by Andres Kabel
He was pushing boxes back under the bed when the phone in the kitchen rang. At this hour it could only be for him. He rushed down to answer before it woke his parents.
It was Rollo Keppel. “Why did you turn off your mobile?”
“Sorry, Mr. Keppel.” For some reason, Peter didn’t mention his trauma.
Rollo slurred. “Thought you’d like to hear this. Kantor’s funeral, Friday. My eulogy. Smarter man never walked the grand streets of Melbourne, nor one truer or finer. Sounds good?”
The phone went dead. Why on earth had Rollo rung him?
Peter switched on the kitchen light, checked the time, decided that Harvey Jopling would still be up
“My God,” Harvey breathed when Peter filled him in.
The next ten minutes were spent resisting Harvey’s insistence that he report the incident to the police, but when he hung up and returned to his room, he felt stronger. Harvey always did that.
Two hours later, he was still reading, squirming in the grip of his thoughts, the bottle empty, brow screwed up and mouth open, his mind unscrambling the symbols, testing the notions. The house was silent. Data, that’s what he desired, data.
CHAPTER 19
As soon as Tusk arrived home, Bully whimpered at the back door until admitted. His tail thumped against the couch while he licked Tusk’s hands.
Time check—1:20. Silent house. Fingers poised over the phone for nearly a minute before dialing.
“Candle,” said a dry voice.
“Candle, mate—”
“Ivory!” No mistaking the pleasure in Candle’s voice. “Where’ve you been?”
Detective Inspector Balthazar Candle of the Organised Crime unit. Tusk pictured him. Thin, almost gaunt. Eyes neutral after twenty years in the Force. Twice divorced.
“Sorry I haven’t been in touch.”
“Sorry, Ivory? Six fucking months sorry!”
Tusk licked his lips. Why feel pressure ringing an old friend? Even the brotherhood nickname of Ivory disturbed him. “Yeah, well. They rolled me, Candle, rolled me. It’s been hard to keep the faith.”
Silence.
“Yeah, mate,” Candle said. “But now you’ve made the call, eh?”
“Tell me about Sergio Scaffidi.”
A longer silence.
“Why?”
This time Tusk said nothing.
“Fair enough,” Candle said. “Same old, same old. Scaffidi is still strong around Fitzroy and Collingwood, steady growth, no real trouble with his neighbors. Careful son-of-a-bitch, I’ll say. Not on our target list right now—not ambitious enough to make waves, too smart to trip over his own feet. Not to be messed with though.” A pause. “But you know that, eh?”
“Does Bertoli still work for him?”
“Bertoli? Fuck, now there’s a bad memory. Last I heard he was in Queensland, hiding after the Rivers hit.”
“Thanks, mate,” Tusk said. “I’ll ring you for a beer.”
“Hey, Ivory—”
“Gotta go.”
Tusk massaged his brow. Buckingham was easier.
“Who has the pleasure?” Buckingham’s dandyish voice brought a smile to Tusk’s face.
“Anything floating around on Sergio Scaffidi and his crew?”
Gentle would remember Justin Buckingham from school. Not with any pleasure. A thin rebel with a cruel streak, Buckingham became Tusk’s mate after Gentle. He was eventually expelled for locker theft. Now he worked hard as a drug dealer.
“Well well, if it isn’t Tusk. How are they hanging?”
“Yeah, good to talk to you too. Is everything okay?”
Buckingham barked. “Tell you about it one day. Scaffidi. Mmm… why’s a sacked psycho cop need to know about the philosopher-king?”
“A job.” Last time Tusk had seen Buckingham, he’d looked wasted, as if he was using again. That had been months ago, a brief beer—Buckingham was one of his secrets from Dana.
“Bugger me. I’ll need to ask around. Something in it for me?”
“Yeah, sure. Ring me tomorrow?”
“Yes sir, no sir, three bags full sir,” Buckingham moaned. “You think I’ve got nothing else to do?”
Tusk stared at Bully, dozing across his feet.
“You’ll fill in the gaps sometime?” Buckingham said into the silence. “I’ll ask around. But you understand I’ve got to be careful around Scaffidi. You fly carefully too, n’est-ce pas?”
