Comfort Zone: A John Lawrence Novel, #3

By Andrew Christie

They say lightning never strikes twice, but Rae Holland knows better.

Already dealing with the aftermath of death and betrayal, Rae's life is thrown into crisis when her neighbour is murdered. She wants to know who killed 'Smokey' Joe Whitmore and why.

For John Lawrence, Smokey's death is an affront to the natural order. Smokey was a brother. A warrior who shared John's pain and scars. He deserved to die fighting, not trapped in his wheelchair.

But Smokey was a man with secrets. Despite losing his legs in Uruzgan, he established a successful business. If you wanted something dangerous, and had the money, Smokey knew where to get it.

Now his business partners want to know what happened to their money and weapons. They don't care who gets in their way.

Can Rae and John avoid getting each other killed while they pursue their own leads? At least long enough to find out who killed Smokey?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Painting the Bridge Books
• Release date: Oct 3, 2018
• ISBN: 9780992574758

Book preview

Chapter 1

Thursday.

I’m meeting him tomorrow, Mum. Rae Holland switched her phone to the other ear and twisted to keep an eye on the grey-muzzled crossbreed that had trotted away to share an arse-sniffing moment with a chocolate-brown labrador.

Across the park, late afternoon shadows had pushed the sunshine off the lawns and onto the wall of the old cemetery, giving the graffiti-covered sandstone a warm glow. Humans clustered in chattering groups over the grass while their dogs dispersed around them, the older ones socialising with sniffs and tail-wags, the younger ones chasing balls. Or each other, tearing around in mad, tongue-lolling circles.

Not before time, her mother said. You only get one chance at this. You need to make sure you’re good and ready.

I’ll be ready. Stop worrying. Rae moved the phone aside, put two fingers in her mouth, and blasted a whistle towards the dog. It was loud enough to draw looks from half the people in the park. Selective deafness, she muttered, apologising to everyone and no one. Come on, Stoker. Time to get you home.

This time the dog decided to respond, but only after pausing for one last sniff of the lab. He had an expectant look in his milky old eyes as he trotted up to her.

Good boy, she said, clipping on his leash.

Her mother was still talking when Rae pushed her hair out of the way and put the phone back to her ear. —and you’ve only got a week.

It’s nearly two weeks. Patrick knows what he’s doing. She pushed herself up off the grass and brushed leaves off the bum of her cut-off jeans.

Well I hope so, her mother said. I really do.

I’m paying for his expertise, Mum, and I’m going to listen to him.

Are you sure he’s up to—

Yes, I am. Rae cut her off before she said something about Patrick being Vietnamese.

Because I spoke to Donald Prescott the other day and he—

I like Patrick. And anyway, it’s too late to change now. She set off down the hill as gold and pink clouds flared in the west. A jet climbed into the darkening sky, leaving Sydney behind. Don’t worry, it’s all under control.

Do you want me to come with you?

Hell no.

What time is your appointment? I’ve got the hairdresser at ten… I could reschedule that. Janice won’t mind.

No, Mum. I’ll be fine. I’m going to get past this inquest, then I’m going to get on with the rest of my life. She said it confidently, to convince herself as much as her mother. Get through the inquest and draw a line. Move on. Make a fresh start. She just wasn’t sure yet where to go, or what to start.

It wouldn’t be a bother, her mother said.

It would bother me. There’s no need.

Stoker led the way to the bottom of the park and across the road into Callow Street, where giant fig trees made a tunnel of the road, blocking out the glow of the sky. Fruit bats arriving for the night shift clawed the air between the trees, caught in flapping, squealing silhouette against glimpses of sky.

You should have someone with you, Rae, especially for something this important. It’s what Dad and I do when we see his doctors. We always have a coffee afterwards and compare notes.

It’s okay, Mum. Stoker stopped at the gate to his house, a converted warehouse next to the townhouse where Rae lived. Let me handle it, please. Let me do it my way. She slipped her key into the street gate and pushed it open. I have to go now. I’m back at Smokey’s place. Bye.

But—

Rae disconnected the call and pocketed the phone.

