The Stalk Club

by Neil Cossins

  “Things are moving fast on this one.”

  “That’s why they’ve put the A team on it.”

  “Who? Like the movie?”

  “No. Like the series. Never mind.”

  While Nelson proceeded to give Robards a rundown of his meeting with Crighton and his earlier meeting with Martinez a waitress came to take their order. She was tall and thin with faded blonde hair and had rings of flame tattooed around each wrist. Nelson’s memory recalled her almost instantly and he remembered that he’d arresting her for drug possession on two occasions when he worked as a Constable at the Cabramatta Police station during a tumultuous ten month stint. He glanced at her arms and noticed they appeared clean of track marks but decided to order just an apple and banana on the off chance that her memory was as good as his and she was in a mood to play games. The food was brought out in quick time and Nelson suffered through his fruit as he watched Robards hoe into an enormous serving of scrambled eggs, bacon, toast and coffee.

  Ok let’s get to work,” said Nelson without waiting for Robards to finish. “First things first. How far did you get with whatsername last night? What was her name, Agnes?”

  Robards laughed with an innocent shrug of his broad shoulders.

  “Let’s just say the old Robards charm worked a charm on Agnes, eventually, but your phone call put an end to all that.”

  “Oh, sorry about that. Bad timing I guess. How was she?”

  Robards smiled. He was the kiss and tell type. “She was great fun. It’s often the quiet ones who surprise you the most.”

  “Lucky you,” replied Nelson dryly, beginning to feel sorry he’d asked. “Ok, on to more serious things. What’s the story with the video?”

  “It’s all good. I’ve got security video from six of the warehouses closest to the crime scene. I’ve dropped it off with Mike at the lab and he said he’d pass it on to the video techs.”

  “Good work.”

  “It may take a while to analyse though. There’s over three hundred hours of it in total. There were cameras pointing every which way.”

  “Hopefully something will turn up.”

  “What else have you got in mind for today? Are we going to pay the family a visit?”

  “Yep. We need to hear what they have to say even though I doubt they’ll be particularly helpful.”

  “They take care of their own.”

  “Probably, or maybe they’ll surprise us and give us something about what the old man was up to last night.”

  ”Maybe, I won’t hold my breath though,” replied Robards shoving another large forkful of food into his mouth.

  “But first thing after breakfast I want to head back out to the crime scene. I want to try and get a feel for what happened out there last night.”

  Chapter 16

  Craig jumped off his sofa and grabbed him mobile off his kitchen bench. He was tempted to let it ring out but the ring sounded insistent to him even though he knew that was absurd. He checked the screen and was glad to see it was Bryce.

  “Brycey baby. What are you up to?”

  “Not much. Have you seen the news?”

  “No,” replied Craig drowsily. “I just got outta bed ten minutes ago.”

  “But it’s ten-thirty!”

  “Is it? I couldn’t sleep so I took a couple of pills to help me out. God I feel like crap now though. What news?”

  “It was Fogliani. Emilio Fogliani.”

  “Who? What? What are you on about?” he said shaking his head in an attempt to clear out the fog.

  “That thing you saw in St Peters last night.” Bryce said, his voice was insistent and with an edge to it. “It was Emilio Fogliani. You know, the underworld guy.”

  Craig’s mind finally started to process the information. His blue eyes stared unseeing at the wall.

  “Oh shit. I’m not liking this at all. I think I should disappear for a while.”

  “What? Why? Why would you do that? You didn’t do anything wrong? You were telling the truth last night weren’t you?” asked Bryce, with a slight note of accusation seeping subconsciously into his tone.

  “Of course I was. It went down just as I said.” Craig snapped defensively. “Do you think I’d lie about something like this?”

  “No, of course not. Sorry. Well then you don’t have anything to worry about do you?”

  “I’m not so sure, I’ve got a bad feeling about this.”

  “Just relax. I’m sure they’ll get the guy who did it and that’ll be the end of it. As you said last night, this has nothing to do with us.”

