‘You’ve been thinking about it.’
‘I have. How could I not? And I don’t see how you could live with it all these years without knowing the answer.’
‘I didn’t have any choice,’ he said, staring at the TV.
‘What about cops? Could they have done it?’ she said.
‘The place was crawling with police. I don’t see them all, you know, having a huddle and deciding to do that.’
‘No, I mean the first police to arrive, when the alarm went out.’
‘The first police on the scene were two uniformed locals who were let in by workers. The killings were done by then— this was corroborated by the Petrakos workers.’
‘How did the alarm go out?’ she said.
‘A groundsman noticed the rear security door had been snipped open. He went in, followed the trail of destruction, arrived at the billiards room.’
‘Could it have been him, the groundsman?’
‘No. He was thoroughly investigated and cleared with one hundred percent certainty.’
‘Was there someone else in the house? At the time you were there?’
‘It’s possible, of course—four floors, three wings, lots of rooms. It was huge. But there was no evidence of anyone else being in that particular wing at that time. A search was carried out.’
‘Surely that’s the only reasonable explanation,’ she said. ‘There had to be someone else present. Soon as you left, they killed George and Stephanie, took the heroin and disappeared. There would’ve been time for that before the groundsman noticed the back door had been snipped open.’
‘Yes,’ he said. ‘There was time—plenty of time. But who? Who did it? How did they get away so easily? And evade suspicion forever after?’
‘What about the son, Stan?’
‘Stan lived in Carlton at the time. He was questioned, but he had an apparently ironclad alibi—he and a mate and the mate’s girlfriend were watching videos all afternoon. I don’t quite see Stan having the balls for it, and anyway what’s his motive? He had a nice set-up, living off his old man’s fortune, using his clout to keep him out of jail. Why would he want to fuck with that arrangement?’
‘For the inheritance, maybe. Or for the heroin.’
‘Blow away his father and stepmother?’ Shaun shook his head. ‘In any event, he couldn’t be placed at the scene, and that was that. Besides—they had me cold.’
She said,‘I’m no detective,but if someone like Stan Petrakos has an ironclad alibi, I would be extremely suspicious.’
‘Sure. Bastards like him always have people lined up to swear blind they were nowhere near the scene. They learn that when they’re still in short pants. This was his lifelong buddy, a guy named Rick Stiles. His story stood up. So did Stiles and his chick, under pressure.’
Silence, and a reflective sip. Then Shaun said, ‘It’s a tough one to crack.’
‘But you’re gonna crack it, right?’
‘Bet on that.’ This was said with a confidence that he had not felt earlier: her belief in him was having a rebound effect.
‘Catch the bad guys.’
‘That’s all I ever wanted to do,’ he said softly. ‘But I never thought I’d become one too.’
More silence as they stared at the screen. A pop-eyed Larry King, leaning all over his desk, was ‘interviewing’ Hillary Clinton, searching for a tactful way into the issue of her marriage, and her ‘new love’.
‘I love you,’ Jo said in an expressionless voice, her eyes on Larry King. ‘I don’t care what you’ve done or haven’t done. It makes no difference to how I feel about you.’
He slid her down into the bed and held her. She was warm, sensuous, alive and liquid with desire. ‘Could be a bumpy old ride ahead,’ he said.
‘I don’t care,’ she repeated. ‘This is no crazy fling for me. I don’t do this. I’m a good girl. Never strayed outside the marriage bed.’ She added, more thoughtfully: ‘What a fool.’
‘Stick with me and there’s no telling what might happen. It might be nasty, though.’
‘I’m not scared of the future,’ she said, moving nicely under him. ‘As long as you’re in it.’
‘I will be,’ he said, holding her tight, kissing her eyes, feeling her heat and her growing need, then the rapture . . .
In the lobby Wes Ford was on his phone. ‘Grand Hyatt,’ he said. ‘They checked in—with no luggage.’
‘No luggage,’ Fat Man said. ‘Sure?’
‘I’m sure,’ Wes said. ‘Valet took the car away and they just rolled up to reception, all lovey-dovey. Practically humping each other in front of the concierge. She in particular was all over him like an alfalfa patch.’
