Deadly Investment

by Andres Kabel

  “You know better than that,” Deirdre said. “No champagne on the horizon, but.”

  “Any good leads? Besides the druggie crap?”

  Deirdre drove silently. A heavy weariness settled onto Peter’s limbs.

  “Come on, Dee,” Mick said. “How can it harm the case? I’m just interested—anything major cropped up?”

  “Shut up, Mick.”

  “What’s going to happen to us?” Peter blurted. He felt, rather than saw, the sunglasses swivel to look at him. He stared pointedly at the trees overhanging St. Kilda Road.

  “You’re being taken in for questioning,” Deirdre said, “in connection with a homicide.”

  “Come on, Dee, that’s not right,” Mick said. “We’re not murder suspects, for Christ’s sake.”

  Peter heard Mick’s whisper in his ear. “Let me handle this, Gentle.”

  “No, I won’t.” Peter’s voice roared in the enclosed space. He wished he could be somewhere else. Anywhere else. He felt nothing but revulsion. Mick was crazy, nothing else could be said, Peter’s partner was a bloody lunatic.

  ***

  “So how long did you spend at Dancer’s place?” Mixton’s hands were creased brown.

  “Maybe half an hour,” Peter said.

  He’d told everything, though his background work on Scientific Money hadn’t elicited any interest at all. His head swam. The interrogation room was stifling. A table with a tape recorder, two chairs, fluorescent lights, bare wall, the sneering policeman, and himself—that defined his world.

  He’d barely had time to speak to Mick, sitting on a bench in the noisy police hall, before they’d been separated.

  “Take these.” The big man had handed Peter his dose of painkillers. Mick’s sunglasses rested on his knees, his baby blue eyes had rings around them.

  “What if I hadn’t been there?” Peter hissed. “What if you’d killed him? Would you be walking around playing the cool man, cracking jokes? Don’t you care about what you’ve done?”

  “What do you know?”

  All Peter’s confusion had crowded in on him. “We need to talk about this.”

  Mick had passed a huge hand slowly across his face. The face that emerged looked haggard.

  “Yeah. Talk,” Mick said, almost a whisper.

  Deirdre walked toward them.

  Mick had straightened. The sunglasses slid on again. “Take heart, mate. You’ve done nothing wrong.”

  An hour had passed since then, an hour locked in this coop with this revolting policeman.

  Mixton leaned forward, hot eyes within touching distance. “Did you hit Dancer to help him talk?”

  “Of course not.”

  “Come on, you threatened him.”

  “No.” Not really a lie.

  “Tusk did, then.”

  “No. Look, you don’t understand. We’re just investigators, violence is not our—”

  “The hell it isn’t, Gentle,” Mixton shouted, baring yellow teeth. “That Marcantonio, he’ll be in hospital for a month. Don’t come the choirboy with me, sonny.”

  “I’m not—”

  “Come on, come on. Tell me. Which one of you did it?”

  Fear rose in Peter’s gorge. “Did what?”

  “Come on, you think the psycho will protect you?” Mixton roared. “He’s singing right now.”

  “What do you want? I’m just an actuary.”

  “Is this how you threatened Dancer?” Mixton threw a photograph onto the table.

  Peter looked down. Benedict Dancer lay on his back, something dark around his neck, his tongue protruding.

  “Oh no,” he said. It couldn’t be. He lurched to his feet and spewed up coffee from deep in his stomach.

  “You don’t think I had anything to do with this, do you?” he shouted.

  “His girlfriend places you two at his home,” Mixton said, his voice flat and hard.

  “How could you think I’d have anything to do with this? It’s inhuman.”

  Mixton sneered. “You’re telling me.”

  Peter rested his whamming head on the table. He heard Mixton terminating the interview into the tape recorder. The door shut.

  He slumped in sad silence. And he knew, without verbalizing it, what he was mourning. His innocence, that’s what the world had just stripped from him.

  ***

  Two hours later, Peter was led out of the reeking room by Constable Lasker.

  “Where are we going?” Peter felt woozy with exhaustion. Dancer’s death made no sense—why was he killed?

  “To stay the night.” Deirdre looked fresher than ever.

  “A suite or an ordinary room?”

