‘No-one’s come through here, mate,’ one of the attendants said. The cop eyed Barrett, the way cops do, and Barrett showed him his security pass.
‘Did a guy in a yellow shirt go past, carrying a black bag?’
‘Didn’t notice anyone,’ the same attendant said. ‘But I wasn’t really looking. What’s up?’
‘Oh, nothing – a pickpocket.’
‘No-one’s come past here, mate,’ the cop said. ‘Not for a while, anyway.’
‘Thanks.’
He took off, back the way he’d come. Strange – why wouldn’t he head for the nearest exit? Unless … unless he did, saw the cop and turned back. But … if he turned back, why didn’t Barrett see him? Maybe …
‘Hey, mate,’ a voice called – one of the attendants, the same one who’d answered his questions. He was pointing – to a man who had just come out of a toilet – a women’s toilet. He was wearing a yellow shirt – and carrying a black bag. He was exactly halfway between Barrett and the exit.
‘Duane,’ Barrett called. ‘Give it up. You can’t win.’
But Duane bolted – past the exit, past the two attendants and the cop, around the concrete tunnel and out of sight. Barrett started running, the walkie-talkie still in his hand. There were echoes of Duane’s footsteps, but where was he? There was a bar, a hot-dog stall … a stairwell … another toilet. Slowing, he switched on the two-way.
Squawk. ‘Geoff – I’m on his trail. Duane’s here.’
Squawk. ‘Where in the fuck are you?’
Squawk. ‘Uh – ground level, in the tunnel – Section B4. Where are you?’
Squawk. ‘Up the fucking top, of course. Christ. Get him, Barrett. Shoot the bastard if you have to.’
He reached the toilet – male, female, disabled. Would Duane do the same thing twice? No. Gut feeling said to go on. Also, if he opened the door, he could walk straight into a bullet. Shit. You have to check the toilets. He clipped the walkie-talkie back onto his belt and unshipped the Sig. Then he crashed through each of the toilet doors: one, two, three. Nothing. Duane would rush for the next exit, hoping to find an unmanned one – anyone leaving the stadium at this time, and in a hurry, would stir up plenty of suspicion. And there were cops and security personnel all over the place, inside and out. Worst scenario: he might blast his way out, go down in a hail of gunfire and take a few with him. Duane is not a man who will be taken alive. He is a killer, born to kill and die by the sword.
Continuing along the deserted tunnel at a jog-trot, the Sig back in its holster, Barrett passed three exits, all manned. None of the attendants had noticed anyone. Didn’t mean a lot: one of them had earplugs in, listening to the radio, and the others may not have been paying attention either. Would he have gone back upstairs? If so, there was no way for him to leave the stadium, but he could lose himself in the crowd, lie low and slip out later. Would Duane think that way? Of course he fucking would. But … how would he get past the attendant without the right ticket? Tickets were allocated to specific sections – you couldn’t waltz in and sit wherever you liked. It was a problem, but not an insurmountable one for a smart piece of work like Duane. He might just knock the man flying.
He passed a first-aid station, another stairwell, then reached a glass-fronted bar. A dozen or so people were inside, grouped around drinkers’ stands. Seems they weren’t interested in the Governor-General’s opening address, which could still be heard – a flat, continuous monotone in which no individual words were decipherable. No Duane in the bar, no-one remotely like him. Barrett went in and asked his standard questions. Nope. Nothing. Nada. The man had vanished. Barrett could run all the way around the stadium and it would achieve nothing. Duane had slipped through a crack somewhere. Geoff called on the two-way, Barrett told him the bad news and Geoff swore.
‘Where are you now?’ he said.
‘Uh – in a bar. Section D7.’
‘A bar? That’d be right. Stay put – I’ll be there in two minutes. Order me a schooner.’
While Barrett and Geoff were sinking their beers, the door to the first-aid station opened and a man in a St John’s uniform came out carrying a tan leather medical satchel. With his peaked cap pulled down over his eyes he walked past the glass-fronted bar to the next exit, grunted to the attendant and went out. In ten minutes he was in the train heading for Central. Once there he took a cab to within a few blocks of home, then walked the rest. Fortunately it was dark by then, and no-one in the street, not even Mambo man from next door, saw him arrive in such distinctive attire.
