‘Stomach cramps,’ was all he could muster.
The hostess nodded sympathetically. Once at the engaged toilet door, Cole stopped to look around. The closest passengers were occupied with their hand luggage and their cat grooming before landing. He tapped on the engaged door, whispering ‘Steward, open the door, sir.’
He watched the red door indicator glide to green and the door open to expose a man with a mouthful of toothpaste looking at him. Cole forced his way into the toilet cubicle, snibbing the door behind.
‘Take your fourth look, fuck-head. What’s your problem?’
‘What?’ was all the man offered as he almost swallowed his toothbrush.
‘Why all the looks? Are you a dog?’
‘What?’
‘Since Auckland.’
‘I saw a picture on the front page of the paper. Some bloke and a fish. Some old couple in Russell,’ stammered the trembling businessman.
It all fell into place that one split second. All that was left for him to do was to summon the cleverest answer he could deliver.
‘Who’s Russell?’
‘It’s a little town on the Bay of Islands.’
‘Mate, I just flew in from Sydney at 3 a.m. to connect to Buenos Aires. What are you fuckin’ talking about?’
The businessman spat out the last of his toothpaste into the basin. ‘I’m so sorry, just a silly mistake, I’m sorry, mate.’
‘I’m not too sure what you are talking about, but I get it. A mistake is a mistake.’
They left the cubicle together much to the bemusement of an elderly Maori lady seated in the aisle seat closest to the cubicle, who gave them both a stern look. One that Cole didn’t bother about.
There was no reason for a headline story on the catch of a big fish. Especially when the catch was only a minnow compared to what was normally caught in the Bay of Islands. All Cole could think of when he returned to his seat was what the businessman had said about the elderly couple in Russell. He did an autopsy on those dozen or so words, trying his darnedest to come up with an interpretation that didn’t include some harm having come to Lynette and Cary. He asked for the newspaper, only to be rebuffed and told in a short manner that the flight had left too early for the morning papers. Thank God, otherwise he would have to confront the entire planeload of passengers inside the toilet, he thought stupidly.
All he could come up with was tragedy. Good news didn’t make it in to the daily papers. No one was interested in cheery happenings and big fish stories. He feared the worst. And he ached to know what had happened to the Petersons.
Cole’s eyes flicked from one face to another to another to another and back again, trying to read them, looking for signs of an alert. He watched for a face pretending to be uninterested. So far so good, as the next person stepped forward from his queue.
He looked back to see passengers with fat suitcases headed his way, but none with a suit. He gave each of the passport control guys another sharp look. He was good at reading faces. Another passenger from his queue stepped forward, and he found himself at the front of the queue. Soon he would know exactly how efficient the New Zealand police department was.
When called, Cole moved forward as if he were being released from a slingshot. He dropped his passport on the desk with the photo page open and his immigration card beside it. The bow-backed official flicked his grubby fingers over the pages of the passport before returning to the photo page, shaking his head.
‘Cis non you, Señor.’
‘Mio noma Cole Goodwin, Señor. Io Australiano,’ confirmed Cole.
‘Non, non, Señor, problema,’ he uttered as he waved for assistance from his next-door compadre.
Cole turned back to view the crowd behind him. Towards the back of his queue he saw the tall businessman looking straight ahead. Their eyes met. He was trying desperately to work his way through the unresponsive throng.
The two customs officials put their heads together and looked at Cole and then at the passport and then back at Cole again before both shook their heads. One of them uttered the word, ‘Problema’.
It was then that Cole realised the problem.
‘Si si, Señor, no problema. Io non moustacho, non lungo capello,’ he said as he attempted to explain that he had shaved off his moustache and cut his hair. The pair of customs officers let the explanation sink in before the second one broke into a smile and nodded, and then returned to his desk. The passport stamp hit the page and the official signalled to the next in line.
