Sinners & Scarecrows Read online

  “The names of every officer in the New Zealand Police Force that wears a standard size thirteen boot.”

  “Okay, so you’ve narrowed it down to over one hundred tall police officers. Well done,” he said sarcastically.

  She scowled at him, then reached for two more pieces of paper from the folder. “Exhibit two,” she said confidently. “These names belong to all the red, unmarked patrol cars assigned to all police staff across the country.”

  “Which means you’ve still got yourself a needle in a haystack,” Ryan replied.

  “What’s your bloody problem?” she asked curtly. She stood with a hand fixed to her hip.

  Ryan sighed. “I’m sorry, I’m just tired. And it’s been a rough couple of days—with Danny’s death and all.”

  “Well, believe me when I say I’ll give you something to smile about.” Her face softened; she gently touched his shoulder, then reached for another sheet of paper from her folder and placed it on the bar in front of him. “This much smaller list contains the names of all New Zealand officers that have both a size thirteen boot, and drive a red, unmarked patrol car.”

  Now Ryan was intrigued. He sat up straight with a look of concentration on his face after observing only five names on the list. “Your eyes must be falling out of your head after trawling through all those records,” he complimented her.

  “Let’s just say I’m urinating straight coffee.” She covered her mouth as she giggled.

  Ryan cracked a smile. “So, talk me through these names,” he said.

  “All right; it was simple to eliminate three officers almost straight away. The first two names on the list are posted in the South Island, and I’ve confirmed that they were both on patrol in their region on the day of the Bowmans’ murders; they couldn’t be in two places at once. Then there’s Constable Darren Shipley, who was on a holiday cruise in the Caribbean with his wife. Once again it was impossible for him to be considered a suspect as he wasn’t even in the country.”

  “No doubt about it.”

  “Then there is Senior Sergeant Gavin Miller. He was a tricky proposition as he is stationed in the central North Island and oversees all the stations in the smaller towns—all within spitting distance of the much larger Worthington—where on occasion he has been transferred to help when things get hectic.”

  “And your point being?”

  “Well, after finally tracking him down and making contact with him, he couldn’t give me and alibi for the day in question.”

  “Couldn’t or wouldn’t?”

  A smile spread across Sandra’s face. “At first he played dumb and asked me how he could possibly remember what he’d done that day, as “every day is virtually the same old routine”. But when I reminded him that it was the day of the Worthington airbase fire, and that I’d also found out he’d failed to report for duty that day, he went awfully quiet.”

  “Sounds like he was hiding something.”

  “You’re right, he was. Eventually he confessed to the fact he had been at a motel he’d rented for the day—for himself and his mistress.”

  “Oh, I see.” Ryan grinned.

  “His story checked out. I confirmed with the motel that he was in fact there with a young lady at the time in question, so we can put a line through his name.”

  “Which only leaves one.”

  “Indeed, it does.”

  “Jesus Christ,” Ryan exhaled heavily. “And I know for a fact he was in Worthington on the day of the Bowmans’ murders, too.”

  “Which that’s why we never found Witness X,” Sandra added. There was never any witness. He made it up because he knew Blaze was at the Bowmans’ house and tried to frame him.”

  “But why would he do that?”

  “That’s the puzzling thing. I would have thought he’d be more concerned about the Lombardis’ organisation, but he seems fixated on Blaze and the MC. There has to be something more to this.”

  “And we still need some physical evidence to connect him to the crime, or we’ve effectively got nothing.”

  Sandra was silent for a moment. Then she said, “What if we could acquire his boots and pants he wore at the crime scene?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Well, we might get lucky; he may not have binned them yet.”

  “Aren’t all uniforms meant to be returned to the department?”

  “Exactly. I checked the requisitions database, and he ordered a brand-new field uniform the day after the murders. There’s absolutely nothing on the system to say he’s returned his old uniform which suggests —”

  “They could still be in his possession if he hasn’t dumped them,” he finished for her. Then said, “I’ll arrange a search warrant right now.” He picked up his phone.

