AHMM, April 2010

by Dell Magazine Authors

  She followed him to the front door. He could hear the clatter of plates and cutlery and the hum of conversation behind her.

  She said, “But it's your day off! And Victor cooked dinner. He thinks you snub him on purpose. He is a legit businessman. And a good cook. And it is my birthday."

  "I'll try and make it back early."

  "Liar. It's what you always say."

  Portman reached over to kiss her. She drew back, turned around. Her hair, frizzy and soft, brushed his face. He smelled jasmine.

  The smell stayed with him for the rest of the night.

  * * * *

  The body was sprawled facedown in the underbrush beside a long blank stretch of the Dandenong Road.

  Portman looked over the body. Male. Mid thirties. A blue worsted wool suit, white shirt, and brown woolen tie, all splattered with blood. A knife stuck out from the back of his neck.

  The knife's black handle, punctuated with metal studs, glinted like a shark's fin.

  The victim's car, a red Mercedes convertible, was parked in a lay-by fifteen meters away and not far from a deserted bus stop that was poorly lit by the streetlights.

  Portman walked across the road and stood next to Sergeant Molloy. Molloy's lips drooped and the blue bags under his eyes looked like heavy sacks of cement.

  Portman said, “Who found the body?"

  Molloy nodded toward a blonde who was leaning against a late-model black Jag in the emergency lane.

  "Was taking her kids from ballet. Tires blew, one of the kids dashed for a pee. Stumbled on more than just nettles."

  Two girls in pink outfits clung to the blonde, one on each hip, faces buried in their mother's coat.

  "How long's he been there?"

  "Sliced up? I'd say this time last night."

  Molloy tossed a crocodile-skin wallet to Portman: “Edward Dunkirk. Hedge fund boy. Liked his things flash. Still wearing a Patek Philippe worth more than my flat."

  Block looked over Portman's shoulder as he went through the wallet. It was stuffed full of cash. In one of the compartments was a faded thumbnail-sized photo of the victim with a smiling brunette. The brunette's face was thin and hard.

  Despite the smiles, both sets of eyes were cold.

  Back in the car Block kicked the accelerator. Wheels squealed. The car lurched.

  Portman swore and clutched the grab handles.

  Block, both of his hands on the wheel, looked serene.

  * * * *

  Half an hour later Portman rang the doorbell of the Dunkirk apartment in the Tribeca complex in East Melbourne.

  The hard-faced brunette in the photo opened the door.

  She said, “Yes?"

  She looked tense. The tenseness seemed to constrict her throat. Her voice was posh and severe.

  "Mrs. Dunkirk?"

  "No."

  She tried to close the door but it met with the steel-capped tip of Portman's boot.

  Portman flashed his badge. “Are you Edward Dunkirk's wife?"

  She looked them up and down. Her face was more angular than in the photo, her skin drawn.

  She said, “I am Megan Seymour. I kept my maiden name."

  "It's about your husband. Can we come in?"

  They sat across from one another on beige couches in the living room. She listened to Portman in silence. Block stood by the mantelpiece prodding at an ormolu bracket clock.

  When Portman finished she adjusted the folds of her blue robe. The gold bracelets on her wrists clanged. There was a ruby ring the size of a cherry tomato on her right hand. The ring glistened.

  She said, “I shall not even pretend to be upset."

  "You don't have to pretend anything."

  "All that I feel right now is relief.” She ran splayed fingers through her dry hair. “We've been married for seven years. Long enough for me to lose any respect that I initially had for that man."

  "Why?"

  "It is very difficult for a woman when she hates what her husband does for a living."

  "Could you be more specific?"

  "No."

  Through pursed lips Megan Seymour answered Portman's next few questions. She did not know if her husband had any problems at work. She did not know her husband's schedule. And she felt no alarm when he did not come home the previous night.

  "I was at the Friends of the Tasmanian Rainforest Benefit Dinner,” she said. “I was in bed early and in the morning I was up late."

  "Did anyone accompany you to the benefit?"

  She stiffened and said, “I went alone."

