by Cenarth Fox
Everyone paused before Vlad laughed again. His reaction surprised the detectives who caught his laughter. Charlie pushed his luck.
‘So you took the economy model?’
Vlad froze thinking he was being ridiculed. Then he chose to go with the flow. ‘I did. I ordered Kim Kardashian but got Miss Piggy.’
That set the room alight. Baldwin roared and even Jo shrieked with laughter. It was genuinely funny. Then Jo worried. She knew she was taking a statement from a man arrested on suspicion of murder and here she was cracking gags. She pulled herself together. ‘Okay, Mr Davydenko, Detective Senior Constable Baldwin will escort you back to your cell, and I’ll have your statement typed.’
They stood, laughed a bit more, and Jo opened the door for all three to exit. They stopped because DI Richelieu stood there staring at Jo. ‘A word, Detective, s’il vous plaît.’
Not making eye contact with the DI, Baldwin escorted Vlad to his cell, and Richelieu closed in on his would-be lover.
‘Sir?’ she asked with a touch of trepidation.
‘I could not ‘elp but over’ear the sounds coming from your interview, Detective Senior Constable.’
‘It was nothing …’
‘Do not interrupt.’ Wow. This sure wasn’t the silver-tongued paramour from Paris. ‘Any ‘omicide suspect must be interviewed in a professional manner. From what I ‘eard, you were anything but.’
‘I apologise, sir.’
Richelieu ignored her contrition. ‘You will not remain in the Squad if you cannot up’old the standards required. Do I make myself clear?’
Jo experienced a memory rush. When she rejected Antony Heron-Royhay in his family pile in Northamptonshire, he turned nasty. Likewise, when she cracked a case showing up her more experienced colleagues, her former boss, DI Steele, once turned super nasty.
Is Pierre doing the same thing? Bloody men. Reject or outsmart them and you ignite their fury. Hell hath no fury like a fella flicked.
‘Sir.’
Baldwin returned from escorting Vlad and stood at the end of the corridor, observing.
‘I ‘ope I do not ‘ave to report this to DI Rose.’ Jo was struck dumb. Who is this threatening bully? He stared at her and she saw a vision of her former boss, DI Steel. ‘Dismissed.’
Jo looked into Richelieu’s eyes, searching for a reason, paused then departed. The DI glared at Baldwin before walking away.
‘Bloody hell,’ said Charlie to himself. ‘Was that a lovers’ tiff?’
Chapter 26
THE MIAMI COPS were overwhelmed. The white interior of the politician’s condo was splashed with gorgeous bright-red blotches and swatches of blood, courtesy of seven bullet-ridden stiffs. Larry died screaming. The body of Camilo Gonzales floated in the pool.
The FBI and DEA were involved, and when a female Homicide cop from Melbourne, Australia jumped on the blower, life turned hectic.
DI Rose sent a photo of Wes with his eyes closed, and another of Vlad with his nose in profile. The Americans confirmed the identities of both men. Rabies was identified by NSW police who knew him as Reece Horton, an “associate” of Desmond Spear who in turn was linked to crime figures in Florida. The jigsaw pieces slipped into place.
The DEA told DI Rose that Vlad’s former boss, Camilo Gonzales, was no more, and it looked like Case Closed all round.
Rose addressed the squad. ‘We have news, ladies and gentlemen.’ She told them the facts from Florida and Sydney. Detectives buzzed. ‘So, have we got resolution of any, some or all of our three cases?’
‘At least two, ma’am,’ said DS Fletcher. ‘But if the hit and run is an accident, the victim copped his just desserts and the case belongs to Traffic.’ DI Blunt wished he’d said that.
Billy Hughes said her piece. ‘The North Melbourne shooting is rough justice, ma’am. Kevin murdered his wife, and only his mate’s lies kept him from being charged. We couldn’t break down Cooper’s alibi, and Dr Karma stepped in and helped us out.’
‘So we reckon Kevin was killed by mistake?’ asked DI Rose.
Billy explained. ‘It has to be. He and the American drug runner are the same size, wore similar clothes, and it was a dark and stormy night, perfect for mistaken identity. Vlad’s in the same block of flats as Kevin. He sets off for work in the wee small hours, and the two killers shoot who they think is Vlad.’
