Deadly Investment

by Andres Kabel

  Both of the authors wish to thank their beloved families for their patience during the months spent puzzling over this complex area of modern economics.

  The language suggested strongly that Stan Friedman and Kantor Keppel had been equal partners in the exercise. Peter’s heart raced. Stan Friedman had drowned six months after the conference.

  He rang Giuseppe Marino, got lucky again. Giuseppe was one of the quieter Skulk Club members, but conscientious in keeping in touch. Unlike most of them, he’d married young, and often showed photos of his three daughters. He’d trained as an accountant, but now worked for the Australian Taxation Office, heading a team that investigated companies’ tax bills.

  “Yes, I know what you want, Skull.” Giuseppe’s voice was so soft, Peter had to strain to hear it over the whir and clatter of trams. “Our teams know more about what goes on in these big companies than the regulator. The sniff of evasion, the stench of decaying fortunes—we’re connoisseurs.”

  Peter smiled at the lyricism behind Giuseppe’s job fervor. “Anything on these guys?”

  “Scientific Money isn’t in my area. But I can ask. When do you need this by?”

  Now, Peter thought, I need data now. “As soon as you can, Giuseppe. It’s important.”

  “I’ll try for tomorrow, mate. You’ll owe me lunch. At Blakes.”

  “Done. What do you know about Rollo Keppel’s management team?”

  “Can’t help, Skull. The only one I know is Marcia Brindle, and that’s only because we sit on a committee of the Society of Accountants.”

  Peter jiggled his legs. When would those painkillers kick in? His sore back deserved a glass of red. “What’s she like?”

  “Highly regarded. Very professional, dedicated to improving the standing of accountants in the community. I admire her, Skull.”

  “And personally?”

  “Our relationship isn’t that deep. I’ve found her very pleasant.”

  “Grazia, Giuseppe.”

  “One thing I remember. She mentioned that she’s thinking of starting her own accounting practice. I think she said it to get me interested.”

  “When does she plan this?”

  “She didn’t say. But she’s not young, even in our profession.”

  Establishing your own practice takes capital, Peter thought. Is there a money connection here?

  Tomasina Symons was probably the most highly paid Skulk Club member. Peter crossed Collins to 120, tucked away behind St. Michael’s Church, where Macquarie Bank, one of the most successful Australian investment banks in recent years, occupied a number of floors. It focused on acquiring and keeping the best people. Tomasina was one of its rising stars.

  Peter had to wait fifteen minutes before being ushered into Tomasina’s office, Mick in tow, to find her pacing the room. Her face was lean and intense as a wolf’s.

  “Skull, it’s a bad time to chat. The Renson deal is on the boil, and I stand to lose the plot.”

  Peter tried to stop thinking about food, about Draconi’s food. “Two sec’s, Tom. What’s the gossip on the guys at Scientific Money? Who’s diddling who?”

  “Not much goss, they’re the good guys. We wish they’d crack up, especially with the professor’s death, but that Rollo’s too tough.” She chewed the inside of her cheek. “He should be at Macquarie, y’know. Now piss off.”

  When Peter reached the door, Tomasina grabbed his elbow. Her eyes were dry and hot, as they always were during the climax of a deal.

  “Hey, one thing,” she said in a lowered voice. “That Dancer. I’ve seen him lots of times at Marchetti’s. Drinks a lot.” She saw Peter’s expression. “Yeah, I know, we all do. But this guy’s a serious drinker. Obsessed with money. Used to slag off about Kantor Keppel. I took it as the usual bitch-and-moan, but maybe it’s useful to you.”

  Peter grinned. What had the muscle man said, a waste of time? “Thanks, Tom. Ciao.”

  “No quoting, understand. Go on, piss off and leave me to my heart attack.”

  CHAPTER 22

  Tusk had figured it out long ago. Money and sex were the number one motivators in his book. But fear, as administered by the likes of Bertoli and Marcantonio, came a close third. Fear disabled, fear crippled. He recalled interviewing one witness who’d recanted vital testimony, watching him literally freeze when terror seized his face.

  Fuck, he hated those who traded in fear. And the hatred was knotting his guts.

