Deadly Investment

by Andres Kabel

  Her eyes probed Tusk’s reaction to the language.

  “So your cook can verify you were here all evening?” he asked without a pause.

  The green eyes narrowed. “Look, we’ve been through all this with the police and they’re bloody satisfied.”

  “I just need to be clear on the facts. The cook?”

  “No,” Bella conceded. “She left about seven o’clock. I microwaved the dinner.”

  “So no one saw you two all evening?”

  She stopped to gaze distractedly out the window, chewing on a fingernail. Tusk registered that all her nails were gnawed down to the quick.

  “Bella?” he prompted.

  For the first time she looked at him with something other than amusement. The look, the twitchiness, the nails… I know you, he thought. Brittle, hardened, shallow as shit, but underneath—the void. The void Tusk had known and accepted as his lot until a decade ago.

  “I’ve never heard so many dumb questions in my life,” she said. “Time for you to piss off and waste someone else’s day.”

  As a copper, Tusk would have hauled her down to the station to apply pressure. As a powerless private investigator, he had to call it quits. Stepping outside, he caught another odor over Bella’s perfume. The experts said you couldn’t smell it, but he’d always disagreed. The animal scent of fear. He took a step toward her.

  “Rollo resented Kantor’s brains, didn’t he, Bella?” he said.

  “You’ve got some nerve.”

  “I reckon they competed against each other.”

  Burning green eyes, twisted red mouth. “Piss off, you wrestling reject.”

  The crash of the door echoed in the lobby.

  Time check—3:57. How clichéd life can be, he thought. The rich bitch in her penthouse.

  Waiting for the elevator, Tusk leaned against the wall to stretch his calf muscles. Christ, he thought, how good it feels to be back on the job. Hope Boy Wonder is doing okay.

  CHAPTER 10

  “Come in, Mr. Gentle, come in. Sit yourself down.”

  A short, stocky man bounded out to crush Peter Gentle’s hand. Benedict Dancer, Funds Manager by title, wore a black pinstripe. His tanned, rectangular face seemed permanently thrust forward. Neat, wavy brown hair, streaked with gray, receded along both sides of his head. Light-framed glasses accentuated shrewd brown eyes, which, combined with a high forehead scored with deep lines, gave Peter an impression of a face uncommonly large for his body.

  Dancer’s office was much smaller than Rollo’s, but still impressive by Peter’s standards. Peter took in the wall covered with tombstones, plastic-encased announcements of large deals collected by investment bankers as mementos. The two of them seated themselves around a small table, from where Peter could see the distant bay.

  “Now.” Dancer spoke with the transatlantic accent Peter associated with businessmen who had worked in several countries. “What can I tell you about Scientific Money?”

  Peter mentally reviewed Dancer from the case file. A decidedly impressive investment banking career—seven years at BT, seven working for Citibank in Melbourne, New York, London, and Sydney. Then Rollo enticed him to Coombs Holcomb, and he joined Scientific Money just before the launch. The interviewing policeman had scribbled “high roller” in the file. A bank account review had unearthed a mountain of debt.

  “I’d like to hear about the daily investment cycle,” Peter said. “What actually happens each day to result in a particular investment? And who are the key people who make it happen?”

  Dancer unwrapped a stick of gum and thrust it into his mouth, in one precise movement. He hunched forward.

  “You’ve come to the right person. That’s my job, monitoring the Quant Fund investments, though in fact it’s more properly explaining afterwards what the computer program did. Actually, five of the senior execs get together daily to check what the computers are investing in. Sorry, that’s four, now that Kantor is unfortunately no longer with us.” Peter noted an odd expression flit across Dancer’s face as he mentioned Kantor, almost a smirk. “The four are Rollo, myself, Weiqing Chang our Research Manager, and Marcia Brindle our Chief Financial Officer. We call ourselves the Investment Committee, although we don’t actually do any investing.”

  Dancer spoke rapidly, chomping on his chewing gum.

