A Murder Is Denounced

by Cenarth Fox

  Again he nodded. ‘A few,’ he said. ‘What’s the problem?’

  ‘We can’t crack the killer’s alibi. Any ideas?’

  Robbo ignored the question. ‘We have to tell Ida’s family. They’ll be upset they couldn’t see her.’

  ‘Auntie Gwen and all those nephews live interstate, Pop. They couldn’t have been there even if they wanted to.’

  Shirley entered with the tea and Jo helped her get sorted.

  ‘I’ll stay with Pop tonight, Mum.’

  ‘No you won’t. I will.’

  She surprised the others. Shirley and her father often nagged one another. Now they were united in grief. Over tea they talked about the funeral, and what Ida would want.

  Jo made her move. She kissed her grandfather and told Pop to stay where he was. Shirley walked Jo to the door.

  ‘Call me if you need me, Mum. I’ll ring in the morning and we’ll plan from there. I’ll come over and drive you home.’

  ‘No you won’t. Antonio will.’

  ‘Right,’ said Jo, who hugged her mother and drove home. She felt doubly sad, not just because her Nan was dead but because those close to her were heartbroken.

  Once home, she wondered about telling people. She didn’t get the chance because her phone rang. It was the boyfriend from Paris.

  She spoke in a neutral voice. ‘Bonjour Monsieur.’

  ‘Bonjour Mademoiselle. ‘ow is my favourite detective?’

  ‘Not well, I’m afraid.’

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘Pierre, my grandmother died this evening.’

  Richelieu’s tone changed instantly. ‘Oh ma chérie, I am so sorry. Please accept my deepest condolences.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  ‘This lady was the wife of the retired DCI Robertson, oui?’

  ‘Oui.’

  ‘I ‘ope you and your family will celebrate ‘er life and remember all the good times you shared. I do not know your grandmother’s name.’

  ‘Ida.’ Jo felt better, softer due to Pierre’s words and sincerity.

  ‘As you know I ‘ave ‘ad a similar experience in losing a loved one recently so I know a little of what you are experiencing.’

  There was a connection between them. ‘Merci Monsieur.’

  ‘I find life seems to pass too quickly. I find if we do not take the opportunities when they appear, they disappear and do not return.’

  The atmosphere changed. Jo knew he was now talking about them.

  ‘Possibly, Pierre but taking opportunities always depends on being honest and, as we require of witnesses, to tell the whole truth.’

  There, she’d done it. She didn’t plan it. It just came out. Silence. He had worried about mentioning his wife ever since they grew close. It might have been shame he felt for his wife’s actions, or fear Jo would reject him because he was married. He was unsure. But now he knew she knew.

  ‘I ‘ave thought, Mademoiselle, you ‘ave become a little, ‘ow you say, distant of late. Something ‘as ‘appened between us and I am so sorry.’

  ‘The problem, Pierre, is nothing has happened. You could have told me the truth and you chose to say nothing.’

  More silence. Finally he spoke. ‘Well, Joanna, my failure will not change my feelings. I know I ‘ave been a coward but I also know ‘ow I feel about you.’

  Jo hesitated. She tingled and her anger at his silence melted. She whispered. ‘Merci Monsieur.’

  ‘I ‘ope to return to ‘omicide in the next week and ‘ope you will permit me to fully explain my life.’ He paused and she didn’t speak. ‘If so, Joanna, I will explain everything. Au revoir, my darling girl.’

  Jo wanted to speak but couldn’t because Pierre ended the call. She coughed as her throat hurt. What a night.

  Chapter 11

  VLAD TOUCHED DOWN in Sydney. His “old” newly-created Aussie passport passed muster. ‘Coming home?’ asked the Border Force officer approving the document.

  ‘Sure thing,’ replied Vlad.

  ‘And you’ve lost your accent,’ she said handing him the passport.

  He grinned and worried. He needed to blend in, and sound more Aussie and less like an American with a tinge of Eastern European. He acquired local currency, found a cab and headed to town. He bought a phone with a plan, booked into a modest hotel in Paddington with wi-fi, and hit the real estate and job vacancy sites.

  A flat appealed so he took a cab to the address in Surry Hills, met an estate agent, and liked the first flat he saw. ‘Not so fast, James,’ said the agent. ‘I guess from your accent you’ve been away a while.’

