The Midnight Promise: A Detective's Story in Ten Cases

by Zane Lovitt

  The girl on TV is burbling now, like she’s just waiting for someone to yell, ‘Cut!’ She’s played all the chords she knows. So have I.

  The door opens and Darryl lopes through it. Comedy hurries to let him in on the joke.

  ‘This prick reckons Joel Kelso’s going to come gunning for me. Reckons he’s secretly a nut job. Joel Kelso. Of all people.’

  Darryl laughs along. ‘Joel? He is a bit of a nut job, isn’t he?’

  ‘Hey?’

  ‘He broke Ant Goldberg’s fingers that time, remember?’

  Comedy blinks at Darryl. Softly, he says, ‘Bullshit.’

  ‘Yeah. Ant was cheating at pool, Joel broke his fingers.’ Darryl holds up two fingers and twiddles them in the air. ‘You remember he had them bandages.’

  ‘I remember…’ Comedy says slowly. ‘That was Joel?’

  ‘Yeah.’ Darryl nods with a goofy grin. ‘But fuck it. You took care of him once.’

  Comedy’s eyes flick to me, then away. He licks his lips, but he doesn’t speak. For the first time, words don’t come. Now he tips back in his chair, lost in thought, and it seems we’re in the eye of the cyclone, where the bullshit settles, the tough guy face evaporates and the real Shane Amiel Johnson is there to see, sick and frightened.

  ‘How come nobody told me?’

  It’s a schoolyard whine. Darryl’s shrugging those massive shoulders again when I say, ‘Because you’re a spook and a phony. What would you do? Pat Anton on the head and say, there there? You’re the original fairy godfather, faking it, the way these girls are faking it. If Joel is coming after you you’ve got to own up.’

  And just like that, the eye passes. It’s back to the trenches for Comedy Johnson.

  ‘Get this poofter the fuck out of here.’

  I feel a tap on my shoulder. Darryl’s one good arm preparing to do the work of two. I stand.

  Comedy tips back in his chair, rotates away from us. There’s nothing for me to do but leave.

  From the outer office I glance back. Comedy’s about as contemplative as I could imagine him, staring past the television. On it there’s a new girl wearing a sheer singlet.

  ‘Oh God Oh God Oh God Oh God Oh God Oh God.’

  Darryl closes the door.

  I’ve never been frisked before today, but I’ve been walked out of plenty of places: I know how to do this one. Slow lock-step to the entrance past half a dozen men browsing the shelves, past the hamster dildos and the softcore postcards and the blow-up doll and the notice with Comedy’s real name on it. In my jacket pocket I’m fumbling for a pen and a scrap of paper. I find a receipt for yesterday’s Chinese food.

  We reach the street and Darryl waits to make sure I move on.

  I scrawl my phone number on the receipt. ‘Give this to Comedy.’ I hold it out. ‘In case he changes his mind.’

  Darryl takes the crumpled paper and shoves it in his pocket, appears to be slowly formulating a response. His lazy eye glares at the chemist across the street.

  ‘Don’t hold your breath, mate.’

  I’m in the bottle shop the next day when it’s on the news. This is the store near my home and for some reason they don’t put prices on anything so I’m at the counter, asking the Greek man there which is the cheapest six-pack of beer, when the miniature television he’s got shows a silver GT Falcon with the pointless orange stripe crushed against one of the blackwoods that line the Nepean Highway. The impact was so devastating that, looking at the TV, it takes a moment to recognise the car. To even know it was once a car.

  The Greek man’s being helpful. He’s telling me about the special on Carlton Colds and I have to ask him to stop talking and to turn up the volume on the television.

  Later that night I’m in bed and I’m drinking. Someone’s just moved into the flat next door and he plays his TV loud. I won’t miss this place when the sheriff’s office finally kicks me out. At one point I can hear a replay of the bulletin I saw in the bottle shop. After I saw it, I passed on the beer and bought a bottle of vodka. I’m taking another sip when my phone rings.

  It’s Darryl. He speaks softly, like he doesn’t want anyone to know he’s called me.

  ‘You hear what happened?’

  ‘It was on the news.’

