Kill Shot Page 3

  He didn’t bother to go in. He didn’t want to kill. Killing was usually not the answer to anything, and there was the risk of attracting the law. About the only thing he could do was walk away from it all, as he’d done many times before.

  6

  THESE DAYS, MOST OF Nick Lazar’s friends were ex-2nd Commando Regiment men he’d served with in Uruzgan and other areas of Afghanistan. Every one of them damaged in some way. They’d seen mates killed when a helicopter came down or shredded by a roadside device. Told to write a ‘dead letter’ to family before every mission, to ease the burden for some lilywhite officer—never held a gun, let alone got shot at—charged with knocking on the family’s door. Told to face skirmishes and battles with controlled aggression, when, in Lazar’s experience, all the aggression in that shitty place had been uncontrolled. Ask for help, say your nerves were shot, Command would tell you, ‘Be part of the next mission, as ordered, or go home for good.’

  A strange, rootless existence. You’d yearn for home—Sydney Harbour, Bondi, your mother’s cooking, a girl’s bed—but after about a day you’d yearn to be back in the stony desert with your mates.

  Then the special hell that was post-army life. Most guys came home with nothing to show for their years of service but hearing loss and slipped discs. Disastrous personal lives; couldn’t hold down a job; depression; addiction; suicide. AVOs. Jail. Veterans Affairs either useless or openly antagonistic.

  Help, if there was any, came from your buddies. Lazar had met Marty Welsh at the Parramatta Recruiting Centre and served with him in Helmand Province and the Shah Wali Kot Offensive. Since leaving the army in 2013, the two of them would meet for a drink every now and then. Welsh worked as a private investigator these days, mostly tracking people: an accountant who’d skipped with clients’ money held in trust, a millionaire’s daughter missing from her boarding school, an estranged father whisking the kids away from their mother. He had contacts in the Tax Office, the Department of Motor Vehicles, Centrelink, in the state and federal police and among security firms like Lazar’s. A lot of his work was reading files, peering at a screen and making phone calls. Otherwise, he knocked on doors. Flashed his ID and said, ‘I’m licensed by the State of New South Wales as an investigator…’

  Given that Josh Kramer had been no help, Marty was the logical guy to find Sam Kramer’s moneyman. And now, over lunch at an outside table between the bridge and the ferry terminal, Lazar was hearing that hadn’t panned out, either.

  ‘Tried everything, mate. It’s like he doesn’t exist. You’re sure of the name?’

  ‘Wyatt, that’s all I know.’

  They kept their voices low, even though the tables were far apart and the air full of distorting harbour sounds. Cool sunshine, gulls wheeling, a scrappy breeze tossing cellophane and newspaper about.

  ‘No social network that I can find,’ Welsh said. He was lanky: all sharp angles, prominent bones and gloom. ‘Most people have friends or family, some kind of tribe. Not this guy. Don’t know where he was born, where he’s lived, or where he is now.’

  ‘He has friends,’ Lazar protested. ‘Sam Kramer for one.’

  ‘Who’s in jail,’ Welsh pointed out.

  Lazar dipped a chip in tartare sauce, a tendon flexing in his tattooed forearm. ‘Go back in time. He’s solo now, but he used to hit banks and payroll vans. There must be drivers he used, safe crackers, armourers.’

  Welsh shook his head. ‘Normally a guy like that gets noticed, but this one evaporates after he pulls a job. All I can get from my contacts are vague impressions. “I knew a guy who knew a guy who worked with him on a jewellery raid,” kind of thing. Nothing concrete. However, and it’s worth bearing in mind, I get the feeling no one wants to cross him. So watch yourself.’

  ‘He must have rubbed someone up the wrong way, enough to talk.’

  ‘Not that I’ve heard.’

  Lazar dipped another chip. They were cold now, his hunger sated, but his hands and mouth ruled him somehow. ‘Habits? Interests?’

  Scorn on Welsh’s skeletal features. ‘You mean like he collects stamps and goes to folk music gigs?’

  Lazar shrugged, feeling foolish. ‘Current or ex-wife? Disgruntled kid? Elderly mother in a nursing home?’

  ‘Nothing.’

  Lazar nodded. He felt a deep tiredness, the earth pulling at him. ‘Kramer’s wife and daughter?’