  “No, wait.”

  “What?”

  “It’s just that we need to be sure about this. We have to handle this delicately. Our careers will be effectively over if we’re wrong.”

  “Well, what do you suggest we do?”

  She hesitated before she replied, “I think it’s time we took a leaf out of Blaze’s book.”

  Chapter 72

  The ocean fog smothered the coastline as the Chardonnay Lady docked in Smuggler’s Point. It was the perfect morning to bring the new merchandise ashore, shrouded by darkness and the ghosts of sailors who’d succumbed to the might of the ocean—at least that’s what Tyrone Sanchez thought every time he saw the hovering blanket of mist that draped the rugged coastline.

  Sanchez secured the yacht to the pier and traversed the gangway. One of his henchmen went ahead and opened the door to the yacht’s sleeping quarters. Then started unloading the terrified girls one by one—under the supervision of Mr Lombardi and his remaining captains—and placed them inside the chiller unit of the meat delivery truck where Blaze patiently waited in the driver’s seat.

  Blaze lit up a cigarette, inhaling the concoction of chemicals and tar into his lugs, enjoying the buzz that coursed through his body. He wondered why he’d ever quit smoking. He loved the smell and strong taste in his mouth. It was times like these he allowed himself to indulge.

  When Blaze had returned from the log cabin, he had informed Ryan he would deliver the shipment of girls to The Underground—in the knowledge there would be a squad of armed operatives waiting in ambush. The mere thought of this made him sweat. This better not be a fucking trap—for me, he thought.

  Sanchez suddenly appeared at his window. “That’s the last of them,” he said to Blaze after securing the rear doors.

  Blaze tossed his cigarette butt on the ground and started the truck. He slowly drove up the bumpy incline, careful not to bounce the girls around in the back. As soon as he reached the road at the top, he pulled over and stopped the truck. He radioed the commander of Team Alfa, who were waiting for his signal at the top of the incline. “Package is secure,” he informed him.

  “Copy that,” the commander replied.

  Team Alfa’s commander gave the signal to his squad. They only had two objectives; the safe capture of Mr Lombardi, and to eliminate Tyrone Sanchez and all associates. The commissioner had deemed that Sanchez was merely a pawn in the grand scheme of things. It was no skin off his nose to wipe him clean off the board.

  Team Alfa crept down the incline—ten skilled men clinging to the shadows of the cliff face as they neared the bottom. As they neared ground level, one of the operatives slipped on a loose rock. It clattered down the remainder of the incline to the bottom. Everybody froze.

  A few anxious moments later, their commander was satisfied their presence was still unknown, and gave the order to resume their descent.

  Sanchez sat at his desk inside his cabin with Mr Lombardi, counting his money and filing his invoices for the morning’s work. One of his men scurried inside his cabin after hearing the noise. “We’ve got company!” he exclaimed.

  Sanchez threw his chair back and retrieved his rifle from the table in the next room. “Stay here,” he said to Mr Lombar
di, and stepped outside into the fog, placed his fingers in his mouth, and whistled. His men responded immediately. They readied their firearms to defend their empire. Mr Lombardi’s captains joined them.

  Team Alfa reached the bottom of the incline. Their leader had heard the whistle. “Shoot to kill,” he commanded. They quickly fanned out into two groups. Five crept along the flat rock surface at the foot of the cliff face, staying hidden behind the half a dozen vehicles belonging to Mr Lombardi and Sanchez’s crew, and made it all the way to the far end of the pier to the men’s sleeping quarters. The lead operative smashed a window pane with the butt of his rifle while one of his comrades threw a cannister of tear gas through the opening. Two startled men came hurtling out, covering their faces with their shirts. They were easy pickings.

  Rat tat tat, rat tat tat.

  They were dead before they hit the ground.

  The commander and one of the five operatives at the bottom of the incline crept towards Sanchez’s cabin, while the other three laid down covering fire. Sanchez and his men opened up on them from the pier. Mr Lombardi’s captains jumped aboard the Chardonnay Lady, adding to the shower of bullets. “Grenades,” the commander said.

