by Jon Cleary
Again the hesitation, then: “Yes, except Errol.”
“We'll be in touch, Mrs. Magee. We don't want to lose you.”
She said nothing to that, just opened the door. The chill was back.
4
I
“WE’VE BEEN forgetting one thing,” said Clements. The dead maid. The corpse. What brought us in, Homicide.”
Malone nodded. “Yeah, I know. But you haven't met all the suspects. A greedy lot of buggers who make you forget what'shername. Juanita.”
“We have another greedy bugger outside—”
“Don't sound so superior.” But he grinned as he said it.
“Okay, lay off. This is another greedy bugger. Mr. Vassily Todorov, Juanita's boyfriend. Asking have we found Mr. Magee, so that he can sue him for what's owed to Juanita.”
“You're kidding.”
“No, mate, I'm not. I'm greedy—was greedy. But I have my standards. You want to see him?”
“Not particularly, not the way you describe him. But all right—” He got up from behind his desk, looked at his watch. “If I were a superintendent I'd have been outa here half an hour ago.”
“You're not there yet.” Clements heaved himself off the couch. “When you are, you won't meet too many like Vassily.”
Vassily Todorov was built as if chipped out of rock; all rough edges and a shard for a nose. He was a good six inches shorter than either of the two detectives, but as wide as Clements and none of it fat. Malone wondered if he was one of the Bulgarian wrestlers or weight-lifters who always seemed to be deserting their homeland. Juanita Marcos must have been desperate to choose him as a boyfriend. Or maybe Todorov was a good rock, in different ways, in bed. What women see in a man, outside the obvious . . .
He was surprisingly polite: Clements hadn't led Malone to expect politeness. “Good afternoon, Inspector. It is good of you to see me. Sergeant Clements has explained?”
“Yes, Mr. Todorov. But we haven't found Mr. Magee yet. You're a little prema—you're a little early.”
“Premature?” Todorov had flecked eyes, as if someone had thrown sand into them and he hadn't even blinked. “I suppose we should have expected it.”
“You speak English very well. How long have you been out here?”
“Two years.” So he could have been an absconding weight-lifter, from the Olympics. “I taught English at a Berlitz school in Sofia.”
Malone had been slow on the uptake: it was Clements who said, “Why do you suppose you should have expected it? Expected what?”
“My girlfriend to be down-sized.”
Was that how they spoke, even at Berlitz in Sofia? Malone waited for him to say, at the end of the day.
“Why?”
Todorov's head was the smoothest part of him; he scratched the dark stubble that covered it. “Her English was good, too. She understood what was being said.”
“Said where?” asked Malone. “When?”
“When the Japanese would come to talk to Mr. Magee. They said he was asking for trouble. She said she saw one of the men show Mr. Magee a gun.”
“Which man?”
Todorov shrugged. “She never told me, she didn't want to talk about it.”
“Did she tell you anything else?”
Todorov shrugged again; he could have been discussing the dangers of hernia from weightlifting. There was no hint of any grief at his loss of Juanita Marcos; he was here strictly on business. “One day down in the garage she saw two men—she went out that way, through the service entrance.”
“What were the two men doing? What did they look like—Japanese?”
“They were looking at Mr. Magee's Porsche—she thought they were going to steal it. They ran away when she asked them what they wanted. No, they were not Japanese. Two young men, white. Australians, she thought. But you can never be sure these days, can you?” But he was sure of himself, right down to the redundancy pay and the sick leave and the loss of whatever Juanita had offered him in the way of conjugal rights. “We all look Australian, don't we, unless we're black or Asian?”
Clements ignored that, looked at Malone. “Is it easy to get into the garage?”
“The Rocks blokes had a look at it. One of the tenants or owners said they'd lost their parking card or it'd been stolen. The doors operate from a card machine. I didn't check, I took their word for it. The Porsche is still there and no cars were stolen. The kidnappers must've brought their own car into the garage. Or Errol was in on the act.”
The flecked eyes had been flicking from one detective to the other. “Mr. Magee kidnapped himself?”