Rose surveyed the room. ‘What’s wrong with that?’
Nothing; the detectives supported the theory.
‘What’s happened with the firearms, Jo?’ asked Rose.
‘All three firearms were found and sent to Forensics, ma’am, and we’ve got confirmation the bullet in the American in the car came from the pistol found near the hit and run scene, and the bullets in the North Melbourne murder were from one of the other handguns.’
‘Excellent,’ said Rose. ‘Those dead guys near the airport hit the wrong target. We know they’re crims. The Yank landed in Sydney then came to Melbourne because Vlad left Sydney for Melbourne. Rough justice is right and Christine’s mum can sleep easier now her daughter’s killer is no more.’ The room agreed.
‘Moving on,’ said Rose. ‘The guy in the car who was shot in the head is an American assassin working for the Mob in the States. Vlad we know is an American cocaine drug runner working for a guy called Camilo Gonzales, based in Florida. As of two days ago, Mr Gonzales is no longer with us.’
‘Mistaken identity, ma’am?’ asked Baldwin with a straight face, creating a few laughs, but Rose’s story made good listening.
‘We all saw it on TV. Mob bosses in gangland massacre.’ Nods and murmurs as most knew of the bloodbath.
‘Does Vlad know about his boss’s demise?’ asked Billy Hughes.
‘Good question. Has he been told?’
Jo said nothing. She was still smarting from the session outside the headmaster’s office following her last interview with Vlad.
‘No ma’am,’ said Billy. ‘And what do we do with him?’
‘The Americans say it’s up to us. If he wants to go home, it’s his call. Tell him about the Mob shootout, Billy.’ Hughes nodded. ‘Now about the criminals near the airport; what else do we know?’
Richelieu began. ‘It would appear one shot the other and the survivor was then killed in an accident.’
‘Was it an accident?’ asked Hughes. ‘And has the vehicle which hit the dead man been found?’
‘Anyone?’ asked Rose. ‘Who’s dealing with Traffic?’
Baldwin replied. ‘I am, ma’am. It was wet and dark and the officers involved said finding data was difficult if not impossible. No skid marks and the vehicle didn’t leave the bitumen. They’re still investigating but reckon the driver stood no chance to avoid the victim who in dark clothing apparently stepped onto the road.’
‘Suicide?’
Baldwin shrugged. ‘We can’t rule it out, ma’am.’
‘So we close two cases, and wait for the Coroner on the hit run. Yes?’ Rose looked at her officers.
General agreement and the meeting began to wind up when Jo spoke without thinking. It was a habit she found hard to break.
‘Could it be the RTA victim knew he was in trouble from the underworld because he killed an international assassin? Rather than be hunted and killed by crims, he took the easy way out?’
‘Interesting; thanks Jo,’ said Rose. Blunt hated the teacher’s pet.
‘The driver’s no doubt shit-scared and doing whatever he or she can to repair their vehicle on the quiet,’ added Fletcher.
Jo kept going. ‘Being from Sydney, can the police up there tell us anything about the victim’s character or history?’
Rose was about to thank Jo again when Richelieu jumped in.
‘We ‘ave it under control, ma’am. I ‘ave spoken with senior officers in New South Wales. It might ‘elp us ‘elp Traffic, and the Coroner, if we stick to working on the cases you ‘ave allocated.’
Wow. What brought that on? A stillness and a silence gripped the meeting.
Jo felt sick. She thought everyone was looking at her. Rose grabbed the initiative.
‘Thank you, Inspector. Right, crack on.’ The officers broke up and Rose stopped beside Richelieu and whispered. ‘My office, Inspector.’
He arrived and she beckoned him in. ‘Close the door, Pierre.’ He did and sat. He said nothing. She thought of how she would approach the subject and decided to keep it simple.
‘How are you, Pierre?’
‘Merci, I am fine, ma’am.’
‘We haven’t discussed your Parisian adventure in detail.’
‘Nothing more to discuss, ma’am. All’s well that ends well.’
‘And is it true that Jo Best and Michael Chan were the main reason you got yourself out of a nasty situation?’
‘Oui, without their ‘elp, I might still be in jail in Paree.’
