by Andres Kabel
An hour passed. He found a glass in a cupboard and drank water, staring out of the kitchen window into fading light, at policemen cordoning off the driveway with plastic tape. He watched the uproar. A couple of helicopters flew overhead, television news he guessed. What a field day for the press.
Mixton returned with Vinci.
“You’re in deep trouble, Gentle,” Vinci said. For the first time the short policeman appeared flustered. “Deep.”
Peter stared him down.
“Take him to HQ,” Vinci ordered.
Outside, Peter met up with Mick, also under escort. Mick looked eerily calm.
“Yo, pardner,” Mick quipped softly.
Peter smiled despite himself. “Yo.”
They crouched down in the back seat of a police car. Mixton honked his horn to clear the rows of press and spectators massed on Shelley Way, and cameras flashed as they sped off. No one said anything during the long drive in, the baleful silence punctuated by crackling radio messages. Occasionally Peter spotted Mixton’s eyes staring at him in the rearview mirror. He felt exhausted but his mind refused to rest, and as the sun sank, he reviewed the entire case, from the examination of the body to the confession.
At the St. Kilda Road complex, they were locked up in the interrogation room he’d suffered in before.
“Well, big guy, the logic worked,” Peter said when the door shut.
Mick removed his sunglasses. He spoke so softly Peter almost missed the words. “You leave out the bits about seeing Marcia’s body and quizzing Friedman and the break-in?”
Peter understood. The police could be listening in even now. He nodded. Did the lug think he couldn’t follow instructions?
“How long will it take for them to catch Bertoli?” he asked.
Mick shrugged.
Someone brought in a couple of meat pies and some milky coffee. Peter wolfed his pie down and was drinking his coffee when Vinci burst in, followed by Senior Constable Lasker. Vinci’s shirt was rumpled and he bounced on his feet with angry energy.
“You guys fucked up right royally,” Vinci said. “I’ve got you with obstructing the course of justice at the very least. Where’d you get the documents, Gentle?”
“Client confidentiality.”
“You’ve gotta be joking. I’ll—”
“Stop focusing on your bloody ego,” Mick cut in. “We don’t want any of your glory, Sam. In fact we’d just as well stay out of the picture altogether. Right, Gentle?”
Peter nodded.
“You’ve got Kantor Keppel’s killer,” Mick said. “You’ve solved a major fraud. What more do you want? Caught Bertoli yet?”
“We’ll get him,” Vinci said.
“You pulled Scaffidi in?”
“We’ve got nothing on Scaffidi. Not till we’ve questioned Bertoli.”
Peter’s jaw dropped. Vinci had to be kidding! He looked wildly at Mick, but Mick just nodded at Vinci, his mouth a bitter slash. What was going on?
“Just take what you’ve got,” Mick said, “and you’ll get that promotion you wear across your face when you sleep. Stuff us up, Sam, and I’ll make sure every newspaper in town hears that you were the prick stumbling behind two private eyes.”
“Bastard.” Vinci glared at Mick but Peter could tell he was thinking.
“Lock them up,” Vinci commanded the policewoman. He slammed the door on the way out.
“What did he mean?” Peter shouted, grabbing Mick. “What’s that about Scaffidi?”
“Tell him, Dee,” Mick said. “Tell him. Scaffidi’s the one with the connections, right? Not Keppel. Scaffidi.”
CHAPTER 43
Mick Tusk longed to shove Hector’s walrus face through a window.
“Such a shame you boys didn’t make the papers,” Hector was saying.
Time check—9:55, brooding in Draconi’s. Tusk soaked in the bitter bite of his short black—no tea for him this morning—and pondered why he didn’t feel at all triumphant.
He’d rung Dana outside the Police Complex. Her voice had been relieved rather than overjoyed.
“Mikey, Mikey,” she said, Nelson piping for attention in the background. “Come home, sweetie.”
“We’re rich,” he said. “Dinner out tonight?”
Silence. “On one condition, Mikey. That we talk about… this case. Really talk.”
“Sure, Dana. I know a great place.”
