by Neil Cossins
She had no intention of phoning Michael Fogliani back in a week and trying to collect on the hundred thousand. As tempting as it was, she considered it to be too risky a play. The mention of the money had just been a ruse to allay his suspicions about being given something for nothing. She reasoned that Fogliani would try and save himself the hundred grand by identifying and locating Manuel Torres on his own. Rich guys don’t get rich from being generous benefactors to the needy, they get rich by being tightfisted pricks and screwing over whoever they can to make a dollar, she had thought to herself as she made her plans.
From the carefully chosen stills from the murder video, Kylie reasoned it shouldn’t be too difficult for a man with Fogliani’s money, power and connections to find Manuel Torres. One of the stills on the memory stick was a very clear picture of him moving away from Emilio Fogliani’s car moments after the shooting. His face and the tattoo that snaked up his neck from underneath his jacket were clearly visible.
She reasoned that in the unlikely event that she had misjudged Fogliani and he ended up taking the evidence to the police, the stills – without the accompanying video - would not be sufficient evidence to get Craig Thoms off the hook. Not when compared to the plethora of evidence that had been stacked against him. It was a calculated risk, but one that she felt she now needed to take to protect herself.
As she walked down the busy street she thought of Manuel Torres. She felt a flicker of remorse at her betrayal of him but it quickly passed. He had served his purpose and had been a willing participant every step of the way. She searched inside herself for any remaining feelings she had for him and found none.
Chapter 40
Michael Fogliani waited nervously for his niece to return from her errand to the phone box. He hoped that he hadn’t put her in any danger, although he knew she was a capable young woman and running strange errands was nothing new to her. She returned within three minutes, but to Michael it felt like an hour had passed. She knew better than to ask questions and wordlessly handed the unopened envelope to him. It was better that she didn’t know what was in the package anyway.
He returned to his office and quietly closed the door. He cautiously opened the envelope as if it were laced with a liberal dose of Anthrax powder, gently removed the memory stick and inserted it into one of the USB drives on his laptop. The laptop automatically detected the presence of the memory stick and brought up fingernail size pictures of the photos. Michael double clicked on the first photo which expanded it to full size. The first image showed a man who seemed to be moving towards a car that Michael recognised as his uncles’. He recognised the car because he had been there when his uncle bought it. The man’s left was mostly blocked by his body but Michael thought he could see that he carried a gun in his hand. The second image showed what appeared to be the same man moving away from the car. The third and final image was a zoomed in upper body shot of the same man. Despite obviously having been taken at night, in an area of limited lighting, the photographs were of good quality and finely detailed under the circumstances.
Michael stared closely at the face that confronted him and inwardly seethed with anger. There in front of him were pictures of his father’s only brother being murdered. His uncle’s ghost seemed to reach out from beyond the grave and whisper in his ear to grab the gun which was stored in his office safe, search the streets for his murderer and exact natural justice with his own bare hands. He fought for control of his emotions and calm eventually won the day. It was his trademark. He could be just as hard nosed and cruel as his father ever was, but while his father’s blood ran hot and his temper quick, Michael’s blood ran cool, his mind calculating.
The photos seemed legitimate, but he knew that any fifth grader with an ounce of Photoshop ability could put Jennifer Hawkin’s head onto Tiger Woods’ body in a matter of moments, so he was reluctant to believe the authenticity of the photos without further supporting proof.
He sat in his office for the next half hour, quietly thinking about his next move before settling on a course of action. He picked up a business card on his desk and dialed the number.
“Detective Nelson speaking.”
“Good Afternoon Detective. It’s Michael Fogliani here.” He was smooth and in total control again. “Firstly, let me apologise for the way our first meeting went. As you understand I am still grieving over my uncle’s death. It has been a difficult time for me.” He sounded believable because it was the truth. His mother was still inconsolable even though she had never particularly like Emilio, and his aunt, Emilio’s wife of forty-one years, had been sedated and bed-ridden since his death.
“It’s ok. I can imagine things are tough for your family right now.” responded Nelson evenly. “What can I do for you Mr Fogliani?”
“Please, call me Michael. I just wanted to know how your investigation is proceeding. I understand that you’ve arrested someone in relation to my uncle’s murder. Is that correct?”
“Yes it is.” Nelson felt a moment of regret at not having phoned him and personally brought him up to date as Crighton had instructed him to do. It was poor form and he knew it. “I had planned on calling you and letting you know but I’ve been tied up.”
“That’s alright Detective. Detective Robards gave me a call on Sunday afternoon to let me know.”
“Yes, yes of course.” Typical Robards efficiency, let’s give him another commendation.
“I’m grateful for all your efforts in arresting someone so promptly.”
“Just doing my job.”
“Do you think that’s the end of it then or do you expect to make further arrests?”
Nelson hesitated before answering and Michael pondered its meaning.
“I’m not really sure at this stage. All I can say is that we are continuing with our investigations.”
“Look Detective, I’m not asking you to divulge anything that could endanger your case but my family once had some bad business dealings with an ethnic group and I’m fearful that Emilio’s death is related to that and that they may still be targeting my family. I just need to know if I should be hiring extra security?”