‘And Jo Best; how is life with you two?’
‘Fine, merci, ma’am.’
‘You were critical of her work at the end of the meeting.’
‘Not critical, ma’am, just wanting to make our job easier.’
‘Have you been critical of Senior Constable Best in recent times?’
Baldwin told Hughes about the dressing down in the corridor. She told DI Rose. Richelieu suspected that. Gossip within a police station does occasionally occur—as in about every five minutes.
‘Oui. I ‘eard the officer laughing with a suspect during an interview.’
‘Why was she laughing?’
‘I didn’t ask but it sounded unprofessional and I told her so.’
Rose decided to leave it there. As a woman, she felt relaxed asking a junior female officer if she was sleeping with another member of her squad. She didn’t feel relaxed asking the same question of a male officer with the same rank as her.
‘Thank you, Inspector. That’ll be all.’
He nodded and left. Rose sighed. ‘Bloody office romances,’ she said, ‘they come back to bite everyone.’ She was not to know how that comment would come true.
A shattered Jo stayed out of everyone’s way, especially DI Richelieu, and asked DS Hughes if she could visit Beryl, the woman whose daughter Christine was brutally murdered by her estranged husband, Kevin Grande, himself now murdered thanks to the bumbling, and also now dead thug, Rabies.
‘A face to face explaining what happened might be good, Sarge,’ said Jo.
‘Good idea. Do you want company?’
‘Ah, no. I mean, definitely no.’
‘Did I not tell you an office romance means the woman ends up getting screwed both ways?’
‘You did.’
‘Well?’
‘The problem, Sarge, is your screwing assumption is wrong.’
The women looked at one another. ‘I’m sorry,’ said Hughes.
‘I’ll be off then.’
She left, drove to Frankston and shared a cuppa with Beryl who was keeping super busy raising her two grandchildren. For this victim of crime, there was little solace in the murder by mistaken identity of her erstwhile son-in-law. He being dead did nothing for Beryl’s slain daughter or her grandkids.
Driving home, the 70 odd kilometres from Frankston to Clifton Hill, gave Jo time to think. She whacked on her favourite Gershwin CD and pondered life. Career? Okay. Love life? Rotten. Family? Ha.
She remembered reading a quote by Chekov, or was it Tolstoy?
“Happy families are all alike; every unhappy family is unhappy in its own way.”
Mine are indeed unique. We have death, disease and divorce with snobbery, stupidity and selfishness for afters. Oh, apart from Pop of course, and the kids. But me?
She was glad of her sunnies as her eyes filled with tears, boosted by the haunting harmonies of the Jewish genius from the Big Apple.
Her phone rang and she spoke hands-free. ‘Pop, how lovely to hear from you. How are you? I’m so sorry I haven’t been to see you. I’ve been a bit busy with three homicides and …’
‘Hey, have you stopped to take a breath?’
Jo laughed. ‘Come on, how are you?’
‘Three homicides? Do you want a hand?’
‘Stop changing the subject. I want to know exactly how you are.’
‘I’m fine, Senior. Got a lot of time on my hands now I’m not visiting your Nan every day.’ Jo didn’t know what to say. ‘But it’s good to have some company at last.’
Jo wondered if he was going the way of his wife. ‘Sorry?’
‘I’ve got your Nan’s ashes here on the mantelpiece.’
‘Oh.’
‘And this is the first time we’ve shared a meaningful conversation without her interrupting me.’
Jo wanted to laugh and cry. ‘Are you up for a cuppa this week?’
‘Now let me check my diary. I think I can just squeeze you in every day this century, 24/7.’
Jo laughed loud and long. ‘I’ll call you, Pop. Bye.’
‘Bye, love.’
She hit End and cried like a baby.
Being miserable was bad for the sole because her runners copped a pounding. She donned the leotard, shorts and shoes and ran.
After the hydration and shower, she ate sparsely. If bingeing on food was one way to exorcise pain, Jo found the opposite true. Her worries were treated with exercise, and her weight, already in the svelte category, dropped towards the anorexic.
She knew about depression but believed her response to Pierre’s recent behaviour was a mix of shock and sadness. Mentally she was fine but reckoned a cry on a good shoulder might be just what the doctor ordered. And in this case, the doctor was the doctor.
