A Murder Is Denounced

by Cenarth Fox

  ‘How about I drop over for a chat?’

  ‘I’d love that, Michael. Can you give me an hour?’

  ‘See you then.’

  Vlad wanted confirmation he was no longer a Mob target. Could he even return to his family in Florida? He rang the number on the card.

  ‘Homicide, DI Blunt,’ said the voice.

  ‘Oh hi,’ said Vlad in his pseudo-Canadian accent. ‘This is Vlad Davydenko. Can I speak to Detective Senior Constable Joanna Best please?’

  Blunt’s radar went ping. ‘What’s it about?’

  ‘Oh, Detective Best and another female officer, I think her name was Hughes, came to my home regarding a homicide, and I was able to help. She told me to call with any new information.’

  Blunt wondered how he could use this bloke to bury Best. ‘She’s not here. Can I take a message?’

  ‘Well actually I was hoping to speak to her. Do you have her cell number?’

  Blunt’s mind raced. He knew giving out an officer’s private number needed a seriously serious reason but he wanted to finish her off. ‘Is this important?’

  ‘Oh sure, it’s really important.’

  Blunt trod water seeking a plan. ‘How is it really important?’

  Vlad hesitated. ‘Look, I was recently the target of an assassin sent from the US in the pay of the Mob. They killed some guy in North Melbourne by mistake. I was the target.’

  ‘What’s your name again?’

  ‘Vlad Davydenko but you may know me as James Anderson or Mike Grosvenor.’

  Blunt played along. ‘Oh, now I know. You’re the guy who was running heroin in Columbia.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘You heard.’

  ‘No, it was cocaine in Venezuela.’

  Blunt laughed still unable to think of a way to hurt Jo Best. ‘Just testing. But I can’t help you, mate. Detective Best is not here. Give her a call tomorrow.’

  ‘But tomorrow’s too late. I’m leaving the country. I’m flying home. Look all I wanna do is give her a giant bunch of roses. She saved my life. Please.’

  Blunt paused, thinking. How can I set up Best with this drug runner and get away with it? ‘Sorry, mate. No can do.’

  ‘Look, if I give you the name of the florist, will you tell them her address? They’ll need it to deliver the flowers anyway. Don’t tell me, tell the florist.’

  Blunt hesitated. Was this a way he could whack Best and get away with it?

  ‘Okay,’ he said, ‘what’s the name and number of the florist?’

  Vlad thought on his feet. ‘Ah, Colleen and she’s an Irish girl at Kensington Flowers. I’ve got her number here somewhere.’ He found his housemate’s number and gave it to Blunt. ‘I’ll place the order and pay for the flowers if you’ll give Colleen the address.’

  ‘Okay but this a special favour.’

  ‘Sure and I really appreciate it, buddy. You’re a star.’

  Blunt ended the call and pondered his next move. Vlad rang Colleen and asked for a favour. ‘Just pretend to be a florist and get the cop’s home address.’

  ‘Please.’

  ‘Pretty please,’ he oozed.

  Michael arrived with more bad news some of which Jo knew already.

  ‘I’m not sure how to put this,’ he said, ‘but the largesse from DI Richelieu to your good self is not confined to his lean-to in East Melbourne. He’s thrown in some savings and shares as well.’

  ‘DS Hughes told me.’ He looked surprised. ‘But why has he done this?’

  Michael shrugged. ‘His only living relative, his mother is dead. He’s made generous provision for his incarcerated wife, and he clearly loves a certain detective.’

  Jo shook her head. ‘It’s as if Pierre’s set me up as his killer.’

  ‘And you’ll not be surprised to learn that the Honourable Hooray Henry has some scheme going to milk money from Pierre. He calls himself Pierre’s agent on any film or book deal from his adventures, our adventures in Paris.’

  Jo fumed. ‘What! He did bugger all.’ She needed help. ‘What should I do, Michael?’

  ‘You need legal advice,’ he said. ‘Is there a police union?’

  ‘I’ve already contacted the Association.’

  ‘Then until we discover who drove that car, we sit tight.’

  She grimaced. ‘Thanks Michael. I don’t want to know how you discover these things but I really appreciate it.’ He gave his half smile and she changed tack. ‘Listen, you remember Rags.’

