Trick Shot: an absolutely gripping mystery and suspense thriller (The Fighting Detective Book 3) Read online

  Blair Denholm

  Trick Shot

  Copyright © 2021 by Blair Denholm

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, scanning, or otherwise without written permission from the publisher. It is illegal to copy this book, post it to a website, or distribute it by any other means without permission.

  First edition

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  Contents

  Acknowledgement

  Readers’ Group and Free Book

  Books by Blair Denholm

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Books by Blair Denholm

  Readers’ Group and Free Book

  About the Author

  Acknowledgement

  A huge thanks to everyone who helped me produce this novel, the third in The Fighting Detective series. Props to all my advance readers, Don and Jiver for spotting the typos that elude me, and my growing band of Jack Lisbon fans. And always, to Sandra.

  Readers’ Group and Free Book

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  “Hands in the air! Nobody move!” When a pair of crazed gunmen take a bank full of hostages, off-duty cop Jack Lisbon finds himself caught up in a terrifying siege. Pulp Fiction meets Dog Day Afternoon.

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  Books by Blair Denholm

  The Fighting Detective Series

  Fighting Dirty (prequel - FREE on Amazon)

  Kill Shot (Book 1)

  Shot Clock (Book 2)

  Trick Shot (Book 3)

  The Russian Detective Series

  Revolution Day (Book 1) – coming soon

  Game Changer Series

  SOLD (Book 1)

  Sold to the Devil (Book 2)

  Chapter 1

  How had he ended up here, sitting on the cold floor of his own kitchen, a throbbing neckache and legs splayed out in front of him? It was absurd.

  Then came a flicker of memory. A tap on the door, a late-night visitor.

  He remembered a conversation that rapidly descended into a slanging match. Insults, pushing, poking, prodding.

  He must have lost his balance, slipped on the tiles. He blinked hard, the scene before him wobbled like a mirage. He reached behind his head, grabbed the handle of a drawer, tried to pull himself up. The effort was excruciating. He got halfway there, buckled at the knees. Heart pounding, he regripped with shaky fingers, pulled himself to an unsteady standing position.

  He reached behind his head and rubbed the back of his neck. Had he collected the edge of the bench on the way down? He ratcheted his head up from his chest, click-click-click went his neck bones. He squinted, tried to focus, but the room swam before his eyes. Was that a table, a chair? And that…what the fuck is that?

  Christ, the man’s still here, breathing in and out like a bellows. Blazing red eyes glared. The figure shuffled forward until it was inches away. Spittle formed on his lips and the corners of his mouth. The man’s fists hung low, clenched by his sides, his chest puffed out.

  ‘Wait!’ And then it came back, he remembered the cause of the argument. Shit, shit, shit. This was bad, real bad. ‘I promised to do as you asked. Enough now, mate.’

  ‘I’ll say when it’s enough. I’m not done with you yet, you son of a bitch.’

  ‘Listen.’ The man clearly wasn’t planning to end the encounter with words. Stall, negotiate a way out. ‘How about a drink?’

  ‘Fuck you.’ A hand darted out, squeezed a pressure point on the collarbone. Like the bite of a high-voltage taser, it sent him crumpling to his knees again.

  ‘What else could you possibly want?’ he whimpered.

  ‘This for a start.’ The man lunged at the silver chain. No, you’re not having that! He parried with his left hand, grabbed the man’s wrist as it made a second attempt to seize the necklace.

  So much for defusing the situation. He’d only managed to infuriate the man. A forearm quickly reached behind his neck and deployed a crushing headlock. A bolt of pain arced along his spinal cord as the man hoisted him up. A vicious double knee to the groin followed. He let out a strangled wail, his mouth pressed tighter against the man’s ribcage as the restraining hold intensified. Do something now or he’ll kill you!

  His hand flailed behind his back, patted the bench top. An object to use as a weapon, a knife would be perfect, but anything solid would do. Fingers twitching, he located the handle of the glass coffee pot. Yes. He grasped the handle tight, swung blindly over his right shoulder.

