Down Under by James Patterson & Michael White

Author:James Patterson & Michael White [Patterson, James & White, Michael]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Amazon: B00H25FJ20
Publisher: Grand Central Publishing
Published: 2014-08-26T00:00:00+00:00

Chapter 54

“WHY THE HELL didn’t you tell us about this woman?” I said.

Mark and I had walked to a deserted storage area at the back of the building.

“One of my officers caught a pickpocket in Darling Harbour this morning, Craig,” Talbot said. “Should I have told you about that?”

He moved toward me, stepping right into my personal space. But he apparently had a whole routine starting.

“Oh, and that pesky graffiti artist who keeps spray painting a wall just off George Street in the CBD? Got him too. Sorry…forgot to mention—”

“Maybe you think you’re being clever, Mark,” I said calmly. “But we have a deal with the police, don’t we?”

“You have a ‘deal’ with the deputy commissioner.”

“And you have to abide by it.”

Talbot came even closer. He was about my height. We were eye-to-eye.

“This morning I used my professional discretion.”

“No, you didn’t. You did this deliberately, to screw me over. And you just showed up here to continue the fun.”

He shrugged. “Well, yeah, maybe I did.”

“Thanks to you, we lost five hours of precious investigation time.”

He laughed. I could feel his breath. “Just listen to you…you fucking smart-ass. ‘Precious investigation time’! Who the hell do you think you are? You’re a PI. You can fool the deputy commissioner, but not me.”

“I’m very disappointed.”

“You what?”

“I’m disappointed.”

He leaned in, his eyes narrow. “Disappointed! You cocksucker! Who do you think you’re talking to?”

I went to gently push him back. And that was when he took a swing at me.

I blocked his fist, and he stumbled back a step, went for me again, his right arm swinging round.

I had learned something about fighting since I was eight years old. Better yet, Mark wasn’t in the best of shape. I dodged his fist so easily, it was embarrassing—which enraged him more. His left fist came up, slower, but at an oblique angle. It grazed my shoulder. I grabbed his wrist and bent his hand back.

“Don’t, Mark!” I said in his ear.

His breath was on me again, his mouth close to my left cheek. I bent his hand a little more and sensed him shift position, his right knee moving up toward my groin. I turned my body away, and his knee hit me in the hip. It hurt. Still gripping him with my left hand, I swung round, sending a right hook to his face.

He fell back and landed heavily on the floor, blood streaming from a cut just below his left eye. He began to get up.

“Stop!” I hollered, but he wouldn’t listen.

“Asshole! You always have been…!” He growled, got to his feet with surprising speed, and rushed me. I whirled round, elbow out, and he ran straight into it, nose first. I heard the cartilage crunch. He spun, hit the floor again, lay still for a few moments. In the police business we call that “victim supine.”

I heard him groan, crouched beside him, keeping my guard up. He glared at me, blood streaming from his nostrils. His left eye was already puffed up.

I offered him a hand, but he spat at it.

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