City Of Fear (Carter Thompson Mysteries Book 2)

Book summary

In "City of Fear," former prosecutor turned private investigator Carter Thompson is plunged into a complex case when a father's plea leads him to search for a missing girl. Navigating the gritty realms of model agencies, nightclubs, and drug gangs, Thompson confronts past acquaintances and enemies alike. Concurrently, he's drawn into assisting his former boss with a personal crisis involving his drug-involved son. As Carter relies on his honed instincts and faces old adversaries, the race against time intensifies to rescue the girl, challenging him to outwit danger at every turn.

Excerpt from City Of Fear (Carter Thompson Mysteries Book 2)

Carter Thompson had spent a big chunk of the previous night playing poker in the back room of a hookah bar on Enmore Road. An invitation-only game, where he had won, if not a huge amount, then at least two-months’ salary for an average Joe who stacked shelves or did the 7-11 thing.

His mobile phone was ringing. He woke up, stuck out a hand from underneath the doona, reached for it on the chest of drawers, succeeded only in knocking it to the ground. Put his head back under the doona.

Smiled.

Hugged himself.

It was 3:00 pm.

The mobile rang again. He threw back the doona, reached down, picked up the mobile, stabbed the green circle with his middle finger, said, ‘Yep, Thompson.’

‘Carter Thompson?’

‘Yep.’

‘Can we meet?’

‘Who is this?’

‘Your lawyer told me to call you. I want to hire you. To find my daughter.’

‘My lawyer?’

‘Chantal Adams. This is urgent, Mr Thompson.’

‘Oh, that lawyer. Urgent right.’

They were all fucken urgent.

Chantal had been a mistake.

‘Look, I got your number now. Let me get my shit together. I’ll call you back in an hour or so, right?’

‘Yes, please call me. I don’t know what else to do.’

‘What’s your name?’

‘Doug Lever. Please call.’

‘An hour, no sweat.’

***

Cash stood up naked, his girlfriend Aimee had been in bed with him when he fell asleep. She’d be working at a café she waitressed in on King Street, Newton. He walked to the kitchen, shook his head, changed his mind. Walked into the bathroom, straight into the shower, got the hot going, adjusted it with the cold. Leant against the shower wall as the water pummelled him. Finished, towelled off. Looked in the mirror. Still smooth, light brown skin. Women thought him handsome: dimple in his chin, dark chocolate eyes, tall. Dark brown hair cut short in an old-fashioned, short back and sides. Went back to the kitchen. Found pods, strong pods, number 12, inserted one in the machine, opened the fridge, got a plastic cup filled it with milk from a shelf in there. Put it all in motion. He hated proper coffee machines, too much fucken mess. He used the microwave, not the steamer cos the steamer never got the milk hot enough. Re-loaded the machine with a second number 12 pod, coffee … strong now.

He sat at a red Laminex kitchen table on a red cushioned chair. Aimee’s idea, even though she didn’t live there. He had bought the place in Erskineville after an uncle died a year before. Not outright, he had a small mortgage according to the bank. Small being two-hundred K. An uncle he had barely known.

Cash was an Indigenous bloke, a Gadigal man, ex-investigator with the Prosecutor’s Office. Named Carter, nicknamed Cash because he walked the line. He had his Private Inquiry Agent License now, worked freelance. He liked to pick and choose jobs rather than be assigned them, as he had been with the Prosecutor’s Office. His uncle had been a pearl fisherman in Broome. He had gone up there once as a teenager. The uncle had paid for the trip. Cash had it tough in Redfern; his parents were good people, but money was scarce. His uncle was a great bloke, a real larrikin, worth a fortune. The trip had been the best thing in his life. His uncle left the pearl farm and a house to his son, another smaller house to Cash, who sold it, bought Erskineville, which was a small, terraced house a few streets back from Enmore Road.

