No Witness, No Case

by Bill Robertson

  ‘Just a minute,’ Pescaro interrupted, ‘I like the idea but I must ensure it doesn’t fail. When we leak Fabrizzi’s killers to the coppers, they should find other things with them too – like heroin, amphetamines or handguns. Immigration cannot have any illusions about these bastards or their desire to continue in crime.’ The irony of his comment made Pescaro smile.

  Teresa grinned. ‘Sun Tzu would love it. Once immigration have them, there’s little chance of escape and almost guaranteed deportation. But, we must be ready. Our job is to seduce the Immigration authorities so that all eight Russians are deported.’

  Pescaro was silent again. ‘Yes. That would humiliate Chernamenko. But I may have a refinement – I’ll think about it.’

  Teresa was curious but knew Pescaro would not be drawn. ‘Now,’ she said, ‘I’ve laid this out as though it will all work smoothly, but things go wrong. If you agree to this plan then, no matter what happens, you must be prepared for more pain. It will be hard on you and especially the men, but you must appear weak; your opponent needs to feel strong, to become arrogant in his confidence. At this point, you have to be your strongest, because only then can you feign weakness. If this works as I envisage, we’ll be back on top. Any “left over” Vor problems will be renegotiated on our terms. From then on, they’re under scrutiny as junior partners or not at all. With luck, we avoid public bloodshed. At the end, I think the men will be happy. The main difficulty I see,’ she cautioned, ‘is that this plan can’t be rushed – it will take time. The troops have to be on a tight leash. They have to know enough, but not all. We can’t afford leaks and with some of our people having Russian bedmates, compromise is almost guaranteed. You could say you’ve reconsidered Franse’s suggestion and you want more information about Chernamenko before acting. I think the meeting favoured his idea.’

  Pescaro was pleased with the plan. It was subtle yet ruthless, full of deceit but workable. He particularly liked the idea of using government authorities to deal with Chernamenko and his Vors. He would balance the scales for Fabrizzi in his own way. Without comment, he had accepted Teresa’s notion of a spy in the camp.

  Pescaro phoned Barracusa for an update. ‘Pronto Milo. How are you progressing?’ He was silent as Barracusa explained. ‘That’s good Milo. I’ve given more thought to Vito’s suggestion. I was too hasty this morning. Keep on with what you are doing but temper it on the basis of Vito’s idea. We will collect more information and strike when it suits us.’ Pescaro listened to Barracusa and said, ‘Sure, that’s fine. I’ll see you at six this evening.’ He hung up. ‘I think they are relieved. Milo said they were having trouble agreeing in the absence of hard information about Chernamenko.’

  ‘Good ,’ said Teresa, ‘I think the next phase is yours.’

  But the next phase was Chernamenko’s. As Barracusa drove to Pescaro’s at six o’clock, he was involved in a minor collision in Alexander Avenue just east of Punt Road. Had they noticed, joggers, passers-by or other motorists would have been shocked to see what seemed a perfectly normal exchange of details resulted in the swift and sudden collapse of Milo Barracusa. Pretending to help the stricken man, the Vor driving the other car then rolled Barracusa under his own car and drove away. In the early darkness of winter, it would be some time before Barracusa’s body was found and Pescaro’s worst fears realised.

  Chapter

  THIRTY- EIGHT

  Teresa stepped into the shower. Since discovery of Barracusa’s body, the last twenty-four hours had been tumultuous. Families had to be consoled, questions asked, funerals arranged and Mafia capos called to an emergency meeting. While Pescaro explained his plan to an unreceptive team, Teresa monitored their reactions. Although clearly dissatisfied, nothing she observed among them pointed to a conspirator. After some fiery wrangling, Crown Casino was selected for a meeting with Chernamenko, it was open, public and monitored by CCTV.

  As the warm water eased her tension, Teresa began thinking of Andy Drummond. Pescaro wanted him chased down and after the assault in Swanston Street, her hand bag and contents had been returned through the mail – by Andy Drummond. A coincidence? She thought not. She reflected upon the attack – a bit of a blur now. She remembered being whacked by a board-rider and then some considerate bloke offering to help her, a bloke who, at the time, seemed vaguely familiar. Then, a few days later, her things arrived in the mail.

