by Roland Perry
At midnight, when the police were still gathering information, reporter Vic Cavalier was five kilometres away at his home in the bayside suburb of St Kilda, watching a replay of the game. He could hear his girlfriend, Martha, stomping around in the bedroom upstairs, occasionally yelling something to him. It had been going on ever since he’d flicked on the TV. She was upset that he’d been at the game and that now, instead of engaging with her, he was watching the game again. A half-bottle of Scotch was sitting on a coffee table, and he was well into his third double when he received a call from his newspaper’s editor, Shelley Driscoll.
‘Can you attend a crime scene?’
‘Shelley, I’m having a drink . . .’
‘I thought you’d cut back . . .?’
‘I’ve been to the footy . . . Feeling a bit down.’ He glanced at his watch. ‘It’s after midnight!’
‘Are you watching the replay?!’
‘I’m relaxing.’
‘But Melbourne was thrashed, wasn’t it? I’ve never heard of a fan wanting to replay such a bad loss straight after experiencing it live!’
‘I want to see where they went wrong,’ he said unconvincingly. ‘I’m . . . you know . . . more of a “forensic” fan.’
‘I want you at the scene. It’s a murder and maybe a gangland job.’
‘Why me? You’ve just cut my days to three a week.’
‘This needs an experienced journo. There’s something odd about it. I’m asking you to go, Vic.’
Cavalier sipped his drink. ‘Can’t you send one of your full-timers?’
‘Okay, I’m ordering you to go! You know you’re treading on thin ice as it is.’
‘That’s blackmail!’
‘No, it’s an employer asking an old-pro employee to get his arse to Carlton.’
He’d just put the phone down when Martha, who had moved in only a fortnight ago, stormed into the living room, suitcase in hand.
‘I heard that call,’ she said. ‘You’re pissing off on a job after being at the bloody football all night. I’m not putting up with it anymore!’
Cavalier gestured helplessly.
‘If you’re not on some fucking cricket tour, it’s golf or god knows what!’ Martha brushed him away. ‘You’re drinking again, when you promised you’d stop!’ She sobbed. ‘I thought moving in with you might help. But it’s worse!’
She bustled out and slammed the front door. He heard her car start up and then career off.
‘Shit!’ Cavalier muttered as he slapped a black leather cap on his head, slipped into a warm jacket and hurried off, his bag holding an iPad and camera slung over his shoulder. He wove his car in and out of the very-early-morning traffic, being careful not to run red lights, a misdemeanour that had seen him accrue a lot of demerit points. One more and he’d lose his licence. He was also worried about the alcohol he’d consumed. He’d had nothing at the football but the three stiff Scotches since would have put him over the limit. Still, he tended to be a brisk driver at the most relaxed times, and now he was in a hurry and put his foot down. He gunned the car along Kings Way, and then into Carlton, near Melbourne University. Just as he reached the roped-off crime scene area, he heard the siren of the police car hot on his tail.
Cavalier walked briskly to the plainclothes and other police at the crime scene, flashing his press pass. He approached Bill Grant, a moustachioed man of about fifty, who was the state’s top homicide cop.
‘Vic,’ Grant said with a wry smile, extending a hand, ‘thought you’d retired!’
‘Not quite, mate.’
They both looked around to see two cops closing in on Cavalier on foot.
‘Sir,’ one of them, a young female, said, ‘this man was speeding along Grattan Street. We . . .’
‘That’s okay, Constable,’ Grant said, taking her aside, ‘I asked him to come in quickly. He has some information vital to this investigation. But you’ve done the right thing.’
The young cops retreated. Cavalier looked inquiringly at Grant.
‘I rang your editor,’ Grant said, a serious expression replacing his languid world-weariness. ‘I wanted you here.’ They walked back towards an alley. ‘Want a look at the body?’
‘Not really.’
‘C’mon. Helps focus the mind.’
