Only the Dead

by Ben Sanders

Overview

When a failed witness protection operation ends in multiple homicides, evidence suggests the crime is linked to a series of violent robberies in Auckland City. For Detective Sergeant Sean Devereaux, solving the case is proving next to impossible. His own superiors in the police department are refusing to cooperate with his investigation. After Devereaux shoots a suspect in a botched surveillance job, he is forced to start providing the answers rather than demanding them. With his career on the line and old demons threatening to consume his very sanity, Devereaux is running out of time as he succumbs to a nightmare world of extreme brutality, where bad and desperate men stalk both sides of the legal divide.

Product Details

ISBN-13:	9781466885141
Publisher:	St. Martin's Publishing Group
Publication date:	04/04/2017
Series:	Devereaux and Hale
Sold by:	Macmillan
Format:	eBook
Pages:	432
File size:	1 MB

Read an Excerpt

Only the Dead

The Novel

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By Ben Sanders

St. Martin's Press

Copyright © 2013 Ben Sanders
All rights reserved.
ISBN: 978-1-4668-8514-1

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CHAPTER 1

Monday, 13 February, 11.58 a.m.

Tennis and iced water. He could think of worse ways to start the week.

John Hale sat in a deckchair beneath an umbrella and watched a heated backyard match unfold: prospective client Alan Rowe versus a woman Hale thought might be a girlfriend. The girlfriend could play. Rowe couldn't. He wasn't happy about it — hence the 'heated'.

The water was purportedly Evian, but he didn't know about the ice. Hale took a sip and watched another point. Rowe countered crisp ground strokes with awkward lobs. He scrambled for a shot down the left tramline and swiped desperately. A big slow return peaked enticingly over centre court. The woman scuttled in under it and arched back. She threw up an index finger to track the drop and cracked a massive forehand smash. The ball skipped off the backline and lodged in the mesh of the rear fence with a chime like dropped keys.

Rowe swore on expelled breath. He wasn't a tennis build. He wasn't a tennis age, either. Five-six and stocky, pushing sixty. Midday heat and a sound thrashing had soaked his shirt see-through.

Rowe looked at her and hooked a grin. 'Jesus, love.'

He got a teasing giggle back. 'Don't be such a fart.'

Hale said, 'I hope you didn't get me out here just to watch you get thumped.'

The jibe stung: Rowe dropped his racquet and kicked it tumbling. He walked over and plucked the trapped ball free. The fence clicked him with a jolt of static when he touched it. 'You can toddle off home if you want,' he said. 'Otherwise suck it up and I might have some work for you.'

A retort formed, but Hale kept it tethered. It was a Remuera address, money and big trees aplenty. The fenced-off court paralleled a breeze-dimpled lap pool. A two-metre stone wall marked the boundary. The house was white, 'fifties vintage and two-storey, one corner overshadowed by a thick elm. A heavy suit-clad minder lurked hands in pockets behind French doors. Behind him, a massive flat screen TV reeled sports highlights. Remuera: old money, modern comforts.

The Evian was in a sweating pitcher on a low table beside Hale's chair. The sun umbrella cast a big oval of shade. Rowe pocketed the freed ball and scuffed his way over. He levelled up a wide tumbler, killed three quarters of it in one hit, flicked the dregs in a deft slash across the court.

He said, 'I know a couple of guys like you.'

'Like me how?'

He put the glass down. His opponent was nailing fake serves to stay warm. He admired a few before replying. 'Cops and ex-cops. I was told you were a good sort of guy to talk to.'

Hale smiled. 'I feel like we're kind of dodging the point here.'

Rowe thumbed a streak in the pitcher sweat. 'She's just about closed the set. Why don't you give it a couple more minutes, then we can take this indoors maybe.'

'Sooner rather than later would be great.'

'You have another appointment?'

'Not to hurry you along.'

Rowe shrugged. He looked across the court towards the pool. 'There're some people I'd like you to find.'

Progress. 'What sort of people?'

'You keep up with the news?'

Hale didn't answer.

'It's tied up with this heist shit,' Rowe said.

