Getting Warmer (3 page)

Ten minutes later Cato was at Shellie’s place. The sun was up and the easterly was still cool. Some dawn strollers headed down Lefroy hill to the beach with their dogs and babies. Shellie was standing at the door when he rolled up: she was wrapped in a dressing gown, her eyes red and puffy. When he walked over she leaned into him and started crying. Her hand uncurled to reveal a small heart, moulded silvery alloy, on a cheap silver chain.

‘It’s her locket. She wore it all the time.’

Cato held out a pen for her to hook it over. Her prints and DNA would already be on it but he aimed to keep his off.

‘How do you know this is Bree’s? You can probably buy these anywhere.’

She shrugged. ‘I just do.’

They went inside the unit and he made her start at the beginning.

‘I woke up early; I don’t sleep well these days. I opened the front door to let the cat out and it was there on the doorstep. A letter.’

‘Show me.’

They walked over to the kitchen table. There was a standard A5 envelope, yellow, her name and address handwritten in block capitals in black ink. No postmark or stamp. ‘There’s something inside, a note, I couldn’t bear to read it.’

This time Cato went to the bother of retrieving a pair of forensic rubber gloves from the car. He snapped them on and fished out the note: plain white paper, A4, folded once. Two words in handwritten block capitals in black ink:
FINDERS KEEPERS.

A low groan seeped from Shellie; she slumped onto a chair, head in hands. Cato spoke softly. ‘Wellard’s inside. Obviously he couldn’t have done this himself. You’ve no idea who this could be from?’

She didn’t look up. ‘No.’

‘Would Wellard know your address?’

‘Not from me.’

‘How many people know you live here?’

‘Apart from official places like the welfare or the bank or the power company, nobody.’

‘Nobody?’

She summoned up a bleak, tear-filled smile. ‘Nobody. You, the police. That’s my life.’

He crouched and put a tentative arm around her shoulder and wondered how much torment one person could be put through.

Shellie shook her head. ‘I just want him to stop.’

Cato flipped out his mobile and woke up his boss.

It was just after nine by the time they got access to Gordon Wellard. They were on the freeway and passing Jandakot aerodrome as a Cessna lifted lazily into the cloudless sky. Cato wouldn’t have minded being on it. On Thomas Road there was a garden centre with two shiny fibreglass elephants, one red and one yellow. Hutchens was playing with his new smartphone; he’d discovered the GPS app and couldn’t get enough of it.

‘Right, just after the elephants,’ Hutchens murmured.

‘Cheers.’

Cato had stopped pointing out to his boss that he already knew the way to Casuarina. He’d had this all the way down: left onto South Street, right onto the freeway, left onto Thomas. Right, just after the elephants.

The walls, wire and buildings that comprised WA’s maximum-security corrections facility came into view through the straggly she-oaks after which it was named. They were met at reception by a tall, balding man with glasses. He looked like a chemistry teacher but his badge said
Geoffrey Scott, Superintendent.
According to Scott, a cell and full body search on Wellard had already been done. Nothing of note.

‘This is turning into a bit of a circus isn’t it?’ Scott pushed his wire-rimmed specs back up to the bridge of his nose. ‘Maybe it’s
about time Mr Wellard stopped getting all this attention and we left him to rot in anonymity.’

‘Thanks, Geoff,’ said Hutchens. ‘We all appreciate the great job you guys do here.’

Scott snorted and ushered them into an interview room. ‘We’ll bring him up.’

‘Any chance of a coffee?’ said Hutchens.

‘No,’ said Scott.

Wellard was brought forth in his grey visits overalls. They emphasised his gnomic qualities. What had Shellie Petkovic seen in this man to hook up with him in the first place?

Hutchens led the charge while Cato pretended to study some paperwork. ‘You’ve been bothering Shellie again. What’s going on?’

Wellard ignored Hutchens and looked at Cato. ‘What are you reading?’

‘None of your business,’ said Hutchens. ‘Why are you giving Shellie all this grief?’

‘Don’t know what you’re talking about. My radio got smashed this morning. Who’s going to replace it?’

