by Robert Sims
Dark. Neat.
‘Did you see his eyes?’
No. He wore glasses.
‘Did they have mirror lenses?’
Yes. Then he put on a mask.
‘A bronze mask?’
Yes.
‘What was he wearing?’
Denim shirt. Black jeans.
‘What car was he driving?’
Black ute.
‘Ford or Holden?’
Don’t know.
‘Did you notice the numberplate?’
No.
‘Did he mention a name?’
No.
‘An area, or a place of work?’
No.
Rita sighed and glanced over her shoulder at Strickland. So far there was little new information to go on.
‘Where and when did he pick you up?’ she resumed.
Victoria Street, about two o’clock.
‘Did he ask for bondage?’
Yes. Then he drove me home.
‘I’m going to take a guess about what happened next,’ Rita told her. ‘But stop me if I get any detail wrong, okay? He paid and you offered him a drink, which he accepted. He asked you to light the lanterns and switch off the electric lights, which you did. You attached the bondage equipment to the bed, and in the process of you both getting undressed he put on the mask. Then you picked up a condom.
Did he say anything at any stage?’
Only when I asked about the mask, wrote the girl.
‘Give me his exact answer.’
He said, ‘It’s my other face.’
Rita stared at the words on the pad before continuing. ‘Tell me how he attacked you.’
He went crazy, wrote the girl. He hit me with the bottle. I felt nothing but I could still see and hear.
‘So you were still conscious?’ asked Rita.
Yes. But numb all over.
Rita swore under her breath, but went on. ‘What did he do?’
He threw me on the bed. Raped me like an animal. Then he got a meat knife from the kitchen. I thought he would kill me. But he cut out my tongue.
Her eyes filled with tears and she couldn’t go on.
Rita glanced at the police artist. The man raised his eyebrows and shook his head in disbelief. Strickland was frowning, arms folded.
She turned back to Hei but the girl was convulsing, unable to get breath into her lungs. The doctor called for assistance and the police contingent was swiftly ushered out of the room as the medical staff sedated her again.
‘This is going to be a slow process,’ said Strickland.
Rita nodded. ‘I doubt we’ll get much more.’
Rita left the hospital in a subdued mood, carrying dark thoughts about the Hacker’s mental state, and depressing images of another young life in ruins. She arrived back in the taskforce room with Strickland to add the latest evidence to the case files and to hear Mace addressing his team ahead of another visit to the nightclub.
The atmosphere was tense.
‘The Vietnamese victim would be dead but for the quick thinking of her friend,’ Mace told the detectives, his voice edgy. ‘That was lucky for her and lucky for us. It also means we now have an artist’s impression of the Hacker. We’re about to release this to the media but don’t let that distract you. It’s to keep them occupied as much as anything else. I’m not confident it’s accurate. Looks like any other yuppie to me. So keep in mind it’s just an impression. We’ll question anyone tonight who bears even a vague resemblance.’
Mace breathed out heavily then he went on. ‘Now, what I’m about to add is very important. I know you weren’t expecting to be called out again tonight, but it’s because of other developments. It means, initially, we’ll be playing a secondary role.’ His rough features were creased with a hard frown as he gazed around the faces in the room.
‘For more than three months, Jim Proctor has been running a secret surveillance operation against Tony Kavella. I won’t go into details, other than to say that in the next couple of hours Proctor’s Taskforce Nero will be launching raids against gangland organisations around the city. A key target is the Plato’s Cave nightclub, and the offices attached to it. One of the aims is to shut Kavella down - permanently.
If all hell breaks loose, we’ll be there as backup. If it goes smoothly, we’ll follow up with another trawl through the clubbers for anyone matching the Hacker’s description.’ He paused to let the implications sink in. ‘Okay, let’s roll. And again - I don’t want any slip-ups.’
Mace led the team from the room, leaving Rita and Strickland facing each other across the table.
‘The shit’s about to hit the fan,’ said Strickland, pulling himself up from his chair. ‘We might as well pack it in for the night.’
‘I’ll just type up some notes,’ Rita told him.
