The Tower

by Michael Duffy

  ‘I guess.’

  ‘So, good luck with the searches.’

  Troy was surprised. ‘I thought I was stuck in the office?’

  ‘I have to see Kelly.’

  ‘We all meet at eight tomorrow for a briefing?’

  ‘It’s a deal. You’ve talked to Little about his attitude?’

  Troy made a decision. ‘Little is still on the team.’

  Stone nodded. ‘He’s a good cop. If we lost him it might be a while before we got anyone else. Man’s a shit, but you’ve got to think of stuff like that, operational requirements.’ He sighed and for a moment his eyes went blank. ‘If only we could match those skin scrapings to marks on a suspect, we might get more staff.’

  Troy blinked at the idiocy of this. It occurred to him that although Stone had just promised to change, that didn’t mean he could. Maybe he was no longer capable of functioning as a supervisor, or even as a competent detective.

  ‘If we could do that match,’ he pointed out slowly, ‘we wouldn’t need more people. We’d have the killer.’

  Stone shrugged and stood up. He looked at his holster on the table for a moment, then opened his briefcase and stuffed it inside. Detectives were supposed to carry their weapon on their person at all times. He put a finger to his lips and smiled at Troy. ‘Another of my secrets I’m sharing with you.’ He grabbed his briefcase and went into the small office down the other end of the room, shutting the door behind him.

  Troy picked up his phone and called Anna to tell her he’d be home late because he was back on the investigation.

  ‘This is ridiculous,’ she said. ‘You’ve just shot someone. You can’t go back to work. Helen Kelly’s out of her mind. I’m going to have a word with her.’

  ‘Don’t do that.’

  ‘You’re not well. This morning you were clenching your hands, just sitting on the bed for half an hour doing nothing, staring at the wall. You need to see a psychologist.’

  ‘Look—’

  ‘You’re the one’s always telling me to see someone.’

  He laughed, but she didn’t. ‘Well,’ he said, ‘if I do, will you?’ There was no reply. ‘Maybe I’m not a hundred per cent,’ he said, trying to be honest, ‘but I need something in my life right now, do you understand? I can’t just sit around doing nothing.’

  There was a pause and then she said, ‘I’m sorry I can’t be there for you, in that way.’ She was crying. ‘Not just yet. But it won’t be this way forever.’

  ‘I can’t—’ he began, about to say: I can’t wait any longer, but she changed the subject, as she always did.

  ‘People have been calling to see how you are. A few say they’ve left messages for you; Ralph really wants to talk.’

  ‘I’ll ring them,’ he said. ‘There just hasn’t been time yet.’

  ‘Talk to them, it’ll do you good. That’s what Georgie says.’

  ‘You’ve talked to Georgina about this?’

  ‘We’re all worried about you, Nick. We love you.’

  Words without actions, he thought, as he said goodbye and hung up. That was one half of his life. The other half was actions without words.

  He saw he’d missed a call from the jeweller, and rang back.

  ‘This bracelet,’ Bruno said after they’d exchanged greetings. ‘Austrian, 1930s.’

  ‘What’s it worth?’

  The jeweller gave an exaggerated sigh. ‘Always the money. No one appreciates beauty anymore.’

  ‘If it’s that good I’ll buy one for my wife. How much?’

  ‘You’d need a new job. I’d say a hundred thousand, if you could find another like it.’

  ‘Wow.’

  ‘It’s an unusual piece,’ said the jeweller. ‘Who owns it?’

  ‘I can’t tell you that,’ said Troy, and hung up.

  But she hadn’t been a prostitute.

  He called the stations near the houses of Bazzi and Asaad and arranged for an inspector from each to attend the searches, as was required by law. The first one could not be there for an hour and a half, so there was no need to leave yet. He stood up and stretched. Stone had gone. Someone had brought in two big whiteboards, and he was seized by the need to start writing up the investigation, tape up the photo of the tattoo, organise his thoughts by representing them graphically. Needing a marker pen, he walked around the room, looking for the stationery cupboard. He found a box full of paper and envelopes and ordinary pens, but not what he was looking for.

