Deadly Investment

by Andres Kabel

  Beside him, Mick balanced on the balls of his feet. His pale face was smudged, his blond stubble hair looked greasy, and his jacket showed a rip down one arm. But his back was ramrod straight once more.

  “You think that was smart, back there?” Mick’s voice sounded tired. “You know Big Ted’s one of the greatest policemen we’ve had? And you just walked out on him.”

  “It surprised me too.” Peter grinned. “But I meant it all. We’ve been hired to do a job.”

  A green and yellow tram pulled up, its doors thudding open. They sat at the back, away from the few passengers. Peter’s broken finger throbbed and he looked with distaste at the filthy bandage. He organised his thoughts.

  “Look, I’m sorry,” Peter said.

  The tram clattered over an intersection. Peter couldn’t decipher Mick’s eyes staring out the window.

  “It was all too much for me, the whole thing. I shouldn’t have said… When was the last time you heard me apologize?”

  “You reckon they should erect a plaque?” No smile, but.

  “Mick, the one thing to discuss,” Peter said, trying to ease his way into the question, but failing, “is… what happened there with Marcantonio? I was wrong to slam you about it, but I’ve got to know more.”

  Mick took off his sunglasses. The hurt in the depths of his eyes pierced Peter. “No need. I’m not going on.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I quit.”

  “You gave me five days. You promised.”

  Mick grabbed his arm. “Stop shouting. Let’s get off.”

  They sat on the moat wall in the shadow of the long, solemn gray shape of the National Gallery. Later in the day, a constant stream of people would stroll from the city to marvel at the water pouring down the central window, but now the building was still. Away from the sun, the air felt chilled.

  Peter restrained himself from yelling. His feet beat a tattoo on the concrete. He was engulfed by a jumble of thoughts: How can I continue without him? What if I’m attacked? The license—the idea was for Mick to “train” me, how can I get a license now? How can he pull out when we’re making progress?

  “You can’t quit.”

  “The fuck I can’t.”

  “But—”

  “Just listen. For once.”

  Sparrows chattered in the roadside elms. Mick’s face sagged, like the loosening of a grip. “You’re right to be pissed at me for what I did yesterday.” He spread his hands open. “I’ve always been a fighter, Gentle. You know that. After Mont Albert Grammar, there were years when that’s all I was, two fists. Then I became a copper. I saw what I’d been. I reformed, big time. No more violence for its own sake. For years. But a couple of years ago, this… this thing happened to me.”

  The pain in Mick’s voice was so palpable, Peter touched Mick’s knee, fleetingly.

  “Something changed.” Mick’s voice quickened. “I got emotional about some of my cases. Felt for the victims. I came to hate some crims, the worst ones, the organized gangs. Christ, I hate the Scaffidis of this world. He’s evil, pure and simple, there’s nothing he won’t do. And scum like Marcantonio… a bag of shit, preying on the innocent.”

  “Why—”

  “No, listen.” Mick pressed the heels of his hands into his eyes. “See, I’ve figured out what happens. It’s a cycle, over and over. I come across a Marcantonio, my blood boils. I tell myself to cool it, remember what happened last time? But part of me says bugger it, why play by the rules, give it to the cunt. And this tension builds up, between the control I know I should exercise and this… abandon. It almost feels delicious.”

  The worn wheels of a tram clanked rhythmically past them.

  “And then something triggers me, I can hear the voice, saying fuck it. Like snap. It’s frightening, as if I’m berserk. Must be what happens to people in war, blood-crazy. When I come to, I can’t bear to see what I’ve done. Feel like the earth could swallow me. Then I swear it’ll never happen again. See? A cycle, over and over.”

  Mick folded arms across his chest, squeezing. “Only way to beat the cycle, steer clear of the Marcantonios. I thought this case would be different…”

  Mick’s eyes were wide, like a child’s, and Peter felt tears behind his own eyes.

  Mick slapped his leg. “Christ, see what you’ve done? No, not fair. Tell me, Gentle, how can I be a dad to my kids when I just lose it like the worst murderer?”

  “Did they try to do anything about it in the Police?”

  “Nah. You’re just expected to do your job. I’m not the only one, in fact there are worse ones than me. I’m just obvious—Christ, you saw me, how could anyone miss it?”

