Deadly Investment

by Andres Kabel

  “Thanks, Mr. Strasser. Most helpful. If anything else occurs to you, ring me.”

  Outside, he gulped fresh air. Gray clouds had built up. 3:01—how much easier without Gentle. He was on Sydney Road when he heard a shout.

  “Mr. Tuck.” Strasser wheezed as he lurched out of the car yard. “You asked if I thought of anything else…”

  “Yeah?”

  “That wife. The wife of Mr. High-and-Mighty. Take it from me, she’s no angel. I hear she’s a right whore.”

  Tusk flipped open his notebook. “What do you know?”

  “Hey, nothing personal, though she’s some hot stuff, if you know what I mean.” Strasser winked. “But I hear things, and you can take it from me, that lady puts it about. For sure.”

  Heading up Sydney Road toward his parked Peugeot, Tusk glanced back. The brother of his client waved and scratched his fake hair. The black eyes shone with pleasure.

  CHAPTER 8

  “Take a look at the old center of Melbourne, Mr. Gentle.”

  From his top-floor office window, Rollo Keppel gestured in his familiar four-fingered style—everyone in the business world knew the story of the loss of his ring finger in Vietnam—across the river to the two humps of Melbourne’s skyline, poised under darkening gray-purple clouds. Rollo’s long nose and gleaming head made Peter think of a Roman emperor. Even his discovery of Rollo’s plumpness, now that he could see Rollo without jacket and with unbuttoned vest, failed to diminish the image.

  Peter sniffed for the scent of coffee, without success, and sighed. He’d managed a second-rate focaccia in the Southbank food mall, but there hadn’t been enough time for a glass of wine or a hit of strong coffee at Draconi’s. No doubt Mick had skipped lunch altogether, to plot his interview questions in that bloody notebook, a task that hadn’t occurred to Peter until Mika had handed him a security pass in the Scientific Money House lobby.

  “Collins Street, Bourke Street, that’s where the companies that built up this great city were located,” Rollo said. “There, see the Rialto, Mr. Gentle? All the big fund managers once kept offices there. I worked there for years and years.”

  Peter was a keen observer of offices. When he’d started out at Rock Mutual, he’d seen how the huge insurer allocated offices using a precise formula, one’s rank determining not only size and position, but also the size of the desk, the type of chair, and even the painting on the wall. His next employer, Thompson White, saw itself as a modern consulting firm and eschewed such conservatism, but even there one could tell the seniority of the partners from the relative opulence of their offices.

  And Rollo’s office was definitely opulent. It was huge, occupying half of the top floor’s north-facing wall. A heavy redwood table, almost a mini boardroom table, surrounded by oak paneling inlaid with velvet and hung with ornately framed paintings, had confronted Peter when he entered. This area opened out into a casual expanse with large settees around a smoked-glass coffee table. Reds and greens abounded, and an enormous television screen dominated the wall over a small fridge. Finally, at the end of the room, gleamed Rollo’s work area, a polished metal desk surrounded by workstations.

  Rollo continued to declaim. “The old school is now under threat. Nearly all of Melbourne’s fund managers have moved their headquarters to Sydney. The big life insurers are just about all Sydney-based. Rock Mutual’s the only major left here. Even our own State Premier has publicly conceded that Australia’s financial capital is up north.”

  Peter couldn’t keep his hands still. They flitted through his hair, across his cheeks, into his pockets. He’d never come this close to a business demigod before.

  “You know,” Rollo said. “When I decided to build my company’s headquarters south of the river, Kantor said I was crazy. Now the very pulse of Melbourne beats in Southbank, and it all revolves around Scientific Money House.”

  Peter noted that Rollo referred to his company, not their company. It was clear who’d been the boss out of the two brothers. And why not? Rollo owned nearly all of its shares, while Kantor had held only ten percent.

  The Chief Executive’s handshake was vigorous. “Call me Rollo.”

  “I’m… I’m Peter.”

  “Well, Peter, if you’ve studied the great cities of the world, you know that what attracts capital and prosperity to a city is a combination of politicians and enlightened businessmen. Now that my brother’s genius has generated such success, I feel a heavy weight on my shoulders. Remember that, Peter. It’s not too extreme to say that Scientific Money is the key to the fate of Melbourne.”

