The Tailor's Razor

4. How to Make Gravy

Five minutes later
Alexander Farrelly Criminal Justice Centre, right on the waterfront

The station was a quick walk down the hill, so much so that Taylor was left twiddling his thumbs on one of the wheelchair ramps till Tomas turned up in his bright blue Golf.

"You can't go anywhere without that dog, can you?"

"He's my big black bodyguard, aren't you Mahdo?"

Tomas looked far more amused than he did hurt, "Aren't I big enough for you?"

"Yeah, we'll see how you go in a fight," laughed Taylor.

"I could put you on the ground!"

"It's not me you've gotta worry about, Tomas!" Taylor wrapped his arm around his neck as they stepped into the reception area, pulling in close "It's these cops you've gotta keep an eye on."

"Oh, you don't have to worry about them; I went to school with the Sergeant here," he smiled in his gentle way, asking the boy behind the desk for Daniel.

The whole place would have looked very modern fifty years ago, somewhere hard-bitten PI's might have kept their offices. Venetian blinds cast gaol-bar shadows over Taylor and Tomas, making it all feel very noir. Regardless of the cloud hanging over his shoulders Taylor appreciated the atmosphere the station conjured, pulling out his phone to take a picture.

"Excuse me, sir, you can't photograph in here," whined the boy.

"Don't worry mate, I'll be right," Taylor said out the corner of his mouth, looking for some black and white filter that'd make the picture look sufficiently grainy. He thought about captioning something about Humphrey Bogart till he realised Madison was sure to see his post and he couldn't imagine she'd be very sympathetic to some idiot who was stopping to get a few likes while investigating her father's murder. Hissing in discontent Taylor pocketed the phone, "Well? Are we going to see the Sergeant?"

"Yeah?" Tomas' eyes wandered to the edge of their sockets, curling the corner of his mouth into a bemused smile, "We were waiting for you."

"Don't... don't do this to me, man," Taylor chuckled.

The boy directed them to the command centre, though Tomas knew the way already. It was one of those open-plan work areas with officers pouring over fat manila folders. Behind a desk in the middle of the room sat the Sergeant, bent over a pile of photographs. He looked in pain, and indeed he hugged a pillow in the same way doctors recommend when a person breaks their ribs.

"Danny," beamed Tomas, and though the Sergeant looked happy to see him he apologised that he hurt too much to shake his hand.

"The vest stopped the bullet but snapped my ribs. You should see the bruises," he mumbled before noticing Taylor, "Who're you?"

"Will Taylor; I'm a journo. Journalist, I mean."

"Australian?"

"Yeah man."

"Whack a... shrimp on the barbie, is it?" winked the Sergeant.

"Yeah... something like that," he growled.

"He doesn't mean anything," Tomas assured Taylor, "You think I'm a stirrer; this guy's ridiculous."

"So you two met at the conference?"

Tomas nodded, "Yeah, he's a good guy. Friends with the Governor's daughter."

"Oh," the Sergeant grimaced, "Did you know him well?"