Jo drove to Gabrielle Strange’s home in North Fitzroy. The pair met on Jo’s first day as a detective in the Homicide Squad. And what a meeting. Gabrielle introduced herself as the “pathetic pathologist” to which Jo replied that she was the “deranged detective”. They became soul-sisters there and then, although not sole-sisters as Gabrielle was as wide as Jo was thin.
She used the knocker, and grumbling accompanied the heavy footsteps. The door opened and the smile began.
‘Good evening, Detective. Have you brought the drugs?’ Jo held up the box of dark chocolates. ‘Excellent. Walk this way.’ Strange set off trying to imitate a Monty Python Ministry of Silly Walks walk, although with her body shape, a normal walk was almost a silly walk.
They sat in her squeaky clean kitchen. You could perform an autopsy on her table. Jo was pleased to see no sign of alcohol. They drank exceptional coffee and devoured a number of chocolates. Jo asked about Strange’s sadness with her biological father.
‘Moved on I have. Life’s too short, girlie. There ain’t no life after life so I say get stuck in while you’re here.’ She looked at the description of the chocolates on the inside of the lid. ‘Hmmm, haven’t tried one of those.’ She fixed that quick smart.
Jo wondered how to broach the subject of her current misery. The one person she could trust and was willing to invite into her sadness was the pathetic pathologist. But before Jo spoke, the lady of the house beat her to it.
‘So the Prince of Paris has given you the old heave-ho.’
Jo stopped chewing. How did she know that? ‘How do you know that?’ she asked.
Strange feigned shock. ‘You mean you don’t know I’m a perceptive female with a deep understanding of the male psyche?’ Jo shook her head at the wit of her friend who leant forward and spoke intimately. ‘But I’m offering no advice unless you provide a dingle-dangle description of the what-might-have-been jiggery-pokey.’
Jo looked at her. ‘We’ve been through all this.’
Strange thought Jo misunderstood so threw in an explanation. ‘Oh come on, the possible hanky-panky, the bam-bam in the wigwam, and the bringing an al dente noodle to the spaghetti house.’
Jo smiled as the euphemisms flowed. Soon she laughed aloud, and such was her glee, felt her spirits soar. She didn’t need any advice.
Strange, despite her crude and over-the-top behaviour, was a caring and sensitive woman. Jo ex
plained her latest Richelieu encounters and Gabrielle offered sound advice. It more or less consisted of a mix of “don’t let the bastards grind you down” and “there are plenty more fish in the sea”. Jo was glad she called.
They hugged and Jo promised to keep her friend “in the loop”. Driving home, she made a rash decision and headed to Northcote. The last time she arrived unannounced at Michael Chan’s home, she caught him in flagrante with one of Jo’s then fellow officers. Does lightning strike the same place twice?
Michael opened his door lit by the lamp from The 39 Steps. ‘Well, well, who is this I see before me?’
‘Good evening, sir. Could I see your licence please?’
He laughed, as opposed to his usual half smile, and waved her inside. He made the tea and as usual, wondered what spectacular crime or international incident she wished to discuss. In fact it was merely a lovers’ tiff but to Michael, that tiff soared above murder and worldwide corruption. Yet he, a brilliant and clever man, misread the signs.
Jo called to ask his advice because she counted him as a friend, and because Michael was involved in the recent overseas venture to save Pierre Richelieu and knew both parties in the romance.
The tea was drunk and the conversation continued. ‘I should have confronted him about his wife as soon as I heard,’ said Jo.
Michael understood. ‘But you were in shock and about to fly home.’
His words gave comfort. She wanted advice. He wanted her.
It took a while before Jo twigged. She told Michael before she wanted friendship not romance. She was clear. He got the message. Surely he doesn’t think I’ve dumped Pierre because I fancy him or, because I’ve dumped Pierre, Michael is next in line. Oh no.
But that’s exactly what he did think. She decided to leave.
‘You don’t have to go,’ he said giving her a serious look.
She wanted to scream. What is it with men? She moved Alan from her lap to her chair and headed for the door. Keep talking, Jo. ‘I always appreciate your friendship, Michael. I know if I’m ever in a jam, you’re the one person I can trust and rely on.’