  They pulled the pins, and threw them at the target.

  KA-BOOM!

  The cabin disintegrated; jagged chucks of wood and splinters tore through the air, shredding the men on the pier to ribbons. Mr Lombardi was a bonus casualty; the grenades intended for Sanchez put an end to his reign.

  Amid the sudden chaos, the five operatives that had cleared the sleeping quarters doubled back along the pier and opened fire on the remainder of Sanchez’s guards.

  Blood spilled from their wounds as they lay slumped on the wooden boards.

  “Again!” the commander shouted. Each of the five operatives at the base of the incline threw a grenade. The Chardonnay Lady erupted; a giant fireball, illuminating the night sky with brilliant flashes of light, complete with the shrieking overture of Mr Lombardi’s captains being blown apart.

  The commander ordered his team to ceasefire. It was the perfect raid; the crisp crackling of burning timber was all that remained.

  Sanchez had been hit by the debris from his cabin; the force of the explosion had flung him into the water. He had a sizable chunk of wood lodged in his thigh. He grimaced as he dragged himself ashore, using the cover of darkness to slip across the open ground to his SUV undetected. He quietly opened the side door and climbed inside before rummaging around for his first aid kit. He gritted his teeth, then cursed as he ripped the chunk of wood from his thigh. He groaned once more as he doused the wound with antiseptic cream and applied a dressing. He found a pack of cigarettes in centre console and lit one up to numb the pain, waiting in the hope that the operatives wouldn’t search the vehicles before their departure.

  The operatives fished all the floating bodies out of the water. Blaze had arrived down the incline to assist in identifying the bodies. He spotted Mr Lombardi’s gold pocket watch lying on the ground—without its owner. “Looks like you flushed out the dwarf by mistake,” he said to the commander.

  “What about Sanchez?” the commander replied.

  “No sign of him. The grenades should have taken care of him, though. He always counts his money in his cabin after a transaction.”

  “Good enough for me,” the commander said. “Let’s wind this up, people!” he shouted.

  The operatives made their way up the incline to report the good news to the commissioner.

  Blaze took one last look around. A grin spread across his face as he took in the destructive scene. Then he noticed something: the tiniest orange glow coming from the rear of Sanchez’s SUV.

  I told you that smoking would kill you, shithead.

  Chapter 73

  I can’t believe I’m doing this, Sandra thought to herself as she pulled up to the kerb outside of a newly built three-storey home. The upper class street was quiet. She hoped the wealthy neighbours wouldn’t notice the security lights reacting to her presence as she crept along the path towards the front door. Act as if you’re meant to be here, she told herself.

  She knew how to pick a lock, but that was an absolute last resort. Instead she rummaged around the base of the pot plant sitting on the doorstep for a spare key. There must be one here somewhere.

  But there was no key.

  She tried the ornamental frog sitting next to the pot plant.

  Still no key.

  She tried the last obvious place worth looking; the door mat. Surely he wouldn’t be so foolish to leave it there, would he?

  She half-heartedly lifted the mat. And there is was, in the most obvious hiding place, a shiny spare key to the front door. She hoped with the impending delivery from Blaze at The Underground, the owner may have forgotten to set the alarm. She was right in her assumption. She saw the alarm was deactivated as she closed the door behind her. One less time-consuming task, she thought. She saw a staircase going up to the top floor, and one heading down to the basement. Now, where would I hide key evidence from a murder scene? she pondered.

  She decided to start at the top and work her way down—rifling through the bedrooms and storage spaces on the second and third storey, and finding nothing.

  She headed down to the basement using the flashlight on her phone to navigate the stairs. She stepped into the hallway once she’d reached the bottom. There was a door to her left. She opened it. There was an empty garage filled with numerous tools, a workbench, and an empty space where the owner’s car would normally be parked. Nothing of significance stood out, so she returned to the hallway and tried the door on the opposite side. It was a small office used for storage. Just cardboard boxes stacked from the floor to the ceiling. Nothing of value in here, either.