  Impatiently he left the room and stalked the corridors of the station, searching for a marker he could steal. The place was a maze. He turned a corner and almost ran into Gina Harmer. She stopped in front of him.

  ‘Sergeant Stone spent two hours with the men installing the lifts up at stage two of The Tower today.’

  She said it slowly, evaluating Troy’s reaction to the unfolding sentence. At first he assumed she was talking about the men Stone said he’d interviewed on level thirteen. Then he recalled what Randall had told him about the design of the building.

  ‘That’s levels forty to one hundred?’ he said.

  She nodded. ‘The men were very annoyed by the end of it. It’s a long way from anywhere associated with the death of the woman.’ When he didn’t say anything, she asked, ‘Am I missing something here?’

  He shook his head uneasily. ‘I’ll try to find out what’s going on.’

  She shrugged and then smiled slightly. ‘I have to go now. Shift briefing.’

  She continued on down the corridor, leaving Troy pondering what she’d just told him. Levels forty to one hundred. It made no sense at all.

  When he was back in the office, Kelly called him with the big news: Rogers had decided there would be no repercussions. ‘Actually,’ she Rogers had decided there would be no repercussions. ‘Actually,’ she said, ‘Siegert didn’t go in as hard as I’d expected this morning.’ She sounded reluctant to be telling him this, as though she was only raising it because there was some mystery for which he was responsible. ‘Is there any connection there, you and him?’

  ‘No. He said he knew my father, they worked together.’

  ‘Your father’s a cop?’ She sounded surprised.

  ‘He was, a long time ago.’

  ‘Rogers doesn’t want you at the press conference. Sorry about that.’

  She didn’t sound sorry at all. Troy certainly wasn’t.

  He called Anna and told her the news. She asked when he’d be home and he said late.

  ‘I suppose the Dawsons are off then?’ she said.

  ‘Yes. But you go.’

  ‘Pete was looking forward to seeing you. You couldn’t make it last time either.’

  ‘Tell Pete someone’s been killed,’ he said.

  He’d meant it as a light comment, but it didn’t sound light at all.

  She said, ‘Someone’s always been killed.’

  Little called later, from outside Asaad’s house in Punchbowl. They’d knocked on the door and talked to his wife, who was distraught and complained about the night before, when the cops had come trampling through the place looking for her husband.

  ‘Says he’s just a fifteen-bucks-an-hour security guard,’ he said. ‘But there’s a Harley parked round the back.’

  ‘She say who he rides with?’

  ‘He’s minding it for a friend. And no, we can’t look in his wardrobe to see what’s written on the back of his leather jacket.’

  ‘The warrants are here,’ Troy said. ‘I’ll go to Bazzi’s place and then to you. After that, you and I go to Villawood to talk to the man who wants to make a deal.’

  ‘Qzar,’ Little said, overemphasising the pronunciation as though spitting something from his mouth.

  Troy looked at the whiteboard. ‘While you’re sitting there, give Missing Persons another call.’ He explained about the bracelet. ‘Someone must have noticed she’s gone, a woman that rich.’

  ‘Unless it’s stolen,’ Little said. ‘She might have had no idea what it was worth.�
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  Troy thought back to what the woman at the jeweller’s had said. ‘I doubt it,’ he said slowly. ‘It’s not the sort of thing most people would like. You wouldn’t wear it unless you were right into the style.’

  ‘So we’re looking for a wealthy party girl who liked dolphins and had unusual taste in jewellery.’

  ‘That’s about it,’ Troy said. ‘And was possibly involved in people smuggling and illegal labour hire practices.’

  He disconnected. This was more complicated than any investigation he’d worked before. Usually the killer was family, friend or lover. And usually you had a pretty good idea who it was by now.

  Eleven

  Jack Taylor was a big man, about Randall’s own size, with dark hair and pale skin that turned red easily. It was red now.

  ‘Don’t give me that, pal,’ he yelled. Randall couldn’t remember what he’d said to provoke this response. ‘It’s over for you at Warton. The best thing you can do is help us clean up the mess before you leave. Otherwise, you’ll never work in this country again.’

