Part 3 – Stockholm's Zenith
Disclaimers etc in part 1
There was no sender's address on the envelope.
The post mark was from Leichhardt and there was nothing inside except a clipping from a newspaper.
How the hell anyone in Sydney knew where to find me in South America was anyone's guess. The handwriting on the envelope looked too neat to be from any bloke I knew. It couldn't have been my former assistant - she died in a car crash on the Pacific Highway six months ago.
Fucking hell that clipping was interesting reading.
Detective Senior Constable Mick Reilly appealing his dismissal from the Police Service in the Industrial Relations Commission. Sacked because of a – how the hell did they put it – loss of Commissioner's confidence. Or to get that out of lawyer speak, Reilly got the bullet because he was a corrupt bastard
Admittedly that bastard saved my life in the power station when Christey had a gun to my head and was accusing me of murdering Goldstein. Reilly never knew how good his timing was that day.
So, Reilly got himself hooked up with Agi Fatsianas and covered up Agi shooting one of his informants.
The reasons for Reilly's actions seemed to be he was trying to help his sister's husband avoid a stint in the slammer. From there things got silly at a rate of knots as the more Reilly tried to make sure things were going to be okay for his sister and her family, the harder Agi applied the thumb screws to Mick not to turn him in.
The article told all about Agi's links to organised crime and how the crackdown by the water police led to Agi shooting Jack and pushing him off that boat to die in the Harbour.
Fucking hell – if you want to get right down to it, Christey was murdered by one of his own. Not directly but Reilly was responsible for Jack being on that boat and that was all I needed to know.
First Christey going off the deep end after Goldstein died and then Reilly getting in way over his head to protect his sister. Knowing Christey, he had probably gone off after Agi to protect Reilly.
Shit – those detectives would be better off having their hearts put on ice – they are absolutely useless when they try to think and feel at the same time. Then again, they are men and incapable of doing two things at once.
Getting to Sydney was the easy part as I'd kept a few little souvenirs from the passport scam. A girl should never leave home without a couple of extra passports and credit cards.
As the plane took off for its long haul flight, I knew only one thing was certain – Reilly was going down and he had to go down hard. Christey's memory demanded it and I expected it.
~*~*~*~
A call from a contact in Customs let him know that his quarry had made it into Sydney without incident. She might not have been travelling under her own name but the descriptions he provided his contact would have made her pretty easy to spot.
Being a law abiding citizen had always been so easy up until a couple of years ago but there had been two turning points in his life causing him to question everything he once stood for.
From then on nightmares had been his constant companion and he could see one way out of the hell he was living in.
His nightmares featured three things – glass, bullets and blood. Some had tried to comfort him after the nightmares but there could be no comfort for anyone until he completed what he had to do.
Justice was a crock and there came a time in everyone's life where they had to find their own answers instead of hoping the system would provide them. He had done his research and planning. There could be no second chances. He only had this moment in time to execute his plan and right some age old wrongs.
He still maintained a relatively normal life, going to work and occasionally down to the pub with his colleagues, but the person who lived that life belonged to another, perhaps simpler time. Now there was no focus to his days except the pursuit of a nemesis he never expected to have.
Following the prey she sought would lead him to her. He wondered briefly how rusty her surveillance skills were and whether he would be spotted.
An anonymous letter to South America set the dice rolling and this was definitely game on.
~*~*~*~
I still couldn't quite believe Christey was dead and wanted proof the arrogant prick was out of my life, not that I needed any reminders about why what I had returned to Sydney to do was the right thing. A visit to an Eastern Suburbs cemetery confirmed it. They had buried him next to Goldstein. Fucking hell.
Better get out of here Charlie, you've got work to do.
~*~*~*~
Getting the full story from Reilly's sister Jess was a little too easy – someone should have warned her not to be so trusting of people.
Surely, she should have known that no former instructor of her brother's from the Academy would be coming around to find out how he was doing.
The wheelchair didn't even phase her. She probably just thought it was a part of the new age touchy feely police environment.
She told me how her husband had gotten mixed up in some petty stuff and how she had begged Mick to try and help. For the sake of her son, she said.
Reilly had resisted her pleas at first, she said. Then he realised the only hope of young Max having a stable upbringing was to try and keep his parents together and his dad out of jail. Dumb ass move Reilly, totally dumb ass move. You are a cop – you are not supposed to fucking well think and feel.
The little brat probably would have done just fine. Her little boy looked a bit like his uncle. Poor kid.
I said I wanted to catch up with Mick so we could discuss old times and how his case in the Commission was going. Then Jess unwittingly signed her brother's death warrant. She told me where he was going to be that morning.
~*~*~*~
I finally found Reilly at a café in Bronte. He had just said goodbye to the woman who replaced Goldstein. I had seen her once or twice with Christey, thought she was a lightweight. He seemed to like her though. I wondered if Christey ever got tangled up with her or whether he was too hung up on Goldstein's memory.
Like I've always said Jack, sentiment in our line of work can be fatal and you should have just gotten the fuck over it.
It seemed appropriate this showdown would take place in the Eastern Suburbs – my former powerbase.
Some would say I had come to reclaim my empire, I would say it was more a case of tidying up some unfinished business.
~*~*~*~
He watched her get out of the non-descript Camry sedan, a bodybuilder type helping her settle into the wheelchair and watching as she propelled herself towards the café.
It didn't surprise him she was travelling with some sort of hired muscle – particularly with her failing health.
Another woman said goodbye to Mick Reilly, who was sitting at an outside table. They were smiling and laughing as they hugged. The other woman drove away.
He watched his quarry push her wheelchair towards the tables, sunshine bouncing off the wheelchair's metal frame. Beams of light began to bounce off another metal object.
Oh shit.
The bitch had pulled a gun.
Checking he was armed, he knew he had to act or it would be too late and he would miss his chance.
~*~*~*~
Reilly's stunned expression told me he was unarmed. I didn't care. Whatever bond I had with Christey, no matter how bizarre and twisted had brought me to this point. Whoever thought up the definition and criteria for Stockholm Syndrome all those years ago would have had a fucking field day with Jack and I.
Christey's memory must be avenged.
Mick unleashed that thousand volt smile of his and tried to charm is way out of it and negotiate with me. I am not to be negotiated with. Christey would never have negotiated – he would have said to take my best shot and then given me his.
Well Mickey, you have definitely shown me you're a mouse not a man. You are gorgeous and you might have lived your life through your dick but this is one time your good looks won't save you.
Squeezing the trigger was so easy. You'd think after all these years as a career crim it would get harder and what was left of my conscience would kick in. Not a snowball's chance in hell of that happening.
I had gotten Reilly for Jack and then someone whom I had never considered a threat had got me.
I never heard the click – just the bang. In my last moment of clarity I realised who the handwriting on the envelope delivered to me weeks ago in South America belonged to. A signature on my record of interview after Goldstein's death came back to haunt me. It was a take down worthy of Christey.
Jeff Hawker dropped his Glock on the roadway, the bodies of Michael Lionel Reilly and Charlie Elizabeth Driscoll never leaving his sight. Sitting down and leaning against a tree, he began to cry.
The nightmares were over.