Deadly Deeds (16 page)

I smelled nothing was rotting in the apartment, only a mild odour of garbage coming from the kitchen.

I didn’t know if I was relieved or disappointed. On one hand, I had built myself up thinking I would find Claire Kendall’s decomposing body being eaten by a wide variety of insects. On the other, I was glad I didn’t have to call Frank Moore and explain what I was doing in an apartment with another dead body.

I circled the apartment rather quickly. Not a soul in sight.

Quietly, I sifted through Claire’s belongings. I began in the kitchen, where unpaid and expired bills were stuck to the fridge by means of advertising magnets. The name and addresses on all the bills were hers. She wasn’t running away from anyone or trying to hide her identity.

In my experience, people with different names on their utility bills tended to hide from the past. Maybe a lover from a relationship gone wrong. Or a brush with the law. Or thousands of dollars in unpaid parking tickets with an outstanding warrant rotting in the bottom of an in-tray at the Sheriff’s office.

I opened the fridge, and a bad smell smacked me in the face. Lifting a carton of milk with my thumb and forefinger, I noticed the expiry date read ‘20Feb1997’. If Claire Kendall had gone on holidays, surely she would have emptied the fridge of perishables.

Fruits and vegetables had gone green and pulpy at the bottom of the fridge, where a brown stream of rot was making its way onto the tiled floor. I pinched my nostrils and shut the door.

I turned my attention to the kitchen sink where I filled tap water in a glass. I crossed the kitchen, and entered the living room, and emptied the content of the glass in the dirt of the sorry-looking plant. It broke my heart to see it dying, and I almost wanted to take it away with me.

Next, I continued my illegal search to the bathroom and the bedroom.

Claire Kendall’s red toothbrush and other cosmetic belongings were still in the bathroom cabinet. This prompted me to conclude she’d never gone on holiday after all, unless she bought a new set of everything, which seemed very unlikely.

A tap in the bathtub was leaking, causing a green line of copper to appear from one end of the bathtub to the other. Reddish mould had begun to form under the shower head. A yellow rubber duck with sad eyes longed for its owner to come back home.

In the bedroom, I found fresh underwear, a collection of short floral dresses - Louis had a good memory - and a mountain of
Australian Women’s Forum
neatly stacked under the double bed. They were in mint condition.

I flicked through the pages of one of the women’s soft-porn magazines, admiring men’s biceps, pectorals, and other body parts, which I’m not at liberty to describe.

I felt a sense of guilt as heat rose to my cheeks.

Embarrassing myself, feeling God must be watching from somewhere above, disapproving of my actions, I slipped the magazine back with the others.

To my disappointment, I found nothing which led me to where Claire might have been. No notes, no signs of struggle, no plane tickets or copies of travelling documents, no answering machine with vital messages on it. And the only person who would have known her whereabouts was at the mortuary with his head savagely severed from his body.

When I left the unit, I concluded Claire Kendall had disappeared suddenly with no intention of being away for more than a couple of hours, a couple of days at the most.

I would probably never get to meet her.

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

I
got home agitated and needed to burn some energy. With everything trotting in my head, I knew I’d never be able to get a good night sleep if I didn’t burn some calories. Plus I had to make up for the drinking binge the previous night.

At 9.35 p.m., I parked the Lancer on High Street, fifty meters from the main entrance of Terry Bennetts’ Gym. While climbing the dark, narrow stairs to the first floor, I could hear the clanking of workout machinery.

Ken was there, his hair freshly washed, and his abs looking more cut than usual. He had no shirt on, apparently a habit of his when he got too hot. He was referred to once as the naked librarian when someone spotted him at the State Library without a shirt on. He thought it was hilarious, especially when that someone happened to be a well-known writer, criticising him in one of her non-fiction books.

We greeted each other, and he said matter-of-factly, ‘You look like shit.’

‘Thanks, that’s exactly what I need to hear.’ His observation decreased my self-confidence by a couple of notches. But as I looked into the full length mirror behind him, I realised what he meant. My posture was sluggish, and I had heavy bags under my eyes. I looked like a pale-skinned vampire who hadn’t seen the light of day for over five hundred years.

‘
Did you have a late night or something?’ he asked, his arms across his chest.

‘
A late night
with
something,’ I joked, knowing he understood I had too much to drink.

‘
This is not becoming a routine thing, is it?’

Although I should have kept it to myself, I told him everything I knew about the Wilson’s homicide. He wasn’t a journalist, and certainly not the kind of person who would go and tell everyone. And I needed to share my findings with someone, other than cops and scientists, just to get a down-to-earth, no-bullshit opinion.

