by Cenarth Fox
‘My biological father is dead. He was someone I knew and liked and who helped me become a medico.’
‘That’s sad,’ said Jo who copped a blast.
‘I told you not to speak until I’ve finished.’ Jo winced. Gabrielle paused and made another failed attempt at wine consumption.
‘Apparently my mother and biological father enjoyed a fling when my mother was married to my in-name-only father. My sister doesn’t know if her father knew my mother was with child by another man and it’s something we’ll never know. And we’ll never be sure if my real father knew he was my father, and that really hurts.’
Gabrielle paused again and this time the wine did pass her lips. Jo thought the pathetic pathologist was about to cry.
‘My parents died years ago but last year I went to the funeral of my real father. I wept because I loved him for all he did for me. I wept not knowing he was my father.’
Now she did weep. Jo moved to Gabrielle and hugged her friend. She convulsed. Her sadness ran free. Time was irrelevant. She recovered and turned away from Jo pulling free some paper towel. She wiped her eyes and blew her nose causing the paper towel to cringe.
Jo decided to break the ice. ‘I thought my situation was bad but it’s nothing compared to yours.’
Gabrielle picked up the wine bottle and tipped the remaining contents down the sink. She rinsed and dried her glass and put it away. Jo took her glass to Gabrielle who looked at her visitor. They were good at talking with their eyes. Jo’s wine chased the disappeared wine.
‘Coffee?’ asked Gabrielle.
‘Please,’ said Jo. The coffee was made.
‘So what’s the plan with Maurice Chevalier? You know when you joined Homicide, I reckon Inspector Richelieu sang Thank heaven for little girls.’
Jo felt great they were back being normal, and even smiled at Gabrielle’s gag. But Jo didn’t know how to handle her tricky situation.
‘So in my case, oh wise one, what do you recommend?’ she asked.
Gabrielle scoffed. ‘You’re asking a woman who couldn’t make a relationship last longer than a politician’s promise. You’re on your own there, kiddo.’ Jo felt sad. ‘Who else is in your little black book?’
Jo grinned. ‘Mind your own bloody business.’ They both laughed and felt better. ‘So what’s this I hear about you retiring?’
‘All true, my dear. I’m being eased out the back door. You’ll soon have the pleasure of working with Rowdy Laudi. He’s good without being great but don’t expect any lengthy sentences. Rumour is he’s a Quaker and speaking’s a sin.’
They finished their coffee and a good chunk of the chocolates.
‘I’ll get going,’ said Jo and Gabrielle followed her up the hallway. At the front door, they embraced and said nothing. Jo stopped at the front gate, looked back and saw Gabrielle with tears on her cheeks. Clearing the air and making confession was good for both their souls.
Jo sat in her car and rang her grandfather, the retired Detective Chief Inspector and former head of Homicide, John “Robbo” Robertson. ‘Hi Pop, it’s Jo. How are you?’
His voice sounded excited, even jubilant. ‘Fantastic now I’ve heard from my favourite copper.’
‘Are you up for a visit? I know you need your beauty sleep.’
‘The kettle’s on. Get moving.’
Jo laughed, told him she’d be there in half an hour and set off.
Fitzroy North to Glen Iris was about 12 kilometres and as Jo drove, she thought about a detour via Mont Albert and a quick hello to Dr Jack Carr and family. The kids would be in bed but to see her favourite GP seemed a good idea. Her heart agreed.
She turned into the Carr street and pulled over. She killed her lights, was about to get out when two people came out of Jack’s drive. The streetlights were good and so was her eyesight. She recognized Jack but not the woman with him. They seemed friendly.
Jo watched. Jack opened the door for the woman who turned to face him and they kissed. It wasn’t a passionate kiss of two lovers but it wasn’t a polite peck on the cheek either. Jo felt like a peeping tom.
She watched as Jack stepped back and the woman set off, her car’s headlights shining on Jo. Instinctively she ducked and her car was lit with Jo lying across her passenger seat.
What the hell am I doing? Then a terrible thought occurred to her. What if Jack saw my car and is right now walking towards me? She heard footsteps. “Oh hello, Jack. Yes, I’m looking for my phone which has fallen under the passenger seat. I’ll be with you in a minute.”