Before Edward had arrived at Central, two St John’s officers were found in the first-aid station. One was naked except for his underwear. They were blindfolded, gagged and taped together, back to back, with surgical dressing and adhesive bandages. One of them – the naked one – had to be treated for cuts and bruises to his head, but otherwise they were in good shape apart from the shock of having been the victims of an ice-cool, deadly serious psychopath. He had told them in no uncertain terms what would happen if they didn’t do as they were told, pronto. They believed him – especially after he’d put one of them in a sleeper-hold and told his colleague to strip off if he didn’t want to see his partner die in front of him. Then, after he had put on the officer’s uniform, he’d knocked them semiconscious then gagged and taped the two men together with surgical dressing.
All the way home, Edward had struggled to control the anger that boiled and simmered inside him. Sitting in the train he felt like lashing out and shooting people until he ran out of ammo. If he’d had his gun he might just have done it. That’d serve the fuckers right. So who was this bastard chasing him, and how did he know to use the name Duane, anyway? From the old cunt, Dawes, that’s who. Fucking Mick Dawes. He’d been warned – and now he could take what was coming to him. He was so enraged he even half wished Mambo man would fuck up so he could go into his shit-hole and pop one right up his black ass. It’s a fucked world when you can’t trust any bastard to keep his mouth shut.
23
MAN FOUND MURDERED IN BONDI JUNCTION
By Bryce McKechnie
Homicide detectives were yesterday investigating the violent killing of a man whose body was discovered at a Bondi Junction address.
The victim has been identified as Anthony Rugulio Diaz, 36, believed to be the proprietor of the Madison Boulevard property.
According to Senior Detective Alf Harris, a female occupant of the house returned from work around 11 a.m. and made the grisly discovery.
‘It’s early days, but we do know the victim has suffered multiple gunshot wounds to the head and body. There are signs of forced entry via a side window and other indications of what may have taken place.
‘Right now we need information from neighbours or anyone who might have been in Madison Boulevard the night before last and noticed something unusual – a person or persons loitering, a suspicious vehicle, perhaps someone leaving the scene in a hurry,’ Senior Detective Harris said.
‘At this stage motive is not clear, although it seems money has been removed from the victim’s wallet.
‘It could be robbery, could be something else made to look like robbery. Nothing is being ruled out. We do know that the victim had connections with the kind of people who could be capable of doing something like this.’
Anthony Diaz first came to the attention of police six years ago over the collapse of the concert promotions company, Sunrise Sunset.
He was found guilty of misappropriating $2.3 million, but the conviction was overturned on appeal, after key evidence was misplaced and witnesses – including a woman who was a former associate of Diaz’s, and who has not been seen since – failed to appear in court.
More recently he has been convicted of three road-rage attacks, possession of an unlicensed firearm, living from the earnings of prostitution and various drug-related offences.
The young woman who found the body is believed to be one of a group of women living at the address.
Seni
or Detective Harris said police were looking into the theory that the property was being used as a brothel or as a base from which sex workers were operating.
‘It’s one theory,’ Senior Detective Harris said. Apparently Mr Diaz did not live there himself.
‘From what we can gather, a harem of young women of various nationalities occupied the place.
‘The killing could be a gang rivalry matter related to the lucrative illegal prostitution industry. He’s certainly got a track record in that department.
‘We are also checking the identities and residency status of the women involved. There is a possibility that they are part of a sex-slave trade scam.
‘If so, it opens up avenues of investigation.’
Barrett put down the newspaper and fired up a Peter Stuyvesant. ‘It might be cool,’ he said to Geoff, who was pouring boiled water into two cups with instant coffee in them. ‘But you know what coppers are like. This Harris is probably a devious bastard.’
‘They sure don’t tell reporters what they think. Not unless it suits their purposes,’ Geoff said. ‘Would you?’
‘Nope. No indication of any witnesses – so far. That’s a promising sign.’
‘Someone might drop out of a tree, you never know. A citizen who happened by, and who thought to write down your licence tag.’
