by Andres Kabel
“What if someone else had an extra invisible pass?”
Tusk tried to signal a waiter over a red-faced man shouting toasts to “me mate the birthday boy.”
“Who’d have made one of those?” he said. “Chang? You said he seemed honest.”
“You’re the one who said trust no one. And there’s the email too.”
Tusk sighed. “Christ, Gentle.”
“No one owns up to it. Remember how archaic it sounds? ‘The natural order is there for the good of all. If you transgress, the fury of the heavens will descend upon you.’”
“You memorized it?”
“Of course.”
Tusk shook his head at the wonder of it all. “This is like that theory you had in school, that JFK was assassinated on the orders of LBJ. You were obsessed. Remember?”
“Yes, well.” That silenced the bugger. Tusk watched him lurch off to the restroom, colliding with tables on the way.
Tusk laced fingers behind his head, watched a couple kissing on the sand. The meal had been superb: spicy shellfish, even creme caramel for dessert. Interesting—Gentle had identified the gray-haired guy back at the restaurant as the Attorney-General himself. Over dinner Gentle had crapped on and on—about the Skulk Club, about the merits of the restaurant, about what he called the “glories of Melbourne’s bay views,” about his exploits as a consultant. They’d even reminisced about their schooldays.
“Tell me, Mick,” Gentle had asked. “Where did your name come from? You told me back then, but I’ve forgotten.”
Tusk had chuckled. “In Estonian, my old man is really Arne Tuisk. But when he landed after the war, the bloody official missed the ‘i’. Me, I was christened Mihkel. So I should be”—exaggerating the pronunciation—“Mihhh-ckell Too-isk, but instead I’m Mick Tusk. My Dad hates the Anglicized name.”
When Gentle returned, Tusk asked him about his date with the secretary.
“Disastrous.” Gentle’s face was slack with alcohol. “I jus’ don’t have the com… the comfidence.”
“You know what your problem is with women?” Tusk said.
“Everythin’.”
“I reckon you should be bolder. You’re full of hot air normally—listen to you tonight. But when you go out with women I bet you try to be someone else. Just be yourself. Gab on a bit.”
“Ha.” Embarrassed laughter.
“And you should fix your drinking problem.”
Gentle glared. “That’s one of my hobbies. Wine appresh… shiation.”
“Hobby my arse. Five days we’ve been on this case, and every day you’ve been on the piss.”
“Hey, now you’re my guru on love and healff?”
Maybe, Tusk reflected, women and alcoholism were the only things he knew all about.
Somehow Gentle had paid the bill on his restroom trip. Tusk helped him down the steps to the parking lot off Beach Road. He paused to let a couple walk past, the woman skipping around the laughing man. Tangy salty air. Cool.
He half-lifted his partner into the Peugeot, drove along the beach until Warrigal Road. Headed north while Gentle fell asleep. Turned off a tape of Thin Lizzy and switched on the mobile. Ignored the dozen messages queued up. Checked some phone numbers and rang Detective-Inspector Balthazar Candle. Another call wrapped in excuses, no more news about Scaffidi. Phoned drug dealer Buckingham and after being berated for not returning messages, heard the same nil result.
“Just one thing, cherie. An address.”
“How much will it cost me?”
He rang Cap. Retired now, settled up in Bondi Beach in Sydney. Christ, Tusk thought, hope he hasn’t gone hopeless like Rough Gentle, Peter’s dad. Tusk smiled at Cap’s curt message and left a hello, finished with, “I’m fucking up again. Could do with a chat.” Rang sister Liz, another message with little point.
Belgrave. The house welcomed him as always with its quiet peace. He could see the moon through wispy clouds. Exhaustion across his chest. Eucalyptus in the air. He prodded Gentle awake.
“Where ’m I?” slurred Gentle.
“You’re staying the night with us,” Tusk said. “Bloody piss-pot.”
Gentle mumbled as he lurched behind Tusk. Tusk had rehearsed his lines for Dana along Burwood Highway, but when she opened the door, his words dried up. He was struck dumb yet again by her radiance. Those billowing curls.
“Regred any incomvenience—” Gentle began, pushing hair back ineffectually, but Tusk stilled him with a hand.
