Bryce, even though he had a thing about Porsches, was too busy blahing about the All Blacks to spot Brett whistle past in his 911. They were waiting patiently at the lights. It was a quiet morning. A morning devoted to visiting the victims of break-ins and burglaries. A morning of taking statements and faking empathy for the outraged home-owners.
After getting the statements, they’d spend the afternoon writing them up, back at Central. One step up from being a parking warden. Still it wasn’t stressful like a domestic call-out and people were always pleased to see you.
‘Yes, it was terrible that a person could go out for two hours and come back to the work of these people…’
‘Yes, a few years ago burglar alarms were only for banks. Locks were used when one went off on holiday.’
‘Yes, it is surprising that as well as the stereo the thieves have taken your entire CD collection. The criminals must have similar taste.’
‘Yes, you will need to dig deep for all those receipts. Insurance companies are suffering too…’
They were both developing an instinct for liars, which, according to D.S. Willets was still the most useful talent a cop could have in the long run. There were some houses where the victims wanted the entire place dusted down for fingerprints and nothing had been taken. The perps had just come in for a preliminary sniff around. There were other houses where expensive jewelery had been taken but the details and the values were the only points of interest. Still seemed like old farts’ work. Not what they’d signed up for. What made it bearable was that Bryce and Evan had been teamed up since the days in the Academy. It wasn’t one of those partnerships forged out of necessity, it went right back to their school days, their rugby days.
The last call of the morning had been near the beach front at Mission Bay. Three bikes stolen from the carport. All locked up of course. All top of the range mountain bikes. No receipts. It was all so predictable. Over the back fence was a huge white mansion with a pool and terraced gardens. Bryce could see this man swimming lazy lengths. He seemed to move back and forth with a mechanical regularity … he resembled those clockwork boats kids play with in the bath. The aimless, tireless, back and forth.
Mrs Stevens came around the back to see what he was doing. ‘He does that every morning, regardless of the weather.’
‘Looks boring to me, I guess he gets something out of it.’
‘When you get past a certain age it’s called staying alive.’
‘He looks as though he’s got a few bucks.’
‘His name is Osbourne, have you heard of him? He’s the sex shops guy on K. Road, always in the paper.’
Bryce sensed her disgust but wouldn’t be drawn. He knew about Ozzie Osbourne, everybody did.
‘Great big house like that and he’s the only one who lives there,’ she added, trying to steer the conversation towards the unfairness of it all.
‘So where did you buy these bikes from?’ Bryce pulled out his pen and pad, signalling an end to the chatter.
‘I’m … I’m not sure now, it was a while ago, I think it was that big bike shop in Newmarket.’ She seemed startled, a little off guard.
‘And it was inside the last twelve months.’
‘Oh no. It was a year or so ago.’
‘But your husband said they were for your children’s last birthdays.’
Now she looked flustered, betrayed, as though he had snuck up on her and given her a slap after she had been nice to him. Bryce looked at her but said nothing more.
As they drove away, Evan remarked what nice people they were.
Bryce agreed. ‘Bullshitters, though.’
‘What?’
‘Oh, out the back while we were chatting about the local crook over the fence her story unravelled like an old sock. Bit disappointing. I was beginning to like her.’
‘You’ve got it in for rich women.’
‘No. Just for rich women who are liars.’
Evan, about to start up the car, turned to him. ‘Everyone lies.’
Bryce gave the long-suffering sigh he used for whenever Evan made a statement like that. ‘That’s not the point, man. She wants to be treated like she’s the innocent victim of a crime, like she’s somehow better than the sex shop guy over the fence, while at the same time she’s pulling a fast one. And using you and me as the mugs to carry it off.’
Evan got shirty as he always did when they got caught up on some point like this.
‘Well what are you going to do? Arrest her? Cuff her old man and stick them both in the back of the car? Shove them into the interview room at Central for an hour or two? Let Willets work them over?’
‘No, I’m not, Evan. I’m going to file a report and forget it. He, Mr What’s-his-face, will make a claim to the insurance companies, who, after a month or three, will shell out and so it goes. Everything just gets a bit more expensive for you and me.’
‘I wouldn’t worry about it.’
‘It’s a double standard, man. One for the bike-stealing teenager …’
He was interrupted by burglary in progress over the Radio Transmitter. They loved these and without any discussion, Bryce signalled HQ that they were on their way.
It was only a few minutes from Mission Bay, but at the same time a world apart. Old state houses on treeless sections, dogs roaming the streets, dead cars on front lawns. This is probably where those missing bikes would end up.
As they closed in they were particularly attentive to all the cars coming their way. Knew that was often where the crims could be nabbed. It was an instinct thing.