‘Interesting,’ Fat Man said.‘Hang in there for a while, will you? Watch for any developments.’
Wes sat in a comfortable chair, picked up a newspaper. The Commodore was parked outside in Collins Street, in a taxi rank. Well, bugger it.
In his office Fat Man rubbed his chins. He had already ascertained that the Honda Prelude was registered to Joanna Steer, of Irving Road, Toorak. Putting two and two together he had also worked out that she was the wife of the well-heeled, aristocratic eagle, Raydon Steer QC, of the same address. Now why would the wife of such a successful figure want to carry on a dirty little love affair with a no-account ex-con and ex-cop like Shaun Randall McCreadie? How did she hook up with him, anyway? Fat Man understood that women of a certain stripe were capable of going schizoid over a filthy scumbag, even to the extent of becoming a willing partner in their nefarious exploits. There was a case recently of a goddamn policewoman who ‘turned’ in exactly that way, robbing a hotel and going on the lam with a convicted murderer and rapist, for Chrissakes. There were other well-documented instances too. So Joanna Steer had the hots for McCreadie. Fat Man continued massaging his chins. He couldn’t quite see how yet, but he felt sure this was a fortuitous situation—one he could turn to his advantage. What he needed was to think outside the square, come up with a creative plan.
11
In the end they checked out after only one night, mainly due to the problem of not having clean clothes—not that they wore them, except to arrive and depart. They left behind a trashed room service trolley, empty Moet & Chandon bottles all over the bedroom and an atmosphere that was heavily pungent with sex, to a degree normally associated with rock stars and sportsmen. Jo paid with her Platinum American Express card,for which,she told Shaun with satisfaction, Raydon would have to pick up the tab. ‘I’d love to be there when he sees the account,’ she said. She was enjoying shoving it down his throat. Her stated intention was to use the joint card—which had no credit limit—at every opportunity and make him pay,pay,pay . . .
Shaun was sitting in the courtyard fernery back at Powlett Street with a plunger of fresh coffee in front of him and an L-Z White Pages opened on his knees. When he found what he was looking for he switched on Bernie’s phone and stabbed the numbers. After two rings a voice said, ‘Homicide squad. Senior Detective Gregory speaking.’ It wasn’t a name he knew, but hewouldn’t knowmost of them now. That didn’t necessarily mean Gregory wouldn’t recognise his name, however.
‘I’d like to speak with Dave Wrigley, please,’ he said.
‘And your name, sir?’
‘Shaun McCreadie. I’m, uh . . . an old friend.’ But was he still? He’d find out in a minute. The two men had patrolled a tough inner-suburban precinct together for a year a long time ago, and remained mates when they were both in plain clothes, but was it enough?
‘Wrigley,’ said the characteristically blunt voice. Shaun had to smile—‘Cut to the chase’ had been Dave Wrigley’s catch-cry. It was a joke that also became his nickname: Chase Wrigley. Or it had been, back then.
‘Hello, Dave,’ he said. ‘It’s Shaun.’
‘Shaun—shit. I saw you were out,’ Wrigley said, sounding somewhat fazed, hesitant.
‘Yeah. Few days ago now. How’re things with you, buddy?’
‘Oh, you know, s
oldiering on. Flying the flag.’
Shaun laughed. ‘That’s the way. I heard you made it to homicide—finally.’
Wrigley gave a stifled sort of laugh, not wishing to sound too friendly before he knew what the call was about. ‘Yeah, finally. Hang around long enough and your number comes up.’ There was definitely a defensive tone in his voice now.
Cut to the chase. ‘I was wondering if we could meet for half an hour.’
‘Well, I’m not sure if that’s a good idea, mate.’
For you or me? Shaun said, ‘I can understand your reluctance, not wanting to associate with scum like me. You being a distinguished homicide detective and all.’
That induced a long sigh. ‘Ease up. All right—when and where?’