Heist shit: an ongoing armed robbery spate, dating back to October. The scorecard thus far: a bank hold-up that had left a teller dead and netted forty thousand dollars; an armoured van takedown that had profited another fifteen or twenty grand; a robbery of an amateur fight club premises — tiny takings, but seven people assaulted.

'The police are still involved,' Hale said. 'You need to talk to them.'

'That's why I got in touch with you.'

'I quit, though, so I'm not that useful.'

Rowe didn't answer. He walked away and picked up his spurned racquet. He raised it face level and spread his hand across the strings, clicked them back into alignment with clawed fingertips. The woman swung through on another serve. A gleaming sweat sheen shook free in sprinkle form.

'What's your interest in it?' Hale said.

'What do you mean?'

'Why do you want to find who's responsible?'

'Someone's dead. Do you need a better excuse?'

'This is an active police investigation. As much as they like me, they won't want me treading on their toes.'

'Can't you work with them?'

'That's not really their policy.'

'They can make exceptions.'

'Not really. We play on different sides of the court, if you will.'

'What does that mean?'

'Some of my practices are unique.'

'I can live with that.'

'The police can't. And that's speaking from experience.'

Rowe didn't answer. He turned away and loaded a serve of his own. The buildup looked good. He hunched into a strangle on the racquet and rocked back and forth a couple of times, prepping the release. He tossed up the ball and swung through and skied it off the frame. The racquet hummed with the reverb: he raised it up and slammed it against the ground. The bounce carried it head-high.

'Sweetie, you've got to toss it forward more.'

Rowe shushed her with a hand-flap. He looked at Hale.

'I didn't say you had to piggyback on their work. Either you're interested, or you're not.'

Hale smiled. He felt the carefully researched Alan Rowe back story becoming increasingly pertinent.

Hale said, 'You're a criminal defence lawyer.'

'Was. Not for a while, though.'

'Head Hunters gang had you on retainer for eight years.'

Rowe said nothing.

'That was the rumour, anyway,' Hale said.

'Who'd you get that from?'

Hale shrugged. 'Doesn't matter. They're not the sort of clients that endear you to law enforcement.'

'I don't think my past associations should be any of your business,' Rowe said. 'Alleged or otherwise.'

Hale reached over and topped up his water. Nice and slow, to keep the ice in the jug. 'I'd just like to know why you want to find these people.'

'Think of it as my gift to society.'

'Gang lawyer turned Good Samaritan doesn't really ring true.'

Rowe laughed. He folded his arms and propped his hip against the net post. He pulled one foot to tiptoe and crossed his legs. 'Look,' he said. 'I had you checked out, you seem okay.'

'Well, good.'

'But maybe you should just tell me exactly what it is you're uncomfortable about, before we take this any further.'

'All due respect, I don't think we're going to take this any further.'

'Humour me.'

Hale downed his drink, cradled the empty glass in his lap. He said, 'There's good money out and about and unaccounted for. Either you're after it because you're dead keen to get it back to where it came from, or you've got some other angle going.'

'Like Good Samaritan turned plain arsehole.'

'I was thinking more criminal defence lawyer turned criminal.'

A heavy stare. Hale held it for a solid four-count. Rowe broke it first. 'Maybe watch your mouth next time you go visiting,' he said. He let a smile flicker. 'You see the guy in there?'

Hale glanced towards the French doors. The man in the suit was still lurking.

'Used to be a boxer. He fought pro for a while. Got invited to go up against Sugar Ray Leonard.'

'What does he fight now? Other than prostate trouble?'

Rowe didn't answer. He pushed off the post and walked away. The woman was spot-jogging near the far fence. Hale stood up and brushed creases out of his shirtfront.

'Thank you for the offer, Mr Rowe, but I think I'm going to have to decline. If you've got any further details you'd like to give me, you've got my number.'

He let himself out via a gate in the fence. The French doors opened, and the minder stepped aside to let him pass.

CHAPTER 2

Monday, 13 February, 4.29 p.m.

Sean Devereaux in the back of an unmarked patrol car, two uniformed officers up front, framing a windscreen view.

South Auckland, a quiet street east of Clendon Park. They were serving as light backup for nearby surveillance work, heavy backup a five-man Armed Offenders Squad a little further up the block. The target was high value hence the heavy support, hence the terse pre-op briefing, courtesy of Detective Inspector Alan Nielsen: 'Do it fast, and don't fuck it up.'