Then the person walking towards her car spoke and Jo sighed. It wasn’t the good doctor. She sneaked a look and the Carr driveway was empty. She did a quiet U-turn and drove to Glen Iris.
‘I was worried,’ said Pop. It was 45 minutes since Jo rang him.
‘Sorry Pop, traffic.’ Liar. ‘How’s Nan?’
‘Fine, fine. Now I want to hear all about your brilliant detection in French France. Is there nothing you can’t do?’
Jo laughed. Has Pop given up on his grammar standards? They drank tea. Pop put out a plate of biscuits then, from a pocket, produced a chocolate frog.
Another burst of happiness for Jo remembering how she and her sister scored a treat when they visited their grandparents as little tackers. Having just helped the pathetic police pathologist devour a chunk of dark Belgian chocolate, Jo decided to save the frog for later.
She gave a redacted version of her Parisian adventure. Certainly the budding romance with the dashing DI disappeared. Pop asked questions and seemed to be tiring. Jo showed concern.
‘You seem tired, Pop, and you haven’t told me how Nan is going.’
Pop went from tired to depressed in pretty quick time. Jo was out of her chair and sitting beside the old man. He rarely, read never, cried but now didn’t try to hide his feelings.
‘Oh Pop, I’m so sorry. Now I’m back, I’ll come with you to see Nan. And if you can’t go, I’ll go for you. I’ll ask Mum and Caitlyn. We’ll all go.’ She rubbed his arm and waited for him to speak.
‘I don’t like going anymore.’ He wiped his eyes. ‘She’s convinced I’m her father and wants to know why I don’t bring her mother with me.’
Jo didn’t know what to say. She picked up the cups and plate of biscuits and headed for the kitchen. ‘I’ll fix these, you stay there.’
When she came back, he was standing and holding an A4 envelope. ‘I’ve made a few changes to my will and have sorted the funeral arrangements. It’s all in here.’ Jo hesitated. ‘Go on, take it.’ Jo did. ‘Read it when you get home.’
‘Okay. Does Mum know about this?’
‘Not yet. And I’ve made you my power of attorney. If something happens to me while your Nan is still alive, you’re the one who’ll make the decisions.’ Jo felt pressure. She wasn’t in the best of moods anyway but this only made things worse. ‘Sorry to do this to you, Jo, but your mother and sister will never rise in the ranks, whereas you’ve got promotion written all over you.’
Jo sort of smiled as she cried. They hugged and he walked her to the door. Once he would’ve walked to her car; now, a trip too far. She gave a short tap on her horn as she drove home, crying most of the way.
Life was not too flash for Jo of late. Her love life was a mess. Her grandparents were both in a bad way. Her friend, Gabrielle Strange, copped a real kick in the guts and was back on the sauce. All she needed now was to cock-up a homicide and her life would be complete.
She arrived home, checked her emails and prepared for an early night. Her phone rang and the dreaded number appeared. It was the married gendarme with the velvet tones and kissable lips. Could she ask him if he was married? Or ask why he didn’t tell her? Or ask if he ever would? She sat on the sofa and answered the phone.
‘Pierre, bonjour.’
‘I am terrible,’ he said and Jo worried. ‘What’s happened?’
‘I am suffering the ‘eartache being apart from the woman of my dreams.’ Jo felt sick. ‘I miss my favourit
e Senior Constable. ‘ow is she, s’il te plaît?’
‘She’s a bit under the weather, Pierre.’
More concern hurried out of Paris. ‘But that is not good. What can I do to you make you better?’
Tell me about your wife would do for starters, thought Jo.
‘Listen ma chérie, I still ‘ave some legal matters to attend to ‘ere but then I will be coming back to ‘omicide and of course to you.’
‘When, Pierre?’
She kept her answers short and there was zero emotion in her voice. Was it the distance between them, or love blinding his thinking? Who knows, but he continued his sweet nothings.
‘Soon, my love, and when I am by your side, Joanna, I ‘ave something important to ask you, n’est-ce pas?’
Oh shit.
‘Take very special care of yourself, ma chérie and I will call you soon with the date of my arrival. ‘ere is a kiss for your adorable lips.’ He made a kissing sound. ‘Au revoir, sweetheart.’
She whispered ‘Au revoir’ and ended the call. Leaning back on her sofa, in frustration, she screamed.