  ‘I have.’

  ‘Well here flat owners get to choose the tenant. They don’t want some idiot holding all-night parties.’

  ‘Hey,’ said Vlad opening his arms, ‘do I look like I do drugs?’ If only the agent knew. So Vlad completed the tenancy application and divulged his personal info. With phoney work references created by the DEA, and his healthy bank balance, he impressed.

  But Vlad needed digs and a job. He was good for cash but he needed, as they say, to get a life. He tried to find both a flat and a job from the same source. Worth a try; nothing ventured.

  As Vlad the drug runner, he soft-soaped drug dealers and now employed his charm on the unsuspecting agent. It worked. Vlad hopped in the agent’s car and, back at the real estate office, was introduced to the boss. According to his false referrals, Vlad worked in real estate in Canada. Now he was keen to work in Sydney.

  Luck was on the new arrival’s side. The real estate company was always on the lookout for good sales reps and Vlad with his rugged good looks—recently adjusted—and gift of the gab, landed on his feet.

  He returned to his hotel having found a flat and a job which came with a car. Driving on the left hand side of the road would be a challenge, and he was on probation with his new job, but hey, Day One Down Under and Vlad was off to a flyer.

  Cam got serious. He could survive the cash he lost, the plane and the manpower, and there would be more drugs but the pain, the screaming agony at being made to look a fool gnawed at his insides. His burning hatred towards Vlad gave cancerous cells the boost they needed. He contacted Donny Jones, DJ the PI he paid to find Vlad the first time.

  ‘Sorry, Mr Gonzales,’ said Donny. ‘I’ve retired thanks to your generosity.’

  ‘So who can you recommend?’

  ‘I know a couple of local guys but if your man’s overseas, which is where I reckon he’ll be, I can’t help you; sorry.’

  Cam ended the call sending his blood pressure higher. He knew what Vlad now looked like but not his name or location. Having Vlad’s wife’s phone proved useless; it died.

  Scruffy paid another visit to Orlando again threatening to torture the son unless Vlad’s location was revealed. The terrified mother and child said nothing because they knew nothing. Cam’s rage continued.

  Desperate, the drug lord did something he swore he would never do; he asked for help. He arranged a meeting with other Mob bosses. Some thought it was a plot to kill them. Their “seconds” triple-checked the venue and their opposite numbers.

  The meeting went ahead and Cam pushed his pride aside and explained his problem. God it hurt. The mobsters shook their heads, expressed outrage but wallowed in schadenfreude, and loved hearing about Cam’s misery.

  No offers of help were made until, right at the death, Larry “The Bitch” Connolly spoke.

  ‘I can help, buddy,’ he said, ‘but it’s gunna cost ya.’

  ‘Try me,’ replied Cam prepared to go to any lengths, literally.

  Larry made his offer—the pitch of the bitch. It was massive. ‘You owe me nothing unless I find and off this prick—agreed?’ Cam nodded. ‘If my man finds and kills him, you give me 50% of your coke once it lands stateside.

  Wow. The offer shocked everyone especially Cam. ‘What, forever?’

  ‘Nah,’ scoffed the Bitch. ‘Let’s say, five years.’

  ‘Two,’ haggled Cam.

  ‘Three,’ hag
gled Larry.

  Cam didn’t hesitate. ‘Deal,’ he said and extended his hand. There was no blood or spit involved, nothing Masonic, but this deal had secrecy and treachery written all over it.

  Cam would never pay. Once Vlad was found, Cam would kill Larry. What deal? Cue internal laughter for Cam. But Cam didn’t know Larry was the cause of his problem in the first place. Larry ran the Venezuela massacre and heist. Cue louder internal laughter for Larry who, once he found Vlad, planned to tell Cam the truth before shooting the speechless owner of retirement homes. It was Larry’s way of eliminating a rival.

  Talk about pacts with the devil. For now there was bonhomie and toasting but if either discovered the truth, then ring the bell for WW3.

  Cam was about to be screwed by the guy who screwed him before. And it all happened because greedy Cam “legally” murdered one of his mule’s grandfather by morphine overdose. How dumb is Camilo?

  Larry could find Vlad because Larry had a contact inside the DEA, a snitch. Simon was dirty, and life for him was super dangerous but oh so financially rewarding. The snitch worked in the DEA Miami office.