Nelson again hesitated before answering. He felt there was something wrong with the conversation but couldn’t pinpoint where his concern was coming from. He remembered Crighton’s words about keeping Fogliani informed wherever possible.
“No Michael, I don’t think your family has anything to fear. The man we have in custody is Caucasian and does not appear to have any ethnic background or connections with organised crime groups. We think he probably acted alone. Our evidence against him is strong but he has made certain claims about his innocence that we are looking in to. That’s really all I can tell you at this point.”
“Thank you Detective. That’s all I needed to know. Oh, and please let me know if there are any further developments.”
“Will do Michael.”
Michael Fogliani hung up the phone, quietly pleased with the results of the conversation. Detective Nelson as expected had given little away and yet he had given up more than he knew. He reasoned that although Nelson had arrested someone in relation to his uncle’s death, he didn’t sound completely convinced of his guilt. That, and Nelson’s reference to the lack of ethnicity of the person who had been arrested, fitted neatly with the story he’d been told by the anonymous female caller an hour previously. Fogliani re-studied the face in the photographs. The skin tone of the man in the zoomed in photograph was definitely brown, not white.
“Perhaps she was telling the truth,” he said to himself.
Michael Fogliani decided that it was time for him to take action, although he did not make the decision lightly. He reasoned that if ever there was a time to step back into the past and get his hands dirty again then this was it, to seek revenge for his uncle’s murder.
Over the past ten years he had tried to raise his family above the ordinary criminal activity that had laid the foundation of their fortune and which he was now rapidly multi
plying through legitimate means. It hadn’t been easy. Friends had been lost and sacrifices had been made along the way. He had given away a lot of the influence, power and networks that his father and uncle had worked so hard to establish, but it had been worth it in the end.
He had put an end to most of the family’s illegal activities, but not all. Unbeknown to the Gangs squad and anyone else who looked at the Fogliani family, they had quietly retained one of their most lucrative illegal sidelines. Every couple of months or so a Sydney based, deep sea, fishing trawler made a slight detour from its regular fishing grounds to meet up with a large, fast, cabin cruiser that was based in Vanuatu and operated legitimate charters for wealthy holiday makers. The small but precious cargo of cocaine – with a street value of around eight hundred thousand dollars - was passed to the trawler, sealed inside a watertight metal box and attached magnetically to the underside of the hull.
At the first sign of trouble the cargo could be jettisoned by a remote switch inside the cabin and collected later by remotely triggering a GPS beacon located inside the box, although this had never been required. No money changed hands at the time of the exchange either. Payment was routed to the supplier through a myriad of related companies and transactions.
The drugs were quietly and carefully offloaded in the middle of the night and their distribution onto the streets of Sydney was handled through a tightly controlled and trusted network of family friends. It was a smooth, low risk operation, which went unnoticed by the police and added some extra cash flow to the Fogliani’s operations. It was one of the last direct links the Fogliani family maintained with the underworld community which came in handy at times when men with special skills were required.
Michael Fogliani rode the lift down to the basement of the building. Although reception was poor it was still sufficient to make a call. When he was sure he was alone he pulled out a phone. It wasn’t his usual mobile phone but rather a prepaid version that had been purchased with cash by his niece for eighty dollars at BigW using a false licence. In short it was untraceable. The voice that answered was familiar and trusted completely.
“Hi. It’s me. I have an urgent job for some of your friends. Can we meet tonight at the usual place?”
Chapter 41
As Nelson slowly opened his eyes to the new day he felt like he was closer to eighty-five years of age instead of his actual thirty-five. He successfully fought against the feeling of exhaustion that threatened to engulf him and dragged himself out of his bed. The previous days work had been long and tiring. He, Robards and Bovis had worked their new murder case until eight p.m., studying the forensics reports and case notes made by the investigating officers. And then, despite his aching lethargy Nelson had steeled himself with a large coffee and spent a further two hours working up a profile of Kylie Faulkner’s past in the hope of linking her to Emilio Fogliani with some tangible evidence.
He had experienced mixed results with his research. Kylie Faulkner was a cleanskin, in that according to the police databases she had never been arrested or been a suspect in any crime, however there were some parts of her life that intrigued Nelson. He spoke to the aunt that old Sergeant Soward from Batemans Bay had mentioned. The aunt had had few good words to say about Kylie and didn’t seem particularly bothered that she hadn’t heard from her since she left fifteen years earlier. She maintained that she had done everything in her power to care for the girl but that one day she had just upped and left without so much as a good-bye. It seemed like a strange conversation to Nelson and he sensed that there was more to the story. He tried to draw the aunt out and although she refused to go into any detail, she eventually revealed there had been some sort of falling out.
Despite the late hour, he had also managed to contact some of Kylie’s past employers, identified off her group certificate information which had been provided by an Australian Tax Office liaison officer that Nelson had worked with in the past. They appeared to hold her in high regard, however there were instances of erratic behaviour and on several occasions she had taken long, unexplained absences from her work or had quit altogether at short notice. There were no reports of long term relationships with men, although one of her previous supervisors had hinted that Kylie had led somewhat of a broad minded and promiscuous lifestyle. As Nelson sat on the edge of his bed, he reflected on what he had learned about her and wondered if the profile was indicative of a person capable of setting a man up for murder.