Half-a-dozen strides to the other side of the booth, and onto Argentinian territory, Cole picked up his pace. The suited man had finally pushed his way to the front of the queue. He was gesturing loudly and pointing frantically towards him. Cole disappeared quickly towards the nearest exit door, leaving four national security guards to jump onto the disruptive businessman, taking him to the ground.
The heavily dented, canary yellow–coloured Fiat taxi pig-rooted to a stop in the main street of Recoleta. Cole freed himself from the nightmarish ride from the airport, paid the driver and walked down the lane alongside the Alvear Palace Hotel. He strode confidently through the side door to the hotel, to the gift shop entrance and the smiling welcome of the shop assistant. At first glance this appeared to be among the finest hotels he had ever visited. It was silly to give it a five- or even six-star rating, as he found it far more opulent. Without fuss, Cole casually selected an Armani long-sleeved T-shirt and took it to the counter, paying in cash. He asked for it to be wrapped and delivered to him at the business centre of the hotel. He left his name on the hotel stationery at the counter. As he started to walk out of the store, he hesitated, returned, and with a smile that would charm any shop assistant, asked if he could leave his shoulder bag with the shirt. To be delivered at the same time, as he had errands to run. The pretty shop assistant was more than obliging to such a pleasant hotel guest.
Cole moved through the lobby of the hotel, and grabbed a copy of the New York Times as he went. He tucked it under his arm and headed straight for the bar, where he ordered a whisky sour from the strikingly beautiful barmaid, possibly a mix of Brazilian and Argentinian ancestry. He caught her name, Lola, and her smile. He offered her a 20-peso note for the 12-peso drink and requested it be delivered to the business centre. He left his name on a cocktail napkin.
Cole then moved to the lobby of the hotel and sat with his newspaper. It offered little more than a run of boring stocks and shares stories from New York and political diatribe about the Iraq war. No mention of New Zealand.
Before long he watched the smartly attired porter carrying his Bees-Knees and gift shop purchase up a flight of stairs above the lifts, and into a corridor. Not far behind was an equally smartly attired Lola, with a run of better curves, carrying a tray and whisky sour, headed in the same direction. One more page of newspaper digested, and Cole headed up the same flight of stairs, easily finding the business office and another smiling face. The young man at the desk fell into line as soon as Cole entered the office, giving the same surname as the drink and the T-shirt delivery. The assumption worked. The assistant believed him to be a hotel guest wanting to use the email facility. Cole spent a moment or two complimenting the young man on his professionalism and his obvious ability to gain promotion in the near future. The young man, without hesitation, ushered Cole to a computer by the window.
Half a whisky sour later, Cole was glued to the internet news page of Channel Three in New Zealand. He stared blankly at the breaking story of the day. Now he understood the hard looks from the businessman on the aircraft. He could only wonder what stories he was telling the Argentinian police now. If the newspapers were right, a heartless murderer had just entered their country. As he scrolled through the article, Cole kept reading his name; obviously the detectives had joined the dots. No doubt with the help of Inspector Mack.
And of course there was no mention of any Calabrian punk. The ruthlessly dangerous yet extraordinarily clever man had no doubt slipped the
country, flying in an opposite direction to Cole once he failed to solicit anything useful from Cole’s Inn the Black mates.
The details of Cary’s death were upsetting; the only comfort he drew was the fact that Lynette was still alive, but in a medically induced coma.
The sense of responsibility he felt for them swept over him. He sat staring at the screen for the rest of his whisky sour. He listened to the quiet in the office and fought back tears.
Eventually, semi-composed, Cole dangled his fingers across the keyboard and started typing.
Sandy,
It’s been too long, I know. Please don’t be angry with me. It’s just that since our wedding, I’ve been so busy, and what with moving into our new home and organising our furnishings, I’ve been meaning to write for ages. I know you will be upset by what was said, but you must understand me, Sandy. I had nothing to do with the family strife. Please try to keep in touch.
