by Alan Carter
‘Thoughts?’ said Hutchens.
‘Money can’t buy me love?’ said Cato.
‘That’s why you’re on the team, Cato mate.’ He tapped his forehead. ‘Deep thinker.’
Hutchens closed the door, sat Cato down and proceeded to tell him what he had in mind.
Lara finished briefing DS Meldrum and began to review some of the footage from mobile phones confiscated from Birdcage patrons. Based on the CCTV and cash till receipts on the door, she estimated there were at least twenty to thirty patrons still unaccounted for. They were working through the list of those they did have but so far nothing of consequence had materialised. Nobody had seen or heard anything. The hard word had been put on the club and the local unis and hostels to rustle up a few more names. In the meantime the mobiles still needed to be checked. DS Graham was standing beside Lara’s chair.
‘Can I help you?’ she said.
‘I was about to say the same.’ He crouched down and helped her unpack the jiffy bags holding the phones. They spread them out on the desk, each in their own labelled Ziploc. Some looked decidedly grubby, many smelled of beer and cigarettes. ‘By my count that’s about forty each,’ he said.
They snapped on rubber gloves and started scrolling through the photo folders. Mostly it was hugs, kisses, pouts, silly faces, and lots of sculling.
‘Ever feel you’re missing out on something?’ murmured Graham.
‘No,’ said Lara.
Santo turned up in one of the shots, in the background. Lara checked the time recorded on the phone. So he was still alive at 11.43p.m. More phones, more poses. No familiar faces, no more Santo. An hour or so later they finished ticking off the list between them and put the phones back in the bag.
‘Fancy a coffee?’ said Graham.
‘Not feeling too sociable today, thanks.’
‘Could be worth your while.’ That look of his, somewhere between a tease and a threat.
‘Santo had pissed off the Trans. It was only a matter of time. Those boys don’t forgive or forget and they don’t take prisoners.’ DS Graham looked around the coffee shop conspiratorially.
Lara licked froth from her swollen top lip. It stung. The faux leather armchair stuck to her back and a fly strolled over an abandoned blueberry muffin on the uncleared table in front of her. ‘Could just as easily have been the bikies, he was supposedly playing them both. Why specifically the Trans?’
Graham looked away, playing enigmatic.
‘Stop pissing about, Colin, you’re either part of this or you’re not. I’m in no mood for games.’
‘No, you’re right. Sorry, Lara.’
His hand closed over hers. She withdrew it. ‘Tell me what makes you think it’s the Trans.’
‘We have a high-level informant. He told us Jimmy Tran planned to do Santo himself, sooner rather than later. They believe Santo was passing on valuable information to the Apaches. Some deliveries had gone missing.’
‘Who’s the informant?’
‘Classified. Sorry.’
Lara shook her head, unconvinced. ‘I don’t blame them for not trusting Santo. He was a liability. He couldn’t sell weed to a bunch of teens in Timezone without getting busted. But passing on valuable information? Bullshit.’
‘Bit harsh. You don’t have the inside run on what he was doing.’
‘No, but you seem to. All I’m going on is available proof, like his arrest record and...’
Graham’s eyes narrowed. ‘And what?’
Personal knowledge.
Instead she said, ‘Gut feeling. So, apart from scuttlebutt, what hard evidence do you have for looking at the Trans?’
‘This has got the Trans written all over it, lashings of blood. They have no rules, no boundaries. We need to start playing the game their way or they’ll walk all over us. Since when do we need “hard evidence” to kick down the doors on people like that?’
‘Since they could afford good lawyers. I don’t know how you do things in Gangs, but I can assure you DI Hutchens will want more before making a move.’ She drained her coffee. ‘He’s been burnt once too often.’
Graham smiled. ‘You’re a hard case. Loosen up a bit and you’d go down well in Gangs, Lara.’ He fished a mobile out of his pocket and scrolled through until he found what he wanted. ‘Recognise anybody?’
It was Santo at the Birdcage, in the background of another backpacker-sculling competition. He had a beer in one hand; the other hand was around the shoulders of a blurry long-haired guy. ‘Where did you get this?’ asked Lara.
‘It was in my pile.’
‘So why didn’t you raise this back in the office?’
‘Walls have ears.’
‘What are you on about? We’re all on the same team aren’t we?’
