Dark City Blue: A Tom Bishop Rampage (12 page)

Ellison’s fingers attacked the keyboard and cross-checked every name Domino had written on the back of the fuel receipt in his childlike handwriting.

When she was finished she leant back in her chair and looked to Bishop. ‘It checks out. All the girls had one thing in common: their counsel was James Jenkins.’

Bishop stood up and paced a couple of steps through the empty office. His mind raced with a thousand ways this could go wrong.

Ellison stood, stretched out her legs and leant against the desk. ‘So, what do we do?’

Bishop gathered the files and they headed upstairs to the eleventh floor.

Patrick Wilson’s office was a mess of manila folders stacked waist high and boxes of three-day-old Chinese takeway that was about to turn.

He pointed at the folders under Bishop’s arm. ‘You better not be leaving those fucking things in here.’

‘I wouldn't want to mess the place up.’

‘I don’t want to be hearing anything out of your mouth about no whorehouse conspiracy, you hear me?’

Bishop stepped forward. ‘I’ve got something you should see.’

Wilson threw up his hands. ‘I’m begging you. I’m fucking begging you, Bishop. Please, tell me you’ve walked in with a kiddie porn beef or something, because I can’t hear any more about this obsession of yours.’

There was no warming up to it, so Bishop didn’t bother. ‘There’s more to it than what we wrote up.’

Wilson’s face dropped. ‘Why do you give a fuck? It’s closed. And you’ve got plenty of others to keep you busy.’

‘There’s no way those imports could’ve run a set-up like that, not a chance in hell and you know it. It was too well organised.’

‘It’s finished. Forget it.’

‘If it’s finished then who’s Justice?’

‘A bloody myth, that’s who.’

‘Just have a look at what we’ve found.’

Wilson shot a glance at Ellison. ‘He’s got you in on this as well?’

She avoided the question with a shrug.

He turned back to Bishop. ‘Don’t you dare try to bring this case back from the dead. Look around.’ He motioned to the stacks of folders surrounding them. ‘Every one of these is some horrible piece of shit that’s in need of clearing. I can’t have you bringing back some old, already-solved shit and making it unsolvable.’

Bishop nodded to the folders under his arm. ‘Just have a look,’ he said. ‘If you think it adds up to nothing, you won’t hear another word about it.’

‘Never?’

‘Not a syllable.’

Wilson sat down and for the next fifteen minutes didn’t say a word. All he did was watch and listen as Bishop told him everything. From Two Dog to Domino, to the prostitutes, Judge Jenkins and back down again. When he was finished, Bishop was out of breath and covered in sweat. He lit a cigarette, pulled back and waited for Wilson’s response.

Eventually he spoke and when he did it was to Ellison. ‘Where do you stand on this?’

‘I think we should forget all about it.’

Wilson turned to Bishop. ‘You should listen to your partner.’

‘Thirty girls are probably dead by now. Surely—’

‘Even if you’re near anything resembling the truth, and I don’t think you are, you can’t go after a judge.’

‘Why?’

‘You’ve got no evidence. All you’ve got is a couple of dead girls, maybe. Go down to Homicide and see how many decomps they’re dealing with. Besides Chloe Richards, you don’t even have bodies, for Christ’s sake. Just disappearances. You go at Jenkins with this weak shit and he’ll put you to sleep.’ He pointed a yellowed finger. ‘Be smart and don’t fuck around.’

‘And if I get more evidence?’

‘There is no more evidence. This is a coincidence. Do you know how many criminals there are? They have to be represented by somebody. You’re grasping at goddamn fairies in the air, Tom. And you know what? Fairies don’t fuckin’ exist.’

‘What if I—?’

‘Jesus fucking Christ. I feel like I’m talking to myself here.’ Wilson let out a long sigh. ‘I’m asking you as a friend not to go after this judge, and I’m telling you as chief inspector: don’t go after this judge.’

They parked outside Dorsey and waited. A tram rattled down Spring Street, blocking his view, but once it passed, Bishop’s gaze settled back on the art deco building. All the stations programmed on Alice’s radio played songs he didn’t recognise and were giving him a headache so he turned it off.

‘This is a bad, bad idea,’ Ellison said. ‘I’m going to go home, drink a bottle of wine and forget about everything. I think you should do the same.’

Bishop hardly noticed when she climbed out and slammed the door.

The Dorsey was filled with some of the most powerful people in the city. Bishop counted three politicians, two CEOs, and one Judge James Jenkins sitting in a booth against the black velvet-draped wall.

As Bishop entered, the maître d sized him up in his jeans and leather and held up a bony hand. ‘Sir, I’m sorry. It’s going to be a forty-five-minute wait.’