  “What happens is this. The research people are constantly feeding economic, market, and company data from around Australia into the computer. The artificial intelligence built into the system determines how often the investment model is run, but typically it will be every half day or day. More frequently if some unexpected market news hits our desks. The program model then determines what sectors the portfolio should be weighted toward, and also which stocks to buy. The program issues a complete portfolio listing we should aim for, then we buy and sell shares to achieve the target portfolio as soon as possible. These days, some of the buying and selling can be done computer-to-computer, but most of it is implemented by our trading department.”

  Dancer stared pointedly at Peter’s hands drumming on the table. Peter stilled them.

  “So you can see why we need such massive computer firepower.” Dancer smiled even as he chewed, a tight expression that suggested pain rather than warmth.

  Peter grinned. At last, he thought, someone helpful. “Does the committee ever intervene to change the decisions made by the computer?”

  “Of course not. That’s the whole point of a quant fund. If we allow humans to intervene, even in exceptional circumstances, we introduce the possibility of human error.”

  Peter brushed back his hair and switched focus. “What were your movements on the night of the murder?”

  The smile vanished. Dancer stopped chewing gum in mid-bite.

  “Who are you?” His voice held a quaver.

  Peter shifted in his seat. What the hell was going on? “Peter Gentle, Private Investigator.”

  Dancer reared, sending his chair flying backward to crack against his desk. Crimson surged on his cheeks.

  “That bloody Mika. Well excuse me, buddy, I thought I was talking to an investment consultant. I’m well within my rights to ask you to leave.”

  Dancer’s accent had turned American. He held the door open.

  Peter leapt up. “Look, all I want is to ask a few questions.”

  He was startled to observe Dancer’s hands shaking. “I’m sure you do.”

  “What’s the problem with—”

  “Out,” Dancer said through clenched teeth.

  Retreat, Peter thought, retreat and ask Rollo for help with this one. But how can I catch a killer if nobody talks to me?

  “Did Kantor screw down your salary, Dancer?” he said, rocking on his feet, heart charging. “Did you two quarrel?”

  Dancer lunged and grabbed Peter’s jacket. Spittle sprayed Peter’s face, and he smelled spearmint before being launched into the corridor. He gasped and staggered to stay upright.

  “I had nothing to do with the murder,” Dancer shouted. His face, shiny with sweat, was contorted into a rigid mask. “Stay away. I’ve got enough to worry about without some hippie private eye bugging me.”

  Something wet hit Peter on the cheek. He heard the door slam. A couple of men came out of their cubicles to stare. He straightened, felt the object catch inside his collar. He fished it out. Sodden chewing gum.

  Hippie? What did he mean hippie? Peter smoothed the crumpled fabric of his jacket.

  Shit! He hurled the gum at Dancer’s silent door.

  CHAPTER 11

  “Did that Keppel bastard send you?”

  Tusk stood on the muddy drive of the near-completed shell of an apartment block, surrounded by new condominiums and construction sites. Black storm clouds scudded across the sky. A billboard proclaimed that the Seascape Apartments would be luxurious Port Melbourne treasures close to the city and transport, only a stone’s throw to the water, an investor’s dream. The smaller print: Developer and Builder—Robert Friedman. In luck at
4:20—Friedman’s secretary had suggested Tusk seek the developer on site.

  Tusk raised his voice over the rasp of a concrete mixer. “No, my partner and I have been engaged by Kantor Keppel’s widow.”

  “She’s no friend of mine.” Friedman took off his hard hat. He was a sturdy man with wavy, carrot-colored hair, straggly over his ears. Tidy orange mustache, a rugged face littered with freckles. Tufts of hair poking over the top of his short-sleeved shirt. Jeans and short brown boots caked with mud.

  Friedman’s slitted eyes peered over baggy pouches. “Let’s see your license.”

  “Don’t have one yet. This is my old police photo.”

  Friedman glanced up the drive at the men watching them. “I don’t have to talk to you.”

  Tusk popped a knuckle. “Technically no, Friedman. But I want to catch Kantor’s killer. I’ll pursue every lead to hell and back. You want me on your back?”

  Friedman shook his head. “Christ, no. You believe in justice, mate?”