  Chapter 17

  A pale, weak, winter sun hung low in the northern sky as Robards and Nelson arrived back at the crime scene. It provided just enough warmth to slowly dry the dew off the grass in the adjoining park but little more than that. Nothing was warm.

  On the drive to St Peters, Robards had set up a meeting with Michael Fogliani. The appointment was for midday at his office in the city so the two Detectives had almost an hour to kill.

  A single Constable from the Newtown Local Area Command stoically continued to guard the crime scene - which was now just an empty, blocked off driveway - much to the consternation of those who needed to use it to access the rear of the warehouse.

  The media scrum had arrived in force from eight a.m. onwards. They got their footage of their journalists standing in front of the vacant crime scene, interviewed a few of the local workers, were frustrated by the stonewalling of the stoic Constable and had mostly moved on to the next story. Now just a mere handful of the most persistent remained, hoping for an unlikely scoop on further developments. Although it was Saturday, most of the warehouses and depots seemed to be a hive of activity. A few workers on their breaks stood by watching and thinking how poorly the investigation compared to the shows they watched on the TV.

  Nelson always returned to a crime scene at least once. It was what he did. He had lost count of the number of times he had learned something new about a case from revisiting the crime scene on his second or third visit. He liked to get a feel for it, to take the time to soak it in and search for the details that he may have missed first time around.

  “Alright Pete, you be Emilio Fogliani and I’ll be the killer.”

  “Why do I always have to be the victim?” Robards knew better than to argue but he did anyway. Nelson always got to be the murderer. He was good at it too. He had an almost uncanny ability to put himself in other people’s shoes and get a feel for what they were doing and thinking at the time of the crime.

  “Ok, so I’m thinking that Fogliani either came out here to meet someone or was planning a robbery or something. You wouldn’t come out here on your own in the middle of the night just to sit in your car and think about life,” started Nelson. “What do they store in the warehouse?” he said, nodding toward the closest building.

  “The guy I spoke to said it’s basically just a depot to house imported gardening supplies.”

  “Seems an unlikely target then, unless he had a big backyard or unless they were importing drugs at the same time or something. That’s been done before.”

  “Maybe. Seems legit though.”

  “I wonder if the Foglianis lease or own any floor space around here.”

  “Good question. We can ask them later.”

  “Anyway, whatever the reason he was here, he was sitting in his car at the time he was shot,” said Nelson, indicating the rectangular outline that had been taped on the ground where the car had been parked.

  “And as far as we can tell, he came alone,” added Robards.

  “Why would he do that? I mean why would he be out here alone in the middle of the night?”

  Nelson watched as Robards thought hard.

  “It would have to be a meeting. But I wouldn’t come out here in the middle of the night unless I was armed.”

  “But we didn’t find any weapon on Fogliani did we? And the body didn’t appear to have been tampered with because he still had eight hundred bucks
in his wallet, so let’s assume for the time being that he didn’t bring a weapon.”

  “It was fifteen hundred bucks, not eight hundred. That would mean that he felt comfortable, not threatened by whoever he was coming to meet. Maybe it was an old friend, or a business associate, or even a woman.”

  “Right. He’s not stupid. Gangsters don’t normally live to become sixty-one year old Grandpas unless they’re ahead of the game.”

  Robards moved to a position inside the rectangular outline and pretended to be Emilio Fogliani sitting in his car. Nelson stood where he thought the shooter would have fired from based on the information supplied by Mike Martinez. The few journalists who had remained on site focused their attention and their cameras on the two Detectives who acted out their macabre play in front of them.

  “But then, while he was waiting, someone walked up to the car and bam, bam, bam, shot him in the chest and head.”

  Nelson tried to imagine the scene but struggled to bring it to life. He shook his head and massaged the back of his neck, trying to fight off the lethargy that felt like it was seeping into his mind. He was ready for another coffee whereas Robards, who was existing on even less sleep than him, still looked sharp.