  Peter waited until a white-haired woman walked by. He felt like a fool.

  “Look, Mick, we can make sure it won’t happen again.” Peter heard pleading in his voice. “Together. Got that? I can help. God knows I need your assistance, this is a business I’m no good at. But I can help you too. I mean, we can talk about it. That’s something, isn’t it?”

  Mick nodded. “You know, you’re only the second person I’ve told. Dana knows, she knows the whole sorry shit. And we agreed, she and I, the only way is to try to leave that world behind.”

  Without warning, Mick put on his sunglasses and stood up to walk toward the city, past the Arts Centre spire, effortlessly overtaking commuters heading to their offices. Peter struggled to catch up.

  “No,” he said, grabbing Mick’s jacket sleeve. Mick didn’t even slow down. Peter ran in front, shoved his hands into Mick’s chest. It felt like trying to halt a bus, but it worked. They stood on Princes Bridge, overlooking the slow river. Peter saw triangular wakes behind canoes, the ugly disc of the Casino in the distance, Melbourne’s humpbacked skyline.

  “I won’t let you off the hook.” Peter’s voice caught with desperation. “You promised me five days and you’ve only given me two. You promised me, big guy.”

  “I’m breaking that promise.” Mick raised his hand, as if to pitch Peter aside.

  “You’re going to let that monster go free?” Peter threw his arms up in exasperation. “Fine, go ahead. Walk. See if I care. But the police won’t catch him.”

  An elderly couple paused to watch.

  “Justice,” Peter cried. “That’s what we’re talking about here. The right of every human being.”

  He saw hesitation.

  “Justice for Kantor Keppel. Mick, he was a good man, one of those innocents you talked about. What about Dancer, that scared man we bullied yesterday?”

  He was close enough to hear air hiss in and out of Mick’s nostrils.

  “And I can’t do it on my own!” Peter yelled.

  A seagull wheeled overhead. Trams hummed past. He watched Mick stand still as a mannequin, hand raised.

  Then the barrel chest sighed.

  “Okay.”

  Nothing more. Just one word that sent a shiver up Peter’s spine and a mad smile across his face.

  “You crazy bastard,” he cried.

  Then he flung his arms around a startled Mick and hugged him, for once feeling his solid analytical heart crack and mend, all in one instant. He laughed and shook his tears off the bridge into the Yarra River, fount of all Melbourne’s magic and mystery. And lo and behold, Mick was staring down the river also, sunglasses off, tears glistening in the corners of his eyes, a rare and beatific smile gracing his face.

  CHAPTER 28

  Hector stopped mid-stride, plates in hands, nostrils flared to sniff Peter. “A difficult interview?”

  We’re back on the job, Peter thought, even if we look and smell like tramps. He gulped down his glass of wine. He savored the odors of buttermilk and bacon steaming off their heaped pancakes, the soft comfort of the booth, the hubbub, but mostly he savored his own jubilant mood.

  “First time, Hec,” he said, grinning as he turned on an American accent. “In the slammer.”

  The restaurateur’s mustache quivered. Peter was saved from further explanation by
his mobile ringing.

  Bishop’s voice was clipped. “No time for your update call?”

  “We were otherwise engaged,” Peter said, taking pleasure in the ensuing silence. He summarized the events of the previous day and night.

  “Dancer’s death is connected?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Surely. Ring again today.”

  Draconi’s was packed with the late breakfast crowd, calling greetings, rustling newspapers. Peter poured maple syrup until his plate swam in it, noting that Mick skipped syrup altogether. The first mouthful tasted like nectar of the gods.

  “Remember going through the suspects?” Peter said. Less than twenty-four hours ago, he thought.

  “Sure.”

  “Well, nothing’s changed in our assessments—”

  “—except Dancer’s eliminated himself by getting strangled.”

  “Be serious. As you said, we need to do another round of interviews. In addition, we need to check alibis for yesterday afternoon. And this Scaffidi character. How can we find out about him?”

  “I’ve got some feelers out,” Mick said. “Let me try something else.”

  Peter wolfed down his meal while Mick dialed and turned away to speak softly. By the time he’d finished the call, he was smiling. “I’ve got lunch later with Constable Deirdre Lasker. I’ll see what the police have got on Scaffidi.”

