by Neil Cossins
Chapter 44
Nelson grabbed his coat and strolled lazily out of the building as if he was going down the street for a coffee. Once outside, he made his way to his own car, hoping that he hadn’t been noticed. He drove it out of the car park and headed for the club in the city centre where Sanchez had said Mark Dendy was a part owner and could be found most days. Thirty minutes later Nelson lucked a park on Pitt Street almost directly in front of the club and passed through the glass doors, glad that despite the early hour it was open for business. The club was small and had a country and western decor to it which seemed mildly ridiculous to Nelson. He made his way to the bar and asked the barman – a tall pimply faced redheaded kid - for Mark Dendy. The barman nodded wordlessly toward his left as he grumpily continued to tidy up the mess that the night shift should have cleaned up but didn’t. Nelson made his way to the small betting lounge and found only one occupant who was attentively watching Race 1 from Wagga Wagga racetrack.
“Mark Dendy?” Nelson asked casually.
“Who wants to know?” replied the man, without taking his eyes off the race in progress, his ire growing as the horse he’d backed for five hundred slid inexorably towards the rear of the field. Nelson briefly studied the man before him. He had lank dark greasy hair fastened behind his neck in a ponytail. His blue eyes were tired and creased and he wore a faded and stained Hawaiian shirt. Nelson judged him to be about fifty years of age but in reality he was only forty-two.
“Detective Nelson, Homicide squad.” Nelson flashed his badge briefly, more from habit than to impress.
Dendy took a quick, furtive look at Nelson and a shadow of derision passed across his face, which made Nelson smile briefly. In some ways, Nelson enjoyed dealing with people like Dendy because there was no confusion. It was black and white that he was the enemy of the police and society.
“Mark, I’m not going to beat around the bush because that’s not my style,” Nelson said firmly. “I need some information and I need it quickly.”
Dendy cursed as the race finished and threw his betting ticket on the ground. He turned and faced Nelson.
“Oh? What sort of information?” he replied with false geniality.
“I want to know about the Fogliani family. First Emilio Fogliani was murdered and now two bodies have turned up in one of their warehouses and I want to know why.
“I’m always prepared to help out where I can Detective…..”
“Nelson.”
“Nelson. As I was saying,” said Dendy, as he began to show slightly more interest at the prospect of recouping his losses. “Sure, I know some stuff about the Fogliani family but I’m not sure it’s in my best interests to be telling it to the likes of you.”
“Why not?”
“Because people like the Foglianis and their friends don’t take too kindly to their private affairs being discussed with the cops.”
“It’s ok, I won’t tell them anything.”
Dendy smiled tightly.
“Ok Detective man, but my information don’t come cheap.”
“How much?”
“Maybe five grand might make me loosen my tongue a little.”
Nelson felt a growing disgust for the man as his fetid breath and body odour assaulted him.
“Five grand? Sounds a little steep,” replied Nelson, a frown creasing his forehead.
“Yeah well information can be expensive. If you don’t like the price you can go and crawl back into the arsehole you came out of.” Dendy turned away and grabbed another betting card. He had to rush because race two in Shepparton was coming up in four minutes and he had a solid tip that had been given to him by his friend’s uncle who knew a guy who knew the trainer of the horse, or something like that.
Nelson realised the conversation appeared to be over as far as Dendy was concerned. He sighed bitterly. “I don’t have time for this shit,” he mumbled under his breath. He briefly thought about leaving Dendy to his losing streak, but the thought of reaching another dead end left him with a sick and sour taste in his mouth. He looked up and noted the black dome video cameras in the ceiling and then took a quick look around the club to see who might be watching. The place was empty except for a few disaffected elderly patrons who were onto their third schooner already and the barman who was applying himself diligently to washing five hundred schooner and midi glasses. Nelson grabbed Dendy’s arm and twisted it roughly and quickly behind his back.
“Let’s take a walk. This place smells like a toilet,” growled Nelson roughly, his reasonably pleasant demeanour instantly evaporating.