“No, Mr. Todorov, I was joking.” He had told Clements too much in front of the Bulgarian. “Mr. Magee has been kidnapped. Until we find him, alive or dead, I'm afraid you'll have to wait for any compensation for Miss Marcos' death.”
Todorov stood up. “I am patient. When you are teaching English to stupid students, you learn to be patient.”
“What do you do here, Mr. Todorov?”
“I am a courier, on a bicycle. Car drivers hate us. I am used to abuse.”
“Who's been abusing you?”
He looked from one to the other; the rock of his face cracked. “I am also a mind-reader.”
Malone's tongue got away from him, as it so often did: “Are you also greedy, Mr. Todorov?”
“Of course.” He was so unoffended it was almost an insult.
The greedy are the true romantics, Inspector, the dreamers. We make the world go round.”
“They teach that at Berlitz?”
The rock cracked in another smile. “No. I learned it when communism collapsed. Good day, gentlemen.”
Clements had one of the junior detectives escort Todorov out of the building, then he came back into Malone's office. “You really are shoving the needle in, aren't you?”
“The greedy bit? That slipped out, I just wanted to kick him in the balls. It wasn't meant as a slap at you—” But Clements looked unconvinced. “Russ, I mean it. We're going to be talking a lot about greed in this case. Every time I mention it, it's not meant as a kick in the slats for you. Don't be so bloody touchy. Keep that for Romy.”
It was a long moment before Clements said, “Okay . . . Well, what do you think of him?”
“He's not on my list. He's a smartarse, but he had nothing to do with Magee's disappearance. And I don't think Errol had anything to do with his own kidnapping. If he's as smart as everyone says, he wouldn't be asking the yakuza to ransom him. Someone else has got him, they took him instead of Miss Doolan. All those messages on the computers, they were a blind.”
“Then do you think Miss Doolan has got a hand in all this?”
Then Malone's phone rang: it was Paula Decker. “Inspector, Miss Doolan has done a bunk—”
He sucked in his breath, held back his anger. “How?”
“I went to the toilet, when I came out she was gone—”
II
“I'm sorry, sir, I've really stuffed things up . . . She gave me no hint she would leave as soon's I turned my back. She was relaxed, we talked, we read some magazines . . . I was in the bathroom no more than a coupla minutes. When I came out—”
“Righto, take it easy—” Malone could see that Paula Decker was ready to belt herself over the head. “It happens, Paula. Sergeant Clements and I have made mistakes, too.”
Clements came into the living room from the main bedroom. He and Malone had arrived here at the Magee apartment within twenty minutes of the call; Clements, driving, had used the siren and the blue lights in the peak-hour traffic. “Doesn't look as if she's taken any clothing—”
“I checked that,” said Paula Decker. “She had a light coat, she's taken that. And her handbag . . . She had a phone call about an hour ago. She took it, but she hung up before I could get to one of the extensions in the bedrooms.”
You’ve been a bit slow today, Paula. But Malone held on to his tongue on that thought. “She say who it was?”
“Just a frie
nd. Said she'd cut her off, she'd call back later. I know I sound damned stupid, sir—I've been stupid. But she took me in. Completely.”
“Maybe she's taken us all in. When did Sheryl Dallen leave?”
“Just over an hour ago. She said she was going home to Leichhardt to get some night gear—she was going to sleep here tonight. We thought we'd take turns keeping an eye on Kylie. She was going to report back to Homicide first thing in the morning. She was getting on as well with Kylie as I thought I was.” Paula Decker sounded bitter, as if she had never been let down before.
“What did you talk about? With Kylie? She give you any dope on Mr. Magee, the boyfriend?”
Paula, now that she realized she was not going to be dressed down, was regaining her composure. “I think she knew she was gunna be ditched. She said nothing specific, but Sheryl and I looked at each other on a coupla occasions.”
“Women's intuition?” Clements' grin was meant to be friendly.
“If you like,” she said, a little stiffly. Evidently feminism and male chauvinism clashed at The Rocks, as it did in most stations and divisions. “Kylie will survive, though. She's a tough cookie, I think, under all that Little-Girl-Lost act she was putting on.”