  ‘It’s weird…’

  ‘Where were they going, Darryl?’

  On the news they showed the car from a thousand different angles, mangled and lonely under the floodlights, as well as an impromptu press conference with a senior constable from the Major Collision Investigation Unit. I can hear him now through the walls of my flat.

  ‘The car was doing a speed of approximately one hundred and fifty kilometres per hour. Both the male driver and the female passenger were killed instantly.’

  Darryl says, ‘He was all weird after you left. He said them two were going on a holiday in Ocean Grove for the weekend. Lindy didn’t know what the fuck was going on neither. Comedy just said they’re leaving, and I had the run of the store until he got back. Then they just left.’

  ‘They were on the Nepean Highway. That’s not how you get to Ocean Grove.’

  ‘Yeah, mate, that’s what’s weird.’

  On next door’s TV, Senior Constable Fellows is saying that the driver was speeding and lost control of the vehicle. Darryl asks me if I think it was Joel Kelso.

  I say, ‘He’s done it before.’

  Darryl snorts into the receiver, which comes through my end as a blast of static. ‘Comedy bashing him like that. That’s weird too. I mean, Comedy never done nothing like that, you know?’

  I can’t see any point in telling Darryl what I really think. It wouldn’t change the outcome. It would feel like speaking ill of the dead.

  ‘So you reckon Joel did something to his car?’ Darryl’s saying.

  ‘No. Nobody did anything to his car. Someone ran him off the road.’

  The senior constable said another set of fresh tyre marks was found at the scene. ‘We believe the vehicle and a second car may have been drag racing. We’re now appealing for the driver of the second car to come forward.’

  Darryl says, ‘I only ask because, is there someone I should go and see? I mean, it looks like I’m going to run the business now. I don’t want to fuck it up like Comedy did.’

  ‘Sell the business to SlapTickle. They’ll make you a good offer.’

  There’s a silence like a lead weight falling through the air.

  ‘Shit. They already did.’

  Ted Boyle. A maestro.

  ‘You should accept. I don’t know how they feel about competition.’

  ‘Yeah,’ he says, breathing heavily.

  ‘Goodbye, Darryl.’

  The senior constable says, ‘There are speed limits on the road because speed kills. No matter what sort of vehicle you drive, when you impact with a tree, usually the tree wins.’

  There was a moment when I could have got through to Comedy, when he seemed genuinely vulnerable. Instead I called him names, scared him back into his shell, because suddenly I didn’t think I could really work for someone like Comedy Johnson.

  On TV, the senior constable is getting emotional. Out there in the dark with the media lights and the dead bodies, he says, ‘You can imagine I get tired of coming to sites like this and telling your television cameras about the dangers of speeding. I feel like a stuck record. But still there are people who don’t take our road rules seriously. Drivers of sports cars are just as vulnerable to speed as other road users.’

  Chased out of town by his murderer, then scolded by the police for speeding.

  That’s what Comedy would have called tragic irony.

  The senior constable says, ‘These deaths were preventable.’

  And through the walls of my flat, he’s talking to me.

  DARK DAY

  BACK WHEN WE were engaged I used to tell Annie that living by yourself is like coming home every day to your own brain.

  Well, that goes double for when you live in your office.


  There’s a shower at the end of the hall that doesn’t get used by anyone else on this floor, and I’ve emptied out one of my filing-cabinet drawers to store my doona and pillows during office hours. Living in a place without a kitchenette isn’t a major adjustment; I never cooked much when I had one. I don’t miss television. About the biggest problem is that it’s been raining most of the day.

  All afternoon there was paint bulging out from the ceiling like a waxing yellow moon. I moved my couch-cum-bed to the other side of the office and, sure enough, about an hour ago the water burst through and left a splat on the carpet the shape of a goanna. There’s a coffee tin on the goanna’s head now, catching the water as it drips out so slowly.

  The Chinese used to strap their victims beneath dripping taps; they’d keep you bound in place so the water landed bang on your forehead, drip drip drip. After long enough each drop becomes like a baseball bat to the face.

  That’s when you give up all your lovely Chinese secrets.

