by Neven Carr
Reardon tried to combine Ethan’s logic with Claudia’s doting father. “I still can’t accept he would’ve knowingly caused his daughter harm.”
“This is the same man who dumped her for seven years.”
Reardon recognized that, but his instincts spoke differently.
“You know, we should be trying to get to Macey.” Ethan again. “He’s certain to know plenty.”
Reardon was of the same opinion but not everything was that straightforward. Even if they managed to get past Macey’s personal security, it didn’t guarantee that Macey would enlighten them with the truth.
“No one you know who could get to him?”
“A federal senator? Even I have my limitations.” Reardon shrugged once. “Well, to a point.”
Ethan smirked. “What, no more juicy jail-bait transcripts? You’re getting soft, mate.”
Colt/Iacovelli and Macey’s timely phone conversation wasn’t of Reardon’s doing. It was Centaur1 following someone else’s request. Centaur1 assumed Reardon would be interested. Reardon was. He smiled. The challenge of getting close to Macey was an element he now found appealing.
“Recognize that grin too well, mate.”
Reardon shot Ethan a passing look. “Know where Macey is right now? He’s got to be getting nervous.”
“Oh, that he is. Have a look at this.” Ethan waited for a particular clip to download. “Macey and his wife were stopped by an over-zealous reporter at Canberra Airport this afternoon. They were returning from Christmas bon-bon popping at Araneya.”
Semi-filling the screen was the stockily built, fast-paced Macey and his notably anxious wife. Pursuing them was a tall, thin man, gripping onto a black handheld microphone. “Senator, Mark Hollinger… Channel Nine News,” he called out. “Can you spare a moment to comment on the current Queensland shootings?”
Macey spread his short, stubby fingers towards Hollinger and shook his head. But Hollinger ignored it. “Do you think this extraordinary barrage of violence will aid in your crusade for stronger laws against gun possession?”
The Senator stopped. His broad shoulders rose and fell as he smoothed his hand over his cropped, grey hair. He pulled gently on the lapels of his light grey sports jacket before finally turning to face the reporter.
Passing bystanders began to close in like starving vermin to a slice of cheddar.
Macey cleared his throat, lifted his pointed, resolute chin high. “As strongly as I feel about gun possession in this country,” he said in a solid, husky voice, “I could never in good conscience utilize the recent tragedies of others to further my cause. What has happened in Queensland is absolutely appalling, and my condolences go out to each and every member of those four families.”
It was well answered, Reardon thought, particularly within a political context. But as much as Macey attempted to appear fearless, the terror in his dark, heavily lidded eyes clearly ambushed it. On the other hand, there existed no such pretense from the Senator’s wife. Standing loyally beside her husband, her petite face projected an unnatural shade of pale; the expression of shock, weariness and fear as equally pronounced.
“She’s scared shitless,” Ethan pointed out.
“She has every right to be,” Reardon replied. “She would’ve known the victims, would know her husband was once a part of their group. What surprises me is that no one else has connected Macey with Iacovelli and Souza.”
Or maybe they had. Maybe the media/investigators were keeping it confidential for some reason.
The interview went quiet. The Senator’s eyes skated over the immediate perimeter, then stopped suddenly and within seconds, his forced, sturdy façade changed. Macey grabbed his wife’s hand, quickly ended the conversation and then slipped away.
“Something’s spooked him,” Ethan said.
Reardon agreed. Something had spooked the dear Senator.
Or, more importantly, someone had.
“Last info I got,” said Ethan, “Macey’s return to Canberra was all a publicity con. He has a heavily guarded penthouse in Sydney; that’s where he’s really holing up.”
“Our Senator is taking no chances.”
“Making it difficult for our doer to get to him.”
It also meant the doer would have to break the pattern and go to Macey instead. So how would this affect Claudia’s role in the killer’s bizarre ritual? Or would she simply be another break in the pattern?
