by Emma Viskic
Frankie choked out a laugh. ‘How old are you again?’
‘Old enough to know more about computers than you’re ever gunna.’ She stood up. ‘Come up to the workshop and I’ll have a look.’
‘It won’t make you late for school?’ Caleb asked.
‘Seriously? You’re playing Mummy again?’
He gave her a level stare and, to his surprise, her eyes lowered.
‘It’s just Sport,’ she said.
The workshop was at the top of a narrow flight of stairs; a wide room crammed with computers, routers, printers and hard drives. Sammi settled herself in front of a computer and set to work on the USB with a pair of needle-nose pliers. She pried the metal edges apart, blew on it a couple of times, and stuck it in the hard drive. Her fingers skipped across the keyboard and text appeared on the screen.
‘You’re kidding me,’ Frankie said.
Sammi chatted away, facing the monitor. He edged closer, but it was impossible to catch anything.
Frankie tapped his arm. ‘Some of it’s corrupted, but she might be able to rescue it.’ She paused. ‘It’ll take a while so we should wait in the cafe.’
The girl swivelled around. Her smile had gone. ‘Don’t I speak well enough for ya?’ Her face was flushed.
It was about now that Kat would usually look, very deliberately, at the floor.
He took a breath. ‘You’re fine, I just don’t hear too well.’
He ignored Frankie’s turned head.
‘Oh, right.’ Sammi’s scowl dropped, but the redness stayed. ‘Fair enough.’ She grabbed a handful of pages from a printer and shoved them at him. ‘Fifty bucks should do it for this lot.’
‘You stuck it in a computer and printed it out. I could’ve done that myself.’
‘Yeah, but you didn’t. Manage to piss yet today?’
He pulled twenty dollars from his pocket and handed it to her. ‘You can have the other thirty if you get anything else off the stick.’
Her grin flashed. ‘Done.’
Damn it, he should have said ten.
They retreated to the cafe and settled in a corner table. He divided the printed pages between them and started reading. After thirty seconds, Frankie looked up.
‘Not the small thing Scott’s looking for.’
‘No.’ Definitely not. There were no photocopied state secrets or maps to buried treasure, just page after page of Gary’s interviews.
‘Still,’ she said. ‘We might learn something.’
‘Yeah.’
‘Probably heaps of stuff.’
‘Yeah.’ But he got up and ordered them both coffee. Damning evidence could be examined on adrenaline alone; thousands of words of annotated interviews needed caffeine.
Their coffees came quickly: thick, dark and fragrant. He could see why the place was busy, even at the extortionate prices they charged. He turned off his aids and sat back to read. Gary had recorded the results of his interviews with a meticulous attention to detail that had him feeling a little guilty about his own cursory written reports. After an hour’s solid reading, Frankie got up to order more coffee.
He looked up as a shadow fell across the page. Sammi was standing in front of him, grinning, a sheath of papers in her hand. He flicked his aids back on and caught the end of her sentence.
‘… owe me big time.’
‘You got the rest of the files?’
‘About half. But that’s fantastic, you should have seen the mess they were in. I had to do some pretty frigging awesome data-recovery stuff to get it.’
‘You’re over-egging the pudding – I’m going to pay you anyway.’ He pulled out thirty dollars and gave it to her. ‘You were pretty quick, maybe you can still make it to Sport.’
‘Nah. I’ve safely missed that. Thanks.’ She walked away, a bounce to her ponytail.
He flicked through the pages: a lot of nonsensical symbols and blank space, along with a handful of names. All people he knew: the warehouse owners, Sean Fleming, Elle. He stopped halfway down the third page – Premium Occasions. A name he’d seen very recently.
Frankie set two coffees and a danish on the table and flopped into her seat. ‘Fair trade fucking organic coffee. Have to get a second mortgage if we stay here much longer.’ She paused with the danish halfway to her mouth. ‘Something interesting?’
‘Got the stuff back from Sammi. Have a look at the names – Premium Occasions are on Elle’s list, too, aren’t they?’
