“Jesus, that was quick! You only started on the case last week,” said Kylie in a genuinely surprised tone. “I don’t know how you do it, Irish—in fact, I don’t want to know how you found out—but all the same, great work. If you can get whatever you’ve got to me today, I’ll let G and Cait know tonight.”
Irish grinned behind the phone, took a sip of his Jameson, and continued, “It appears that this Boss-man just finished a stint in the nick for extortion. Was put away for eighteen months and released seven months ago.
“I’ve got a contact in Corrective Services who ran a scan of the identikit plus the cobra tattoo against prison records and got a match.”
“Irish, don’t tell me any more. I don’t want to know how or who. You know the rules.” Kylie couldn’t afford to find herself in a compromising situation down the line if any of this ended up as formal evidence in court and she had to answer questions about it under oath.
“Yeah, yeah, I know all that crap. I do the dirty work and you end up smelling of roses,” replied Irish in his usual grumpy voice. “Same shit, different day.”
“You’ve been around the block plenty of times, Irish. Results are all I want to hear. Just results, okay,” replied Kylie in an equally snappy voice.
Unfazed by Kylie’s brashness, Irish continued, in true cop fashion, as if nothing had transpired between them: “His name’s Vincenzo Rosi. And a nasty piece of work he is, to be sure. Has a rap sheet covering several pages, mainly for dealing, possession, handling stolen goods, and assault. But all small-time crimes. Cops have never been able to pin anything big on him, much to their frustration. They keep nabbing him and he somehow manages to have some high-flying barrister get him off, usually on a technicality, or witnesses who clam up at the last minute.”
“Yeah, I know what the Warlocks are about. Total scumbags. They’re one-percenters and live by their own rules, totally outside the law,” said Kylie. “One of my crim clients filled me in on them. The same one who gave me the heads-up about their tattoo parlor in Tarneit. Said they’re a really nasty bunch of mothers. Even the professionals hate them.”
Irish’s daughter Siobhan—a.k.a. Cait now—had been constantly haunting his memories lately, pushing him, driving him to bring this to an end, and Kylie’s frank disclosure had stirred the pot.
“Caitie’s a strong girl, better than most, and we need to make sure that she finds closure here. But please, leave the dirty shit to me. I don’t want the bairn involved yet. These guys are really bad.”
Kylie heard Irish’s words and felt strangely moved: Like, Irish has really become involved in this case. I’ve never seen him like this before.
“Irish, she’s not a bairn. She’s twenty-four, okay?”
“Yes, she is. To me at least. She’s so like my Siobhan, God rest her soul. Headstrong, that girl is. My concern is that if we let her know too much she’ll do something stupid and try and find the bastards herself. And that’s way too dangerous.”
“I totally agree. Since she came back from Asia it’s like Cait’s on a different planet. That girl’s focused and oh so determined. It’s almost as if we need to protect her from herself.”
“As I just said, leave the dirty shit to me. I’ll find the bastards. Now, tell Caitie, will you? That’s a good lass, so I can get on with finding this Rosi prick.”
“G, Irish has come through. Told you he would. Best in the business,” said Kylie. It was a great excuse to ring G. His liquid-gold voice made her melt every time.
“So, what you got?” said G with an enthusiastic edge.
“Good news. We’ve got a name and a photo of Cait’s kidnapper. Is she up to seeing it?”
“Absolutely. I’ve never seen her so positive. She’s firing on all cylinders.”
“I’ll send you a scan. Please show it to her and let me know her reaction, because if it’s a positive ID we need to go to the cops on this. It’ll mean we’ve got a positive match on her kidnapper.”
“Oh my God, Dad, that’s him! That’s the person in the van. The dude who told that guy Frog to grab me.” Thanks to Irish’s handiwork, Cait was looking at a mug shot of Boss-man—a.k.a. Vincenzo Rosi—the lowlife who had murdered her lover and turned her life upside down.