Shaun had deliberately selected a squalid corner pub in Nicholson Street, Brunswick, where he could be reasonably sure Wrigley would not be known. It wouldn’t do for him to be seen having a cool ale with a rogue cop/notorious criminal, even if he had won his appeal. To most people that meant he’d got off on a technicality. He was tainted forever and a day. So this was neutral territory: Shaun had never been inside it either. He was standing at the bar alongside a ravaged, fifty-something biker in stomped-on leathers and a mangy grey ponytail, and his wraith of a woman, sipping a Toohey’s New and listening to their roughhouse bullshit. She was certainly a heroin addict—there was craving in her every movement. From the man’s speech and stance Shaun could tell he had done his share of time inside. Ex-cons were marked out in a way that was instantly visible to other felons.
Dave Wrigley showed up ten minutes late with a phone clamped on his ear. He was wearing a well-cut navy suit and crisp white buttoned-down shirt, homicide squad tie and a short,snappy haircut—corporate right down to the buffed black shoes. The force’s image had moved with the times and was totally professional these days. On top of that, Wrigley had muscled up enormously since Shaun had last seen him:pectorals, abs, quadriceps and biceps were bursting out all over his frame. Hundreds of hours in the gym lifting weights had transformed a scrawny young street cop into a formidable physical presence with an iron grip.‘Yeah,good,’ he said into the phone as he took Shaun’s hand. ‘Have to go.’ In prison this was the type of handshake a man might use if he wanted to pull you towards him so he could butt you into oblivion. Wrigley had no such intention,however:along with the strong,sustained eye contact, his grip said, I’m taking you as seriously as I mean you to take me. Just don’t forget who’s calling the shots here.
‘You look pretty damn good,’Dave said, shutting the phone and putting it away. ‘No grey hairs, no visible scars.’
Shaun ordered him a beer. ‘Or stripes. Thanks, mate. No new tatts either. But I would never have known you. That body must’ve cost a packet in steroids alone, never mind gym fees. You heading for the Olympic wrestling team?’
Wrigley laughed easily—having once been a good mate gave Shaun certain privileges even now. ‘It’s practically a job requirement these days,’ he said, and drank from his pot of Hahn Light.‘I swim thirty laps and bench-press a hundred and fifty kilograms every morning, just to stay on top. And it does have practical advantages in certain situations.’
‘I’ll bet.’ The old biker and his scrag, apparently catching a whiff of cop, had sidled away.
Watching them retreat Dave said, ‘But I must say it is addictive—like those coffin nails, I guess. Christ, you are in a time warp. Haven’t you heard smoking kills?’ Shaun was igniting a Lucky Strike. He inhaled deeply and blew smoke over Wrigley’s head, in the direction of a Keno screen on which numbered ping-pong balls endlessly popped out.‘Prison is a time warp, mate. It stands still—even travels backwards if you put a foot wrong.’
‘I don’t doubt it. Anyway you can’t sling off. You’re looking fighting fit yourself.’
‘I guess I didn’t have much else to do,’ Shaun said, raising a brow as he brought the beer glass to his lips.
Wrigley gave a slight nod, smiling a bit sheepishly. ‘Yeah, sorry. Listen, I was . . . real pleased for you when I heard the news. Seriously.’
Shaun smiled.‘So was I, mate. Seriously. Takes some getting used to again, this freedom caper. It’s a whole new shooting war out here now.’
‘Yeah, I guess. The job’s sure different. A lot’s changed since . . .’
‘Since I went away.’
‘Yeah. Since you went away.’
‘Eleven years is a fucking long haul,’ Shaun said. ‘There wasn’t one short year amongst it.’
They drank, looking at each other, and Shaun could feel Wrigley sizing him up: What does he want from me?
‘So, what are your plans?’ Wrigley said.
‘Find my way around. Catch up. Then I want to put a few things right—if I can.’
‘Put a few things right,’ Wrigley said.
‘Yeah.’
‘You mean, things that happened eleven years ago?’
‘That’s it.’
Wrigley sipped thoughtfully, but his deep brown, attentive eyes never left Shaun’s, or blinked at all. ‘You really feel the need to revisit all that territory?’
‘I do, yeah. Reckon I owe that much to Mitch and Andy.’
‘They’re long gone, mate. It’s all over. You’re free now. You survived. Let it go. Move on.’
‘That’s the sensible thing to do, Dave, I agree. Move on. I want to. But I can’t—not while I’ve still got this . . . shadow hanging over me. It isn’t as if I’ve come back from the war, mate. There are no medals on my chest. You have to see it from where I sit. We were fucked over good and proper, you know that. And believe it or not, we didn’t do those murders. I need to clear the slate before I can leave it alone. I’ve spent a heap of time stewing on it. That can drive you nuts.’