‘Boo-hoo,’ said Hutchens. ‘I don’t care about your radio. You’ve done this before, Gordo. Just over a year ago you got one of your weird little friends to do the same thing. Same type of envelopes, same silly word games. We got him and you got nine months extra on your sentence.’

‘Concurrent. How is Billy by the way?’

‘Billy overdosed last October. Very sad. You’re a sadistic little prick and you’ve been giving everybody the run-around. We’re getting sick of it, mate.’

Wellard studied his fingernails. They were in need of clipping and they had an unhealthy yellow tinge. ‘Are we? Mick?’ He twisted his head back to Cato. ‘The radio. Can you write that down in your file, son?’

‘Who’ve you been talking to lately, Gordon? Who did you set on Shellie this time?’ said Hutchens.

‘How is Shellie? Keeping well?’

‘Suit yourself,’ said Hutchens. ‘We’ll check your phone records
and visitor’s log. Look at people who’ve come out of here recently. You’re not helping yourself with this crap, mate.’

‘She’s been through a lot, that woman.’ Wellard shook his head sadly.

Cato showed him a photocopy of the note. ‘What does this mean:
FINDERS KEEPERS?’

‘Dunno. Losers weepers maybe? Are you sniffing around my Shellie?’

Cato felt heat rising in his face. ‘Where is Briony Petkovic?’

‘Shellie likes you. I can tell by the way she looks at you. Like lovers in the park you were, down at Beeliar.’

‘That’s a vivid imagination you have. Where’s Briony Petkovic?’

‘None of your business. Just like my Shellie. She’s not for sharesies. She should know that by now.’

Cato closed the file and stood up. ‘Some things you can’t control, buddy.’

Wellard chewed briefly on one of those yellow nails. ‘Leaving already? No offence meant, mate. Nothing personal.’

Hutchens addressed the guard. ‘He’s all yours.’ He and Cato walked out; Cato taking some comfort in the knowledge that, on the way back to his cell, Wellard faced a probing strip search before getting back into his uniform greens.

The heat bounced off the prison car park. The sky was painfully blue. Cato zapped the locks of the Commodore and they drove off with the air con up to full. The fires were on again: two columns of smoke over the southern hills of the Darling Scarp out Karagullen way, and one close by in bushland near Success. Whoever chose that name for a suburb needed to be strung upside down from a lamppost. Vivid orange Christmas Bush splashed the freeway verges as they sped north. The oncoming lanes were already clogged with the exodus south for what many were planning as an extra long, long weekend because the public holiday fell on Tuesday. Stuck in a forty-degree traffic jam: some holiday.

Cato blew out a breath and ran a finger around his sweaty collar. ‘I feel like taking a shower after a few minutes in the same room
with him.’ Hutchens was uncharacteristically quiet; it made Cato nervous. ‘What do you reckon?’

‘What? You and Shellie? Best wait until this is all over, mate. Protocols and that.’

‘Very funny.’

‘Wellard’s a sick fuck.’ A sideways glance. ‘You don’t fancy her do you?’

‘No!’

‘Touchy.’

Cato flicked on the radio. Whoever last used the car had it preset to a frantic babbling pop station. He found Classic FM and some flute music he couldn’t put a name to.

Hutchens stabbed it back into silence. ‘Sounds like fucking
Play School.
What’s going on here, Cato?’

‘You tell me.’

‘Meaning?’ Less a question, more a warning.

‘Wellard seems to think he’s in charge.’

‘And?’

‘You and him go back a long way. Aren’t you meant to be the one in charge?’

‘You saying I’m not?’

‘Again, you tell me.’

‘I’ll keep you posted, Detective Senior Constable.’ Hutchens mobile beeped. ‘Shit. Another budget meeting at HQ.’

At that point Cato remembered the news he’d forgotten to pass on to Hutchens from DS Colin Graham. ‘Did you hear about Santo Rosetti?’

‘Birdcage Boy? What about him?’

‘He’s one of ours. Intelligence undercover.’

Hutchens did a slow chin-tilt to click a vertebra. ‘Santo’s a dog and you’re only telling me now?’

‘I learned late last night. I slept, woke up, talked to Shellie, came out here with you. Got distracted.’