Cait’s mind went into overdrive. Visions of Rishi laying comatose in intensive care flashed in her brain like a movie: the tubes looking like giant worms attached to his body, down his throat, up his nose, entering some other orifice that was covered by the white sheet with “The Alfred” stamped on it like a watermark; the blipping and beeping monitors calling to her with their multicolored lights and flashing screens; the sterile, antiseptic hospital smell that reminded her of the time she accidentally bleached her jeans; Rishi’s heavy four-day growth darkening his chin. It was suddenly so real again that Cait felt she was reliving the moment once more.
And it was all perpetrated by that bastard there in the photo in front of me, trying to look just oh so tough with his smarmy, sniggering half smile, plus the tattoos creeping out of his black T-shirt and climbing up his neck, looking like bad artwork on a good day.
G closely observed the subtle change in his daughter’s outward persona, looking for a crack in her armor but seeing nothing save resolve and tenacity instead.
“Well, now we know who Boss-man is, and we’ve got a name, so the next thing we have to do is find him. And that’ll be the hard part. We know he’s the sergeant at arms of the Warlocks, but according to Kylie, her underworld contact told her he’s gone to ground.” G was thinking out aloud as much as he was talking to Cait.
“Kylie wants your permission to go to Sorenson with this. The cops have to know.”
“Yeah Dad, I know, I know. I’ve already spoken to Kylie about it. She rang me earlier today to tell me to expect some news about Boss-man.” Cait had recovered from the shock of actually seeing her assailant and she was churning again, thinking ahead, looking for a way forward.
And she certainly hadn’t forgotten the promise she made to herself—to extract revenge, and as much as possible. This vow was like a burning fire in Cait’s guts, pushing her forward without fear or favor. Cait fully intended to follow this through to the end until Boss-man paid for his deeds, and big-time. Her ancestors had painted such a vivid picture of the way forward in her dreams and visions that she could clearly see the path in front of her that she had to follow as plainly as if she’d plugged the coordinates into a GPS.
“Boss-man’s got no fixed address and we certainly can’t just pick up the phone and ring him, can we? Kylie told me he’s totally gone off the grid. Even the cops can’t find him,” said Cait.
“Yep, he’s a one-percenter,” said G.
“By the way, do you know what that means?” he asked with an inquiring lilt.
Cait opened her mouth to answer, but before she could get a word out G continued. “One-percenters refers to motorcycle gangs who operate outside the law.”
“What, like the Warlocks?”
“Exactly.” G was on a roll and loved bringing up little-known trivia that his spongelike brain had sucked up somewhere down the line. “The term came out of the States just after the Second World War when there had been some major riots happening in California involving motorcycle riders. The American Motorcyclist Association came to the defense of people who rode motorbikes, saying that ninety-nine percent were law-abiding people. But by inference, that left one percent who weren’t, and the outlaw bikie clubs adopted the phrase as their own because in their mind they’re the other one percent. Make sense?”
“Yeah, well Boss-man certainly fits the bill,” said Cait.
“Hey Dad, the cops might not be able to find Boss-man, but he’s certainly on my radar. I keep seeing him in my visions.” Cait looked up and gave her father a steely gaze. “I’ve got to tell you, I’m getting closer and closer to nailing him. And Irish is a big part of this as well. He’s also there, floating in and out. We need him to help close this out.”
Cait broke he
r gaze with G and looked pensively at the same wattle in their backyard that always seemed to draw her attention. She’d nicknamed it her “thought-tree.” Except this time it was covered in a mass of vivid yellow early-spring flowers, heavily weighing down the drooping branches.
“You know, the only part about this that I feel a bit sad about is something Irish said to me when I went over to his place last week.”
“And . . .” said G.
“Well, he wouldn’t buy the connection with Rishi. He told me that Rishi’s my problem and to get over it. Irish said that Rishi was in the wrong place at the wrong time. He actually said, ‘Shit happens and he got mugged. End of story.’ A bit cold eh, but it did get me thinking afterward that maybe I’ve been clinging to his memory for too long.”
Cait paused to catch her thoughts, subconsciously crossing her arms and scratching the scar tissue on her right shoulder.
“Like, maybe I need to let go.”
