Deadly Investment

by Andres Kabel

  “Inspector Vinci has only just left.” The skin on Rollo’s patrician nose was flaking, Peter saw. “Such tragic news about Benedict… I can’t believe it. His wife had to be sedated. I worked with Benedict for eight years, you know. A talented, fine man.”

  “Do you know anyone with a grudge against him, Mr. Keppel?”

  “Not at work. Vinci told me they found some strange sex paraphernalia in a closet. He’s hypothesizing a sexual motive.”

  Any respect Peter had for Vinci evaporated. “Surely the two murders are connected?”

  “Not according to the police. The Inspector thinks the methods reveal two different murderers.” Rollo offered a shrug. He gestured at Peter’s bandage. “And he tells me you’ve been in the wars.”

  The soft voice on the phone came back to Peter. “Nothing to worry about, it goes with the job. Tell me about Sergio Scaffidi.”

  Peter saw Rollo’s lips tighten. “He’s my brother-in-law.” What a recovery, Peter thought. “Why on earth do you ask?”

  “His name has come up. Do you know him well?”

  “Hardly at all. Bella is actually his half-sister, they’ve never been close. Can I ask the point?”

  “Don’t you know what he does, Mr. Keppel?” Peter’s fingers began a dance on his knees. “He’s a criminal, a gangster.”

  Rollo’s look was quizzical. “Yes, I’m aware there’s something unsavory about him. But listen, Peter, I don’t know the man. Unless you think this… criminal has begun killing my relatives and colleagues, I can’t see where this conversation is leading us.”

  “Who inherits if you die, Mr. Keppel?”

  “For God’s sake, cut out the Mr. Keppel. And that’s none of your business.”

  “The restricted computer area—”

  “No.”

  The finality in Rollo’s voice jarred Peter. He inhaled the aroma of his wine, resisted sipping. “You signed emails to Kantor with a B.”

  “So I did.” Rollo shook his head. “So what?”

  “Did you write the email Kantor received on the day of his death?”

  “What email?” Rollo’s confusion seemed genuine.

  Peter tried another of the questions Mick had drummed into him. “When did you see Willy last?”

  “My God, what the… years and years ago.”

  “Have the police questioned you about your movements yesterday?”

  Rollo smiled for the first time. “Peter, you’re really not very good at this, are you? Now you suspect me of strangling poor old Benedict. Yes, young man, the police have done their job. I was verifiably at meetings all afternoon. Now tell me, how is the case going?”

  “Fine, fine. We’re making progress.”

  “Do you have any idea who killed my brother?”

  “Well, not yet, we’re still collecting data.”

  “So you’ve got no further than the police.”

  “I wouldn’t say that.”

  Rollo leaned forward, placed a hand on the coffee table, close to Peter’s knee.

  “The reason I invited you here today, Peter, was not to chat about your investigation.” His voice dropped. “I’ve been most impressed by your drive and intelligence. I’d like you to come work for me, in Benedict Dancer’s department, one of the most visible areas in the company. It’s the kind of job young people would give their right arm for, and I’m willing to seal an agreement on it with a shake of the hand. Right here and now.”

  Peter’s mind reeled. For an instant he imagined himself as an executive at Scientific Money. Rollo was correct; it was a job he coveted.

  “That’s a bit bold, isn’t it?” he said.

  “I didn’t build up Scientific Money by sitting on my backside.”

  Jesus, Peter thought, what would Mick say about this? He knew he had to remain sensible, needed Rollo’s cooperation. He also had a sudden realization—Rollo couldn’t afford to just cut him off, he needed to know what Peter was doing. It was a dance of minds.

  “It’s an attractive offer,” he said, pretending to muse. “I’ll need time to think.”

  “The offer’s on the table, Peter.”

  Footsteps sounded near the door. Rollo jumped up, face suddenly intent.

  “I’m going out,” said the slim woman at the door held open by Shorty, the Chinese manservant.

  She had to be Bella. Peter was swept away by her lushness. Red lips and moody green eyes dominated her olive pixie face. Black hair flowed over her shoulders. She wore white—an elegant white suit, white shoes, a white handbag edged with gold.