Chapter 7
CAMILO GONZALES TOOK OFFENCE AT ANYTHING; innocent comments became insults. He demanded his wealth be acknowledged. He fancied himself as a non-royal royal. Punks who disrespected him only did it once. Cam was a road rage incident waiting to happen. If someone took his parking spot at the golf club, he’d seriously consider having the driver’s car incinerated.
So when his order of 300 kg of quality cocaine wasn’t delivered and the cases of cash he coughed up in payment for the drugs were nicked, Cam became incandescent with rage. When it happened to him, theft was evil. Far worse was the disrespect shown to the Mob boss.
How dare they was his logic.
But Cam, having killed the grandfather of one of his own mules, triggered the heist. Without knowing it, he friendly fired himself.
A huge reward was offered for the return of the drugs and money, and a staggering amount for the capture of Vlad.
Cam hired a PI. The guy was good and charged accordingly. Donny Jones, DJ, checked out Camilo Gonzales before accepting the luncheon invitation at Cam’s Florida mansion. Donny knew he was dealing with the Mob but hey, they pay unbelievable money.
Over an entrée of Chinese shrimp and broccoli stir fry, Cam laid out his proposal, and finished with a short summary. ‘You screw me and I’ll break both your fuckin’ legs. You find me this guy and you can retire tomorrow. Do I make myself clear?’
DJ was more wary than scared but wanted to retire and go fishing, and here was his chance at a fantastic boost to his pension fund.
‘I do, Mr Gonzales, and these shrimps are to die for.’
Cam craved respect and this guy ticked all the right boxes.
‘Now to make sure everything goes down okay, I’ll have one of my guys tag along with you. He’ll be your gofer. Call him Scruffy.’
‘Much appreciated, sir,’ said DJ knowing the muscle would be reporting to his boss, would kill DJ without hesitation if told to by his luncheon companion, and wouldn’t lift a finger to help the PI.
The search for Vlad just got serious.
DJ began with Punky whose boss ran an airline freight company and claimed to know nothing about drugs. ‘We’re strictly legit, buddy, and I know nothin’ about what happened to Punky. He wasn’t even supposed to be in Venezuela. I made sure his wife got all his back pay.’
Mrs Punky was more forthcoming. ‘He told me he was working for some heavy dudes, and I told him to stop but he said the money was way better than flying coffee beans.’ When asked if she knew who attacked his plane, Mrs Punky shook her head. Even if she did know, her survival depended on keeping her trap shut. Scruffy got angry.
Eric worked for Cam. Eric was entrusted to hand over the money in exchange for the cocaine and oversee its passage up to Florida. The fact Eric worked for Cam for years and never put a foot wrong, and now was dead meant DJ was making zero progress in locating Vlad.
Eric’s family thought he was a used car salesman in Michigan. They couldn’t understand why he was in a Venezuelan jungle being used for target practice. DJ bombed again. Scruffy got angrier.
The tricky task was investigating Vlad because he too worked for Cam, again with an impeccable work history. Why would he make the suicidal switch and stitch up his boss? Why rip off the Mob?
With a loving wife and kid in Orlando, Vlad was smart. Money from drugs was huge. He made more in a day than he would in a month working 9 to 5, and though the dough was plentiful, Vlad never flashed the cash. He bought properties on the quiet but he and his family lived in a modest bungalow. He was Mr Average.
DJ and Scruffy came a calling. Mrs Vlad, Carrie, suffered big time. She suspected hubby worked with drug runners as he was away for days at a time. But she loved her husband and because she asked no questions, she heard no lies.
DJ quizzed her but always with respect. His polite manner got nowhere causing his gofer cum bodyguard, Scruffy Nolan, real name Brian Gazitsky, to quietly seethe.
This PI is supposed to be shit hot. He’s being paid mega bucks and getting nowhere fast.
When DJ seemed to have run out of questions with nothing to show for it, Scruffy cracked. He produced a Glock 43, grabbed Carrie and Vlad’s 8 year-old son, and held the weapon to the boy’s head. Screams bounced around the room. The most worried person was DJ. He was about to go from highly-paid PI to an accessory to murder.
‘Tell me where Vlad is or the kid gets it,’ snarled Scruffy.