“Caitie, I’m so glad to hear you say that.” G and Jools had been keeping tabs between themselves on Cait’s mental and emotional transition since her kidnapping, and Elisabeth Kübler-Ross’s theories on grieving had been bandied around with great frequency.
“It’s a five stages of grief thing, Caitie. You must have studied it at uni. And you saying that now indicates to me that you’ve run the gamut and reached the final stage. Which is, darling daughter?”
“Acceptance,” said Cait, almost sheepishly.
“You know you don’t have to forget Rishi. It’s not like that, as I’m sure you’re aware. Instead, you just need to accept the fact that he’s physically gone and recognize that today is the new reality.”
“Right again, Dad. Thanks.”
“Always remember, Caitie, memories are like toys—the precious ones last forever, but most you use for a while and then cast off, some stored for later reference, others relegated to the long-term vault in the back of your brain, usually never to be seen again unless you accidently stumble across them at a future date.”
How does he always know what to say? He’s just so good to talk to. Love him heaps.
“Hey G, I’m getting a bit annoyed with how things are progressing.” Kylie had rung G to pass on her thoughts. And, as an ulterior motive, it gave her an excuse to have a chat with him.
“Yeah, what’s up?”
“Well, even though Sorenson now has Irish’s information about who Boss-man is, the cops still don’t seem to be prioritizing this. Irish told me that he made a few discreet inquiries and they took note of his findings, yes, but that’s about as far as it goes.” Kylie was on a roll, and in her usual straightforward, warts-and-all manner she expected action, not to be brushed off by some misogynistic cop.
“I mean, G, what the fuck, we’re giving it to them on a silver platter and the cops just shelve this? Go figure.”
“Well, Cait and I haven’t heard from them either, if that helps. The phone’s been quiet,” replied G.
“Can you possibly bring Cait in maybe tomorrow so we can plan a way forward here? I haven’t got any court appearances until Monday, so I’ve got time.” Kylie leaned back in her chair and vacantly stared out the window of her office, playing voyeurs into the building next door, subconsciously searching for signs of life around the watercooler in the break room area.
“I’ll try and get Irish in as well. He’s always good value. You know, he genuinely likes Cait. She reminds him of his own daughter.”
“Yeah, sounds good, Kylie. Two o’clock?”
“I’ll check with Irish, but should be okay. Pencil it in. I’ll get back to you if it falls through.” Kylie hung up and smiled.
“Look guys, I hear what you’re all saying, but maybe to get some action here we have to look at other ways of pushing the issue,” said Cait with an edge to her voice, getting frustrated after listening for the last ten minutes to a circular argument between everyone bar herself that seemed to be going totally nowhere.
Conversation stopped as Cait’s words cut forcefully through the chatter, demanding silence. She glanced around the room and briefly invaded the minds of her collaborators: G was onside, as usual, but she couldn’t bring herself to look any deeper into the workings of her father’s mind. Some things were sacrosanct. Kylie was running the legal angles, looking for a way to get Sorenson to step it up a notch, while Irish was drifting, getting bored with what was going down, thinking about one of his low-life contacts that he should have a word with about Boss-man’s location.
“You guys read the papers lately? Did anyone see Macillicuddy's latest feature article about the one-percenters? He’s doing a series on organized crime, and at the moment he’s heavily into the MC gangs.” Cait stopped for a pregnant pause and looked around the room, checking that she had everyone’s attention.
“Well, I get on well with him, and I know he’ll genuinely speak to me. He’s interviewed me twice already. I’m going to contact him and give him an off-the-record exclusive on what we’ve found out. You know, the Warlocks, the tattoo parlor, and Boss-man.”
Cait’s left-field suggestion was met with silence as the others in the room processed her plan.
“Cait, maybe that’s not such a good idea. I’ve told you how dangerous these guys are. And they’re well connected,” said Kylie. “Bring this into the public eye and you never know what they’ll do, let alone how the cops will react.”
Irish came alive, leaving his prior mental stupor behind to comment, “Kylie, the lass may have something there. The surest way to get some action sometimes is to let the press do the work for you. Drip-feed them some tasty wee morsels and then it’s up to the buggers how they use them. From the sound of it, this Macillicuddy character may just take this and run with it.”