  Rollo’s speech finished, he directed Peter to a couch, and then sat so near that their knees almost touched. Close up, Peter saw hollows rimming Rollo’s eyes, and creased skin around his mouth; the realization that Rollo was exhausted made Peter admire the man and his energy even more.

  Jesus, Peter thought, how should I kick this off?

  Rollo saved him the trouble. “Now to business. On the way out Mika will give you an interview schedule. I’ve an appointment at three o’clock, so you have fifteen minutes to quiz me. Go ahead.”

  Peter felt dazed at the power of Rollo’s eyes, intimate and piercing at the same time. He asked the first question he could think of. “What were your movements on the night of… of the 30th?”

  Rollo chuckled. “Get right into it, why don’t you? Well, I left the office at 8:30, earlier than usual, and walked home to our apartment. Bella cooked and we spent the evening together. I was tired, this has been a hectic time for me, so we retired early, just after eleven. The police woke us up at 3 AM.”

  Peter began to tap a foot on the carpet. “Did your secretary see you leave?”

  “Personal Assistant. Why don’t you ask her?”

  Peter smelled coffee, and that musk perfume, and looked up to see Mika glide in, bearing a tray with two mugs and a plate of biscuits. She glared at him.

  “Mika,” Rollo said, “what time did you leave the office on the night of the murder?”

  “6:30.”

  Rollo and Mika looked at each other for an instant, and Peter flushed. They’re laughing at me, he thought. He heard the door latch shut as Mika left.

  “Mr. Keppel, who wished Kantor harm?”

  “That’s what I’ve been pondering ever since, Peter. In the industry, he was universally respected and liked. Universally. Kantor just didn’t make enemies.”

  Rollo had this way of sitting still and cocking his head to listen, as if the questions completely absorbed him, and Peter noted how soft and modulated Rollo’s voice was, so different from his passionate oratorical style. Peter began to relax.

  “Were you close as brothers?” he asked.

  “Very. As children, not so close. I was five years older and we were very different in personality. He was the bright one, I was always the ambitious one. But ever since he got back from America in 1980, we’ve been as close as brothers get.”

  Peter decided the taste of the coffee didn’t live up to its inviting aroma, but the chocolate biscuit was delicious. “Did your two families get together a lot?”

  “Not often. Bella’s very different from Imogen. But since we started Scientific Money, Kantor and I almost lived together in our office, first Queen Street, now here.”

  “In what way is Imogen different?”

  “Don’t put words in my mouth, Peter. What I meant is that Bella’s very outgoing. Imogen… Imogen keeps to herself these days.”

  Peter had an idea. “Would that have anything to do with her son?”

  Rollo smiled, as if in approval. “Did she tell you about Walter?”

  “A little,” Peter lied.

  “Walter drowned down at Portsea. He was just seven or eight. It must have been twenty years ago. Ever since, Imogen has been slowly withdrawing.” Rollo sighed. “But she’s still family, and I’m a strong believer in families, Peter, which is why I’ve consented to this project of hers.”

  “What about Straw?”

  Rollo narr
owed his eyes. “What about her?”

  “Do you see much of her?”

  “Have you met her?”

  “Today.” Peter cringed inside at the memory of the smudged purple mouth, the breasts pressing against him.

  “Straw hasn’t talked to anyone since she failed to turn up at her wedding ten years ago. I remember the poor groom waiting at the altar—a beefy young man. I gave up trying to communicate with her years ago.”

  “What’s wrong with her?” Peter asked.

  “Who knows? Kantor had all the psychiatrists in. Before the wedding she just seemed a bit strange, but afterwards… It seems she’s close to autistic in behavior, although I gather she copes with everyday life, stuck in their house, well enough.”

  “Did Kantor get on well with her?”

  “He idolized her. Like he idolized Imogen.” Rollo wiped a hand across his mouth, eyes wide. “He was a full-on family man. I couldn’t put so much energy, for so little response, into a daughter like that. And… and what he did with me… so we could achieve…”

  There was no doubt—Rollo’s eyes glistened.