  “I’m just not feeling this one Pete. Nothing feels right. Have you got any ideas?”

  Pete Robards rubbed his chin for a moment as he thought.

  “I’m thinking, that because there were no defensive wounds on the body, he probably didn’t see it coming. That either the person who he was meeting pulled out a gun and shot him before he had a chance to react, or maybe the shooter sneaked up to the car and completely surprised him.”

  Nelson surveyed the area from where he was standing, trying to mentally factor in Robards’ theories.

  “That sounds reasonable and yet….”

  “What? What is it?”

  “Well in some ways it smells like a hit. I mean, the money was left in the wallet, he was out here in this place in the middle of the night alone, and he was shot from close range. It has characteristics of a clean, well organised hit.”

  “But why does someone decide to whack a retired sixty-one year old gangster? Why now?”

  “That’s the sixty-four dollar question. Let’s go ask Michael Fogliani what he thinks.”

  Chapter 18

  Michael Fogliani’s company offices were located on the thirty-third floor of the Dresden Place office block on Pitt Street in the centre of the city. Nelson insisted on stopping for a bottle of water and a ham and salad sandwich from the little café in the foyer to fill the gnawing hole in his stomach that the fruit he had eaten earlier had not even gone close to filling. He and Robards rode the high speed elevator to their destination, yawning to pop their ears as they ascended.

  “Why don’t you take the lead on this one Pete,” Nelson muffled through a mouthful. “I’ll butt in when I’m good and ready.”

  “Sure thing.”

  Nelson tucked the remainder of his sandwich into his pocket as they pushed through the glass doors of the offices which occupied a quarter of the floor. They were greeted by a young woman wearing a professional looking business suit and a lustrous olive complexion who ushered them to a comfortable leather couch in the foyer. She politely asked them to wait for Michael Fogliani to finish up a conference call. Nelson occupied himself with the remainder of his sandwich while they waited.

  After twenty minutes, Michael Fogliani came out to greet them, accompanied by another man. Fogliani was immaculately dressed in what Nelson guessed was a thousand dollar Italian suit but Robards knew was actually closer to four thousand. It made Nelson momentarily peruse his own apparel which he knew could not compete.

  “Sorry to keep you waiting Detectives,” he said, shaking hands with each Detective and meeting their eyes. “This is my family solicitor David Marini,” he said, introducing the tall, lean man at his side. “I’d like him to sit in on our conversation if that’s alright.” Nelson wasn’t surprised by the addition. He thought to himself that Michael Fogliani probably didn’t even take a crap without a solicitor present to advise him of any potential ramifications. Nelson and Robards exchanged brief handshakes and tight smiles with the solicitor who smiled back at them like a shark circling a school of baitfish.

  “Let’s go to my office where we can be more comfortable.”

  Fogliani led them to his office which occupied a sizeable portion of the office space. Robards’ and Nelson’s eyes were immediately drawn to the view which stretched out to forever, taking in the harbour, the heads and the Pacific Ocean beyond. The exterior walls were floor to ceiling glass and Nelson felt a brief moment of vertiginous anxiety as he looked straight down to the street one hundred metres below.

  Fogliani took his seat behind a large oak desk and his solicitor sat beside him. Two against two.

  “Firstly let me say I’m sorry for your loss Mr Fogliani,” began Robards. “I’m sure this can’t be an easy time for you so we’ll try and be as brief as possible.”

  “Thank you Detective,” said Fogliani nodding sadly. He took a deep breath, determined to keep his raw grief internalised and avoid another public display of his emotions. “These are nice offices, can I ask what sort of business you’re in Mr. Fogliani?”

  “Please, call me Michael,” he responded, glad for a less taxing subject. “We do many things here, mostly though we run an investment company. People pay me to invest their money for them.”

  “Stocks and bonds?” added Robards hopefully.

  “Some. We also invest in a few offshore projects and we operate a couple of restaurants and a transport company.”

  Robards nodded as if he was interested while Nelson just sat, quietly listening.