  ‘I’m expecting to hear from Jamal any minute.’

  ‘It’s four o’clock in the afternoon,’ Taylor shouted. ‘What’s he been doing all day? They’re sacked. You tell them from me, Tryon is out.’

  ‘Who do we get to replace them?’

  Taylor came up close, so close Randall could smell his breath. He had to stop himself from putting up an arm and pushing his boss away.

  ‘You’re our security expert,’ Taylor said slowly, his voice heavy with sarcasm. ‘You find us another company before you leave. And this time, pick someone who can tell the difference between their arse and their elbow.’

  He left the room, banging the door behind him.

  Randall flinched, and realised his head was throbbing. He wasn’t handling this as well as he’d expected; there were too many variables. Wu and Taylor, talk about a servant of two masters.

  And then there was Kristin. She’d rung him full of outrage, off on one of her emotional journeys. How could he not have known about the men living in his building? Did he have any idea what these people had been through? She went on and on about it, calling them refugees. Kristin liked her victims, spent her life on a high horse.

  Normally he wasn’t fussed, but this morning’s phone call had been difficult. This particular high horse had come galloping into his life and was still there, stomping around. Kristin had said she was going to call Immigration, offer them her assistance. The idea of her helping anyone in a professional capacity was weird, he’d always thought of her in a strictly decorative capacity. He looked at his mobile and wondered if he should call her, what he would say. She’d sounded so angry she might leave him, and that was not what he wanted. As he considered the matter, the phone started to ring. It was Eman Jamal at last, waiting for him down below.

  ‘Meet me outside,’ Randall said, hoping Taylor wouldn’t see the security chief.

  In the street, the men shook hands and walked away from the offices.

  ‘What’s all the cloak and dagger?’ said Jamal.

  He was late thirties, a partner in Tryon. He and Randall had had a few good nights at a place Jamal had introduced him to in Potts Point. Pricey, but worth it.

  ‘Taylor wants your head on a platter,’ Randall said. ‘I’m sorry.’

  ‘Wants what?’

  ‘Your head. It’s a saying.’

  ‘What’s the platter got to do with it?’

  Randall was sweating. He liked Jamal, but the fellow could be obtuse.

  ‘He’s going to sack Tryon.’

  ‘You are joking. What about Wu, doesn’t he have final say?’

  Randall wondered how much he’d told Jamal about Henry. Not a lot, as far as he could remember. But he must have told him something, for him to bring Henry up now.

  ‘It’s a tricky situation. People are running for cover.’

  Jamal stopped and put his hands together, his fingers laced, in front of his chest. Like a supplicant, Randall thought, but casual about it.

  ‘So, Sean, what do I do?’

  ‘You find Bazzi and Asaad, like I asked you to. Find them and you might save both of us.’

  ‘What do you want them for?’

  ‘We need to find out what the fuck was going on.’

  ‘The police want them.’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘That wouldn’t be good.’

  Randall put an arm across Jamal’s shoulders. ‘What are you telling me?’

  ‘Asaad got two of his cousins into the company. We’ve just found they’ve been thieving from another client.’

  ‘Jesus.’

  ‘I’ve got it under control. But I don’t want the cops getting their hands on Asaad. The pricks.’

  Randall didn’t know what to say. ‘So . . .’ he said.

  ‘We’re looking. Anything you can help me with?’

  Last night Randall had told him he knew nothing about the illegals, and Jamal had said the same thing. Randall thought he believed him. He was believing him for the moment, anyway. You needed a few fixed points if you were going to navigate your way through a shit storm like this.

  Jamal looked around, put a hand on the back of Randall’s neck for a moment, and they started to walk again. As they walked he patted his stomach, and Randall realised he was searching for wires. It was ridiculous. He probably should be offended by this, but he just didn’t have the time.

  ‘You need to do some exercise, mate,’ Jamal said. He looked around and lowered his voice. ‘We went into Bazzi’s place this morning. Early. Never guess what we found—ten grand hidden behind a panel in the bathroom.’