  The man let go and screamed at the same time. ‘You bastard, you’ve cut me!’

  Escape, run to the basement, bolt the door. He had his mobile in his pocket, he’d call the police, file charges. Fuck him and his threats. Tiny shards of glass crunched under his flip-flops as he staggered out and headed down the corridor. The man was only two metres behind, lumbering and yelling. ‘You cut me, you cut me!’

  A wonder the dog hadn’t started barking. Why did he put her outside? She could be defending him right now. Get to the basement.

  ‘You coward!’ the man screamed. ‘Get back here.’

  He flew down the stairs, heart beating out of his chest. The man was gaining ground with every step. At the bottom now, turn the handle, open and in. Shove with your shoulder, close the steel door and lock it.

  No! The man’s foot was wedged in the door. He shoved back, but the man was pushing too. Resistance was futile, the man was too strong. He fell backwards, sprawled on the ground as the man clanked the door shut, turned to face him.

  ‘Listen!’ he cried. ‘I-I-I know we can work this out.’

  The man said nothing, grabbed him by the collar and dragged him across the carpet tiles, past the pool table towards the bar. He kicked his feet wildly, tried to free himself from the man’s grip, grabbed at the thick legs of the pool table. Useless, ineffectual efforts. It was like the visitor was possessed of some unearthly strength.

  The man wasn’t getting the locket, though. He tore it from its chain and stashed the memento deep inside his pants pocket.

  Looking down, the enraged man breathed like a steam-train, mumbled something under his breath.

  Why are you doing this now? Is it drugs? he wanted to ask the man, but no words came out.

  A boot crashed into his ribcage. Then another brutal kick. He tucked a hand deep into his pocket, curled fingers as tightly as he could around the locket. He closed his eyes tight and prayed to God. Pleas
e make it stop. I promise to do what he told me.

  God wasn’t listening. Then came the worst pain he’d ever felt, like a drill boring a hole through the top of his skull.

  A dark fog descended and drew his eyelids closed. The pain was gone. God had come to the rescue.

  Forever and ever.

  Amen.

  Chapter 2

  ‘Got all those files in order yet, Constable Wilson?’ barked Detective Sergeant Jack Lisbon of the Yorkville Criminal Investigation Branch.

  ‘Sorry, sir?’ The uniformed officer straightened, his hands recoiling from the edge of his superior’s desk.

  ‘I said, have you sorted my case files into order?’ Jack arched his back as he spoke, pushed a fist into the lower part of his spine. The boxing session at McGrath’s gym last night proved much harder than he’d expected. His sparring partner was Jordan Batista, son of Yorkville Police’s boss, Inspector Joe Batista. Now Jack was paying the price for taking the kid lightly. Jordan, newly signed swing forward for the Yorkville Scorpions Basketball franchise, had landed nearly as many punches as he’d worn during a fifteen-minute sparring session. The height difference meant Jack had to constantly look up at the taller man. Muscles in his shoulders and neck screamed for a vigorous massage, his ribs ached where Jordan had landed half a dozen telling rips.

  ‘What kind of order?’ Wilson stared at the jumble of folders and papers almost completely obscuring the desktop.

  The lad was too literal. Couldn’t tell when Jack was taking the mickey out of him. ‘Any effing order you like, sunshine, I don’t care. I’m off to London tomorrow to visit my daughter.’ He hadn’t seen Skye in four years, not counting online chats and telephone facetime. The only downside of the trip, he’d have to deal with Sarah, his volatile ex-wife. Every silver lining has a cloud.

  ‘I don’t want to be rude, DS Lisbon, but–’

  ‘Listen, Wilson. I’m only going to be gone for three weeks. What you see here on my desk, well, it’s a mess and I ain’t too proud of it.’ Jack tapped the constable smack in the middle of his name badge. ‘But I know you’ve got this analytical mind. I’ve seen you smash out those Sudoku puzzles quicker than I can land a combination punch.’ Jack shadow-boxed a jab-cross-hook-cross medley around the man’s ears.