  The Bitch loved opera and whenever a DEA favour was required, Larry posted a review on an online opera blog.

  Simon knew that whenever Joseph Green (Giuseppe Verdi) posted his musical thoughts online, the DEA criminal, was to meet his paymaster during the first interval in the Gents on the First Tier in Miami’s Ziff Ballet Opera House on the Saturday after the blog review appeared. Mind you, Joe Green hadn’t seen the opera until the night of the meet but based his comments on what others wrote. Sneaky.

  The Bitch and Simon shared a silent rendezvous where money and instructions were unobtrusively exchanged. Once Simon collected the required data, there was a dead-letter drop for the info Larry required.

  The FBI and DEA both had an interest in the Bitch but stood their teams down whenever the opera-loving mobster slipped on his tux. Nothing to report that night, and the music, well, enough said.

  It took Simon a few days of digging but he was able to tell the Bitch about a certain James Lawrence Anderson (picture enclosed) who moved into the DEA witness protection program and received Canadian and Australian passports. Where he is now was anyone’s guess but it probably wasn’t Vladivostok. Ha, ha; Vlad in Vladivostok!

  So when Larry lunched with Cam in a Miami restaurant for those with money, the Bitch now knew Vlad’s new name, face and likely destination. The drug lords were observed by undercover feds. Two Mafiosi dining together in public was always worth a look.

  Larry spoke. ‘You’re right about your man rolling over to the DEA. He’s had plastic surgery and got himself a new name and passports.’ Cam was delighted.

  ‘Bastard,’ hissed Cam. ‘And?’

  Larry lied. ‘And I’m workin’ on getting the prick’s new name and photo. Soon as I get anything, you’ll be the first to know.’

  ‘Thanks,’ nodded Cam, already planning how, when and where he would whack Larry. Of course Larry planned on returning the favour.

  Now it’s not necessary to add Spoiler Alert here because it surely must be obvious that the future relationship between the Mobsters is going to get ugly. Head’s up. Do not expect a happy ending.

  Having Vlad’s new name was Larry’s only lead. He sure wanted to find the guy, kill him, and screw Cam out of half his cocaine. Vlad, now in either Canada or Australia, was officially the prey.

  Chapter 12

  COOPER YALE DROVE his truck into the yard of Melton Sand and Screenings, keen to knock off. In the office, his boss, Russ Gravel, remained seated. ‘How’d y’go?’ he asked.

  ‘No worries,’ said Cooper, returning the keys. What’s on tomorra?’

  ‘Bluestone.’ Cooper groaned. ‘Bloke building a wall at Darley.’ Another groan. ‘And he wants a hand shifting the bricks up his drive.’

  ‘Up his drive? I get paid to offload the stuff on his nature strip. I don’t get paid to push a wheelbarrow up Mount fucking Everest.’

  ‘You’ll do as you’re told, mate.’ Cooper stared at his corpulent boss. ‘And if what I heard today is true, shifting bluestone pitchers will be the least of your worries.’

  Whack. Cooper blinked. ‘What are you talkin’ about?’

  ‘Two women came here today.’

  Cooper scoffed. ‘What are you doing with two women?’

  ‘Two coppers asking about you.’

  Cooper felt squeamish. ‘Me? What about me?’

  ‘They were Homicide cops investigating a murder.’

  ‘It’s nothin’ to do with me.’

  ‘So you know about it?’

  ‘I said it’s nothin’ to do with me.’

  ‘Then why were they here? No smoke without fire, mate. If you’re involved, you’re out. I won’t have no murder suspects workin’ f’me.’

  Cooper lost it. He added spittle to his fruity denials. ‘I ain’t the fuckin’ suspect. It’s someone I know and I know he didn’t do it.’

  They stared at one another. Gravel was rash and Yale was locked.

  ‘I don’t wanna see them cops again. Now sort it or piss off.’

  Cooper glared at his boss then slammed the door on his way out.

  He arrived at his flat in North Melbourne, fuming from the police invasion, ready to give the tram driver and murderer, Kevin Grande, a serve. I’m not happy, Kevin.

  Then he remembered his house guest was on the dawn shift so would have his head down. As he moved quietly around the snoring killer, Cooper’s phone sounded. He grabbed it and went to his bedroom. Kevin grunted at being disturbed.