Bishop shut him up with a flash of his shield and stepped into the dining room. Somewhere a violin sent soft notes floating over the chatter of the city’s elite, all of whom fell silent as Bishop made his way between the tables. Judge Jenkins was a big man who had let himself go, but Bishop doubted the extra weight had slowed him down any. He took his time lifting his gaze from his glass of port. Despite his title and stature, he was one of the few men of power to hardly ever wear a tie, only expensive shirts from London and even more expensive suits from Milan. Both made him look ten years younger, but Bishop could see the age in his eyes. ‘Can I help you, son?’

Bishop paused. He thought about everything Wilson had told him. He thought about the word of an ex-pimp, ex-con. He thought about the lack of evidence. For a moment, he even thought about his career. Then he thought about Chloe Richards and his mind was made up.

He held out his badge. ‘I’m Detective Bishop. I need you to come with me and answer some questions, sir.’

A smile grew in the corners of the judge’s mouth. ‘Is that so?’

‘Yes, sir, it is.’

The judge leant back and turned his attention to the woman sitting across from him. At first, Bishop hadn’t recognised her out of her usual surroundings. But Commissioner Mackler looked at him with the same bemused expression as the judge.

She said quietly, ‘I think you might want to turn around and walk out of here, detective.’

‘Judge Jenkins is wanted for questioning over the suspected deaths of as many as thirty under-age sex workers.’

Mackler was mortified. Not at the charge, but that it was being made at all. ‘Really?’

‘Yes ma’am.’

‘Go home, detective.’

‘I can’t do that. If I’m wrong than nobody has anything to worry about.’

‘Nobody except you,’ Mackler said. ‘This couldn’t have waited until the morning?’

‘Why should it?’

Jenkins hadn’t even broken a sweat. ‘You sure you want to start this? I’ve danced with a lot tougher than you.’

‘I’d prefer not to have to cuff you, Judge, but either way I need you to come with me.’

Jenkins finished his port. ‘I hope you’ve lived a good life, sunshine, because now it’s over.’

Just for that, Bishop walked him out of the restaurant in cuffs.

All eyes were on them.

Word spread quickly, and cops from other departments had hurried over to watch. When they stopped at the charge desk, the judge stood tall, pushed his shoulders back and held his chin high. Bishop could hear the sound of the pen dragging across the paper as he signed in. They made it halfway to the interview rooms before the silence was broken by the slamming of a door and footsteps behind them. Bishop threw a look over his shoulder. It was Wilson.

Bishop motioned to a uniform. ‘Put him in Interview One.’

The uniform led Jenkins away. Wilson grabbed Bishop’s arm.

‘What the fuck are you doing?’ he hissed under his breath.

‘My job, Pat.’

‘You’ll have no job after this.’

‘He’s mine for twelve hours; after that, we’ll see.’

Wilson glanced at the clock on the wall: 10:06 PM.

‘I can guarantee one thing,’ he said. ‘In twelve hours, one of you is going in a cell.’

The observation room was filled with uniforms and detectives, all on their toes and peering over each other’s shoulders for a glimpse at the monitor, although when Wilson walked in, the sea of blue parted to give him the best seat in the house. A cigarette was jammed into the corner of his mouth; after three or four cracks at trying to light it, he gave up and threw the lighter against the wall. A uniform whose body hadn’t yet grown into his ears offered him a light. Wilson pulled half the cigarette into his lungs and watched the monitor.

Judge Jenkins waited quietly in the interview room. He hadn’t moved since he was seated, and stared blankly at the pale wall in front of him. The room itself was nothing special: four by eight with a tired fluorescent light, a couple of chairs and a table, the top of which was faded on one side from too many suspects leaning their elbows on it. Jenkins didn’t lean. He sat erect, his mind alert. Bishop kept him waiting for twenty minutes before he entered the room, but, when he did, Jenkins didn’t even raise a glance. Bishop sat, carefully laid his folders on the table and stared across the three feet of fake wood between them.

He read Jenkins his rights, asked if he understood them. The judge nodded, smiled.

‘So, what is it you want to know, detective?’

‘Why did you kill Chloe Richards?’

‘You don’t warm up to it, do you?’

‘You want a lawyer?’

‘No, I’ve been doing this long enough.’

‘You have, you have.’ Bishop glanced at the outdated camera in the corner of the room. He wondered how many people were watching in the observation room. ‘I feel like a coffee; you want a coffee?’

Jenkins shook his heavy head.

