Directive RIP

by Stuart Parker

  *

  Furn spent the drive to Catlett’s mulling over the predicament he found himself in. One more casualty and the RIP would be over, probably for good. And the woman who had put him off partners was his partner again. The physical attraction had not changed; with a woman who lived right and worked out two hours a day it probably never would. Her black business skirt had risen up in the car, exposing her long, toned thighs. Furn was still maneuvering the best way to spy them through his sunglasses when his Holden Executive arrived at 18 Ceremony Crescent, Toorak. It took fearless parking to slide so effortlessly between the Porsche Boxster and BMW MS out front of the Catlett mansion - or just a healthy disrespect for cars. There were cars of similar quality and price tags crammed into Catlett’s driveway.

  ‘Someone’s home,’ murmured Nashy wryly as she pushed open her door. ‘Maybe that’s it. Maybe the Sapiens have something against people who know how to buy a car.’ She got out onto the street and straightened out her attire, starting at her skirt and working up to the shoulder holstered pistol under her jacket.

  Furn meanwhile pressed the red intercom button at the gate and received the customarily monotone Rish Jones reply.

  ‘This is Furn with Federal Police Agent Azu Nashy.’

  ‘One moment, please.’

  There was laughter from the backyard. The gates started to open. Rish strode down the driveway. She was wearing a loose collared white cardigan, which her hair poured over like a heavy sea crashing into rocks. She stopped, still well within Catlett’s side of the gate.

  ‘I’d invite you inside, but Clancy is hosting the professional basketball league’s equivalent of a baby shower. Anyway, I suppose you’re still using me to find out about him.’

  Nashy stepped up alongside Furn. The two women afforded each other a casual, inquisitive glance.

  ‘There’s a line of enquiry we would like to pressure you with, Ms Taylor,’ said Nashy.

  Rish leaned back against a Ferrari, sinking her hands into the pockets of her black leather pants – for Furn, it was a full orchestra of sleek curves.

  ‘Detective Sergeant Maroon and Burres have sought to ascertain whether or not you came into contact with anyone suspicious in the days and hours leading up to the home invasion. Perhaps, however, this contact occurred indirectly; perhaps even through some act of generosity or benevolence on the part of you or Mr Catlett. Can you think of anything in this regard?’

  Rish wanted to say no. After a pause, however, she had something to concede. ‘He picked up a woman’s handkerchief.’

  ‘Go on.’

  ‘It blew up onto the leg of a silver human statue.’

  ‘A what?’

  ‘The guy whose painted silver and stands absolutely still. If you dropped a coin into his box he does some kind of robot play acting with a flower. You know what I’m talking about? The kind of street performer a family with nothing left to talk about might waste coin on. He was down at the Esplanade.’

  ‘I get it. So what happened?’

  ‘The silver guy just let the handkerchief sit under his foot, like he was waiting for someone to pay him to pick it up. The poor old woman was too nervous to do anything about it. Clancy gave the guy a nudge and retrieved it for her.’

  ‘How did the street performer react to this?’

  ‘He’s a stillness artist. He wouldn’t be doing much of a job if you could tell his reaction. The crowd seemed to appreciate it though. Clancy got quite a cheer.’

  Nashy stared at her long and hard as her thoughts ticked over and she hurriedly stepped away, pressing out a call on her cellphone.

  Furn stayed with Rish.

  ‘You might have mentioned that earlier.’

  Rish shrugged indifferently.‘I guess I hold onto my tips better than I do my affection. You look different.’

  ‘Breeze has been shot.’

  ‘I heard on the radio. At first I thought it might be you. An investigative journalist has been reporting that Breeze is a member of a classified unit called the Rogue Intercept Squad. Is that true?’

  Furn sucked the anger down under his tongue where it would have burned out a thermometer. ‘Something like that. We call ourselves the RIP.’

  ‘Now someone’s leaked you to the press. Whatever fight you’re in, you seem to be losing.’

  ‘Is that why you offered us the tip?’

  ‘I think it’s for selfish reasons. You won’t be much good for loving with your partner down. Go clean this up and if RIP is still on your id card and not your headstone come see me again.’

  There was a honk of car horn. Nashy was already back in the car and ready to go.

  Furn faced Rish a moment longer, wishing there was a way to arrest words without having to call the utterer as a witness.

  ‘See you around,’ he grunted.

  He climbed into the car. Nashy was gripping the steering wheel, her seatbelt on, her foot revving up the engine into hysteria. There remained, all the same, a stillness about her.

  ‘Riley is going to give us a name on that street performer. He says it’s been confirmed the calling card Savva was going to leave on Breeze was different handwriting to the ones with Masoo Benzona and Barry Jewel. He says that now that he’s gone to all the trouble of getting Jewel an early release the least you can do is follow him.’

  ‘When does he get out?’

  ‘This afternoon.’ She turned from the steering wheel to Furn. ‘If I hadn’t lost my thin veneer of morality in two days of looking at people’s private parts in a quest for a satanic tattoo, I might be up to wondering how you could consider a witness like that so cooperative.’

  Rish’s back was turned now. She was striding up the mansion’s front path.