by T M Heron
“It’s not going to be easy.” He nods.
“This could well be your last peaceful evening in a while.”
The old man nods again. He seems quite content to sit and imbibe liquor and reflect on the maelstrom his life will become from tomorrow onwards. Yet in his mind, he has won. And in Flynn Whitford Senior’s world two gentlemen can always savor a drink in the aftermath of battle.
I walk over to my wardrobe, open the secret compartment and retrieve the doctored cigar originally intended for my father. I’m heartened, actually, that it will finally be put to good use.
I draw the blinds. Our firm does not allow the enjoyment of cigars indoors.
We sit and smoke, me from a box of cigars I received as a partnership gift, and him from the special cigar, and he tells me all about my father. And how I’m nothing like him. Such a shame about his untimely demise.
“Such a shame indeed,” I murmur. “Can I offer you another drink?”
“I think not. I seem to be developing a raging headache. Have the sweet thing out there call me a cab.”
I speed-dial Eliza.
50
First thing Wednesday Eliza tells me Anthony Hartman wishes to see me in his office.
He is sitting at his desk and I scrutinize him but find it impossible to read his mood. I find I don’t care what mood he is in. And I don’t like being summonsed to his large, opulent office either.
“Flynn Whitford passed away last night,” he says. “Wasn’t he here yesterday? Did he seem okay?”
“He had a headache. But that’s not what this is about, is it? What do you want, Anthony?”
The congenial mask drops and for a second he looks ugly. “You’re having me investigated.”
I don’t bother denying it.
“The maid your investigator spoke to is no longer with my household,” he says. “She has three children to put through high school, a mortgage she is barely managing, and no husband. Not that this will bother you.”
I shake my head agreeably. “I confess to being largely indifferent.”
“You’re not headed in the right direction,” says Anthony. “You think you’ve found something but it’s not what you’re wanting.”
“I have found something.”
He looks out the window and over the city. Outside a gull is being tossed around like an acrobat by the wind. “Stop investigating me. I had nothing to do with Jo’s death.”
“I know. But it’s a merry road I’m going down.”
Anthony gets up and closes the door. “Have you ever disturbed a nest of Asian paper wasps?” he says. “One minute you’re trimming your hedge and the next they’re coming at you. Not one but dozens. Dozens of dozens. And they just don’t stop. They’ll get you any place they can, all at once. And anyone who’s standing by.” He sits back behind his desk. “That inbuilt instinct to protect the nest. And the nest doesn’t even look that big, but hundreds of the things are coming out of it. Straight at you.”
I laugh and for the first time in a long time with him I’m not faking it. “Well, thanks for the parable.”
“The threat surrounding your partnership, it can disappear, you know.”
“I think it’s going to shortly disappear all of its own accord. We’re really close to finding out who killed Jo.”
Possibly a lie. But I’m on a roll.
Anthony purses his lips. “Take this to it’s natural end and I will destroy you.”
“You started this,” I say. “You’re the one who has threatened my partnership and my standing.” I open the door. “This has never had anything to do with my innocence or guilt. This was always a lesson. And you know why this lesson really started? It started because I forced you to push my partnership through.”
Anthony nods. “I don’t take well to being bulldozed,” he says.
“Neither.” I close the door and walk back to my office.
I call Flynn Junior, who probably, like I did, experienced relief at this father’s demise, and tell him his father’s death does not mean the end of my threat. I still expect the information and there will be repercussions if I don’t receive it shortly. When I hang up he is crying like a baby.
◆◆◆
By midday I still haven’t heard from Flynn Junior. I’m starting to get mad. Much to my frustration the rest of the day fills up with people who are too important to turn away showing up at my door with business matters that are too important to wait. I want to scream with frustration. Everything was meant to be resolved by now. There is a partner’s conference this Friday! I have a date with Ingrid tonight!
