bombing had been a mistake. It was not a fatal mistake. All tracks had been covered. The bomb parts were stolen. The whole process, entering the clubhouse, dumping the backpack and walking out, had taken less than five minutes. There had been people everywhere. No one noticed. And even if one of the CCTV cameras set up around the clubhouse survived the blast, the disguise would provide anonymity.

  I’m not a failure. I’m not fuckin’ useless. I’ll show him what his unwanted spawn is capable of . . .

  Not everything can be predicted. It was only a first attempt. There was still time

  It would take more planning, more effort. But the result would be worth it. To ensure the old man’s eternal gratitude, success was essential. Determination and persistence was the key. One way or another, Detective Lexie Rogers was history.

  CHAPTER 8

  The briefing room at Bondi Junction Police Station, situated on the first floor next to the detectives’ office, had been transformed into the home for Strike Force Lister, the investigation into the bombing of the Assassins Outlaw Motorcycle Gang’s clubhouse.

  Brad, already seated, watched the array of detectives, some familiar, some not, filter in for the first official briefing. Investigators from other Local Area Commands along with specialists from Homicide, the Bomb Squad, Forensics, Arson and Gangs were in attendance. Once everyone was seated, Detective Inspector Just
in Cook, a short, rotund man with a long face and bushy grey hair, introduced himself as the officer in charge.

  ‘Detective Sergeant Brad Sommers and his partner were working at the bike show and we are very grateful they sustained no physical injuries.’ Cook glanced around the room. ‘Unfortunately, some others were not so lucky.’

  Brad felt many gazes fall upon him before slipping to stare at the floor after mention of the fallen officer.

  ‘For anyone who knew the young constable who was fatally injured, my deepest condolences,’ Cook said. ‘We, as a police community, all feel it when one of our own is killed, but none more than those who were close to them.’

  Cook moved on quickly, bringing them up to speed regarding investigation strategies, what had been done and what was yet to do. This included the gathering of intelligence, profile building, the need for witness and victim statements – the list went on. He then handed out a series of crime scene photos. And although the images would not shock this audience who’d been somewhat desensitised to death, having seen charred remains, broken bodies and decaying flesh, they were horrific enough to provoke an audible reaction: gasps of disbelief and sighs of sympathy.

  Brad passed them on. He didn’t need photos to recall the scene. He feared it was something he would never forget.

  ‘This is going to be a protracted investigation that won’t end until we have the person, or persons, responsible for the bombing in custody,’ Cook declared. ‘We have many bikies to interview and I expect we’ll be met with resistance. However, someone has to know something. We need to identify and eliminate suspects. We need to find out if any Assassin members were not at the bike show yesterday and why. What was the motive? What was the bomb made of? Who was the target and why? How was it done? Get my drift?’

  Detectives nodded as they scribbled on notepads.

  ‘We have to consider retribution. We know bikies don’t play by the rules and too often take things into their own hands. They don’t need proof of responsibility. They’ll find someone to blame. We don’t want a full-scale bikie war on our hands.’

  Lurch raised his hand. Cook nodded at him to speak.

  ‘Weren’t three Revolutionary bikies and three Assassins killed? Surely they wouldn’t kill their own.’

  Cook shrugged. ‘Stranger things have happened. Inhouse fighting is a possibility. I want you to remain open-minded. Avoid tunnel vision. Anyone could be responsible: an individual, a group. Bikies have a habit of making enemies.’

  ‘Funny that,’ someone murmured at the back of the room.

  ‘Forensic officers are still at the crime scene,’ Cook continued. ‘I’ll be going there later with Detective Sergeant Sommers and the homicide detectives.’

  Brad’s eyes blurred and the room tilted a little at the mention of returning to the crime scene. He blinked rapidly until he regained focus.

  ‘We’ll be working around the clock, so shifts will be staggered. I’m in the process of completing my second situation report to the commissioner and I’ll be doing a media release later on. A hotline for information has been established. Crime Stoppers have also put on extra staff to take calls.’

  Brad didn’t hear anything after that. He didn’t know where his mind went but when he came back to the present, the briefing was coming to an end.

  ‘Make sure you keep tasks updated on [email protected],’ Cook instructed. ‘You will be divided into teams. Your team leader will allocate tasks.’ He glanced around the room. ‘Okay, briefing’s over. Let’s get to it.’

  Chairs scraped against the linoleum floor as everyone rose from their seats and headed off in different directions. Brad slowly became aware of Lurch, who was seated beside him, staring at him, concern etched across his long, lean face.

  ‘Are you all right, Sarge?’

  Why did Lurch’s voice sound so distant when he was right next to him?

  ‘I’m fine. I’m fine.’

  Though Brad had a sinking feeling he was anything but.

  • • •

  An hour after the briefing, Brad was feeling almost normal again. Bodies in the office had thinned out. Most teams were at the hospital interviewing the injured, dealing with their relatives or chasing up witness statements.

  He flicked listlessly through logged exhibits, just recently sent through to him, of gathered debris that could possibly be associated with a bomb: piping, wiring, a battery, the remnants of what looked to be a charred backpack.

