A Murder Is Denounced Read online

  The Detective Joanna Best Mysteries

  Book 6

  A Murder is Denounced

  Cenarth Fox

  Copyright © Cenarth Fox 2019

  All rights reserved.

  This is a work of fiction. The names, characters, businesses, settings, events, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

  Apart from fair dealing for the purposes of research, study, criticism or review as permitted under the Copyright Act, no part of this book may be reproduced, or stored, or transmitted in any form or by any means, without the express written permission of the publisher.

  Cenarth Fox has asserted his right to be identified as the author of this work in accordance with the Copyright Act 1968.

  First published in 2019 by Fox Plays

  www.foxplays.com

  www.cenfoxbooks.com

  Cover design by Oliviaprodesign

  ISBN 978-0-949175-40-3

  Dictionary of Australian words

  Here are some of the mainly Australian words/sayings in this novel.

  biscuits - cookies

  blower - telephone

  blue - a mistake or a fight

  bollocking - a severe reprimand

  brown bread - rhyming slang for dead (UK)

  carks (carked) it - dies

  CBD - Central Business District, Downtown

  Chinese Whispers - game called Telephone in the USA

  Coat hanger - nickname for Sydney Harbour Bridge

  footy - Australian Rules football

  full stop - period

  GST - Goods and Services Tax, UK’s VAT

  hanging black crepe - telling bad news as it is, no sugar coating

  IBAC - Independent Broad-Based Anti-Corruption Commission

  jocks - male underpants

  kays - kilometres

  Man from Ironbark - character in a Banjo Paterson poem

  Mummy/Mum - Mommy/Mom

  nark - annoying person or thing, to annoy

  nature strip - grass/lawn between road and sidewalk/footpath

  pit stop - toilet break

  sangers - sandwiches

  Shanks’s pony - on foot, walking

  sheila - a female, often a girlfriend

  shellacking - in sport it’s a heavy defeat

  Sin City - Sydney, Australia

  socks - sox

  Springvale - Melbourne suburb with vast cemetery

  tacker - toddler, young child

  torch - flashlight

  Triple 0 - emergency number, 911 in the USA, 999 in the UK

  turps - turpentine, the grog

  tyres - tires

  wedge - an amount of money (UK)

  For

  Kevin Trask and Kevin Holman

  Supporters of Theatre and Magpies

  Table of Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  More Novels

  Meet the Author

  Chapter 1

  IT WAS CALLED THE COCAINE CESSNA. The plane flew so low and so fast over the Venezuelan jungle, a tribe of angry monkeys protested to the World Wide Fund for Nature. But for drug dealers, the nine-seater aircraft was perfect. It helped them avoid radar, cops, the Drug Enforcement Agency and armies. The Columbian cocaine was flown to a homemade runway in Venezuela, then, on a fast boat, it sped up to Florida. There it was dumped overboard at an agreed time and place on a moonless night before finally being fished out of the sea. Yessir, the floating nostril-eating powder made it to the United States.

  Occasionally the drug runners screwed up and the coastguard won the lottery. When that happened, heads rolled within the Mob, and the DEA officers took selfies with the captured contraband. Of course everyone knows 93% of the cocaine leaving Colombia arrives safely on the streets of Miami, Manchester or Melbourne, and in the war on drugs, the cops cop a shellacking.

  The Cocaine Cessna did a flyover to check the situation. The guy in the control tower was on a lunch break. The control tower! What control tower? What runway? It was a bulldozed strip in the dense rainforest where even 4WD vehicles tied a white flag to their aerial. Half of Venezuela is forest, and leaving aside the Howler Monkeys and their mates, this part of the jungle was sparsely populated; no humans.

  The pilot was “Punky” Brewster, a seasoned airman running crack for the Mob. His sole passenger was Vladyslav “Vlad” Davydenko, a former army vet from Eastern Europe, now a US citizen, and a happily married family man. The Mob values family.

  Vlad was the go-between. Fabio in Colombia made the stuff, and Camilo in Florida bought it. Meet Vlad the middle man.

  He scanned the ground with powerful binoculars and saw men waiting for the drugs. Their 4WD vehicle was parked on an overgrown track, God knows where. ‘That’s them, Punky. Take her down.’

  The pilot made a cracking living flying coke. He flew the snow in and the cash out. This was the key exchange. Eric was on the ground with the folding stuff, Vlad in the air with the snorting stuff. They did a swap. Eric took the drugs to the US. Vlad took the cash to Colombia.

  The Cessna needed an expert pilot. The homemade runway was surrounded by virgin rain forest, more dense than dense. Take three steps into this jungle, if you can, and you’re lost.

  In favourable weather, the Cessna needed at least 2000 feet to land and take off. Forget the dangers of being caught running drugs. One pilot error and you scored a rainforest burial. Punky was good but as the plane came in over the treetops, Vlad felt his gut tighten.

  On the ground, the men with the money turned their backs as dirt, leaves and twigs swirled around.

  Punky made his usual expert landing, turned the plane and taxied for take-off. Vlad pushed the bundles of cocaine to the door.