But even as he’d hung up, he had wondered, would Dana like Draconi’s? Not if she had to listen to the scarecrow king and his court. What an audience around the bar! All rapt before Gentle’s tale of justice, but each after something different. Jopling the live wire, snapping his fire-engine-red suspenders, wide-eyed about the action: “Mick flattened the goon?” The boffin Carlo, brow furrowed while he chased the details: “Skull, how come the external auditors didn’t spot it?” And Hector, literally panting as he kept dashing back from his duties to pursue the most salacious of images. Other members of the Skulk Club—a cheery American woman, the dapper Italian—came and went. It was plain to Tusk that the exploits of Gentle & Tusk, soon to be defunct, would be all over Melbourne by lunchtime.
Tusk ran fingers through his stubble, enjoyed the raspy feel. He was largely ignored. Only Gentle regularly cast alert eyes on him.
“Anonymity is better for business, Hec,” Gentle replied to the restaurant owner’s question. His suit was scuffed and stained, his hair was greasy, but he beamed. “Isn’t that right, Mick?”
Tusk grunted.
They’d spent the night in the same cell as last time. Stunned by Vinci’s message that the police were ignoring Scaffidi, he’d fended off Gentle’s stream of questions with monosyllabic answers. Waking early, he stretched on the floor and pushed his stiff body through strength exercises. Despite Gentle’s indignant demands at the time of their release, they hadn’t managed to see any of Vinci’s team. Probably just as well—who knows what he or Gentle might have provoked?
“You say Scaffidi had the other two killed,” Carlo said. “My question is—why?”
“I think they were about to fold and go to the police.” Egg caked Gentle’s chin. “Imagine the pressure after years of fooling the public, the regulators… and then a murder. Rollo must have told Scaffidi. Dancer cracked first and then when he was killed, Marcia became afraid.”
“How could the press get it so wrong?” Hector asked.
On the way to Draconi’s they’d bought all three dailies. It was certainly front-page news. “Investment Chief Killed in Shoot-out,” proclaimed The Age. The Australian: “Scientific Money Murders and Fraud.” The Herald Sun went furthest out on a limb: “Magnate Murder Suspect Killed.” Detective Inspector Sam Vinci was quoted as saying, “We’re delighted to have been able to wrap up the Money Murders, as they have been labeled. Our investigations reveal far-reaching fraud and deception.” Photographs of Rollo and Kantor festooned all the front pages, and further back, Dancer and Brindle could be found, along with solemn shots of Vinci and one of Deputy Commissioner Peacock.
Bella was mentioned as a mystery woman—Herald Sun: “Well-connected sources have identified the sultry Bella Keppel as a possible femme fatale”—but she’d disappeared from press view. More power to her, Tusk thought.
“They got it wrong because that’s what was fed to them,” he said.
He tried to make light of the whole mess to himself. Kantor’s killer had been tracked down, and that was the only assignment Gentle & Tusk had been given. Friedman was back home. Tusk had even managed to trade off their immediate freedom for Vinci’s moment in the limelight. Now he could do what he’d threatened for so long. Pack up and go home. Make peace with Dana, if he could.
But logic was the province of the Brainiac; it had deserted Tusk. The music in his ears should have been Queen’s “We Are the Champions.” Instead, a song from childhood smoldered in his head, The Who’s bitter “Won’t Get Fooled Again.”
“But they don’t even mention Bertoli.” Gentle’s voice squa
wked with indignation, but he was grinning. I’m already spending the money in my head, he’d told Tusk.
It was the thought of Bertoli that set Tusk’s stomach roiling. The pity was, he knew how things were done in the Force. Rollo’s alibi for Dancer’s murder had been found to have holes in it, Deirdre had pointed out to him last night.
“Money buys truth,” Tusk muttered.
Gentle’s eyes probed him. “Maybe they’ll catch Bertoli today.”
“Maybe,” Tusk said.
So, justice for Kantor. Maybe. But what about Dancer? And Brindle? Cap had said on the phone yesterday, “Mick, I know your bloody mind. They’re not your fault. God’s maybe, Scaffidi’s for sure, but not yours.” But reflecting on how easily Bertoli—an image, the reptilian eyes under lamplight—had crept up on him and then escaped, Tusk knew Cap was wrong. A complete screw-up, that’s all he’d been from day one.
“Mick, I wonder how Imogen is taking the news.” When Gentle was in this mood, his mouth was unstoppable. “Hey, what about Willy? Do you think he’s happy, now that he’s got what he wants? And how about Bella?”