My head was boiling over with information overload and uncertainty. Or was it alcohol, caffeine, and fear of the future? I knew much more than anyone else in this case, and yet I knew so little. But with no one around to share my burden, stress was beginning to take its toll.

Delivering my monologue to Ken did something strange to my mind. I felt light-headed, as if someone had pumped my stomach out after an overdose.

‘Go and see Frank and tell him everything you know,’ he commanded, while doing a second set of barbell-seated-preacher curls.

‘
It’s not that easy.’ I began my warm-up with stretches, standing on one leg and bending the other backwards until the heel touched my buttocks. The muscle on my thigh was warming up gently, but feeling a bit stiff.

‘
No one said it was. All I know is that if you’re right, then Frank could be in danger.’

‘
But we don’t know if Teresa was involved directly in her husband’s death.’

He lost concentration and dropped the weights back on the machine. ‘Malina,’ he said, glaring directly into my eyes, ‘I know you care about Frank, and I know you don’t want him dead. From everything you’ve told me, we both know Teresa has been lying about the death of her husband. Like you, I don’t know if she killed her husband or not. It would be very unlikely because of the beating she received herself. The fact remains she’s lying and can’t be trusted.’

‘You’re right, I guess.’

I stood on my other leg, and stretched the first one.

At the back of my mind, I had come to the conclusion that Teresa was untrustworthy, but I needed to hear my judgement from someone else’s mouth. Acting irrationally under pressure would have been too easy. And lately, I felt as if I was under more pressure than I could handle. Working on a homicide was hard enough, but when your whole career was on the line because of it, then you have to be pretty level-headed to push through life with a clear mind.

I stretched my arms behind my back, feeling strain on my triceps.

I went on, ‘Frank is going to get upset. I don’t want to hurt him.’

‘
Frank is your friend. If Frank gets upset, let him get upset. If he’s a true friend, he’ll come back. And if he doesn’t, at least you’ve done the best you can.’

‘
Have you got any friends, Ken?’ I asked, trying to throw another obstacle in his way.

‘
What’s that got to do with it?’

‘
Just answer the god-damn question,’ I snapped, surprising both of us. ‘Have you got any friends?’

‘
Of course I’ve got friends. You for starters. You may not consider me your friend because you only see me at the gym, but I consider you mine.’

I was touched, so I withdrew my attack. ‘Forget it.’

‘Go on.’

‘
Nah, forget it. I don’t know what I’m talking about.’

He went back to his biceps exercise without forcing those demons out of me.

I drank half the content of my drink bottle, wishing life was as straight-forward as he made it sound. Maybe it was, but embroidered in the mess I was in, I found it hard to see beyond my own reasoning.

As I crossed the gym and made my way to the leg-extension machine, I decided to go ahead with Ken’s advice. I would talk to Frank and hope he would take it well. I’d already lost him as far as I was concerned, so anything that happened between us from now on could only improve our relationship.

I worked my legs, calves, chest, triceps and abs, but kept the sets down to two of each because of tiredness and lack of motivation.

When I left the gym one hour later, Ken was doing squats with what looked liked two hundred and fifty pounds.

I was so exhausted on my way up to my apartment, I thought I was going to pass out.

Next time, I’d invite Louis for a workout instead of a drink.

Monday was Labour Day in Victoria, and most shops were closed. Public holidays didn’t agree with me because they were unproductive. Even though I could have done with a break, hanging around, waiting for the minutes and hours to tick by depressed me.

I stayed in bed half an hour longer than usual.

Autumn had crept upon Melbourne already, but outside my bedroom window the sky was clear, and the world seemed inviting. A left over piece of summer had come down on the city, pushing the mercury to twenty-five degrees. It brought a smile to my face as I realised it didn’t have to be a rotten day after all.

I showered quickly, gulped a mug of black coffee, and went to do some shopping on Acland Street with Michael.

I was glad to live in a city which was defined as touristy. Acland Street shops were open seven days a week, every day of the year. European-styled cake shops and cafés occupied the top end of the street, giving an excuse for tourists and local to add a few kilos to their diets. Apart from the Safeway, most shops sold items which I could do without. Bric-a-brac, discounted goods, electronics, designer-street clothes, books and take-away food.

‘Did you work out this thing with the telephone?’ Michael asked, while we were queuing up at a cash register at Safeway.

‘
I’ve looked into it. No breakthrough, though.’

He grabbed a Mars bar and tossed it in the trolley. ‘Any plans?’

What a smoothy, I thought, but decided to let it go. ‘I’ve got something in mind which is going to pin the culprit down. But I’ll have to discuss it with the telephone company first.’

‘
What?’

‘
Can’t tell you yet. It’s confidential.’