  Once upon a time, ships carried tons of the stuff but those bloody coastguard narks got lucky a few times, and so drug lords reduced their risks. Vlad’s US boss, Camilo Gonzales, settled for smaller packages and today’s lot totalled a mere 300 kg, enough, mind you, to keep Cam in socks and underpants till Thanksgiving. This delivery of coke was worth a mere 10 million on the streets.

  Punky kept the engines idling. This was no stopover where a cab took the crew into town to the nearest Travelodge. It was dump the drugs, grab the cash, and piss off—pronto.

  The plane door opened and Vlad shoved out the first bundle of coke. He looked at the money man he’d dealt with many times before. Eric was a Texan with skin handcrafted by the sun. Taciturn was Eric; a grunt about as garrulous as he got. He opened the first attaché case. Bundles of bills were crammed in like sardines. He tried to make eye contact with Vlad who was too busy to notice.

  ‘Have you counted it, Eric?’ yelled the grinning Vlad as another bundle of cocaine landed on Venezuelan soil.

  The second attaché case was opened, and Vlad saw another pile of 100 dollar bills. H
e grinned again, pushed out the final bundle, started to step forward to collect the cash but froze because Eric went mad.

  He spoke. The tough Texan with a penchant for privacy went all talkative. It wasn’t so much Eric’s verbosity but rather what he said and how. A theatre director would have asked for better projection but the audience—Vlad and Punky—certainly suspended disbelief.

  ‘It’s a trap,’ was all Eric got to say as weapons behind him opened up. Eric pitched forward, Vlad fell back and Punky hit the throttle. The Cessna jerked forward. Vlad flattened himself on the floor and Eric was already flattened on the dirt runway now turning red.

  Bullets sprayed the plane as it gathered speed. It was like aiming at the side of a barn. Punky had landed and taken off in some pretty hairy situations but this was a doozy.

  The Cessna was not the fastest at getting airborne. This one didn’t.

  Punky copped a bullet or three; the plane swerved hard left, ploughed into the brick wall of a jungle and stuck its nose in the air. The gunfire stopped only when the plane exploded. The executioners chewed grass as the plane spewed heat and bits of metal. The only good news being the cash and the coke were safe.

  Everything was collected and the crooks who robbed the crooks set off through the jungle to their vehicle and then to the beach. They steered well clear of the remains of the plane and its medium-rare, barbecued occupant—singular.

  When the plane hit the jungle and stuck its nose in the air, Vlad the Invincible was thrown out, copped a mouthful of pristine Venezuelan vegetation, and slithered into the jungle. He stayed there. The flames roared above him. He lay still and only when the voices of his attackers fell silent did he lift his head. He could have murdered a beer.

  He thought about Eric and Punky. Talking was tough due to his leafy lips and pointless as Punky and Eric were deaf, permanently.

  Great. If I survive the crocs, jaguars, monkeys, snakes, spiders and sloths, how the hell will I survive the Mob? “It was like this, boss. These pricks started shooting and …” Nah, f’get it. Cam and Fabio will never believe me. I am a dead man. The only way to stop being killed by the Mob is to kill myself. Where’s me gun?

  Back in Florida, Cam grew anxious. Fabio less so because of the upfront payment in case of a disaster such as just happened. Cam knew the drop-off time. He expected a coded message confirming the successful swap. Niente. Eric and Vlad went all shy. No message.

  Camilo Gonzales was new style Mafioso. He hated the malarkey about gangsters loving blood, bullets and broads. Cam was a member of various clubs and professional associations. He was a Freemason for Chrissake. He owned six retirement villages each with a wing for seniors holding a hot ticket to heaven.

  Who would have thunk it, the Mob running healthcare? And why not? Going legitimate was all the rage. There were benefits. Cam could hold his head high in the local golf club. He could make a killing out of killing—legitimately of course as senile seniors were “helped” on their way. “We need the beds, y’know.” And there was always the added bonus of dabbling in good old-fashioned crime on the side. Cocaine.

  Drugs were a sound investment. The demand for coke was on the rise. Vast areas of South America were becoming coca plantations. Climate change? What’s that? Rip up the Amazon Basin and fill y’boots, my son.

  Of course there were risks from the guys in white hats but Cam rode his luck—until now—and to lose both cash and coke was a real kick in the cashews. And it all happened because one of his trusted henchmen double-crossed him. Vlad, you are a very naughty boy. Or was he?

  In fact Vlad was a victim with Cam the villain. The drug lord shot himself in the foot—feet. Cam caused the jungle hijack and massacre.

  Shipping large quantities of cocaine from South America to the United States is a complex operation. Drug lords need staff; lieutenants for decision making and worker bees for muscle.

  One of Cam’s worker bees was Kris Palmer, a twentysomething lad who dropped out of Florida State University wanting a lot of money yesterday. Drug running was his route to instant wealth. Working for a drug lord paid damn well so Kris joined Eric’s crew racing up the coast of Venezuela in a fast boat.

  But despite being far from home and living the criminal life, Kris kept in touch with his Mom and her folks, his family. Pop was his best pal and Kris was shattered to hear the old guy suffered a stroke and landed in a nursing home. Kris rang home. The news was good. Pop recovered enough to get up and walk and talk. Kris made plans to come home and see the old guy.