The brick facade of the renovated warehouse had been turned into an external garden wall, with barred-steel gates in the doorways and windows, allowing leafy glimpses into a courtyard. The old roof trusses formed a kind of industrial-grunge pergola above.

On the inner side of the courtyard there was a new wall, clad in corrugated steel to match the industrial feel of the building.

No lights were visible inside as she unclipped Stoker’s leash. He ignored the water bowl that was his usual first stop and went straight to the front door.

Out of the way, mate. She pushed him aside with her knee so she could get to the door, but he squeezed past as the door swung open.

Don’t mind me. She hung the leash on the coat rack by the door and called out to Smokey. We’re back. Do you want me to feed him?

There was no response, so she stuck her head into the kitchen. Smokey?

Tree-filtered light was spattered across the polished concrete floor between the benches and the kitchen table. Stoker’s claws clicked as he walked into the middle of the room and whined.

Smokey? You there? Rae reached for the switch and a grid of LEDs froze the kitchen in brilliant clarity. Rae blinked once, taking in the sprays of blood, then she screamed.

Smokey was face down on the table, blood pillowing his head. Grey and red glistened in his hair, his massive shoulders slumped against the edge of the table. Rae’s head was full of screaming. Hands over her face, she managed two steps away from the horror before her legs went.

No no no. Not again. She slid to the floor, screams becoming sobs, eyes squeezed shut, as she tried to hold away the images. Destroyed heads and too much blood. Henry and now Smokey.

Stoker sniffed the blood and let out a short whine before coming back to stand over Rae. He nudged her shoulder and licked her face until her sobs became whimpers. She slowed her breathing and let the shuddering gulps fade before she looked again. With her head on the floor, she could see beneath the table where Smokey’s blood had sprayed and puddled around the tyres of his wheelchair.

She sniffed and wiped snot off her face before reaching for her phone. Her fingers tapped in the three zeros automatically, just like last time.

Chapter 2

Parked across the Cooks River from the airport, John Lawrence sat waiting for his name to get to the top of the Uber queue for pickups. This next job would be his last for the day. He’d been on the road since seven, with only a short stop for a banh mi lunch in Marrickville.

He flipped open the central console looking for some gum, but only found a tangle of charging cables. He leant across and checked the glove compartment. Instead of gum he found a postcard he had shoved in there weeks ago. It was an invitation to the opening of a sculpture exhibition, this Saturday night. On the front was what looked like a bright yellow explosion of steel. Across the back, in angular handwriting, it said, John, please come. I need you to make up the numbers. Al.

It was typical of Alison Whitmore. Jokey and needy, yet somehow endearing. Alison was an old friend, the sister of his Army mate, Smokey.

He flipped the card over and studied the image. The painted steel shards shone in the light of the photographer’s flash, contrasting with the soft-toned background of a wheat field at dusk, beneath a sky grading from turquoise to gold.

This new exhibition was supposed to be a big deal for Alison. People were starting to pay attention to her work—people with deep pockets and plenty of big words. At her last exhibition John overheard a man describe her work as agricultural defibrillation. Whatever that meant, her work was certainly powerful. As if shiny new farm machinery had been sliced up and rearranged. He called his girlfriend, Shasta.

Hey, she said when she finally picked up. You coming home soon? I think Tony’s cooking.

I’ll do one more job. I’m waiting at the airport now.

Okay. I’m just about to do some laundry, you need anything washed?

No, I’m right. John tapped Alison’s invitation on the steering wheel. Al’s exhibition is on Saturday night. I was thinking we should go.

There was a pause. I don’t know…

We don’t have to stay long. And we can do something after, get a feed in town.

Silence.

It’ll be a laugh. Smokey’ll be there. Smokey never missed Alison’s openings. Said he enjoyed talking to the arty crowd, trying to figure out what made them tick. Smokey the amateur anthropologist, not afraid to roll his wheelchair into any conversation.

His phone dinged, indicating he’d arrived at the top of the queue and had a new job. He jabbed the button to accept. Just think about it hey, Shaz? I’ve got to go, I’ll talk to you later. He started the engine.

His passengers were two women just back from a holiday in Hawaii. They wanted to go to Enmore, which was a short trip, and only five minutes from home.