Much love, Ingrid
Once the message was sent, Cole logged out. He needed to find a safe bed for the night, as the city of Buenos Aires would be on the alert for one Cole Goodwin. He quickly and quietly upended his bag, emptying the contents in a neat stack on top of the office desk. He ran his finger carefully along the inside seam of the bag and lifted the secret flap exposing a wafer thin compartment with just enough room to hide a set of identity papers. He flicked open the Australian passport in the name of Tommy Paul as well as a National Bank MasterCard, an ANZ Visa card and a driver’s licence.
It had been a long time since he was Tommy Paul. Four years, he thought, when he was undercover buying cocaine from a very clever nightclub owner in Sydney. He was glad he hadn’t surrendered the identity at the end of that job, and more glad that he had started feeding money into the Tommy Paul bank account a few days before he left Melbourne, when the stench from his boss’s office had sent him down to the bank.
He stripped his wallet of everything to do with Cole Goodwin and placed them, and his passport, into the hidden compartment. Tommy then walked out of the corporate business office. ‘Goodnight, Mr Paul,’ said the attendant as he waved him goodbye.
Sandra’s despondency seemed to hang around after the news from New Zealand. What was Cole doing? Where was he? Was he okay? Work ran a poor second to her preoccupation. She missed her close friend. She didn’t know why she elected to sit at Cole’s desk, but somehow sitting in his chair, bossing everyone around, brainstorming ideas, firming up suspects, all seemed to help bring him closer. She feared the crew was losing direction.
Mindlessly fidgeting, she pulled open his desk drawer, and noticed the film magazine that Cole had been reading only days before he had left. She smiled as she picked it up. Cole loved the cinema and all the trivia associated with movie stars. The magazine had been left open at the last page he had read, the story about a couple of old-time stars who fell in love while filming on a European island. Sandra wasn’t up to romantic escapism, so she placed it carefully back in the drawer for another time.
Katherine interrupted her musings with the news that Inspector Mack wanted to speak with her immediately in his office. Sandra began to grudgingly pull herself out of the chair. Katherine continued, ‘He’s got a couple of suits with him, Sandy.’
That comment would normally send a shiver through any detective, but this morning Sandra half-expected to be interviewed so Katherine’s news was no real surprise. After all, her close friend and boss was the prime suspect for a murder in New Zealand. All the same she straightened her blouse and skirt, fluffed her mop of hair and composed a suitably solemn expression as she walked to the Inspector’s office. As it turned out Sandra knew the suits; both were detective sergeants from the Homicide Squad. One of them had wanted to poach her only a year ago to be a part of his crew. She had declined. Nonetheless, she was glad to see a familiar face; somehow it seemed to make what was to come less arduous. At least, she figured, she had credibility with one of the investigators liaising with the New Zealand team.
The pleasantries completed, Sandra sat down opposite the trio.
‘What’s your take on this, Sandra?’ her friendly detective asked.
His partner busied himself with note taking.
‘There’s no way, Mick, that he did this. You know that. We all know that. It’s just not Cole,’ replied Sandra.
‘He was due back at work last week. No contact. No explanation. It’s looking awfully like it was him, Sandra. His dabs were all over the crime scene.’
Sandra interrupted, ‘Of course his prints were there! He was a guest there for weeks.’
‘He was the only one at the bed and breakfast,’ Mick continued.
‘Because it’s winter!’ snapped Sandra.
‘The New Zealand boys have got thirty statements. Nearly the whole God-damned town, Sandra, saying that Cole was hardly ever out of the company of the deceased and his wife.’
‘Come on, Mick, what do you think, he’d just sit in his room all day long on his own?’ Sandra said.
‘So how do you explain the bizarre card he wrote, sent with flowers … lilies, Sandra?’
‘Something out of Hannibal Lecter,’ chipped Inspector Mack, who had great trouble looking at Sandra.
‘All I know is that he couldn’t have done it. There has to be another explanation,’ Sandra surmised, sitting firmly back in her seat.
‘Then where is he? Why isn’t he here to help us?’ Mick queried.
‘Because he’s on the run!’ a thoroughly fed-up Sandra yelled as she sat forward and slammed her hand down hard on Mack’s desk.
