“Driving, sir, just south of Sydney. About to take a six-week break after all that business in South West Rocks.”
“Bloody shocking that! And to think those television mongrels sacked that girl for not giving you up. Anyway, how ya doing?”
“I’ll live, sir.”
“Good. Because before you head on your break I want you to come to Melbourne. There’s a couple of things that might interest you.”
Oh, really? he thought. “How long will you need me, sir?”
“Just the day. I’ve managed to convince Ford to give us a couple of their new schmicked up, gee-whiz XR8s as a try out. They’ve got all the bullshit. Satellite phone, GPS navigation, bullet-proof glass and doors, bombproof floors. They’ll be Tickfords and the donks and suspensions will be tricked up to cope with the extra weight. I’ve told ‘em we’ll give ‘em a run for six months and see what we think of them. What do ya reckon?”
“Sounds bloody good, sir. And the second thing?”
His boss paused, then said, “This has caused a lot of angst down here. We’re still trying to come to terms with losing Dave Bourke. Bloody terrible that! Christ knows you must still feel like shit over it too. But we want you to drop by and meet your new partner…you there?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Did you hear what I said? We want you to meet your new partner.”
McLoughlin was too dumbstruck to speak. Finally the words came. “Male or female?” he asked dryly.
“Oh Jesus, Mac, we wouldn’t stitch you up with a bloody sheila for Christ sakes. No. A bloke. A senior constable. He’s currently based in Hawthorn. We went through about three hundred applicants before deciding upon him. Tony Delarosa. You know him?”
McLoughlin’s head was spinning. How can these pricks do this without even consulting with me over who I might have wanted?
“No, sir, I don’t. Delarosa you say. What’s that, Italian?”
“Born here. Parents are from Italy.”
McLoughlin exploded. “Jesus Christ, sir! Bourkey’s barely bloody cold and you go and stitch me up with a…!”
But Jack Rowland wouldn’t be messed with. He cut McLoughlin short. “Now you listen to me, Senior Sergeant, and listen good. A lot of people went to a lot of trouble to find a top man for you. And they did that out of the sheer bloody respect they have for you. Delarosa’s a good man. Twelve years in the job. Sharp as a tack. Good brain. Fit. Agile. Single. No female problems. Dedicated. Exactly what we need. Ring me the day before you get here and you can come into the office and meet him. Now go and get some rest, you hear?”
When Jack Rowland put the phone down McLoughlin felt like shit.
Hell of a way to be treated, eh? Boss just rings up and says sorry about your partner, you know, the dead one, but now you’re working with so and so. No consultation. No prior warning. No doubt this new fella, Delarosa, is a top bloke, but to be just assigned! Jesus! It’s like an arranged bloody marriage. What if we hate each other’s guts?
Then the full impact of his partner’s recent death hit him like the bullets that had slammed into Bourke’s body. “How the hell do you bastards draw straws to replace a bloke like Bourkey?” he screamed, pulling back onto the highway. “Jesus Christ! You’ve stitched me up! Well he’d better be bloody good, that’s all I’ve got to say about it. Let me tell you right now MR BLOODY COMMISSIONER, I’m not gonna like the prick. Game, set and match. Stuff all of you.”
McLoughlin’s vocal discontent continued until he reached the cherry orchards in Young. He’d begun to settle down a little as he passed by the huge suspended wine barrel and Lions Lookout. The Woodonga winery slipped by as he pressed down on the accelerator. The wooden power poles, still to be replaced by their concrete and steel cousins, passed by almost like a picket fence.
“Well, Mr Commissioner,” he said aloud, “you better make sure that XR8 is all set to go when I get to Melbourne, that’s all I can say. You owe me, boss, big time.”
He gunned the big Ford V8 on past the Hermitage Murray Grey Stud farm. A passing semi-trailer reminded him it was also sheep country. No mistaking the smell, is there? Also to catch his eye were large roadside signs, ‘Pumpkins $3’ and ‘Sheep manure, $3 a bag’.
He let out a laugh, releasing his pent-up emotion.“If they can get $3 a bag for sheep shit up here, imagine what you could get for a bag of bullshit at Police HQ?”
As he passed through Cowra, the Japanese garden reminded him of Kazumi and pissed him off big-time. “Shit!” he cussed loudly. “Not gonna make it down there in two days now, am I?”
Chapter 2
The Delarosa family home in Fasano Street in the Melbourne suburb of Footscray stood out a little from others in the street. Lions head pillars marked the entrance and the front garden was a combination of moss rocks, slate, lawn and Roman statues. The home was a triple fronted brick veneer with a tiled roof. An open-ended carport ran down one side for the full length of the house. The backyard was enormous with a huge lawned and barbecue area plus fruit trees and a gardening patch. Inside, four bedrooms, family room, study, dining room and a prized underground cellar. Many of the floors were made from imported Italian tiles covered in part by very expensive imported rugs. The furnishings were grand but conservative. The ornaments delicate but exquisite and the hung pictures portrayed family members and country scenes of Italy.
Word had spread quicker than that of a marriage bust-up throughout the circle of family, friends and acquaintances of the Delarosas that Tony, the highly popular and beloved son of Lucia and Dominic Delarosa, had received a major promotion within the Victorian Police Department. To think he was about to be moved into plain clothes and assigned to partner a man regarded nationally as the best cop in the business was cause for great celebration.
Tony had recently turned thirty-two years of age. An immaculate dresser, he was also single, handsome and generally regarded as being a ‘top bloke’ and a ‘good catch’ if any girl was smart enough to turn his eye. His olive skin, black eyes and streak of silver through his jet-black hair highlighted his strong square jaw and his masculinity. One-eighty-one centimetres in height, Tony’s six-pack abdomen came from years of dedicated workouts three times a week at the police gymnasium. Adding to his family’s joy that he’d at last been recognised for his talents was the emotional tug of what he’d recently been through.
Sofia had been his childhood sweetheart. They’d met on her thirteenth birthday. He handed her an ice-cream. She handed him a coke. Jokingly, she had said, “If I open your can and drink from it before you do and you lick my ice-cream before I do, then we’ll be together for life.”
He had laughed lightly and went along with her tomfoolery.
From that moment on, the two were inseparable. She’d slide through the back fence at night to be with him. He’d skip soccer training to be with her. And it soon became apparent within the local Italian community that if you invited one to a function, his or her name also went on the invitation. The fact she was so young, however, caused great consternation amongst their families when they first began dating. Fathers met fathers. Mothers met mothers. Arguments came and arguments went. But through it all they both stood firm. She wanted him and he wanted her and to hell with anybody else. Behind closed doors, both families were over the moon about their kids getting together, but for the sake of their ages and community gossip, it was a good thing for the parents to be ‘seen’ to be doing something about this relationship…‘she being so young of course.’
But tragedy struck soon after Sofia turned twenty-five. The two had been engaged for six months when Sofia contracted ovarian cancer. She was dead in six months. The community was devastated. Tony, a shattered man. As a mark of respect to her, Tony wore