Free Private Oz by James Patterson Page B

moved to the edge of her seat.
    “Buckle up, we ain’t staying here,” the man said and fired up the engine. It produced a throaty noise, bit like the dog’s growl.
    “Five nights ago – Friday. I saw a kid that fit the description of that Ho boy in the paper. I found out you guys are investigating. Didn’t wanna go to the pigs … hate ’em, but I felt I ought to say something. Hate the Chink gangs even more … It’s them, right?”
    Mary kept silent.
    “I saw a car pull up about eleven at night. I was with a chick.” He gave Mary a wolfish grin and turned back to the road as they took a corner, passed some ravaged tenement blocks.
    She gave him a hard look. “You saw this from your window?”
    “Yeah, the Chinks were staying in an apartment a few floors beneath mine. I’m on the ninth.”
    “Can you describe the car?”
    He looked affronted. “Course I can, I’m a bloody mechanic, aren’t I ? ’96 Toyota Corolla. Piece a shit. Blue. Faded rear bumper, had an I LOVE MACCAS sticker on it. They dragged the kid from the back. His hands were tied behind him. They were pretty vicious. He was gagged, but protesting, so they kicked him in the balls. I heard him squeal, poor little bastard.”
    “What did the two Chinese men look like?”
    “That’s the thing. I only caught a glimpse.” He spun the wheel hard left. “It was dark, right? The council haven’t fixed the street lights. Besides, those dudes all look the same, don’t they? Usual shit … short, skinny, long black hair. One was wearing a leather jacket. I thought that was odd as it was about seventy-five degrees outside even that late.”
    Mary pursed her lips, looked away at the sidewalk flashing by.
    “You got the number plate?”
    “Oh yeah. I left it for a bit, then I went downstairs.”
    “You did?”
    “Told you. Hate ’em. That’s why I’m ’ere.”
    “Okay.”
    “It was GHT … ah … 23R.”
    “Sure?”
    “Absolutely.”
    “Well, thanks,” Mary responded. “Anything else?”
    “Yeah. I’m pretty sure they were in apartment 16, third floor.”
    “Were?”
    “They left a couple of nights ago,” he said quickly and then pulled the car to the curb, turned in the road and headed back to the park.
    “How do you know that?”
    “Saw ’em, didn’t I?” he glanced over to Mary. She caught a glimpse of the dog, dribble dangling from its chops. The guy accelerated down the street, screeched left and the park lay directly ahead. “I checked with the block manager, Harry Griffin, I know ’im.”
    “You certain?”
    “Of course I’m certain … Christ!”
    “What’s the full address?”
    He paused for a beat, reluctant. Pulled back into the lot. “Newbury House, 17, Canal Street. And that’s all I got.”

Chapter 45
    MARY CALLED DARLENE and arranged to meet her an hour later at the address the guy with the dog gave her. Then she rang Parramatta Council. Within two minutes she’d learned that Newbury House was serviced by a private cleaning company called R and M Cleaners.
    Their address was only half a mile from where she’d parked and the traffic was light. The office was open, and as she approached the door to the left of a closed shop, a small group of Asian women in overalls came down a flight of stairs. A van was parked at the curb. It had R and M Cleaners written on the side.
    Mary paused on the sidewalk to let the women pass and glimpsed the plastic ID each of them wore attached to the straps of their overalls. That’s all she needed. Twenty minutes later and a trip to a passport photo booth and a stationery store in the town center and she had a duplicated ID that would pass a cursory inspection. Then she drove on to Newbury House.
    The block manager’s office stank of cigarette smoke. The manager, Harry Griffin, sat behind a small desk strewn with papers, an overflowing ashtray close to where he had restedhis left elbow. He had the racing paper open on top of the mess.
    “R and M Cleaners,” Mary said