  Time check—1:01. Back at bloody Draconi’s. He scanned the crowd. No alarm bells. Hector’s mustache, as he delivered plates of pasta, kicked off mental humming. The Beatles, “I am the walrus, coo coo coo choo.”

  “Peter, m’boy,” Hector said. “If you need another mind on this case of yours…”

  Tusk expected sarcasm. Instead, Gentle showed kindness. “Yep, Hec, we’ll call if you can help.”

  “Spare me,” Tusk said, when Hector moved on.

  Gentle chuckled. Chirpy, now that he seemed to have forgotten what those bastards did last night. “Hec misses the courtroom drama.”

  “Okay, run through who you’ve talked to.”

  Gentle’s debriefing, in between gobbling pasta and wine, was shambolic. He rocked on the chair, tugged at hair, drummed fingers. Just like in school—funny then, weird in an adult. Half his interviews had been useless crap, others had been botched. Some interesting tidbits, a handful of unverified motives, that was all.

  Tusk ate as Gentle summarized his Skulk Club discussions. Superb pasta, but nothing could ease that familiar tension coiled in his muscles. The sensation that every fiber was one eye-blink from action.

  What a waste of time, Gentle chatting with all of his yuppie mates, though Tusk had been surprised to find he’d liked most of them. As geeky as Gentle had turned out, Tusk would have bet he’d be a loner, but he seemed to have more friends than you could poke a stick at. Tusk sighed, thought, Where have my mates gone? How many did I ever have?

  “Okay, here’s my yesterday,” he said, flipping notebook pages.

  He stepped through his interviews with exaggerated precision—Strasser, Bella Keppel, Friedman, Willy Keppel, the security guard.

  “Let me summarize—” he began.

  “No, let me.”

  His partner’s chair squeaked as he shunted forward in excitement. The hooded eyes gleamed.

  “Dancer,” Gentle said. “Bright, has no alibi, didn’t get on well with Kantor, maybe a pay dispute, it’s not clear how deep the antipathy. Could be the murderer, but I can’t see a big enough motive.”

  “Brindle. Has no alibi, she’s intelligent, so if she planned a murder you’d expect to see one. No clear motive, but I think she’s nervous about something, maybe it’s related to planning her own accountancy practice.”

  “Friedman. Clear motive, the timing of the anniversary of his brother’s death is a pointer. Could have hidden in the building after meeting the lawyer and gone out through the emergency exit.”

  “Willy Keppel. Sounds real unsavory, hated Kantor, you believe he lied to you. No alibi. Could conceivably have snuck in with another employee and gone out the emergency exit.”

  “Bella Keppel. Could have got in and out, but has no motive, and would have needed to be alibi’d by Rollo.”

  “Rollo. Ditto. A couple of people you spoke to claimed he didn’t like Kantor, but they hate his guts. Mostly I heard that the two brothers were like peas in a pod.”

  Boy Wonder was impressive, no doubt about that. Tusk savored Draconi’s aromas: garlic, bacon, coffee. Watched Gentle pick up a fork and bang it on the table, twist it in his long fingers.

  “That strange email,” Gentle continued. “Five of the six could have signed as B, so it’s not much help. The murder weapon is no help, it’s a common item. In summary, we’ve got six potential suspects. Right now the field is way open. But I believe we’re already doing better than the police.” A breath. “And I still think there’s something funny about Scientific Money and this fiendishly secret formula,
which may or may not be connected with the murder.”

  Tusk bridled at the smugness pasted across the Mick Jagger face.

  “Good job.” Tusk paused for effect. “But let’s face it. You don’t have a clue about human motivation.”

  “And you do?”

  “Don’t get sulky. You want to hear about motives? How about this? Dancer—stiffed by his boss on salary, so smashes him. Brindle was blackmailing Kantor to fund a business and needed to cover up.”

  “What—”

  Tusk held up a hand. “Friedman—we agree there’s a motive, call it psychotic hatred, although actually my instincts say he’s innocent. Willy baby—lifelong hatred. Bella—screwed Kantor and needed to cover up. Rollo—jealousy, boyhood hatred, discovery of infidelity, you name it, there’s a dozen possible motives swilling around.”

  Gentle’s voice soared. “People don’t murder for reasons like that.”

  “They bloody well do, Gentle, and for reasons a lot more trivial.”

