by Emma Viskic
20.
They chose one of the few stores in the shopping complex with no CCTV. Eastern Dreams sold cheap silver jewellery and expensive healing crystals. Caleb and Frankie were the only potential customers, but the listless sales assistant had barely glanced at them, possibly stunned by the sandalwood incense.
Only a few minutes left of the thirty-minute window they’d given Imogen.
In the back corner Frankie was going through a shelf of crystals, picking each one up and putting it down, glancing towards the front door every ten seconds. She studied a chunk of quartz. ‘Like being back in Mallacoota. If that shop assistant comes at me with the tarot cards, I’m out of here.’
So that’s where she’d been hiding out the past few months. Hard to imagine Frankie in the feel-good coastal village, but it explained the Earth Mother clothes she’d been wearing.
‘Mallacoota?’ he said. ‘Is that why your chakras are so well aligned?’
She faced him, still holding the quartz. ‘How are your chakras these days?’
He stepped back. ‘They don’t respond well to violence.’
‘Serious question. How’s the head? Last time I saw you, it was pretty fucked.’
Heat rose up the back of his neck. ‘Good.’
‘So no more little freak-outs or –’
He turned to examine a lumpen clay pot Kat would have winced at. A thump to his upper arm, closed fist, knuckles to the bone. ‘Ow.’ He rubbed his bicep. ‘You right?’
‘Don’t pull the look-away act on me. I’m not asking for fun, I need to know if you’re going to lose your shit in the middle of a tense moment. So tell me, on a scale of one to ten – one being you having a little lie-down in the middle of a bushfire – how would you rate your desire to live?’
He loosened his jaw. ‘Ten.’
Her expression did a good job of conveying disbelief. ‘That’s a pretty amazing turnaround. What brought that on?’
Hours of excruciating therapy, medication, retraining neural pathways. Hope.
‘Kat’s pregnant.’
A smile wiped the hardness from her face. ‘Cal. Mate. That’s the best fucking news. Congratulations.’ Her smile dimmed as she no doubt remembered the last two times, and exactly how little use he’d been to her afterwards. She opened her mouth to speak, but he was saved by Imogen appearing at the front entrance.
‘She’s here,’ he told Frankie.
The fed was dressed in a nondescript blue shirt and black slacks, hair pulled neatly back. She faltered when she saw Frankie, then headed straight for them, ignoring the sales assistant’s lethargic greeting. Hands safely away from her pockets and any secreted stun guns.
Jasmine perfume tangled with the incense as she reached them. ‘Well, don’t you two look cosy together.’
A little stand-off as she tried to position herself against a corner wall, but Caleb and Frankie stood their ground. She glanced over her shoulder at the door, then looked at Frankie. ‘Where are Maggie’s records?’
‘We need your help first. Tell us about Transis. Who were you investigating?’
‘Now, or I arrest your mate here for murder and come up with a nice charge for you.’
Caleb spoke before Frankie could fire back. ‘Maggie’s in hospital with head injuries. Someone assaulted her yesterday.’ A nod of acknowledgement from Imogen. So she knew. Not surprising she’d been keeping tabs on Maggie.
‘Someone kidnapped her daughter this morning,’ he went on. ‘Tilda. We’re trying to find her. We think it’s connected to Amon’s murder.’
Imogen’s eyes went to the front entrance, tracking a passing shopper. ‘You should contact your local police if you’re concerned about the safety of a minor.’
Jesus, what did he have to do to get through to her? He tried to find the right words, words that would make her care. ‘She’s nine. She’s been gone eight hours.’ He caught Frankie’s flinch, but kept going. ‘It’s not just Amon, someone else is dead, too.’
Imogen’s head whipped towards him. ‘Who?’
‘I don’t know his name, but he died last Friday.’ And Caleb might just leave out the part about Maggie being angry with the dead man.
Imogen was staring at him. ‘How do you know about that?’
‘You know who I’m talking about?’