‘Understand. I don’t see what you can do at this stage, though. The case is still technically open, but I doubt if it’s active any more. It’d require a death-bed confession to rev up any fresh interest.’
‘What about the cold-case unit?’ Shaun said. He was referring to a specialist team assigned to investigate old, unsolved homicides—with some success.
Wrigley said, ‘There are approximately two hundred and eighty unsolved murders, and the cold-case unit is investigating a handful—the ones they believe they have a chance of cracking. I can tell you now the Petrakos deal is not one of them.’
‘Yeah, well. It should be.’
‘Maybe,’ Wrigley said.‘But I have a feeling most of the cops involved in that case believe they had the right people all along.’
‘They didn’t.’
Wrigley shrugged. ‘The answer will probably never be known—not for sure.’
‘What about Vincent O’Connell?’
Wrigley was taken aback. ‘O’Connell—the cop?’
‘Yeah, the undercover cop who vanished. Is the cold-case crew looking into that?’
Wrigley said, ‘There isn’t even any proof that he’s dead.’
‘That’s pathetic, Dave.’
‘No body, no case. What can you do?’ He made a helpless gesture.
Shaun gave an empty laugh. ‘Yeah. And Christopher Dale Flannery is alive and living it up on the Isle of Capri with . . . Lord Lucan.’
‘Okay. But there’s no evidence, no prime suspect.’
‘Christ. What about that drug dealer, Morris Salisbury?’
‘He was looked into. It didn’t pan out. He simply denied all knowledge.’
‘He would, wouldn’t he? That bastard should’ve been nailed to the wall years ago.’
‘You’ve been away from the job a long time, mate. In the old days you could fit up the suspect, no problem, or shoot him, but ethical standards are much more exacting now. Everything is more community-oriented. Your old unit is now the armed offenders squad, because it sounds less threatening.’
Shaun said, ‘It also sounds ridiculous—as if it’s a squad for armed offenders.’
Wrigley laughed. ‘I must admit I’ve never thought of it tha
t way, but there’s a certain ring of irony in it.’
When they’d swallowed some more beer, Shaun said, ‘Is he still around—Salisbury?’
‘He’s still around.’
‘Active?’
‘Guys like him are always ready to deal if the chance comes up. But I heard a bit of a story that he’s dropped the ball.’
‘What’s that mean?’
‘Cracked up. Word is, he’s gone mental, mate. In and out of the nuthouse.’
‘Couldn’t wish it on a nicer bastard. And his good mate, former Superintendent Leon Turner?’
‘Old “Brick” Turner? Retired up the New South Wales coast somewhere, last I heard.’
‘Turner was rotten through,’ Shaun said. ‘And my feeling is he knows what happened to Vincent. May even have been personally involved.’
‘He was close to Salisbury because that was his job.’
‘He took it a little further than that, Dave. It was good cover, but he was Salisbury’s man, bought and paid for.’
Wrigley said,‘Shaun, believe me. I know you were a mate of Vincent’s, but there’s no hard evidence, nothing to be done. You have a mindset, and I see why. It all belongs to a previous chapter—and I agree it wasn’t a proud one. Present company excepted, of course.’
That brought a pitiful, hollow laugh.
Moment of truth. ‘As a matter of fact there’s a small favour you can do for me.’
Wrigley shifted slightly. ‘Uh-huh. And what might that be?’
Shaun produced a slip of paper and slid it in front of the other man. ‘It’s just a phone number, Dave. That’s all. I need to find out who is at the other end of it.’
Wrigley studied the paper, but didn’t touch it. ‘You’re pushing the envelope, mate. It’s privileged information, as you know.’
‘It’s a simple thing. You can do it in a few seconds. You don’t leave your signature anywhere, and there’ll be no repercussions. Give me what I want and you hear no more about it.’
‘Sure it’s a simple thing. But what you might do with the information concerns me.’
‘It won’t concern you at all. You’re not connected. That’s a cast-iron guarantee.’
Blindside Page 13