  Out of nowhere, a rush of adrenaline kickstarted his heart, had it pounding violently in his chest. His vision blurred, stomach churned and the room swayed. He felt disassociated from his body, like he was here but not here. A sense of panic and dread so real, so terrifying, threatened to overwhelm him. He had to get out of there . . .

  Brad shot from his chair and darted out of the office. By the time he got to the men’s bathroom, the nausea had faded but he was sweating profusely, shaking uncontrollably and completely spooked.

  What the hell was that about?

  Leaning on the sink, Brad stared at his reflection in the mirror. Rubbing one hand across his forehead, he tried to iron out the crinkles building under his skin. He concentrated on taking deep breaths. That’s what Lexie would tell him to do. She’d suffered panic attacks after being stabbed and what he’d just experienced was exactly how she had described them. For a terrifying moment, Brad thought he might cry. This was crazy. This couldn’t be happening. He was stronger than this. Taking more deep breaths, he tried to reason things out.

  Lexie had good reason to have suffered anxiety and panic as a result of post-traumatic stress disorder. She’d been through so much: her brother had been killed on duty; she’d been stabbed then shot; almost killed twice, for goodness’ sake.

  Until Brad met Lexie, he’d been guilty of intolerance, ignorance; had condemned cops claiming stress, post-traumatic stress, depression, as nothing more than opportunists rorting the system to get a police pension. Or worse, he’d considered them not tough enough to handle the job. Lexie had changed his perspective because, even though he didn’t claim to understand it completely, he knew her suffering was real.

  Unlike Lexie, Brad had nothing more than a raw throat and a few cuts to show from his ordeal. He’d fared much better than most of the poor buggers there yesterday, so he had no reason to be feeling like this.

  In the mirror, Brad saw the bathroom door fling open behind him. He gathered his composure and straightened, turning on the tap to make a show of washing his hands, silently willing them not to shake.

  ‘There you are, Sarge. Inspector Cook wants to see you. You have a new partner.’ Lurch drew a breath. ‘And he has a job for you.’

  Brad nodded without meeting Lurch’s eyes. Splashed water on his face. ‘I’ll be there in a minute.’ He just needed an extra moment to gather himself.

  Lurch hovered, studying him intensely. ‘Sarge, are you feeling all right? You don’t look so good.’

  ‘I’m fine,’ Brad snapped through gritted teeth. He cut the water and stormed towards Lurch, suddenly furious. Brad wanted to hit him, even though he knew Lurch was only being considerate. His anger was totally irrational. The young detective didn’t deserve to bear the brunt of Brad’s ricocheting emotions.

  Lurch jumped nervously out of his way. It hit Brad then that he looked terrified . . . of him. Remorse stabbed at his gut. Pausing, Brad patted his arm. Lurch flinched, unsure.

  ‘I’m fine, Lurch. I’m just a bit tired, that’s all.’ He forced a smile. ‘I appreciate your concern but seriously, I’m absolutely fine.’

  Lurch nodded, still looked doubtful. ‘If you say so, Sarge.’

  • • •

  ‘This is your new partner,’ Inspector Cook informed Brad as he entered his office. ‘I believe you know each other.’

  Brad felt his spirits rise when he saw who Cook was referring to.

  ‘Seems you keep losing your partners in one way or another lately.’ Her voice was deep, husky, teasing. ‘I consider
that to be my good fortune.’

  Detective Dani Wallace was a lively little pocket rocket. Attractive and vivacious, with bronzed skin, uncontrollable black curly hair and dark eyes, she was a respected detective stationed at Kings Cross, and was Lexie’s best friend and former workmate.

  ‘This is an unexpected, but pleasant, surprise,’ Brad said, extending his hand to her.

  Dani got out of the chair she was sitting in, took his hand and, pulling him towards her, kissed his cheek. Brad felt the blush rush up his neck.

  ‘I just got back from holidays – had a lovely trip to Hawaii. When I saw the news last night, I rang my boss, asked if more bodies were needed on the investigation. So here I am.’

  ‘I’m glad you two are happy with being partnered together.’ Cook handed Brad a piece of paper. ‘I want you to head to the crime scene. Now you have Dani to accompany you, I’ll stay here and prepare the press release. Attend that address down the street from the bomb site. The resident has CCTV that survived the blast and is happy to hand it over to us.’

  ‘No worries,’ Brad said. He looked at the paper. ‘We’ll head out there now.’

  ‘Before you go,’ Cook added, ‘your crime manager, Detective Inspector Casey Blair, rang earlier.’ He picked up a notepad and read off it. ‘She asked me to let you know plain clothes constable Bernadette Kirk is off on stress leave until further notice and that she won’t be on this strike force when, and if, she returns to work.’ Cook looked at him. ‘I take it that means something to you?’

  Brad nodded, relieved Berni would no longer be his problem, but also thinking what a load of rubbish her stress leave was. Then he remembered how he’d felt only minutes ago and considered that perhaps he should be less judgemental. Maybe he should give her the benefit of the doubt . . .

  ‘You all right, Brad?’ Cook’s voice interrupted his thoughts.

  Staring at his boss blankly, he said, ‘Yes, why?’

  ‘I was talking to you . . . You were miles away.’

  ‘Sorry, just thinking about what I have to do.’