Carrie begged, DJ pleaded. The kid wet himself with tears and pee.
‘We don’t know,’ cried Carrie. ‘He rang and said he was going away. Please, we don’t know where he is.’
‘You’re lying,’ screamed Scruffy, his anger primed to explode.
‘Scruffy,’ whispered DJ offering a hand. The gun shifted from the boy to DJ. To save himself and his job, DJ turned to Carrie.
‘Let me see your phone, please.’
This threw Scruffy. He reckoned violence was not so much the best way to get results as the only way. Carrie handed her phone to DJ. He worked through its history, photos and texts. He took out his phone and punched some numbers.
‘Just take the fuckin’ phone,’ yelled Scruffy. DJ hesitated and slipped Carrie’s phone in his pocket.
‘We can use this,’ he said to Scruffy whose boiling blood dropped to simmering. DJ prepared to leave. Boy did he want to leave without any bloodshed. ‘Come on.’ He nodded at Carrie, then Scruffy, and left.
Scruffy shoved the boy at his mother and stormed out knocking a vase which smashed.
Their car was parked around the block and DJ was kept waiting until Scruffy got behind the wheel and revved the engine. DJ tapped on the window to be let in, shifting from wary to worried.
This guy’s nuts. He’ll shoot me then say I ran into his gun.
The car took off leaving DJ to stand there and swear. Alone in a suburban street in Orlando, Florida, he reckoned his best chance was to find an alien spaceship and get the hell out of here. He fumed.
A screech of tyres made him look up as Scruffy exhibited his masculinity using a car. He blasted the horn and DJ walked, no way was he going to run, back to the car and got in. Cancel those aliens.
‘If you wanna survive, pal,’ snarled Scruffy, ‘you’d better start makin’ progress. Your next move might be y’last.’ The men looked at one another. ‘So where to, arsehole?’
‘Jacksonville.’
‘This better work, pal.’ They drove. There was not a lot of chit-chat on the two-hour trip although Scruffy threw in the odd burp.
DJ sat on the bed in their mid-town motel. Scruffy was drinking in a bar across the road. DJ had a theory. Vlad betrayed the Mob and cleared off with both the drugs and the cash. Something went wrong and Vlad rolled over. Or, Vlad had nothing to do with the heist and rolled over to stop Cam’s assassins killing him. Whatever, Vlad was now working for the DEA and, if true, would need a new look. DJ fo
und a text Vlad sent to his missus, Carrie.
I’ll find you, Babe, real soon, tho u may not know me. Luv u
The u may not know me bit suggested a visit to a plastic surgeon. To survive the Mob, Vlad would change his appearance.
In the photos on Carrie’s phone were many family shots taken at Surge Adventure Park in Jacksonville. There were different dates, and years. Vlad and family spent a lot of time in this part of Florida.
From Google, he found a mighty big DEA building right here in town. DJ figured Vlad, being a Florida boy and with the DEA being big in Vlad’s favourite holiday town, Jacksonville was as good as anywhere to start looking.
He searched online for plastic surgeries in Jacksonville. ‘Jesus,’ he murmured, ‘I’m in the wrong game.’ Tummy tucks, liposuction, breast implants, Botox, Rhinoplasty and much more were freely available. What the hell is a fat injection?
DJ reckoned Vlad would want a low-key surgeon, a one-person operation, someone unlikely to ask questions but take double the fee in cash up front. No names, no pack-drill. Vlad began cold calling.
Of all the gin joints in all the towns in all the world, she walks into mine. Call it coincidence, luck or happenstance but DJ got lucky with his third plastic surgery. They were closing and the receptionist was in a hurry to leave. The owner of the business appeared, sent the receptionist home and addressed his visitor.
‘How can I help you, sir?’
‘I’m looking for one of your clients.’
Shaking his head, the plastic surgeon killed the conversation. ‘Sorry, no can do. We’re super strict on patient confidentiality.’
DJ said nothing, took out a chunky roll of hundred dollar bills and placed them on the desk. The men looked at one another. The surgeon moved to the cash and examined it using a pencil. He was in no hurry.
‘Gotta photo?’ he asked.
DJ placed a snap of the old Vlad on the same desk. The surgeon took one look, pocketed the cash, and walked into another room with DJ following. A file was handed to the PI. He opened and examined it.