  ‘Woof, woof,’ he replied.

  ‘It’s his birthday party tonight at the Carr’s place. We’ve been invited and I won’t take no for an answer.’

  ‘You just want a lift,’ he chided.

  ‘And I was wondering if you could give me a lift.’

  Another of his famous half-grins appeared. ‘So what time does Cinderella require her coach?’

  Michael didn’t drive a Humber Super Snipe but a much smaller Alfa Romeo. It suited him—neat, compact, quick, impressive and classy. As he drove Jo to Mont Albert, she told him about possible interest from Professional Standards and IBAC. He said little and they opted for inane topics, anything to avoid the elephant in the room subject.

  They arrived amid great fanfare. Jack and his father Hugh heard the tale about Grace climbing out of her wheelchair and walking to greet Jo. With Michael beside her, Jo was greeted with love and enthusiasm and the party began. Little Harry remembered how Michael rescued Rags one dark night when the pooch was spooked and ran away. Harry told the geek everything Rags had done, both good and naughty, since that rescue, and Michael listened like a champ.

  Rags took a while to twig it was his birthday but once he read the cards, his barks became more excited and more frequent. He loved his cake although needed Harry to help with extinguishing candles.

  Despite the hubbub and activity of the party, Jack made a point of telling Jo how sorry he was about DI Richelieu. He knew Jo and Pierre were close and wished she harboured those feelings for him. Then as he tried to compliment her, the doorbell rang.

  Harry and Rags set off in a flash with grandfather, Hugh in tow. Rags was rapt to see even more guests at his party.

  ‘Good evening,’ said the first of two suited middle-aged men. ‘Is Detective Senior Constable Joanna Best in this house?’

  ‘She is,’ said Hugh. ‘Please come in.’

  Harry was desperate to help. He raced into the lounge room. Everyone was silent. ‘Detective Jo, some men want to see you. I hope you don’t have to go to work.’

  A silence bomb went off. Jo’s heart bashed against her chest as her stomach groaned. The birthday cake she consumed with delight was keen to reappear. The two men, guided by Hugh, stood in the open double doorway. Hugh, Peg and Jack wondered who on Earth they were whereas Jo and Michael had a pretty good idea.

  The men knew what Jo looked like and stared at her as they held out their ID. The senior of the duo spoke.

  ‘Detective Senior Constable Joanna Best, we’re from the Independent Broad-based Anti-corruption Commission, and want to interview you under caution. Will you come with us now, please?’

  This wasn’t an invitation to a tea party. There was no RSVP required. The Carrs were stunned. Grace began to cry thinking it was something bad. Harry went to Jo taking her hand in both of his.

  The visitors moved into the hallway keeping their eyes on Jo. ‘Now Senior Constable,’ said the IBAC officer.

  Michael wanted to help. ‘Jo, do you want me to come with you?’

  She shook her head then looked at the Carr adults. ‘Sorry to break up the party, folks.’ She struggled to stay professional.

  All three adults instantly dismissed the need for any apology. Jo moved to Grace and kissed her head. Harry held Rags, both of whom seemed confused and worried. Jo picked up her bag, patted the boy and the birthday boy, nodded to the Carr adults and Michael then led the IBAC boys out of the house.

  Hugh closed the door, Peg took Grace, Harry and Rags to the kitchen, and Mich
ael did his best to explain the situation to Jack and his Dad. Many questions and answers later, Michael excused himself and left. The Carrs were in shock.

  The IBAC officers were used to interviewing people, many of whom interviewed people for a living. Clever police officers were unlikely to fall for any tricks and Jo was curious to know how they found her.

  ‘It’s our job to find people, Detective. And now we’ve found you, we’ll take your phone please.’ She gave it to them.

  They reached IBAC HQ in the CBD. Jo declined the opportunity to have anyone represent her. The interview began and Jo kept telling herself to pause before answering. It was useless telling herself to be calm because her nerves were busy with fear and disbelief.

  She was asked about the damage to her vehicle, the DNA material found thereon, and the bequests in the changed will of DI Richelieu. She played a perfectly straight bat. She heard about the hit and run incident by phone, and knew nothing of the new will until after the accident. She dreaded questions about her personal relationship with the dashing DI and stuck to the line about them being professional colleagues only. She thought she did okay.