  “When will you be back?” Rollo asked.

  Rollo’s voice had a tone Peter hadn’t heard before. He wrenched his gaze from the woman in white and saw that Rollo’s lips were parted, his eyes intense. Rollo wound one hand around the other. He looked like Peter felt with Mandy, hesitant and unsure.

  “How would I know?” The woman sneered, took keys from her handbag, and then was gone. The click of the door latch echoed in the huge room.

  Rollo closed his eyes for a long moment. When he stood up and walked over to the window, his movements were slow.

  “I never tire of this view,” he said.

  Indeed, Peter thought, when he joined Rollo. He’d never seen Melbourne from such a stunning viewpoint—the panorama of office towers melding into the river vista of green, in turn sweeping out to the distant mountains.

  “There,” Rollo said, pointing to a spot past Princes Bridge. “I remember cycling down to those boatsheds with Kantor once. I must have been fifteen. In those days there were no bike paths, so it took us all morning. I remember we sat at the water’s edge. I told Kantor, he was only ten then, I told him that a whale lived in the river. His eyes were so serious, he didn’t want to leave, he just wanted to watch for the whale. He went to the library that very afternoon, to check if I’d lied to him.”

  Light reflected off Rollo’s bald head as he shook it gravely. Peter played with a forelock of hair to disguise his confusion. Then Rollo turned to him, face dull, eyes distant.

  “Think about that offer now, Peter. Grab the here and now.” Rollo blinked. “The past never stays.” He blinked again. “And the future won’t come looking for you.”

  CHAPTER 29

  “Over there, miss.” Hector’s smooth voice. “He’s been waiting for you.”

  Deirdre sat down. She was in uniform. She raised an eyebrow toward the receding Hector.

  “He owns the place.” Mick Tusk looked across the restaurant, trying to see Gentle, but the central bar blocked him off. They’d agreed for Tusk to meet Deirdre alone, for him to sit near the door, so he could continue to watch for Bertoli. The din generated by the lunchtime suits enfolded him. For sure, Draconi’s was growing on him.

  He and Deirdre didn’t shake or kiss, simply looked at each other.

  Ten years ago, he’d been as hot for her as any woman he’d ever known. She wasn’t built like a classic beauty, body too stocky, but her fiery dark eyes had hooked him. He’d ended the intense relationship, couldn’t recall why.

  A crop-haired waiter took their orders. Vegetarian pasta for him, still regretting the fatty breakfast.

  “Sure was strange to see you again in those circumstances,” Deirdre said. “What’s it like to be a PI?”

  Tusk shrugged. “Not sure yet. Our first case.”

  “Our? You intend to stick with that bumbler?”

  “Whoa there, Dee. Be polite. He’s my partner. A bit green, but he’ll outthink Sam any day.”

  Garlic wafted from a nearby table. Time check—12:11. Tusk massaged his half-sprained right hand, tried to assess his own state. Edgy. Still disturbed, disgusted at the Fitzroy episode. But also buoyant—Tom Petty’s bouncy, high-voiced “Learning to Fly” cycling in his head. He thought of Gentle on Princes Bridge. It was true, it did help to talk. Other than Dana, whom had he been able to confide in? Cap? Not much use: “What’s the problem? Fucking Marcantonio invited you to join his card game?”

  “Sam
hates you,” Deirdre said.

  Tusk remembered why he’d walked out on her. The heat of her ambition. All she cared about was success. He never blamed her for that—only relentless women survived the male-dominated Force—but he’d had a different agenda.

  “I’m just muddying his waters. Is he still in line for an Assistant Commissioner’s slot?”

  She nodded. “You’re right. He just can’t stand the thought you might steal his thunder.”

  “You’re looking good, Dee.” So true. Some lines around her eyes, but otherwise unchanged. He checked—no ring.

  “Wish I could say the same about you. Can’t you afford a new shirt?”

  “No time yet today.”

  “I’m seeing a lawyer. You know him. Augustus is his name.” She smiled impishly. “Augustus Bishop.”

  Bishop. So that was how the carrot-headed lawyer obtained the case file. Bugger me, Tusk thought, Augustus. No wonder the man calls himself by his surname.