  Peter couldn’t help himself. “Lunch where? What’s your connection with her?”

  “We went out together once upon a time.” Mick forked a pancake. “Before Dana, that is. I’m going to meet the constable here.”

  “Here? At Draconi’s? I thought you despised the place.”

  Mick’s face twitched. “It grows on you.”

  Peter felt better with the meal inside him. In fact he felt great. Sleep on the hard cell bed had proved surprisingly refreshing. He drummed fingers on the table while he rang Marcia Brindle at work. Her secretary informed him that Marcia was at meetings all day.

  Though his own mobile was wrecked, messages had queued up on that number. A day-old message from Giuseppe Marino: “Skull, I’ve managed to exceed all your expectations. A senior manager with APRA is in town for a seminar. Friday 6:45 PM at the Sofitel. We have ignition, my friend. Ciao.”

  He rang Giuseppe’s secretary to confirm and rubbed his hands in triumph—APRA, the Australian Prudential Regulatory Authority, was the regulator of the funds management industry.

  His father, who must have forgotten which mobile to ring, had rung an hour ago: “Son, I’ve had six phone calls about you. Ring your old Dad as soon as you can. And—” Peter listened to the silence, “—take care, Peter.”

  He rang Mika to confirm the eleven o’clock meeting with Rollo, and to give her his new mobile number. She told him Rollo wanted to meet at home, not in the office, and then proceeded to enumerate Rollo’s virtues.

  “Please don’t believe any rumors,” she said.

  Peter remembered her attitude. “Miss Hashimoto, data, analysis, conclusions, that’s what I believe in.”

  He rang Weiqing Chang, heard out the Chinaman wailing about Dancer’s death.

  “I wonder if you can give me a hand,” Peter said.

  “Anything, Mr. Gentle.”

  “I’d like to check out the detailed investment system. It would only take—”

  Chang had hung up. When Peter rang back, one of the traders answered; Chang was in a meeting.

  He rang The Island and was startled to catch Imogen crying.

  “Those animals,” she said. “Questioning me on the day of my husband’s funeral.” Sobs. “I remember this man Dancer. Does his death have anything to do with my husband’s?”

  “Maybe. Mrs. Keppel, is Straw under treatment?”

  Silence. “I don’t understand the relevance of this.”

  “It’s just routine, Mrs. Keppel, but I’ve had a few people talk about Straw and her closeness with your husband. I’m interested.”

  His words had the right effect.

  “Very well, young man. No, Straw is not currently under treatment. She was for many years, but now her condition is at equilibrium.” A pause. “Do you know why we named her Straw?”

  “Why?”

  “When she was born she had a shock of hair the color of a haystack. She was a beautiful baby, Mr. Gentle.”

  “The marriage episode must have been difficult for you.”

  Another pause. “Your research is thorough, Mr. Gentle. Yes, I must agree. I think that was the worst day of my life.”

  Until now, Peter thought. “Have you kept in touch with Straw’s fiancé?”

  “Good heavens, no. He was the worst kind of ingrate. I only wish he would disappear from the news.”

  “The news?”

  “Don’t you read the sports pages? Magnus Jones is a star player in football.”

  “Of course I know him,” Mick said after Peter had fielded another round of Imogen’s complaints about progress. “Plays for Essendon.”

  Peter ordered more coffee for both of them, and another glass of wine—Bin 407, he deserved some good stuff—while Mick rang Bella Keppel, without luck, then Robert Friedman’s office. Peter thought of the case’s success fee, imagined depositing the check, ground his teeth. They had to keep pushing. His mind whizzed through all the permutations of suspects and clues, again seeking a path through the maze.

  “I’ve made our meeting with Friedman on Sunday.” Mick stretched, a lazy, long motion that was infectious. Peter rubbed his eyes and also stretched. They smiled.

  Hector delivered Peter’s wine and their coffees. To Peter’s surprise, Mick summarized the previous twenty-four hours. Hector shook his head.

  “Can you handle this?” Hector spoke to Mick, and Peter felt a burst of jealousy.

  The big man rubbed his knuckles, looked at Peter. “Yeah, I can handle this.”

  “And you,” Hector said to Peter. “You’ve done the analysis?”