  Naturally suspicious, she wondered if there was any connection between the skate-boarder and her helper, the “Andy Drummond” who had returned her goods. How? What? More to the point – why?

  On the basis of Pescaro’s authority, she decided to take the initiative. Drummond had included his address card with her belongings. She rang him and was about to hang up when a slightly breathless voice said, ‘Drummond.’

  Teresa chuckled. ‘My word, that sounds official. This is Teresa Marchese, you were kind enough to help me in the city recently. I’ve got my things back and wondered if you might be free for a coffee this evening? I really am most grateful and would like to thank you personally …’ Her voice trailed off. ‘Of course if you are doing something …’

  ‘No, I mean yes.’ Drummond thought quickly. His initial notion of events taking care of themselves had not envisaged this development. Wary, but curious he said, ‘I’ve actually just ordered in some curries for dinner this evening, would you like to come and share? Otherwise, we could perhaps meet another time.’ He thought his comments would throw her off balance.

  ‘I love curry,’ she responded warmly, ‘I could be at your place in about thirty minutes. Would that be okay?’ Her voice was throaty, engaging.

  ‘Good, I’ll see you then.’ While he was brusque and businesslike, he inferred from her tone of voice she was not going to be put off. Okay, he thought, let’s get on with it and see where this goes. He flashed about his tiny unit straightening up. Life in the military had infused him with habits intolerant of mess and untidiness and both he and Susan were fans of harmony and symmetry. At 7:45 p.m. an assortment of steaming, aromatic curries and dips arrived and at 8:00 p.m. his intercom buzzed.

  He pressed the button to unlock the front door, went to the top of the stairs and waited. Teresa’s familiar perfume wafted upwards. As she reached the landing below his reaction to her easy grace and glossy dark hair surprised him. She was a stunner and his feelings were stirred. She sensed his quiet presence, looked up and flashed a sunny grin.

  ‘This is where you hide, is it?’ she said.

  ‘Only sometimes. That is, when I come to Melbourne. Come in.’ He smiled warmly, shook her hand and ushered her into the unit.

  She took a measured look around. It was a small, neat, scrupulously clean two bedroom unit in soft lemon and cream. While the building was old, the kitchen was tastefully modern and the rest of the place appealingly comfortable. Lamplight throughout gave the unit a cosy, relaxed ambience.

  ‘Nice,’ she said, ‘Love the paintings, can I take a look around?’

  ‘Help yourself,’ said Andy, curious about the real purpose of her visit.

  Still and silent, he watched her move about – examining this, looking at that, picking up and touching the other. She was at ease and for some reason he felt good about that.

  ‘Pass, do I?’ he enquired lamely.

  She turned slowly and nodded. ‘Who is this?’ She held an elegant pewter framed photograph of an attractive blonde leaning against a large tree.

  His eyes narrowed and his face clouded. ‘My wife Susan – she died three years ago.’

  ‘Oh, that is so sad. Do you mind telling me what happened?’ she asked quietly.

  ‘Cervical cancer with complications. By the time it was diagnosed it had gone too far. Diagnosis to death was only four months.’ The husky voice and glistening eyes conveyed deep feelings and Teresa’s heart warmed in sympathy.

  She carefully replaced the photograph. ‘I am really sorry, she must have been a wonderful woman. Want a hand to dish up? The smell of that food is taunting.�
�

  ‘Sure, it’s ready to go.’ She watched him retreat from the rawness of his feelings.

  ‘Would you like some wine?’ he asked. ‘Vinea Marson, a winery up-country near me, makes a bloody good rosé. I know the bloke who makes this and it should go well with the curry.’

  ‘Sounds divine. Let’s get into it.’

  They served the meal and exchanged mild banter, each adroitly concealing their caution. When it was ready, they sat in the kitchen at a table barely large enough for their curries, rice, naan bread, pickles and dips. Andy poured the chilled wine. A momentary, but poignant silence descended. They looked at each other, two pairs of eyes brimming with questions yet harnessed by wariness. Andy broke the spell by raising his glass: ‘Slainte.’