◆◆◆
It’s now 6.30 p.m. on Wednesday. Wednesday! Nearly twenty-four hours since I spoke to him. Despite leaving a number of strongly worded messages I haven’t heard back. How fucking dare he disrespect me. Does he think I won’t make good on my threat? He doesn’t know me.
My head is a pressure-cooker. If he strings this out much longer, I’m going to document what happened in the Whitsundays, including the cover-up, and send it to the Dominion Post, Flynn’s wife, and his dead father’s entire bloody company.
◆◆◆
Having been ignored for the entire night Eliza finally leaves at 10 p.m. Flynn still hasn’t called but it barely registers. My rage has become so intense it borders on pleasurable. It’s not anywhere near as gratifying as abducting a girl. But the sensations are along the same lines.
And so I sit in an almost meditative state, and let my mind work its magic. Something Mel said about Jo is repeating over and over: Did you know Jo listened at doors?
Suddenly the two mesh. And I don’t think I’m going to have to wait any longer for Flynn Junior to call me back. Because I realize there is one last thing that I took from Jo that I haven’t scrutinized. Because it wasn’t actually something I took from her but something she’d initially taken from me.
My old cell phone Jo stole. With half my life on it. That wasn’t backed up to the cloud. As soon as I’d seen it I’d taken it out of the bag and thrown my identical new one in a drawer. And suddenly I’m thinking perhaps Jo didn’t take that phone out of spite. Perhaps she took it because it had the ability to do a whole lot of things her cheap old phone couldn’t. Like record and video. Perhaps she took it because it was the nearest suitable tool at hand when a never-to-be-repeated opportunity presented itself.
I snatch my cell phone off the desk, type in my password and thumb through the menu to the gallery.
There are no images in the photo gallery. This is not unexpected. I never take photos. Who would I photo? But I’m not expecting that Jo took a photo either. No, it has to be more damning than that.
I key on to video clips. I never take videos either. Who would I video? And there it is. Elation floods through me. Video clips. One point five megabytes. Not huge, but substantial enough to be worthwhile. I calm my breathing, look at my beautiful antique Chinese desk that I’ve earned and press the play button.
The first thing I see is Jo’s face, looking freakily alive. She’s peering into the wrong side of the phone with studied concentration. Suddenly there’s a 180-degree shift in focus. Now all I can see is wall. And the edge of a wall light. She must be holding the phone at face level. Practicing. I can hear something, but it’s not voices. I realize after a few seconds it’s heavy breathing. Hard and fast. Jo’s anxious about what she’s trying to capture.
For several minutes there’s no change. I start wondering whether Jo managed to capture anything at all.
Then abruptly the phone does another panoramic swing. It’s now facing a glass door. Frosted except for a panel at the top and a panel at the bottom. One of Bakers’ many meeting rooms. It’s partially open. No doubt an oversight by whoever is inside.
The door pans closer. She must be walking right up to it. Now I can hear a voice. It’s male, lowered in consultation. As Jo gets closer, I realize it’s a voice I know well. It’s Mel Kilbride. And my phone has picked him up crystal-clear.
; “I can work that,” he’s saying. “But you need to drop your initial offer to two-fifty mill. No, of course they won’t accept it. Just offer two-fifty. JNL will have a huge panic, of course. They’ll walk away. No, that’s what I can do. I’ll bring them back to you.”
There is a long pause, sporadically broken with Jo noisily trying to hold her breath. Then Mel says, “We’ll assist them in bargaining you up to two-seventy. Don’t go up too easily.”
There’s another long pause and the phone wavers uncertainly in Jo’s hand. She’s not sure whether it’s finished and maybe she’s got enough already. Then Mel’s voice starts up again.
“No, it has to be two point seven. We have to be seen to be helping them in some manner. That’s saving you one hundred and twenty million.. Less my commission, of course. So that’s a cool one hundy.”
There is another pause then Mel starts up again, his voice slightly raised in anger.