‘How –?’ She broke off as the saleswoman drifted towards them. Blonde dreads and rough hemp pants and singlet.
Caleb’s skin itched sympathetically.
‘… sale on all jewellery items.’
‘We’re right, thanks,’ Caleb said.
‘Thirty per cent off everything in the top case, twenty for the bottom.’
Imogen and Frankie turned and spoke simultaneously. ‘Fuck off.’
The pair of them probably would have got on well under different circumstances.
Imogen waited until the shop assistant had hurried back to the counter, then spoke. ‘What do you know about Jordan’s death?’
A name – that was a good start.
‘How’s Jordan connected?’ he asked.
‘Stop. Messing. Me. Around. People are dying, and we could all be next.’
People. A sick feeling she wasn’t just talking about Martin Amon and Jordan. ‘Who else is dead?’
She was on the balls of her feet, a feverish shine to her eyes. About to do something: run, attack, scream.
‘We called you,’ he said slowly. ‘We wouldn’t have done that if we were involved in their deaths.’
Her jaw worked. ‘Give me your phones.’
‘We haven’t got any.’
‘Show me. Turn around, hands against the wall.’
A great way for Imogen to stun them and grab the key. He caught Frankie’s eye, communicating in a glance – Run? She shook her head and they both faced the wall. The cop gave them a brisk pat-down, Frankie first, then him; the least sensual thing he’d done with a woman, including the time he’d had his wisdom teeth out.
There was something in Imogen’s hand when he turned around. A flash of panic – but it was an oversized phone, decorated with silver and purple stars, nothing like the stun gun. Or anything he would have expected her to own.
Frankie squinted at it. ‘You’re not worried about someone listening on that? Or tracking it?’
‘No. Bought it ten minutes ago from a street kid.’ She opened an online photo album and thrust the phone at them. ‘This is what you’re up against.’
He took it from her.
A man sitting in an armchair. Blood, a spongy mess where the top of his head should be. His brown rabbit-like goatee clearly visible. The federal cop who’d interviewed Caleb in the farm office.
Against all instinct he swiped to the next photo: another suburban house, people in white cotton overalls, numbered markers on a polished wooden floor, the slumped form of Beardless visible in the background.
Caleb lowered the phone, mouth dry. Worse than he’d thought. Much worse. Amon was bad enough, but people who would hunt down and kill three cops wouldn’t hesitate to murder a child. Tilda shot or bludgeoned, her bright eyes dulled.
It took him a couple of attempts to speak. ‘Feds,’ he told Frankie. ‘They interviewed me after I found Amon.’
She sagged against a display case, a hand to her mouth.
‘The Transis team,’ Imogen said. ‘I’m the only one left.’ Fear in her eyes, but something else, too, something he’d seen in the mirror eight hours ago, pepper spray still burning his eyes – guilt.
‘Was Jordan a cop, too?’ he asked.
‘Informant. He approached me last week with information that led to an arrest. A couple of days later he took a dive off an overpass. Suicide or accident, according to the coroner.’ She looked at Frankie. ‘I wonder what your sister would say.’
Frankie’s face was still ashen bu
t she returned the cop’s stare. ‘If she wasn’t in ICU, probably that she was hurt by the same person who killed Jordan. We’ve got a possible description of her attacker – tall, fair-haired, looks like a weightlifter.’
No spark of interest in the cop’s face.
‘You know him?’ Caleb asked.
‘Tell me what you know about Jordan’s death.’
‘Maggie’s daughter mentioned him – no details, just that he’d died. Now tell us about Transis.’
‘The documents first.’
Another stand-off, but one they weren’t going to win. Frankie finally spoke. ‘The Commonwealth in Malvern. Under my name.’
‘And the key?’
‘The kidnappers took it.’
Impressive, really, what a good liar she was. Nice move dangling that prize in front of Imogen, too: the cop couldn’t get into a deposit box without a warrant or key, but it’d keep her off their backs while she tried.
‘How the hell am I supposed to get into it, then?’
