Limbo (7 page)

‘You tracked me down to live vicariously, Bill?’

He grunted as he lounged his big body on the nearby wall. ‘Don’t
ever
bring your waste of time crap into my house again, Dent, no matter how cute her ass is.’

‘She had information on a current investigation into a missing child. You think I should have sat on it?’

‘We already have a suspect.’

Dash gave a harsh laugh. ‘Well, I’m sure you do, Bill. But do you have the murderer?’

He shot Dash that snake-charmer smile. ‘We’re confident.’

‘Let me guess. You’re gunning for the husband right?’

‘He’s the obvious choice. Nine times out of ten it
is
the husband, I don’t have to tell you that. Not to mention they were heard arguing the night she disappeared and she has a huge insurance policy.’

Dash knew that Rasmussen was right. Most of the time you wanted to find a killer you looked to the victim’s nearest and dearest. And there was obviously circumstantial evidence against Martin Richardson. But he also
knew
Bill Rasmussen.

To many he was a respected cop that got the job done. His success rate
was
phenomenal. But it was how Bill got the job done that concerned Dash. Bill had always been more interested in making an arrest instead of making the
right
arrest.

‘Yes, but do you have anything other than hearsay and circumstantial evidence?’

Bill’s squinty eyes narrowed to thin slits as the barb found its mark. ‘The investigation is ongoing. Now we have a body and an autopsy to work with we’ll be able to piece it together a bit more.’

‘How far away are you from making an arrest?’

‘That is none of your goddamn business anymore, is it?’

Dash knew he’d been pushing his luck and Bill was certainly enjoying himself, but he also knew that Rasmussen’s buttons were easily pushed. Especially where Dash was concerned. ‘So you got nothing then?’

Rasmussen’s eyes glittered. ‘We’re probably a day or two away.’

‘And what about the daughter?’

‘Oh come on — P.I. work sending you soft? You really think the kid’s still alive? You believe in ghosts now too?’

‘What possible motive would Martin have to kill his baby girl? You’re reaching, Bill,’ Dash goaded.

The glitter turned feral. ‘Hailey had a million-dollar insurance policy. That kind of money can make people do crazy things, Dent. It’s always about the money. As I’m sure your little psychic friend already knows.’

Dash clenched his fists by his side. He wouldn’t give Bill Rasmussen the satisfaction of knowing his barb had found its mark. ‘I think you should stop judging other people by your standards.’

Rasmussen pushed off the wall and drew himself up to his full height. He towered over Dash, and Dash was not a short man. Not that Dash felt threatened in any way. Bill Rasmussen had already done his worst. The only other thing he could do now was have Dash killed and even though Rasmussen was more than capable of ordering a hit, he wasn’t a stupid man.

He had to know Dash would have that eventuality covered. That he’d have an insurance policy against his sudden unexpected death or disappearance that would trigger a shit storm, and Rasmussen would not want to be at the centre of it.

Because he sure as shit did.

Dash was still connected enough to see that questions would be asked, cases would be opened. Questions and cases no-one was interested in or knew about with Dash alive and well.

And Bill Rasmussen knew that.

Bill was old school. As his C.O. through most of Dash’s career, Rasmussen had taught Dash to keep his friends close and his enemies even closer.

Good advice, as it turned out.

Bill Rasmussen’s career, his freedom, depended on keeping Dash alive and hoping to god Dash never found the proof he needed to throw the old bastard into jail for the term of his natural life.

‘Stay away from this case or I will have you arrested for impeding a police investigation.’

Dash reached over and jabbed the lift button. It dinged almost immediately and the doors started to open. He looked into Rasmussen’s stony gaze. ‘You
investigate
it properly and you’ve got nothing to fear from me.’

Then he stalked into the lift and pushed the button for the ground floor. Neither of them bade the other goodbye as the doors closed.

***

‘Everything okay?’ Joy asked as Dash practically strode right past her. He looked pretty ticked, which ratcheted up his usual grim to a whole other level.

‘Fine,’ he nodded. ‘Just Rasmussen throwing his weight around. Doing what he does best.’

‘What’s that?’

‘Being an intimidating asshole.’