“Where have you been, Mikey?” Dana said. “I’ve been ringing Peter’s mobile. A policeman, Inspector Vinci, has been chasing you urgently.”
Christ, the messages. Bully rushed out the door, his rump swinging. Tusk saw Gentle back away in alarm. Tusk grabbed the dog, felt the sandpaper tongue scrape his hands.
“It’s all over the late news,” Dana said. “They’ve found another body.”
“Marsssha,” said the swaying idiot.
“And they’ve arrested someone for all three killings.”
Friedman—the poor bastard! The news slammed Tusk.
Gentle must have sensed where his thoughts were heading. “Nod yer faul’, big ga.”
Tusk ignored Gentle. This was the end. Tomorrow they’d have to confront Sam, try to convince him of Friedman’s innocence. The case would be out of their hands.
He went to Dana and enfolded her body. Buried his nose in the earthy riches of her hair. Bully whined around their legs.
CHAPTER 40
Peter’s hair refused to obey any commands. He hauled it savagely across his head. Once this case is over, he thought, I’m going to shave it all off.
“Is my tie all right?” he asked. They’d called in on his parents’ home and he’d chosen an older work suit, a blue pinstripe, slightly frayed at the sleeves.
He and Mick stood on the Southbank waterfront, autumn sun glistening off the windows of Scientific Money House. Mick nodded. He’d donned jeans, a tan jacket, and short brown boots. The skin on his face glowed; no doubt the fitness freak had been exercising in the early hours.
“No heroics now.” Mick had volunteered to do the job, but Peter had readily persuaded him he didn’t have the skills. “Get what you can. Cut your losses and get out if things go screwy. It’s 11:30 now. I’ll get worried if you’re not out by 12:30.”
Peter’s head throbbed behind his eyes. He’d slept in, waking to headlines showing Robert Friedman’s face dominating the front page of The Age, and inside, smaller shots of Kantor Keppel, Dancer, and Brindle. He and Mick had quarreled.
“Go to the police now?” Peter had cried. “After all we’ve been through?”
“Got no choice, Gentle.” Hard-faced, Mick pointed to the picture of Friedman. “Our duty. Besides, what else can we do? Bloody Rollo will just stonewall us now.”
Peter gulped down insipid coffee in the Tusk family room. “We can find out what’s going on in Scientific Money. Where’s yesterday’s enthusiasm?”
It had taken Peter another half hour to persuade the lug, and even then Mick had said little on the drive into the city. Dana had also been curt to him. He couldn’t recall much of the latter part of last night, but he was certain that as he drifted off, her bludgeoning voice, from another room, had pierced his swirling brain, crying, “You’re going on, aren’t you? How could you, Mikey?” Peter’s last conscious thought had been, Good luck, big guy.
Now, Peter watched Mick’s sunglasses sweep their surrounds.
“Nervous?” Mick said.
“Into the den of Chaos agents, facing certain death…” Peter mimicked Maxwell Smart, “…and loving it.”
Not a trace of a smile showed on Mick’s face. Peter licked his lips and exhaled hard. The truth was, he was trembly down his arms and legs. At least Bertoli won’t be inside the building, he thought.
Mick clapped him hard across the shoulders.
Peter sauntered toward the entrance, and when a group of three people went through the automatic doors, he joined them.
>
“Has the Quant Fund balanced for April yet?” one of them said as he swiped his security card, hanging on a chain around his neck, across a reader on the wall by the lifts. He was young, with gelled spikes in his hair. With him were a chubby Indian woman in a floral dress and an older man with thick glasses. Accountants, he guessed. They were staring at him.
Peter thought quickly. If he used Marcia’s pass, and they tagged him as a stranger, he might get reported. He went for Plan B and swiped the visitor’s pass Mika had given him. The elevator pinged and he hurried in first, pressing the second floor button and trying to look inconspicuous at the back.
“You’re kidding me,” Floral Dress said. “Remember last month?”
Another problem loomed. As far as he could tell, the second floor was completely functional; all the managers except Ross Petrov resided on the first or third. If they saw a visitor get off on Two, they’d think it odd. He decided to go up to the third floor if that happened.
But he was in luck. “What is it with those guys?” asked Gel as they rode up one floor and exited. Peter yawned, tried in vain to suppress his trembling hands.