  Cooper spoke quietly. ‘Hello.’

  ‘Kevin, it’s your mother.’

  This was unusual. The matriarch rarely phoned her son. ‘What’s wrong?’ he asked. No enquiry about her health or how many winners she backed last Saturday.

  ‘We had the police here today.’

  Cooper didn’t hold back. His mother was familiar with the f word and used it at times when one of her horses lost by a short half head.

  ‘Why would homicide detectives be knocking on my door, Kevin?’

  ‘They’re trying to scare me.’

  ‘What, into confessing to murder?’

  His voice got louder. ‘I never killed nobody. I’m just helpin’ a mate the cops are trying to fit up. If they turn up again, tell ‘em to fuck off.’

  Kevin ended the call and turned to see his house guest standing in the doorway.

  ‘Problem?’ asked Kevin.

  Cooper was livid. He wanted a way out. He couldn’t go back on his statement which gave Kevin an alibi because it would land his mate in trouble, and Cooper himself would be charged. One of the cops reckoned he could get 15 years for making a false report to police. But if the cops kept giving him a hard time, he could lose his job. Ahhh!

  ‘Let’s go the pub,’ suggested Kevin wanting to get Cooper back on the crooked and wide way. They left not knowing what to say.

  Up north in Sydney, Vlad, a.k.a. James Lawrence Anderson, made rapid progress. Selling real estate suited him. With the gift of the gab, and rugged good looks, women admired him. He moved into a bigger apartment, and found a woman. It wasn’t love, but rather convenience and sex; convenient for Sasha the beautician, who seemed to never remove her makeup and who got free board, and convenient for Vlad, who didn’t have to sleep alone.

  One night they were in a trendy wine bar in gentrified Surry Hills. They’d eaten out, and were drinking with friends. Vlad looked at his phone. People do it at meal times, in conversations, at the football and constantly when walking along busy footpaths. Politicians read texts while parliament is sitting. Vlad did so when copulating.

  He faced an early morning meeting. ‘Time to split, guys,’ he said. ‘Come on, babe.’

  He led her from the bar where a giant TV screen clung to a wall. Vlad glanced at it and stopped. There was a news item about a massive cocaine bust in LA. He stared. Sasha looked at him.

  ‘What’s up?’ she aske
d.

  ‘Nothing,’ he said and left. But it wasn’t nothing. It was definitely something. He worried, panicked because that could have been him.

  In his apartment they prepared for bed. He made coffee and stood on his balcony staring into the night. Sasha called and he called back. ‘I’m coming.’ He didn’t and stayed on the balcony, deep in thought. The drug bust news clip haunted him.

  That could have been me. I’ve messed up big time.

  With Sasha asleep, he climbed into bed, lay on his back and re-lived the massacre in Venezuela, the rescue at sea, the DEA offer, and his decision to leave his wife and son and flee.

  Sasha stirred and rolled towards him. She stroked his chest then pulled back in alarm. She frightened him. He sat up.

  ‘Jesus, James, you’re all wet.’

  He touched his chest. Sasha was right. He was sweating like a pig.

  ‘What’s wrong?’ She touched his back. ‘You’re wet all over.’

  ‘Flu,’ he said. ‘I felt it yesterday. I’ll have a shower.’

  He stood under the water for ages. Sasha fell asleep with the worried Vlad wide awake. Back on the balcony, he wanted to throw himself off. He’d made one God almighty mistake.

  What a fool, what an imbecile I am.

  In Australia, he reckoned he’d be safe with a new name, new face, and new passport. And he would have been were it not for two things—the Mob bribed cops, and he went public online.

  Oh shit, oh hell, oh fuck.

  Once he saw the drug bust on TV, his stupidity screamed at him. His boss would have bribed the DEA to tell all. Actually it was Cam’s fellow drug lord, Larry who discovered Vlad’s new name and new look but it was still the Mob. And because Vlad put his name and picture online, he as good as said, “Here I am, boys. Come and get me”.

  In Miami, Larry paid a nerd in cocaine to do IT favours. It took the nerd 13 seconds to find a real estate site in Sydney, Australia. Hi Vlad!

  On the site was a photo of the dashing agent with his new name and mobile number. Vlad knew what would happen. The shooter would book a viewing with James (Vlad), and once inside the property, go pop. Every booking was now a potential hit.