  There was only one other possible hiding place, right at the end of the hallway. She spun around as she heard a noise behind her. With her heart pounding, she shone the light back up the passageway. She exhaled long and slow to calm herself after spotting a grey cat elegantly strutting down the black, carpeted stairs as if it owned the place.

  She ignored the cat and opened the door at the end of the hallway. She stopped dead in her tracks as she flicked on the light in the windowless room. What on earth is this?

  The walls were covered in newspaper clippings and photographs. Blaze seemed to feature in all of them; in his gang paraphernalia, riding his Harley, eating in cafes, his mugshots from when he had been arrested and imprisoned, pictures of his family, the members of the MC. Someone had been watching him for many years—keeping tabs on his every move. She felt uneasy staring at the collage of Blaze’s criminal life.

  The cat wandered in. It started circling and rubbing herself up against the wall. Except it wasn’t a wall. Sandra noticed a door handle protruding between the newspaper clippings. A secret closet?

  She tentatively opened it, careful not to disturb any of the articles pinned to the door. Her eyes bulged as she saw the pair of soiled boots and torn field uniform trousers sitting at the foot of the closet. The trousers had the same grey cat fur on them as the piece of cloth she and Ryan had found in the Bowmans’ garden. I was right! she thought excitedly. Then she was struck by a more sobering notion as she saw a witness statement in a picture frame sitting on the lone shelf at the top of the cupboard. She gasped as she read the statement encased in glass. She had to get word to Ryan before he left for The Underground.

  She quickly snapped some pictures of the missing evidence and clippings on the walls with her phone, and hightailed it up the stairs.

  In her haste to leave she forgot to lock the front door behind her.

  Blaze was walking right into the hornets’ nest.

  Chapter 74

  Sanchez lay back in the SUV dragging heavily on his cigarette. Sweat poured down his cheeks. For a tough guy, he was struggling with the gnawing pain in his leg more than he would like to admit. He was sure there were splinters lodged inside the wound. Every time he moved it felt as though his mus
cles were being sliced with a thousand razor blades.

  He suddenly flinched as the side door shot open. Blaze stood there with his pistol raised. “Thank God, you came back for me,” said Sanchez, relieved. “I can barely walk.” He motioned to the bandage on his leg.

  Blaze could have shot him then and there, but instead he replied, “I’ll take you to a hospital.”

  “No hospitals,” Sanchez replied through gritted teeth. “It’s just a few splinters.”

  “I figured you would say that.” Blaze grinned. “Come on, you can hitch a ride with me back to the clubhouse. Zoe is our unofficial nurse for shit like this. She’ll stitch you up good as new.”

  Sanchez gratefully accepted his offer.

  Blaze started the engine on the SUV and drove up the incline. He pulled over at the top and helped Sanchez into the passenger side of the delivery truck, and handed him another cigarette.

  “You know; you’re not so bad,” Sanchez said to him as he sharply inhaled the toxins into his lungs. “You could have left me for dead back there.”

  “At least you finally know where my loyalties lie.”

  They drove in silence all the way back to Brighton. Sanchez chain smoked the entire pack of cigarettes; his leg throbbed intensely.

  At last Blaze rolled up to the clubhouse. It was quiet. Spider stirred from his slumber after hearing the whining of the engine brakes on the delivery truck outside.

  “I’ll be back in a tick,” Blaze said to Sanchez.

  “Whatever,” he grunted.

  Blaze literally bumped into Spider as he entered the clubhouse.

  “What the fuck’s going on?” Spider said. “I thought you were supposed to be making the delivery to The Underground?”

  “I had to make a small detour.” Blaze replied. He explained the events that had taken place at Smuggler’s Point.

  “You mean Sanchez is sitting outside in the truck?” said Spider.

  “And I need your help while I take care of him.” Blaze divulged his plan.