Silence. Her eyes moved tentatively from one detective to the other and finally rested on Mack, who sat utterly composed with the faintest trace of a smile on his face.
31st May
Tommy never actually made it out of the front door of the Alvear Palace Hotel. He stopped, turned his head to the right and left, and marvelled some more at what a truly magnificent establishment it was. He had never stayed in a place as nice, despite his worldly travels. Everything about this splendid-looking building kept pulling at him, dragging him back towards the reception desk, including Lola at the bar, from whom he hoped to receive another smile later in the night. And so, Tommy Paul checked into a mid-priced suite for $1000 a night. It would want to be a fucking good breakfast, he thought.
There was an old saying, well known in covert work, a saying that he had relied on once or twice before when dealing with bad men and worse situations: ‘There is nothing more inconspicuous than the conspicuous’. A funny proposition, especially to a wanted man, but in the world of cops and robbers, undercover operatives and Mafia, sometimes being neatly tucked away in the centre of a shit fight was the safest place to be. Most of the time, cops on the hunt ran through dens of iniquity and down the backstreets and laneways, or through the seedy end of town, never thinking to knock on the door of the best hotel in the country.
He felt more comfortable about staying when his check-in clerk told him during their counter small talk that he was knocking off in ten minutes’ time and had a two-day break planned with his girlfriend. That would remove from the picture anyone at the hotel who could recall his face at check-in.
Decisions, decisions, decisions. Which decorative glass bottle of ludicrously expensive bath salts to empty into the now full tub? Having succumbed to the ruby red bottle, Tommy’s fragrant lagoon of a bath presented the perfect haven in which to rest his tired body for a couple of hours. He jumped in and began to soak.
He really was kidding himself. The planned two-hour soak didn’t last a quarter of that time as he was continually confronted with the plight that faced poor Lynette. How Cary must have suffered, and what pain Lynette must now be enduring, conscious or not. He tried desperately to think of other things, anything. But his urge to know more hung heavy.
As a compromise, he sat on his king-sized bed with its crisp cotton sheets and luxurious duvet, and flicked through the 38 channels on offer on the giant screen, naïvely hoping that something to
do with the New Zealand investigation might be on. But it wasn’t. He turned off the TV, lay back on his bed and pondered the brutal reaction of the Mafia family, which had resulted in the death of Cary and shocking injury to his wife. Cole tried to fathom what it was that had angered them so much. His mind drifted back to a time, more than a year earlier, at the height of his infiltration of the Mafia. A conversation he had never forgotten …
He was standing in the winter sun in Griffith, overlooking rolling hills of vineyards and orange trees, eating tasty, simple-flavoured food, with sips of vino di casa, and the sounds of Maria Callas through the outside speakers. Antonio had invited him to his family’s country property as a special guest, like so many times before. Cole felt that he was on the edge of being accepted into the Mafia. The sun shone warm on their backs as he allowed Antonio to play host and take him for a stroll through the orange groves. The covert tape recorder hidden down the inner side of his leg was switched on.
Antonio walked with confidence, taking the occasional glance at his fruit trees. He was wearing a pair of Italian Replay jeans, soft calf leather shoes and a brilliant white Versace shirt, pressed to impress. He had the classic look of Italian style, as well as charm. He peeled an orange and handed one to Cole.
‘You know the Italian life well.’
‘It’s the family ways that work for me,’ Cole replied, enjoying his fruit.
Antonio stopped walking, threw his peel onto the ground and took a bite of his juicy orange. He looked neither at Cole nor his orange as the sun hit his face and he squinted.
‘Don’t ever make our road hard, Cole … ever,’ Antonio said, as he shifted his piercing gaze to Cole’s face. He finished his orange before wiping his hands on a perfectly clean, white handkerchief. As they wandered back to the farm house he placed his hand on Cole’s shoulder and reiterated his final word on the subject, ‘Ever, or else we will kill you.’
On the Run Page 8
