Liar Liar - James Patterson Page 0,4

for promotions. He was a tall, thick-bodied battering ram of a man, charging in and taking over when he decided good publicity might be available.

Pops felt a pain in his chest, scratched at the anxiety creeping up his insides.

“Detective Blue is refusing to come in,” Woods said. “To me, that’s not only professionally unacceptable, but it’s deeply suspicious.”

“She’s not in league with Banks.”

“Then why won’t she come in?”

Morris didn’t answer.

“Because she wants to kill him,” Woods said. “If she’s not in league with him, she must be hunting him. That’s premeditated murder. It’s just as critical for us to bring her in to save Banks’s life as it is to investigate her involvement in his past crimes. We don’t condone vigilantism, Morris. I want her found and arrested.”

“That’s a big mistake.” Morris shook his head. “You cannot approach her with force. She will kick arses, Joe. I’m telling you. If you try to bully her, you better prepare to clean up the mess. I’ve been trying to establish contact so I can lure her in. I had two officers early this morning who found her, and they were supposed to call me. Instead they went in, and they’re lucky they didn’t get hurt.”

“All the more reason to get her into custody.”

“No,” Morris said. “I won’t support an arrest warrant without a criminal charge.” He shrugged stiffly. “And you have nothing to charge her with. She was not in league with her brother. She’s not in league with Banks. Right now, she’s an official missing person, and we have concerns for her welfare. End of story.”

“This is not your decision,” Woods said. “There has been a change of command. It’s out of your hands.”

Pops grimaced, turned away.

“I’ll offer a reward,” he said suddenly.

Woods gave a quizzical frown.

“I have a hundred grand in my personal savings account,” Pops went on. “You continue to play her to the media as a missing person, as a good cop we have grave concerns for, and I’ll offer the money as a reward for her whereabouts.”

“This is ridiculous.”

“I guarantee you’ll find her faster that way. If the public thinks she’s dangerous, they’ll run from her. If they think she’s one of us, and better yet, their ticket to a fat pile of cash, they’ll be drawn to her. You’ll get more hits with a reward.”

Woods looked down at the man beside him.

“I’ll hand over the investigation to you, no questions asked.” Pops put his hands up in surrender. “But I’m asking you now not to put out a warrant on Harry. Don’t do that to her. She doesn’t deserve it.”

Woods snorted, unconvinced. “When we get her in, we’ll see what she deserves.”

Chapter 7

DETECTIVE EDWARD WHITTACKER barely made the briefing on time, jogging to the mirrored door to the boardroom and stopping to tuck in a loose corner of his shirt. He hated to be late. Actually felt a burning anger in his throat at the thought of it. He opened the door and walked stiffly to the back of the room, determined not to react to the eyes of other officers following him. As he took a seat, a detective he knew from Robbery turned and leaned over the back of the chair in front of Whitt.

“How’s Barnes?” the younger detective asked. “Still kickin’?”

Whitt felt his face flushing. His former unofficial partner, Detective Tate “Tox” Barnes, was deeply reviled across the Sydney metropolitan police department. His grievous wounding in a fight with Regan Banks was hardly tragic news. Whitt knew it wouldn’t be long before this hatred for Tox, and for Whitt’s partner before him, Harriet Blue, would turn on him.

“Detective Barnes is recovering well,” Whitt said. “He’s not receiving visitors. But the doctors tell me he’ll likely be up and about in a couple of weeks.”

The young Robbery/Homicide detective gave a theatrical sigh. “Well, you know what they say. Only the good die young.”

The officers around them sniggered.

A senior detective came in and began the progress check on the Banks investigation. There were sightings of Banks all over the city to run through. Most were unsubstantiated, panicked calls from elderly women after hearing bumps and thumps in their yards in the early hours. There were a few legitimate, interesting calls about big men with shaved heads acting suspiciously, but they were not clustered in any particular place. It seemed that, like Harry, Regan had gone to ground since his last killings: the vicious slaughter of a mother and her eleven-year-old daughter in a Mosman plastic