He shook his head. “Given all the time and resources in the world, maybe, but the cops are worked like dray horses. They don’t have time to see things through. Besides, now there’s a bikie gang in the picture, the Anning murder will have been shunted out of homicide into organised crime, where it will join a dozen others waiting for attention. Chelsea’s murder might stay with Reid, or it might not, either way, since Anning is now the only real suspect and they can’t prosecute him, they’ve probably been told to shut it down.”
“Shut it down?” I was genuinely shocked. “They’d shut down a murder investigation?”
“Simple economics. Someone will do a cost-benefit analysis. Accountants rule the world these days.”
“So why does Reid want to see us?”
Ronnie looked at the ceiling. “It’s hard to let go. I’ve been there plenty of times. Even when you’re spinning your wheels, even when you’ve lost jurisdiction, even when your eyes are bleeding from reading the same witness statements over and over again, you still think that with just a bit more effort, just one more interview, just another twenty-four hours, you’ll find that piece of information that will lay the whole thing wide open.” He closed his eyes, head still back.
“Is that why you followed me?”
Slowly, he lowered his head and opened his eyes. Looking straight into mine, he said, “People shouldn’t get away with murder.”
Chapter Seventeen
Ronnie’s spare room was nice. It wasn’t decorated with the sparse good taste that Chelsea had brought to our own home, but it had a comfortable feel, like my parents’ house always had. When Ronnie brought me up to it, me carrying my bags of new clothes and toiletries, we passed another bedroom, full of gym equipment.
“Any time I’m not using it, feel free to have a go,” he said, noticing me looking.
“Not really my thing,” I said.
“Well, I’m afraid you’ll find the library isn’t exactly up to your standards, but I’ll give you the wi-fi password and you can read what you like.”
I’d noticed a couple of shelves in the lounge room full of memoirs and military histories, a few books on forensic science, a half-dozen books on dog breeds, and a handful of photo albums. He was right, that wasn’t my idea of a good read at all.
I showered and changed. For I while, I tinkered with my new laptop, setting things up the way I liked them. I logged into my email and sent my parents a long message explaining that I couldn’t contact them because I was in hiding. I was pretty sure my mother would have a fit when she read it but I needed to warn them. I gave them Alexandra Bertolissio’s name and Terry Marchant’s and suggested they talk to both of them about what to do. I also said they should take a holiday. There was a place on the coast – Lennox Head – that they liked to visit. It seemed to me like a good time to take a couple of weeks’ vacation there. I didn’t mention Ronnie, or where I was staying. If my parents’ place was burgled, I didn’t want the Devil’s Playthings to find anything that could help them find me. Finally, I asked them not to contact me because I needed to lay low, possibly to move around a lot, and I might not be able to reply to any messages.
When I finished, I stared at it for a long time before hitting “Send”. After that, I stared at the blank screen until Ronnie shouted up the stairs that dinner was ready.
* * * *
“Right-o,” Ronnie said. “I’ve been thinking about it and these are the options.”
We were in his garden, sitting on sun-loungers in the warm evening air, an esky full of cold stubbies between us and a sky full of dim stars above. I pulled one of the bottles out of the esky. Water dripped off it from the melting ice it had been sitting in. I put the lid back on and realised Ronnie was watching me, waiting.
“I’m listening,” I protested.
“One,” he said. “We get a confession from Mr Big.”
“That’s Noah Lee, right?”
“Nah, mate. Lee’s not the one who sent two Devils enforcers round to shoot Anning. It doesn’t work that way. For a start, he’d have his own goons to do jobs like that. For another thing, why would the Devils be interested in cleaning up Lee’s messes?”
“Because they’d be implicated in Chelsea’s murder somehow?”
He looked at me as if I was a complete moron. He obviously considered explaining it to me but then decided it would be too much work. “No. Mr Big is one of the Devils; either the top man, or one of his senior lieutenants. No-one else would have had the clout to order a hit like that. My guess is it’s the top man himself. So we need to find out who that is. He’s our prime suspect.”