  “Sort of. Hec, what’s justice?”

  Peter had surprised himself with the question, but the response was immediate. Hector dragged a chair across from a nearby table and straddled it. His voice lost its restaurant bark, took on a mellow softness.

  “There are technical definitions, Peter, but I always used a simpler outlook. To me, justice means protection of people’s fundamental rights and the punishment of the wicked. Two sides of the coin—one helping those who need it, the other catching up with those who abuse.”

  “What about the means of obtaining justice, Hec?” It was a strange tableau, Peter reflected. The old judge wearing an apron, the intellectual with his bandaged finger, the ex-cop smeared with blood. “Can you justify, say, killing a very bad person?”

  “That’s the tricky part,” Hector said. “Of course, there’s a legal answer to your question—the law defines what you can’t do. But at a more fundamental level it’s really tough. If that assassination attempt on Hitler had been successful, who wouldn’t say that was a fine thing? I’ve seen some terrible people, as have you, m’boy,”—looking at Mick, who nodded—“and I’ve sometimes thought if they were gone, the world would be a better place. But if we let the vigilantes have their way, society would be in chaos. I guess where I come from is that everyone, even the worst human specimen, has rights.”

  Hector stood up, pushing back his shoulders as if his sermon had invigorated him. “Sure appreciate being asked to help.”

  “I didn’t need the morality lesson,” Mick said after Hector had gone. But he didn’t seem angry. “I know what I did yesterday doesn’t stack up.”

  “Hey,” Peter said. “That wasn’t for you. It was for me.”

  The chair squeaked when he stood up.

  “Time to go, podner,” he said, and was rewarded by a faint smile, just as his mobile rang.

  “Gentle?” The sibilant, tender voice turned Peter’s bowels to ice. He gestured wildly to Mick, who was listening at his side in one smooth motion.

  “Yes,�
�� Peter whispered.

  “No playing detective, I said.”

  The phone went dead. Peter swallowed.

  “How the hell did he get my mobile number?” he said. People looked up from the bar. He’d yelled. His legs nearly buckled.

  “Good question.”

  The mobile rang again. It shook in Peter’s hand. Mick snatched it from him.

  “Listen, you sack of…” Mick said, then held the mobile to Peter’s ear. It was silent, apart from a wash of gently driving guitars and keyboards. The line went dead.

  “The Cure,” Mick said.

  “Goth?”

  Mick nodded.

  Straw was the least of Peter’s concerns. “Have you heard Bertoli’s voice before? Was that him?”

  Mick nodded, just once, and Peter saw his eyes tighten. “That was him. But he won’t try anything with me around.”

  God help him if he does, Peter thought, casting his mind back to the Fitzroy carnage, watching Mick’s face intensify.

  ***

  “Rambo’s not coming in.”

  Rollo Keppel directed the words from his penthouse door at Peter, but the blue eyes drilled Mick. He wore a black pinstripe with a tartan tie, and seemed to Peter as effortlessly in charge as ever, though his face was somber.

  “No problem, Mr. Keppel,” Peter said.

  Mick folded his arms. “No problem, Mr. Gentle.”

  Smart-arse, Peter thought

  Inside, he gaped at the vast expanse of room. He considered his own apartment stylish, but it was a cramped attic compared to the Keppels’ sweep and grandeur. Kenny G purred from huge speakers.

  “Not bad for a migrant’s son,” Rollo said, pouring two glasses of white wine. “I remember my father waking me in the dark. I did a paper run. We lived in Northcote, felt like the end of the earth then. Kantor would do my homework, even had my handwriting down pat.”

  Peter recalled the drunken eulogy rehearsal on the phone. The funeral must be later today, he thought. The wine was magnificent. Ease off, he told himself, my third glass before lunchtime.

  He sank into a leather chair. He’d attempted to clean himself up in the restroom at Draconi’s, but next to Rollo’s faint aftershave, redolent of pine, he smelled his own rankness. But if Rollo noticed his odor, or his tangled hair, or his creased suit, the chief executive showed no sign of it. Peter marveled that a man whose staffer had just been garotted, whose brother had been murdered a week ago, whose empire was under the microscope, seemed to have all the time in the world for Peter Gentle.