  Portman changed tack. He smiled pleasantly. Mrs. Seymour's frown deepened.

  Portman asked, his voice smooth like freshly churned butter, “Did your husband, and if you don't mind me asking, have a library? A separate bedroom? Or a study, perhaps?"

  "A study room. Yes."

  "May we have a look?"

  * * * *

  Edward Dunkirk's study was dominated by two overstuffed armchairs placed opposite one another. There was a recessed fireplace on one side of the room. On the floor gaped a hardcase luggage trunk.

  Portman asked, “Was your husband planning a trip?"

  "I did not keep track of his schedule."

  Her back was thin and straight like a steel bayonet as she turned around and left the room.

  Portman rifled through the trunk while Block examined the drawers of a leather-top writing desk.

  "Empty.” Block slammed the last drawer shut.

  On his way to the door Portman paused by the fireplace. He bent down and ran his finger along the hearth. His finger came away black.

  "Ash. Someone's been burning reams of paper."

  * * * *

  In the corridor outside the Dunkirk apartment, Block and Portman passed a trim man in his fifties in a gray pinstripe suit, brown brogues, and a bowler hat. As he passed them, the man averted his face. He was followed by a strong smell of citrus aftershave.

  As Block clanged down the stairs, Portman paused and looked back. The man tapped on Mrs. Seymour's door, took off his hat, and patted his hair. When the door opened the man stepped inside with a smile.

  * * * *

  It was well past midnight when Portman slid between the bed sheets next to Nikki. Her breaths were uneven. He closed his eyes. Bright bouncing shapes used the back of his eyelids like a trampoline.

  After a few moments and just as the back of his neck had finally warmed the cool linen of the pillowcase, she turned to face him.

  "Another homicide?"

  "In Dandenong.” He could feel her breath on his earlobe. The sensation made him want to sneeze. He shifted away.

  Nikki brushed against him as she propped herself up on one elbow. “Who was it?"

  He thought that her curiosity was altogether unhealthy. And tenacious. She wasn't one to let up.

  Portman said, “A guy. Ran a hedge fund. Kronos Investments. No one we've met."

  She thought this over before saying, “Was his wife pretty?"

  "How'd you know he had a wife?"

  "So he did have a wife!"

  She sighed with satisfaction.

  Portman bounced himself on the bed twice with irritation before jumbling the blankets just how he liked them.

  He said, “I'm going to sleep."

  "I bet you it was a love triangle."

  "I think this one's about money,” Portman said, against his better judgment. “And now I'm really going to sleep."

  "No way! Can't be just about money. That would be too dull!” Nikki nestled against his shoulder, irking his ear with her soft breath.

  Portman sneezed.

  * * * *

  Kronos Investments's offices were in a two-story townhouse in Flinders Lane. They were met by a young woman with fluttering hands and spaced-out eyes. She was Edward Dunkirk's secretary.

  "How awful,” she said on hearing the news and burst into tears.

  She let them into Dunkirk's office.

  "I don't know what I'm going to do,”
she said, sitting on the ottoman in the corner. “Actually, it's only my first week. Such a nice man! And I haven't even received my first paycheck..."

  Block methodically opened and slammed shut the drawers and the cabinets, humming. The hum was like a drill boring a hole into Portman's skull.

  Portman said, “Keep it down."

  "Sorry, boss."

  Block opened and closed the remaining drawers softly like a ballerina tiptoeing on feathers. He continued to hum.

  Portman asked the secretary, “Was this a one-man shop?"

  "Apart from me, yes."

  "Did he have many visitors? Meetings?"

  "None since I've been here. But his accountant actually did come by yesterday. Of course, by then Mr. Dunkirk..."

  She wiped her eyes with the sleeve of her pink-striped shirt.

  On Portman's request she scurried to the reception and returned with the accountant's business card.

  She added, “And there were two men who came by to see him, two days back. It sounded like an argument. I couldn't hear well, actually, but I did notice that they had Eastern European kind of accents..."

  She didn't know who the men were. She didn't take note of what they looked like. And she couldn't check Dunkirk's diary.

