by Alan Carter
‘Cocky for sure,’ said Graham. ‘He knew Santo was a cop and doesn’t mind letting us know that he knew.’ Graham squeezed a little plastic fish full of soy sauce onto his sushi. ‘Somebody invented these soy fishes and a factory somewhere makes them, China probably. Keeps all these people in a job. How good is that?’ He lobbed it into a bin. ‘We’re still a long way from pinning this on Jimmy. Any ideas?’
Lara ran her hand along his thigh. ‘Maybe we can conjure up some magic from somewhere.’
‘Abracadabra,’ he said.
Cato was at home playing some Schubert on the Kawai but his fingers felt like they belonged to someone else: maybe a tone-deaf brickie with arthritis. He rested his left hand on the bass keys, noticing again the naked space where his wedding ring used to be. It had taken nine years for Jane to give up on his working hours, his obsessions and emotional distance. He hadn’t even seen it coming, too busy feeling sorry for himself when the bosses scapegoated him for a murder case frame-up. Bygones were bygones. Now he was back in the job and he had access to his son. Jane wasn’t coming back but he knew there was someone out there somewhere waiting for him to come into her life. Must be. And next time Cato would be different.
So what had brought about Shellie’s transformation? One day the mystery package – cruel and taunting, Shellie the despairing victim. The next, a new-improved walking-on-sunshine Shellie. Medication or meditation? Whatever, the effect was electrifying.
Are you sniffing around my Shellie?
Wellard, not your average raging sociopath it seemed. No, he was apparently gifted with prescience and telepathy.
She likes you. I can tell by the way she looks at you.
Maybe Wellard really could read the dark souls of men and women. Cato doubted it though. Sexual attraction would have been the last thing on Shellie’s mind that day as she prodded the ground searching for the corpse of her daughter. But what about since then? Shellie’s eyes across the rim of a coffee cup. Was the new-found chemistry real or was it a poisoned seed planted by Wellard? Either way it was wrong, Cato needed to watch his step and his hormones or risk a shipload of professional grief. He also needed to get some sleep.
Madge started barking. Cato was in a mood to kill that bloody dog. That’s what happened when you daydreamed about psychos. He closed the piano lid and went out into the street: the moon was three-quarters full and a breeze tickled the leaves in the trees. The lights were off next door. Mr and Mrs Madge must be out again. Cato picked some fist-sized bits of plaster out of the builder’s skip across the road and opened the side gate leading to Madge’s backyard. The terrier’s barking was at fever pitch as the intruder ventured further into enemy territory. Cato threw a lump of plaster at the dog but missed. Madge scampered away, yelping and barking furiously. Cato threw and missed again. He steadied his aim for one last try. The backyard light suddenly blazed and a naked, semi-erect Felix stepped out onto the patio with a hockey stick held high.
‘What the hell do you think you’re doing?’ said Felix.
10
Tuesday, January 26th.
Cato woke up sweating. No, it hadn’t been a dream: he really did have a naked encounter with his neighbour last night. Cato had looked Felix straight in the eye – he didn’t want to look anywhere else – as he concocted a story about seeing off a prowler. Mrs Madge also made an appearance in a rumpled negligee, black with a scarlet bow. From the recesses of his mind Cato remembered her name, Janice. Felix seemed sceptical about the prowler tale but he was not going to call the police, this time, because he’d never really trusted ‘The Pigs’ and besides, with Cato being kind of ‘Asiatic’, there was no way they’d give him a fair go. Cato had thanked him and they all went to bed – their own.
Cato and Jake were going to the fireworks on the Esplanade tonight, come hell, high water, or even a Safer Streets Task Force meeting. Jake would be dropped off by his mum at 5.30. Cato needed to clear the decks at work and be firm with his boss, his colleagues, and particularly himself about keeping to the arrangement. This was the new Cato: promises made were promises kept. Family first, work second. Got it? The best way to keep things simple for the next few hours was to nod and smile and say yes to whatever Hutchens wanted, within reason. Cato swilled the remains of his coffee and headed for the door.