  ‘Got nowhere there. They’re hard, reclusive, distrustful. I went in as a journalist writing a family-left-behind-when-the-man-of-the-house-goes-to-jail story and was told to fuck off.’

  ‘Our guy communicates with them somehow.’

  ‘Look,’ said Welsh, ‘I could keep poking into paper and digital trails and people’s lies and evasions until the cows come home and still not find him. He doesn’t have a past I can excavate. Most people say, “Here I am” or “Look at me” to some degree, but he doesn’t. No ego. No hunger.’

  ‘Oh, he’s hungry,’ Lazar said.

  ‘Then work out what he wants.’

  ‘Money.’

  ‘Sure, but how does that make him any different from the rest of us?’

  ‘The challenge.’

  ‘That’s no good to me,’ Welsh said. He shifted to get comfortable, threw his napkin down. ‘Mate, whatever’s going on, I want in. I’m going out of my brain with boredom.’

  Lazar nodded slowly. ‘I’ll take it under consideration.’

  ‘Fuck you. I want in,’ Welsh said. He paused. ‘There is one thing you could try.’

  ‘Hit me.’

  ‘You told me he probably makes contact when Sam Kramer’s out on day release.’

  ‘According to the son, yeah. But finding out where and when is another matter.’

  ‘I did some digging,’ Welsh said. ‘There is someone…’

  Anticipation crept through Lazar. ‘Okay?’

  ‘Brad Salter.’

  ‘Oh, Jesus Christ,’ groaned Lazar.

  Salter had been under his command in Afghanistan. Discharged for habitually taking pot shots at village dogs. And villagers. And he’d probably killed a kid, but the details were murky. Even so, Lazar hadn’t been covered in glory, being Salter’s commanding officer, and he’d been edged out of the army eighteen months later.

  ‘What about him?’

  ‘He’s in Watervale with Kramer.’

  7

  THREE YEARS FOR AGGRAVATED burglary, divorced by his wife in the meantime, and long forgotten by his family and friends, Bradley Salter was pleased, if wary, to hear he had a visitor. Surprised to find it was Nick Lazar, looking cleaner and more collected than he had in their army days.

  He shook hands. ‘To what do I owe the pleasure?’ Determined to control this situation, Salter sat relaxed in the plastic visiting-room chair. Arms folded, face unreadable, in case the Laz tried to pull some officer bullshit on him. ‘Didn’t bring a hacksaw with you?’

  Lazar laughed unconvincingly. ‘I need a favour.’

  Salter glanced around the room at the wives, girlfriends and kids visiting their fuckup menfolk. ‘What kind of favour?’

  ‘Information,’ Lazar said, and waited.

  ‘Spit it out, Laz.’

  A brief flare in Lazar’s eyes at the diminutive. ‘Sam Kramer.’

  Salter kept his expression neutral but leaned over their nasty little table. ‘Keep your voice down. The guy’s a big wheel in here.’

  And Lazar leaned forward, until their heads were half a metre apart. ‘Who visits him, who his friends are and, more specifically, what he does and who he sees on day release.’

  ‘Not my scene, man. No way they’re letting me out to pick up rubbish or whatever.’

  ‘I understand. But maybe you can get close to a guy who works alongside Kramer? Offer him money or smokes or something, and get him to report back?’

  ‘What guy?’

  ‘Any guy,’ Lazar said, a touch of irritation.

  ‘Big ask.’

  ‘Brad, he doesn’t have to take pho
tos or ask questions or talk to Kramer or do anything that’ll attract attention. All he has to do is tell you the where and when of each time he goes out on day release, and whether or not Kramer is handed anything, or talks to anyone, and what this person looks like.’

  Salter watched Lazar, trying to work out the angles. What hadn’t been said?

  ‘Plus,’ Lazar went on, ‘who visits him here in Watervale. Who he hangs out with, so on and so forth.’

  Salter tried to think of Kramer as a man with friends. A couple of minders followed him around…‘There’s one guy, Kyle Roden.’ He pursed his mouth. ‘White collar. Ripped off investors or some shit.’

  ‘He’s a visitor?’

  ‘No, no. He’s in here.’

  Lazar gestured irritably. ‘Visitors, Brad.’

  Salter couldn’t shake off his unease. He checked the room again. No Kramer. No Kramer minders. ‘I’ve seen this one chick wheeling an older one in a wheelchair.’