The ongoing glut of information was having a harsh impact on Reardon. It was only natural that he wanted to process it all at once, come up with a few viable solutions. But in his current condition, he knew that to be near impossible. He needed sleep. Later, he promised himself as he slugged on his coffee. Much later. “Anything on the last clan member, Johnny Hercolani?”
Ethan brought up Hercolani’s portrait. The first thing that hit Reardon was the unnatural cold, hardness in Hercolani’s black eyes.
“Not the friendliest looking guy,” Ethan said, mirroring Reardon’s exact thoughts. “And, the last anyone’s heard from him were his workmates. Hercolani told them he was taking off for a few weeks’ vacation. I’d imagine if he had been another victim, it would’ve followed a similar pattern as the others, and his body would’ve turned up in Nankari.”
“But it hasn’t. So where is he? Why is he the only one of the clan unaccounted for?”
“The doer, perhaps?”
Reardon paused, mulling over the last comment. “One has to wonder how does our doer get his victims to Nankari in the first place, coerce one of them into a car and even more crazily, after two murders, compel another to enter Claudia’s unit.”
“Someone with the gift of the bullshit. And someone with muscles.”
“You talking about yourself or the doer?”
“Hysterical, mate.”
Reardon smiled. “Our doer must know them or of them… someone they trust.”
Ethan shrugged.
“Any indications that Hercolani and Macey are still in contact? Or any communication with Vincent Cabriati?”
The answer was direct. “None.” Ethan let out a long yawn, then stretched his arms wide. “Man, this is one fucked up case.” He stood, strode past the open, brick fireplace equipped with vintage accessories, moved between a cornflower blue tufted sofa and a large, matching ottoman until he reached the open sliders. There he hoisted his hands on his hips and waited.
Reardon couldn’t have agreed more about the case.
Often the most convoluted possesses the simplest of solutions, remember that.
More wise words from his mentor.
Reardon copied Ethan, met him at the slider. Neither said anything. It was customary. A momentary respite was often crucial.
The constant stream of cooling sea breeze brushed against Reardon’s tired, heated skin and he closed his eyes. Minutes passed before one of them finally spoke. It was Ethan.
“You know what really intrigues me,” he whispered without looking at Reardon, “whatever may or may not have happened in Araneya, there’s been nothing for twenty years. So what’s set this all off now?”
“No, not now,” Reardon said. “This began fourteen months ago.”
He swung to Ethan.
“With Simon Struthers’ murder.”
Chapter 32
Saul
December 28, 2010
3:25 am
THE SMALL MUSCLES around Ethan’s eyes twitched as he narrowed them tightly. “Why, because the crime scenes were identical?”
Almost identical, Reardon thought, except for the methodical arrangement of the Remington by Souza’s body, informing them which of the remaining aliases was his.
And of course, the hands.
He briefly explained Claudia’s discovery to Ethan and only the discovery. If Claudia ever wanted to share the private details of Struthers’ death with Ethan, then that would ultimately be her choice.
“So Struthers triggered it all off.”
Reardon nodded. “Struthers
was an investigative journalist. Very likely, he uncovered something about Claudia’s past, probably by accident. We have to follow that up. Somebody at the time, maybe a colleague, relative, friend, may know something. We also have to find a way to get Claudia into Araneya, to relive whatever it was that happened.”
“Won’t be pleasant for her.”
Reardon was fully aware of that. But, at this stage, they had little choice. “Get anything from those two thugs on the hill today?”
Ethan leaned against the slider’s frame. He scraped away rogue strands of hair that blew onto his brow and then crossed his arms. The short sleeves of his maroon shirt pulled tight. “Wasn’t as fruitful as I hoped.”
“Not like you.”
“Nothing to do with my talents, mate. Whoever is running this shit is keeping it close.”
“And?”
“And….” Ethan dropped his head, avoiding Reardon’s eyes. “There’s a price on her head. What you and I call a ‘not to stop job’ until it’s done.”
Reardon felt his heart slam still.