Have you been to Hawaii? one of the women asked, inviting him to share their good mood, as they waited in traffic on Canal Road.

No, John said, glancing in the mirror. The women’s smiles were still holiday wide despite the long flight home. That’s one place I haven’t been.

You should go. It’s wonderful, so beautiful.

Yes. So relaxing.

They couldn’t help giving each other a twinkling look and leaning closer. Both were in their fifties, faces tanned, hair greying but trimmed short and sharp.

Sounds terrific. I’ll put it on my list. He’d done plenty of travelling in his time, but most of it had been in uniform.

You must go.

Uhuh. The Uber driving had been Shasta’s idea. She was always coming up with ideas for new businesses opportunities—apparently entrepreneurial thinking was her creative outlet.

And it wasn’t a bad gig. The driving was fine, though he struggled with passengers who wanted to chat. So far he had resisted Shasta’s urgings to stock the Corolla with bottles of water and mints to encourage passengers to give him five-star ratings. There was only so far he would go. On the plus side, being his own boss meant he could pick and choose when he worked.

He dropped the women outside a trendy apartment development that had been shoe-horned into what were once grain silos, and headed for home. On Salisbury Road he heard sirens and had to brake as two police cars came out of Australia Street against the traffic lights. He followed them through the intersection, and saw more flashing lights coming the other way, down the hill from Royal Prince Alfred Hospital.

Someone’s day had turned to shit.

Chapter 3

Red and blue flashed across blood spatters. Doors slammed. Then voices, and the gate rattling.

They’ll need the key. Rae pushed herself up from the floor and felt in her pockets. No keys. She turned back towards the entry hall, retracing her steps, putting Smokey and the blood further behind her. Through the glass she could see lights flashing on the street, cop shapes moving outside the gate.

She tried the door. It was deadlocked.

She felt her pockets. Still no keys.

Back to the kitchen. Carefully, eyes down, not letting them wander away from her feet. Not letting them see too much. There, where she had fallen, the keys, and her phone.

The open door let street noise in. Engines and voices. The buzz and crackle of radios mixed with the chittering of bats. And beyond that, a constant pulse, the dull pounding of traffic.

Rae locked eyes with the police officer outside the gate as she turned the key.

You made the call? he said.

Rae managed a nod.

What happened?

She turned and pointed, her hand shaking. In the kitchen. He’s dead.

Uniforms pushed past. Police and paramedic. Gloved hands ushered her across the courtyard, sat her down, at the wooden table where Smokey liked to drink beer on summer afternoons.

What happened? A cop squatting in front of her.

I don’t know. I came back…

You found him?

She nodded.

What’s your name, love?

Rae Holland.

You live here?

She shook her head. Next door.

Uniforms moved and muttered, exchanged looks, spoke softly. Shook heads. Watched.

More vehicles arrived, more lights flashing. Red, blue. Red blue, red red. Blue blue.

A woman was standing in front of her. Dark blue coveralls. Badges, big belt. So much stuff.

Rae? My name is Alice. I need to ask you some questions. Okay?

Rae nodded and tried to concentrate on the woman’s face. She was pretty for a cop.

Do you know the man in there?

Rae nodded again. Smokey.

Smokey?

Rae closed her eyes, opened them. Joe Whitmore. Everyone calls him Smokey. She closed her eyes again. I don’t know why.

Joe Whitmore. The cop repeated over her shoulder, to another cop who was writing in a notebook. How do you know Mr Whitmore, Rae? Are you related?

No. I live next door. Rae twitched her head towards the north wall of the courtyard. There, number 52.

The police woman nodded. Rae wanted to go home. She wanted a bath, she wanted to sleep.

Rae? The woman spoke again, pulling her attention back. What were you doing here, Rae?

I was just dropping Stoker back. That’s his dog… Oh, shit. She stood up, trying to look past the startled police faces surrounding her. Where is he? Where’s the dog?

What dog?

Smokey’s dog. I was walking him, I just brought him back when I… He’ll be freaking out. Where is he?

She stood and moved towards the door but a cop stopped her, putting his uniform in the way.

You can’t go in there, Rae. It’s a crime scene.

But Stoker.

That’s the dog? That’s his name?

Yes. Stoker. I have to find him. He’ll be terrified.