“That was how she was acting?” said Malone. “Little-Girl-Lost?”
“It wasn't a very good act. Sheryl and I didn't think so.”
“When did you exchange opinions?”
“We didn't. We just looked at each other.”
Malone looked at Clements. “Don't you wish we had that silent communication?” Then his mobile rang: “Malone.”
It was Sheryl Dallen: “Boss, I caught Kylie Doolan coming out of her apartment building as I was coming back. She didn't see me, but went scooting up Macquarie Street. I followed her.”
“Where is she?”
“In the Aurora building. I'm in the lobby. She caught a lift to one of the upper floors. There were other people in the lift, but it stopped at five floors. She could of got off at any one of them.”
“I know where she's gone, she'll have got off at the Kunishima Bank. I've forgotten the floor. Russ and I'll be there in five minutes. Are you in your nightie?”
“What?”
He switched off, turned to Clements and Paula Decker. “Sheryl is keeping an eye on Kylie, she's up the road at the Kunishima Bank, I'll bet. Stay here, Paula. We'll be bringing Kylie back.”
“Can I wring her neck?”
“Be my guest.”
Sheryl Dallen, overnight bag beside her, was waiting for Malone and Clements in the foyer of Aurora. The lobby was busy with office workers going home to their own problems, the lifts vomiting them as they hurried towards the outer doors. Malone and Clements fought their way upstream, going to work. Nine to five was a luxury every police officer dreamed of.
“No sign of her so far,” said Sheryl. “She must still be up there.”
“I'm going up,” said Malone. “You two keep an eye on the lifts, case she comes down while I'm going up. Call me if she does, so I don't barge into Kunishima and be met with a blank stare. They're very good at that.”
“Watch the yakuza guy,” said Clements with concern.
“Yakuza?” said Sheryl.
“Tell her about it,” said Malone and rode up to the bank's floor in an empty lift, wondering if Mr. Tajiri, the yakuza man, would greet him with a blank stare or something else. He eased his .40 Glock pistol further round on his hip, just in case.
He had no plan of action other than to get Kylie Doolan back into protective custody. He had long ago begun to rely on his instinct; not the most reliable of spurs, but it beat having no plan at all. He could be analytical with the best, but only after facts had been registered. And so far he had very few facts on Okada and the men who ran Kunishima Bank.
There was no one in the reception area of the bank's office. He had remarked that Kunishima had two floors; the floor below this one was probably still inhabited by computer slaves. In banks these days there were no dead periods; the computers and their slaves worked round the clock; anywhere in the world, at any given time, money was tumbling in the lottery barrel called dealing. But here on the executive floor, it seemed, everyone had gone home.
Malone hesitated, then he moved towards the door of Okada's office where he and Clements had entered a couple of hours ago. The door opened in his face; Okada stood there, a surprised smile on his face. “Why, Inspector Malone! Back so soon? You have found Mr. Magee?”
“Not yet, Mr. Okada. I'm here looking for Miss Doolan.”
“Who?” Okada looked genuinely puzzled.
But Malone was still trying to read a Japanese face, especially one as controlled as Mr. Okada's. “Errol Magee's girlfriend.”
Okada shook his head, smiled. “I never had the pleasure. Why are you here looking for her?”
She came up here . . . But had she? Had she gone to the other floor of the bank? Or some office here in the building totally unconnected with Kunishima? He felt suddenly uncomfortable, but he had felt that way before; it came with the job. So he lied: “We understand you called her at the Magee apartment.”
“She told you that? She must have been joking, Inspector. I have never met the lady and have no interest in her. We are interested only in Mr. Magee.”
“Do you mind if I look around?” Malone nodded at the room behind the banker.
“Yes, I do mind, Inspector. But also yes, you may look around.” He stood aside, almost theatrically; Malone waited for him to bow. “Should you not have a warrant?”
“Yes, I should. Do you want me to get one? We could be standing here for a couple of hours while they find a judge. Judges tend to go home early.”