  Kris rang a week later. ‘What?’ he screamed at his Mom.

  ‘I’m so sorry, son, but your Granpaw passed last night.’

  ‘But you said he was recovering. You said he was getting better.’

  ‘He was,’ blurted Mom, herself now crying. ‘We can’t believe he could go so sudden like.’

  Kris took the news real bad. He wanted to know what happened. He investigated and discovered the nursing home where his Pop resided was one of several owned by his boss Eric’s boss, one Camilo Gonzales. Kris kept digging and heard rumours of certain practices at Cam’s nursing homes. Extra doses of morphine were allegedly given to those who were deemed to be close to death’s door. It was the “we need the bed” policy passed from Camilo to his managers. It only took one conscience-free nurse and a doctor willing to sign the death certificate to make the whole thing legal, unsuspicious and definitely economically beneficial—for Camilo Gonzales.

  But it got worse. Worse? Yes, because murder was only part of Cam’s wickedness. He instructed his lawyer and managers to coax patients into making a “small” bequest to the nursing home which cared for them in so loving (read lethal) way. Grieving relatives were outraged.

  ‘But Mrs Jones,’ explained the manager, ‘your dear father insisted on thanking the staff who cared for him by making this bequest in his will. Who are we to go against his wishes?’ Who indeed?

  Meet Camilo the bastardo.

  Kris fumed and planned revenge against Camilo. He knew other drug lords shipped drugs so he offered one of Cam’s rivals a chance to smash the man who he believed murdered his Pop.

  Kris pretended he was double-crossing for money, and took a nice wedge. For that he divulged details of when the cocaine was moved, the plane, pilot, middleman, destination, runway, ETA, the lot. Kris legitimately cried off the fatal run having a Florida funeral to attend. Cam’s rival, fellow drug lord Larry “The Bitch” Connolly, ran the show.

  Eric and his team were surprised and killed with Eric spared to maintain the ruse. Then he and Punky were slaughtered. Had Vlad been killed, Cam would have had no obvious guilty party. Vlad’s luck ran out when he has wrongly blamed for the double-cross.

  Cam’s kill-the-old-folk policy meant Kris’s Pop died from a morphine overdose and boy, did that come back to bite the Mafioso.

  With the murderous crooks gone, Vlad crawled out of the jungle. The plane smouldered and a whisper of smoke wafted up from Punky’s charred remains. The lifeless Eric sunbathed on the runway. Both were listed on tonight’s menu for the local wildlife. Being well-done, Punky’s spare ribs were on the Specials’ board.

  Vlad searched the plane. In the blackened fridge he found apples, cheese and beer. He stuffed his pockets. He explored where the killers once stood and found cigarette butts and footmarks—not only thieves and murderers but litterbugs. He looked to the heavens. The Sun was sliding below the trees leaving about an hour of daylight. It was close to impossible attacking the jungle by day. By night it was impossible.

  The murderous thieves escaped along a path marginally better than the jungle. Vlad followed. With no idea where he was going, as soon as he couldn’t move, he knew he was off the path.

  It got darker. Different animal sounds spooked him. He dared not stop. Resting on the jungle floor would be petrifying. Climbing a tree would be dangerous and worse. What’s a nice snake like you doing in a place like this?

  As his desire to go on faded, he stumbled upon the so-called
road where the 4WD vehicle had been parked. He looked along the track and in the gathering gloom saw nothing but jungle. He was somewhere but nowhere. Darkness crept up behind him. His gun on the plane was destroyed. With it, he’d be safe; not to shoot the wild animals but himself.

  Then he heard a new sound. It was the sea, waves breaking on the shore. He couldn’t see it but to reach it meant attacking the dense, almost impenetrable jungle. How far was the ocean? He had no idea.

  It was either walk on the overgrown 4WD track and hope it led to somewhere safe before nightfall, or attack the jungle to reach the sea he could only hear. Some choice.

  He fancied a swim so stepped into the jungle and grabbed vines. His arms and legs were scratched, his face cut. Spiders dropped on him. Monkeys sprang from branches above, screeching at the intruder. He felt weak. Darkness fell but the sound of the sea got louder.

  He tripped and fell, not landing on the jungle floor because the undergrowth was so thick. He looked up and in the darkness saw the eyes of a snake poised to strike.

  ‘Jesus,’ screamed Vlad and ran. Well, tried to run. But where? Anywhere. A fanatical desire to survive drove him on and it worked as he crashed out of the jungle and collapsed on the beach.

  When Cam heard nothing, he sent men to investigate. It was two days before his goons hacked their way into the jungle and found the burnt out remains of the plane. The grisly discovery meant the pilot and the paymaster were accounted for.

  ‘Two bodies?’ screamed Cam, not caring about his language on an open line. Listening, the FBI agent took notes.

  To Cam it was obvious. Bastard Vlad pulled a sting. He killed the pilot and bagman, and fled with the drugs and the money. Cam almost self-combusted. He created a new project. Whoever finds, tortures and kills Vladyslav Davydenko will earn a cool million. Bring me the head of John the Baptist. Spread the word, boys.

  Get Vlad.