  ‘Slainte,’ she replied shyly.

  For the moment, Andy thought it best to stick to matters they had in common, especially since the intensity of her presence was causing long dormant feelings to pulse. He had to keep reminding himself – this woman is Mafia. ‘Would you like to know how I got your things back?’ he ventured.

  Mouth full of Rogan Josh, Teresa nodded vigorously.

  He launched into the tale of Bandana making her both laugh and wince in describing their encounter.

  ‘I guess a little rough justice is better than court – his punishment is over and done with and I’ve got my things. Good outcome I’d say.’ Teresa’s eyes sparkled as she spoke.

  He nodded, remaining quiet. After a time he said, ‘I have a question for you.’

  ‘I’ll do my best,’ she said, gazing at him steadily.

  ‘When I first spoke to you after the attack I thought I heard you say you didn’t do anything. I personally thought Bandana’s attack was a random act of stupidity. I could see you were very upset but your response implied something more. I’ve been wondering about it ever since.’

  Staring intently, she wondered what to tell him. Pescaro was highly suspicious of this man and had made him a target; she needed to be very careful. I cannot, she thought, say something I’ll regret.

  Andy observed her thoughtful appraisal. He smiled and said gently, ‘You don’t have to answer, I was just curious. I’d seen you in the library earlier and noticed you were upset. I simply wondered if there was any connection between that and Bandana’s attack.’

  His last comment allayed her concern that there might have been a connection between him and Bandana and she came to a decision. ‘I won’t go into detail because things are still too painful, but I’ve been doing some research to find out how my parents died. I discovered the truth and was deeply shocked. Then, when Bandana, as you call him, walloped me, I felt as though the world had turned on me and it was all too much. To be honest, I didn’t know I had said that.’ She took a long drink of wine to mask her expression.

  Andy found himself wanting to reach out and comfort her. Instead, he nodded and they ate without speaking, each consumed by their thoughts. For his part, he was busting to know why she had broken into AWD. He figured that if Santini worked there and was part of Pescaro’s team, then, as she too was part of that team she could probably get whatever she wanted through Pescaro. The fact that she entered Aldrittsons the way she did implied she was after something separate from her role with Pescaro. Bloody curious.

  ‘I thought I saw you on television the other day – the big funeral at St Pat’s. You were standing next to Giuseppe Pescaro.’ There, it was done. Without actually saying it he had told her he knew of her underworld links.

  Teresa put her wine down slowly and stared at him unflinchingly, daring him to spit it out. Andy said nothing. After few moments silence she said, ‘Yes. Bernardo Santini was a friend of Giuseppe’s. They had known each other for years.’

  ‘I met Santini you know,’ said Drummond, trying to ease the thick and sudden tension, ‘just recently. I applied for a job at Aldrittson’s – he interviewed me. How do you know Pescaro and Santini?’

  ‘I manage accounts, properties and investments for Giuseppe.’ Her face was friendly but masked.

  ‘Oh’ he responded, not quite sure what to say next.

  ‘What do you do Andy?’ Teresa followed up quickly. ‘Why were you applying for a job at Aldrittson’s?

  ‘Most of the time I play gentleman farmer on our property at Heathcote, near Bendigo. Quite recently, one of Aldrittson’s trucks caught fire there and, as far as I am concerned, the whole damn thing is suss. The driver was killed – poor buggar. Left a wife and two kids. I thought I would try and become part of Aldrittson’s and take a look around but Santini was having none of it. Gave me the flick – politely – but the heave-ho nevertheless.’

  Teresa smiled. She liked Drummond’s frankness and was in no doubt that had he been hired, he was the type who would eventually have hit upon the scam whether or not he was used as a special driver. She perceived a terrier-like earnestness about him, a never-give-up quality. Giuseppe was probably right to target him. On the other hand, his company was pleasant and she admired his continuing affection for his dead wife. It was evident too from the way he kept the unit they had been a loving pair of home-makers. Idly, she wondered what his farming property was like – might be worth having a look at. And from tonight, she had some good feed-back for Giuseppe. With a start she realised she had not responded to his comment and that Drummond was eyeing her quizzically – intelligent brown eyes in a tanned and handsome face. Her pulse quickened. ‘Well, I suppose no one likes missing out on a job application. It kind of dents one’s confidence.’