Light rain began to fall as they wandered over to the body lying under a sheet on the alley’s cobblestones. A cop pulled back the sheet and Cavalier braced himself. There was a huge hole in the front of the victim’s head. The bullet had struck nearly dead centre of the forehead, about four centimetres above the eyes. The brain was exposed, with parts of it and blood dripping from the skull.
‘No smell yet,’ Grant proffered, ‘so we reckon the deed was done within the last two hours.’
Cavalier stared until the homicide cop covered the body. ‘Haven’t seen one like that for a while,’ he said. ‘Do we know who he is?’
‘Thought you’d be interested in that, given your expertise on the drug lords,’ Grant said, pulling two passports from his pockets. ‘A Mexican: Virgillo Labasta.’ He showed Cavalier one passport and then the other. ‘He entered the country on this one, which is false. Know him?’
‘I certainly do,’ Cavalier said with a frown, ‘he’s number two in the world’s biggest drug cartel.’ They locked eyes. ‘He’s the cousin of the big boss, Leonardo Mendez.’
‘Hmmm,’ Grant said, realising the size of the case, ‘I recall you said to me about five or six years ago that Mendez was top of your list of suspects of those behind your daughter’s disappearance . . .’
‘Yeah,’ Cavalier said. ‘Mendez was big then. He’s huge now.’
They both looked down at the body again, before Grant smiled briefly and said, ‘Someone may inadvertently have done you a big favour.’
Cavalier gave a non-committal nod and said: ‘I’d like to do more research on this bloke. My file on Mendez is big, but not my file on this one.’
‘If we learn anything, we’ll let you know.’
Cavalier was distracted by the sight of a tall Asian woman in a fashionable three-quarter coat and brown leather cap.
‘Do we have any idea why Labasta was here?’ he asked. ‘He was clearly doing business, but with whom?’
‘Educated guess,’ Grant said, waving a hand at the brothel. ‘This lovely place is owned by Kev “Caveman” Mollini.’
‘Okay. It has to be a drug deal of some sort.’
‘It wouldn’t be electrical goods from Thailand and Mexico, although his card claims this business.’
‘Thailand?’
‘Chiang Mai based.’
Cavalier shrugged. ‘A Mexican drug cartel branching out in South East Asia,’ he murmured as he took out a notepad and scribbled.
The tall Asian woman came close, bent down, removed the sheet and examined the body. Cavalier stared, noticing her large brown eyes and full lips. She glanced up, caught his gaze and looked away. The woman covered the body again, stood, flicked back her long black hair and began taking shots with a camera of surrounding buildings.
‘Nice hat,’ Cavalier said to her. She looked around, glanced at his hat, gave the barest hint of a smile and went on taking shots.
‘Who’s that?’ he whispered to Grant.
‘Jacinta Cin Lai. She’s a “Thai special investigator”, working with the feds,’ he replied, with more than a hint of disdain.
‘The feds? Are they onto this?’
‘The Wombat was here sniffing around about half an hour ago. You just missed him.’
‘Do we know what she’s investigating, exactly?’
‘I asked the Wombat. He wasn’t too forthcoming.’
Grant paused. ‘I hate the feds interfering.’
‘What else?’
The cop shrugged and gestured to the body. ‘All I know is that a lot of shit is going to fly off the fan.’
A PERSON OF INTEREST
Cavalier had the option of emailing the story from home but decided to drop into the
city office. He wanted to make sure the story would be on the paper’s website by Saturday morning, which he’d have to discuss with editor Driscoll, a bespectacled and intense forty-year-old. Twenty years in journalism competing with mainly male egos had hardened her, giving her more wrinkles around the eyes and mouth than she may have expected or deserved. So much so that she was thinking of Botox injections, which were fashionable among her television ‘sisters’ of the same generation, who were fighting to hang onto jobs in front of the cameras.
It was nearly 2 a.m. when Cavalier took a lift to the editorial floor, and Driscoll was surprised to see him. Her manner softened with Cavalier, who had been kind and helpful when she was a nervous young reporter, fresh out of university. Now she had power over him and the unenviable task of judging his work. Despite Cavalier’s strong record, she feared that one day his drinking would diminish his skills and she’d have to fire him.