“Irish, I think I see where you’re heading here,” interjected G. “With the right tidbits of information, Macillicuddy could help flush out Boss-man. Or failing that, rattle the Warlocks’ feathers enough to force them to come out in the open. Then the cops would have to act.”
“And the heat would land on Macillicuddy’s shoulders as the dogmatic journo, not on us, so he’ll cop any flak that flies around.”
“Exactly, G. You’re not just a pretty face, eh?” said Irish with a mischievous grin.
Kylie’s mind was racing at a million miles an hour. “Okay, point taken. It’s probably best if I handle this one.”
Cait immediately jumped in, cutting across Kylie before she could continue: “No Kylie, I’ll speak to him.”
“Cait, you don’t know what to say. There are legal ramifications here—”
“Let the girl go, Kylie. She’s smart.” Irish cut Kylie off midstream. “We’ll coach her, but she’s got to do it, not you. It’s Caitie’s journey.”
Irish looked over at Cait and they made eye contact. Thanks for supporting me, she beamed across the ether to him, Irish winking cheekily at her, unseen by all except the two of them.
Yes, I can do it, Cait unknowingly projected her thoughts over to Irish. And you know it too, don’t you?
Yes, Caitie, Irish thought silently to himself. I haven’t a clue how you’ve got into my head, but you can do it; you must do it.
“So tell me Cait, what’s been happening in your life since we last touched base?” inquired Macillicuddy, landing an intense gaze in her direction. He had just arrived and they were seated outside 21 Squares, soaking up the soon-to-be spring sun that was beaming its warmth down onto them. As she sat there, Cait absently gazed skyward and her attention was drawn to glimpses of a powder blue sky that resembled the freshly painted walls of a baby boy’s bedroom, hiding behind the gray clouds being pushed aside by a stiff stratospheric breeze.
Looks like it’s clearing, Cait pondered, her thoughts far from the task at hand as she momentarily let her mind wander. The northwesterly breeze is pushing the rain clouds away. Dad would be proud of me, reading the weather like that. Just like on his yacht.
“Heaps, Robert. So much so, I don’t know where to start
.”
“Well, I find that starting at the beginning always helps,” replied Macillicuddy in a jocular but slightly facetious tone of voice. “You mentioned on the phone that you had some information relating to my recent story on outlaw motorcycle gangs that you’re sure I’d be interested in?”
The last time they had touched base was several months ago—like, so last century, Cait mused—when Macillicuddy had interviewed her for his feature article about the victims of crime picking up the pieces and moving forward in their lives after major trauma. She was the lead in his story, starring front and center as the forlorn innocent whose dreams had been destroyed by the senseless murder of her lover, Rishi.
Cait focused once again on Macillicuddy, sizing him up in a heartbeat with her newfound powers of perception that she was still coming to grips with, and thought how the man opposite her was an anomaly.
Physically Macillicuddy looked like a total dork. He appeared fiftyish, with slightly unkempt mousy red hair streaked with wisps of coarse gray, and a blotchy, freckled face that was perfectly shaven, with not a hint of a recalcitrant whisker poking through anywhere. With a name like Macillicuddy, Cait thought that his sartorial splendor matched the weirdness of his moniker, as it extended to thrift store chic, with a perfectly matching set of clothes that could only have been bought at a St Vinnies opportunity shop: a brown tweed, slightly hairy sports jacket, complete with leather elbow patches; a yellowing, once-white shirt adorned with a matching tweed tie to his jacket, tightly held in place by a faux gold and diamond tie tack; a green, fully buttoned vest, heavy woolen slacks that were no doubt held up by suspenders, and brown brogue shoes that had seen better days but regardless, were polished to a military shine.
Yes, thought Cait, Macillicuddy might dance to the sound of his own tune, but his dry sense of humor demanded a look past the physical, and he obviously had a liberal amount of gray matter between those protruding red ears.
The Cait Lennox Box Set Page 42