  They went past the now-quiet cubicles, through a side door into a dimly lit area containing a desk and three cells, bars floor to ceiling. Peter’s heart fell yet again. The bars looked so strong and cold, a damp odor of bodies and dust assailed him. Deirdre held open a cell door.

  Mick sat on one of the beds, sunglasses resting beside him. His bulk seemed to fill the cell and, except for the extreme paleness of his face, he looked untroubled. The cell door clanged shut and Peter heard Deirdre leave.

  “Who interviewed you?” Mick asked.

  “Detective Mixton.”

  “Good old Larry.” Mick rubbed his eyes. “Sorry you had to endure him. He’s… he’s…”

  “A scumbag?”

  A wan smile flickered on Mick’s face. “Yeah, good choice of words.”

  “What about you?” Peter yawned until his cheekbones ached.

  “Sam Vinci himself. Is interview the right word? Mainly he yelled at me.”

  “But we found some useful clues.” Springs creaked when Peter sat down on the other bed. He saw a man lying in the adjacent cell.

  “Sam doesn’t think so. Or at least he won’t admit it. Guess they told you about Dancer.”

  “I can’t get over it, we must have been one of the last people to see him alive.”

  Mick massaged his cheeks, and Peter realized that Mick was also exhausted.

  “You see now that this is no intellectual puzzle?” Mick said.

  Peter’s gut churned with precipitate anger. He was sick of the whole damn thing. The killings, the beatings, the police, and especially Mick bloody Tusk.

  “Well, what I can see is why they kicked you out.” His voice rang through the cell and the man next door raised bleary eyes. “I’m amazed they didn’t do it earlier, if that’s how you carried out your work.”

  “Fuck you.”

  “Typical response.” Peter spat scorn. “And if I keep at you, you’ll throttle me, is that it?”

  Peter’s face burned. He braced for a heated response, but Mick swung his legs up and lay staring at the ceiling. The only sounds were Peter’s heaving breath and snores from the man next door. When Mick spoke, his voice was little more than an exhaled whisper.

  “I’m sorry.”

  “Sorry?”

  “Yeah.” A pause. “I’m sorry you landed here. Sorry to stuff up your work.” Mick’s chest rose and fell. “I’m sorry about Marcantonio. Sort of. If I could do it over, I would.”

  Mick rolled over onto his side, his back to Peter.

  “But why—?”

  “Go to sleep,” came the deep voice.

  Peter sat stunned, his thoughts awash. I missed the point, he thought. I thought I knew Mick, just because we hung out together fifteen years ago, because he still looks the same robust giant. So the first time he baffles me, I judge him. And judge wrong.

  Moods were Peter’s specialty. His own moods soared and sagged like ocean waves. He often felt at the whim of them, but he’d assumed Mick to be exempt from such capriciousness. Jesus, the man seemed to be one hundred percent control.

  That crazy rage in Fitzroy—Mick hadn’t been able to restrain himself.

  He looked at the still figure lying just meters away, nearly moved to shake it awake and offer an apology. Instead he lay down himself and let fatigue instantly seize him, like a heavy bla
nket snuffing out his whirlwind thoughts.

  CHAPTER 26

  Tighten and lift, exhaling. Loosen and drop, inhaling. Sweat pooled in Tusk’s belly button. One hundred, one hundred and one…

  He heard stirring from Gentle’s cell bed. A creased face rose to watch Tusk.

  “Morning,” Tusk grunted between sit-ups.

  Funny how the mind worked. While he’d lain in bed, body at rest but brain stewing, the accompaniment had been an old song he’d never owned or even liked. A wild track by Humble Pie: “Thirty Days in the Hole.” Stevie Marriott, before drunkenly succumbing in a hotel fire, his voice perilously high, lamenting his incarceration. That’s what I deserve, Tusk thought, thirty days in the hole. Thirty bloody years, more like it.

  The outside door flew open. Mixton scowled. Vinci dragged on a cigarette, suit jacket on, bright white shirt, and of all things a tie with blue elephants. Freshfaced, as if he hadn’t spent the night slaving at the case Tusk knew was driving him crazy.

  Mixton unlocked the cell door.

  Vinci tapped cigarette ash onto the floor. “Come on, arseholes, out of here.”