Dendy momentarily tried to struggle but Nelson had the element of surprise on his side and also outweighed the older man by a good ten kilograms. Nelson frog marched him out the nearby fire exit and into the alley beside the club. A white delivery van was parked in the alley entrance and ensured Nelson had some privacy from those walking past in the street beyond.
“Hey, no need to get rough, tough guy,” said Dendy, still holding his betting ticket and pencil.
“Ok,” growled Nelson menacingly. “I’ll give you one more chance. Now tell me what I want to know.”
Dendy laughed out loud. “You’re really starting to scare me. You guys are all the same. Go fuck your….” Dendy didn’t get a chance to finish his sentence as Nelson ripped a savage right uppercut into his ribs and followed it up with a crashing left hook to the side of his head. Dendy had already been on the way down after the first blow but the second blow ensured he crashed into the ground with force. His ears rang, his vision darkened and blurred and blood began to flow freely from a deep cut that had opened on his cheek. He desperately searched for his next breath but failed to find it and could only manage a slight wheeze.
Nelson crouched down to the prostrate man, his face close to Dendy’s ear. “Now you don’t know me and I don’t know you, but I’ll tell you something about me for free.” Nelson’s voice was quiet and calm. “I’m here to get some information and I will do whatever I have to do to get it. Do you understand?”
Dendy managed to spit in Nelson’s direction. Nelson slammed a downward punch into Dendy’s ribs and heard a satisfying crack. Dendy shrieked in pain as the cartilage between his ribs separated, sending shooting, excruciating pains through his body.
“Do you believe me now or will I keep working away at you? I’ve got all day you know. I’ll take it slow and I will hurt you like you’ve never been hurt before.” Dendy slightly lifted his head and looked into Nelson’s eyes, which showed nothing but a calm stare and he realised he had made a serious error in judgment and as a result his day had just got a lot worse. Dendy had survived dealing with some of the toughest and most dangerous criminals in Sydney because despite his failings as a human being he was normally a good judge of men. He knew when to push hard against those who could be pushed and he knew when to back off. The look he saw in Nelson’s eyes reminded him of some of the people he did business with and it scared him as Nelson crouched above him, alone in the alley.
With great effort, he gave a slight nod of his head.
Ignoring the man’s pain, Nelson grimly pulled him into a sitting position with his back against the wall, literally and figuratively.
“Good. Start talking.”
Dendy found that he could now manage to talk when he exhaled in short raspy breaths.
“I don’t know who killed Emilio Fogliani. Fogliani was just an old man……who acted tough, and lived off the handouts from his nephew. It came out of the blue……”
“Was it gang related? Or maybe someone trying to settle an old score?”
“I don’t think so. Not that I know of.”
“Are you sure?”
“No, but if it was, then no-one is talking about it. Normally word gets out.”
“What do you know about two dead bodies at the Fogliani warehouse in Strathfield. Who are they?”
“I’m not sure……but maybe I can guess. A couple of days ago, two guys were flashing a picture around try
ing to find someone. They were offering good money.”
“Who were these guys?”
Dendy tried to gently maneuver himself into a more comfortable position which only resulted in sending new spasms of pain stabbing through his torso.
“I seen them around, hired muscle. They’ve worked for the Foglianis before.”
“What did they want with this guy?”
“They didn’t come out and say outright, but they hinted that it had something to do with Fogliani getting smacked.”
“Who was the guy in the picture?”
“I didn’t know at first. But he had a prison tattoo on his neck. I told them to leave a copy of the photo with me and I’d get back to them. I asked around some friends of mine who’ve been on the inside recently and one of them remembered him.”
“What did you do then?”
“I phoned through the information and later in the day someone dropped off a little money for me.”
“What name did you give them?” asked Nelson, the flat implacable stare in his eyes masking the flutter of excitement growing within.
“His name was Torres, Manuel Torres.”