“OK.” I wondered if he expected me to take notes.
“So, number one, we get a confession. That usually takes some undercover work and someone wearing a wire. You and me can’t go into the Devils’ clubhouse and strike up conversations because our friends from the car park would recognise us at once. We can’t ask anyone else to do it, either, because it’d be too damn risky. The chances of pulling something like that off are pretty slim even with trained operatives and loads of backup. We’d just be setting someone up to die.”
Again he went off into a deep reverie. Was he remembering past undercover ops? Was he thinking about people who’d died? People he knew? People he’d sent on such missions?
“Two,” he said, snapping out of it. “We could force a confession. There’s nothing I’d like more than to practice my old ‘enhanced interrogation techniques’ on a bastard like that. You might even enjoy it yourself.” I doubted it. Somehow I even doubted that Ronnie would. “Trouble is, nothing he said would be admissible in court.”
“Good. ’Cause I don’t like option two.”
He gave me a big, shit-eater grin. “Fucking pansy. All right, option three: we go after his paper trail.”
“What? You think he keeps records of all the people he’s had murdered?”
“No but he might keep records of the money that’s being laundered. We wouldn’t get him for murder, but we might get him on some other rap. And he might only get five years instead of life but at least we get to fuck with him, right?”
It didn’t sound much like justice to me. “And how would we do that?”
“Well, it wouldn’t be easy. We’d have to break into their clubhouse, maybe a couple of homes, their accountant’s place, their lawyer’s… In the end we’d turn something up, I’m sure. It’s just...”
“We’d probably end up in jail first.”
“You probably won’t like option four, either, then. It’s the same as three, only we hack his computer and look for dirt on him.”
“What? You can hack computers?” It occurred to me I hadn’t even questioned the idea that he could do breaking and entering.
He shook his head. “No, but you know someone who can.”
I held up a hand. “No way. Not again. Once was too much.” I don’t know why I was being so protective of Karen but the very idea of dragging that poor woman back into all this made me see red.
“O-kay,” he said, slowly. “Not option four. Option five would be the most illegal of all. Namely, a bit of vigilante justice. It wouldn’t be too hard to pick up Mr. Big, take him somewhere quiet, and put an end to his criminal career forever.” He looked at me as if he was interested to see how I’d react. “Just spitballing, you understand.”
“Of course.” It was a crazy but tempting idea. A couple of days ago, it would have seemed utterly outrageous. Now, having witnessed a cold-blooded execution, having been attacked by the same killers and having had to flee for my life, knowing the cops could do nothing – weren’t even interested in helping – my perspective had changed. Killing Mr. Big would solve a number of problems in one simple action. And yet…
“So, let’s put option five aside for the moment,” said Ronnie, as if he could see what I was thinking. “There’s only one more possibility I can see, option six, we mount some kind of sting operation.”
“A sting? Like some kind of con game?�
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“Yeah. It’s a bit like option one, going undercover, only more elaborate and more risk. And we have all the same problems; they know our faces, they’ll be on high alert, and it could take a long time. Also, we’d need some brilliant plan to lure them in and get them hooked and, well, I suck at that kind of thing. I’m more a walk in there and shoot the bugger kind of bloke.”
“What about ‘Not By Strength, By Guile’?” I asked quoting his old SBS motto.
“Funny thing is, they changed that a few years back. Now it’s ‘By Strength and Guile’. Give it a few more years and it’ll just be ‘Kick Butt’.” He took a thoughtful swig of beer. “Anyway, that’s all I’ve got. We need to pick the best of that bad bunch and start planning.”
He sounded quite morose. I was beginning to see he was a man who needed to keep moving forward. Like a shark, I thought, that has to keep swimming to breathe. And there was something distinctly shark-like about him, now that I knew him well enough to see past that old derelict façade of his. Or maybe he was more like an old galleon and needed wind in his sails because without it he was rudderless. Maybe a pirate ship. Shark? Pirate? Something dangerous, with strange vulnerabilities, but definitely a hunter. I remembered the first time I saw him, sitting in a bar, staring into a glass of rum, as if lost in some deep, empty place. Was that how he’d be if I cleared off and took my little adventure away from him? Was that why he followed me?