The radio unit on the dash chirped status codes from the two-man tactical team doing the real work. It was a two-phase operation: phase one a covert garage entry at the target address, phase two installation of a GPS unit on the suspect's vehicle. In and out, no fuss. The danger lay in the fact that if the car was home, the owner could be too.

Devereaux squirmed. Lookout duty wasn't his forte. Sit-about stints numbed him. Normally, he could avoid them, but his involvement in the bank and armoured van investigations had secured him a ride-along. He'd tried to opt out, tested his luck with an eloquent excuse: 'I think it would be a more effective allocation of labour if I were to continue with my regular investigative duties.' Nielsen's reply: 'Put it in writing, sergeant. Right now, suck it up and get going.'

He tried to focus on the radio commentary. It was hard work; the young guns up front were trading arrest stories: '... stopped this douche bag up on Weymouth. He was ten k's over the limit, so we pulled up behind and I'm all like, "You were speeding," and he totally flipped out and got out of his car, and I told him to back off, but the stupid prick didn't, wasn't even talking English at me, he was like yammering in Asian or something, so we ended up pepper spraying him. He went totally mental, ended up in ER. Fucking hilarious.'

They sat and laughed. Devereaux reached over and cracked a window. Across the street a woman was assembling a planter box out of timber.

Driver to passenger: 'What do you reckon she's up to?'

'Making a garden thing, probably.'

'Looks like a coffin.'

'Yeah, kind of. She's made it family-sized.'

'You reckon she's topped her family?'

'Maybe. Folks get up to all sorts down here, I tell you.'

Devereaux eyed the back of the guy's head. The passenger seemed to feel the weight of the attention on his skull. He spun the mirror so he and Devereaux were eye to eye.

'Do you like being a detective?' the kid said.

'Excuse me?'

The guy looked confused. Devereaux twirled an index finger.

The penny dropped: 'Do you like being a detective, sir?'

'Yes. Sorry, what was your name?'

'O'Neil.'

'Yes, Constable O'Neil, I do enjoy being a detective. Also I notice we were fifteen over the limit the whole way here, so if you could grab me the pepper spray it would be much appreciated.'

They fell quiet. Devereaux leaned forward and plucked wet shirt off his back. He needed a cigarette. The pack in his pocket was fully loaded and ready for consumption: Marlboros, tight against the pocket lining, like a kid's face on the shop glass.

The two guys in the front exchanged glances.

'Sorry,' the driver said. 'Some guys just kinda, you know. We're not that formal with them.'

'We'll call it even. I didn't know you guys were arseholes.'

No reply. They faced forward and shut up. He spread his arms full-wingspan across the top of the seats and watched the street. It was grime-smeared residential, light wind presiding, gangly tree shadows listless in the heat. The radio blipped in with nothing-updates: the target vehicle was parked in the driveway, not the garage; there was nobody around; it looked all clear; they were under the vehicle; they'd begun installing the device —

The transmission cut. They lost the guy mid-sentence. Dead air stretched out.

Devereaux leaned forward. 'Radio them back and see what's happening.'

The driver thumbed his shoulder mic, ducked his chin and requested a repeat on the last transmission. No response. More unacknowledged chatter as the Armed Offenders Squad sent out a similar request.

'Keep trying until they come back on line,' Devereaux said.

The driver keyed his shoulder mic again and requested a situation report. No reply, nothing on the dashboard unit. He repeated the message, got an identical result. The passenger propped his elbow on the sill and thumbed his lip.

'Head along up the street,' Devereaux said. 'We'll see what's up. Tell AOS to hold, we don't need a scene.'

The driver did as directed. Planter box woman's gaze panned with them as they passed. The target address was less than a minute away, a two-storey weatherboard shielded by one right turn. Up the street, the driver of the AOS truck flicked a peace sign out his window. They swung into the street just as the radio cut back in: 'Ten-ten, repeat, we are ten-ten.'

Urgent assistance required. Come bail us out.

'Ah, shit.' The kid's eyes in the mirror, before Devereaux was yelling at him to hit it, and he nailed the gas pedal.

