“Victim was thirty-nine,” Dr. Gravely said, his voice emotionless. “Died from multiple stab wounds. Two distinct thrusts to the thoracic, two more to the lumbar. Each one deep. The knife had a serrated blade approximately eight inches in length. It punctured her liver and right kidney. The lumbar penetrations perforated the large intestine. The victim almost certainly died from heart failure precipitated by shock.”
Justine stepped forward and inspected Stacy’s lower half. “You’ve removed the banknotes.”
“They’ve gone to Police Forensics along with the woman’s clothes, jewelry – everything on her person.”
Justine nodded.
“I did examine them first, of course. But you’ll know about them from the police … right?”
“No,” Justine and I said in unison. “What about them?” I added slowly.
“Well the fact they’re fake notes … photocopies.”
Chapter 20
THE MOMENT THE woman in the $900 Jimmy Choo shoes walked into the offices of Private, I knew something interesting would come of it. I noticed things such as expensive shoes and I knew that women of this type didn’t come to places like Private unless there was something serious on their minds.
Before she said a word, I’d profiled her. Lower North Shore Yummy Mummy, maybe Eastern Suburbs, but she looked a little too cool. Professional – once upon a time. Maybe a lawyer back in the day before the kids came along. She’d probably parked a BMW X5 downstairs, almost certainly had a personalized number plate. Kids would be at Shore School or Redlands. Husband … let’s think, either a stockbroker or a senior exec at one of the big banks.
She exuded confidence as she crossed the floor toward me. “Hi, my name’s Pam Hewes,” she said, smiled briefly, a New Zealand twang to her voice. “I need advice.”
“Well, you’ve come to precisely the right place. Craig Gisto.” I waved her toward the conference room.
I pulled up a chair for her and walked around the table, sat down, my back to the window, waited for her to start.
“Oh God! I don’t know where to begin!” She broke eye contact. “My husband … his name’s Geoff. He didn’t return home last night. There’s no response to his cell or his office numbers. He didn’t show up at home this morning. I went to his office in the CBD. No one’s heard from him.”
“I imagine this must be unusual or else you wouldn’t be here.”
“Well, yeah. Geoff works hard, and … he plays hard. I knew that about him before we were married. Quid pro quo and all that, but he’s always kept some sort of balance – even if it was only for the sake of the kids. He has always come home each evening and if there was some emergency and he has to go somewhere suddenly he always calls.”
“And you haven’t heard a word from him?”
“No.”
“You haven’t contacted the police. Why?”
“Because … I’m not one hundred per cent sure that everything my husband does is absolutely legal.”
“What does he do, Mrs. Hewes?”
“Please, call me Pam … Geoff has fingers in all sorts of pies. Always has some new business scheme. He lends money, he invests in businesses. I find it hard to keep up.”
I looked her directly in the eye. “And you, Pam? What do you do?”
“I’m in real estate. I work at H and F Realty on the Lower North Shore.”
“Do you have anything to go on? Any leads? Are you familiar with your husband’s associates, friends?”
Pam shook her head and looked down at the carpet. “My husband plays his cards close to his chest. He tells me things, but I know it’s the tip of the iceberg. But, Mr. Gisto, to answer your previous question, there’s one thing you should know about my husband. Geoff does have associates – many of them – but when it comes to friends they’re pretty thin on the ground.”
Chapter 21
“GOOD MORNING,” HO said, standing and extending a hand.
“Thanks for agreeing to meet me,” Mary said.
They were in the bar of the Blue Hotel in Woolloomooloo, all oversized concrete buffet counters, post-modern piping and metal grills. She ordered a coffee.
“I wasn’t being entirely straight with you and Mr. Gisto yesterday,” Ho began. “I don’t know Mr. Gisto, but I’ve done some checking and he seems like a worthy man. And besides,” he added with a small smile, “you obviously trust him and that is good enough for me.”
Mary kept buttoned up, searched his black eyes.
“The fact is, I believe my son was kidnapped and killed by the Triads.”
“I know.”
“You do?”
“Our forensics expert found compelling evidence to support the idea.”
“I see. Well I have a lot of experience with the gangs, going back years. I know how they operate.”
“Your time in the Hong Kong Police Force?”
“I was one of the senior officers involved with breaking up the Huang gang in ’94. I then headed up the task force that smashed two other big Triad teams in Kowloon and Macau. I emigrated to Australia with my family, a few years before I met you at the Military Police Training Academy.”
“And you think this attack on your family was some sort of revenge?”
“I’m convinced of it.”
“Why?”
Ho was silent for a few moments, gazing around the huge, almost empty bar. “I was sent a ransom note.”
Mary raised an eyebrow. “Maybe we should start at the beginning, Meng.”
“I told you yesterday the last time I saw Chang was on Thursday. I reported him missing the following day. Late that night, Friday, I received a package. A note demanding that I cooperate with a gang who are planning to smuggle heroin from Hong Kong. The note came in a box with one of my son’s eyes.”
“And you didn’t go to the police with this information?”
Ho shook his head. “No, I told you …”
“You don’t trust the cops … Why?”