He felt like a cigarette. He had cut down from a pack a day to only ten or twelve, evenly spaced out during the day. Worked out at Hector’s Gym in Redfern. Named after Hector Thompson, no relation. Did boxing training. But that first cigarette of the day was the one he seemed to crave the most. It was July, freezing cold, but Aimee was coming back later; she would smell it, so he put on some jeans, a windcheater, sat on the back step, smoked there, drank his coffee.

Missing daughter he thought. Doug Lever. Never heard of him. He had a one-night stand with Chantal that turned into a bit of an affair that Aimee found out about, wanted to cut off his balls. Took months of pleading to get her back. He was forty-four, had a wife, daughter too. Separated from both. His life was messy enough even before he met Chantal. Thing was she was good for bringing in the work. She was a lawyer with a big firm that had offices on Broadway, in that huge building that had greenery growing all over the outside walls and on top of it. Supposed to be the building of the future or something. It looked nice, he had to admit that. Her office was high up with views of the city, a glimpse of the famed harbour.

He was in the habit of walking to a Turkish café on Enmore Road. The girl who worked there had huge brown eyes, those other kind of Asian eyes. Like dark diamonds. His girlfriend Aimee was Chinese-Australian with cats’ eyes. The Turkish girl was young, taut, beautiful, and flirty. He could smoke out the front. Two cigarettes were his allocation there. It was close to Café Sofia, which was always packed with people dressed in black, leaving him also dressed in black, but solo with time and space to think. He was wearing black jeans, dark blue cord shirt, black suit coat, Docs on his feet.

He sat there now, looking at Azra as she walked away from him. She was twenty-three, in love with a guy called Rusty, who played in a band. Cash had never met him. Didn’t want to. It would spoil his fantasies. He smiled at the thought of it. Lit a cigarette, took a sip of the strong, syrupy, Turkish coffee. His mobile rang. He looked at it. Steele, his ex-boss from the Prosecutor’s Office. He hadn’t heard from him for at least a year. Thought he might be gone from his life.

He answered, ‘Yep, Thompson.’

‘Carter?’

‘Mr Steele.’

‘How are you?’

‘What can I do for you?’

‘I want to hire you.’

‘As part of your team or …’

‘It’s personal.’

‘Isn’t everything?’

‘My son might be using heroin. At least, his sister thinks he is. Might be dealing too. He lives in a share house in Glebe. Doing a BA, majoring in politics. He’s super smart, still getting great marks. I don’t know how to say this, um …’

‘Say it, boss.’

‘Boss? Old habits, Carter?’

A beat.

‘I want him clean. Not only for him. It means I can be got at. Leverage and so on. A bad position for me. Criminals being criminals.’

‘You sound more worried about you than him.’

‘Look, heroin users go through a honeymoon phase but when that ends, money becomes an issue, he starts owing money. Leverage. Blackmail.’

‘Understand. Sounds like you’re getting in early.’

‘Adam is book-smart, not life-smart, not yet. Living in a share house, he’ll either grow up or get dragged down. If he’s using heroin, bills come into play. Are the house members using? His sister tells me the place has a reputation. To party, to score. Again, I’m not certain about anything.’

‘Text me the address of the house. Your daughter’s mobile number. Adam’s mobile number.’

‘You’ll take the job then.’

‘Four hundred a day, plus expenses. A week in advance; cash if you got it. Your daughter’s name too. Sorry, I forgot it.’

‘Lily.’

‘Sweet name. How old is she?’

‘Twenty-three.’

‘Adam?’

‘A year younger.’

‘I’ll send my cousin to your office to pick up the first week’s cash in a few hours. You still work till late?’

‘I do. I’ll have the cash.’

‘Good to hear your voice again.’

‘You too, Carter.’

Cash ended the call. He had a few debt-collection jobs that he had to do with the help of his younger cousin. Name of Mick Birch.

He called him now.

‘Carter.’

‘Yeah, Mick, need to do those small collection jobs now. You right to go?’

‘Yep, pick me up.’

‘Be there in half an hour.’

He had to walk back home, get the old Valiant Safari. A white sedan, the one with the famous slant six engine. It had black Venetian blinds on the back window. Bench seats front and back. No nodding dogs.