‘I’d like to think so.’ Graham cocked his head. ‘Lara, we have to be able to trust each other.’
Since when, she wondered? ‘He looks familiar. Who’s the boyfriend?’ she pointed at Santo’s companion, already knowing the answer.
Graham winked. ‘Jimmy Tran.’
‘That shirt of his, white T with black trim, was involved in a scuffle earlier in the evening and may have been responsible for a glassing outside later.’
‘Perfect,’ said Graham.
Cato now knew, on one level at least, why he’d been sidelined from the Rosetti case. Hutchens had plans for him. It must have emerged at the management meeting at HQ yesterday. Cato was, as of half an hour ago, the Fremantle representative on the Safer Streets Task Force, or SSTF; already sniggeringly referred to as the ‘Stiffies’ by his colleagues. Fremantle, Northbridge, Hillarys, Claremont and Leederville were all recent street-violence hotspots garnering unpleasant media scrutiny and something has to be seen to be done. A combination of intelligence, high-profile policing and zero tolerance would apparently send a strong message to the thugs of Boom Town – Stop it or the Stiffies will get you.
Cato smelled a rat. They had a cop-murderer out there, a very public throat-slashing with hundreds of potential witnesses to process and the possibility of organised crime involvement. The case was being run first of all by Lara Sumich, a junior officer with a limited and discredited track record, and now by DS Meldrum, a man nobody had missed while he was on leave. Meanwhile DSC Cato Kwong, a star at least in his own mind, was relegated to the Constable Care Committee. It was a criminal misuse of his talents. But what was behind all this bullcrap? DI Hutchens was obviously the key. Cato knew he’d pissed off his boss by suggesting that Gordon Wellard seemed to be in control of the old cop–informer relationship with Hutchens. Was the DI that petty-minded and vengeful? You betcha. Maybe a nerve had been struck or maybe it was plain old hubris. Either way this was as good a way as any of telling Cato to pull his head in. His mobile pinged. A text from Jane.
Don’t forget Jake, tomorrow 5.30
The Stiffies task force assignment did at least have one upside: it was a low-impact, nine-to-five desk job. It meant nothing could stop him from getting to Cracker Night with his son.
The Tactical Response Group love themselves, thought Lara. The heavily armed men-in-black had done their ninja thing with the armoured car and battering rams on the Tran compound in Baldivis, a semi-rural enclave south-east of Fremantle. The property was a rundown treeless five-acre block, bordered on one side by a freight railway line littered with cans and broken bottles and on the other by a neglected potholed road scarred with burnout marks. ‘Compound’ was the only way to describe it: the place certainly didn’t look homely. A squat characterless prefabricated house with all sources of light and fresh air blocked by bars and reinforced mesh screens. A slab of concrete with a cheap plastic table and four chairs: the entertainment area perhaps? Two outlying sheds, equally ugly. The gates to the property were high, fortified, and electronically operated from inside. Chez Tran bristled with high-tech security and surveillance equipment and, just to make sure, three pit bull attack-dogs – now dead, courtesy of the TRG.
‘This place nee
ds a woman’s touch,’ Lara said, as she strolled past the canine corpses to inspect the prisoners.
They were facedown and handcuffed, each with his own personal ninja standing guard. The two Tran brothers, Jimmy and Vincent, were there plus three of their friends. DS Colin Graham was in a crouch over Jimmy. A safe distance away, DI Hutchens fielded a media doorstop flanked by two of the black-clad TRG for sex appeal. That would keep him occupied for a while. There was a bushfire less than three kilometres away, lit just that morning. It was fanned by hot strong winds from the east. If the southwesterly Freo Doctor didn’t show up soon, that fire would keep on coming right over this part of Baldivis. As Lara neared, Graham finished his chat with Jimmy Tran and stood up to acknowledge her.
‘Not much of turnout,’ Lara said, nodding at the prostrate gangsters. ‘Five weedy blokes. I was expecting a cast of thousands. All scary. This all there is?’
‘These are what you might call the core management team. They tend to subcontract out. Or maybe franchise is a better way of putting it.’
‘Franchise?’
‘They run a very successful loyalty program. The last bloke who crossed them got his hands and feet chopped off with a machete. It was on YouTube for a couple of days. Got over two thousand views before they took it down.’