At the police station he nodded good morning to Lara Sumich and Colin Graham, hunched together in a low murmur. DI Hutchens was in his office on the phone. Around the cop shop there was always an air of anticipation on Australia Day: a semi-war footing in anticipation of a busy night locking up drongos. Cato logged on to see what was new. There was nothing on the forensics on Shellie’s pendant and package: it wouldn’t be high on their priority list. Through the partition window, Cato could see Hutchens pacing back and forth, deep in thought. That usually didn’t bode well. Cato tried his best not to catch Hutchens’ eye.
‘Detective Senior Constable Kwong.’
Too late. ‘Boss?’
‘In here.’
Cato wandered in and put on his helpful and obedient face.
Hutchens waved in the general direction of his phone and computer. ‘Another night of stabbings, glassings, and general mayhem. What’s happening with Safer Streets?’
‘I’m onto it, boss. Just collating some local intelligence stats with a view to having a comprehensive status update ready for the first meeting.’
Hutchens seemed taken aback. ‘Good man.’ He reminded Cato of an old half-blind dog that knows you’ve got a ball behind your back. A bit weary, suspicious, yet interested in possible developments. ‘Any forensics on Shellie’s mystery package?’
‘Nothing yet but I’m chasing it. Anything else?’
‘No, but we should have a look at Wellard’s known associates. See who the postman could be.’
‘I’ll get onto it, boss.’
‘You feeling okay? Not crook or anything?’
‘Never better.’
‘You’re not fooling anyone, you know.’
‘Sir?’
‘All this polite, helpful, obedience shit.’
‘Right, boss.’
Cato retreated. Hutchens had obviously given up on chasing the ball, decided to nip an ankle instead.
‘How’s your ankle, Mickey?’ said Lara.
‘Gofuckyerself,’ said Mickey.
‘That’s not very nice, I only asked.’
Mickey Nguyen had a legal aid lawyer, not the smart expensive young man his boss used. The lawyer’s name was Rebecca, she had lots of blonde frizzy hair and tired eyes. ‘Is Mr Nguyen going to be charged with anything, Detective Sumich?’
‘At this stage he’s assisting us with our inquiries.’
‘You brought in the TRG, handcuffed him, assaulted him,’ a frown in Lara’s direction, ‘held him overnight, and he was only “assisting you with inquiries”? What do you do to people you really don’t like?’
‘Sorry,’ said Lara. ‘I didn’t see his foot. Just stumbled, you know?’
‘So he is free to leave at any time?’
‘Of course.’
Mickey started limping towards the door.
‘How’s your old man?’ said DS Colin Graham.
Mickey turned. ‘Fuck you, too.’
Graham opened a file in front of him. ‘Your dad’s very sick but he’s not due for release for eighteen months.’
‘Is there a point to this, Detective?’ said Rebecca. ‘If not then it appears my client would like to go home.’
‘Cancer isn’t it? Days are numbered I hear. Your mum must be heartbroken, Mickey.’
‘Detective?’ An icy warning from the lawyer.
‘If I had my way he’d be released on humanitarian grounds,’ said Graham.
‘This could be viewed as unfair pressure or inducement.’ Rebecca tapped her pen lightly on her legal pad. ‘If the situation is as you describe, then Mr Nguyen’s father is likely to be released on humanitarian grounds anyway.’
Graham shook his head. �
��Minister’s discretion. Organised Crime’s advice has been that he is a serious risk to public safety. Who knows what or who’s on his bucket list.’
Mickey hadn’t taken his eyes off Graham. ‘What are you offering?’
‘I’m not at liberty to offer anything Mickey, that would be unfair pressure or inducement, but circumstances and priorities change. It’s a very fluid situation.’
Mickey sat down again. ‘What do you want?’
Willagee must have been one of the suburbs the Boom forgot. Cato drove past houses scarred with graffiti, the rusted hulks of abandoned cars moored in litter-strewn driveways. He’d come along North Lake Road past Moorhouse Street, once home to WA’s very own infamous husband and wife murder team. According to DS Meldrum, whose kids went to the local school, the address of Mr and Mrs Birnie’s house of horrors had become a tiebreaker question at community quiz nights.