‘Does Lara know this?’

Cato coughed. ‘Thought it best that you hear it first. Protocols and that.’

‘Good boy. Now call her, she might appreciate an update.’ Hutchens glanced at the clock on the dash. It was still only midmorning. ‘Group hug. Noon. Pass it on.’

Lara Sumich sat outside the Spearwood home of Giuseppe and Sara Rosetti. It was a fairly typical paved Italian palace with European flowers in the front yard, plenty of brick and tile, some columns, and a spotless driveway regularly swept and hosed. Lara hadn’t been able to make any sense of what the Rosettis were on about. It wasn’t just their shocked bereavement, or their age, or their limited grasp of English even after nearly forty years in the country. It was like they were talking about a different Santo.

Lara started the car and headed towards Coogee and the coast. There was a whisper of a sea breeze so she left the air con off and opened the windows. She had known Santo. He was a junkie sleazebag. A parasite. He would sell his mother for the price of a fix. A pathetic low-life loser. Quite a fall from grace then from the Santo described by Mr and Mrs Rosetti, and only barely recognisable from the photo they proudly showed her of a young and clean-cut Santo graduating from the WA Police Academy several years before. So had he gone badly wrong somewhere along the line and dropped out? No, they said, he was still a policeman. They’d already had a visit from some brass from HQ. Apparently they would keep them informed. Lara would have appreciated being in the fucking loop too.

Her phone buzzed – caller ID: Kwong. She let it go through to message bank. Once it beeped she checked to make sure there would be no surprises when they did catch up.

Hi Lara, Cato here. The boss has called a meet for noon. Some news from Gangs about your man Santo: turns out he was one of ours, a UC. Interesting times huh?

The message ended with a self-deprecating chuckle. How long had he known? She chucked her mobile onto the passenger seat and shifted gear.

‘You bastard,’ she hissed.

Cato and Lara sat in the visitors chairs, knees nearly touching.

‘You two playing nicely?’ said DI Hutchens from the other side of the desk.

‘Yes sir,’ they said in unison.

‘Too busy for silly buggers around here. Got that?’

‘Absolutely,’ said Lara.

Cato was still out of sorts after his hot, short night’s sleep and his early morning dramas. He was wondering how he could administer a tainted meatball to Madge without suspicion immediately falling on him. Perhaps he could manoeuvre another neighbour into prime-suspect status. Maybe he should spend some time grooming the dog, pretending to be friends to divert attention. He wondered if he had it in him to be so dastardly.

Hutchens glanced at an incoming text message. ‘You with us, Cato?’

‘Anything specific you’re getting at, sir?’ said Cato.

‘Santo. Major Crime is getting antsy. If we’re not careful they’ll move from “strategic overview” to complete takeover.’

Lara crossed her legs and folded her arms. ‘He’s not in the personnel database anywhere, sir. If we’d known this yesterday...’

Hutchens raised a hand. ‘Nobody’s blaming anybody here, Lara. Santo’s been wiped from our files for obvious reasons. These days you can find CIA agents on friggin’ Facebook. We didn’t know about Santo because we weren’t meant to know.’

Cato watched Lara’s defensiveness evaporate.

‘Look, we really don’t want the Armani brigade up our arses so I’m drafting in extra bodies. Our bodies,’ said Hutchens. ‘Overall I’m in charge but at daily case-management level I think we need at least a DS on this.’

‘Who did you have in mind?’ said Lara.

Hutchens cleared his throat and waved his hand at a list on the
desk. ‘Nothing concrete yet. Any preferences, Lara?’

Cato liked Hutchens’ new management style – Choose Your Superior.

‘Meldrum is due back on Monday, sir. He’s very experienced.’

Lara had Meldrum twisted around her little finger. Surely Hutchens wouldn’t let that clock-watcher run a case like this?

‘Back from where? I didn’t realise he’d gone.’

Precisely, thought Cato.

‘Holiday. Down south, I think,’ said Lara.

‘Beautiful.’ Hutchens nodded. ‘Meldrum. Good idea, my thinking exactly. Run it for the rest of the weekend then brief him first thing Monday.’ Lara scribbled a note. ‘I’ve also been offered DS Graham on full-time secondment from Gangs to consult and advise on specialist matters.’