  The Brainiac leapt from his bed. “What, you’re letting us go?”

  “Investigation pending.” Vinci shook his head as if at a simpleton. “I’d like to lock the pair of you up till Christmas, but it’d be a waste of cell space.”

  Tusk closed his eyes. Chest rising rhythmically. Concrete floor pressing into his back. Images of Yolanda and Nelson. Dana… last night their phone conversation had been short.

  Tusk: “Won’t be home tonight. Guest of the Force. Don’t worry.”

  Silence.

  Dana: “Oh Mikey, what—”

  Tusk: “Just a turf matter. No problem. Really.”

  Dana: “You okay?”

  Tusk: “Fine. Be home lunchtime tomorrow. Better go. Love you.”

  Dana: “Mikey, love you.”

  So much unsaid, left to be said later. Now Vinci swung his hawk’s face down toward Tusk. “You’re bloody lucky Marcantonio won’t talk. He’ll be lying in hospital for, what, another fortnight, and he won’t let us press. The fuck’s going on here?” Prowling the room, smoking, his black eyes never leaving Tusk’s. “But I’m onto you, Ivory, and if you interfere with this investigation again, I’ll fuck you over so hard you’ll never see daylight. So ditch this schmuck. Go home. Play ordinary citizen again. Hear?”

  Tusk curled, stood up. “Who killed Dancer then?”

  Vinci shook his head again, blew a smoke ring in their direction, wheeled out of the room.

  “Isn’t it great, big guy?” Gentle said.

  “They’ve nothing to hold us on. We only spent the night here to intimidate us.”

  Tusk flexed hands and arms. No time now to complete a full routine, but he felt physically refreshed. In need of a shower, but otherwise nothing that a run wouldn’t fix. A run wouldn’t be enough for Gentle—the nerd looked rumpled and unhealthy. Tusk recalled last night’s hot words, felt a weight settle on his shoulders.

  Time check—7:30 on a Friday morning. The cubicles outside were mostly empty. A policewoman looked up from her screen and yawned. Tusk halted, stared toward his old cubicle by the window.

  “Nostalgia, eh?” A smile on Mixton’s leathery face.

  “Fuck off.”

  Mixton led them to a desk to sign for their belongings.

  “Remember, sonny,” Mixton said to Gentle. “You haven’t got a license. Next time—”

  “Larry—” Tusk’s words were cut short by the phone.

  Mixton’s eyes darted while he listened. After the short call his smile widened.

  “Before you go,” he said, “the boss wants to see you.”

  Tusk shrugged at Gentle’s look of bafflement. Did Sam want to blast them some more? They followed Mixton to the elevators, up to the top floor, and Tusk knew this wasn’t Vinci they were going to see.

  On the executive floor, quiet offices contrasted with normal copper chaos. The look was shabby, like a run-down corporation. Mixton opened a door with frosted glass. A tall bony man looked up from his desk.

  “Gentlemen,” he said, coming to them with extended hand. “Ted Peacock.”

  In his twelve years in the Force, Tusk had never been in this office, had only met Deputy Commissioner Peacock once, though the face was familiar from a hundred staff magazine shots. In his office, Peacock looked more like a politician than a policeman. Late fifties, not gone to fat like most older cops. Graying black hair combed sideways. Face bumpy and worn, deep vertical furrows in his brow. Brown suit. Blue eyes boring into Gentle from behind wide, awkward-looking glasses.

  “So you’re Trevor Gentle’s boy.” Peacock’s voice was like honey. “You say hello to him from Big Ted.”

  Gentle looked like shit. Suit crumpled like a tea towel, shoes scuffed. White flecks crusting his lips. Eyes puffy under hair like tangled briar. Unease percolated in Tusk’s stomach—the expression in those eyes was familiar from school days.

  Peacock turned to Tusk. “Son, pleased to see you again. Miss the Force?”

  “Yes, sir.” Reflex deference, but Tusk did feel respect. Big Ted was a legend, a cop’s cop. Decorated for bravery, an incredible success rate in Homicide.

  When they all sat down, the Deputy Commissioner began to push his glasses up his nose, then down again, like a puppy worrying at a toy.