To be fair, even Willagee was being kissed here and there by the side winds of prosperity. Some houses had been renovated, some driveways hosted the obligatory turbo ute or Prado. And given the proximity to Fremantle, it was only a matter of time before the real estate prospectors turned a sparkle in the seam into a fully-fledged gold rush. Until then, Cato would curb his enthusiasm.
The police database reckoned that Gordon Francis Wellard was Johnny-Few-Mates. His known associates could be counted on the fingers of a clumsy chef’s hand. Two were dead, from an overdose and car crash respectively, and another was in Karnet Prison Farm, no doubt abusing the chooks. That left an old girlfriend and meth partner, Karina Ford. Cato wondered if she’d changed her name by deed poll, some people were like that about their cars. Her driving licence record, suspended as it was, gave an address in Greig Street, Willagee.
Cato pulled up outside the house where Ms Ford lived. It looked respectable enough, the grass was mown and the windows were intact. Willagee was like that: your neighbours could be honest aspirant battlers on one side and drug-fucked dropkicks on the other, with serial killers over the road.
A heavily pregnant teenager left the house pushing a stroller with a sleeping toddler. Her rat-tailed boyfriend was doing his best to wake the kid up by constantly bouncing his basketball. He was twitchy and hyper and possibly on something.
‘Fuck you looking at?’ they both said to Cato in passing.
He ignored them and knocked on the locked security screen.
‘Don’t need any,’ said the smoky voice from inside.
‘Not selling any,’ said Cato flashing his ID. ‘Police.’
‘Done nuthin’,’ said Karina from the forbidden gloom.
‘Good,’ said Cato. ‘Open up and talk to me or I’ll stand here all day looking Chinese.’
‘I’m not prejudiced, I’ll ignore any bastard.’
Sometimes Cato missed Hopetoun, the pleasant everyday exchanges of simple country folk. ‘Karina, you heard from Gordon Wellard lately?’
The screen door unlatched and Karina blinked at the daylight. She was wearing tight denim shorts and a singlet that might have looked good on her twenty years ago. ‘Why?’ she said through a curl of cigarette smoke.
‘Let me in and I’ll tell you.’
‘Suit yourself.’ She walked back inside and Cato joined her in the fug of cigarettes, old mull, and something chemical. Jerry Springer was on TV: two reasonably presentable middle-aged women were locked in mortal combat over the affections of an obese smirking twenty-year old in a turned-back baseball cap. Karina muted them. ‘Freaks.’
‘Thanks,’ said Cato. He nodded his head back in the direction of the departing teenage parents. ‘Yours?’
‘She is, he isn’t. What’s it to you?’
‘Just being chatty. Going to be a nanna again soon then?’
‘Yeah. Can’t wait. Waddyawant?’
‘Do you hear much from Wellard these days?’
‘Why would I? He’s locked away. Good riddance.’
‘Not friends any more then?’
‘I was his last shag before he got arrested. We made soulful love and did drugs for three weeks. No big deal. We all move on.’
‘Was he ever violent with you?’
Karina’s tongue probed something in her teeth. ‘That any of your business?’
‘No. But was he?’
‘Nah. Wouldn’t dare.’
‘Why?’
‘Even scabby street mongrels know when to snap and snarl and when to just sniff your bum and keep things friendly.’
A mind-boggling image: Cato shook himself free of it. ‘So you don’t keep in touch?’
‘Already said that. What’s he done now?’
‘His ex-wife, Shellie, got a package in her letterbox. Stuff to do with her missing daughter.’
Karina stubbed her cigarette into an ashtray and dug out another. ‘Poor cow. You reckon I helped him with that sick shit do you?’
‘What sick shit’s that then?’ said Cato.
She squinted at him. ‘He thought it was funny, taking the piss about her missing kid. I told him to get a life.’ She laughed humourlessly. ‘Now he’s got one, he’s serving it.’
‘Do you remember the words he used?’