‘I understand, sir,’ said Lara.

‘Where do you want me, boss?’ said Cato.

‘Gangs will be well and truly inside Rosetti now so you won’t need to go liaison anymore. Stay working with Lara on the witness stuff.’

‘So I answer to Lara for the rest of the weekend and then Meldrum from Monday?’

‘Got it. Spot on, mate.’

Cato cleared his throat and avoided eye contact with either of them. Lara’s ponytail bobbed as she made for the door. Cato hadn’t worked out how she was still in the squad after the stunt she pulled in Hopetoun. He said as much to Hutchens once Lara had gone.

‘We all deserve a second chance, mate. You of all people should know that.’ Cato stood to leave but was waved back by Hutchens. ‘I’m also keeping you on the Wellard thing. He’s taken a dislike to you. That could work in our favour.’

Santo Rosetti’s innards rested in bags and bowls on a steel counter. His body lay pale and deflated on a trolley. The pathologist, a Glaswegian with rosy cheeks and a shiv in her voice, was summing up.

‘Mr Rosetti died of blood loss from the slit throat, one strong and
efficient movement by a right-hander with a very sharp knife. He had alcohol, heroin and ecstasy in his system, meat and salad in his tummy, and traces of semen in his mouth and throat.’

Lara looked up. ‘Recent?’

‘I’d say so. He didn’t get a chance to swill or clean his teeth between that and dying. I don’t know about you, petal, but I prefer a good gargle as soon as possible after the event.’

Colin Graham coughed.

‘So he could have known the killer,’ said Lara, almost to herself.

Professor Mackenzie instructed her assistant to set about putting Humpty Dumpty back together again. She peeled off her rubber gloves. ‘He knew somebody well enough to be giving him a wee blowjob. Was this same person the murderer? That’s your department.’

‘Fancy a beer, Lara?’ said DS Graham.

They were upstairs at a balcony table at the Sail and Anchor. It was midafternoon and a weak sea breeze floated through scented with gum, salt and cigarettes. Lara’s mind was half on Santo Rosetti and half on DS Colin Graham. Down below, a sword-eating pirate busked the Saturday crowd, and souped-up cars dawdled and doofed on the Cappuccino Strip. It was hot and there was plenty of flesh on display, some of it more appealing than others. Lara noticed Graham’s shiny new wedding ring. Didn’t mean much in this job.

‘Gangs keep you busy?’ she said after a mouthful of pilsener.

‘Plenty of dickheads out there trying to kill each other. I’m happy to let them get on with it as long as there’s no collateral damage. It’s the free market at work.’

‘I thought they were more sophisticated these days?’

‘Oh sure, high-tech, market-savvy, good lawyers and financial advisors, but if you put lipstick on a pig, it’s still a pig.’

‘The firebomb in the bikie tattoo parlour last weekend?’

‘Exactly. The Trans again. Subtle as. God knows what that was about.’

‘Maybe they spelt someone’s name wrong.’ Lara swivelled her
glass absent-mindedly. ‘What was Santo’s job?’

‘Staying in the thick of things. Doing little favours for as many people as he could. Hearing the whispers. Names to faces. Bit of stirring here and there.’

‘Stirring?’

‘Whenever things look like getting a bit too calm and cosy we like to give them something to fret about. Preferably each other.’

‘Divide and rule,’ said Lara. ‘Was that what got him killed?’

Graham leaned forward, resting his elbows on the table. ‘Haven’t a clue. Any thoughts?’

Lara could tell she was being toyed with. Graham wanted to find out how much she knew. Were he and Kwong some kind of tag team? Did they know she and Santo had a history? Fuck him: two could play at that.

‘It’s a logical conclusion.’ She took another sip from her drink. ‘Either his stirring got him into trouble, or his cover was blown. Or both. He was playing all sides. Bound to piss somebody off sooner or later.’