  ‘Oi!’ Wilson staggered backwards before recovering his balance. ‘Careful, sir.’

  ‘Keep your dukes up when someone comes at you.’ Jack grinned, holstered his fists in his trouser pockets. ‘A good cop’s gotta be alert for trouble at all times.’

  Detective Constable Claudia Taylor put down a psychological profile report she’d spent the entire morning trying to decipher. ‘Stop it, Jack.’ She failed to repress a smile. ‘He’s got his work cut out for him sorting your chaos. You cause a workplace injury on the eve of your trip and Batista won’t let you go.’

  ‘It’s OK,’ Wilson laughed. ‘I’m getting used to DS Lisbon’s antics.’

  ‘Seriously though, sunshine,’ said Jack. ‘You’ll be OK. There’s not much happening in the old town at the moment. What you see before you,’ an expansive wave of the hand, ‘needs to be cross-referenced with the computer files. It’s mainly minor stuff, complaints about noisy parties, unfenced dogs on the loose, traffic infringements, that kind of thing.’

  ‘Detectives don’t issue traffic notices.’ Wilson’s eyebrows bobbed up and down.

  ‘Not as a rule, Ben, no’ said Taylor. ‘But if we see a car speeding we aren’t just going to watch it disappear around the corner. We’ve got the same powers as uniformed police.`’

  ‘Yeah, I know that.’ Wilson, chastened, dropped his gaze.

  ‘See, Claudia. The lad’s got this thing covered.’ Jack walked towards the water cooler, fat bubbles rose and popped as he filled a plastic cup. ‘With his grasp of the bleedin’ obvious, I’m completely confident in his abilities to assist in my absence.’

  ‘Don’t listen to him, Ben,’ said Taylor, shaking her head. ‘With the DS out of the office for three weeks, we might even make a dent in the backlog. Jack prefers the limelight of sensational crimes. Humble burglary victims get pushed to the back of the queue.’

  ‘Leave off, Claudia. I don’t make those decisions. Batista tells us what cases to work.’

  ‘Sure he does.’ She readjusted her scrunchie with a deft twist, picked up the file and went back to studying its contents.

  Jack knew he was being disingenuous. Batista had rewarded the DS’s victories in recent high-profile cases with more autonomy. Yorkville’s crime rates were low compared to the state average, so most detective work revolved around routine matters. Break and enters, car theft, drunk and disorderly, petty drug offences. Uniforms were quite capable of handling the bulk of that stuff. But when the occasional serious crime demanded a different skill set, only Lisbon and Taylor could get the job done. For Jack’s brief sojourn back in the Old Dart, Batista decreed Wilson was now experienced enough to help Taylor with any investigations and, in the quieter moments, restore order to Jack’s chaotic filing “system”.

  ‘Come on, DS Lisbon,’ Wilson implored. ‘Where do I start with this…stuff?’

  Classic 80s punk music split the air. “London Calling” by the Clash was Jack’s ring tone. The other officers at Yorkville CIB hated it. Jack didn’t give a monkey’s. Nevertheless, a vote was held and the majority pleaded he change it to something else. As someone who respects the democratic process, he did change it. To Rick Astley’s “Never Gonna Give You Up”. The officers quickly demanded he change it back again.

  Jack held up an index finger to end the conversation in the office. ‘Yeah, wot?’

  ‘Ray Hook.’ It was the Assistant Commissioner of Police for Far North Queensland. Another rung above Batista in the Queensland Police Service hierarchy. A framed certificate bearing Hook’s signature hung on the wall beside Jack’s corner desk. In recognition of the detective’s sterling work in collaring the killer of an MMA trainer and two pro fighters. Unfortunately, the one and only meeting between Jack and Hook had ended acrimoniously. At the award ceremony in his honour, Jack made a flippant remark about a woman he saw in tatty jeans. How could she wear that to an official function? Then he commented unfavourably on her silicone-injected lips and dodgy facelift. The woman in question was Hook’s wife Juanita, in her late fifties but trying desperately to appear younger. Jack tried to cover his tracks with a joke, but only managed to inflame the situation. The Assistant Commissioner’s face turned florid as he told Jack he didn’t give a toss about his heroic crime-busting feats and that he could “fuck off”. Hook would be closely monitoring the detective’s performance. One step out of line and Jack would be back in uniform pounding the pavement on permanent night shift.