‘Suit yourself.’ Tipping back in his chair, Bishop banged on the door and called for a coffee. Then he let himself fall forward, the front legs of the chair slamming onto the concrete floor.

Bishop leant in close and spoke as if he didn’t want anybody to hear. ‘The way I see it, you’re already in a cell. This and everything that’s going to follow, it’s all just protocol. You know how I know?’

‘Dazzle me.’

‘I’m talking about Chloe Richards and you haven’t even asked who she is.’

After a couple of knocks, the door swung open. A uniform placed a cup of coffee on the table and left.

Bishop raised the cup to his lips. ‘You sure you don’t want one?’

He took a sip and enjoyed it.

‘Justice.’

Jenkins didn’t budge. Not even a muscle.

‘That’s what they call you, isn’t it? Justice?’ Bishop let the word hang for a moment. ‘I know about you poaching girls.’

Jenkins smiled. ‘Alright,’ he said as if now understanding the game they were playing.

‘I get it. Trust me, I get it. You keep them out of jail, give them a second chance and, time and time again, what do they do? Run straight back to the streets. They’re doing it anyway; why shouldn’t you make some coin off it? What I don’t understand is, why kill Chloe Richards?’ Bishop stared at the wall, at nothing in particular. ‘It just doesn’t make sense: why did she have to die?’ Then he focused his stare on Jenkins. ‘It plays on my mind, you know.’

‘I really couldn’t say. But I can tell you why you want to know.’

‘Please.’

‘You want to know
why
because you haven’t any evidence. Without motive, there’s no case at all.’

‘You were there the night of the bust. You killed Chloe Richards.’ Bishop pointed to the door. ‘And some scumbag cop smuggled you out. I know that much.’

‘You don’t know anything, son.’

‘It’s Detective.’

‘Not after this.’

Bishop smiled, lit a cigarette, hoping his frustration didn’t show. He held out the pack to the judge.

‘No, thank you,’ Jenkins said. ‘I’m more than happy just to sit here and watch you fuck yourself.’

‘She was your client back when you were a lawyer.’

‘I don’t remember the poor girl, and I don’t know how anyone could entertain the idea that I’m involved in running a brothel.’

‘It’s not as entertaining as the idea of you in a jail cell, but we’ll get to that. How do you explain it? All the girls were represented by you.’

‘What of it? I’ve represented a lot of criminals, and a lot more have stood before me.’

When Bishop leant forward his shirt stuck to him with a layer of sweat in between. ‘Stand before you?’ he said. ‘Justice. Justice. Justice. That’s how you like to see yourself, isn’t it? Justice of the Peace. The keeper of the peace. But there’s a world of difference between justice and the law, isn’t there?’

‘Not in my eyes.’

‘No. They’re two different things. Sometimes something lawful isn’t just. Laws change all the time but justice stays the same. The law doesn’t always work.’

‘It works well enough.’

‘But not good enough.’ Bishop said. ‘What happened to your daughter?’

‘You’ve got the file.’

‘I just want to hear your version of it.’

‘Same as the file.’

Bishop opened the folder in front of him. ‘She ran away when she was fourteen. A year later she was found dead in a gutter: dumped, raped, stabbed. Ds couldn’t find shit. Said it was probably a john, and the photos, fuck.’ Bishop dumped photographs of a beaten and bloody mess onto the table.

Jenkins looked away. ‘I’ve seen them.’

‘Stabbed here, here and here,’ Bishop said, thumping his chest in three different spots. ‘Same as Chloe Richards.’

There was a knock at the door; a moment later, a uniform poked his head through.

‘What?’

By the look on the uniform’s face, it was important. Bishop stepped out into the hall and waited for the door to close before either of them spoke.

Bishop got in first. ‘What?’

The uniform looked sheepish. ‘Your daughter called. She’s going into labour.’

‘Is she alright?’

‘I think so. I mean, I don’t know …’

Bishop leant against the wall and rubbed his tired face. The sweat had soaked through his shirt and was turning cold. He was tired, spent and the uniform could see he was trying to adjust to life outside the box and away from Jenkins, Chloe Richards and other horrible things.

‘She sounded okay,’ the uniform offered helpfully. ‘She’s on her way to the hospital.’

‘How’s she getting there?’

‘Driving, I think she said.’

‘Herself?’

‘My sister, when she had her kid, she drove herself.’ From the look on his face, the uniform could tell that Bishop didn’t give a shit about his sister. ‘You want me to call a car?’

Bishop looked at his watch, at the door to the interview room. Having already made his decision, he just couldn’t bring himself to look the uniform in the eye.

‘No,’ he said quietly. ‘It doesn’t matter.’