‘Shit, don’t say things like that.’
‘It happens.’ Geoff brought the coffees and sat at the table. Then he picked up the paper and scanned the item. ‘Tell you what I’d do,’ he said.
‘What?’
‘Well … you could do nothing, and that’s probably the safest way to go. Alternatively, you could put it on Ernesto Tucci.’
‘Anonymous tip-off?’
‘Right. Give them enough, so you sound legitimate, then point them in his direction. Maybe mention something about this upcoming Hong Kong deal. If they’re aware of that already, you might confirm their suspicions. So he cops heat on two fronts.’
‘That’s good. But … it could backfire. They might connect Tucci to me, from the court case fracas.’
‘Hmm. Maybe. Not very likely. Ah … I presume you didn’t use your own gun?’
‘No. They were both his.’
‘Both? Shit.’
‘Ruger .22, the one I took off him, and a Heckler and Koch semi-auto. I took that off him too.’
‘I see. Left them there?’
‘Of course.’
‘Good. Well … I’d think seriously about doing that, mate. Tucci’s giving you heat, so why not put a fucking rocket under him? Give the slimy cunt something for his own quarter to think about.’
‘I might. Of course he’ll have an alibi. And that bitch of his will come out scratching and screaming.’
‘Let her. Doesn’t matter. He could have arranged for someone to do it. I’ll bet there’s no shortage of candidates in his address book.’
There was a lot of merit in Geoff’s suggestion. He knew cops were suggestible – they always wanted to solve murders, even in the case of scumbags, because it was a matter of pride. A homicide detective, more than any other, has a strong commitment to the concept of a clean-up ratio. Murder is the most personal of crimes, and cops – although they might put on an impersonal face – take it on board in the same spirit. It matters, because you can’t have a killer wandering around out there.
Speaking of which, Barrett was still smarting over Duane’s disappearing act the previous night. He had actually thought to check the first-aid station, but didn’t believe Duane would have the nerve to go in there and bail people up. He wouldn’t know how many he would have to control, for a start. He could possibly have found himself in a tight corner if others come in after him. Quite obviously this man was very serious. He was also fond of assaulting his victims. It seemed to Barrett he was dealing not only with a skilled, elusive assassin, but a crazy, violent mother who liked hurting people, even when he didn’t have to.
They spent the morning at the training track with Bunny, as he went through his paces and cheerfully obliged TV scrums and pressmen looking for a photo opportunity and a sound bite. Bunny was good at one-liners, he was laid-back, and his muscular, gleaming torso clearly loved the camera. A journalist asked him if he was keen on the ‘dish-lickers’, and Bunny laughed and asked what that meant. When the journo said it was an Australian slang term for greyhounds, Bunny said, Oh, yeah, he liked the dish-lickers – in fact he was thinking of taking in the dog meet at Wentworth Park Thursday night. Someone asked him if he had any tips, and he laughed that one off. While this was happening, Barrett and Geoff had their eyes peeled for Duane, but when Bunny said that – he was planning to go to the dogs? – Barrett thought, shit, what the fuck is going on in this man’s head? That careless little remark would be on national TV later.
Just before lunch he dropped some coins into a pay phone in Olympic Boulevard and dialled a number, which he’d ripped from the newspaper. A female answered in a formal cop’s tone. Lowering his voice a couple of notches and giving it a guttural, street-level quality, he asked to speak to Senior Detective Alf Harris.
‘What’s it in regard to, sir?’ she said.
‘Just get him, will you, love? Otherwise he’s gonna be shitty with you when he finds out what he’s missed out on. Now come on – I haven’t got all fucking day.’
‘Hold, please.’
Barrett waited. They could put a trace on calls from pay phones, but not on spec – it would need to be set up in advance. All the same, he wouldn’t wait long. One minute, tops. They would almost certainly be taping incoming calls, and it wouldn’t be smart to give them too much to go on with. As it turned out, twenty seconds elapsed before a male voice came on the line.
‘Harris here. Who’s this, please?’