  I don’t want to go out. I just want to sit here and watch the roof.

  The traffic noise is easing and it’s fully dark now so I switch on the lamp. The newspaper on my desk is open to the announcements page. In the obituaries, everyone wants everyone to know that their mother or father died peacefully, or mercifully, or doing what they loved. Death gets such a polish here. The weddings column is more of the same: wondrous occasion, two become one, triumph of love, covenant before God.

  My eyes come back to the same item:

  ALL WELCOME to witness the union of Rodney Fisher and

  Kiara Morelli, who embark upon their glorious future together

  on Saturday, 3 p.m., Christ Church, Camberwell.

  My eyes come back to the words:

  …glorious future…

  And I have to leave.

  Annie would want me to leave. She’ll be the kind of mother who takes her kid by the hand and leads them next door and makes them own up about the broken window.

  We haven’t spoken in more than two years. She doesn’t play a big role in my decisions. But it’s her fault I’m in this mess.

  Before I leave I check the coffee tin. There’s barely an inch of water in it so I leave it in place. Let the water keep coming and let this thing keep catching it. I switch off the lamp and pretty soon I’m in a cab, still thinking about Annie, still thinking about what it might be like to get dripped on to death.

  Kiara Morelli lives in a flat in Coburg, which is a long way from Camberwell—in distance and, in her case, aroma. Kiara’s balcony opens out over the fenced grotto where the residents of these flats dump their garbage. Summer here must be its own unique kind of torture. Although we’ve never met, I’ve come to know Kiara pretty well. She isn’t likely to appreciate the convenience of tossing her trash bags out the window.

  I duck quickly through the rain and up both flights and knock, try to piece together some kind of introduction. The pieces haven’t gelled when the door opens just three inches. It’s someone who must be Stephanie, Kiara’s sister, with a look of pretend fear on her face.

  ‘Hi?’

  ‘Hi. My name’s John. I’m here to see Kiara.’

  She smirks with big eyes. She’s prettier than her sister, a lot younger. I’d guess right on the brink of thirty.

  ‘Are you sure you got the right night?’

  ‘I rang this afternoon and left a message. She knows I’m coming.’

  Now she scowls, disappears from the door but leaves it ajar. I hear her say, ‘It’s a man. He said he called you…’

  Crockery hits crockery and a tap runs. I push open the front door. Stephanie is right there with her back to me, whispering urgently into the kitchen. ‘I thought he was a stripper, like, on the wrong night.’

  She lets go a spectacular giggle and Kiara appears, looking past her sister, looking at me for the first time ever. Stephanie doesn’t turn around, doesn’t know I can hear her when she whispers, ‘Who is he?’

  Kiara must be wondering the same thing herself. She peels off a pair of rubber gloves and says, ‘Let’s find out.’

  She holds out a dry hand. ‘Mister Dorn?’

  I shake it. ‘Miss Morelli.’

  ‘This is my sister, Steph. She thought you were a stripper.’

  Stephanie blushes with more red than you’d expect from someone her age. ‘Sshhhhhh!’ she urges, then giggles more, almost choking. To me she says, ‘I didn’t…ummm…’

  Kiara says, ‘I had my hens’ night here last night. Someone invited an exotic dancer…’ Kiara looks wide-eyed at Steph and they both giggle. Kiara says, ‘I’m getting married on Saturday.’

  ‘To the dancer? That was fast…’ I smile at Steph.

  They laugh the same laugh, the way sisters do. Kiara says, ‘So what can I do for you? You didn’t say in your phone message. You work for Rodney?’

  ‘In a way. But he doesn’t know I’m here.’

  ‘Okay…’

  ‘I was trying to be discreet.’

  ‘Right.’ The smile has dropped from Kiara’s face, but Steph is still beaming, waiting for us to joke around some more.

  I say, ‘If you’d rather I didn’t come inside, we could go out…’

  Kiara teaches primary school kids how to finger paint and add up small numbers. Right now she’s giving me the face she must give her students all the time. The one where she squints at you, wants you to know she’s figuring you out.

  ‘Stephy, would you mind putting the kettle on?’