  Peter glanced away. He snatched a chocolate biscuit, somehow the last one on the plate.

  “That’s why I can’t imagine anyone doing… that.” Rollo clasped his hands together, under control again. “You know about the emergency exit?”

  “Yes.”

  “The police think maybe Kantor surprised a drug addict who sneaked in for a warm place to sleep, and panicked. It sounds crazy, but I can’t help believing they’re correct. Peter, no one, but no one, hated Kantor. He was a genius and, in his own way, a saint.”

  “Did Willy want him dead?”

  Peter regretted his bluntness immediately, but Rollo simply looked at him quizzically.

  “I’ll assume you ask the questions you do out of ignorance, Peter.”

  “I’m sorry, I—”

  “Willy chose a different path and we see little of each other. But to imply he’d assault one of his brothers… you just don’t know the Keppels, young man.”

  Peter’s cheeks flared at the rebuke.

  Rollo stood up. “We’re out of time, I’m afraid. Let’s see Mika.”

  Dozens of questions suddenly spilled into Peter’s mind.

  “Just two more questions, please,” he blurted as he rose.

  “Make them snappy.”

  “Was Benedict Dancer upset at Kantor?”

  Rollo shook his head. “Benedict wanted a salary increase, but the thought of him killing Kantor is ludicrous. When you meet him, you’ll see. Last question.”

  “I had hoped to ask you more about Scientific Money.”

  Was it his imagination that Rollo flinched?

  “It’s all on the public record,” the chief executive said. “Except for the detailed implementation of Kantor’s model on our computers, and that’s commercially sensitive. Anyway, I’m just a figurehead. Ask my management team. Now I really must ask you to leave.”

  Rollo took Peter’s elbow and guided him through the long office.

  What a debacle, Peter thought, where did my time go? “Who understands the workings of the model now that Kantor’s gone?”

  “No one needs to. Relax, Peter. The software does it automatically. Mika, look after Peter, will you?”

  “Mr. Keppel. The email—”

  The big door cruised shut with a click.

  “Shit!” Peter hissed.

  “Excuse me?” Mika’s voice was full of the imperiousness Peter hated in a certain sort of secretary.

  “Your coffee,” he said. “It’s over-brewed and tastes like shit.”

  Her smirk vanished.

  CHAPTER 9

  Time check—3:30. Bell-ringing time.

  After a single chime, one of the double doors was flung open. Mick Tusk’s immediate thought: Now there’s a motive for murder. Followed by an erection.

  “I’m on my way out.”

  The woman swung her handbag, clearly annoyed.

  Tusk’s second thought: Nine out of ten. She was tall, poised. Shoulder-length black hair, a petite olive face, glistening red lipstick. Green I-know-what-you’re-thinking eyes. A long fur-lined black coat, open at the front to show skimpy black shorts. Long slim legs, black high-heeled boots. A light brown handbag dangling from a dainty hand.

  His third thought: Why do I still do that, rank every woman I meet, like a twenty-year-old?

  “Mick Tusk, Private Investigator.” Tusk hoped she wouldn’t catch the heat on his cheeks. “I wonder if I could take a few minutes of your time.”

  “Ah.” Even her throaty voice carried allure. And danger. “Rollo rang to say someone might visit. Can it wait?”

  “I’m sorry, ma’am. It’ll only take a few minutes.”

  She appraised him. “If you have to.”

  He caught a glimpse of breasts held loosely in a black silk top as she swiveled.

  A penthouse apartment in Southbank was bound to be swanky, but Tusk had to stifle a gasp. Expecting a hallway, he stared at a large open space of polished pine boards that could have held fifty people. On the wall, dozens of photos of the woman and Rollo and others. Steps down to a recessed area in front of floor-to-ceiling glass windows, with two mammoth groups of settees, one brown, one black. On his left, a stunning redwood dinner table on the edge of what looked like a large dance floor. On his right, a huge television in the wall, overlooking small couches and coffee tables. A wide fireplace—he recalled the police had checked the poker.

  She poured herself a glass of wine from an already open bottle and began to pace. He could smell her perfume—Dune?—over the scent of fresh floor polish.