He jabbed me with his elbow. ‘I’m
your son
!’

I explained for the fifth hundred time that being my son didn’t mean I could discuss unsolved cases with him. ‘I’m still working on this, Michael. There are some procedures which I’d like to follow by the book, if you don’t mind.’

‘Sure, whatever,’ he said, and sulked for the rest of the morning.

Within an hour, the crowd bothered me, so I bought a large plant pot and rushed back to my apartment. I was thinking of heading to Claire Kendall’s unit and saving the poor creature in the corner of her living room from dying. The more I thought about it, the more I was convinced I would never get to meet Claire Kendall. Her plant would probably get tossed away with her belongings. My life consisted of dealing with the dead. Somehow it made me feel good to think I could save a life, even if it was only a plant.

Early afternoon, I felt unusually tired and grumpy, so I stayed home. Despite my protest, Michael left with his skateboard to see his friend Chris. I decided to use my time wisely and review all the information I had accumulated so far on the Wilson’s homicide.

Ken had been right about Teresa Wilson. She was untrustworthy since she clearly lied to me and Frank Moore. I had no doubt whatsoever Walter Dunn didn’t kill Jeremy Wilson. Forensic evidence from Walter’s autopsy report supported the hypothesis that he died before Jeremy Wilson, making it impossible for him to be the killer. The scientific facts were undisputable. Teresa’s unchronological version of events was now very weak.

I sat on my balcony, soaking up the sun, my Sue Grafton novel stuck on page 176, wondering if I should call Frank and arrange an unofficial rendezvous before the working week began on Tuesday. As much as I wanted to get him on my side, my mind was unprepared for another major confrontation. I was uncertain of how involved he was with Teresa. Were they having a sexual relationship? This would have been unlikely since she was still covered in cuts and bruises, and her sexual organs would have been as raw las sushi.

It took me a while longer to make my mind up.

I read some of my novel, and dozed in and out of consciousness throughout the afternoon.

Finally, towards 5.00 p.m., I knew I had little choice. I feared continuing to investigate a homicide which was clearly out of my jurisdiction and authority. In addition, if I kept my mouth shut, I’d deliberately place Frank’s life in danger.

I tossed my novel aside, climbed out of my long chair, and made my way to the kitchen.

My heart thumping like a kettle drum, I punched Frank’s phone number on the keypad. My hands were clammy as I felt I was breaking some kind of unwritten rule.

She picked up the receiver.

‘
Is Frank there?’ I asked, not bothering to ask whom I was talking to.

‘
Hold on.’

Nauseous, I almost hung up when I heard Frank’s voice.

‘Hello?’

‘
Frank, it’s me. I need to talk to you,’ I said in a tone of voice that meant business.

A pause, and then he retorted, ‘If it’s about Teresa, I’ve got nothing to discuss with you.’

‘Give me a chance. I really need to talk to you. This has something to do with Jeremy Wilson’s death. I have a legal obligation to inform you of what I’ve uncovered.’

‘
I’m not in charge of this investigation, and neither are you.’

‘
Well, you were involved, so you have to know.’ My argument was weak.

‘
I thought
we
made it clear you were not to investigate this homicide.’

I took a deep breath. The sonofabitch was playing me against them. ‘Frank,’ I belted out, ‘I don’t have time to argue with you. I need to talk to you, so be at my place in one hour. If you don’t, I’ll be going straight to Trevor Mitchell to tell him everything I know. I’m sure he’ll be impressed when he finds out you’re screwing the wife of a guy who got his head chopped off less than a month ago.’

Silence, and then he said, ‘You’re making this hard for both of us. Why are you doing this?’ His tone was apologetic.

I wanted to strangle him with the telephone cord, even though he was out of reach. ‘I’ll see you in one hour.’

I hung up.

Heat on my cheeks, I crossed the length of the kitchen floor back and forth. Why did he have to make me feel like such a jerk? I was only trying to help him. I was only trying to do the right thing. How did I end up being the bad person?

All my life, I’d always felt like the odd one out. When I first met Frank, he felt that way too. And together we’d built up a special friendship, a trust, a knowledge we would always be there for one another. But now, it seemed I was letting him down. It was my fault  again. The same way I’d let my mother down when I told the counsellor at school about dad. She couldn’t cope with it. She said I destroyed the family, that I lied because I wanted to get some attention. That I caused trouble because I couldn’t face reality.

But it wasn’t true.

All I wanted was for my father to stop what he was doing to me. In return I got punished.

My mother died two days before my sixteenth birthday from a Megadon overdose. She was the one who never faced reality.

My father was convicted on six counts of sexual penetration of a minor.