“I’d rather not say.”
Mary rested an elbow on the table and rubbed her forehead. “Okay,” she said, a little exasperated. “What happened next?”
“Saturday night I received a call from the gang leader. He said I had twenty-four hours to agree to their ‘request’, or my son would be killed.”
“That would give you until Sunday night. And they did murder him.” Mary shook her head slowly.
“I’ve concluded they were going to kill Chang in the car and dump his body in a public car park.”
“But why?” Mary said. “Surely they would have been more discreet.”
“Quite the opposite, Mary. They would have wanted to advertise it. I’m not the only Asian businessman in this city. If I keep refusing they could go elsewhere. They wanted to broadcast the murder, as a warning to others – that’s how they operate – fear and arrogance.”
“But you did refuse them,” Mary said.
“I could not agree to their demands. They are targeting me because of my past. Helping them smuggle heroin would go against everything I believe in.” He stared her out. “You may seem outraged, Mary. But believe me, I will live with that decision for the rest of my life. It was the hardest thing I’ve ever had to do.”
Chapter 22
Thirty-six Hours Ago.
PAM HEWES’ HUSBAND, Geoff, was in his favorite chair in his favorite pub, The Cloverleaf in Darlinghurst, and he was feeling pleased with himself.
He’d had a good week so far. That afternoon, he’d won a couple of grand at the races, squeezed over ten thousand more from the small businesses he was lending to in the Western Suburbs and heard that the brothels he managed for Al Loretto, the biggest underworld name in Sydney, had increased their profits.
He was about to take a sip of beer when he felt a tap on his shoulder. He whirled round and was startled to see Al Loretto himself standing way too close. Another man Geoff half-recognized was positioned behind him, arms folded.
“Hey, Al,” Geoff said,
doing well to disguise his surprise. “How are you?”
Loretto didn’t reply for a moment, just stared down at Geoff surveying him with his hard black eyes. He then pulled up a chair, leaned forward. “Geoffrey,” he said quietly. “Do I or do I not pay you well?”
“What do you mean, Al?”
“Simple question. Do I recompense you adequately for your services?” Al had made an effort with the Oxford English dictionary. Thought it was impressive.
“Yeah, course you …”
He gripped Geoff’s lapel and his companion took a step forward. “Then why are you being so disrespectful, Geoffrey?”
Hewes blanched.
“You want to further capitalize on your employment position? Is that it, amigo?”
Geoff went to reply, but stopped as Al Loretto tightened his grip, his breath on his cheek. “How did you come to the conclusion that I would be happy for you to install cameras in my brothels? Hmm?”
Geoff tried again to reply, but was cut short.
“Didn’t you imagine for a second that it was just a tad disrespectful, Geoffrey? Was there not a skerrick of doubt, not a moment when you thought you might ask me first?”
“I didn’t think you would have a problem with it,” Hewes managed to say.
Loretto stared at him in silence again.
“I thought …”
“I don’t pay you to think, Geoffrey. Oh no. I do the thinking.” The gangster tapped his head.
“So, what do you …?”
“What do I want? I want you to cease and desist. Not hard to understand is it, pal? Take the fucking cameras out this afternoon and do what I pay you to do. Any more questions?”
Geoff looked at him blankly.
“Good,” Loretto answered, stood, picked up the almost full glass of beer and poured it over Geoff Hewes’ head.
Chapter 23
I’D JUST WALKED into the lab at Private. Darlene was at a computer, tapping away. The police had sent over everything from the Stacy Friel murder scene for her to study. “Anything?” I asked.
“Not a lot more than the Police Forensics guys have found, I’m afraid. The banknotes are photocopies … high-quality – about the grade of a top-end domestic printer.”
“Fingerprints?”
“I wish! No … Zip. Actually, to be honest, I didn’t expect anything. The killer wore latex gloves. I found traces of the cornstarch powder that coats standard gloves.”
“And nothing special about that?”
“Nope. These gloves could have come from any one of a hundred outlets, a thousand – Coles, Woolworths, any drugstore.”
“Okay. Anything else?”
“Biological matter from the woman’s vagina. I could tell you where she was in her menstrual cycle and whether or not she’d had sex during the past twenty-four hours. But I can’t give you anything practical about what was put into her.”
“She wasn’t raped?”
“Definitely not.”
I looked round the lab. Benches on each side. On top of these stood impressive-looking machines with elaborate control panels and flashing lights. I recognized a powerful microscope and a centrifuge, but that was about it. The rest might as well have been Venusian technology.
“The cops gave you all the material you need?”
“Yeah, personal effects plus a file containing several hundred photographs of the crime scene. I’ve analyzed Stacy Friel’s jacket. I can confirm the police pathologist’s assessment of the attack – the number of stab wounds, the angle of entry, the type of knife. Although of course, the weapon hasn’t been found. I wish I could have been at the crime scene. It’s hard working second hand like this. I might have caught something the cops missed.”
“I understand,” I replied. “And you found nothing unusual with anything Police Forensics handed over?”
“No, Craig. I’m sorry. Hate to admit it – but right now I’m drawing a complete blank.”