‘Well, don’t knock yourself out. We’re about to be overtaken by events. Kavella won’t go down without a fight.’
As Strickland left, Rita dragged over a keyboard, logged on and started filing the details supplied by Hei Vuong. She was sitting alone in the room, elbows on the table, when Jim Proctor strode in.
‘Good, I wanted to catch up with you,’ he said, leaning on the table beside her. ‘I assume you’ve heard we’re going in tonight.’ He glanced at his watch. ‘Less than two hours to go, and we’re hitting all of them at once. I’ve had to bring the raids forward because Kavella’s very twitchy, thanks to Mace going into the club mob-handed two nights in a row.’ Proctor sat down in the chair beside her. ‘Anyway, that’s not what I need to talk to you about. We’ve got Kavella on tape planning to do a runner to some secret bolthole he’s got. And there’s something else you have to hear.’ He gestured to the keyboard. ‘May I?’
‘Help yourself,’ said Rita, moving aside.
She watched Proctor pull a USB memory stick from his pocket, plug it in and call up a digital audio file.
‘Ready?’ he asked.
She nodded, he hit the play button and the voices of Kavella and Brendan Moyle came out of the speaker:
Kavella: Why do I bother paying cops if they don’t give me more warning?
Moyle: Deadshits.
Kavella: I want everything in place, in case I get the final word.
Moyle: No problem. They won’t see us for dust.
Kavella: Once we’re out we can take it easy - a long holiday in the Caribbean - I’m almost looking forward to it. But there’s one piece of unfinished business.
Moyle: If you want me to do the bitch, it’d be a pleasure.
Kavella: I’m through with twisting her tail, it’s party time. I want to fuck her over. I want to make her bleed. I want her to scream. I want her dead!
Moyle: I’m on it.
Kavella: No, you’re staying with me. Get the Duck. Tell him to kill Van Hassel and let me know how he did it.
Proctor hit the stop button and stared at her gravely. ‘Of course we’ve got him right there on conspiracy to murder,’ he said.
She gave him a grim smile. ‘You’re welcome.’
‘I’m sorry, I bear a lot of responsibility.’
‘No you don’t,’ she said. ‘Kavella’s been out for revenge since his arrest. You’ve just helped speed things up.’
‘I’ve booked two patrol cars for you tonight,’ Proctor went on.
‘One out front, the other in the alleyway at the back of your house.
That should keep you safe.’
‘Thanks.’
‘Now go home, lock up and wait for tomorrow’s news.’ Proctor stood up, smiling. ‘We’re about to make some headlines.’
Rita was overtired. She’d been woken before dawn and the pressures of the long day had worn her down. Once she’d checked through the house with the patrol officers, she saw them out, locking and bolting the doors behind them. Then she double-checked that all the windows were secure, a habit she’d developed since the anonymous guest had let himself in to watch her TV and rummage through her things. Next she tidied up
a bit, straightening her books and videos, and finally, she tended to the feng shui balance of her bedroom -
making delicate adjustments to the positions of the mirrors, indoor ferns, the bamboo screen, the wooden drawers. It was only just after ten o’clock, with almost an hour to go till Proctor’s raids, but she was ready for bed.
She propped herself up on pillows and switched off the lamp, but she’d left the blinds partly open to let in some streetlight. The room was full of deep shadows, but not complete darkness. As her eyes adjusted she could see the outlines of the objects around her, and the glimmer of the gun on the sheet beside her. It was a Smith & Wesson .38, with a chequered walnut grip and satin nickel stock.
More than once she picked it up, felt the weight, then put it down again. Its presence was reassuring. And while her rational mind told her to set aside fears of an intruder - baleful imaginings that come in the night - the glossy metal presence of the revolver felt like a protective charm, in addition to the cops on watch outside.
It wasn’t long before the security of the gun, and the weight of tiredness, had her eyelids drooping. As she nodded off, she slumped down further onto the pillows, and drifted into a dreamless sleep.