You stay here; we’ll find the dog. Where did you see him last?

In the kitchen, I think. I don’t remember after…

It’ll be okay. They’ll find him, the female cop said, guiding Rae back to the table. More police came and went. Someone called from inside, triggering more urgent discussions. Rae heard someone mention a dog handler.

I can get him. She stood up again.

No, a cop said. He’s hiding under the bed, growling and baring his teeth. Better if we get a handler.

He knows me. He’ll come to me. I can take him next door to my place.

There was more talk. She’s been in there already, someone said. More than once.

A cop in coveralls led her inside. She went to grab the leash off the coat rack but he stopped her. Part of the crime scene. He called something back out the door. They waited, standing in the hall while cameras strobed and whined in the kitchen. A length of blue nylon strapping appeared and was handed to Rae. Here, use this.

The cop led the way past the kitchen to Smokey’s bedroom. He stood aside for her at the door and raised a small video camera. I need to film you. Make sure we know what you’ve touched.

Rae nodded and stepped inside. She had never been in Smokey’s bedroom before. Its neatness surprised her and upset her in ways she didn’t understand.

A blue and white striped quilt hung over the edge of the timber-framed bed, not quite hiding the shadow of the dog squeezed beneath. Rae knelt down and peered into the eyes within the shadow. Hey, Stoker. It’s me, mate. Time to go out again. Time to go to my place. She patted the tops of her thighs and waited. The grizzled muzzle and brown eyes appeared, looking up at the cop behind her. Rae patted her legs again. C’mon, mate. It’s okay. She held her hand out, let him sniff her, then rubbed his ears.

Stoker emerged with a soft whine, pushing against her side, leaning into her, keeping his eyes on the cop. Rae put one hand into the thick fur of his neck while the other looped the strap through his collar. That’s it, mate. You can’t stay here, not any more. Come on home with me.

Cops stopped and watched as Rae and Stoker stepped onto the street. Television cameras swung towards them, and in the gathering crowd, phones were lifted, their screens washing blank faces blue. Not waiting for permission, she turned left, towards home. The woman cop and a detective in a suit followed her. Head down, hiding her face behind curtains of brown hair, she led the little procession along the footpath. Someone would recognise her. They always did.

Chapter 4

At Broughton Street, John parked outside the two-storey not-quite-terrace house he had bought and renovated after he finished a short, and unsuccessful, stint at security contracting. The house looked good now with its new paint job. He had been dubious about the colour Shasta chose, and had complained about the cost, but he did like the result. He should tell her.

He was coming up the front steps when the door swung open, and a tousle-headed teenager emerged. Billy Sheehan was nearly as tall as John now, and sporting a thick, red-tinged, beard.

Hey, he said, slinging the strap of a large digital SLR camera over his shoulder.

Hey. Where are you off to?

Meeting Leroy up in Newtown.

Yeah? How’s the study going?

Billy gave him a pained look. It’s going. Ask Tony.

I will. Tony, was the fourth member of the household, a medical researcher at Sydney University. John always deferred to him where Billy’s education was concerned. It’s just your whole future and everything riding on these exams, he said. Have I mentioned that before?

Billy rolled his eyes before turning away. Once or twice. See you later.

Yeah, all right. But don’t take too many photos. Those bloody pixels don’t grow on trees.

Billy didn’t look back, just raised his middle finger in response. John grinned to himself; he would miss the kid next year. After the Higher School Certificate exams, Billy reckoned he was finished with school. He’d been telling anyone who’d listen how, as soon as the exams were over, he was taking off on the old motorbike Tony was helping him fix up. Billy and his mate Leroy were planning to ride all the way around the country. The big lap. John admired Billy’s spirit, but worried just the same.

Billy wasn’t his son. His real father had died of cancer when Billy was just a youngster. His mother was still alive, but useless—an addict who struggled to look after herself, let alone a teenage boy. Billy had mostly lived at John’s house ever since he put a stop to the abuse the young boy was receiving from one of Mary Sheehan’s boyfriends. Nowadays John and Mary had settled into a wary truce, leaving Billy to navigate a life between them.