  The younger sister turns and hurriedly disappears. Kiara keeps squinting. I know I don’t look harmless.

  She says, ‘You can come in, but first I have to know what this is about.’

  I nod slowly. ‘Okay. Let me ask you…and forgive me for getting personal. Do you have a premarital financial agreement with Rodney?’

  Her eyebrows rise. ‘That is personal.’

  ‘Rodney’s a banker. He’s in venture capital, right? His job is all about risk management, minimising loss and so on.’

  ‘Yes, but—’

  ‘So Rodney decides to get married. The smart move financially, and what would be in character for him, would be to have you sign a binding financial agreement that minimises his liability. That way, if the marriage failed, for whatever reason, you couldn’t take him for half his assets. He’d hold on to everything that was his, you’d get back what was yours. Has he asked you to sign that kind of agreement?’

  She doesn’t answer. She doesn’t even really react.

  I say, ‘Or is the one you signed surprisingly generous, to the point where your lawyer practically fell over himself to process it before Rodney could change his mind?’

  Her eyes shift a little, but apart from that she gives nothing away.

  ‘I still don’t understand—’

  ‘If you had to sign the kind of agreement you’d expect from a man like Rodney, then I’m wasting your time and I’ll go. But if he caved in, if that agreement says that you get spousal maintenance and maybe a swag of property interests, and if you’re wondering how come, then I can explain. That’s all I want to do.’

  There’s energy in her that I sense but can’t see. She tamps it down by clearing her throat. ‘And who are you?’

  ‘I’m John Dorn. I’m a private inquiry agent. I think there are some things about Rodney that you need to know.’

  Her eyes drop. The face she makes now, I don’t think it’s one her students see very often.

  ‘Oh God,’ she says.

  She glances back into the flat for Stephanie, who’s in the kitchen making noise.

  ‘Are you sure I need to know? I’m getting married on Saturday, for goodness sake.’

  ‘It concerns you directly.’

  She rubs a hand on her apron, pushes open the door and forces herself back against the wall to let me inside. I step through a short corridor and into a living area that’s feminine, well kept considering the space is too cramped for a pair of adult women. One wall is a series of children
’s paintings, all big brushes and colours, most of them framed. In all of them there’s a tall figure who I bet is supposed to be Kiara. On the shelf is a series of vegan cookbooks and the flat smells of the vegetables they had for dinner.

  ‘Stephy, I’m having a talk with Mister Dorn in my room. No listening at the door, all right?’

  Stephanie doesn’t answer.

  ‘All right?’

  ‘All right,’ comes back shrill. Something is thrown into the sink but it doesn’t break.

  ‘She doesn’t like being kept out of things.’ Kiara’s voice cracks as she swings open a door and I step into a master bedroom that’s barely big enough for the bed.

  ‘Sit down,’ she says.

  I sit on the bed and slump, try to seem the least intimidating I can. The blinds in here are drawn but through them come the sounds of rain and Middle Eastern music from another flat.

  On the table by her bed is a photo frame. It’s a picture of Rodney and Kiara, pressed cheek to cheek, somewhere like a restaurant, posing obediently. It’s a digital frame that dissolves right while I’m looking at it into a group of seven children at a school carnival, arms wrapped around each other, Kiara kneeling between them all, smiling so big you might think she was crying if it weren’t for the grinning faces around her.

  Kiara closes the door. She squeezes past me to the wardrobe and opens it only a few inches, which is as far as it will go with a bed in here. From a small wooden chest she draws a white stapled document.

  ‘I didn’t want this,’ she says, holding it lightly between thumb and forefinger. ‘It was Rodney who demanded a “pre-nup”, as he called it. And he said that legally I had to get a lawyer. So I did. Barry was pretty tough apparently, but I wasn’t involved at all. Then, like, two weeks ago, Rodney acquiesced to everything. Barry seems to think I should be extremely happy, but I haven’t read it. I signed it, though. Shouldn’t I have?’

  ‘I don’t think that makes any difference.’

  She sits on the bed with her back straight and her hands folded in her lap, slightly neater, more refined in her movements than I’d imagined her.

  ‘Please…let’s not draw this out. What’s happened?’