Chapter 24
I WAS STARVING – it suddenly hit me as I left Darlene’s lab and strode into reception. Johnny was there talking to our receptionist, Colette. Justine was coming toward us through the main doors a few feet away. She looked hot and flustered.
“I feel like I’m going to get sunstroke every time I step outside,” she declared.
I laughed. “I thought LA was hot.”
“Yeah, but not like this!”
I grinned and glanced at my watch. “I’m going to grab a snack. You hungry?” I asked her. “Or how about a frappaccino?
She looked surprised for a moment. “Great.”
There was a café on the ground floor. We got coffee and muffins and started to head back to the elevator. I checked my watch again, realized I had a spare thirty minutes.
“You got anything to do for half an hour or so, Justine?”
She shook her head as she sipped the frappaccino through a straw.
“Well then, I know just the place for you. I think you’ll appreciate it.”
“Oh!” she said. “A man of mystery …”
Chapter 25
WE WALKED DOWN Macquarie Street close to Circular Quay. Straight ahead of us stood the Opera House, the tiers of wide steps leading to its massive windows just a couple of dozen yards away. People were sitting on the steps drinking Slurpees, coffee, Coke. We turned onto the Quay and I pointed out the sights to Justine. She was quiet, taking it all in, but not “oohing” and “ahhing” as some tourists might. I liked that.
We walked in the shade, an arcade of shops to our left. An aboriginal man was playing a didgeridoo over a hip-hop beat spilling from an iPod plugged into a big speaker.
“Very post-modern!” Justine observed. “So where exactly are you taking me?”
“Don’t want to spoil the surprise.”
We came to a bar, tables and umbrellas outside, families eating late breakfast. A big flat screen on the wall inside was showing a soccer game from the English Premier League, Chelsea vs. Tottenham. I led the way through the bar and up a flight of stairs. On the wall was a small sign. It said: ICE BAR.
“What’s this?” Justine asked and spun round, puzzled.
I stepped up to the counter. A few other customers milled about. Sixty seconds later, I had two tickets in my hand and guided Justine around a corner. An immaculately tanned blonde was waiting for us by a rack of fur coats.
Justine turned to me again.
“Okay, this is the deal,” I said. “You want to cool down? The Ice Bar is set to minus twenty Fahrenheit. Everything is made from ice including the cocktail glasses. We stay in for a drink – twenty minutes. You’ll feel a lot cooler by the end of it.”
I had to laugh as Justine pulled on a nerdy fur-lined anorak and mittens. It wasn’t really her. But she seemed to be loving it all. We went into the antechamber to acclimatize. Here, it was just 18oF. From there we went into the Prep Room, temperature, five degrees. Then the door to the bar swished open and we were inside. The digital thermometer on the wall told us it was minus 20oF … and it felt it, even through the thick socks, the boots, the fur-lined anorak and the mittens.
The floor was covered with ice. The chairs around the walls were made of ice, the bar was ice. Everything backlit electric blue.
“This is fantastic, Craig!” Justine beamed, her breath steamy and fragrant. She sipped at the cocktail and I glimpsed the side of her face as the light from the bar caught it. “I could look at that face and never grow weary of it,” I thought to myself.
Chapter 26
THE HO MANSION was in Mosman, a few hundred yards from Taronga Zoo. It was new and vulgar and stuck out like a sore thumb among the genteel old-money houses built at the turn of the nineteenth century.
Buzzed in through an electrically operated gate, Mary and I strode up a gravel path that passed over a pond filled with koi. A Malaysian maid met us at the front door and showed us into a grandiose circular hall. A young Chinese guy in a blue tailored suit appeared in an archway to the right of the hall. He
had an earpiece in place, a wire disappearing into his shirt collar. I noticed the bulge of a firearm under his jacket.
I showed him my ID.
“You’re early,” he said and indicated we should follow him along a corridor leading away under the arch. We hung a right, then a left. I glimpsed huge rooms – a gym, a home theater, a couple of living areas, each with the floor space of an average apartment.
We reached a door on the right. Another guard, identical uniform, identical earpiece and jacket bulge, was standing on the nearside of the door. He stiffened as we came round the corner.
The first guy walked off without a word. I flashed my ID again. The second guard opened the door and nodded us in.
It was another impressively proportioned room, high ceiling, sumptuous sofas, a desk, ancient-looking framed Chinese silk prints on dark walls. No sign of Ho.
Halfway into the room, I heard a faint sound from the far corner. There was a door into another room. I noticed a flickering light coming from beyond the doorway but couldn’t make out the sound.
I turned to Mary and put a finger to my lips. Stopping a yard from the door, I pulled to the wall, peered in, Mary right next to me.
There was a wide flat screen on the far wall. A sofa.
On the screen a small boy played with a toy train. He lifted his head and beamed a beatific smile. Then the scene changed. The boy was a little older, maybe seven, eight. He was flying a kite on the beach. The camera panned back and I saw Bathers’ Pavilion, the landmark café on Balmoral Beach a mile from here.
Ho Meng sat in half-profile staring ahead, transfixed. A line of tears running down his cheek, his body shaking.
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