“What? That twenty mill is for me making this shit happen, that’s what. JNL won’t take it lying down. I’m going to have to get really inventive to explain to them and Gordon why they’re only getting fifteen mill over their worst-case scenario...Gordon’s going to look real bad. Yeah. Yeah. Into the account I texted.”
Another pause. Then Mel’s voice, self-confident but fainter now as Jo is backing away. “You don’t have to worry about that side of things. Consider it done.”
Jo doesn’t stop the video camera before she thunders away down the hall. The view bumps up and down in a nauseating fashion. Then the whole video comes to an abrupt halt.
I look at my cell phone, stunned. Then I replay the whole thing again.
When I’m done, I carefully place my phone on the desk in front of me. Even through my shock, and even though he’d have let me take the fall for Jo, I feel a grudging admiration for Mel’s vision. And slightly embarrassed on my behalf. Twenty million in one quick deal puts my early partnership to shame. Mel must have had a good laugh about that.
And now he’s sitting on a small fortune.
I pour myself a Scotch, my mind racing back to how I waited impatiently while Frederick Young told me all about how JNL sold at a really disappointing low. Thinking nothing of it at the time, other than disparaging thoughts about Gordon for letting such a deal take place. And letting Mel leave Frederick to do more on it than he should have.
But of course Mel would have left Frederick to his own devices. Because the real work was being done behind the scenes by Mel and whoever was dirty on the purchaser’s side.
Then Jo came along as a fly in the ointment. And Jo being Jo she would have decided that the initial $1.5 million was not enough. Mel must have decided Jo’s down payment was the only payment he was prepared to concede. I really don’t blame him for that.
I’m on a homerun now. Everything has fallen into place.
51
On the drive to Mel’s house my stomach begins to roil with anger. I’d like to ask Mel what happened to our friendship. It was a shallow friendship, full of veiled insults, idle remarks and one-upmanship. An honest acquaintance, devoid of all pretense at depth, where both parties accepted that each would always look after his own interests first. But I’d never have dreamed he’d do this to me.
As my rage escalates, I struggle to keep below the speed limit. Ultimately this should be my moment of glory. But I’m quickly realizing it’s become more complex than just solving Jo’s murder. Because the public fallout for Bakers when this debacle sees the light of day will be catastrophic.
Fortunately a plan is already forming in my mind to keep Bakers out of this completely. Mel lives in Seatoun Heights, one of the most beautiful areas of the eastern suburbs. Of course, it’s not picturesque tonight. It’s ink black. Mid-winter, late-at-night black. All I can see are the lights from the streets and houses below as I wind my way up the hill.
Mel lives in a huge glass-and-plaster house right on the crest of the hill. Over-sized, multi-level decks surround it. The long, steep driveway is obscured from the road by mature native trees. The wind up here is hideous and making the sort of evil howling noises you associate with bad movies.
I can see the outline of Mel’s Porsche in the garage, which is a large, glassed-in area within the actual house. Tara’s car is absent. This very much suits the plan coming together in my head. As I hurry down the driveway gusts of wind smack up against my body and my eyes stream.
“It’s a bit bloody late,” say Mel.
The smell of alcohol is heavy on his breath. Is he feeling guilty? No, he’s probably spent all night toasting his $20 million and laughing at my early partnership which remains tenuous at best, thanks to him. My first inclination is to rip the heavy steel knocker off the door and rearrange him.
“We need to talk,” is what I say instead.
Despite my anger I keep my voice light and friendly. Mel is about to enter into the most important negotiation of his life. No one thinks well with their head in a hostile space.
Mel just stands there for a moment, his body filling the doorway, a slightly belligerent expression on his face. Then he mutters something unintelligible and turns back into the foyer.
I follow him along the hall which is so wide you could drive a truck down it.
The interior is accented with subtle mood lighting. It’s beautifully done inside. Too modern for my liking, but Mel’s whole house with its mono-pitch roofs and endless decks is the epitome of contemporary living done just right.