“The thing is,” Ethan resumed, “they don’t know who ordered it. They just do as they’re told by some low life called Basteros.”
“Basteros must know who he’s working for.”
Ethan shook his head. “You and I both know that’s not always the case. But, I did just happen to nick one of the bastard’s phones. Won’t take me long to find Basteros. They claim they aren’t responsible for Alice Polinski, Iacovelli or Souza.”
That was unexpected. “What, there are two doers?”
“I’m just passing the info, mate. I can only tell you they were not lying.”
Reardon agreed it seemed unlikely that whoever was responsible for the current body count, would’ve suddenly ordered a hit on Claudia. There was no logic to it. There were still three members of the clan alive, all of whom Saul believed, were now staring at similar fates. For some unknown reason, the doer/doers had included Claudia in their bizarre ritual.
So why kill her now?
“Who then?” Ethan said.
“More the question, who had the resources to direct something like this? Your average person wouldn’t even know where to start.”
Reardon groaned. An idea took birth in his head, and he wondered why he hadn’t considered it earlier. “Sometimes,” he said, allowing the other thought to mature, “I feel like we’re just making progress and something else happens to throw us off course.”
“Maybe this whole thing is designed to put us off course; maybe the real target has always been Claudia.”
“Maybe.” Reardon’s whacky idea was gaining momentum. He crossed the floor, collected a biro and a pad from Annie’s breakfast bar and began scribbling.
From behind him, he heard Ethan’s faint footsteps and then his chair scraping again. “What are you doing?”
Reardon continued the scribbling. “What does it look like?”
“Just tell me you’re not losing it, mate.”
“I’m not losing it, mate.” Reardon then followed it with a quick, “Aha.”
“So I’m guessing the ‘aha’ is good?”
“Either good or one bloody coincidence.”
“You don’t believe in coincidences.”
Reardon grinned, enjoying the momentary lightness. “Then it means good.”
He pocketed his scribble and returned to his seat. He ignored Ethan’s quizzical expression and then changed direction. “Anything on Milo Cabriati?” He still failed to understand Milo’s message to meet Claudia, and then not to turn up.
“No sign of him,” Ethan answered. He then went on to explain that he’d spent considerable time searching Milo’s home, interviewing his neighbors, his best friend and even his girlfriend. But the task had proven almost useless. “One of his next-door neighbors claimed that on the afternoon of Boxing Day, Milo approached her asking if she could feed his… wait for this… his pet carpet python and bird eating spider.” Ethan mimicked a shiver. “Seeing those things slithering and crawling. That’s wrong! I can tell you the neighbor was none too impressed either, but she agreed.”
“Milo doesn’t particularly strike me as the cute and furry type. And?”
“And he told her he would be gone for a few days; didn’t say where. She also thought he seemed unusually agitated.”
“What about the friend, the girlfriend?”
“They haven’t heard from him. But, as they both said, that’s not uncommon. Apparently, he loves his own space and goes off frequently. The girlfriend is only new, but I sense she won’t be hanging around much longer. She finds some of his quirks a little off putting.” Ethan paused. “Think he’s involved?”
“Don’t know. But he certainly knows more than he’s telling.” Reardon pulled Claudia’s phone from his pocket. He spent the next few seconds reading Milo’s text, and then passed the phone to Ethan.
“I guess that at least explains how our Alice got into Zephyr,” Ethan said after reading it. “And possibly the mystery of the birthday cards.”
Reardon had already considered that Milo had been the go-between, but wondered what would induce a teenager, and by the sounds of it, not a particularly empathetic one, into helping a woman his family detested. “I’m more interested in what Milo intimated; that Alice was killed because of something she knew, something she wanted to tell Claudia. And considering that it meant breaking her religious promise, it had to have been something bloody important.”
“The possibilities are endless. Like you said, mate, not enough facts.”
For now, Reardon set aside the ongoing puzzlement of Alice Polinski and Milo Cabriati. “What else have you?”
Ethan’s response came back fast. “Charles Smith.”