‘Sure mate, I even wrote them down in case they’d be needed in the future. I’ll just go and check my filing cabinet.’ She dragged on her new cigarette and blew the smoke upwards like she was concerned about the effects of passive smoking. ‘Look, he’s a sick prick, she needs to ignore him and get on with her life.’
‘Anything else?’
‘Nah.’
‘So you didn’t help him out with his latest stunt, Karina?’
‘Piss off, mate.’
‘Just asking.’
‘The answer’s no.’
‘Can you think of anyone else that might help him?’
‘Plenty freaks out there. Take your pick.’
Cato gave her a business card. ‘Call me if you think of anything.’
‘Sure, honey.’
He left. She de-muted Jerry Springer.
‘So, Jimmy, tell us about you and Santo Rosetti at the Birdcage.’
Damien the Expensive One sighed. ‘My client has already answered your questions as to his whereabouts that night. If you’re not going to charge him with anything then you must release him. He’s been in custody for over twenty-four hours now. This is ridiculous. It has to stop.’
‘He’s told us he was there but we still don’t have the detail of what transpired,’ said Lara.
‘I already told you. I had a few drinks with Mickey and Vincent and Constable Rosetti, and left.’ Jimmy Tran clicked his neck a couple of times.
‘What time?’
‘About 11.45 maybe.’
Lara checked the file. ‘There’s no CCTV showing you leaving at that, or any other time.’ In fact there was none showing him going in either.
Jimmy shrugged.
‘Is there another door you use to go in and out of the Birdcage?’
‘Maybe the camera’s on the blink?’
‘Or maybe you went out over the roof. There’s a door leads up there and any number of ways down to the street then.’
‘That right?’ said Jimmy, wheels turning behind the furrowed brow.
‘And then you went and put a bottle in Samuel Ho’s face?’
‘Who?’
‘The guy you had the push and shove with earlier. It’s on CCTV.’
‘Does he say it was me?’
‘Yes.’ Lara had called the battle-scarred accountancy student out from his summer job to look at some photos of Jimmy, Vincent, and Mickey. Ho had picked Jimmy.
‘Mistaken identity. I’m sure once he’s had time to reflect.’
And time for a visit from some of Tran’s comrades.
DS Graham fidgeted impatiently; the issue of glassing an innocent bystander clearly wasn’t his main game. ‘When and how did you find out Santo Rosetti was a police officer?’
Tran gave him a sly grin. ‘A little bird told me. Can’t remember who, or whe
n.’
‘How did you feel when you learned about Rosetti?’ said Lara.
‘Somewhat surprised to tell the truth,’ said Jimmy, mimicking her private school accent. ‘I felt badly let down not to have been admitted into his confidence.’ His eyes danced. ‘I thought I knew all his secrets.’
‘Betrayed? Angry?’
‘Why? His career choice is up to him. I’m the last to judge.’
‘We hear otherwise,’ said Lara.
‘Yeah? Who from?’
‘Where did you dispose of the knife, Jimmy?’ said DS Graham.
‘What knife? Are you accusing me of something?’
Graham slid a printout of the mobile photo of Tran and Santo across the table. ‘You heard Rosetti was an undercover police officer, he had been working for you as a courier and dealer, you believed your operations to be under threat, you went to the Birdcage with the express intent of killing him.’
‘I don’t know what you’re talking about, Detective. I’d like to go home now.’ Jimmy and his lawyer rose to leave.
Lara stood too. ‘James Tran, I am arresting you for the assault of Samuel Ho, and on suspicion of the murder of Santo Rosetti.’
Damien the Lawyer shook his head. ‘I hope you have evidence to back these charges, Detective, or I’m going to be kicking up quite a fuss.’
‘We wouldn’t be doing this if we didn’t, would we?’ said Lara.
DI Hutchens should have been pleased at the news from the Rosetti camp but Cato detected more than a hint of concern as his boss scowled out across the open-plan office. DS Meldrum, ostensibly the Rosetti senior case officer, wore an expression of bewildered triumph. Cato was reminded of the Winter Olympics a few years ago when the Aussie speed skater won gold because everybody in front of him fell over.