Nelson savoured the name. It meant nothing to him, but inwardly he gasped at the possibility, the hope, that he had just found the missing link. He casually thanked Dendy for his help, left him in the alley with his shirt full of cracked ribs, satisfied with his mornings work. He considered giving Dendy one hundred dollars for his help but decided against perpetuating his gambling addiction. It would be better spent elsewhere. Nelson returned to his car and headed west.
Despite the new developments, there were many questions that remained unanswered and still next to no direct evidence that pointed at anyone other than Craig Thoms. Nelson checked his watch and accelerated as he joined the traffic on the M4. He decided that the Crenshaw case would have to wait, and that his immediate priority was to locate Manuel Torres before the Foglianis or anyone else did.
Chapter 45
In hindsight it seemed ridiculous. Manuel Torres searched his memory for ideas on how he could find Kylie and apart from ringing her mobile phone – which she wasn’t answering - he had no idea. He didn’t know where she lived apart from it being in an apartment somewhere east of the city. They had been together for six weeks and he had never been to her place. She had told him she was renovating and that he could see it when it was finished. It sounded perfectly reasonable at the time so he didn’t question it. He didn’t know where she worked either, other than it was somewhere in the city. She had rarely talked about her work and when she did he normally tuned out through lack of interest or it went straight over his head.
After dealing with his would-be captors and finally getting home just before midnight, he spent the remainder of the night lying on his bed chewing panadol while his calf beat like a jungle drum. He assumed he had a few hours grace before possibly receiving any further visitors but had his hand gun on his bedside table in readiness just in case. Kylie had told him to throw it in the harbour where no-one would find it but now he was glad that he’d kept it. He was exhausted and he tried to sleep but his mind kept thinking about her. Although he loved her, he realised he knew very little about her. As he remembered and analysed their time together he recalled that on the few occasions he’d asked her about a personal topic, she had gently deflected his questions, and distracted him with her physical presence in some way, which was an easy enough thing to do.
He desperately wanted to talk to her and get her to explain why it couldn’t possibly have been her who had sold him out because she loved him and would never hurt him, but in the back of his mind his doubts were spreading. As far as he knew, apart from himself, only two other people had known about the time and the location of the hit he carried out on Emilio Fogliani. One of them was Bruno Trulli, a man who he owed his life to and who he would willingly give his life for, and the other was Kylie.
Manuel felt certain that Bruno would have maintained his silence because it had been his idea to kill Emilio Fogliani in the first place. Bruno had worked tirelessly for the Fogliani family for twenty-five years and was repaid for his service and loyalty by Emilio Fogliani raping his nineteen year old daughter late one night in the kitchen of Pellegrinos after Bruno had gone home. His daughter had been so traumatised by the event that she refused to report it to anyone, so Bruno had also remained quiet and devised another way of seeking retribution. He had lured Emilio to St Peters on the false presumption that he would be meeting one of his mistresses for a secret rendezvous. It had been an easy enough thing to achieve as Emilio had never been particularly discreet with his numerous affairs. Bruno had everything to lose if his part in the murder was discovered.
So that only left Kylie. He shook his head in disbelief at the possibility that what they had together wasn’t real. A hot rage began to simmer mindlessly inside him and yet it was tempered by his confusion and doubt. He vowed to find her and find out the truth once and for all.
The next morning, despite the soreness of his calf muscle, which felt as though someone was jabbing a fork into it with every step he took, he walked the streets of the city looking for her. It was all he could think to do. He pulled the hood of his jacket to cover his head in search of anonymity, just in case. After several hours of fruitless and pointless searching, scanning the myriad of faces on the street, he decided to go to Nero’s Lounge and Bar because it was the only place he knew she frequented. On the night that he had killed Emilio Fogliani, he had taken a quick glance in there and seen her there, laughing with her friends. Finding her here again seemed a long shot, but it was all he had.
He sat drinking beer after sullen beer in a quiet corner at the rear of the bar and waited. He watched the people who came in and went out the front door and kept to himself. At around six p.m. a couple entered the bar and his heart skipped a beat as he recognised their faces.