Lara grimaced and nodded down at Jimmy Tran. ‘He confessed yet?’
‘Thinking it over.’ Graham led her out of earshot. ‘The place is clean, metaphorically speaking anyway: a shame but not unexpected.’ He looked around and sniffed the burnt air. ‘They must keep the drugs and guns elsewhere. Fiendishly clever, the Trans.’
‘Dastardly,’ agreed Lara. ‘But it would be nice to give something to DI Hutchens for agreeing to put on this circus.’
‘Happy snaps on the mobile not enough you reckon?’
Lara looked thoughtful: the media doorstop was heading for a lacklustre wind-up. She went around to behind one of the prone Tran underlings and stamped hard on his ankle. He yelped and cursed and struggled to his knees. Lara positioned herself between the TRG man and his newly wounded charge, enabling the underling time to get fully upright. Game on. All media were now running and pointing in her direction. The man limped towards Lara.
‘That hurt, you bitch.’
Lara took out her gun and ordered him to the ground. DS Graham covered his smile with a hand cupped thoughtfully over his chin. The TRG were circling and shouting orders. The news cameras rolled. The limping man was already handcuffed, he’d be mad to push it any further. Lara levelled her gun at his chest.
‘Do it. Lie down.’
He didn’t. The ninjas were closing in but he seemed oblivious to the heavy weaponry levelled at him. They wouldn’t shoot a handcuffed and unarmed man in front of the TV cameras, would they? Only a few seconds had elapsed since the stamping but it felt longer.
‘Final warning.’
He took another painful step towards Lara. She wondered if she’d miscalculated.
There was a string of Vietnamese from Jimmy Tran and the man did as he was told. Lara found she was kind of disappointed but DI Hutchens was beaming. This guaranteed him some airtime tonight.
The TRG reassumed control, one of them whispering out from under his black helmet like Darth Vader. ‘You made me look like a dickhead there, love. That wasn’t very nice.’
9
Jimmy Tran was flanked by his lawyer: an expensive-looking young man from St Georges Terrace. Damien was his name. It must have been a toss-up: boy band or law school? He fancied himself, big-time. Lara didn’t. She preferred a touch more testosterone and a touch less pout.
‘Why is my client here?’ It was a private school drawl – Christ Church Grammar, Scotch or some such place; house as big as a suburb and Daddy never there. It pushed all the wrong buttons for Lara because it was her world too.
‘Your client is here to assist us with a murder inquiry.’
‘You could have phoned or knocked on the door and asked nicely. A raid by your “paramilitaries” is all a bit...’ he stifled a yawn, ‘melodramatic.’
DS Colin Graham cleared his throat. ‘Your client has a violent criminal history including the use of firearms and he lives in a fortified compound protected by attack dogs. It was a necessary precaution. Now to business.’ Graham shifted his attention. ‘Jimmy, where were you between eight p.m. last Thursday and six a.m. the following morning?’
Jimmy Tran had his long hair tied back in a ponytail. His face was thin, features sharp, complexion fucking awful. He was pushing thirty-five and probably worth a few million but still wore grimy, scabby trackies and a threadbare T-shirt like a teenage street hood in a ghetto. Tran looked at his lawyer as if he didn’t understand the question and perhaps needed a translator.
‘Sorry?’ he said, piling on the accent.
DS Graham grinned. ‘Jimmy, you’ve been here for at least twenty years, you’re as fluent as a Freo wharfie. Let’s stop buggering about and get on with this, eh?’
Jimmy addressed his lawyer again, maintaining the accent. ‘Why they kill my dog?’
‘We kill your dog cause he ugly, like you,’ Graham mimicked nastily. ‘Grow up, mate, the sooner you cooperate the better.’
‘What’s your role on this investigation, DS Graham?’ asked Damien the Lawyer. ‘You’re normally based in Central aren’t you?’
‘None of your business, son.’ Graham switched his steely blues from the lawyer back to the gangster. ‘Jimmy? Where were you?’
‘I was out drinking with some friends during the evening and then went home to bed.’
‘Where were you drinking and who with?’ said Lara.
‘Fremantle, from about eight til midnight: I was with Vincent and Mickey.’ The brother and the underling with the sore ankle.
‘Name the venues.’