Tusk squeezed his cheeks. Hard. No use pretending. It was happening all over again. Had started last night in the stale-smelling cell. After Gentle had settled into sleep, Tusk’s sense of place had wavered. He’d walked down that corridor yet again, under the single naked bulb, to the body of William Bell, the butchered boy from years ago. The semi-dream became confused with Kantor’s death. And behind it all he’d sensed the black presence of Bertoli. And Scaffidi.
He realized the feeling that gripped him was more compelling than any obsession. It wasn’t that he couldn’t exercise control. He could. He knew he could.
He no longer wanted to.
Tusk waited until Gentle began to field Hector’s queries about the Bella-Willy affair. He stood up, feeling his strength uncoil. Pulse racing, he said to no one in particular, “Back shortly,” and headed toward the entrance.
“Where do you think you’re going?”
Tusk looked back at Gentle springing up, glanced into his partner’s eyes. A mistake.
“You maniac!” Gentle was plucking at his jacket. “Bloody ox-brain.”
Tusk wheeled, shouted into the pale unshaven face. “Rack off.”
Gentle shrank back but his eyes were hot. “No way. Come back and talk about it.”
“You talk too bloody much.”
“And you don’t talk enough. Are you going to screw it all up again?”
Tusk thought about hitting the freak.
“Don’t try to get rid of me,” Gentle said.
Christ! Too much to think about and Hector was heading their way. Tusk plunged out of Draconi’s and into the crowd. Cold autumn air, banked clouds. A tram sang as it zoomed past. His mouth a dried husk. The sound of Gentle panting to keep up with his urgent strides.
The Peugeot bounced out of the parking lot. Tusk wound the window fully down, let the air pummel his face. Quick now, his mind urged, quick.
He commandeered Gentle’s phone and dialed as he drove. “Dee, you guys haven’t got Scaffidi yet, have you?”
“Hello, I’m fine,” Deirdre said. “How are you?”
“No time, Dee. Want some credit as Sam ascends the promo ladder?”
A pause. “You must be mad.”
“20 Gully Drive, The Patch. Dee, meet me there.”
He hung up and floored the accelerator. Time check—11:10. They wouldn’t be there until noon. He headed east, refusing to look at Gentle while the geek prattled on. Along Monash Freeway and then Toorak Road. He’d been startled by the address Buckingham had given him. Who would have thought Scaffidi lived so close to his home?
The road broadened on Burwood Highway. Through the monochrome suburbs. Gentle took a call, quite a long one, and then addressed Tusk. “Guess who? Weiqing Chang, can you believe it? The man actually apologized for lying to me. He was crying. He’ll never work again and he’s looking at jail.”
Tusk’s stomach burned. He concentrated on slowing his breathing. Couldn’t care less about the bloody Chinaman.
“I asked him about the invisible passes.”
Tusk snorted. That nonsense again!
“Do you know what he told me? Kantor was the one who taught him how to do their programming.”
Through the familiar meandering shopping strip of Belgrave, only minutes from home. Past pubs nestled amongst ferns and gum trees, and cafes advertising Devonshire teas. The scent of eucalyptus invaded the car.
“And did you read the police file on Stan Friedman’s death?” Boy Wonder’s voice quavered. He hadn’t even dared ask where they were going.
“Pipe down, will you?” Tusk said.
“The investigating officer said there were suspicious circumstances. Bruises on Stan’s fingers. But there wasn’t enough to go on.”
“So Friedman’s right, eh?” Tusk snapped. “Kantor, our mild-mannered prof, drowned his protégé? What a crock of shit. Who cares anyway? Now shut up.”
He shoved an old Black Sabbath tape into the cassette player and turned it up loud. Let him try to gas on over that.
The Patch. Though it was only ten minutes’ drive northeast of his home, Tusk knew little about it, only that it was one of the fancier suburbs in the hills. Near the eastern boundary of the Dandenong Ranges National Park, it was nestled in a valley below the gum forests. He pulled over by a general store to plot his route.
Gully Drive wound up a hill. Some of the houses were typical brick veneer residences, set back behind lush gardens. Others were posh architect-designed affairs. He slowed down. Cool under the blanket of swaying gums, bird cries high above. Foolish to imagine Scaffidi would be here just after noon, but maybe Tusk could find some evidence.