  So unexpected.

  The question rattled among Tusk’s memories. He stared at the scuffed city skyline.

  ***

  Tusk had just finished dinner at Cap’s rundown house in Frankston. It was the fourth time Cap had invited him over to celebrate an anniversary of donning the blue and white uniform.

  Tusk worked on a chilled beer. “Cap? You ever get down, working in the Force?”

  The grizzled face of Tusk’s savior, mentor, and mate turned toward him.

  “Sure. It’s hard to keep the motivation up. What’s bothering you?”

  “It’s the grind, Cap. The endless hours. The weekend shit. I mean, I like the hard work, but no one ever thanks you, you know what I mean?”

  “You believe in justice, Mick?”

  “I’m not sure. I don’t think, ‘justice, justice,’ while I’m talking to some woman about her basher husband.”

  Cap’s chair scraped on the uneven linoleum. He went to the fridge for another stubby.

  “That’s why I’m in this game, Mick. Not for the glory. Or ’cos we’re saints. Christ knows it’s not the money. No, someone has to work for those on the down and out. Someone needs to stand up for the victims of the con men. Someone needs to be there for the old lady raped in her home. And someone needs to speak for the poor bastard killed by some scum who thinks he can get away with it.”

  Tusk stared. Heart pounding. Almost a soapbox speech, and yet the older man clearly meant every word.

  “You should know,” Cap said, and as he spoke, Tusk clamped his jaw shut tight to stem tears. “You should know what it’s like being the guy without a voice. The guy on the outer, kicked around by the whole world. Someone had to stand up for you, Mick. Now it’s your time to stand up. And that’s called justice.”

  Tusk listened to seagulls quarreling outside.

  “You know, Mick?” Cap smiled. “I reckon you should join Homicide.”

  ***

  “Yeah,” Tusk said dreamily. “I believe in justice.”

  The developer looked at him steadily, then nodded almost imperceptibly. “Come on then.”

  Friedman carried himself with a workman’s gait, strong-legged and efficient. He walked past Tusk’s parked Peugeot to a battered Range Rover. As Friedman drove down the pot-holed road, he switched on a tape of Queen’s ancient classic, “Bohemian Rhapsody.” Tusk approved.

  One of the overt symbols of bloody Jeff Kennett’s so-called new Melbourne was the transformation of Port Melbourne, on the mouth of the Yarra River. Once the semi-slum province of working-class dockers, Tusk saw from the rows of gray-and-white double-story townhouses that the property fat cats had nearly completed their invasion.

  But Friedman seems okay for a developer, he thought.

  Friedman drove to a deserted milk bar, where they sat at an outside table, on warped metal chairs that refused to rest flat. Friedman bought a Coke, Tusk a mineral water.

  “He killed my brother Stan.” Friedman wrapped both arms fiercely around his body. “Kantor fucking Keppel killed him. And now that the bastard’s dead, I don’t know whether to cheer or shoot myself. I’ve been trying to nail him for so long, I think I’ve gone a bit crazy.”

  “Tell me about Stan,” Tusk said.

  “What’s there to say? He was a year older than me. We were close, real close for brothers. He was the bright one, went to university, became a real star. I was the moody one, always getting into trouble. And you know what? He always stood by me, helped me pick myself up.”

  This is a tale Friedman would tell anyone, Tusk thought.

  “After he left uni, he joined one of those funds management firms, I can’t remember its name. He was the economist. Stan did real well then. When he was thirty-four, he joined Coombs Holcomb, just to work with Kantor Keppel. I remember how excited he was to be able to work for the man.”

  “Was he married?”

  “No. Too shy. You know, the way super-bright guys seem to be.”

  Sounds like Gentle, Tusk thought. A breeze stung his face.

  Friedman seemed impervious to the cold. “I never saw Stan happier than in those days. They were good days for me too. I finally got my act together and started my own building business, and my kids were born around that time. Stan would come over to our house on weekends for dinner. He always talked nothing except work. Lived for his work, Stan did.”

  “Did you ever meet Kantor?”