‘Use your charm,’ Frankie said. ‘Your turn – tell us about Transis. What were you investigating? Who were you investigating?’
Imogen headed for the rear exit, her pace just under a run.
‘Wait,’ he called, ‘what’s Jordan’s surname?’
She didn’t look back.
Frankie turned to him, a little colour returning to her cheeks. ‘Any chance the name “Jordan” fits the video?’
21.
He watched the video while Frankie drove, cupping the screen to shade it from the passing streetlights. A strong suspicion her eyes were on him more than the road. ‘Jordan’ slotted neatly into the gap between Maggie’s words, but didn’t quite feel right. Some tiny synching problem that snagged like a fine thread. Or he could just be tired after the pepper spray and lip-reading strangers, the ratcheting tightness as each hour passed.
He closed the laptop and said, ‘Maybe.’
Frankie switched on the internal light. ‘How likely?’
‘Maybe.’ He peered past his reflection at the road: a freeway, almost in the city. ‘Where are we going?’
‘To ask Tedesco to look into Jordan. The cops’ deaths, too.’ She glanced at the road; not quite long enough. ‘You’d better text, we’re almost at his house.’
‘How do you know where Tedesco lives?’
Her eyes slid to him. ‘I know everything.’
Sometimes that was very easy to believe. He pulled the phone from the glove box. Tedesco probably wouldn’t be able to – or want to – help, but it was worth a try. Whoever Jordan was, his death was at the centre of things.
‘We should talk to Fawkes in person, too,’ he said.
‘Who?’
‘The hacker.’
‘He won’t want to meet.’
Caleb went to speak but stopped. The computer wasn’t connected to wi-fi, and Sammi had seemed pretty sure closing the lid would make it safe – still, smarter not to risk it. He switched to sign. ‘I’m hoping his paranoia will help.’
‘His what?’
He fingerspelled the word, Frankie glancing between the road and his hands, mouthing each letter, but getting them all wrong.
Her face wrinkled in doubt. ‘Banana?’
One of these days he’d teach her how to fingerspell properly, but not while doing a hundred on a freeway.
‘Paranoia,’ he said out loud.
He texted Tedesco, then set up a hotspot and opened the messageboard on the laptop.
—Need to meet in person. Got news
He only had to wait a few seconds for the reply.
—?
—About the video
—?
—In person. Someone might be monitoring email
A long wait, then a new message appeared.
—show yourself + drivers licence
Did he really want to offer up his ID to a man connected with a hacktivist collective?
Frankie was craning to see the screen, the car drifting towards the semitrailer in the next lane. ‘Eyes front,’ he said, pulling out his licence. ‘He wants me to ID myself.’
‘Don’t. He won’t meet you – he’s just playing games.’
Caleb uncovered the camera, gave the hacker a good look at him, then his licence. A message appeared.
—check back 90 mins for address
Interesting Fawkes hadn’t asked his location. Not at all concerned that Caleb might be in a different state or country.
—Email. I’m dumping the computer
No need to give his contact details; the hacker was probably trawling through his life as they spoke.
He turned off the laptop and lifted it. ‘Bit of noise,’ he told Frankie, and smashed it against the dashboard. A fair bit of hammering before it cracked open. He tore out its guts, dropped the pieces in the footwell. No reason at all to be thinking of the words ‘barn’ and ‘door’.
Frankie shook her head. ‘I can’t believe you just doxed yourself. You do know how Anonymous works? That they dump information online for kicks?’
‘With a political agenda.’ He thought about it. ‘Usually.’
***
They parked on a side street opposite Tedesco’s suggested meeting place, a 7-Eleven a few kays from the detective’s house. While waiting, they risked using the phone to look into the cops’ deaths. It didn’t take long to find the news reports. Both men had been killed the day after Martin Amon: Beardless in Melbourne, Rabbit-face in Canberra. No mention of their names or the fact they were police officers, no link drawn between them and Amon.
‘You think the journos were warned off?’ he asked.