‘Doesn’t matter a blind fuck who this is, Harris. Listen to me. Word on the street is, ‘Hollywood Jack’ Tucci is cherry ripe for the Diaz killing.’
‘Is that so. Who says?’
‘That’s all I got to say, flatfoot. Sources – good sources. Diaz was outta control. He ran outta friends. He and Tucci were in on a drug deal, some shit coming from Hong Kong during the Olympics, but Diaz was mouthing off about it and attracting too much unwanted publicity. He was a fucking liability, so – Ernesto Tucci dropped the curtain on him. With a fucking Heckler and Koch.’
‘Why are you telling me this?’ Harris said. Barrett could tell he was writing things down.
‘Why? Because Tucci is a slimy, sleazebag dago prick, that’s why. He killed that tourist, the one at Rushcutters Bay, and fucking walked. He’s been crowing about it ever since, about how the cops are as weak as piss.’
‘You seem to know a lot about him.’
‘I know enough.’
‘Maybe you did it yourself,’ Harris said.
‘Fuck off.’ He hung up before Harris could say anything back. The Heckler and Koch detail was a nice touch – only someone in the know would have that information – the killer or someone close to him. He sensed Harris’s level of interest rise after he dropped that tasty little morsel. So now all he had to do was sit back and watch. In fact there was a real chance the Heckler and Koch came from Tucci, whose gun wrangler was a mafiosi from L’Aquila in the Abruzzi. This person, one Salvatore Giacomo, had – so the story went – executed people for the notorious capo di tutti capi, Toto Riina, although he had never seen the inside of a police station. In Sydney his business front was a body repair shop, but it was common knowledge he had a direct line to Mafia weapon suppliers on both sides of the Atlantic. The guns were shipped in crates together with spare parts. Police knew this, but the prevailing attitude was that since they were only killing each other off, it didn’t matter. The thing about the Heckler and Koch was that it was a highly sought-after piece, which was not available on the Australian black market, so it was a window of opportunity for an enterprising gangster. The difference between Salvatore Giacomo and Mick Dawes was that Giacomo only dealt with the Cosa Nostra, trusted ‘honour
ed society’ members or their close associates, and since he was in bed with Ernesto Tucci, Diaz would qualify as a close associate. So – it was a possibility.
The front door of the Redfern police station crashed open and the black man came in face first, blood running from his mouth onto the floor. He was being firmly held by two large, uniformed cops, Bakker and Cymric. The black man, who was handcuffed behind his back, fell to his knees and swayed, a red drool swinging from his lip. The two cops hefted him back up by both arms.
‘Come on, Lyle,’ Bakker said. ‘Don’t put on such a fucking act. There are no bloody lawyers or cameras here. Get on your feet.’
‘He can’t stand up if he’s legless,’ Cymric said.
They dragged him up to his full height, and he rocked unsteadily on his naked feet. The thongs he’d been wearing had somehow got lost in transit. The red drool was now plastered all over his dirty Mambo windbreaker. Keeffe, the desk sergeant, was not happy.
‘You’re not supposed to use prisoners as battering rams,’ he told the two cops. ‘What’s wrong with opening the door in the normal manner?’
‘He’s so pissed he fell forward on the steps and did it to himself,’ Bakker said. ‘Didn’t you, Lyle?’
Lyle turned to the cop and tried to get his head together and his mouth working. ‘Bull-fuckin’-shit,’ he said. ‘Fuckin’ kicked me in the back, you rotten cunt.’ He spat a reddened piece of spittle at Bakker, who swore and bunched a fist before Cymric intervened by pulling Lyle to one side by his arm and a fistful of windbreaker.
‘Jesus fuckin’ Christ,’ Bakker said. ‘He could have fuckin’ HIV for all I know. Shit.’
His partner grinned and said, ‘It has to get in an open wound to infect you. You haven’t got any open wounds on your face – except your mouth.’
Keeffe laughed along with him at that. Bakker glared from one to the other, then at Lyle – mean and vile as cat shit. ‘All right, all right,’ the sergeant said. ‘Calm down, everyone. What’s this all about, anyway? What’ve you done now, Lyle? As if I can’t guess.’
Hard Yards Page 26