  “Michael, we need to know why your uncle was at St Peters at ten p.m. last night. Have you got any idea why he was there or if he was meeting someone?”

  Fogliani thought for a moment as if examining the question for a trap.

  “No Detective. My uncle didn’t tell me where he was going last night. If he went to St Peters to meet someone then I don’t know who it was. He was a private man who liked to keep his own counsel.”

  Robards looked toward Nelson, wondering if he wanted to ask anything, but he just sat silently, with his hands clasped on his lap, as if waiting for a bus.

  “Is there anyone else in your family, perhaps his wife or some of his associates who might know what he was doing last night?”

  “No,” replied Fogliani firmly. “And I’d prefer that you ask your questions of me and don’t bother my family. I’m sure you understand that they’re too distraught to speak to you right now. It has affected my mother and aunt very badly.”

  “Of course. Does your family have any business interests in the St Peters area?”

  “No. Not in St Peters at least. We have a couple of warehouses but they’re in the inner west area.”

  “I see. Was your uncle involved in any bad business dealings?” tried Robards again, trying to hide the note of frustration that was creeping into his voice.

  “No. He was pretty much retired. He helped me out in the business occasionally, but for the most part he played golf and cards with his friends at the club.”

  Robards continued to forge onward. “Is there anyone you know who might want to harm you uncle? Did he have any enemies?”

  “No Detective, not that I know of. He was loved and respected by those who knew him. In our line of business we have many competitors, but that is all they are, competitors, not enemies.”

  Nelson watched him and noticed that the lie came easily. It didn’t take a genius to figure out that someone who had spent the last forty years of their life screwing people over would have a list of enemies as long as his dead arm. He shook his head and smiled.

  “Is there something amusing Detective?” asked the solicitor, noticing Nelson’s gesture.

  Nelson looked at him but then provided his response directly to Fogliani.

  “Yes, there is something funny.
What’s funny is that you think we have enough spare time to sit here and listen to all of your bullshit answers. We’re trying to find your uncle’s killer for god sake, but you’re not going to lift a finger to help us are you?”

  Michael Fogliani and his solicitor sat dumbstruck by Nelson’s comments.

  “I think I understand though. You might be well educated and sit up here in your nice office, but under your clothes and under your skin you’re still your father’s son and your uncle’s nephew and you’re not going to give us anything because that’s not the way the Fogliani family operates is it? At the end of the day we’re still the enemy to you aren’t we, even if we’re trying to help you?”

  Michael Fogliani’s face turned bright red

  “You’ve no right to talk to my client in this manner,” said Marini, already tossing around some potential legal options in his mind.

  Nelson ignored the comment. “Now I’m going to ask you one more time Michael. Do you know who your uncle was going to meet at the St Peters industrial area last night?” Nelson sounded out his words slowly, as if speaking to a child.

  “No Detective, I do not know,” replied Fogliani through clenched teeth, holding Nelson’s gaze.

  “Do you know anyone who might want to kill your uncle? Actually, let me rephrase that. Among the people that your uncle has robbed, cheated or hurt during his lifetime, do you have any idea which of them might have been responsible for killing him?”

  Michael Fogliani seemed to involuntarily gasp which he quickly converted into a clearing of his throat.

  “No Detective. As I said, I honestly have no idea who might be responsible for the death of my uncle. I can’t force you to believe me, but over the last ten years my uncle has left his past ways behind him. He is, was, an old man for god sake.”

  Satisfied that Fogliani either didn’t know who his uncle was meeting or wouldn’t share the information if he did know, Nelson stood up to leave.

  “Michael, one last thing. You might think the best way of dealing with your uncle’s death is to give us nothing and then tear up the city seeking vengeance on anyone who was remotely linked to his death, but guess what, the people of this city don’t want gang warfare on the street, so if you’re thinking of starting something, then don’t. It’s my job to find the killer and that’s exactly what I’m going to do, ok? So don’t go getting in my way.”