  ‘No, it’s not that. I reckon there’s something shady going on in that firm.’ Teresa’s eyes widened and she opened her mouth to speak. Andy raised his hand and silenced her. ‘I know, I know. I’ve read all the market reports and Financial Times articles etc. Doesn’t change anything for me. I just know something is not right there.’

  In spite of her briefing from Pescaro, Teresa was warming to this man. He was friendly without being forward, considerate without being smarmy and had refrained from probing her relationship with Giuseppe and Santini. He was very evidently astute. She said, ‘Well, if there is something to find I am sure you will be the one to find it but I can’t help you. Now, tell me Andy Drummond, what did you do before you became a gentleman farmer?’

  Her warm smile and the sparkle in her eyes countered the obvious change in conversation. Mafia or not, intended or otherwise, Teresa Marchese was arousing feelings in Drummond that were making his loins begin to throb. Her flawless complexion, lustrous grey-green eyes, rich, glossy dark hair and lithe, shapely figure made her a compelling and attractive woman. And finally, there was that seductive, delicate perfume, the one he had first become aware of at AWD.

  He told her all about his army life, his and Susan’s lottery winnings and their plans for life after the army and Susan’s teaching. All cut short by cancer.

  Teresa was aware of being gently drawn into Drummond’s life. In comparison to her own, it had been straight forward, busy, practical, orderly and … logical. Hers, on the other hand, had been filled with secrets, lies, deceit, death and shameful behaviour. Knowing the truth now behind the demise of her parents, her belief system had been shattered. Andy’s and Susan’s lives had been loving, open and uncomplicated – a breath of fresh air. She wondered what it would be like to experience some of that air.

  They talked travel, early life, schooling, books and movies – innocuous stuff, nothing compromising or too deep. And yet, even though their conversation was relatively superficial, each had the sense of being stalked by the other. For Andy, Teresa’s involvement with the Mafia and connection to Aldrittson’s were huge unanswered questions. Yet her softness, humour and the warmth and power of her femininity was like a magnet. He wanted to see more of her.

  Teresa too felt compromised. Here was a man who, building upon her encounter with him in Swanston Street had, over the course of the evening, shown himself to be witty, charming, tender and considerate. Perhaps most surprising and quite unconsciously
, he had kindled a very deep and sexual desire within her. But, he was a target and having spent the evening with him, understood precisely why Santini had rejected him and why Giuseppe wanted to know more about him. All in all, being in the presence of Andy Drummond was akin to sipping a heady and dangerous cocktail.

  ‘Andy, I must go. I am so glad we met in these circumstances. Bandana may have done us both a good turn. Thanks again for what you did and for returning my things. It was really very kind of you.’

  ‘Not at all. I’ve had a lovely evening. I have one last question for you: could I see you again?”

  Teresa frowned, she knew the correct answer was an instant no. ‘I would like that but I have …’ she searched for the right words, ‘a very demanding and sometimes turbulent life. I’m not saying no but let’s just see what happens.’

  They walked downstairs and before getting into her car Drummond extended his hand. She took it, pulled him forward and kissed his cheek. ‘I really have enjoyed tonight,’ she said.

  Chapter THIRTY-NINE

  July

  ‘Why is the slut here?’ Chernamenko snarled.

  ‘You know why, ‘ Giuseppe rumbled, unfazed by the Russian’s coarseness.

  ‘I want the bitch gone.’

  ‘Mind your manners – where I go, she goes. If you want business with me, keep yourself nice.’ Pescaro was continuing his game of brinkmanship.

  Almost three weeks had passed since the murders and funerals of Fabrizzi and Barracusa. Throughout that period rancorous negotiations had finally brought Chernamenko and Pescaro together at Crown Casino. Teresa had handled the bulk of discussions and Pescaro was walking a fine line between aggravating the mulish Russian and re-instating face. Chernamenko’s misogyny threatened to kill the talks before they had even started.