Blood on the Rocks Chapter 13
Frank and Mac’s search of Freak’s house revealed nothing except an extensive pornography collection and a taste for expensive watches. They went over the place carefully, twice. But the garage was a different story, although it took Frank a few minutes to work it out because they had entered through the door from the garden.
It was a big space, decorated with a work bench down one side offering a wall display of unused hand-tools. In pride of place on the polished concrete floor sat a bright red Porsche Boxster. Not a car Frank admired, but from the amount of Porsche memorabilia that adorned the pristine garage, Freak did. The Boxster was immaculate, too, barring a small section on the rear wheel housing that looked like it had been recently touched up. Not obvious, thought Frank as he ran a gloved hand over the spot, but Freak had scraped something.
The Boxster was empty – disappointing. Until Frank looked closely at the two automatic garage doors. Then back at the Boxster.
‘Not a big car, is it?’ he said, half to himself. He paced the width of the car, then moved around and paced out the width of the first roller door. ‘Pretty tight opening for such a little car. A single door is usually 2.4 metres; this can’t be more than two…if that.’
The other two looked at him.
‘I reckon Freak’s scraped the car on the way out. Mac, you want to open the roller door?’
Sure enough, there was a corresponding flake of red paint on the left-hand door frame. Frank stepped out into the laneway and looked at the doors.
‘Can you open the second door, Mac, please?’ he called. As it rose, Freak’s subterfuge became obvious. ‘Constable MacFadden, could you come out here, please?’
Mac joined him in the laneway; Van stood just inside the roller doors, watching.
‘You see it?’ asked Frank, nodding to the right of the second door. Mac frowned, then ducked bask inside to stare at the wall that ran alongside the second door. She ducked out again, eyebrows raised at Frank.
‘There’s extra space. But there’s no door.’
‘There has to be,’ Frank replied.
They walked back inside and stood staring at the wall.
‘What are you looking for?’ Van asked.
‘Anomalies,’ said Frank.
‘Anomalies?’
‘Anything that doesn’t fit,’ Mac explained. Frank was down on his haunches, staring at the floor.
‘There’s scuff marks here, and this skirting board gaps away from the wall a bit. I reckon it has to be this section. Plus, that steel edging doesn’t seem to do anything. And there’s another one here,’ He straightened up, pointing to the two L-shaped steel strips fixed from ceiling to floor on the wall. ‘But where is the opening? What doesn’t fit?’
‘That doesn’t fit,’ said Van, pointing at a framed picture of a vintage car.
‘Why not?’ asked Mac.
‘Not a Porsche. It’s a Karman Ghia – poor man’s Porsche,’ Van replied. ‘Freak hated them.’
Frank took the photo from the wall. Revealing a key hole.
‘That’s a pretty serious lock – it’s a Lockwood mortice, the 3579. How many keys did the lawyer give you?’
‘Just the one,’ replied Van.
‘You see any keys in the house?’ Frank asked Mac, who shook her head. Frank turned back to scrutinise the Porsche. ‘Me neither. Loved his car, yeah…’ He reached forward and opened the car door. ‘Mac, we need to search this, top to bottom. He may have the key with him, or it may be somewhere where Brent could access it too.’
They swarmed over the vehicle, but found nothing, as Van watched on. Both officers ended up staring at the locked glovebox.
‘He’d have his car keys with him, you’d think,’ said Mac.
‘We need to get it open,’ replied Frank. He turned to the work bench. ‘Unless…’ Then left the garage without another word.
‘I could get a locksmith,’ Mac called after him.
‘Oh to hell with this,’ said Van. She darted over to the tool display, selecting a shiny screwdriver and a hammer. Before Mac could stop her Van had wedged the screwdriver into the upper seam of the glove box and swung the hammer down with force. There was a sharp crack as the plastic fabric ruptured and a thump as the hammer bounced out of Van’s hand onto the car. Van swore at the pain of her jarred hand, but picked up the hammer and went at the glovebox again.
‘Van! Stop it – it won’t help, you can’t do that!’ Mac moved to her side and stopped her arm mid swing.
‘Yes, I can,’ Van retorted. ‘It’s my family. Freak has had this coming for years.’ She twisted from Mac’s hold and swung the hammer down again. ‘Brent was a good guy. Freak screwed him up, just like he screwed us all up!’ With a grunt, she smashed at the glovebox again and at last it gave. Just as Frank appeared at the door to the garage, a colourful garden gnome clutched to his chest.
‘Shit,’ said Mac. ‘Step away Van, right now!’ Her girlfriend gave her a hurt look, but complied. ‘It’s open, sir.’ Mac shook her head as she levered the hammer and screwdriver gently from Van’s hands. ‘Sorry, sir.’
Mac noticed the gnome and frowned. In response, Frank shook the gnome vigorously, until something clattered to the concrete floor: a key. He scooped the key up and moved to what was left of the glovebox case. The key slipped in easily, releasing the bolt. Frank sighed; Van burst into tears.
‘It’s okay, Van,’ he said. ‘I would have done the same, if I hadn’t noticed this fella at the back gate – I don’t know your brother–’
‘Half-brother,’ Mac reminded him.
‘Sorry, half-brother – but I didn’t see him as a garden gnome type. Howevert, it was still a guess and if it hadn’t paid off, your method would have been my next choice.’
Mac shot him a grateful look.
He rootled around in the glove box and fished out a key. ‘Bag up everything else in there, Mac. Now let’s see if this fits.’
It did. The bolt clicked back with a satisfying clunk. There was no handle so Mac grasped the vertical steel edging and pulled. Nothing.
‘Try pushing,’ said Frank.
The wall shifted as she pushed, opening up like a narrow doorway, from floor to ceiling, revealing a storage space that ran the width of the garage.
‘Bingo,’ said Frank. He turned to Van. ‘I need you to wait outside.’ Van nodded and left the garage as Mac stepped inside the space.
‘Holy crap, Frank, check this out.’
Inside was a drug-addict’s heaven, or worst nightmare. The shelving held small bales of marijuana, wrapped in multiple layers of plastic, and two sets of scales – large and small. Beneath that, on the floor, sat tubs of chemical. Obviously a stockroom for Freak’s other business. But what excited Frank most was the stockroom log-book, an A4 ledger neatly inscribed with goods in and out, and to Frank’s amazement, supplier phone numbers and names. She gave a low whistle as Frank pointed out the details to her.
‘He didn’t, did he?’ said Mac, in disbelief.
‘He did. Okay, Mac, we’ve got him. Call it in to the chief and get a crew out here asap. I want to get some of these names to Sherry in Sydney – they sound familiar. And Mac?’
‘Yes Frank?’
‘Keep Van out of this. Not one word. Seriously. Okay?’
‘Yes sir.’