‘He kept dangerous company,’ Graham conceded. ‘In some ways I’m surprised he lasted this long. It’s a dangerous game, very high stakes. The meth market in WA is the most lucrative in the country. Cashed-up miners wanting to party during their time off and happy to pay up to fifty percent more than anybody else because it’s only money. No wonder the Eastern State outfits want to muscle in. Everybody wants a piece of the action and they don’t mind spilling blood for it.’

Lara nodded. ‘Care to speculate on the blowjob?’

‘I wasn’t aware Santo played for the other team but it takes all sorts.’

‘Sex crime? Crime of passion?’

‘Well there was sex and there was a crime but I’d be keeping an open mind. Passion? You’d expect a bit more frenzy usually. There was plenty of blood but just the single wound, albeit a very big one.’

Lara grimaced. ‘What a seedy way to go: a toilet cubicle in the bloody Birdcage.’

‘My nanna used to always say you should choose your friends
wisely.’ Graham shook his empty glass at Lara. ‘Your shout.’

Cato spent the afternoon chasing down witnesses from the Birdcage, arguing with whoever was manning the phones at the Student Guild about matters of privacy versus law enforcement, cross-referencing new names against the offender database, and adding all new information into the emerging timeline. It was solid coppering but he felt like a cog in the machine and resented the fact that he was answerable to the less experienced and, in his view, decidedly dodgy Lara Sumich.

Cato’s mind returned to Gordon Francis Wellard. The man had got under his skin. Every day you came up against hard cases, sociopaths and predators. Unsurprisingly, nearly all had tickets on themselves, an arrogance and sense of entitlement way beyond their real worth. Wellard was no exception: he attributed no value to anyone or anything except himself and, in Cato’s view, Boom Town was breeding a whole lot more like him. Depending on which school they went to, some of the psychos would end up in Casuarina, others in the high corporate towers of St Georges Terrace.

FINDERS KEEPERS.
What game was Wellard playing with Shellie now? Over a year had passed since the last incident of this nature, menacing letters posted by one of Wellard’s saddo acolytes. Why was it happening again and who was helping him out this time? It could be a threat; a claim over what Wellard considered to be his property. The apparent antipathy towards Cato might be real or just another game. Wellard had been eyeing everyone keenly out in the bush that day. Whatever he thought he saw, it was certainly high on his agenda now, if only as a tactic. And he’d added Cato to his list of playmates.

The pendant, the note and the envelope had all been sent off for forensic tests. Cato wasn’t going to try to second-guess the outcome. The previous batch delivered a year ago by Weird Billy left enough traces to lead right to his door. Had Wellard and his outside associate, whoever that was, learned their lessons since then? On the matter of the accomplice, there had been no phone calls or prison visits or recent releases that linked to Wellard. Was Shellie in danger from
this person? Short of organising a round-the-clock guard, which was unfeasible and unlikely from a bean-counting perspective, the best they could do was cross their fingers and make sure she locked her doors. Cato was tempted to log back into the system and look up everything he could find on Wellard. He resisted: it would be easy to get obsessive and the bastard was already commanding more attention than he deserved.

‘Fuck, that was nice.’

They were in Lara’s apartment overlooking the Round House at the West End: old Fremantle, new money. It hadn’t taken much longer to get Colin into bed. Another couple of beers at the Sail and Anchor, a loosened button, some eye contact. Graham enjoyed his sex and was upfront about it, even skilful here and there. There was something else about him that was less tangible yet still tantalising, a quiet self-confidence and a sense that anything was possible, no limits. Maybe he could take her places she’d never been before. Like a job in Gangs or Major Crime.

She rolled off and lay beside him, head propped on her hand. ‘I like your idea of inter-departmental liaison, Detective Sergeant.’

‘My pleasure ma’am. Are you always this diligent?’

‘Consummate professional.’

Graham reached over to the bedside table and checked the time on his mobile. He seemed to be satisfied with what he saw.

Lara let her fingers wander. ‘How long are you going to be around for?’

‘As long as it takes.’

As he rolled towards her again she saw something in his eyes. Was it just intense concentration on the job at hand, or was there an element of calculation? Not for the first time that day she wondered: did the DI really call you over to help us out, or did you invite yourself? She clawed at his buttocks and drew him in.