  “I won’t beat around the bush, boys,” he said. “I support the idea of the private sector keeping us on our toes, don’t get me wrong. But this case has its special features.”

  Tusk wasn’t surprised when Gentle leaned forward like a stooped mantis to interrupt. “It’s a particularly nasty case. Two people are dead already.”

  “You boys know how important Scientific Money is to the fabric of this community? I’m on the Melbourne Major Projects Committee. The Mayor has made it clear that Rollo and his band of brilliant people are part of a major push to bring investment capital into this city.”

  Gentle’s voice rose. “So this is a particularly important case to solve?”

  “But in a sensitive manner. Now, I’ve had calls complaining about your probing, boys, and I’d like to ask you to give the police a free run at this case first. Say for the next month. And then if there’s no resolution, why then you two can get into it.”

  “But we can’t stop, Mr. Peacock.” Tusk caught a whiff of Gentle’s rank stench when his partner shifted in his chair. “We have a client.”

  “That woman.” Peacock took off his glasses, examined them as if they were rocks from outer space. “This is important, young man.”

  “So is our client.”

  “And what do you say, Tusk?” Peacock’s voice had sharpened, almost to a parade ground bark.

  “We’ve already given Sam’s team new information,” Tusk said.

  “Snippets.”

  “The fact that Rollo’s related to Sergio Scaffidi is a snippet?”

  “Snippets that Vinci and his fellers would have found anyway. And in the meantime, you’re stirring up a storm here.”

  The second-most powerful policeman in Victoria looked each of them in the eye.

  “You’ve heard me, boys,” he said. “I’ve asked you to cooperate, lay off until the proper authorities solve this. What more can I say?”

  “You can say what you mean,” Gentle said. “You’re pressuring us to walk away from our client and our livelihood. I’m afraid that’s not possible. Mick?”

  Gentle jerked from his chair, strode to the door, Tusk trailing. Behind them, the Deputy Commissioner’s voice remained level. “Boys, do what you have to do.”

  Mixton was twirling a toothpick in his mouth. His eyes bulged as they swept past. “What’s going on?”

  The elevator pinged. Tusk had to give the geek credit. Gentle tossed his hair back, lifted his shoulders, as similar to Mick Jagger as he’d ever look. Smiled at slob cop Mixton.

  “Time to get back to work.”

  CHAPTER 27

>   One breakfast during twelve-year-old Peter’s first summer break after entering Mont Albert Grammar, his father handed him a hardcover book without a dust jacket. Its spine was beginning to crack, loose pages stuck out, and it smelled like his grandparents’ bookshelf.

  He hadn’t even been aware that Dad read books. The policeman was the busiest father among all his friends, forever out of the house, on the job.

  Peter found the book challenging at first. He’d never heard of the author Emile Zola, but read in the foreword that he was a French writer from the turn of the century, which explained the archaic style. But as he read, something about the book gripped him.

  The story itself was exciting, a tale of the anti-Semitic incarceration of Alfred Dreyfus, imprisoned on Devil’s Island upon being wrongfully accused of spying. Zola, a distinguished man of letters, took up the case. In the book’s rousing finale, his passionate cry, “J’accuse,” echoed through the French courts and freed Dreyfus.

  Peter read outside, sheltering from the summer sun under their gnarled apple tree. He skipped lunch and read through the afternoon on his bed. His mother insisted he eat dinner, but afterwards he threw himself back on the bed. When he finally snapped the book shut, sending dust up into his nostrils, he felt his mind and heart beating as one.

  After his mother tucked him in, he lay awake for hours. When he heard his father’s car pull into the driveway, way past midnight, he ran down the hall.

  He hugged the tired man. “Thanks, Dad.”

  “What’s it saying, Peter?”

  “Justice.”

  The word rolled across his tongue like a slick marble.

  ***

  On the dappled footpath outside Homicide, the cool air on Peter’s cheeks felt like freedom. The leafy boulevard of St. Kilda Road curved in both directions, encasing the passing cars in autumn reds and browns, yellows and greens. He lifted his face to catch the sun pouring through a gap in the clouds. When the memory of his father’s face appeared in front of him, vivid as his fatherly memories inevitably were, he closed his eyes.

  “It’s good to be out. Eh, big guy?”