  ‘How can I help you, sir?’ Remain professional. That last meeting was an eternity ago. The man has surely forgotten Jack’s faux pas.

  ‘Are you alone?’

  Jack covered the mobile with his palm, glanced at Taylor and Wilson. ‘Sorry, gotta take this one in private.’ He placed his phone on his desk, plucked a packet of Nicorettes from the top drawer, regripped the phone and marched to the small landing where the smokers indulged their habit. Jack had long given up the lung busters, now he was addicted to nicotine gum instead. He’d tried vaping as an alternative but found the practice totally naff. On the landing, he chased away Constable Xavier “Breath” Jenkins, an inveterate smoker puffing away on a low-tar ciggie. Any other time he’d engage the uniform in a chat just to savour the free second-hand smoke. Not today. ‘Piss off, Jenkins.’ The officer dropped a third of a smouldering cigarette in a water-filled tin and slunk back into the cool interior of the police station. Jack glanced at the filthy orange slurry in the tin and shuddered. Gum. Mouth. Chew.

  ‘I’m alone now. At your service.’

  ‘I require your help with something.’ Hook’s voice was gravel in a cement mixer.

  ‘Yes, sir.’ Jack’s brain spun like a kaleidoscope. What does he want?

  ‘I need
you to oversee a delicate matter. Something’s happened a bit too close to home and I want you in charge.’

  ‘I’d be delighted to assist, sir,’ Jack lied. ‘Only I’m flying out of Cairns International Airport tomorrow night. Heading home after all these years.’

  ‘Cancel it.’

  ‘Sorry, sir. No can do. All the paper work’s approved.’ Who the fuck does this joker think he is? ‘It’s a non-refundable ticket.’

  ‘What do you mean? Who the hell buys non-refundable tickets?’

  Jack scratched his head as a Qantas passenger jet soared into a cloudless azure sky about 25 kms distant. ‘Ah, most people, actually. They’re a shit-load cheaper.’ He’d be enjoying an English summer when he got home, which would, strangely, be colder than winter in tropical Yorkville. But this moron wasn’t going to spoil the party, no matter his rank.

  There was a brief uncomfortable pause. The overweight Hook’s laboured breathing made Jack wince. It sounded like the wet snuffling of one of those flat-faced dog breeds with a genetic respiratory ailment. ‘This is very important,’ Hook finally rasped.

  ‘So is visiting my daughter ‘n all.’

  ‘Listen, Lisbon. I haven’t forgotten what you said about my wife.’

  ‘How about you say something nasty about my ex. Then we’ll be even.’ Jack waved at Constables Trevarthen and Semmens escorting a heavily tattooed, green-haired woman who could barely stand into the reception area. He glanced at his watch. A bit early in the day for getting wasted. If Hook continued in this vein Jack might renege on his pledge of sobriety and join the woman in the holding cell for a shot of brandy.

  ‘That’s not going to cut it. I heard you hate your ex.’ Hook was well informed, you had to say that much for the obese bastard.

  ‘Yeah. But I love my daughter. I’m afraid you’ll have to get someone else to do your dirty work. Good-bye.’ Jack ended the call and took a deep breath. His oversized suitcase was packed. One change of clothes for him, the rest – presents for Skye. The taxi was ordered, everything was done. Hook wasn’t going to derail this trip. Jack pulled his phone out of his pocket, went to switch to vibrate, when The Clash’s driving guitar intro burst forth. Press the red button! Against his better judgment, Jack pressed the green button. Call it professional curiosity.