Read Online Dark City Blue: A Tom Bishop Rampage by Luke Preston - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Luke Preston
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odour, cheap aftershave and confusion.
He was halfway down the hall when Ellison called his name. By the time he turned, she was almost in his lap.
‘So who do you like for this?’ She was being the cocky cop she had seen on television growing up.
Bishop wasn’t in the mood and headed in the other direction. She trailed behind, but in heels it was hard to keep up. ‘I know you’re working an angle. I want in.’
‘Work the assignment you’re given, Ellison.’
‘Witness reports? What fucking witnesses? They’re all dead.’
‘Looks like you’ve got an easy couple of days ahead.’
‘Let me bring it in with you.’ She motioned back to the observation room. ‘Those guys don’t take me seriously. Not until I do something big.’
He took in her lean body that could have gotten her on the front page of any third-rate men’s magazine. ‘This isn’t SC. You want to be taken seriously? Put some clothes on.’
She looked away self-consciously. Bishop felt bad. ‘Look, you just need to be patient. Wait it out. And the clothes thing: just forget I said it.’
The guilt followed him back to his desk and was pushed out of his mind when the uniform he’d asked to run the plate stepped to him with a handful of stapled pages. ‘The information you requested, detective.’
Bishop thumbed through the first couple of pages: driving record, rap sheet and address for the owner of the piece-of-shit Ford from the SD footage.
Chapter Twelve
The vehicle was registered to an Alison Allen.
DOB: 28/03/1986
HAIR COLOUR: Red
EYE COLOUR: Green
PARENTS: Deceased
OCCUPATION: Unknown
Her sheet told more of the story and nothing unique. Six counts of shoplifting, one count of solicitation.
Her Californian bungalow sat at the bend of a street in what used to be a fashionable suburb. Bishop parked a hundred feet away with the rear of his car facing Alison’s rented dump. Tilting the rear-view mirror so he could see the house, he climbed into the back seat and waited.
He was heading into his fifth straight hour of staring into the ten-inch mirror when there was finally some movement. A clunker of a Ford pulled into the driveway, and it was the same one from the Merc’s SD footage. Smoke pumped from the exhaust, engulfing the entire rear end. Through the haze, a petite woman in Daisy Dukes, cowboy boots, and sporting a head of bright red hair, climbed out and ran into the house. A few moments later, she bounced back out again, back into the Ford and pulled out into the street. Bishop climbed over the front seat, cranked up the engine and followed.
She was a good driver, legal. Kept to the limit. Gave way when she was meant to and never ran a light. She pulled into a fast food joint and grabbed a bite before heading over to the free clinic in St Kilda where she waltzed through the front door like a regular; given that none of the junkies that decorated the front steps bothered her, she probably was. An hour later, she left and was back on the road.
It was getting late. Shadows stretched out over the city and within a few blocks everything was black. Neon lights began to flicker on and the streets were slowly filling with those who preyed on the weak and valuable. Bishop followed the Ford down a series of streets where every other house was vacant, covered with graffiti or a burnt-out shell. Some of the street lights flickered, others didn’t work at all.
The traffic thinned. Bishop flicked off his headlights and cut his speed by half. The Ford moved farther ahead and almost disappeared. Then, its tail-lights brightened as she rolled to a stop outside an all-night service station. Climbing out, Alison ran across the road and into an alley. Bishop pulled into the station and sidled up to the bowser with a good view of the alley.
Alison Allen swung her hips from side to side as she strutted toward an idling Commodore. She climbed inside. Brushed her hair behind her ears, took the gum from her mouth and blew the guy
He was halfway down the hall when Ellison called his name. By the time he turned, she was almost in his lap.
‘So who do you like for this?’ She was being the cocky cop she had seen on television growing up.
Bishop wasn’t in the mood and headed in the other direction. She trailed behind, but in heels it was hard to keep up. ‘I know you’re working an angle. I want in.’
‘Work the assignment you’re given, Ellison.’
‘Witness reports? What fucking witnesses? They’re all dead.’
‘Looks like you’ve got an easy couple of days ahead.’
‘Let me bring it in with you.’ She motioned back to the observation room. ‘Those guys don’t take me seriously. Not until I do something big.’
He took in her lean body that could have gotten her on the front page of any third-rate men’s magazine. ‘This isn’t SC. You want to be taken seriously? Put some clothes on.’
She looked away self-consciously. Bishop felt bad. ‘Look, you just need to be patient. Wait it out. And the clothes thing: just forget I said it.’
The guilt followed him back to his desk and was pushed out of his mind when the uniform he’d asked to run the plate stepped to him with a handful of stapled pages. ‘The information you requested, detective.’
Bishop thumbed through the first couple of pages: driving record, rap sheet and address for the owner of the piece-of-shit Ford from the SD footage.
Chapter Twelve
The vehicle was registered to an Alison Allen.
DOB: 28/03/1986
HAIR COLOUR: Red
EYE COLOUR: Green
PARENTS: Deceased
OCCUPATION: Unknown
Her sheet told more of the story and nothing unique. Six counts of shoplifting, one count of solicitation.
Her Californian bungalow sat at the bend of a street in what used to be a fashionable suburb. Bishop parked a hundred feet away with the rear of his car facing Alison’s rented dump. Tilting the rear-view mirror so he could see the house, he climbed into the back seat and waited.
He was heading into his fifth straight hour of staring into the ten-inch mirror when there was finally some movement. A clunker of a Ford pulled into the driveway, and it was the same one from the Merc’s SD footage. Smoke pumped from the exhaust, engulfing the entire rear end. Through the haze, a petite woman in Daisy Dukes, cowboy boots, and sporting a head of bright red hair, climbed out and ran into the house. A few moments later, she bounced back out again, back into the Ford and pulled out into the street. Bishop climbed over the front seat, cranked up the engine and followed.
She was a good driver, legal. Kept to the limit. Gave way when she was meant to and never ran a light. She pulled into a fast food joint and grabbed a bite before heading over to the free clinic in St Kilda where she waltzed through the front door like a regular; given that none of the junkies that decorated the front steps bothered her, she probably was. An hour later, she left and was back on the road.
It was getting late. Shadows stretched out over the city and within a few blocks everything was black. Neon lights began to flicker on and the streets were slowly filling with those who preyed on the weak and valuable. Bishop followed the Ford down a series of streets where every other house was vacant, covered with graffiti or a burnt-out shell. Some of the street lights flickered, others didn’t work at all.
The traffic thinned. Bishop flicked off his headlights and cut his speed by half. The Ford moved farther ahead and almost disappeared. Then, its tail-lights brightened as she rolled to a stop outside an all-night service station. Climbing out, Alison ran across the road and into an alley. Bishop pulled into the station and sidled up to the bowser with a good view of the alley.
Alison Allen swung her hips from side to side as she strutted toward an idling Commodore. She climbed inside. Brushed her hair behind her ears, took the gum from her mouth and blew the guy
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