Only the Dead Read Online Free PDF Page B

today.’
    ‘What was it?’
    ‘Check-up duty on your robbery job.’ He toed the Kipling so its spine sat flush with the Rushdie. ‘This ex-lawyer wanted me to find who did the bank and armoured van thing.’
    ‘Why’d you turn it down?’
    ‘He couldn’t really give a decent reason why I shouldn’t.’
    ‘What’s his name?’
    ‘Alan Rowe. He did criminal defence.’
    ‘Why didn’t you take it?’
    He flicked the neck of his bottle with a fingernail. ‘You know how sometimes you get that feeling that something’s a little off kilter.’
    ‘Uh-huh.’
    ‘Yeah, I got that feeling.’ He sipped. ‘Pity, though. He looked full of loot.’
    Devereaux reached across and cycled the stereo back to ‘Love Sick’. ‘The shooting on January thirty is tied in with the heist stuff,’ he said.
    ‘That a guess, or did someone tell you?’
    ‘It’s a guess. Nobody’s telling me anything.’
    Hale closed his eyes and nodded the opening bars. ‘They’ve kept it pretty quiet,’ he said.
    ‘Yeah.’
    ‘So what happened?’
    ‘I think someone in the know on the robberies went into witness protection, and his friends got wind of it.’
    Hale’s eyes opened. ‘And shot everyone.’
    ‘Yeah — and shot everyone.’
    ‘Who’s running the enquiry?’
    ‘Not me. Lloyd Bowen, and McCarthy. You remember Don McCarthy?’
    Hale nodded. ‘He’s not the sort of character one forgets in a hurry.’
    ‘He’d probably say the same about you.’
    Hale nodded. He had another sip. ‘Yes,’ he said, ‘he probably would. How is old Don these days?’
    ‘Driven and grey-tinted. He’s based out of Auckland Central at the moment.’
    ‘So you get the pleasure of seeing him on a daily basis.’
    ‘I do.’
    Quiet for a moment. Hale said, ‘Are you going to tell Ellen?’
    ‘About the guy I shot?’
    ‘Mmm.’
    ‘I couldn’t get hold of her.’
    Hale said nothing.
    ‘How would you do it?’ Devereaux said.
    Hale thought about it. ‘I probably wouldn’t. But I guess that’s why you have an Ellen, and I don’t.’
    Devereaux said nothing. Hale looked at the ceiling. He said, ‘Would you rather die young and happy at the hand of someone you didn’t know, or old and miserable at the hand of God?’
    ‘I don’t believe in God. You don’t either.’
    ‘I know.’ He held his bottle up and watched the foam tilt back and forth. ‘Still makes me wonder, though.’
    They had another beer. Darkness settling gently, sky quilt-soft behind the glass. Devereaux didn’t depart until after eight. Thestereo was off. He left Hale alone in the office. The doorway framed a nice shot of quiet musing: feet on the desk, ankles crossed, toes swaying to some remembered tune.
    He sat in the car and smoked a cigarette, window cracked to vent fumes. To his left a narrow alleyway formed a cut between buildings, restaurant patrons seated at a scatter of outdoor tables. Laughter and the smell of high-priced food. That weird juxtaposition of his own dark dilemmas against the merry good life. He found his cellphone and called Lloyd Bowen.
    ‘Sergeant. Be brief, I’m on a tight schedule.’
    ‘How is he?’
    Bowen caught the meaning: is my victim still alive ? ‘He’s still got breath in his lungs, but he’s not in great shape. He’s had surgery to remove the bullets, but he’s still unconscious.’
    ‘I want to see him.’
    ‘I’m sorry?’
    ‘I want to see him.’
    ‘Out of the question, sergeant. It’s too apologetic. It’s an admission of liability. We can’t have people thinking you did something wrong.’
    ‘So you think I acted appropriately?’
    He heard a door slam: maybe Bowen dodging eavesdroppers. ‘No, I think this whole thing has been one major fuck-up. But we can’t have the general public knowing that.’
    Devereaux didn’t answer.
    Bowen said, ‘I don’t want you near the guy, so do yourself a favour and stay at home. We’ll be seeing you tomorrow.’ He paused. ‘Have your story