‘Dunno.’ She pulled out her phone. ‘You’re right. Premium Occasions had access to the warehouse six weeks ago. Interesting that Gary was looking into them. What did he say?’
He scanned the page. ‘Nothing. At least not that Sammi’s managed to recover.’ He flipped to the next page. ‘The odd bit about the … Fuck me.’ He read the name again, but he hadn’t imagined it: Petronin. But not Michael; Margaret. A break at last, maybe even the break that would crack this whole mess open.
He looked at Frankie. ‘The woman in the photo. We’ve got her name.’
‘What?’
‘It’s Margaret Petronin.’
‘Petronin. So Michael’s sister? Or was Tedesco lying about Petronin not having been married?’
He stood up. ‘Let’s find out. Grab that computer.’
His excitement settled after the first Google search: there were no hits on Margaret Petronin.
‘Not a sister then,’ Frankie said. ‘Maybe a de facto and she didn’t legally take Petronin’s surname.’
Fuck it, there wasn’t much they could do with just a first name.
‘Try Premium Occasions,’ he told her. ‘At least we know that’s the right name.’
A popular one, too; a Google search got them over 200,000 hits.
Frankie scrolled down the page. ‘Wedding organisers, photographers. Oh look, a massage place. They do full release. Could help with your tension. Want to read their client recommendations?’
He grabbed the mouse and clicked on the next listing: Premium Occasions: parties for the discerning and daring. A page of mood-lit photographs. Beautiful people in beautiful clothes, sipping champagne and smiling.
‘No good,’ Frankie said, trying to pull the mouse from his hand.
‘Wait.’ There wasn’t a chandelier-lit ballroom in any of the photos. Every party looked as though it had been staged in an unusual place: a sheep shed, an aquarium, a warehouse … He clicked on the ‘contact us’ button and a name popped up.
CEO, Vanessa Galto.
A frisson ran through him.
Galto – a name he’d read only yesterday.
He looked at Frankie. ‘Do you think Vanessa Galto might be related to the late Spiros Galto?’
28.
They made the trek to St Kilda and the sleek glass offices of Premium Occasions. It was only a kilometre from Petronin’s flat, but miles away in terms of comfort and price.
Frankie looked around the light-filled atrium, her mouth forming an ‘o’: either whistling or spitting. ‘What exactly does Vanessa Galto do? And how do I get into it?’
Whistling.
‘She’s an event and project facilitator.’
‘I reckon I could do that. Once I work out what it is.’
She pushed open the opaque glass doors. More glass and polished concrete greeted them: if Vanessa’s rent was calculated using the same algorithm as their own office, she was paying a dizzying amount each month. The receptionist was a thin young man with a shaved head and probable anaemia. He greeted them indifferently, called through to Vanessa, and returned to his phone. After a short wait, a woman appeared from a doorway on the far side of the foyer. She was immaculately dressed in a figure-hugging black skirt and cream blouse, with long, dark hair that fell to her shoulders in a rigid sheet.
Her face formed something like a smile as she reached them. Her red lipstick had recently been reapplied. She did a quick, dismissive scan of Frankie and turned to Caleb. Not a woman’s woman.
‘I’m Vanessa Galto, how can
I help?’
He felt Frankie stiffen. Even money on whether she’d get in Vanessa’s face, or go with it.
He made quick introductions before she could speak. ‘We understand you did some work at an old warehouse in Coburg?’
‘Our Bianchi Fashion Ball, yes. That was a great success. I imagine you saw the photo spread in the Age? Come into the office and we can chat.’
Caleb smiled; sometimes the ducks just lined themselves up.
He caught Frankie’s eye as they followed Vanessa across the foyer. She made an ‘all yours’ gesture towards the woman’s rigid back. The office was pure white and furnished with perspex furniture, including an enormous suspended chair with fat white cushions. The only sign any work went on in the place was a very thin white Apple Mac sitting on the perspex desk. The view was even more expensive than the furniture: a clear expanse of Port Phillip Bay, and a glimpse of Luna Park.