  “A dangerous game you’re playing,” he said. “If Sam’s mad at me, imagine how he’d be if he found out documents were being passed to us. You’d lose your job, Dee.”

  “I know,” she said. “But I’ve spent so long fighting to make it in the Force, I’m not going to let my heart be crushed on this one.”

  “What do you mean?”

  Deirdre glanced around. Leaned forward.

  “I’m putting myself out on a limb even more in telling you this.” Her voice almost down to a whisper. “But I know you, Mick Tusk, and you feel the same as I do. This case is being… influenced.”

  No surprise, but it sounded shocking, coming from her.

  “What a mess, Dee,” Tusk said.

  “Hey, I asked for it. No one pretends it doesn’t happen here in Melbourne.”

  “Is Sam in on it?”

  “Don’t know,” she said. “Don’t think so. I think he’s being leaned on hard, but he’s pushing back. He wants so much to get a promotion, you know what he’s like, but he hates rolling over. Mixton’s the main one. Big Ted has given him a direct liaison role, and Larry is…”

  “I always said he was crooked.”

  “Who knows? But he’s only six months from retirement, and there’s no doubt in my mind, he’s juggling this case. The higher powers don’t want Rollo Keppel touched. He’s off limits.”

  “Christ, he shouldn’t be.” Tusk told Deirdre about Rollo’s attempt to hire Gentle.

  “You’re not suggesting he killed his brother?” she said. “There’s no evidence of that at all.”

  He sighed. Instinct wasn’t evidence.

  “Why are you telling me all this, Dee?” he asked. “I know I was a grand screw, but that was ten years ago.”

  She laughed, black hair bouncing.

  “It’s called mutual assistance. I’ll keep you in touch, as much as I can, without tipping my hand. I want you to keep the bastards honest and crack this case. And if you do, maybe I can end up with some glory.” Eyes burning. “I know, I know, it’s risky. If it backfires, I’ll come to you for a PI job.”

  Their meals arrived, steaming and hot. When he told Deirdre about their meeting with Big Ted, she shook her head in amazement. He filled her in on Dana and the kids.

  “What about Dancer?” Mick pictured the photo of the strangled fool. What had Dancer been so frightened about? Maybe if they’d pressured him more, they might have saved him. “What can you tell me?”

  “Talk to your lawyer.” Deirdre winked.

  Over the meal, they exchanged hypotheses about the crimes. It turned out Homicide’s analysis was more fractured than genius Gentle’s.

  “What about Scaffidi?”

  “Off limits. Sam says the connection’s crap.”

  Tusk slapped his hand on the table. “Christ. He should at least roust the mongrel up. Scaffidi’s the scum of scum.”

  “I know. I’m pushing that line myself, but so far nix.”

  “Bertoli?”

  “Trying to track him down.”

  “All-out search?”

  “No, just us. Give us a break, we’ve got nothing to go on but the connection with Bella Keppel.”

  “I’m convinced that cunt Bertoli’s doing the killing.”

  Mick felt heat suffuse his chest. He saw in Deirdre’s eyes that she’d spotted this ambushing rage. He remembered again the smooth floor, Marcantonio’s bloody nose. Flashed on his one meeting with Bertoli, the still eyes in that ferrety face. Despair washed his body as he gripped the edge of the table.

  Deirdre’s hand was on his arm. His knuckles were white.

  Her eyes held his. “Mick? You need help, baby.”

  He shook off her hand. “Stick your advice, Dee.”

  A tremor pinched at his neck. A good meeting, that’s what he’d tell Boy Wonder.

  CHAPTER 30

  “You stink.”

  Mandy’s hands were cool. She snipped off Peter’s dirt-encrusted top bandage and wound a new one on. He looked down on her tanned neck, half-covered by shiny hair.

  “You smell great,” he blurted.

  She lifted her serious eyes. Her lips parted in an almost-smile.

  “Harvey says you’ve been playing the macho. You know the only reason I agreed to go out tonight, I thought you were a New-Age soul?”

  Was she serious?

