Open Wounds (Harbour Bay #2)(15)

“Sorry, Mr. Coleani. I had some legal problems.”

He nodded. “Yes, so I heard. You’re looking a little purple around the edges.”

He gingerly touched his swollen face.

“Nothing I can’t handle. They have nothing on me. No fingerprints, nothing, only that some neighbour saw my car speeding away from the scene. Sorry, Mr. Coleani, for not anticipating that. If it will help, I can remove the witness.”

He prayed for the affirmative. Anything to prove he wasn’t a screw-up, that he could do as he was asked.

Coleani shook his head. “No, that would not be wise, not with the police nearby. Tell me, what about the scene?”

“They found just a smidge of cocaine. Nothing to link the killings to you. I policed the brass and did as I was told.”

“So everything went as planned, except for the car?”

“Just an oversight, Mr. Coleani. It won’t happen again.”

“Good. I don’t like my boys to fail me.”

He flushed with embarrassment at the reprimand.

“Tell me, Mike, what about these detectives, do they pose a threat?”

Michael shook his head adamantly. “No, not at all. They have their own problems at the moment.”

Coleani appeared intrigued. “Tell me about them,” he said. A demand, not a suggestion.

He swallowed hard. Being in Coleani’s presence always made him nervous.

“Well, there was Detective Hill and a Detective Donovan—a chick. There was another chick, too. But she’s not a detective. She introduced herself as being Internal Affairs. She was the one who released me.”

Coleani raised an eyebrow. “The IA chick, did you happen to catch her name?” he asked.

He tried to remember. He’d mostly been terrified. “Munroe, I think. A hot blonde.”

“Donovan and Munroe,” he repeated out loud.

“What is that, like Cagney and Lacey?” he joked, his smart mouth covering the anxiety twisting his insides. He'd thought nothing of killing. But the reality was different from his imagination. As were the consequences.

Coleani pinned him with a look that said he didn’t appreciate his brand of humour.

“No. Donovan and Munroe both lived in my neighbourhood years ago. They were a real nuisance to me. Although…I thought I got rid of that problem. Nevertheless, if they choose to interfere again, I will have to do something permanent.”

***

Dean watched as Lambert exited the restaurant and moved toward his car. Beside him, Nick hit the oval button on the digital camera and in the silence of the car the click, click sounded loudly as a succession of photos were taken. Nick looked briefly at his work before grunting, telling Dean in his own way that they’d gotten what they needed.

Lambert pulled the Saab out of the parking spot and into traffic. After a beat, Dean followed, losing himself in the flow. Should the kid happen to look back in his rear-view, it was doubtful he and Nick would be spotted.

They followed him for another ten minutes until he pulled off the main road and into the tenant’s parking of a run-down, low-income housing apartment building. The building itself, the name Houston faded on the side, had seen better years. It had been built back in the seventies and allowed to rot when the owner went bust and the government took over the deed. Several windows were broken, a few taped closed with plastic bags. It was the kind of place where cockroaches the size of Chihuahuas roamed about, mould and rust just another colour scheme.

Four young men approached Lambert as he made his way toward the open front door of the building. Obviously security was not a priority for these kids. Dean heard the camera snapping away photos and knew Nick was hoping to capture the perfect shot. The gangly teenagers surrounded Lambert and from the looks of it were singing him praises, high fiving him and patting the man on the back. Apparently, they believed he’d done something pretty fantastic.

These morons were most likely the alibi he’d supplied. Their type stuck together so long as there was something in it for them.

Dean waited as the light began to fade, the sun sinking behind the building. The kids welcomed Lambert like a conquering hero. And to think, it had only taken two lives. But then life was cheap around these parts. Dean was disgusted. He’d seen enough life snuffed out during his tour overseas.

The son of scholars—both professors at Harbour Bay University, his father in mathematics, his mother in English—it had been assumed he’d follow in his parents’ footsteps and teach, or become a doctor or lawyer. But he’d had no intention of sitting down all day and knew he wasn’t cut out for a desk job. To say John and Georgia Matthews were surprised when he’d told them he’d enlisted in the army was an understatement. But they’d supported him without question through his entire career and was thankful to have such wonderful parents.

“By the looks of those guys, they’re going to be partying all night. I doubt we’ll need to stay and keep watch. I’m going to head home. You want me to drop you somewhere?” he asked.

The youths all disappeared into the building and Dean started the engine and pulled away from the kerb. He rubbed a hand over his eyes, feeling as if someone had rubbed sandpaper over his corneas. He needed about eighteen hours sleep, but he would be lucky to squeeze in four or five.

“Yeah, back at the LAC. I’ll grab my car and head home. It looks like we caught the shit end of this investigation, huh? Following Lambert.”