  “Not then. Hah! You reckon Keppel would mix with the likes of me?”

  Friedman rubbed his forehead, lined as if someone had scored it with a knife.

  “Then Stan and Keppel left to start up this new business. Stan was so bloody excited. He brought around a bottle of champagne one night to celebrate. Called it his chance for the big time.”

  A handful of seagulls ventured closer, hoping for tidbits.

  “That was back in ’92. And things went okay for a while, Stan seemed really happy. But in early ’93 I noticed a big change. I think back now and wish I’d been more alert. You know how sometimes you feel something bad is happening, but it doesn’t strike you properly.”

  Friedman sipped at his Coke, lost to the world.

  “He was working on some theory. I never took much notice of his technical talk, what did I know? But Stan was slaving away all hours, hardly sleeping or eating. He called it the theory to end all theories, and he was obsessed by it.”

  “So he was helping Kantor on the theory for the new company?”

  “Helping?” Friedman growled. “That’s the story now, for sure. Keppel the bloody genius. I’ve got a file this thick with articles all saying the same thing. Well, they’re lies. My brother was the one who came up with the theory. He was working for Keppel, but the ideas were his. I know, because Stan told me Keppel was reviewing his work. He said even Keppel found it daunting. That was his word—daunting.”

  “That’s a serious allegation, Friedman,” Tusk said. “But your brother was working for Kantor, so doesn’t the intellectual property belong to the Keppels?”

  “It’s not a question of money,” Friedman said. “The word is justice. But it’s also important when you hear what happened next.”

  “Like?”

  “As I said, in early ’93 Stan became troubled. Lost weight and looked ill. And he clammed up, never said much when he came to our place for his weekend feed. Then on a Sunday in April, I managed to get him to down a couple of beers and he opened up a bit. Told me the work wasn’t going so well. He said it was ninety percent done but the last part was too hard. That was my line, you see, I was the one who always said things were too hard. Stan never said that. Just put his head down and kept going. That’s why I remember his words so clearly.”

  “What did you say?”

  “What could I say? The usual encouraging stuff. That was the last time I saw him. A schoolgirl rowing down the Yarra spotted his body the following Saturday morning. The police couldn’t figure out where he entered the water, but it must have been farther upst
ream. No one could find evidence of violence on his body, but I know he didn’t just fall in. Couldn’t swim, you see. The coroner put out a verdict of death by accidental drowning, but I know that Keppel pushed him.”

  “Why do you reckon that?”

  Friedman’s red eyes stared unseeing. “Who else could it have been?”

  “What about suicide?”

  “Stan? Come off it.”

  “Most families say that after a suicide.”

  Friedman sighed and shook his head.

  “Did he have any enemies?” Tusk asked.

  “Stan? None. He was just a quiet, intelligent man. No one stood to gain by his death except Keppel. He killed him to steal the credit for the work Stan had done. I spoke to Keppel about this and I could see the murder written all over his face.”

  Tusk rolled his shoulders. “So you’ve been pursuing Kantor ever since.”

  Friedman rubbed a hand across his chin. “So you’ve heard. I tried everything. I’ve been to the police so many times they know me like a regular crim. Hocked my house to pay for legal challenges to the rights of his work. Managed to get an article published in the Herald Sun. I even hired a private investigator, spent thousands of dollars finding out nothing much, except that Keppel didn’t have an alibi the night Stan died. He killed Stan, I know it. I know it in here.”

  Friedman thumped his chest.

  Tusk injected menace into his voice. “Kantor Keppel was bashed to death on April 30th. Your brother died on April 30th, six years ago. Did you commemorate the anniversary of Stan’s death by smashing Kantor’s head into a pulp?”

  The eyes Friedman raised to stare into Tusk’s were hot and hurt. “No way. I tried to see Keppel in the afternoon but only managed to see Morrison, the company’s lawyer. He fobbed me off as usual. Mate, I’ve thought of killing Keppel a hundred times, and by Christ, maybe I might have done it too. But I didn’t kill him that night. Someone saved me the pleasure.”