The house in question was empty. Of people, that was. The owners were at a tangi in Hawke’s Bay. They were met at the gate by a fiery little woman who had called to feed the cat.
‘There was two of them I think. In there, having a feed. Didn’t notice me till I walked in on them. They looked a bit drunk. Anyway the bigger boy, about seventeen, pushed me over and they ran out through the back there. Jumped the fence.’
Bryce was pumped. This is what he’d joined up for, not stolen mountain bikes. ‘You OK Ma?’ he pointed to her bleeding elbow.
She looked down for a moment, as if noticing her injury for the first time – then looked up with a grin. ‘It’s nothing. They went into the school. Comes out on Rimini Road.’
‘Take the car round, Evan. I’ll chase them.’
They split up and Bryce was over the fence without even slowing down. In front of him was the broad expanse of a football field and he reflected, as he belted down its length, that the last time he did this he had a ball in his arms. They were playing Kelston. Evan was outside him. Or was it Flash? Yes that’s right, it was Flash.
When he cleared the main teaching block he saw two boys in the distance looking into the windows of the admin block. They saw him coming, made to run and then stopped, seeing how quick he was. They were about ten or eleven, too small to be the perps.
‘Right you two,’ Bryce yelled out when he got close, ‘where did they go?’ The assumption that bystanders always knew something saved time.
There was a moment of indecision while the kids looked at each other to see who would rat out the other first.
‘Don’t piss me about. Which way?’
‘Over there. Behind the gym, ow?’
‘Hang about. I might need a statement.’ Bryce was off again, not believing for a moment that they would do what he said.
Behind the gym was a space where old equipment seemed to have been heaped when it had passed its use-by date. Hockey goals. A wrecked trampoline. What must have once been a scrum machine. A little mountain of it. The taller of the two fugitives had made it over the top while the other had got his jacket snagged on the twisted metal and was thrashing about trying to get loose. The guy on the far side shot through as soon as Bryce showed up. The caught guy had a metal stake in his hand and turned to face Bryce as he walked towards him.
‘Don’t make it worse, man. You’re already gone.’ Bryce approached quietly, his hands out flat, open, trying to calm him. God knows what he was on, but he was on something, that was for real.
The guy struggled out of the jacket that had been hooked like a fish by a jagged piece of pipe. He knew there was no way he could get over the pile so he had to get through Bryce.
He gave the instinctive hitch on his homeboy low-riders and closed in. He faced Bryce, presenting the sharp end of the shaft like a taiaha. Even from five metres away Bryce could smell the stink of sweat and old clothes. There were blue paint stains over the bottom half of his face and neck. They said it all. Whacked out on spray paint.
‘Get out of m’ fucken way, cop.’ Somehow the authority had changed and Bryce backed slowly out of the narrow corridor between the fence and the gym. They both knew they were locked into this: no chance of back-down now. The sharp post tore the air as it spun in his hands. A sort of confidence had taken over. There was a practised routine in his movements working the air one side then the other, making feigned lunges and quick withdrawals.
Bryce looked around quickly. Where was Evan? They should have both come on foot. Another stuff-up.
By this time they were on clear ground in front of the gym, and the kid was in control. He kept advancing with mock thrusts that made Bryce lift his arms ineffectually. It was clear the younger guy was beginning to enjoy this. The chance to run was there, but the paint-head no longer wanted it. He was going to teach this cop something. Time to show him who not to mess with.
Bryce found himself backed into the entranceway of the main gym doors. If only he could get to his RT. He knew as soon as he reached for it the kid would be onto him. They both stood there for a moment. He couldn’t bolt even if he chose to now, because the kid blocked his way out of the recess. He closed in, feeding on the power. Pay back time. Pay back for all those times he’d been on the wrong end, all those times he’d been cornered.
‘How ya like it? How ya like it cop? Come on! Make a move! Try it!’ He jabbed at Bryce’s face with each question, command.
Bryce was pinned.
Then it all happened. Framed in the bright doorway like a movie. So fast Bryce had to replay it in his head a few times to make sense of it.
The kid steps back to get room for a thrust, eyes wide, big toothy mouth open. Then bang. Evan flashes past the entranceway, clotheslining him so hard he seems to rotate in the air. The post flies high in the air as he and Evan hit the earth with a crunch.
When Bryce emerged shakily from the alcove he’d been trapped in, just clear of the entrance, there was Evan sitting on the gasping kid’s chest, grinning. He looked like those hunting photos, of guys in the bush, posing with a recent kill. The kid’s face was purple and he was struggling to breathe.
‘Remember how many times I was sent off for doing that?’ said Evan, relishing the victory. ‘I reckon there’s a lot of skill in the head-high tackle.’