I saw the car park opposite Archerfield Enterprises Ltd., felt Hairy’s fist clutching my shirtfront, bruising my chest, the hot car burning my back, saw Ronnie walking towards us. A miracle. A wonder.
If Ronnie hadn’t been there for me, where would I be? How could I have done this, survived this, without him. If I lost Ronnie – or drove him away again – there would be nobody to replace him. The cops should have been there to step up for me but, even if they were willing, how could they ever replace Ronnie?
“I like the old motto better,” I said, feeling the excitement of ideas forming.
“You would.”
I put down my beer and swung round to face him. “Anning’s dead.”
“So?”
“So who replaces him? Who’s next in line to take control of his business?” Ronnie’s forehead crumpled into a frown of concentration, as if he was already seeing where I was going. “Do you suppose whoever it is knows about Anning’s deal with Mr. Big? Or that Noah Lee is a crook? And what if they’re only just now beginning to understand what the company is into? Even if they’re still in the dark, even if this is all a side deal Anning set up and the company is fair dinkum, Mr. Big certainly knows he’s lost whatever business he was doing with Anning. So what’s he likely to do? He can’t just approach the new CEO and offer them a deal. Well, he can, I suppose, but wouldn’t that be really risky? What if the new guy goes running to the cops? No, he needs to abandon the whole thing – or look around for a new partner. It’s got to piss him off. Yes, he needed to kill Anning and, yes, he thought it was worth it, in the scheme of things, but wouldn’t it be great if he could have his cake and eat it?”
Ronnie also swung his feet off the lounger and turned to me, eyes alive. “Fuck me, I think you’re onto something there, mate. This might be the good oil. We go to the new CEO and ask him to work with us.”
“Or her.”
“What?”
“Could be a woman. The new CEO.”
“I don’t care if he’s a fucking Martian. We use it as our opening into Mr. Big’s whole operation. We can film it, tape it. We’d have access to everything. We might even get a confession for the murder.”
“If they’ll do it.”
“Why wouldn’t they? He!”
“I can think of a dozen really good reasons – most of them to do with not getting killed by a bunch of gangsters.”
“We’ll just need to persuade him.” He winked at me. “I can be very charming.” He had actually begun to grow cheerful at the prospect of a way forward. There was a firmness to his jaw. His eyes were gazing through me into the far distance. The dogs had picked up the scent and the hunt was on again.
Chapter Eighteen
The Brisvegas Games Factory was in a converted woolstore by the river in the trendy suburb of Tenerife. It wasn’t an area I visited often but, whenever I did, the atmosphere of monied yuppification reminded me why not. Without at least a designer hairdo, I felt out of place. With the shambolic Ronnie by my side, I could almost hear the locals sniffing in disdain.
There was a reception area consisting of a desk with a row of ceiling-high posters behind it proclaiming the thrills and wonders of the Fifth Annual East Coast Gamefest and, apparently its star attraction, the Silent Empire World eSports Final. A camp young man with pink-tinted hair sat behind the desk smiling hopefully at us. He wore a lapel badge that said, “Hi there! I’m Bobby.” When we asked to see the Manager, he looked devastated.
“She’s in meetings all day,” he said. “Absolutely back to back. Even lunch is fully booked. Things are just crazy around here since… Well, you know. And then there’s...” He pointed over his shoulder at the posters. As soon as Bobby said “she” I gave Ronnie a told-you-so smirk.
“We only need five minutes,” Ronnie said. “And it’s really important. I promise you she would want to see us if she knew why we were here.”
“Oh, I’d love to help you,” the young man said, looking like he might break into tears. “So many people want to see her. The police just won’t leave her alone.”
“Big fella?” I asked. “Trevor Reid?”