  ‘The police missed it?’

  ‘Cops hadn’t been there yet. They had a car outside, but we got in the back. Someone knocked on the door after our blokes had been there for half an hour, they had to get out quick. They were almost finished, they’d been careful. No one will know we were there.’

  ‘So he was into something?’

  ‘Fucking oath. And too scared to go back and recover his dough.’

  ‘He’s probably left the country.’

  ‘I’m looking into that.’

  Randall had a thought. ‘What have you done with the money?’

  Jamal pulled a fat envelope from the inside pocket of his coat and thrust it at Randall, who took it automatically and then stopped walking.

  ‘No,’ he said, trying to give it back.

  Jamal had his hands in the air, smiling. ‘Mate, it needs a home. You don’t get four grand for nothing every day. Don’t wave it around on the street like that.’

  Randall put it in a pocket, said, ‘Four?’

  ‘Two for the blokes who went in there. Four for me.’

  ‘They probably found more than ten, kept some of it back.’

  Jamal shrugged impatiently.

  They walked a bit further. Randall thought about Wu and Taylor.

  ‘We need something to give them,’ he said.

  ‘I don’t reckon on seeing Bazzi again. The prick.’

  ‘What about this other one, Asaad?’

  ‘Couldn’t get into his house, he’s got family. But I got hopes for him. Man’s your more typical criminal. Stupid.’

  He’d been smart enough to get through Tryon’s vetting process, Randall thought. But this was not the time to go into that.

  Twelve

  When Troy reached Bazzi’s small house in Leichhardt, Ryan and Bergman were waiting outside with a uniformed inspector and a police cameraman. They all introduced themselves, and Troy asked where the locksmith was.

  ‘He’s just coming,’ said Ryan. ‘The neighbours say Bazzi keeps to himself, works long shifts, the occasional male visitor.’

  ‘No wife or girlfriend?’ Troy said, as he saw a small van come around the corner and drive slowly by, looking for a parking space.

  ‘No. He goes to a gym almost every day, drives a Golf, which isn’t anywhere around. We’ve put out an alert on it. No o
ne here’s seen Bazzi in over twenty-four hours.’

  The locksmith came walking down the road carrying a toolbox. Troy sent Bergman around the back and waited impatiently while the man opened the front door. He stood back as the others went inside, and took out his notebook and recorded the time and the people involved in the search. The paperwork, he thought as he replaced the book in his pocket, always the paperwork. This was really what his job was like, the flavour of it. What had happened last night had been so unusual his memory of it was confused; sometimes when he recalled it there was a stab of terror, but other times it was as though he was thinking about a film he’d seen and already half forgotten. But the paperwork, that was real enough.

  He went inside, and saw the semi was neat and painted in pale colours of sage green and faint brown.

  ‘Trendy,’ Ryan said nervously.

  It was bare, but a quick tour convinced Troy this was a matter of personal taste, and not an indication Bazzi hadn’t lived here all the time. The house contained plenty of food and clothes. The small second bedroom had an exercise bike in it and little else. When he returned to the lounge he found the inspector laughing over a magazine, looking around to make sure he wasn’t being captured on video.

  ‘Guy’s a shirt-lifter,’ he said to Troy, showing him a picture of two muscular men engaged in an intimate act. ‘Magazines, DVDs too.’

  Ryan called from the bathroom and Troy squeezed in. A wooden panel had been removed from the wall next to the toilet, and was leaning against the glass front of the shower stall.

  ‘Like this when we came in,’ Ryan said. ‘He was in a hurry.’

  Troy nodded. Bazzi must have come back last night before the police arrived. It would have taken only a few minutes to put the panel back on. Like leaving his mobile back at The Tower, it suggested Bazzi had panicked. He wondered what he’d been after.

  Back in the lounge room, Bergman showed Troy some papers he’d found. ‘Bank statements and pay slips but they don’t seem to say much. Only five grand in his account. Nothing personal at all, no letters, diary, address book.’