Nelson quickly showered, grabbed a couple of pieces of toast and headed back to Headquarters while it was still dark out. He arrived there just before seven a.m. and immediately made himself a large and strong coffee in the hope that the caffeine hit would jolt his tired system into action once again. His plan was to keep his head down and fit in a few more hours working the Fogliani case before VanMerle or anyone else noticed.
He sat at his desk and began to go through the case file, certain that the answers lay somewhere buried within it. He re-read Craig Thoms’ statement and pondered about the identity of the person that he said he had followed that night. According to Craig, the man who he had stalked had been the triggerman, yet only he and Natalie Bassett had seen this mystery man and their descriptions of him were vague at best. They had both worked with a sketch artist to create a computerised likeness of the mystery man, but CISB had been unable to come up with any meaningful matches on their databases of previously arrested criminals to either likeness. Nelson knew that identifying the man Craig had followed would be pivotal in unraveling the case. He made a note to contact the N.S.W. Rail Authority to see if they had any security video that might contain pictures of the mystery man at the Central or St Peters stations.
His other focus would be on finding out more about Jennifer Nolan. He reasoned that her presence at the apartment that was the last known address of Kylie Faulkner had to be more than a mere coincidence. His plan was to find out all he could about her before bringing her in for a formal interview on Saturday. Although that would have been his first day off in more than ten days, he was prepared to sacrifice it to progress the Fogliani case.
Nelson continued to slowly and methodically work through the case file but before long was annoyed to see VanMerle arrive with his usual morose visage and lack of vigour. The only positive in seeing VanMerle was that he made Nelson feel and look like a million dollars in comparison. Nelson shrunk a little at his desk in the hope that VanMerle wouldn’t notice him above the partition that surrounded two sides of his desk, but it was to no avail. Within minutes, VanMerle spotted him and came to his desk. Nelson saw him coming out of the corner of his eye, closed the Fogliani case file and pretended to have been working on his computer.
“How’s the Crenshaw case coming along Nelson?” he asked while simultaneously and overtly eyeing an open email Nelson had on his screen.
“Yeah, good morning to you too.” You cadaverous old bastard. “So far so good. Forensics finished up with the house last night. Today we’ll help out the LAC boys interviewing the relatives and business associates. “There’s a bucketful of them so it’s going to be a long day but we should do ok.”
The Detectives from the Kings Cross Local Area Command, who the Homicide squad was assisting in the case, were known to Nelson and although they had previously handled only a few murder investigations, were capable enough. Nelson went on to explain that the early evidence pointed to the possibility of an inside job. VanMerle spent another five minutes chatting with Nelson before growing tired of Nelson’s increasingly monosyllabic answers. Just as he headed back to his office, Robards and Bovis arrived for work. Nelson pushed aside the Fogliani case file with a sigh and opened the Crenshaw file ready for work.
Chapter 42
Manuel Torres left work at around nine p.m. Wednesday. He had been working late at the Tuff Street’n’Strip body shop in Lidcombe because some hood with seemingly bottomless pockets - Manuel thought that this was probably the result of a successful drug distribution business - wanted a custom b
uilt street cruiser ready for a car show that was only two months away. Manuel had spent more than one hundred and twenty hours prepping the cars body for painting in the previous two weeks alone and although he admired it as a work of art, it would be happy days when the hood finally towed it out of the workshop and out of his life.
As he reached his car which was parked on the street, a man stepped out of the shadows, took aim and fired. Two electrodes flew from the Taser gun with a pop and in the blink of an eye, sliced through Manuel’s jacket, hooked into his skin and sent fifty thousand volts of electricity coursing through his body. Manuel fell to the ground in silent screaming agony, his muscles constricted violently and threatened to tear themselves off his bones. After what seemed like an eternity but was actually only five seconds the pain stopped and was replaced by an even more terrifying numbness. He lay on the ground, semi-alert, but unable to move. He knew he was in trouble. Using every ounce of strength he had, he tried to get to his feet but found that his body no longer obeyed his commands. A car pulled up beside him, the engine idling quietly in the night. Although he was in no shape to argue, a large foot was placed in the middle of his back, pinning him to the ground while his two arms were wrenched behind his back. Manuel heard the zip as a pair of looped plastic ties cruelly bit into his skin, binding his wrists tightly together. The two electrodes were torn from the skin of his back but he didn’t feel a thing. Two pairs of strong, rough hands pulled him to his feet, quickly frisked him and emptied his pockets. Those same hands threw him into the boot of the car and slammed it shut on him, leaving him in near complete darkness. It had only taken thirty seconds.
Manuel felt the car accelerate away and was flung about the boot as it sped around the corner. In time he slowly regained his breath and feeling in his body and was able to brace himself with his legs to stop further collision with the confining boundaries of the boot.