On the second floor, Peter stepped out into an empty elevator lobby. There was only one door. Glancing around, he swiped Marcia’s pass across the reader and held his breath. If they’d spotted Marcia’s pass as missing, they may have canceled it. A click. He exhaled, pushed the door, and he was in.
A narrow corridor ran in both directions. He headed right. A thin man passed him without even looking up. A hundred meters along, a heavy door signaled the computer operators’ department—the engine room of the company, where all the computer hardware sat amidst expensive cooling and alarm systems. Peter was interested in software, not hardware, so he kept going. Around a corner and near the end of the corridor was another door: Authorised Personnel Only. An unlabeled reader on the side. He swiped Marcia’s pass. Another click.
He stepped in, heart running double time, with an excuse ready, in case anyone greeted him. But the large room was empty and silent. It held a conference table, a whiteboard, several Reuters terminals, a relaxation area with easy chairs, and coffee-making facilities. And over on one wall, four computers, all showing Scientific Money screensavers, next to a huge laser printer.
He stood still, listening to his breathing over the ambient hum of air conditioners and computers. All else seemed unnaturally quiet. The room smelled of cheap coffee and stale food. He wondered how many people had access to it.
The chair squeaked when he sat down in front of one of the computers. He thumbed through a manual on the desk entitled “Quant Investment System (QIS).” Copyright Scientific Money Pty Ltd. No author shown. This was the system, no doubt at all.
He clicked the mouse to clear the screensaver. Despite his anxiety he suddenly felt powerful. This was his element. He savored the tactile spring of the keys under his fingers and the gentle slide of the mouse on the Scientific Money mousepad.
The Windows desktop showed an icon labeled QIS. He launched it.
Voices came through the walls, from the corridor. He leapt up and raced to the wall where he could hide behind the opening door. His pulse boomed.
“How long will the batch job take?” he heard.
“Another hour.”
The voices faded and Peter ran trembling fingers through his hair. Somehow the frisson excited as well as frightened him. At least here I’m on my own turf, he thought. If I’m caught I can just bullshit my way out of it, and if that doesn’t work, hey what can they do? Charge me with trespassing at most.
It felt a world away from that dark alley and Scaffidi’s butchered face.
No password was required for the QIS system. He worked his way through the menus—programs to print reports, to enter economic data, to run queries, to print tables of stock-buying instructions. But no decision-making or input programs. Of course not—according to the official story this funds-management system was run by the computer.
Maybe Peter was plain wrong. Maybe he and Carlo just hadn’t grasped Kantor’s eleven-secret-herbs-and-spices formula. He almost felt relieved—the null hypothesis, that everything was above board at the company, guaranteed Rollo’s innocence. But no, everyone seemed to be hiding something. What could it be?
He exited the program and stared at the desktop. A handful of program icons sat side by side with the standard Microsoft Office icons. Sweat running down his sides, he launched the first one. Finding an off-the-shelf statistical program, he exited. Another one—a database of economic indicators. The room felt close. Chest heaving, he tried another icon. And yet another. All useless.
A drop of sweat splashed from his brow onto the keyboard. When he leaned over to wipe it away, a nondescript icon, labeled “Maintenance,” in the bottom left hand corner of the screen, caught his eye. He double-clicked it.
“Please Enter Password”
He nearly shouted with joy. He was panting as loudly as Mick’s daunting dog. Without conscious thought a number popped into his mind from their case file—Marcia’s date of birth: 190344. He tried it.
“Invalid Password. Please Re-enter”
Damn. Excitement turned to despondency. He cast his mind back to a conversation with Arnold Yang, his infotech friend, at a Skulk Club meeting. Security was only as good as users’ behaviors, Arnold had said.
“If everyone did as instructed,” Arnold complained, “and used a mix of letters and numbers, security would improve many-fold. But no, most people still prefer the passwords they can remember.”
Peter thought hard. If the Investment Committee met in this room, who would input any investment decisions? Probably not Marcia. Maybe Chang. He could remember the Chinaman’s birth date as well: 111154.
“Invalid Password. Please Re-enter”
He tried Dancer’s date of birth. Nothing.
Of course! This was Kantor’s baby. He typed in 120744. The reply mocked him.
Rollo was born on New Year’s Day—010139.