  The Merrill Lynch office crackled with activity. Around Peter and Mandy, in the central area bounded by offices, men with rolled-up sleeves rushed in and out of a conference room. Secretaries hunched over keyboards or phones. When Peter and Mick had arrived, everyone had stared for all of fifteen seconds before returning to work. After introductions, no questions asked, Mandy had whisked Mick off to the shower on the floor, the blockhead winking as he left.

  Mandy finished taping the bandage. She wore a white blouse and a black skirt. “So where to tonight?”

  “Ah well…” Panic welled in Peter’s stomach.

  “So you want me to book the restaurant.”

  He gulped. “Sure.” He thought desperately. “The Dumpling King. In Box Hill. It’s one of my favorites. How about I pick you up here at seven o’clock? We can grab a cab.”

  “What, no limo?”

  “New-Age guys walk.”

  Her face lit up in a smile that banished her bony cheeks. “So they do. Sounds marvelous. Elle’s staying overnight at a friend’s place, so I can relax.”

  He knew Mandy had a daughter, but nothing about the girl. How old could she be?

  “And tomorrow?” he said. “Football?”

  He didn’t seem to be able to form whole sentences. “What I mean is… Mandy, would you come with me to a football match tomorrow?”

  “You told me that footy is for klutzes.”

  Fancy her remembering that, Peter thought. “It’s part work. Mick and his wife are also coming.”

  “How intriguing.”

  “Your turn, mate.” Secretaries glanced up at Mick’s low voice. Jesus, Peter thought, this is one guy who’d never fit into an office environment, though Mandy had given Mick a new shirt—“Harvey has a million of them, just in case he splatters bolognese”—and he looked brand new.

  Although Peter knew where the shower was, he let Mandy lead him down the corridor. She handed him a shirt and a plastic bag for his bandaged hand.

  “Come in with me?” he said as he opened the door.

  “Is that a threat or a boast?”

  The hot water seared the aches from his neck, his back, his legs. He scrubbed until he felt like a boiled lobster, blow-dried and combed his hair, and slapped on aftershave he found in a cabinet. Harvey’s shirt was short in the arms and his suit still looked second hand, but Peter’s step had a new spring when he emerged.

  Harvey was talking with Mick in front of Mandy’s desk. Sunlight sparkled on the windows of the office behind them. The pace on the floor seemed to have wound up even more. A red-faced man rushed past, clutching a sheaf of papers. Mandy typed furiously.

  Mick reeked of the same a
ftershave Peter was wearing. The big man sniffed. “Twins. Even our mother couldn’t smell us apart.”

  Peter cackled. Even Harvey smiled.

  “Skull.” Harvey snapped his yellow suspenders, a sure sign of mid-deal stress. “Had two calls about you today.”

  Peter glanced at Mick. “What did they want?”

  “Background, character descriptions, quite intrusive really. One from the police and one from the Attorney-General’s office. I told them you’re an unrepentant pervert.”

  “Thanks, Harv.”

  “And you… you’re all right?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “You know. You’re okay?”

  Peter looked at the concern on Harvey’s face and momentarily felt annoyance. He’d fallen low a few months ago, Harvey had ministered to him, and ever since had behaved like a fussy brother. Peter grinned, received a relieved smile back.

  “You take care of that secretary of mine tonight, buddy.” Harvey winked.

  Mandy waved. A gear clicked inside Peter.

  ***

  Peter hopped from foot to foot.

  “The theory looks okay to me.”

  “Aha,” Carlo Fonti said lazily, peering over his glasses.

  Peter grinned. That tone of voice could only mean one thing.

  He and Carlo were of the same generation, and people often grouped them together as two young actuaries, but in fact their skills were complementary rather than identical. Peter was more practical, skilled at finding real-world solutions. Carlo was the acclaimed technician. Sometimes Peter wondered if in fact that was the reason he, rather than Carlo, had been laid off.

  How strangely life flowed. Just twelve months ago, he would have been busy a hundred meters from this windowless conference room in 101 Collins, conferring with Fonti his colleague. Now the Thompson White receptionist hadn’t even recognized him, and Carlo was moonlighting to help him on a murder case.