Inside he found Tony in the kitchen. You want some of this fettuccine? he said over his shoulder as John headed for the fridge. There’s plenty. I made enough for Billy, but he’s buggered off to meet his mates. Tony was tall and lean, with a full black beard, which John suspected was the model for Billy’s own facial fungus.

Yeah, I just saw him. John pulled out two bottles of beer. You want one?

Thanks.

John opened the bottles and passed one over. How do you think he’s going? With his study?

Tony swallowed a mouthful of beer. He’s not very motivated, but he’s trying. He puts in the hours.

Yeah, he’s never been shy of work.

Billy wasn’t at all academically inclined, but he was a practical kid. He knew if he got through this year, rang the HSC bell, it would give him options in the future.

The kid’ll be all right, mate.

Yeah. I know. Tony was using the Kawasaki 650 as a two-wheeled carrot. Billy got to work on it when Tony decided that he had put in enough time on the books.

The house would be quiet next year, with just him and Shaz. Tony was planning to leave too, taking up a research job at Melbourne Hospital.

John flipped through the pile of envelopes on the kitchen table. All of them were bills. He finished off his beer and went back to the fridge. You ready for another?

No. I’m right.

John twisted the top off his beer as Shasta came into the kitchen with a basket full of clothes. Did you think about Saturday night? he said.

Yeah, but I don’t—

Come on, I go to your stuff all the time.

She gave him an incredulous look. Like when?

With your mother and your brother. Her birthday.

Yeah, last year. And you complained about it for six months after. Anyway, I’ve got Sandra’s lunch on Saturday.

Sandra was one of Shasta’s university friends. A go-getter. Two kids under six, and an online store selling children’s clothes. Her husband was a builder.

You could do both, John said.

"We could both do both."

Right. We’ll do both. He grinned at her.

Shasta rolled her eyes. All right. Deal.

You two ready to eat? Tony said, putting bowls and forks on the table.

He was grating a block of parmesan cheese over the fettuccine when the front door slammed.

Billy flew into the kitchen. John. You have to come.

What?

Smokey.

What?

Something’s happened, there’s cops everywhere. The street’s blocked off. TV vans. They’re saying a guy in a wheelchair got murdered.

Chapter 5

It was a relief to find the house dark and empty. Rae was in no state to explain the presence of the cops and a dog to Dr Kim.

The Korean doctor was her current houseguest. He had been staying in the front bedroom for four days while he attended a conference at Royal Prince Alfred Hospital. Tonight was his last, and he was apparently having another night out on the town.

She ushered the cops into the kitchen and untied the strap from Stoker’s collar. You’ll have to stay here, mate. With me. She gave his ribs a reassuring thump and a rub.

The woman cop was standing at the back of the dining room, looking through the glass doors to the pool, and beyond it, across the tiny lawn to the open back of the carport that housed Steph’s cherry-red convertible. Nice car, she said.

Yeah, I guess. It belongs to my friend. Kind of comes with the house. The BMW Z4 had been a present to Steph from her father. He was a businessman in China and had the kind of money that let you buy a sports car for your daughter’s birthday.

What do you mean, it comes with the house? the detective said.

I’m looking after it for a friend. She’s away, working in Shanghai. Rae jabbed a thumb over her shoulder in the direction of the garage. She lets me use the car. One of the perks, like the pool.

The detective nodded as if this made perfect sense. He was a tall and broad shouldered, with dark hair fading to grey at the temples and a serious expression. Detectives were always serious.

I didn’t get a chance to introduce myself, he said. Detective Sergeant Ben Kilton, from the Homicide Squad. He nodded his head towards the woman.

Senior Constable Alice Fremont, she said. I’m from the Newtown station.

Hi. Rae nodded at them as they sat down at the table. I’m Rae. Do you want a drink? I do. She didn’t wait for an answer, turning towards the fridge where she gave consideration to a two-litre cask of chardonnay, before reaching for the jug of chilled water beside it. There would be time for wine after the cops had gone. She filled three glasses and put them on the table.

Thanks, the woman said.

Rae put the water jug away and felt a sudden need to wipe down the bench and align the fruit bowl with the biscuit jar. Stoker was pacing along the glass doors. Realising he could probably do with a drink too, she