So good to have his feelers out again, after so long. But when Tusk donned his headphones and turned off the light to revel in the wall-to-wall guitars of Oasis, the dark pressed down like a tumor.
***
On his back, the family room floor unyielding. Bathrobe, warm socks. Eyes closed but no sign of sleep. Fingers tapping on the itchy carpet, rocking to the crashing chords of Guided By Voices, his latest find. Unknown in Australia, but the swooping voice of its genius, Robert Pollard, would one day rule, he was sure of that.
Images flowed haphazardly, as they always did on these vigils. Dana’s wounded eyes. His mouth sliding on hers, thanking her as best he knew. Gentle, waving arms in the air as he spoke like a machine gun. Gentle cradling his hand.
A fanciful image, like a mirage in the distance. Kantor Keppel, staggering backward, arm up defensively in the harsh light of the stairwell, beard raised toward Tusk, mouthing a word over and over again.
Tusk rose and took off the headphones. 2:49 on the green oven clock. Time for something more classic, to quiet the blade of anger inside his chest. Maybe some Springsteen.
He switched on a standing lamp to change the CD and blinked. The cover of the latest Women’s Weekly, sitting on the coffee table. Rollo Keppel in tuxedo, accompanied by Bella in a stunning red outfit. The caption: “Party of the Year. Exclusive Pics.” Some orphanage the Keppels supported.
The victim’s brother. The tycoon. The man who had called him gung-ho militia.
He traced the oval face on the shiny page. Yawned and mouthed, How guilty are you?
***
Time check—5:15. Head pounding from almost no sleep, sweat pouring. Lying on a bench, panting after warm-up cycling. The clang of weights, ceiling fans whirring, shouts of encouragement. Not a fully equipped gym, like the police gym had been, and the patrons were amateurs, but the best he could do close to home.
150 kilograms on the bar. A faint odor of liniment. The night hadn’t soothed; now he’d bench press himself to some feeling of settlement, so he could start the day calm. But as he hefted the bar, muscles quivering, he couldn’t banish the image of useless Gentle lying in the rain, vague figures above him, identikit images of Marcantonio and Bertoli, and the shadowy outline of Sergio Scaffidi.
A burst of fury fueled his lifts. Exhale! Scum! Exhale! Scum!
***
“Jesus, big guy,” Gentle said in the Peugeot’s passenger seat. “Are you sure?”
Gentle’s face had lost its deathly pallor. The prodigy looked vaguely presentable: pressed suit, blue this time, hair washed and neatly flowing. Sleep must have done him some good—he’d started fidgeting again. The bulky bandage on his finger had been exchanged for a smaller one, and although Tusk saw him wince once, he did a good job of hiding any pain. But the flitting eyes told Tusk he was panicky inside.
“Can’t be sure,” Tusk said. “But everything checks out. Marcantonio had his ear bitten off in the Pentridge exercise yard some ten years ago.”
Time check—7:37. Tusk’s arms and shoulders ached sweetly from the workout. He recalled Dana’s fretful eyes and Nelson’s little hand waving as he left home. Peak-hour traffic crawled along Canterbury Road. The majesty of the new Jimmy Page and Robert Plant collaboration, Eastern-tinged hard rock a la Led Zeppelin, roared over the car speakers.
“This Bertoli character’s a hit man? Someone who actually kills others for money?”
“No, not for money. At the orders of Scaffidi.”
Tusk glanced at The Age lying between them. Inspector Sam Vinci was quoted as sayin
g he was hopeful of an arrest soon. That they suspected a vagrant. Spare me, he thought.
“And this Scaffidi is, like, Mafia or something? What connection could he have with Kantor Keppel? I can’t believe this.” Now that Gentle had names for the thugs, indignation seemed to have replaced some of his fear.
“Hey, relax. It’s not as bad as it sounds,” Tusk lied. “They’re just trying to frighten us.”
“Why aren’t these animals behind bars?”
“Marcantonio has been—often. Bertoli, now there’s a clever fish.”
Tusk squeezed the steering wheel.
CHAPTER 20
“Straw?”