She woke within minutes, bleary-eyed and wondering for a moment why she was propped up in bed. Then she remembered, and with a jolt was suddenly alert. Something - she didn’t know what - had disturbed her sleep. Instinctively she reached for the gun, hardly daring to breathe. The room was no different. Solid with shadows cast by the dim streetlight. The air warm and still.
No sounds in the dead of night. No traffic, no footsteps. Nothing at all. Maybe she was mistaken, letting her fears get to her. But just as her breathing started to ease, she heard it. The quiet scraping of something overhead, a possum on the roof perhaps. When it came again she realised it wasn’t on the roof, the sound was in the roof. A moment later she heard the creak of the ceiling trapdoor being opened above the kitchen, followed by the groan of the loose floorboard under the linoleum. Someone was inside her house, moving slowly towards her bedroom.
She flicked off the safety catch, pointed the gun at the doorway, and held it steady, both hands on the grip. She tried to do the breathing exercises she’d been taught to allay panic, but her heart was hammering.
The first movement was barely perceptible, there and gone in an instant. She lowered the angle of the barrel. As she did, he hurled himself through the air with terrifying agility. If she hadn’t been poised, gun at the ready, she wouldn’t have stood a chance. As it was, she had just a moment to react. The dark shape of his body descending on her, the glint of metal from a knife. She dodged sideways, firing at point-blank range. The bullets exploding through his skull, the sound of the gunshots deafening. Smoke in her eyes.
The smell of cordite. Something wet on her face. His body crashing against hers. The knife grazing her shoulder.
She twisted out from under him, sprang across the room and switched on the light, the .38 still aimed at the shape on the bed.
But no more bullets were needed. Her muscles and sinews tensed as she recognised what was left of her would-be killer, the Duck, his forehead blasted away. Dark red oozing from his mouth into her duvet. Her walls and ceiling spattered with his blood, bone fragments and brain matter. More of the same dripping from her face.
She wiped it quickly with her forearm and lowered the gun. Despite her close brush with death, she felt strangely cool and self-possessed now. And though her heart was pumping heavily, her thoughts were clear. She’d done what was necessary. But the feng shui arrangements of her bedroom now resembled a slaughterhouse.
As she stood there staring at the blood and membranes, Rita heard doors banging, voices shouting, footsteps running. She was walking towards her front door when it burst in and slammed against the wall. A torchlight blinded her and all she could see in the glare was a gun barrel and a cop in uniform. Instantly she raised her hands.
‘Are you all right?’
It was the urgent voice of the young constable who’d been on watch in the street out front.
‘Yes.’
‘Where is he?’
‘In the bedroom - dead.’
Then came another loud crash, this time behind her, as the kitchen door sheered out of its frame and smacked against the sink.
Heavy boots were thudding on the linoleum bringing another cop with a gun and torchlight.
‘Okay, okay,’ said the first officer. ‘The incident’s over.’ He switched on the hall lights and looked at her. ‘Are you injured? You’re covered in blood.’
‘No, it’s his. I shot him in the head.’
She led them into the bedroom and they looked down at what was left of the Duck, taking in the slow dark ooze from his shattered skull, the glassy eyes, the frozen snarl of his gold-studded teeth, the knife lying harmlessly under his limp hand.
‘Thank God you had your gun,’ said one of the officers, while the other radioed in the police alert. ‘How did we miss him?’
‘He got here before us,’ answered Rita. ‘He must have picked a lock and hidden in the roof.’
‘Shit,’ said the young cop, his voice rough with emotion. ‘We nearly lost you.’
Eleven o’clock on a Sunday night, and the nightclub was buzzing.
The top celebrity guest was an AFL footballer wired to the eyeballs on coke, pumping himself around the dance floor, stripped to the waist, medallion bouncing, muscles flexing in a sheen of perspiration, his brain telling him he could bop forever. His girlfriend, a calendar model, was too far gone on high-octane cocktails to keep up and was being buffeted around by the other dancers as they heaved to a retro mix of seventies hits spun by the DJ. In the row of booths figures leant towards each other, faces shadowed, hands out of sight.