  “We designed this place ourselves.” Unlike Rollo’s, hers was pure Melbourne, broad and Australian. “Why live in the city if you can’t entertain? The bedroom’s back there, and on the other side is the kitchen.”

  So this is what the rich see from their living rooms, Tusk thought. Straight ahead, over the wide balcony, the lazy Yarra River curled into the distance. Swathes of green parkland, then the endless suburbs, finally out to the dusty blue Dandenong Ranges. On the left, above the Southbank bustle, the city skyline brooded under gray skies. To his right, a glimpse of the blue and green bay, dotted with yachts.

  “Some view,” he said.

  No offer of a seat or even a drink. He didn’t mind.

  “You really a private dick?” she said. “Or just an out-of-work stuntman?” A tight smile to show she was joking.

  “Mrs. Keppel—”

  “It’s Bella. And… Mick, right?”

  Tusk took out his notebook. He could hear dishes clattering in the kitchen. Bella’s boots clicked as she paced. Like a restless leopard, he decided. The well-developed calf muscles told him she worked out.

  “What nationality is Bella?” he asked.

  “Italian. But I hardly speak the lingo. You come here to survey ethnic background?”

  “Is your family close to Kantor’s?”

  “Kantor himself, yes.” No grief at all on Bella’s pixie face. “He spent so much time with Rollo, I saw him often. I liked him, he was like a cuddly teddy bear. The police caught the murderer yet?”

  It’s all part of a game, Tusk thought. With that beauty, every encounter with a male has been this flirting, tough-arsed tussle. She was more similar to him than she knew.

  Careful politeness would get him nowhere. “No, the bastard is still out there somewhere. Laughing. Did you really like Kantor?”

  She paused her pacing, her eyes re-evaluating. “Hey, don’t give me that look. You think I’m glad he was killed? Yeah, he was nice. You want me to break down and cry in front of you?”

  “No,” he said. “What about Kantor’s family? See them often?”

  Bella tossed back her drink. Tusk could see something feverish in her round, bright eyes. The case file referred to loss of her license on reckless driving charges. Grog? Drugs?

  “Never. Imogen has this thing about me, won’t even talk
to me. As if I care, she’s a frigid bitch. And that nutcase Straw…” A derisive laugh. “Maybe Kantor killed himself to get away from them.”

  She was provoking him now.

  “Bella, who hated Kantor?”

  She yawned exaggeratedly. “No idea. Next?”

  “No idea at all?”

  “Look, I told you. He was like a cuddly bear. You know anybody who kills teddy bears?”

  She was twenty years younger than Rollo, he knew, but looked younger than Tusk himself. He knew from the case file that they’d been married fifteen years. A song came to mind—“Honey Child,” Bad Company’s chugging ode to a seductress. Had Rollo ever had a day of peace?

  “Willy Keppel,” he said. “What can you tell me about him?”

  He was watching, so he caught the minute stiffening of her posture.

  “Willy turned his back on the family years ago. He’s like the black sheep of the family. I don’t know him and we don’t have any contact with him.”

  “Not even Christmas cards?”

  A snort. “Willy? Christmas cards?”

  “Would Kantor have been in touch with him?”

  “No idea. Next?”

  “Did Kantor have any money problems?”

  “As if I’d know. But does this look like money problems?” She flung her arms wide, teeth flashing. “You know Rollo and I are building Melbourne’s most expensive house? In Toorak. Mick, are we finished?”

  His old police buddy Cap had a saying to cover every situation. Tusk pictured Cap flicking ash from a cigarette: “Whatever you do, leave your boner at home.” Recalling Cap’s advice didn’t help. He was still hard, watching her toss back her hair, staring at her lipstick, smelling her perfume while she paced. Jesus, he thought, that’s what her life’s like. Every bloody male within sniffing distance…

  “Nearly done,” he said. “Tell me about the murder night.”

  She paced. “What’s to say? Rollo came home just after 8:30. I know because I’d just started watching The Drew Carey Show. The cook fixed us dinner and we ate it in front of the TV. Rollo did some work while I read magazines. Then we went to bed, quite early, around eleven o’clock, and we fucked.”