‘More likely they don’t know. The brass’ll be shitting themselves, trying to work out what happened. Or trying to cover it up.’ She thought for a moment. ‘What’s your take on Imogen – bent, or just scared?’
‘Hard to tell.’
‘Come on. You’ve got a little meter running the entire time you talk to someone, assessing their every blink and twitch. Give me the readout.’
‘She’s genuinely scared and has a very low threshold for breaking rules. Further analysis will require more input.’
A figure rounded the corner of the 7-Eleven: Tedesco, wearing gym clothes and jogging slowly, cheeks puffing as though cooling down after a hard run. The kale diet was pretty standard, but exercise was new.
Frankie turned to Caleb. ‘Maybe you should talk to him alone.’
He nodded. It hadn’t occurred to him she’d come. Tedesco had only seen the aftermath of her betrayal, not the years of friendship or the risks she’d taken for him. Putting the pair of them together would be like connecting two live wires.
Frankie grabbed his arm as he went to leave. ‘Don’t mention Tilda.’
‘It’s our best shot. He won’t endanger her.’
‘Not intentionally, but can you guarantee he won’t involve the cops?’
The only thing Caleb could guarantee was that the detective would do what he thought right.
‘OK,’ he said. ‘I’ll keep her out of it.’
Tedesco was waiting under a streetlight, bent over, bracing his hands on his thighs. He straightened as Caleb approached, trying to pretend he wasn’t gasping; flushed despite the cool evening, his face slicked with sweat. No recent birthdays or health scares, months on from any possible New Year resolutions. Which left only one likely scenario.
‘Dating someone new?’ Caleb asked.
A full three seconds before Tedesco answered. ‘The exact nature of the relationship is yet to be determined.’
Caleb hesitated. He was almost certain they were discussing a he, not a she, but the subject hadn’t been broached in the twelve months they’d known each other. Plenty of reasons why a homicide cop might want to keep that side of his life private.
Particularly one who’d got off to a rocky start by killing a bent cop.
‘Does the person of interest have a name?’ Caleb asked.
‘Several.’ Tedesco wiped his forehead on his sleeve. ‘So, what’s the emergency? Need me to look into another cop? Assistant commissioner, maybe?’
‘Not quite – some murders.’
The detective’s faint smile evaporated as Caleb told him what he needed. ‘Jesus, Cal. Dead cops. Does it involve Imogen Blain?’
‘Yes.’
‘Then you should probably know she’s been on stress leave since last week. Was asked to take it, if I’m reading it correctly.’
Which meant Imogen wouldn’t have access to all her usual sources. Shit.
‘OK, thanks. Can you help? I wouldn’t ask if it wasn’t important.’
‘I’ll try,’ Tedesco said slowly. ‘But I wouldn’t get your hopes up. My mate’s not in the same department as Transis, I doubt he’ll be able to find anything. Or that he’d tell me if he did.’
Caleb had known it was a long shot; its probable failure shouldn’t leave him feeling this sick. ‘Thanks. Appreciate it.’
Tedesco was studying him. ‘Looking a bit rough around the edges. You sleeping?’ He still did this every now and then: a little assessment carried out with the efficiency of the farm boy he’d once been, scrutinising the stock for soundness of body and brain. Excruciating, but oddly comforting.
‘Yeah, just a stressful couple of days.’
‘No flashbacks?’
‘No.’
‘Panic attacks?’
OK, now it was just excruciating. ‘You want a report from the shrink?’
‘Nah, I get the group email.’ Tedesco gave what looked like a back-cracking stretch. ‘I’ll let you know about the feds.’ He went to go, then turned back, an unusually awkward bob of his head. ‘The person of interest is generally known as Luke.’
Caleb returned to the car, a positive expression plastered on his face. Frankie was clutching the phone, her skin stripped of colour. An email open on the screen, the message, NO POLICE. A video link at the bottom.
The air left his lungs. Proof Tilda was alive, or proof she was dead.
Frankie’s lips barely moved. ‘I can’t look.’