  But this was only round one. Jo knew they were looking for holes in her story. Any contradiction, any vague or disingenuous answer would be noted and studied before round two.

  After an hour, the IBAC team called it a day.

  ‘At the moment, Detective Senior Constable, this case is one of attempted murder. Should DI Richelieu die, as you know it will be upgraded to a case of homicide. Is there anything you wish to add before we end this interview?’

  ‘No, sir,’ she said in the same flat and sombre tone.

  She was not arrested, her now scrutinised phone was returned, and she was released but warned to remain in Melbourne and to be available for further interviews. She was not to contact anyone connected to the incident. She declined the offer of an IBAC vehicle to drive her home. In Collins Street, she rang Michael Chan. Without hesitation he agreed to her request for a lift. She wandered up to St Patrick’s Cathedral and Michael and his Alfa kept her waiting three minutes, tops.

  He wanted to know about her health, particularly her mental health. He didn’t ask about the interview leaving her to raise the subject. They reached Clifton Hill before she elaborated.

  ‘This is serious, Michael. IBAC have me in the frame. They reckon there’s only one suspect and unless I can discover who attacked Pierre, no-one else will.’

  ‘I can have a go. Alan will help me.’

  In the dark she smiled. She put her hand on his arm. ‘You’ll always be my friend, Michael. I’d love you to become my hero.’

  He went all faux coy and spoke with a Texan accent. ‘Oh shucks, ma’am, you sure do talk purdy.’ Her smile hid her depression.

  They arrived at her flat. He kept the motor running. ‘I’m in your hands, Jo. If you want to talk, play pin the tail on the donkey or go hunting for lost dogs, just say the word.’

  She appreciated his kindness and whacky humour. ‘Thanks Michael, but I need to crash.’ She leant across and kissed his cheek. He would have preferred something longer and stronger or an invitation to come inside but no, she was out and gone. He watched her open her front door. She turned and blew him a kiss, and he drove away.

  Both failed to notice two females sitting in a car in the darkest part of the street.

  Chapter 35

  MICHAEL WORRIED and when he arrived home, made a call. ‘Ring Rowdy Laudi, I’m retired,’ said the strange person who answered.

  Gabrielle’s answer puzzled him but he persevered. ‘Good evening, Doctor. It’s Michael Chan, Jo Best’s friend.’

  Strange switched to serious mode in an instant. ‘What’s happened?’

  Michael gave a synopsis of the IBAC arrest and interview. Gabrielle gave a short critique laced with multiple effing adjectives.

  ‘I was hoping, Doctor, you might call Jo, just to check she’s okay.’

  ‘Of course, I’ll do it now. And thanks for all you’ve done for her, Michael. Goodnight.’

  Inside her flat, Jo let out a restrained scream. It was a mix of rage, frustration and sorrow. She loved her job and thought she loved Pierre. Now he clung to life and she was the only suspect in his attempted murder. He could die and so too her life as a police officer.

  She found her only bottle of brandy, and grabbed a glass. She froze and decided. No, she would fight this whole sordid situation stone cold sober. She put away the brandy and someone knocked on her door.

  Bloody Michael, she thought. No, it’ll be Billy Hughes.

  ‘Hello,’ called a voice Jo didn’t know. It sounded American.

  Jo peered through her spy hole and saw a well-dressed woman, 4os, short hair, with a purse on a chain across her largish abdomen.

  ‘Detective Best, my name is Nancy Richelieu. I’m from Boston, Massachusetts. I’m the step-sister of Detective Pierre Richelieu. May I speak with you please?’

  Jo hesitated. This has to be a con. In Paris, Pierre was scammed by a woman claiming to be his step-sister. Is this her?

  ‘Detective Best? Are you there?’

  Jo’s mobile rang. She decided the woman at her door was more important. Her phone went to Voice Mail and Gabrielle worried. She left a brief message asking Jo to return the call as soon as she heard it.

  Jo spoke from behind the door. ‘How did you find me?’

  ‘Oh it’s a long story. Pierre’s lawyer has been in contact with Pierre’s father, my father for years. The lawyer in Paris contacted my father about Pierre’s arrest. Then when Pierre’s lawyer heard about his accident, he told my father who asked me to fly to Australia.’