‘Please.’ Vanessa gestured towards two spindly looking chairs. ‘Have a seat.’
They both remained standing.
Vanessa glanced from Frankie to him. ‘Are you … um … Are you interested in organising a large function or um, or something more intimate?’
‘You work with your father sometimes, don’t you? Spiros Galto? Or you did, I suppose I should say.’
‘My … What’s this all about?’
‘Your father was murdered.’
Her hand went to her throat. ‘Who are you? What do you want?’
‘And his best friend, too, Arnie Giannopoulos.’
‘It’s been a … difficult few weeks.’ She tried for a wan smile, but ended up with something rictus-like.
‘They were killed because they robbed the warehouse.’
‘What warehouse?’ But there was no conviction in her expression.
‘We couldn’t work out how the thieves got in – everyone kept insisting that the guards didn’t have the warehouse keys or the alarm code. But I guess it would have been a bit hard to throw a party without them.’
‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’
He moved closer and stood just inside her personal space. ‘You didn’t know that your father ripped off the warehouse twice? Using the keys you had copied?’
‘He only did …’ She clamped her mouth shut.
That was unexpected. ‘He only robbed it once? Which time? The first time, or the second?’
‘I don’t know, I don’t know anything, just that he …’ Her hand fluttered from her mouth to her stomach. ‘I didn’t have anything to do with it.’
‘Vanessa, you had the keys, you had the alarm code, you’re the daughter of the man who robbed the place. You know what happened.’ He lowered his voice. ‘Aren’t you scared that you’ll be next?’
Her face crumpled. ‘I don’t know what happened. They did the job and everything was fine. They even pretended that Arnie got hit on the head, but then he really did get hurt and then someone killed him and Daddy wouldn’t tell me what … And then, and then, Daddy was …’ She wiped her eyes, streaking mascara across her face.
‘What about the cops? Why were Gary Marsden and Anthony Hobbs killed?’
‘Policemen?’ She put a hand out to steady herself on her desk. ‘They killed policemen, too?’
Shit, that looked genuine. A glance at Frankie’s face told him she was thinking the same thing.
‘Why the surprise?’ he asked. ‘You know what Scott’s capable of.’
‘Scott? Who’s Scott?’ No flicker in her expression, just blank confusion.
‘What did Arnie and your father find in the shipment?’
‘Just … It was cigarettes.’
‘What else? What did they find that they shouldn’t have? What did they have that Scott wants?’
‘I don’t know who Scott is, but they stole cigarettes. Just cigarettes.’
‘Was anything taken from your father’s house when it was ransacked?’
She shook her head. ‘I don’t know what … His house wasn’t ransacked.’
One last chance. He pulled Margaret Petronin’s photo from his pocket.
‘Tell me about this woman.’
Vanessa clutched the picture; it fluttered in her hands as she stared at it. She finally raised her reddened eyes to his.
‘I don’t know. Really. I’ve never seen her before. I’d tell you if I had.’
He took the photo from her and looked at Frankie. ‘Let’s go.’
Vanessa grabbed his sleeve as he turned. ‘Wait. Who’s Scott?’
‘He’s the guy you should be hiding from.’
Out on the wind-whipped street, he turned to Frankie. ‘Arnie and Spiros didn’t have what Scott was after.’
‘Then why beat Arnie up? Brand him? Kill them both?’
‘I don’t know. But Scott didn’t search either of their houses, so either he’s found what he was looking for and we can relax and go home, or he knew they didn’t have it.’
‘Let’s assume he’s still looking for it. What now?’
‘Throw the name Margaret Petronin around and see what happens.’ Caleb said.
‘Throw it where?’ Frankie said. ‘We’ve hit a dead end.’
‘City Sentry and Tedesco, then everyone Gary interviewed.’
‘That’s a long list.’
It was. Too long, surely, to have just been a smokescreen.
‘What’s with the smile?’ Frankie asked.
‘Gaz was working the case. Really working it. It wasn’t just for show.’
She considered his words. ‘Looks like it.’