  She said, “Actually, he took his appointments diary home. And all of his documents, and his laptop. That same afternoon, he loaded all his papers in the car."

  "Doesn't sound like usual business practice,” Portman said.

  The secretary's eyeliner ran in a blue streak. She said, “I don't actually know . . . it's only my first week!"

  * * * *

  The accountant's office was above a Vietnamese grocery store called Bao Hung Sundries. Portman and Block ducked under the red- and gold-lettered sign and walked up two flights of stairs. The accountant's door was open.

  The accountant was a squat bald man with black-rimmed glasses, thick forearms, and a receding chin. His flabby neck jutted forward at a sharp angle.

  He looked like a turtle.

  Portman and Block sat on wicker chairs across from the accountant, who sat with his back to the window. The desk between them was covered with broker research reports and books on synthetic derivatives and portfolio theory and option pricing.

  The accountant said, rubbing his hands, “This is about Ed, I mean, Mr. Dunkirk. I spoke to his secretary. Yes?"

  Portman said, “You knew him well?"

  "Hardly at all. I mean, I only did the papers for Mr. Dunkirk's fund. I'm not even officially his accountant. You see? I just ticked them off. The papers, that is. Mr. Dunkirk was a genius. He didn't do business with me: He told me what to do. If you get the distinction? Yes?"

  Portman didn't.

  The accountant rubbed his hands harder. “If I was you, I mean, were, I'd look at the investors. Investors in his fund, that is. I've even prepared a list."

  The accountant leaned forward and prodded a piece of paper toward Portman.

  Portman picked it up, looked at it. He didn't have to read far. Halfway down the list he saw a familiar name.

  Victor.

  Portman's fingers felt tense as he folded the paper in half and then half again and then slid it in his jacket pocket.

  The accountant licked his lips twice. He lowered his voice a notch and said, “There's something else too. His wife, a lovely woman, has been having an affair. With one of the investors. Willsworth. Don't ask me how I know. Tragic, really. I've marked his name with an asterisk. In the list. Such a lovely woman. Her and Ed. Mr. Dunkirk, I mean. A lovely couple."

  Portman pressed him for more.

  He didn't have to press hard. The accountant rubbed his hands and prattled. Mr. Dunkirk was about to leave his wife. Mr. Dunkirk didn't have a will. But Mr. Dunkirk did have a prenup. And Willsworth. No, Wills-worth. Yes, with the asterisk. Willsworth was short on money.

  He continued to spiel as he saw Portman and Block to the door and then down the stairs: “And now, with my major client gone, I don't even know how I'll pay my rent. I mean, I can't afford it. I can't even afford a car, I mean."

  Portman asked, “You don't drive?"

  "Public transport is punctual and good for the health. And buses are terrific. But this is terrible. With Mr. Dunkirk, I mean, isn't it terrible? Yes?"

  * * * *

  Willsworth lived in a block of flats off Gertrude Street. Beneath the stone gateway that led up to the flats Portman and Block wove around two young women huddling on the steps. Both wore identical white sneakers. Beside their feet lolled an uncapped syringe.

  The lift wasn't working. Portman and Block climbed up three flights of stairs covered in cigarette butts and candy wrappers and clots of spit.

  Willsworth opened the door. It was the same man that Portman saw visiting Mrs. Seymour the previous evening. He wore the same clothes: gray pinstripe suit, brown brogues. But no cologne.

  Willsworth examined Portman's badge, bared his teeth until his expression could almost pass for a smile, and said, his voice flat, “How do you do."

  They stepped inside the apartment, which consisted of a single room furnished with a fold-out sofa and a three-legged dining table. The sofa, covered in a mess of blankets, looked like a bird's nest.

  "Ed's death was such an unexpected occurrence,” Willsworth said. His voice was brisk, polished. “I am utterly lost for words."

  Portman asked, “Did you know Mr. Dunkirk well?"

  "We shared an accountant. So not terribly well, no."

  "And you heard the news from Mrs. Seymour?"

  "Yes."

  "Are you two close?"

  "A rather insolent question, that is."

  "Would you like to answer?"