This was, after all, primarily a pick-up joint. Against the cellar walls, dripping with condensation, the tables were crowded with empty bottles, jugs and glasses. Along the bar slumped older men, some in blazers, full of beer and lascivious fantasies as they peeled open their wallets for women with tight skirts and scavenger faces.
Behind them the bar staff worked at a steady pace, mixing cocktails, pulling the pumps, working the tills. Above their heads, fogged in the dim, clammy, smoky atmosphere, glowed the red neon sign reading Plato’s Cave.
Then several things happened at once.
The calendar model fell flat on her face, legs splayed out, skirt dislodged, exposing the fact she was wearing no panties. A man on a bar stool pointed and laughed, ‘Look at the naked arse!’, so the footballer went up and punched him to the floor before raining kicks on him. The bouncers swooped and hauled him off just in time to hear the crash overhead and see what looked like a regiment of cops swarming down the stairs.
As the police fanned out around the nightclub, the lights came up and the music stopped, leaving an uncomfortable hush. The customers shuffled awkwardly, wanting to leave, but they were going nowhere. If they had any guilty secrets, this was their moment of reckoning.
A few minutes later, Jim Proctor pushed through the wall of officers at the top of the stairs, radio in hand, talking urgently to Mace.
‘Anyone make a run for it?’ asked Proctor.
‘No,’ answered Mace. ‘And we’ve got every exit covered.’
‘Shit,’ said Proctor. ‘The computer boys are in the adjoining building but it looks like we’re too late. There’s been a mass delete of the programs.’
‘Where’s Kavella?’
‘He’s vanished,’ said Proctor, ‘which means we’ve got a manhunt.’
Rita sat with a mug of warm tea in her hand as she completed a statement to Jack Loftus back in his office. She’d showered, sealed her clothes in an evidence bag, and changed into the tracksuit and tennis shoes from her locker. The grey light of early dawn was seeping through the windows. From the far end of the office came the hum of vacuum cleaners.
The formalities over, Loftus reached over his desk and put a hand on hers.
&n
bsp; ‘You sure you’re okay?’ he asked.
She nodded. ‘Just tired. I’ve gone twenty-four hours without sleep. Any word yet on Kavella?’
‘Wait here, I’ll check.’
While Loftus went off to the communications centre, Rita switched on his office TV in time to catch Mike Cassidy mid-flow in the early breakfast bulletin.
… and so what happened in the club behind me overnight was part of an unprecedented series of police raids against top gangland figures.
Members of the Fazio family, with their well-known connections to the Calabrian mafia, are in custody. So too is Triads overlord Victor Yang.
However, arrest warrants have been issued for fugitive crime boss Tony Kavella and his chief lieutenant, Brendan Moyle, who made a last-minute getaway before Plato’s Cave was surrounded and cordoned off last night. They’re wanted on a long list of charges, including conspiracy to murder. The latter count relates to a hit ordered on criminal profiler Marita Van Hassel. Reliable sources tell me the police were aware of the threat, after months of surveillance by a special operation known as Taskforce Nero. Although the details haven’t yet emerged, it’s been confirmed that underworld hitman Duc Hung Long - also known as the Duck - was shot dead inside the profiler’s house. How all this is linked, we’re yet to be informed, but as we find out we’ll update you from here at the scene. Now it’s back to the studio.
Rita switched off the TV as Loftus returned.
‘Well?’ she asked.
‘No trace of Kavella or Moyle,’ he said, flopping back into his chair. ‘We’re facing one of the biggest police hunts in years.’ He rubbed his eyes. ‘But that’s not your concern. You’ve got to get some sleep. Is there anyone you can stay with while your house is out of action?’
‘Now that you mention it, I’m a bit stuffed at the moment. My parents have retired to the Gold Coast, my sister lives in Canada, and my best friend is away in the Whitsundays being wooed by a lesbian.
I suppose I could ask Erin, but she’s got her hands full already.’
‘There are a couple of spare bedrooms at my place,’ offered Loftus.
‘Or we could just put you up at a hotel.’
‘I’ll think about it in a minute,’ said Rita distractedly. ‘I just realised I’d better phone my parents before they find out what happened from the telly.’