He missed Number 20, realized only when he saw 22 on the next letterbox that Scaffidi’s driveway was artfully hidden under hanging trees. He drove past another two houses and parked.
Gentle had gone pale as paper. His clasped hands shook. A mistake to bring him.
Tusk held up a hand to forestall any pleas. “Don’t worry,” he whispered. “It’s most likely empty. The cops will be here before too long. Any trouble, drive away.”
Gentle’s eyes were wide. Tusk handed him the car keys. He felt calm and wired at the same time. The way he always felt, as if at a precipice.
“Good luck,” Tusk said, as if Gentle needed the luck and not he. The car door latched shut with a quiet click.
He strolled back down Gully Drive. Ducked into Number 22. A timber house. Silent, no cars in sight. A high new fence, over which towered a thick row of pine trees, blocking any view of Number 20. He trotted past the house. Washing on the line. At the very back of the deep block, he reached up, only just managing to curl his fingers over the top of the fence, and lifted himself until he could see over.
Scaffidi’s house was nothing like his neighbors’ abodes. A two-story squat brick place with a white back porch. Very Italian; no doubt a staircase at the front with columns on either side, maybe a lion statue or two. Two cars nestled out of sight of the street, a yellow Toyota and a gray Commodore station wagon. Smoke from a chimney. Someone was home.
A feeling like relief when he swung himself over, landing with a soft thud in pine needles. He drew out his gun, caressed its solid physicality. Ran along the fence from tree to tree. Pine sap enveloped him, needles scraped his head.
All quiet out back. His body light as cloud. Taking a breath, he scuttled out of the pines and squatted behind the station wagon. Unabated bird chatter. Dim voices inside, no way to tell if one was Scaffidi’s. Ran to the back door and tried the doorknob. It turned.
He gritted his teeth, bracing for a squeak, but the door swung inwards without a sound. Peered into a large kitchen, gloomy behind drawn blinds. Odor of dust. The voices came from the front of the house. Tiptoed across the linoleum and stood breathing silently by a door. Heart clamoring. Smell of smoke. Gun clasped high in front with both hands, he stepped into the doorw
ay. An empty corridor. Light at the other end. Louder voices. Laughter.
Feet silent, nimble. Inched forward until he was flat against the wall next to the door.
“How will you get your women when you’re retired?”
Chuckles. Tusk stiffened at the high sibilance. Bertoli! Licked perspiration beading his lip. Shut his eyes for an instant, then peered around the doorframe.
After the shuttered back rooms, the open living room dazzled him, sunlight cascading through wide windows. Bertoli’s thin form, feeding sheets of paper into a roaring fire. Laughter from the other man, his back to Tusk.
Whether Bertoli heard his breathing or just sensed him, Tusk had no time to ponder. The snake-eyes swung around and papers fell from Bertoli’s hands.
“Freeze!”
Tusk roared as he stepped out, legs apart, gun in both hands, covering them in a short arc. Blood pumping in his head. Fire, hot fire, coursing through his body.
Bertoli stopped in mid-motion, gun already in his left hand, breathing through open mouth, his eyes fastened on Tusk. The other man turned and raised his hands. Mixton, face rough as baked earth, eyes startled.
“End of the road,” Tusk said.
He moved closer, gun oscillating between the two of them.
“Drop it!”
Bertoli’s gun fell to the floor.
A voice told Tusk not to celebrate. Then time scrambled. Mixton clutched into his jacket. Tusk fired, a deafening crack. He swung the gun toward Bertoli but something struck his right arm with a crunch, shoving the weapon upward, his next shot blasting the ceiling. Bertoli’s foot, horizontal at elbow height, already pivoting down. Too fast!
Tusk swung his gun down again, but Bertoli fell upon him, a fist slamming into his stomach, a hand gripping his gun arm. He brought a knee up and felt it hit hard. But Bertoli’s hand twisted and Tusk’s gun flew from his numb hand. He tore out of Bertoli’s grip and danced back, panting.
Bertoli smiled as they squared off. Over the thin nose and cheeks oily in the light, his eyes never wavered. Tusk smiled back and moved to bring him down. A feint and then a snapping punch, guaranteed to floor the mongrel.