  "Not without consulting my lawyer."

  Portman looked around. He nudged a cardboard box by the sofa bed with his foot. The box was overflowing with clothes. He said, “Looks like you've fallen on hard times."

  "I beg your pardon?"

  Block said, “He doesn't even have a kitchen."

  Willsworth's thin red nostrils quivered. He said, “This is a delightful neighborhood. There is an overabundance of restaurants. I would much rather eat out."

  Portman said, “Tough time in the markets?"

  "I am in property development. An entirely different line of business. Very lucrative, I shall have you know. My block of flats, Avondale Heights, has recently completed construction. I expect a substantial windfall."

  Willsworth took two steps from the center of the room to the front door, which he pushed open. One of his neighbors was cooking curry. The smell drifted in from the damp, gray corridor.

  Squeezing out of the apartment Portman said, “And where were you—"

  "On that fateful night? You want my . . . alibi, as you police types call it. Hmm?"

  "Yes."

  "I was at the Friends of the Tasmanian Rainforest Benefit Dinner. All evening."

  "With Mrs. Seymour?"

  Willsworth said, arching his eyebrows, “Naturally."

  * * * *

  An hour later they pulled into a lay-by beside a chicken wire fence on Sunshine Road. One part of the fence was covered with a ripped canvas on which block letters spelled victor's haulage. Portman took out the investor list, read it again, put it back in his pocket.

  Victor.

  There was no way to avoid this.

  Block switched off the engine and read the canvas sign and clicked his tongue. He said, “Is this the same Victor...?"

  "Call Molloy. See what he can find on Willsworth and the accountant,” Portman said. “And the wife."

  Portman slammed the car door shut.

  He walked across the parking lot, past a cluster of four black Mercedes sedans, a rust-colored tractor, a forklift, and toward the low warehouse with a white-edged gable and black eaves.

  Two men in polyester suits stood at the warehouse door. Squat builds, flattened noses. Former boxers. They recognized Portman. One said, “Detective."

  The other, with
a ponytail, said, “You smell something?"

  "Sure. Eggs and bacon."

  Both had East European accents.

  Portman pushed past them and stepped inside the warehouse. In the far corner, in the gloom, he could see the window of Victor's office lit like a lighthouse. Portman walked toward the office shadowed by one of the men, passing hundreds of boxes stacked on splintering pallets.

  "Shipments from China. Televisions, flat-screen. Latest models,” said Victor. He sat in a high-backed leather armchair. After twenty years in Australia, Victor retained just the trace of his Russian accent.

  Portman sat across from him. The narrow desk between them was covered with newspapers: The Financial Times, South China Morning Post, The Australian.

  Victor said, “Nikki loved the flat-screen TV in my home. I said, ‘You want one? It's yours. For your birthday.’ She said, ‘No.’ She said you're a bit funny. Said you not happy with me give presents to my kid sister. Why?"

  "She hadn't mentioned the offer."

  "It's all legit."

  Portman looked around. The ponytailed boxer hovered outside the office window. There were four green filing cabinets along one wall. On the other wall hung three Russian Orthodox icons.

  Victor watched him carefully. He said, “You're here to see me about Dunkirk."

  Portman's thoughts raced. As soon as he read Victor's name in the accountant's office the question popped up: What did he tell Nikki? And, what would she have told her brother?

  Victor grinned.

  Portman pushed these thoughts away. He said, “Your men argued with Dunkirk."

  "Argued? They talked. It's just the accent. Everything they say sound angry."

  "And later that same day he was dead."

  Victor spread his hands.

  Portman said, “What did they talk about?"

  Victor opened a packet of candy and flipped one in his mouth.

  Victor said, “Whatever I tell you is between you and me. Yes?"

  "We'll see."

  "That's not the response I want to hear."

  "It's the only response you're going to get. You say you had nothing to do with his death. Fine. Then you've nothing to fear."

  "Fear?” Victor chewed carefully. He didn't open his jaws when he chewed, instead he moved them forward and back with his lips turned in. Watching him eat reminded Portman of a laundry mangle.