  “Crap.”

  “I had one case where a man got mad because his brother wouldn’t let him watch 60 Minutes. Stabbed him with a kitchen knife. People kill for any reason.”

  “Bullshit!”

  The nearby tables had gone quiet. Just in time, Hector banged cups on the table.

  “He’s right, you know,” Hector said. “There’s no motive trivial or base enough.”

  Tusk didn’t know whether to laugh or cry.

  “What is this?” Gentle waved his fork, now twisted out of shape, in the air. “A public debate?”

  “Sorry,” Hector said. “But you were the one making it public.”

  “Are you suggesting Rollo…” Gentle looked around at the suits watching his performance. As he sighed and shook his head, his mobile rang.

  Hector winked at Tusk and was gone.

  “Hi,” Tusk heard Gentle say softly. “No, I’m all right.… Yes, my finger is better.… No no, I’m fine. Listen, any ideas about—… Oh, no problem. I’ll ring.”

  Christ, the coffee was good. Even the noise of the place no longer grated with Tusk. “Mind if I say something?”

  “As if I could stop you.” But Gentle’s tone was light.

  “The key is to push the suspects hard for motives. Probe around their edges. Like you said, the field’s wide open. We don’t need to argue our personal calls on who the murderer is. Let’s get out and about again.”

  Actually, the quickest route now to Kantor’s murderer was through the scumbags hired to frighten Gentle. But Tusk couldn’t raise that possibility.

  Gentle nodded over the rim of his wine glass.

  “Let’s start with Dancer,” Tusk said. “Can you try to get us in to see him?”

  “Sure. Big guy?” For once Gentle’s words didn’t spill out. “Tell me, am I a coward?”

  Probably, Tusk thought. “You’ve got every right to be scared. Those guys are scary. Even to me. Was that a woman on the phone?”

  Gentle’s cheeks bloomed red. “Just a girl I’m trying to date.”

  A girl? A date? What sort of language was that for a thirty-four-year-old? Tusk nearly laughed but he also felt pity. I bet Gentle’s still a virgin, he thought.

  “Keen on her?”

  Another blush. “Yes. She’s lovely. She’s from the country.”

  “So what’s the problem?”

  What was the word to describe Gentle’s face in repose? Tusk had read it in a biography. A naif, that’s what Gentle looked like. A boy in a man’s skin.

  “I guess I’m just not good at… at girls.”

  “Can I give some advice?” Tusk recalled Dana’s eyes in the morning, when she squeezed his arms. He was a charlatan—Christ knows his track record with women was nothing to boast about—but felt compelled to continue. “If you’re keen on her, do whatever it takes. You only get one chance. One chance and that’s that.”

  As with Hector, Tusk expected sarcasm. Again, Gentle surprised him by blinking. “Thanks, big guy.”

  “Two more things. No more farting around with all that theory. Suspects, Gentle, suspects.”

  “You’re just jealous because you’re a moron.”

  Tusk felt the knot in his stomach untie a fraction. “And stop fucking up all the cutlery.”

  The nerd whooped.

  Tusk nearly laughed too. But the thought of Bertoli’s eye-slits tightened his gut again. Under the table his fists clenched. Trembled.

  CHAPTER 23

  “Go away,” a muffled voice said behind the burgundy-colored door. Peter spotted a face peering through the adjacent leadlight window.

  He looked at Mick standing immobile behind him, wondered whether he knew him at all. The big lug had surprised him twice, once with soft words of advice, on love of all things, and again when Dancer’s secretary had said her boss was working from home, Mick had headed straight for the parking garage without a word of consultation.

  Not that the trip took long, just fifteen minutes south of the city. Albert Park, with its streets of terrace houses clustered around one edge of Albert Park Lake and spilling down to the sea, had managed to retain a village feel that kept its residents trendy and its property prices high. Palm trees lined the lake, and on the beachfront rollerbladers competed for space with cyclists. Peter knew the suburb well, Carlo Fonti had lived there for years.

  Peter moved close to the door. “Mr. Dancer, could I please have a word with you?”