Reardon froze, shot Ethan a long, sideways look. And immediately knew. Ethan had something worthwhile on Smith. Reardon’s muscles tensed, his breathing slowed. It was his equivalent to crossing fingers. “What about him?”
When Ethan answered, his pitch had lowered, not one that Reardon had heard before. “I decided to follow an idea I had today.”
Reardon stayed quiet. Just how many waking hours did Ethan spend on all this?
Ethan bent towards Reardon and clasped his hands together; his rock-hard stare glued to him. “We already know Claudia had some connection with Smith. Or at least with whomever Smith was working for.”
A sequence of anticipatory shivers stirred through Reardon. “Go on.”
“Remember Thomas Bellante’s final e-mail with Smith?” Ethan went on to paraphrase it word by word.
“E-mail dated November 23, 2009:
Bellante: In reference to Claudia Cabriati, he has accepted the request.
Smith: Good. What about the other matter.
Bellante: It’ll work out.
Smith: It better… or else….”
Reardon nodded. How could he ever forget?
“If this Smith, whoever the hell he is, is asking for confirmation about Claudia, the next question I’d be asking is – who is he and what was the request? So, I re-searched back.”
Ethan’s body language screamed self-assurance. Reardon shifted, waiting, expectant.
“Judging by that super-stunned look on your face, mate, you never thought of doing that? Surprising for someone of your impeccable caliber.”
“We had already studied Thomas Bellante’s past transcripts until we almost passed out.”
Ethan threw up his long, index finger. “Um… I had passed out, with the help of multiple bourbons. You probably didn’t notice.”
Reardon kept his muscles tensed and alert, and then said in a soft monotone, “There was nothing in Bellante’s past e-mails that had Claudia’s name tagged to it.”
But a fresh brand of hope took hold of him, like a strong, virulent virus requiring immediate feeding. Had Ethan done the impossible and found a connection? A connection between Charles Smith, Thomas Bellante and the men he so desperately searched for.
“No, there wasn’t
,” Ethan said, “not directly with Claudia’s name.”
Reardon slumped back and swore, felt the old, tag-along hope desert him faster than a deleted e-mail, like so many times before.
“I know what you’re thinking. Bear with me,” Ethan continued. “We assumed that any other communication must’ve been done before we bugged the place. So, I went back with refreshed eyes, with the new information we now have on Claudia.”
“And?”
“And….” Ethan brought up an e-mail dated eleven days before the Claudia/Bellante/Smith e-mail.
It read:
Smith: Inform MC he’ll be required to take on a new person.
Bellante: Dates?
Smith: Unsure yet, but soon. Tell him to be prepared.
Reardon re-read it several times. What was he not seeing? Was he that bloody exhausted? And then it hit him.
MC.
Malcolm bloody Cruikshank.
He ran his hand roughly over his hair, felt it spike like the prickly hairs on his skin. “Let’s, for a minute, assume that this MC is the psych Claudia saw after Simon Struthers’ death.”
Ethan scoffed. “No assumption, necessary. Only a week after the ‘Claudia/or else’ e-mail, Claudia is in Cruikshank’s office for her first consultation. Too close to be… um… coincidental.”
Ethan crooked a bent arm over the chair; his side-swept grin was arrogant, triumphant. “So, I then get to thinking, why Cruikshank? Why does someone want him specifically to take Claudia on? What if it was because someone just wanted Claudia back in Nankari, you know to….”
“Keep an eye on her.” Reardon’s intuition buzzed with fresh layer of hope. “And Cruikshank was in charge of the eye-keeping. So, it then begs the question, who wanted her home and under control?”
Numerous members of Claudia’s family and friends fitted that bill, but no one more than her father.
We look after our own.
Reardon suddenly felt way beyond tired. The throbbing sensation in his arm had intensified; his head felt distended well over capacity. He needed sleep, wondered if it would come easily tonight… prayed it would. “Shit, Ethan, don’t like where this is going.”