  ‘Wife and daughter,’ Lazar said. ‘Anyone else?’

  ‘A suit. Lawyer?’

  ‘Any of his old crowd?’

  ‘How would I know who his old crowd is?’

  ‘Guys with a certain look, Brad,’ Lazar said heavily. ‘Toe cutters.’

  Salter sank his solid head into his pneumatic shoulders. Walls have ears, Laz. And although Sam Kramer looked like a retired accountant, he had clout. Everyone wary of him, inmates and prison staff alike. ‘Not exactly fighting off the hordes on visiting day myself, Laz. I wouldn’t know who else comes to see him. Anyway…’ He sat back again, folded his arms. ‘Aren’t you forgetting something?’

  ‘There’s five in it for you,’ Lazar said immediately, his voice very low.

  ‘Half up front.’

  ‘Done. Where and how?’

  That was easy. Salter, starting to think he should have asked for more, rattled off a BSB and account number, an account no one and certainly not his ex-wife knew about. ‘As soon as it hits the account, I’ll go to work.’

  ‘Deal.’

  ‘Plus,’ he said, ‘I want a job when I get out.’

  Lazar stiffened and ducked minutely, as if he’d been shot at. ‘Mate, I don’t know, security staff need to be clean as a whistle this day and age.’

  ‘Off the books, all right? Put me in one of your stretch limos.’

  Lazar’s eyes were evasive. ‘Ah…business is actually a bit slow at the moment.’

  ‘So, no stretch limo?’ Salter said, enjoying himself.

  He kept up with the news. Every muscle-bound Pacific Islander and steroid-abusing ex-con in Sydney wanted to work security, and Nick’s firm had taken too many assurances at face value. Last December one of his guys had king hit and hospitalised a drunk on the steps of a Darlinghurst nightclub. Which might have been swept under the rug except that the bouncer had a criminal history, the cops got interested, and Nick had been sued by the drunk.

  ‘I can type a bit. Answer the phone?’

  ‘I’ll see what I can do, okay?’

  ‘Okay,’ Salter said. He cocked his head. ‘I can’t see myself ringing you every day with updates. Or you dropping by every visiting day.’

  ‘All taken care of.’

  TWO DAYS LATER SALTER got word to help a civilian volunteer catalogue and shelve new books in the prison library, a poky room along a dead-end corridor leading from the rec hall. Expecting an earnest mouse of a librarian, he was met by a cute, rounded, sleepy-eyed brunette who startled him by placing a fat doorstopper titled Theories of Communicative Action in his hands. ‘Our friend thought you might like a read of this.’

  He shelved it. When she’d gone and the library was deserted, he sat on a stool between the stacks and the far wall where he couldn’t be seen. He opened the book. An iPhone nestled in a hollow between pages 100 and 300. One number had been programmed into the phone, and there was a note telling him to keep the sim card separate and always clear the call and text history.

  FINDING A SNITCH WAS easy in the end. Using cash, cigarettes and intimidation, he obtained a list of men with day-release privileges and shadowed each one for an hour or so. Carl Ayliffe was a stupid, sweet-faced, permanently scared kid who’d been passed around a few times. Liked to hide in the library, in fact. Thought Salter was there to rape him and was wary, then relieved and wary, when told he had nothing to worry about.

  ‘What do I have to do?’

  ‘That’s the spirit. First, keep your mouth shut.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘Sam Kramer.’

  Ayliffe shrank. ‘You know who he is, right?’

  ‘Has he had a go at you?’

  ‘Wouldn’t even know I exist.’

  ‘Let’s keep it that way. All I want you to do is keep your eyes and ears open. I need you to let me know in advance when you’re leaving these fine premises to pick weeds or whatever, and whether or not Kramer’s on the roster that day, and what he does when the rest of you are standing around scratching your balls.’

  ‘Like what?’

  ‘Anything. Does he talk to anyone? Use a phone? Disappear for ten minutes? Anything at all.’

  TWO WEEKS LATER THERE was something.

  The library was generally quiet before dinner, but Salter cleared it anyway, shooing out the senile wreck who shelved and reshelved books all day long and a guy trying to crack the computer for porn, leaving only Ayliffe and himself. He listened to the kid’s report, clapped him on the back and sent him off to the rec room.