‘Newport. Norfolk. Sail and Anchor. And we finished off at the Birdcage.’
‘Anybody there that you knew?’ asked Graham.
‘Your Constable Rosetti.’
‘Constable?’ said Graham.
Tran broke into a chuckle. ‘Nice try, mate.’
Cato finished early and called in to see Shellie Petkovic on the way home. He had nothing new to report, he just wanted to check how she was going. He rapped on the flywire and braced himself for another tense exchange in the gloom of the Homeswest duplex.
‘Hi, how you going? Come in.’ Shellie opened the door and stood smiling in a pair of denim cut-offs and a T-shirt. ‘Coffee?’ she said over her shoulder as Cato followed her inside.
The dark pit of despair was now bright and homely with curtains flung back, flowers on the coffee table, and a freshly vacuumed lemony smell. A CD on low: Dusty Springfield was Wishin’ and Hopin’.
‘Sure. White and none thanks.’
Her bare feet padded behind the kitchen counter and she reached into a cupboard for a jar of instant. Cato held his usual coffee-snobbery in check; this wasn’t the time or place. Shellie’s eyes shone, her black hair loosely tied off in bunches, her skin glowing. Cato uncomfortably realised he couldn’t take his eyes off her.
‘Feeling better?’ he asked dumbly.
‘Much. I’ve decided that arsehole isn’t going to run my life any more.’
‘Right. Good.’
‘I know he’ll never give Bree back. I’ve stopped hoping he will.’ She handed a coffee to Cato, looking straight into his eyes. ‘If he was dead it would make it all easier, no more of his stupid cruel games.’ She stirred her cup. ‘But fantasising isn’t going to get me through this, is it?’
They sat facing each other across the coffee table. Shellie on the couch, legs curled up under her and hands cradling the hot mug. Cato took the cat’s chair while puss-puss glared at him from the windowsill.
‘Her name is Miranda. Had her for eight years. Bree named her.’
‘Miranda the Cat. Got it,’ said Cato.
‘Your business card says “Philip” but I heard Mr Hutchens call you “Cato”. Where’s that fro
m?’
‘A nickname from Academy days. The Pink Panther. Cato was Inspector Clouseau’s Chinese manservant.’
‘Do you mind being called that?’
‘I got used to it. Been called worse.’
Shellie touched her temple. ‘Your head looks a lot better. But I don’t recall giving you that bruise on the other side.’
‘Been fighting again. Perils of the job,’ he smiled.
‘So what happens next?’
‘We keep on digging. If nothing else we’ll aim to take his sick friend off the streets so you don’t get any more packages.’
‘Gordon denied it, then?’
‘For what it’s worth.’ Cato wasn’t sure if he should ask the next question but he did anyway. ‘What did you see in him?’
‘God knows.’ She thought about it for a moment. ‘Love is blind. And stupid.’
‘He was hurting you as early as the honeymoon.’ Cato meant to sound supportive and understanding but it emerged more as an accusation.
She shrugged. ‘He said he was sorry. Every time.’
Cato drank some coffee.
Shellie seemed to read his mind. ‘I don’t know how you do your job. Dealing with all this crap day after day.’ A rueful twist of the mouth. ‘Dealing with fuck-ups like me.’
‘I was meant to be a famous concert pianist but I failed the audition.’
‘You’re only half-joking aren’t you?’
‘Half-jokes are my speciality.’
‘They’re a good way of keeping people guessing.’
The scrutiny was unsettling. Cato drained his coffee and stood to leave. ‘We’ll keep you informed of developments.’ He handed her the cup. ‘And we’ll keep looking for Bree.’
She had a strange look on her face. ‘Thanks. Philip.’
‘Jimmy Tran is taking the piss.’
The interview had run out of steam so they’d adjourned for a while. Lara and Colin had reconvened in the canteen. It was early evening and they shared some sushi from a nearby takeaway. Jimmy didn’t deny he was in the Birdcage that night, didn’t deny being involved in the brief scuffle earlier by the dance floor, didn’t deny that was him pictured on the mobile with Santo. Nor did Jimmy deny that his penis had been in Santo’s mouth. ‘He love me long time,’ he’d pouted in his mock ladyboy persona, the sing-song humour never reaching his eyes. But Tran did deny murdering Santo and shoving a bottle in a stranger’s face later on.