Peter Gentle listened to the crackle of The Island’s intercom. Toorak throbbed with the noise of the AM commute. After the rain and cold in that parking lot last night, the touch of the morning sun on his cheeks felt like a benediction. His body ached in a thousand places. If Imogen hears me at the other end, he thought, calling her daughter who is supposedly mute, I’m cactus.
The gate clicked open. Mick nodded once to him before resuming his careful scrutiny of Mathoura Road. As soon as Peter entered the murky courtyard, separated from the safe bulk of his partner, his fuzzy nervousness returned. A Siamese—was it the same cat?—sat on top of the dry fountain.
Straw stood in the doorway, a finger to her lips to shush him, her green eyes large and still. Her black outfit looked unchanged, but no boots or gloves this time, instead a studded collar around her neck. Her lipstick was thick scarlet, her hair disheveled.
Peter mounted the veranda steps, bandaged hand in his pocket. Her face expressionless, Straw swayed her hips in a parody of sensuality. She took his hand by the fingertips and chunkily shuffled backward, drawing him inside.
The Island was shadowy and silent. Straw led him along the hallway and up the stairs, moving quickly on bare feet, her only sound the swishing of her dress, exhibiting purposefulness completely out of character with the public persona Peter had seen. He tried to keep quiet, and though his footsteps sounded loud in his ears, nothing stirred in the sleeping mansion.
The size of her bedroom staggered him. It had to take up an entire side of the house, yet it was packed with couches and chairs, some new and sleek, others tattered and high-backed, through which Straw wove, stirring up dust that spiraled in the sunlight streaming through half-drawn curtains. The walls were covered with posters depicting what he took for Goth-rock images—maidens draped over chairs, dark-haired men in black. Near a massive, unkempt bed, a computer screen on a corner desk showed a website covered with moving cartoon cats. A towering cabinet, containing video equipment and a huge television set, dominated the center of the room. Melodramatic rock music played softly in the background. Coals smoked in a fireplace by the window.
Everywhere—on the thick carpet, on lounge chairs, on the bed—cats slept or groomed themselves. Peter stopped counting at ten. His nose bristled at the stew of odors: cigarette smoke, cat fur, incense, and general mustiness. He felt a curious kinship with Straw as he took in the crowded, obsessive nature of the room. It’s a world, he twigged. A coherent, complete world. To society, she’s a mute marionette. Here, she’s…she’s the Straw she wants to be.
“Straw. Why did you invite me here?” His whisper sounded so surreptitious.
“Magical Mister Mistoffelees.”
The disembodied voice sent goosebumps scurrying down Peter’s back. He was mentally prepared to resist another advance, but she surprised him by lighting a cigarette and peering at him, eyes motionless, through the smoke.
A wide mantelpiece by the window held half a dozen cat statuettes, and in the middle a larger, Egyptian-looking, brass one. Desperate to strike up conversation, Peter pointed. “What’s this?”
Smoke filled the air as Straw waved her cigarette at a poster on the wall.
“Bastet,” he read aloud. “Egyptian goddess of cats. Sworn enemy of the serpent Apepi. How interesting. Where did you get this?”
“Shout,” Straw intoned. Her moon-eyes glowed, placid in her placid face. “Uncle. Shout at Daddy.”
“When?”
As if on cue, all the cats went still. Straw’s face snapped toward the door. Without a word, she took his hand, pulled him out onto the landing and pointed toward the stairs. Peter could find no alarm on her face, no emotion whatsoever.
“Straw…” She was gone.
He hurried downstairs. Quietly shutting the front door, he heard a voice calling, “Straw?” Imogen.
The cold, still air in the courtyard set off a shiver. Talk about wonky data, he thought.
There was more to Straw than he, or even her mother, understood. He sensed that she revealed only what she wanted to. Her vague accusations against Rollo surely had no basis, but why was she coming out of her shell to talk to him, a complete stranger, unless something underpinned them?
Peter spotted the Siamese cat judging him from the fountain. He scooped up a stone, but by the time he rose again, it had disappeared.
***
The tourists had arrived at Southbank, busloads of them, snapping photos, milling on the walkways down to the cruise boats. Peter shuffled nervously when he reached the revolving doors under the red Scientific Money logo. He watched Mick take up position and begin scanning the crowds.