The car lurched under the dose of throttle, the guys up front ducked to dash level to gauge progress, Devereaux braced door to door against the cornering forces. The passenger radioing the AOS team to roll.

The driver overshot his mark and stomped the brake. They thumped to a standstill. Devereaux snapped forward, lap belt cinching deep. They were skewed across the centre of the street, rubber smoking in thin twists. A dull pop as the boot released, ragged door slams as the guys up front beelined for the gun safe in back. Devereaux unclicked and slid out, saw the house twenty metres back along the street, the car in the driveway, blood daubs on the concrete.

'Oh, shit, someone's bleeding.'

The driver who'd spoken. The two uniforms had formed up in the street, shaky assault rifles to shoulder, sighted in on the house. A screech as the AOS team pulled up behind them. Devereaux rounded the rear of the car. The gun safe had been pillaged: one measly Glock the price for being third. Shaky fingers liberated it from its foam recess. A full clip: he drew a bead on the pavement to check the sights, jacked a round into the chamber.

The house was off-white, a garage adjacent spilling a strip of driveway to the kerb. The front door hung wide. He led with the gun and approached at a sprint, dizzy under the adrenaline hit. The two kids tailing him either side. AOS way back, the sergeant screaming for them to let his team in first to clear the premises. Devereaux had no hope of hearing: adrenaline rush swamped all.

The car's bonnet was up, he dropped to a duck-walk and checked beneath the chassis. A loose bundle of limp leads, a huge arcing slash of blood leading away from it towards the house. The downslope edge beaded with a thin wave. A wail from the house, frantic ten-ten pleadings from the shoulder mics of the two guys riding his heels.

Across the open yard and straight in the front door. Glock first, muzzle twitchy, trigger finger tight. One surveillance guy crumpled foetal in the entry, a mangled bicep leaking scarlet through clawed fingers. A whimper, and then crinkled eye contact. Devereaux stormed through. Stairs branched left and up, bloodstains on the treads like pursed lips, beckoning come hither. He jumped them two at a time and made the upstairs hallway, fanned the Glock in a shaky one-eighty to cover each direction. To the right: an open bathroom door, the second surveillance officer propped against mildewed tile work. Torso slumped, legs askew. The floor a bloody hand-smear collage. A deep leg gash leaking steady.

He heard Devereaux. A pummelled head raised from an exhausted slouch, a mumble on shiny lips as Devereaux entered the room, gun raised. A heavy sideways pan of the guy's gaze stopped him dead, right there on the threshold. A pause within that frantic, frantic moment. He tracked the fallen officer's line of sight.

Just do it.

He whipped left, a sharp ninety-degree turn, fired three times point blank through the door, wrist snapping back under the force. Dead shells arced and flipped, tinkling. Woodchips rode the cordite bloom and bit his cheeks. A man with a machete fell sideways from his position behind the door, two bullet holes through his stomach. He clutched himself, gasping, and thumped against the wall. A scream, a broken slash of red against the paintwork as he slid to the floor.

* * *

More backup arrived: another AOS team diverted off a nearby callout, and a roving patrol unit that had caught the ten-ten. Ample support to cover first aid. He sat on the landing and fought dizziness as the tension backed off, gun still in hand. He racked the slide to clear the chambered round. It rolled clear and toddled its way down the stairs. He watched its escape, gentle brushes of passing thighs against his shoulder preventing a total daze. Paramedics arrived, clipped directives in the face of carnage. Clatters and dull thumps as stretchers and first-aid kits ascended the stairs.

Someone tapped his shoulder. He spun and saw a female constable looking down at him.

'Sergeant, maybe you should give me your gun.'

He handed it over. She took it gingerly. Two fingers only, like something tainted. He caught a glimpse back through the bathroom door: the cop's blood everywhere, the cop himself looking well south of normal. An ambulance guy trying to raise a vein to put in an IV line. Machete man, prone on his back, getting oxygen via a mask.

A sudden, whispered prayer: Please don't die.

(Continues...)

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Excerpted from Only the Dead by Ben Sanders. Copyright © 2013 Ben Sanders. Excerpted by permission of St. Martin's Press.
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
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