“A most relaxing profession. No, go ahead, Inspector. Mr. Magee's lady friend is not here, never has been.”
Malone stepped into the room, glanced around. He could barge into the other rooms, but already he could feel Okada smiling at him behind his back and the impassive face. Then he said, “Why aren't you interested in Miss Doolan? She was the one who was supposed to be kidnapped, not Mr. Magee.”
“Really? We didn't know that.”
I’m not sure, either. “And you're still not interested in her?”
“No, Inspector. Our only interest is Mr. Magee. Back home in Osaka our shareholders will be asking questions about the shortfall in our profits. I hope when you find Mr. Magee you will allow us a few minutes with him. Our forty million dollars,” he explained, as if Malone might have forgotten that. “Now will you excuse me?”
Malone couldn't resist it, even though it was juvenile: he bowed and backed out. Okada looked after him with a smile as empty as a flash of light on porcelain. Malone turned quickly and headed for the lifts before his temper got the better of him.
Down in the lobby he told Clements and Sheryl Dallen, “He denies he ever heard of her. I think he was bullshitting. Go down to the garage, Sheryl, till I get someone over from The Rocks. There's probably three or four floors of garage—no, wait a minute.” His anger was clouding his thinking. “There'll only be one exit ramp. Stand there and check every car comes out till I get The Rocks people over. They can cover it for the next coupla hours. If Okada and company have kidnapped Kylie—” He looked at Clements. “You remember The Rocks number?”
“Why would I remember it? I'm not supposed to be on this case—”
“Jesus wept!”
It was Sheryl, looking a little puzzled at the two men, who gave him the number. “I'm the junior around here and it seems to me I'm the least frustrated. Frankly, if Kylie's in trouble, it's her own fault, not ours.”
“Let's simmer down,” said Clements.
Malone took the advice, called The Rocks on his mobile, gave instructions, then closed the phone. “Righto, Sheryl, down to the exit ramp. Russ will be with you in a few minutes.” Sheryl went to walk off, leaving her bag. “You've forgot your nightie.”
“I'll use it to strangle Kylie if I find her coming out of the garage.”
When she had gone Malone turned to Clements. “This is getting out of hand. What's holding up setting up a strike force?”
“The bulletin board is full, Headquarters told me. We've got more strike forces than they had in World War Two. While you were out today, they tried to hand us three more homicides. I told ‘em the locals had to handle ‘em themselves. The point is, the dead maid, Juanita, has become unimportant. But if we get two more murders on our hands, Mr. Magee and his girlfriend . . . Okay, I'll try again. I'll ring Greg Random and see what he can do.”
“That superintendent's job can't come soon enough.”
“Bullshit,” said Clements and went off.
Malone stood alone in the suddenly deserted lobby, wondering what life would be like out there in the comfort zone, wondering if that was what he really wanted.
III
“Phoenix Briskin?” said the woman from Centrelink; she was new and had not interviewed him before. “Phoenix? You made that up yourself ?”
“No, me mother give it to me. It was her favourite song.” He hummed a bar or two. “By the time I get to Phoenix—” He broke off, gave her his cowboy's smile. “She liked ‘Wichita Lineman,' too. All them Glen Campbell songs.”
“Why didn't she call you Phoenix Wichita then?”
He knew the bitch was taking the piss out of him. All these fucking people who worked for the government were the same. He'd show ‘em when he got his share of the Magee ransom.
“You're going to have to pull your socks up, son,” she said, looking at his papers. “Two jobs in three weeks. We don't run a place where you takes your choice. What happened?”
He hadn't even turned up at the first job. “The manager, he was gay. He kept wanting to feel me up.”
“Why didn't you come back and complain?”
“How could I? You know, that whatdotheycallit? That Anti-Discrimination thing.”
She sighed, not believing him; it was written all over her face. “Okay, what about the second job? The brickie's labourer? That should've suited you. You're built like—like—” She wasn't supposed to insult those who came here, but sometimes it was difficult not to.
He helped her out: “Like a brick shithouse? Yeah, that's what me brother says. I stayed three days, that job, but I hadda leave.”