“Two hours, then I’ll come in to get you,” Mick said. He’d been silent on the drive into the city, seemingly content to let Peter think out loud about the data.
“I won’t get attacked in there, surely.”
“Kantor was.”
A shudder twinged Peter’s stiff neck and he grimaced. He headed through the lobby and up to the second floor.
Ross Petrov, Customer Services Manager, was a wiry man with a chunky head and straight black hair. His manner was somber.
“Mate, the place has felt like a hospital ward ever since Kantor…”
He offered Peter a mint from a bowl. They sat around a small table next to a whiteboard covered with an untidy flow chart. Petrov undoubtedly had more people reporting to him than any other executive in Scientific Money, yet his office was small. Typical, Peter thought, the fund managers and marketing people are always the stars with the big salaries and swanky offices.
The office faced away from the river. From his chair, Peter could just see the dome of the Shrine of Remembrance poking through trees, bathed by balmy sunlight.
Petrov proved to be of little use. Yes, Kantor and Rollo got on well, “like two hands on the one body.” Yes, Kantor got on well with Dancer, though Petrov’s body language begged to differ. Yes, Kantor got on well with Marcia Brindle.
Petrov was in charge of the technology department, which looked after the security system.
“So your people program the invisible passes?” Peter asked.
“Yeah, in theory, but they’ve never actually programmed one under my control. The three invisible passes in existence were all originally programmed by Weiqing Chang in ’94, when the company started.”
“But he’s the Research Manager.”
Petrov chuckled. “Now he is. When the company started, everyone did odd jobs. Chang’s one of our bright boys and he installed the security. There’s nothing much he can’t do, our Chang.”
Weiqing Chang wasn’t on Peter’s agenda of interviews. “Who looks after the security of the central computers?”
“Yeah, me. It’s like Fort Knox over on the other side of this floor. Special passes, a select team of operators on twenty-four-hour rosters. Security checks like the bloody secret service. And guess what? Even I’m not allowed in the most sensitive area. No one is, except the Investment Committee.”
Peter grabbed one last mint before going back down to the ground floor, behind the elevator area, to find the company’s Marketing Manager. Penelope Wilkins was a slick woman who knew little about how the investing was done and had hardly known Kantor. She painted a picture of a harmonious management team.
John O’Halloran, Scientific Money’s Legal Counsel, was th
e last member of Rollo’s executive team on the agenda. A dapper man with curly white hair, he also knew little about the inner workings of the investment process. In his ornately fitted office on the fourth floor, he spoke eloquently about Rollo as the company’s visionary, and Kantor as its guiding intellectual. Peter quizzed him about Robert Friedman.
“Aye, a right nuisance,” O’Halloran said. “He’s tried everything to push the line that he owns our intellectual property rights, that his dead brother invented it all. Hasn’t got a leg to stand on. A couple of years back, he tried to interest the press in the ridiculous notion that Kantor killed his brother. But lately he’s been quieter. I’d wager he’s finally realized he may as well give up. I saw him on the afternoon before the murder and he seemed to be going through the motions.”
“Could he have hidden in the building after he left you?”
O’Halloran raised bushy eyebrows. “I saw him into the elevator, but he could have stopped off at another floor. You reckon he killed Kantor?”
“What do you think?” Peter felt he was getting the hang of interviewing.
“Aye, it’s possible. He’s a bitter man.”
***
“Kantor was like my father to me.”
To Peter’s astonishment, the diminutive Chinese man dabbed his eyes with a blue silk handkerchief.
Who said that interviewing was difficult? Weiqing Chang was a treat. He’d readily agreed to an impromptu meeting, and had poured Peter a cup of Chinese tea. A portly man, he wore a flaming red vest, a gold tie with red stripes, and a wide belt. His face was round, topped by receding crew-cut hair. Acne scars dotted his cheeks. Squat black-framed glasses made him seem easygoing, but one look at his brown eyes dispelled the notion.
Born in northern China, Chang had met Kantor in the States whilst training as an economist. Kantor had sponsored him to come to Australia, where he’d worked with Kantor ever since.