“Yes! That’s the one! Scrummy but, like...” He pulled a stern face and mimed a sort of robot marching.
“I know,” I said, not really knowing. “He’s been bugging me ever since Chelsea died. That was my girlfriend. You probably read about it.”
“O.M.G! That’s the one that Simon… Oh my goodness!” He put a hand to his chest. “Oh you poor thing!” I nodded, sadly. The desk between us was probably all that saved me from a hug. “We had no idea,” he said, wide eyed. “Who’d have thought Simon could…? Everybody was just shocked.”
“We really need to see your boss about it,” Ronnie said. “Something really important has come up that we need to talk to her about.”
The internal struggle Bobby fought was all over his face. Finally, he jumped up and said, “I’m going to interrupt her. I’m sure this is more important than a silly project briefing. Just you wait here.”
“You’re not such a daft bugger as you look,” Ronnie said, when we were alone. He said things like that, sometimes, slipping out of his Ocker Aussie accent into something more like Northern English. I supposed that’s where he came from originally but he said so little about his life that I really didn’t know. Of course, he’d tell me I should dig into it, check him out, ask a few questions, and maybe he was right. But my relationship with Ronnie wasn’t one I wanted to develop and nurture. It was a collaboration of convenience and would be over soon enough, with any luck.
The young man with pink highlights came back after a minute or two looking very pleased with himself. “She’ll see you now,” he announced. “I’m to show you straight in.”
The office beyond the obscuring posters was a big, open space with a high ceiling that showed off massive wooden beams and planks. But that was the only concession to industrial archaeology. The walls were painted black, with huge, abstract designs in neon colours. There was a small coffee bar and a billiard table. Brightly-coloured sofas and bean bags littered the floor and the randomly strewn desks were cluttered with inflated dinosaurs, plastic toys and pot plants. I’d thought Chelsea’s office looked a bit anarchic but this one took things to a whole new level.
Our guide led us past a life-size Star Wars storm trooper dummy wearing a sombrero to a row of offices and meeting rooms. He left us there, promising to fetch coffee and “Debra”, and left us to work out where to sit.
“Debra?” Ronnie said. “Do you suppose he means ‘Deborah’?”
> “Don’t be a name snob.”
But, as he dived into his phone, clicking frantically, I realised he was only asking so he could run searches.
“Nope,” he said, putting his phone away. “It really is Debra. Debra Heinzer. Listed on the company website as ‘Operations Manager’.”
Bitterly, I said, “I suppose DI Reid thinks she shot Anning for the promotion.”
He grinned but didn’t comment because the door opened and a harried young woman rushed in, saying, “Sorry to keep you.” Ronnie stood up and introduced himself, apologising smoothly for the unannounced visit. When I put out my hand, she said, “You must be Luke Kelly. Please accept my condolences.”
She was a plump woman with a pleasant face and sharp eyes. She looked like she’d dressed in a hurry but was the sort who wouldn’t notice.
“Sorry to interrupt your project meeting,” I said.
“Me too,” she said, smiling. “Project meetings are about the only thing I still do that don’t give me the heebie-geebies since… Talk about out of my depth. Hopefully the recruitment consultants will find a new CEO soon and I can go back into my comfort zone. Now, what can I do for you?”
I looked at Ronnie. I had changed my mind. There was no way we could ask this pleasant, frazzled woman to front up a sting operation against an organised crime boss. But Ronnie just swung into the approach we’d prepared.
“Debra,” he said. “Are you aware that Simon Anning was working with a local bikie gang? That your business partner Archerfield Enterprises is run by crooks who undertake money laundering operations for the Devil’s Playthings? Are you aware that this bikie gang had Mr. Anning executed, after they first had him kill Chelsea Campbell, because she’d stumbled on Anning’s illegal activities?”
I watched her face as Ronnie spoke. All I saw was shock and incredulity. No guilt, no shiftiness. This was good.
“What?” was all she said in reply.
Bright City Deep Shadows Page 17