‘I thought you might want to spend some time on this,’ she said. ‘It might be big.’
Cavalier opened his iPad. ‘I’ll do eight hundred words.’
Thirty minutes later, he was printing out the article for Driscoll.
‘Sources?’ she asked.
‘Can’t say.’
‘Bill Grant rang me to get you there. He has to be one.’ Cavalier smiled. ‘I promised not to tell,’ he said.
Two days later, Cavalier was surprised to receive a call from Jacinta Cin Lai. ‘Who gave you my number?’
‘Er . . . Mr Thomas Gregory.’
‘That was kind of him.’
‘Said you’d talk to me. Somewhere private, please.’
‘I know a cafe that’s quiet in the afternoon. Say, 3 p.m. . . .?’
They met at Leroy Espresso on Acland Street, in semi-bohemian St Kilda. The rustic decor featured incomplete brick rendering, sculptured busts in recesses and an odd collection of paintings. Michael Jackson’s ‘The Way You Make Me Feel’ was on the sound system. Jacinta was already there, poring over her iPad, when Cavalier arrived. She removed her reading glasses and stood up to shake hands. She was wearing a denim jacket, black leather pants and high heels, which made her taller than Cavalier. Her wide smile, revealing a crater of perfect white teeth, was perfunctory. There was little warmth from her. She was all business.
Cavalier started with some small talk in English, then broke into Thai.
‘You speak Thai well,’ she said.
‘I was married to a Thai. She insisted I learn. I still return there often—at least once a year—for a cricket tournament.
‘Cricket?’ she said, puzzled.
‘Yes. Twenty international teams are involved.’
‘I was wondering about your sources on the Labasta killing,’ she said, changing the subject.
‘Everyone seems to want to know about my sources!’ Cavalier said with a grin. ‘I’ve been reporting a long time. They’re good.’
‘Like Mr Grant and Mr . . . er, Gregory?’
He nodded. ‘And I have contacts among crims too.’
‘It’s just that your article . . .’
‘Yes?’
‘Some elements were accurate enough. Others were not.’
‘Are you going to tell me which bits you consider accurate?’
‘I was more interested in your sources. Mr Gregory said you would cooperate.’
‘Did he now? It depends. I answer your questions, you answer mine. Deal?’
Jacinta stared at him, as if assessing more than his comment.
‘I can tell you this,’ she said, ‘it was an expert hit. From what we can deduce, it must have been a bullet from a high-calibre rifle, which fired from perhaps fifty, or even sixty, metres down the alley. The bullet fragments come from a specially crafted handmade variety. Maybe a new military variety.’
‘Who told you this?’
‘Your friend Mr Grant. He is good with ballistics. And I only discovered this in the morning, by speaking to him. But the police investigation, as you are well aware, is still underway, which means he would not wish you to publish it.’
Cavalier studied her before saying: ‘You did well. State police are not overly cooperative with their federal co-workers.’
‘I have become aware of the ill feeling. Why is this?’
‘They’re rivals,’ Cavalier shrugged, ‘just like your country’s military and police.’
Jacinta shook her head. ‘This is not true,’ she said, ‘they are most cooperative.’ Again she changed the subject. ‘Mr Gregory thinks it was a military-style attack.’
‘How did he deduce that?’
‘He thought that such a strike—such precision—was more like that of a trained sniper than . . .’ Jacinta paused.
‘Than a gangland murderer?’
She nodded.
‘Hmmm,’ he mused, leaning back in his seat. ‘There are ex-military types joining some of the gangs. The Melbourne gangs pay well. There is more action and money than in the fire brigade.’
Jacinta looked bemused. ‘Fire brigade?!’
‘We’ve had thousands of soldiers in Afghanistan and Iraq in the last couple of decades. Many want an adrenalin rush after their front-line experiences. They try to join the police, the feds and the fire brigade.’ He paused, dropped his voice and said, ‘Some have psychological problems. They’re addicted to action. They drink and do drugs, and end up seeing shrinks.’ He pulled a face. ‘A handful have ended up as muscle, or even hit men, for gangs.’