  It was 6.08 now. Salter opened Theories of Communicative Action, removed the iPhone from its hollow and turned it on. Still plenty of charge. Using a paperclip, he removed the sim tray and inserted the sim card, which he’d hidden inside his shirt collar.

  Texted Nick Lazar: Call.

  Lazar would be waiting. The arrangement was, if Salter had any news he’d text in the lead-up to six-thirty chow time. Any later and Lazar would be at work, running crowd control at some club or other.

  The phone vibrated. Salter stood where he could see along the corridor and not be seen by the cameras and said, ‘Yep.’

  Lazar’s voice crackled in Salter’s ear. ‘Something?’

  ‘They were in The Rocks today, stripping old posters or some shit off walls, and Kramer chatted to a guy wheeling a bike. My guy said there was a feeling to it, you know, like it was staged.’

  ‘Ah. Good, good.’

  ‘Who is this guy?’

  ‘Later,’ Lazar said. ‘What did he look like?’

  ‘Like a ponce in lycra and a helmet, messing with the chain on a mountain bike.’

  ‘That it?’

  Salter thought back. ‘Strong, fit. That’s about all.’

  ‘Let me know when they’re going out again and I’ll see if I can spot him.’

  ‘Bit of a long shot, isn’t it, mate? What if it’s just some random—’

  Lazar said, ‘That’s my problem. Your job’s to keep me informed, that’s all,’ and ended the call.

  Salter switched off the phone, tucked it away and returned the sim card to his collar. He was being sidelined, that’s what it boiled down to. He thought he’d play hard to get next time, give a little, take a little, until he had answers. Five thousand bucks was not to be sneezed at, but Nick had come up with it pretty easily. It might turn out to be a drop in the bucket.

  8

  MEANWHILE, WYATT HAD FOUND a new home. He had the paper for half-a-dozen new identities, built up over the years. It was easy for him to move on and settle in a new place under a new name; jettison both and move on again if they were compromised. Walking away from his car and the Coogee flat, as he’d walked away from many possessions in his life, he’d bought a Holden ute, headed south and rented a farmhouse on a hectare of grass and old fruit trees inland of Batemans Bay. He spent a little time shopping at the general store, sinking an afternoon beer at the pub, filling his tank at the Caltex until he was on nodding terms with some of the locals. He added a library card to his wallet, a car wash loyalty card, a
‘fifth pair free’ coupon from the shoe shop. Careful to seem busy in a vague kind of way, but always prepared to smile and lift an eyebrow hello, even stop for a pointless chat. And careful not to attract the wrong kind of attention—he didn’t splash his money around, drive fast, drink too much, allow bills and rent to go unpaid, or encourage anyone who was drunk or lonely. His landlady, an elderly widow, warned him that thieves were known to target properties in the district, but Wyatt had nothing much worth stealing. If he were burgled he’d not report it anyway—he didn’t want elimination prints or DNA to tie him to an old crime. He’d been careful, but you couldn’t be sure there wasn’t a trace of him on some database.

  And if anyone came for him here, he’d simply walk away again. Unless they came in hard and fast enough to leave him no choice.

  Wyatt was a chameleon, socially. In dress, manner, lifestyle and apparent beliefs he appeared amiable, tolerant, low-key. Unremarkable. But in two important respects, he stood out. One, he was tall, lithe, alert, in a land of slow, soft, flabby people. He had a story to explain that. He’d been a military fitness instructor in a previous life; now he was seeing a bit of Australia with a view to settling down, maybe starting a gym. He knew enough about people to know they were obsessed with health and fitness, even as they did nothing about it. His apparent interest in these things didn’t mark him out, it made him as boring as the next guy.

  Two, his face gave people pause. Dark, narrow, slightly hooked and hooded, the olive skin tight over the bones, it was more prohibitive than approachable. When not expressionless, it was unimpressed. Once or twice in his past a woman had slipped under his guard long enough to tell him he ought to lighten up, so he knew he had to work on his face when he was in public. People expected—needed—warmth, acknowledgment, respect: reassurance. If all they got was a pleasantly neutral face, that was okay, too. But they remembered being made to feel unimportant.

  And so Wyatt worked on his facial muscles, and he worked on his looks. Short, neat hair. A tight shave. Plain glasses with heavy rims; a permanent half-smile.