  Dancer lived in a freshly painted double-fronted terrace with a green picket fence, in the expensive part of Albert Park, just half a dozen houses from the beach end of Kerferd Road. The terrace stood out, with a false roof frontage and a protruding central arch, the bricks and paintwork an elegant mosaic of colors: oranges, greens, reds, and yellows. Large windows, their blinds drawn, overlooked a crowded garden dominated by a willow tree sighing in the breeze. Sparrows twittered in and out of the shady veranda. A black Porsche gleamed in the parking space out front. Peter marveled at the tang of salt in the air.

  Dancer’s voice squeaked, “I’ve said all I’m going to say to you.”

  “Rollo asked me to speak to you.” Peter looked back and was rewarded by Mick raising eyebrows above his sunglasses.

  Unexpectedly, the lie worked. Locks clicked. Peter nearly gasped at the figure scowling at them from the dark interior. In twenty-four hours Dancer had lost all composure. He wore a rumpled suit—had he slept in it?—and fluffy white slippers. Stubble covered his chin. Bloodshot eyes darted behind askew glasses.

  “Who’s he?” Dancer glared at Mick.

  “Mick Tusk,”—extending a huge paw—“Mr. Gentle’s associate.”

  Dancer seemed about to argue, then shrugged. He led them down a dark hallway to a large modern extension at the rear. Light streamed in through skylights and floor-to-ceiling windows. The kitchen looked down onto black metal-mesh chairs surrounding a glass coffee table. A spindly metal sculpture stood by the wall. They sat down at a large jarrah dining table, a pile of papers and a laptop at one end. A wind chime tinkled outside.

  “Make it snappy.” Dancer’s shoulders were hunched. “I’ve got work to do.”

  “Mr. Dancer,” Mick said, removing his sunglasses, “this will only take a couple of minutes. First, your movements on the night of the murder.”

  The cheeky sod! Peter glanced at his partner to find out why he’d commandeered the interview, but his face was set in its customary mask.

  “I’ve already told the police,” Dancer said, “that I had nothing to do with the murder. I just went home like any other day. Apparently around the time of the murder, or so the police say, but that’s just a coincidence.”

  Mick’s deep voice soothed. “When did you last see Kantor?”

  “A couple of hours before I left.” Peter noticed white flecks around Dancer’s lips.

  “Did you speak to him?”

  “No, I just passed his office.”

  “Anything seem out of the ordinary?”

  “Not at all.
Kantor was contemplating infinity as usual.”

  “What was your disagreement with him about?”

  Dancer blinked. “What disagreement?”

  Peter jumped at a tremendous thunderclap as Mick slapped his hands on the table and rose as if hinged. Dancer skittled backward in his chair.

  “Utter crap, Dancer.” All civility had disappeared from the voice snapping in the air. “Everyone in the office knows about it. Come clean, mate, or I’ll—”

  “Okay, okay.” Dancer raised his hands and peered through his fingers. “It’s so… so minor. I thought he was holding down my salary below where the market had gone. I reckon I should have a 30 percent increase. We quarreled, okay? But it was nothing, nothing.”

  In the heat of the morning’s hunt, the previous night had faded in Peter’s mind. Now he tasted acrid fear as he watched a tic throbbing in his partner’s neck.

  “You were a member of his fan club?” Mick cracked his knuckles, making Dancer twitch. “Come on, mate.”

  “It’s true. Just an office squabble.”

  Mick pounded the table again. Startled, a seagull flew off the back fence.

  “Your face says it all. You hated him.”

  “No way.”

  “The truth, Mr. Dancer mate, or I’ll really lose my temper.”

  Peter stared aghast. Mick’s arms, planted on the table, strained.

  Dancer panted. “Okay, man. Okay.”

  The wave of rage in the room cooled, slightly.

  “Okay, I didn’t like the prick.” Dancer blew his nose. “Genius this, genius that, that’s all I ever heard, but when it came to treating me right, he was a real arsehole. But I didn’t kill him.”

  Mick had been right, Peter thought, Dancer did have a reason to kill.

  “Why not?” Mick said. “You’d never have gotten the raise you deserved with him around.”

  “If I killed everyone who’s screwed me out of my just rewards over the years, I’d be a serial killer by now.” Dancer pushed his glasses back up his nose. He looked cockier. “Are we all done then, gentlemen?”