Frankie somehow convinced him to let her drive again, claiming ease of communication, but she waited until they were almost at City Sentry before speaking.
‘Eyes front,’ he said as they approached a pedestrian crossing.
She kept talking, but he stared at the road. Positive modelling, that’s what he should have been doing all this time. She smacked his arm.
‘Ow.’ He rubbed it. ‘What?’
‘Get my phone – it’s ringing. I must’ve forgotten to turn it off.’
He pulled it from the glove box, but the screen was black. ‘It’s off.’
‘It’s not. It’s ringing.’
It wasn’t vibrating. He prodded the dark screen: dead. Which meant …
‘It’s mine,’ he said. ‘Pull over.’
She looked blankly at him.
‘My mobile’s in the car somewhere.’
She pulled into a loading zone. He felt between the seats, then got out and peered under both of them. There, in the rear footwell, black against the black carpet. It must have slid under the driver’s seat. Three per cent battery, four missed calls, twenty-six texts.
‘Have you got a car charger?’ he said.
‘The cord’s fucked. Bloody Apple, you’d think they could make a charger that lasted as long as the fucking phone. Shits me up the wall.’
That was a lot of anger directed towards a fairly unimportant thing. He lowered the phone and looked at her properly: her body was vibrating with a rigid energy. She’d been unusually quiet during the car trip. And she’d capitulated very easily at Vanessa’s office.
How to distract an alcoholic itching for a drink?
‘You want to get something to eat before we hit City Sentry?’ he asked.
‘No.’
OK, now he was really worried. ‘Well I’m hungry. Let’s go to Melbourne Central. I can pick up a charger there, too.’
‘Right. OK.’ She strode down La Trobe Street so quickly he had to jog to catch up.
She thumped the pedestrian signal, tapping her thighs as she waited.
‘You know what,’ she said. ‘You go eat and while I check our post box. Never know – Gary might have sent us a nice surprise.’
‘Good idea, but let’s go together.’
‘Quicker if we separate.’
‘Safer if we stay together.’
‘We’re in the middle of the city,’ she said. ‘I think we’ll be OK. I’ll
meet you back at the car.’ She set off across the road.
Shit, he was going to have to call her on it. He caught up to her.
‘I know you want to drink.’
Her mouth worked for a moment. ‘Yes Caleb, I’m an alcoholic, I always want to drink. Glad you understand. See you in an hour.’
He grabbed her arm. ‘I’m not leaving you alone while you’re like this.’
She shrugged him off, fists clenched. ‘I don’t need a fucking babysitter. I’ve been doing this by myself for a long time. A very long time.’
‘And look where it’s got you: divorced, out of the force, estranged from your family.’
Her face was a white mask. ‘Looked in the fucking mirror lately?’
‘If you flake out on me again, we’re through.’
‘Fuck you, Caleb Zelic. I have one fucking slip and you watch me all the time. Every time I move, every time I turn around, you’re there, watching me. So great, maybe I’ll be better off without you.’ She flicked her hand. ‘See ya.’
Fuck, fuck. How had he got here? Another awful, stomach-twisting failure.
‘Frankie, please.’ He switched to signing. ‘I need you.’
She stood still.
‘I can’t do it without you. Any of it.’
‘Oh, for fuck’s sake.’ She blinked rapidly. ‘Now you go getting all … OK, I’m going to tell you something. Afterwards, you’re going to nod your head, walk away, and leave me with a tiny shred of dignity, OK?’
‘I’m not going to …’
‘Just listen. Please.’
‘OK.’
‘I feel like shit. More than shit – I’m really struggling. It’s always hard getting clean, but it’s harder when you’re stressed. And mate, I am fucking stressed. I need a bit of privacy so I can have a little cry and call someone who can help. You reckon you can give me that?’
He opened his mouth.
‘No. Do not fucking ask me anything. Just nod your head and leave me the fuck alone, OK?’
He nodded.
‘Great. See you back at the car in an hour.’
He watched her go; head down, fists clenched. Shit.