Death by the Book - Lenny Bartulin [69]
‘And why’s that?’
The detective shook his head.
‘Come on,’ said Jack. ‘I’m not the corrupt cop. You tell me.’
‘Don’t think I can’t deliver you with a broken jaw.’ Peterson swung the car left, hard, just missing a huge rock by the edge of the road. Jack fell across the back seat, hit the door with his shoulder.
‘Shouldn’t be so touchy, Detective. The touchy ones never last.’
‘I wouldn’t worry about me if I were you.’
Jack flicked hair out of his eyes, stared at the back of the detective’s head. He was trying to think, tune his thoughts, and got nothing but static.
‘What does he want with me?’
Peterson laughed. He parked the car under a sagging pepper tree that somebody had planted for shade.
‘Your balls is what he wants, Jackie boy. What else?’
The weatherboard cottage was at the top of a long climb of cracked concrete steps: a little hilltop hideaway where Ziggy Brandt liked to bring some of his girlfriends. Or sometimes his business associates — those who needed what Ziggy liked to call convincing. Jack had never been inside, never climbed the steps, was always made to wait down in the car. Looked like he was going to get his opportunity today.
The detective opened the car’s back door and grabbed him by the arm.
‘What’s all this got to do with setting me up with Kasprowicz?’
‘Move.’ Peterson dragged him out of the car and up to the steps. Jack stumbled, his legs wobbly from sitting down. The fresh air was sharp in his nose.
‘You’re going to get into a lot of trouble, Detective,’ he said, trying to believe it.
‘Keep moving.’
They reached the top of thirty steps. Wet, ankle-high grass strapped their shoes as they walked over to another set of steps that led to some decking. Rusty nails creaked in the timber. Peterson held Jack by the arm and pulled open a torn screen door. He pushed a key into the front-door lock and swung it open. A musty smell: dead air and old carpet. The detective shut the door behind them. Jack had the feeling he had just been sealed in a box.
Peterson sat him down in a cane chair. He unlocked the handcuff on Jack’s left hand and clamped it onto the armrest. It was a fairly large L-shaped room with a low ceiling. There was a breakfast bar cordoning off a kitchen area down the shorter length of the L. Orange walls and a thin carpet of pale green. The light fittings were long tubes like cartoon torpedoes, with brass brackets. It reminded Jack of his childhood home. Not that he was comforted.
Detective Geoff Peterson walked over to a window that looked down the way they had come and peered through a crack in its dusty yellow curtain. Then he took his mobile phone out and stared at the screen. He pushed some buttons with his thumb. He brought it to his ear and listened and looked through the curtain again.
‘I like anchovies,’ said Jack. ‘And get some garlic bread.’
The detective ignored him. ‘It’s me,’ he said into the phone. ‘I’m here.’ He frowned as he listened. ‘You think I’ve got all fucking day to hang around?’ He flicked the curtain with a bony forefinger. ‘Well don’t piss about.’ He snapped the mobile shut.
‘You going to tell me what’s going on?’
Peterson stared at Jack, said nothing. He flipped his phone open and dialled another number. He turned to peer through the curtain again. The hard look on his face softened. ‘It’s me … Yeah, I’m down here … Not till later … I know, I know … No, that’s all fine … Okay … Don’t be long, baby.’
The detective smiled and slipped the phone into his pocket. When he noticed Jack looking at him, his face turned into a fresh scowl.
‘I bet she’s a real looker,’ said Jack. ‘What’s the cop discount these days?’
‘You know what, Susko? I’m not going to hit you. I think I’ll shave your head instead.’
‘How long you been working for Ziggy?’
‘You don’t believe me, do you?’
‘Must be nice, the extra money. What am I worth?’
Peterson looked at him smugly. ‘A dollar-fuck-all.’ He glanced through