Manuel Torres struggled with his self-control over the next hour while they chatted and laughed together. He sipped another beer and watched them under hooded eyes as the bar began to fill and the evening outside darkened. Eventually his patience was rewarded and they left together. Manuel followed them, his face set in a grim mask, the pain in his calf dulled, and mind swimming recklessly, from an afternoon of drinking beer. After a short walk they appeared to say their goodbyes to each other and went their separate ways. Manuel followed fifty metres behind her, his eyes burning holes in her back. He waited for the right time to approach her, somewhere quiet, somewhere where there would be little chance of being disturbed while they talked.
Fifteen minutes later, Manuel saw her turn into a block of apartments. His calf had stiffened considerably during the walk and the renewed pain throbbed loudly throughout his entire leg as if it had its own heart. He heard the jingle of keys as she checked her mail box and then made her way upstairs, her heels echoing loudly on each step. Manuel quietly followed, closer now, close enough that he could smell her perfume, which he breathed in deeply.
As Jennifer Nolan unlocked the door of her apartment, Manuel loomed up quick and large behind her. He placed one hand around her mouth and the other tightly, cruelly, around her waist picking her up in the process. He pushed her forward into the apartment, bearing her slim body to the ground beneath his and flicked the door closed with his foot.
Chapter 46
Upon his arrival back at Headquarters Nelson threw himself into finding out everything he could about Manuel Torres. He checked the criminal history database and got a full printout of his record including several photographs from various angles. Nelson studied the pictures that were on file and compared them to computerised likenesses of the mystery triggerman that had been provided by Natalie Bassett and Craig Thoms. Neither likeness was particularly accurate, however Craig Thoms’ image showed some resemblance to the tone of his brown skin, his high cheekbones and squarish jaw. Nelson noted that the file photographs of Manuel Torres were taken upon his arrest some eight years ago, when Manuel had been on
ly eighteen and reasoned that he may have changed quite a lot in the ensuing years.
The file on Manuel Torres’ criminal history was surprisingly short as he appeared to have spent almost all of his adult life in the maximum security wing of the Goulburn prison for manslaughter. Nelson phoned the Corrective Services department and asked them to send him a list of names of those people who had visited Manuel Torres during his period of incarceration. He used all his powers of persuasion on the clerk on the other end of the line to encourage a quick turnaround. While he waited, he studied Manuel Torres’ file in an effort to gain an understanding of the man he was now hunting. To Nelson’s pleasure and surprise the fax from Corrective Services arrived within thirty minutes. He read it eagerly and scanned the list for the name of Kylie Faulkner, but didn’t find it. That would have been too easy, he thought to himself. Manuel had received very few visitors during his period of incarceration, however the name of Bruno Trulli appeared several times. Nelson was certain he had seen or heard that name somewhere before, but couldn’t quite place it as he stared up at the office ceiling, trying to force his mind to divulge its deeply buried knowledge.
Like an energetic hound on the trail of a fox he ran the scent to ground. He again searched the criminal record database and found that Bruno Trulli had no criminal record. Slightly confused but still determined, he Googled the name on the Internet. The search pulled up almost one hundred hits on Bruno Trulli, the first of which was an article on a website that contained back copies of a local newspaper. The article was a 2010 review of a restaurant in the city named Pellegrinos. Nelson vaguely recalled having dined there a few times a couple of years ago, with a pretty blonde girl named Susan who hadn’t hung around for long before moving on. The article named Bruno Trulli as the long serving maitre’d of Pellegrinos. Nelson thought briefly for a moment then smiled knowingly and felt a rush of excitement and adrenalin as he recalled that Pellegrinos was one of the restaurants the Fogliani family owned. He laughed aloud - which drew quizzical looks from the surrounding desks – as he realised he had found another small but important missing piece of the puzzle and was now perilously close to filling in the complete picture.