Jacinta sipped her coffee, and looked at her watch as if she wished she were somewhere else.
‘My turn,’ Cavalier said. ‘What are you investigating in Australia?’
‘Nothing will be reported. It’s off the record, or so Mr Gregory said to remind you.’
‘I won’t write anything.’
‘I am now preparing a report on this murder.’
‘That’s all?’
‘It is not easy.’
‘How long have you been in Australia?’
‘Two weeks.’
Cavalier frowned. ‘You’re telling me that you’ve been tracking this . . . Virgillo Labasta?’
‘We are . . . were . . . interested in his movements, yes.’
‘“We”? Your Thai special investigation unit?’
Jacinta nodded so slightly that Cavalier wondered if she were denying it. Claiming to have another appointment, she departed abruptly.
*
Cavalier’s article, which speculated that Labasta’s murder was a gangland killing, caused more fallout than anything he’d ever written. All the big Melbourne gangs’ heavy-duty lawyers began threatening the newspaper with legal action. The big gangs, other than Kev ‘Caveman’ Mollini’s Brunswick Gang, were upset that they were implicated because of their long-running rivalry. Pressure mounted on Cavalier both to reveal how he’d arrived at his conclusions and his sources. He refused.
When two members of a Brunswick Gang rival group were shot and wounded in an ambush in a city lane in the early hours, there was genuine fear that a new gang war would flare up. The newspaper’s chairman received an intimidating phone call from an unknown source and Driscoll received death threats. When she refused to fire Cavalier, she was ordered to offer him a redundancy package.
‘He won’t take it,’ she told the chairman. ‘At least, I don’t think so.’
‘If he doesn’t, offer him a two-day week.’
‘And if he still wants to stay on the paper?’
‘Look,’ the exasperated chairman said, ‘if he doesn’t go, you will!’
Driscoll met Cavalier in the cafe in the paper’s foyer and explained her dilemma.
‘So, we both lose our jobs,’ he said, stirring his coffee, ‘if I don’t take either the redundancy or the two days?’
‘I’ve checked your redundancy payout. You’ve been with the paper thirty-five years. If you go without being fired, it’s just over nine hundred thousand dollars.’
‘You think I can be bought off?’ he asked with a smile.
‘When would this take effect?’
‘I could string it out a few months until the end of the financial year and say you had a couple of assignments to complete.’
‘When would the money come through?’
‘The day you finish.’
He took a deep breath.
‘It’s a big step,’ she said, ‘you’ve had a great run.’
‘Could I write freelance articles for you?’
‘Vic,’ she said with a pained expression, ‘that’s what all the redundancies ask. We just don’t have the budget.’
‘But I have a great title for a column.’
‘What?’
‘From the scrap heap.’
Driscoll didn’t laugh. She was sad.
‘I tell you what,’ he said, ‘I’ll take the package in six weeks. I’d like to finish my current investigation.’
THE ATTACK
Cavalier’s MRI scan, according to the urologist, showed a fifty per cent chance that he had cancer of the prostate. He’d thought that his age, fifty-eight, precluded him having the disease, but two years earlier he’d been found to have high blood pressure and cholesterol. Cavalier had been in denial over the dangers of his diet of alcohol and more alcohol, which doctors had warned would lead to some sort of impairment and perhaps even an early grave.
The taxi pulled up at the hospital in East Melbourne at 6 a.m., which didn’t help Cavalier’s disposition. Early rising was anathema to him. On top of that, he was dealing with the shock of being fired. His mood was lifted a fraction by the receptionist knowing who he was.
‘I’ve seen your by-line,’ he said, ‘and I read your book on corruption in cricket.’
But this was dissipated by Cavalier having to change into patient garb—pink hat, blue booties, transparent plastic underpants and a gown. He sat glumly in the waiting room with three other patients, all female, until a nurse took him on a trolley into the operating theatre, where an anaesthetist questioned him.