Joy absorbed that as Dash set a punishing pace along the pavement. Her short legs struggled to keep pace.

‘Did you know there was a reward?’ she asked.

‘I’d forgotten but I remembered when Baz said it, yeah. It’s quite common in cases like this.’

‘I didn’t know,’ she said. The fact that Baz freaking Norman didn’t believe her was neither here nor there — cops, she’d found, tended to believe the worst of everyone. But Joy really needed Dash to believe her.

‘I really didn’t know,’ she repeated when he didn’t answer.

‘I believe you,’ he threw over his shoulder.

Joy watched his back, really hoping so. He’d sounded genuine enough but Dash had once been a cop too so there had to be a lot of pre-conditioning going on inside his head.

‘So what happens now?’ she asked, deciding to take him on face value and let it drop.

‘Don’t you have to go to work?’

‘In an hour. Why, do you want me to try and convene with Hailey again too? Should I take my ouija board?’

Dash stopped abruptly. ‘You have a ouija board?’

‘I have dozens of the bastards. What else do you get a kid who lives in a funeral home as a birthday present?’

‘A Barbie doll?’

She blanched. ‘Do I
look
like a Barbie kind of girl to you?’

He looked her up and down, his gaze resting on her pink fringe, then shook his head. ‘Nope,’ he agreed, and resumed his breakneck speed.

Joy wasn’t sure whether to be insulted or not. Okay, she’d never been a girly girl and a relationship with a divorced, single-father was not on her agenda —
ever
— but that disparaging up and down he’d just given her had left her feeling about as attractive as a migraine.

He hadn’t objected to her non-Barbiness three years ago.

Joy caught him up. What he thought of her femininity or lack of it didn’t matter in the grand scheme of things. For whatever reason Hailey had chosen
her
to do something about her missing daughter. And that’s all that mattered.

‘Isabella Richardson is out there somewhere.’

He looked down to her. ‘You really believe that?’

‘
She
believed it.
Really
believed it. You should have seen her Dash. How…distressed she was. So…yeah…I believe her.’

‘Are you sure the kid’s not in any danger?’

Joy shrugged. ‘Hailey was sure. She said
they
loved her.’

‘Well, we’ll give it a few days. We’ll see what shakes down. I’ll ring Baz on Tuesday if we don’t hear anything.’

‘Thank you.’

He didn’t bother to acknowledge her thanks, just kept walking. In silence. Joy was okay with silence. More than okay obviously — she worked with dead people. But she’d found out something rather startling about Dash today and had been unable to think of little else. They were a couple of minutes away from his place when she couldn’t not ask any longer.

‘So…are you?’

He didn’t say anything for long moments. He didn’t look at her, and he didn’t look away. He just kept walking. ‘Corrupt?’ he asked eventually.

‘Yes.’

‘I was set up.’

Joy nodded. ‘Isn’t that what they all say?’

‘Yep. It is.’

‘But you were?’

‘Yep.’

‘What kind of corruption?’

‘Taking bribes.’

‘Did you?’

Dash snorted. ‘I never even took a free burger from McDonald’s.’

‘But there must have been evidence, right?’

‘Oh, there was a shitload of
evidence
. Times, dates, drug dealers, pimps, crime bosses, money in brown paper bags, a secret locker so secret I didn’t even know about it. But if I went quietly I’d avoid a prison sentence.’

‘Do you know who set you up?’

‘Yes.’

‘Who?’

‘Rasmussen.’

Joy sucked in a breath.
Rasmussen?
That mean-looking bastard? A fellow cop?
Fuck.
And she thought the music industry was cutthroat.

‘But…why?’

Joy’s mind boggled. Sure, she’d seen it in the movies and on the TV but this wasn’t Hollywood.

‘Let’s just say, I know things about him that made it hazardous to my career.’

‘Such as?’

‘Things I can’t prove — yet. Things,’ he said looking down at her, ‘you’re safer not knowing.’

Joy stopped. ‘Are you in danger?’ Rasmussen had certainly given off an evil vibe.

‘Nah,’ he said, walking ahead, his gait loose and relaxed. ‘We have what you call an armed truce. But one day the right piece of evidence is going to drop into my lap and then all bets are off.’