  ‘So who are you again?’

  ‘My name is Nancy Richelieu. My father is Pierre’s father. And I really would like to speak with you, Detective Best.’

  ‘What about?’

  She sounded surprised. ‘What about? Why Pierre and his accident of course. I understand you work with him and helped with his recent troubles in France.’ There was a pause. ‘Please Ms Best, I know it’s late and I promise I won’t stay long. Please.’

  Jo felt confusion and her gut reaction was to keep her door locked. ‘I’m sorry; I’m not allowed to talk to anyone.’

  ‘Pardon me?’

  ‘I’m being investigated by IBAC and have been told to say nothing.’

  ‘Oh please Ms Best. I’m not the police. I’m Pierre’s flesh and blood. His father, my father is dying, and I need to explain why his father has not spoken to his son these last nearly forty years. Please Ms Best.’

  This was different. Pierre’s father left his wife and son when Pierre was a toddler. Now, if this woman is speaking the truth, both men are close to death, and here is the best, perhaps the only chance for some sort of reconciliation. I can’t prevent this family reunion. Fighting a nagging thought to send the woman away, Jo unlocked her door.

  The Yank had a solid frame. So much so a second woman was able to crouch behind her and hide. When Jo opened her door, this second woman sprang from hiding pointing a handgun at Jo. The American forced Jo inside. From her purse, Nancy produced her own handgun. Jo had ignored her nagging suspicions and was now about to pay the price. Would that be with her life?

  The door was closed, Jo dropped on her sofa, and the two women separated making it impossible for Jo to attack both at once. The visitors sneered and Nancy had a double first in mockery.

  ‘So, Ms Best, I believe y’got y’self in a little darn mess here.’

  Jo opted for the calm response. Having two enraged women each pointing a deadly weapon didn’t leave her with much choice.

  ‘Actually I’m glad you’re here,’ said Jo in a flat voice.

  ‘Oh yeah,’ sneered Miss Boston, ‘and why is that?’

  ‘I want to meet whoever tried to murder my brave colleague.’

  Both intruders laughed. The second woman spoke with a French accent. ‘Not tried to murder, did murder as ‘e will not survive.’

  Jo coul
dn’t help returning serve with sarcasm. ‘Oh, so you’re French.’ She spoke with a terrible French accent. ‘And are you per’aps ‘is French sister?’

  The French woman snapped back. ‘No. I am ‘is French wife.’

  Jo couldn’t speak. Surely this was another lie. She recovered.

  ‘Really? So has the psychiatric facility let you out on day leave?’

  ‘You ignorant bitch, I ‘ave been out for weeks.’

  This was another reply which packed a punch. Jo’s mind spun. Facing fanatics with guns was scary. Facing fanatics making outrageous claims while pointing guns got one close to panicking.

  ‘So is this a sister-in-law holiday Down Under or a business trip to kill a decent human being who happens to be a bloody good cop?’

  The American, Nancy, her real name, took over. ‘You deserve to know why you’re about to die, by your own hand.’ Jo felt worse, if that were possible. ‘My father, Pierre’s father, has got religion in his old age. Jesus has pricked his conscience and the hypocrite has re-written his will in favour of the son he ignored for decades.’

  ‘Ah, so this is all about money,’ said Jo staring at the American. ‘One Timothy, six ten.’

  ‘What is she saying?’ demanded Margaux. ‘Qu’est ce qu’elle dit?’

  ‘Stick to English,’ ordered Nancy.

  Jo dropped all pretence of civility. ‘Well if you’re insisting on American English, we may as well speak French.’

  The Yank smiled. ‘I like a woman with balls. Make the most of it, bitch. You’ve got it coming.’

  Jo knew her only chance was to keep the women talking. ‘So Monsieur Richelieu Senior bequeathed to his already wealthy son even more of the folding stuff. Good luck, Pierre.’

  ‘Bad luck, Pierre,’ said Nancy, ‘and seriously bad luck, Joanna. Letting Pierre into your panties in the hope he’d let you into his will has backfired. Killing the goose that laid the golden egg means you get diddly squat, and Pierre’s whopping share of his father’s estate will pass to his poor, heartbroken widow.’