Why did the greedy bastard have to go and steal so much money? Actually, it’s not that I have the problem with. It’s that I got caught in the crossfire. And that he executed it so carelessly as to have a dullard like Jo catch him out. He’d never be able to manage the things I get away with.
We sit in an alcove that looks out over the lights of Seatoun far below. I’ve always disliked Seatoun with its rocky, grabby beach. Although we’re far away, I can almost hear those waves crashing with relentless monotony against the sand.
“I know about JNL,” I say.
He hands me a Scotch. “Who doesn’t, without wanting to state the obvious?”
“Only it’s not really so obvious as everyone would think, is it?”
Mel looks down at his glass as if searching for answers, then pushes his reading glasses back to the bridge of his nose. I hadn’t noticed he was wearing them until now. He must wear contacts at the office. They’re probably tinted as well. No wonder his eyes look so blue.
“It’s too late at night for you to turn up being so fucking oblique,” he says. “What the hell are you talking about?”
I lean forward. “I’m talking about your embezzlement of forty mill on the JNL deal and Jo’s murder.”
We both take a sip of our Scotches. No one says anything. Finally Mel pushes his glasses back again and says, “Does anyone else know?”
“I’m hardly about to tell you that,” I say. “Look what happened to Jo.”
But Mel doesn’t even absorb my reference to Jo. His mind is already rapidly processing all possible ways to get out of the situation he now finds himself in. He’s gone into automatic damage-control. Something I’m all too familiar with as of late.
“I’m guessing no one else knows,” he says. “And you want in?”
“No, I don’t want in on it. I’m a partner, for God’s sake,” I say. “The only thing I want is Jo’s murder put to bed.”
“Oh, you’re losing sleep about both JNL and Jo now, are you? “When have you ever given a shit about Jo?”
“When I’m being lined up for bloody doing it.”
“You’ll be cleared. No one in their right minds thinks you killed Jo.”
“It’s all well and good that you know it,” I say angrily. “You’d be the only one who does for sure.”
“What the fuck are you implying?”
“I’m not implying anything. I know. You killed her. She caught you red-handed and recorded you on my cell phone. You paid her off.”
He’s looking at me
as if I’m talking Russian.
“And you were going to pay her more. But you didn’t feel safe, did you? I wouldn’t have either. So you did what you had to do.”
Mel to his credit looks dazed and confused. “I didn’t kill Jo.” he says. “I was with Mary-Anne. You know that. And as far as the police are concerned, I was with Tara all night.”
“Tara. A woman who had twenty million reasons to alibi you.”
“You’re wrong. Tara doesn’t know about JNL. She’d never have agreed.” His voice has a ring of truth in it.
I tease through the possibility in my mind. Mel loves his wife. And Tara is one of those rare perfect women. They always look good. They’re never huffy or premenstrual. They think the best of everyone. Yes, I can see how Mel wouldn’t want Tara to know the origin of the riches he intended to shower upon her.
“We can split the twenty.” He empties his glass. “It’ll be the easiest ten mill you’ll ever make.”
“Not interested.”
“In ten million?”
“I don’t want any part of that money. What you’ve done will make Bakers a public disgrace.”
“Then what the hell do you want?”
“I want you to own up about Jo. I could still be headed back to jail for that.”
Mel slams his glass down and leaps out of his chair. “I didn’t do anything to Jo! I paid her a million and half to keep her mouth shut. When the money came in I was going to pay her more.”
I stand up too. Very much in control of the situation. “You’re going to admit what you did to her,” I say firmly. “And publicly, you’re going to keep the part about embezzling from one of our major clients out of it. I think it best you say you did it because Jo found out about Lily’s and was threatening to tell your wife. Which is certainly partly true.”
“Why in hell would I do that?”
I’m just about to explain to Mel he’ll do less time for a crime of passion than for murder topped off with a big fat white collar crime, when I realize he’s stalling.