“Invalid Password. Please Re-enter”
Bloody hell. His head ached.
Voices again in the distance. What else had Arnold said? “Believe me, even the most careful just use key dates backward.” Peter hammered out Marcia’s date of birth backward. No no no.
The voices grew louder. Very loud. He recognized Weiqing Chang’s high voice and looked around desperately.
One last shot. Which one? Kantor’s body on the gurney flooded his mind. The voices looming, his fingers flew: 447021.
He heard the door handle turning, but couldn’t pull his eyes from the screen.
Bingo!
CHAPTER 41
“Piss off!”
Tusk faced the huge door.
“Bella,” he growled, “open up or I’ll break the door down.”
As soon as Gentle had emerged from Scientific Money House with a thumb up in the air and a goofy grin plastered across his face, Tusk had known he was right. Rollo was crooked. A murderer in bed with the scum of the earth.
Immediately they’d rung Rollo’s office. Mika had told Gentle that Rollo hadn’t come in to work, unheard of on a Monday morning. Gentle had thought she sounded scared.
Now Tusk glanced back at Gentle. Hair wild. Puffing. Still beaming like a Tattslotto host.
“Piss off.” Bella exercising her vocab.
Tusk bunched his shoulder muscles. Slammed into the door. It met him hard. A faint splintering sound.
“I’ll call the police!”
“You do that, Bella.” He felt at ease now. Knew what had to be done. Knew he was the one to do it.
The door opened. Bella in a Japanese yukata over a nightie. Christ, in bed at noon, Tusk thought. No lipstick. Perfume and some other odor in the air.
“Where’s Rollo?” he said.
“He went down to the beach last night.” Bella’s green eyes burned with anger. And something else. Tusk saw nail polish on her toenails.
“Don’t give me that.”
“It’
s true.” Strain lines around her mouth.
“Let’s look around,” he said to Gentle.
“No.” Bella grabbed his arm.
“Why should we believe you?” Tusk took off his sunglasses, looked into her portrait-perfect face, centimeters from his. Something different about her. Some intensity.
“Willy’s here.” A half-formed smile.
He realized what the smell was. Cum. She’d just been screwing her husband’s brother in her own home.
“The address?”
She hesitated. Tusk knew and she knew that her loyalty stood on the line at that very instant.
“Portsea. Shelley Way. Number Eight.”
Her eyes said it all. Treachery. And a good dose of fear.
“Thanks, Bella,” he said.
Tusk was still reflecting on the enigma of Bella Keppel as they raced for the Peugeot. Bullied his way into a lane heading for Monash Freeway, sun warming his hands through the windscreen. Suppressed adrenaline bubbled in his gut. Time check—1:31 on the dashboard clock.
Gentle still hadn’t come down from his adventure. “You wouldn’t believe what I got up to back there.” Voice squeaky high, fingers drumming on his knee. “Chang came into the high security room just as I cracked the system. I hid behind a chair. Imagine it, me crouching like a cat burglar. And he didn’t spot me!”
“How’d he miss your bloody hair?”
“He was only in the room for a minute.”
“You done great.” Tusk watched his partner’s cheeks color. He headed off Monash at Springvale Road, handed Gentle the mobile. “More messages from Sam—come in for a chat. Also Mandy—sounds upset but don’t ring her yet.” No need to mention the call from Cap, a long confessional while he’d stood around waiting in Southbank.
Tires squealed as Tusk swept onto the Mornington Peninsula Freeway. This was their last chance to have a crack at Rollo Keppel without the cops. Maybe, he thought, Vinci has already issued a bulletin to pick us up. A twinge of guilt—this wasn’t helping Friedman.
Mornington Peninsula: Melbourne’s seaside playground. A narrowing strip of promontory with peaceful bay beaches on one side for kids and dog-walking retirees. Cliffs and pounding surf on the ocean side. Tusk viewed the area as part of the egalitarian face of Melbourne, the great leveler during summer. Bricklayers mingled with stockbrokers, teenagers from the rough western suburbs surfed with private-school kids. Strangely enough from his point of view, the rich had to travel further. The closer beach towns such as Rosebud were full of working class families. Further on, enclaves of the wealthy sprang up, in chic Sorrento, and in secluded, upper-class Portsea at the Peninsula’s very tip.