‘Tough guy, huh?’ Joy said catching him up.

He chuckled. ‘Nope. Just righting a wrong.’

‘Ah. A superhero. Fighting for truth, justice and the Australian way?’

His laughter deepened. ‘Yep, just call me Superman.’

Joy rolled her eyes. Dash Dent was more Dirty Harry than Clark Kent. ‘Just keep your jocks on the inside, okay?’

He raised his eyebrow at her. ‘What makes you think I’m
wearing
jocks?’

‘Ooookay,’ she said as she stopped on the corner of his street. ‘I’m going to work, now.’

Joy didn’t want to think about what Dash may or may not have on under his jeans. She already knew more than enough about that area of his body, and even three years and one seriously hot, fucked-up relationship later she still remembered how impressive it was. For an old dude.

He chuckled as he halted too and looked down at her, his dimples on full display, his uneven top lip giving his smile an endearing crookedness. ‘Try not to see any dead people today, okay?’

‘I’ll try.’ And then because she
really
needed him to know she said, ‘I
didn’t
know about the reward.’

He nodded, suddenly serious again. ‘I know. I
believe
you.’

A weight lifted off her shoulders at the sincerity of his reply. ‘Thank you.’

‘And I didn’t take any bribes.’

‘I know.’

Because she did. She might have wondered earlier but standing here, looking up at him now, she didn’t. And it wasn’t some kind of a quid pro quo thing. Her gut was telling her that Dash Dent was one of the good guys.

And her gut was seldom wrong.

Except when it came to skinny rocker types.

It was another cold morning on Wednesday as Joy walked to the bus stop. Who needed the luxury of a warm car when the number twenty-six bus dropped her practically at Brentwood’s front door?

Not that she afford to buy
or
run a car anyway.

She was still a good block away from her destination when she saw a huge noticeboard for the first time. Given that it stood several metres high, it was hard to miss. It seemed to be rising up from the grounds of the old church and it definitely hadn’t been there yesterday.

There was a message in bold black letters that someone had taken the time to crawl up a very high ladder and post and she huffed out an annoyed breath that misted in the cold morning air. She hated those sanctimonious messages.

So cutesy.

Things like,
Sin
—
the original smoke detector
. Or,
A good place for the buck to stop is the collection plate
. Or worse,
Easter should satisfy your soul, not just your sweet tooth.

Blah, blah, blah.

Like a text. A tweet.
From God.
Your moral lesson for the day in one hundred and forty characters or less. Blech!

She squinted to read it despite her annoyance. That was the thing with those messages. You couldn’t
not
read the bastards. Even if it was only to be outraged at their content.

Joy blinked as the three words became clearer.
Who’s Your Daddy?
She blinked again and then she laughed. Out loud. A guy in a suit walking past gave her a startled look but she couldn’t help herself. Who’s your daddy?
That
she hadn’t been expecting. Clearly someone had a sense of humour. It was a nice change from the usual sermon in a sentence.

Something even more bizarre happened as she approached the church. The full throaty throb of a familiar electric guitar solo blasted out of the open doors, stopping her in her tracks. As a muso she appreciated the roaring opening riff of ‘Highway To Hell’ as only a diehard AC/DC fan could. She just hadn’t expected to hear it emanating from a
church.

If this was a call to worship, it was unusual one.

Joy walked past the gothic old church most days. It had been deserted and neglected, boarded up for many years and on the market for the last few months. The ‘For Sale’ sign had come down a couple of weeks ago and there had been activity around it in the last few days but now it appeared to be open for business.

Or, confusingly, as the devil’s music continued to play, just become a portal to hell.

Joy had figured with all the recent comings and goings that the church was going to be knocked down or converted into swanky apartments. It did, after all, straddle the divide between the yuppie end of the Basin and the dodgy end and, as such, was prime real estate.

But apparently not.

According to the newly erected sign standing proudly on the newly clipped lawn near the broad sweep of five stone stairs that lead inside, it was
The Good Shepherd Chapel.

Multi-denominational. All welcome.

Before she’d given it any thought, the hiss of the electric guitar had drawn Joy in the front gate and up the path. Although to be fair, the building had always drawn her. She’d just never had access to it before.