The Shadow Maker (33 page)

She was speechless.

But Lola wasn’t. ‘How on earth did they get hold of that?’ she shouted.

Rita found her voice. ‘From Mike Cassidy,’ she said hoarsely. ‘It’s from our holiday last year. I’m going to kill him.’

Rita turned up at police headquarters next morning in a sober grey outfit, making a vain attempt to counter the image of her in a bikini plastered across the front pages. Kevin O’Keefe arrived in camouflage pants and on crutches. They sat next to each other outside the office of Superintendent Gordon Nash, waiting to be summoned inside.

A secretary sat at a desk, tapping placidly on a keyboard beside a vase of cornflowers and a murmuring TV monitor.

‘I’ve got to admit it,’ said O’Keefe, a twinkle in his eye. ‘As bosses go, you’re a bit of a beach babe.’

‘Don’t even go there,’ Rita warned him.

‘I assume your ex did the dirty on you.’

‘He’s an odious prick, but don’t get me started,’ she growled.

‘How’s your leg?’

‘The bullet tore a hole through my flexor muscles and buggered my hamstring,’ O’Keefe grumbled. ‘It could wreck my swimming style.’

‘And let’s face it, that’s more important than your career.’

‘Too right,’ said O’Keefe, as Mike Cassidy’s face appeared on TV.

‘Speak of the devil.’

Cassidy was standing outside court buildings, with a ‘Breaking News’ caption flashing across the screen.

Rita swore under her breath as she stooped over the secretary and turned up the volume.

In the latest dramatic development over the death of crime baron Tony
Kavella, his family have announced they’re suing the police. Lawyers
acting for his younger brothers, Theo and Nikos Kavella, claim detectives were operating a shoot-to-kill policy in one of the state’s biggest-ever manhunts for the high-profile fugitive. I spoke to the Kavella family solicitor, Clayton Pearce, a short time ago.

Video of Pearce:
If we set aside the sensational headlines, there are clear
grounds for filing a lawsuit. The post-mortem examination shows Mr
Kavella was hit by bullets discharged from weapons held by two police officers, even though he didn’t fire a shot. The fact that he was gunned down in front of his mother, inside a church, only adds weight to evidence that he was the victim of an execution-style killing - or, as his brothers put it, the target of a police assassination.

Cassidy:
Senior officers at police headquarters are yet to officially respond,
although a spokesman for the Police Association has dismissed the
accusations as ‘cynical and groundless’. Lawyers acting for the sister of gangland figure Brendan Moyle are also preparing to take legal action, claiming his neck was broken and his body dumped in a chicken coop after he’d been disarmed. Meanwhile, the Kavella family have announced plans for one of the most ostentatious underworld funerals likely to be seen in this city. In a final irony, the funeral will be held in the same church where Tony Kavella was baptised, attended services as a boy, and lay bleeding to death after being shot.

Now back to the studio.

Rita turned down the volume as the bulletin moved on to other news.

‘Your ex has got a brutal way with words,’ observed O’Keefe.

‘Maybe I should wring his neck as well.’

‘That’s too good for him,’ she said. ‘You know what all this means?’

‘We’ve got a long, gruelling day ahead of us.’

‘And instead of being heroes, we’re going to face an inquisition.’

Rita and O’Keefe sat in front of Nash’s desk while he regarded them over his steel-rimmed glasses. To their left sat Jack Loftus, to their right a three-man team of legal advisers. The atmosphere was heavy with accountability.

‘I toyed with the idea of suspending both of you but I was talked out of it,’ said Nash, throwing an accusing glance at Loftus. ‘As it is, you’re going to spend the next two days dotting every “i” and crossing every “t” so those predatory lawyers won’t get to first base with any court action. At the same time we’ve got to go through our internal procedures. That means by tomorrow evening I want all reports - witness, crime scene and ballistic - formal statements, interview transcripts, the lot, processed, triple-checked, finalised and on my desk. Understand?’

They nodded.

‘That means,’ he continued, ‘your sick leave doesn’t resume until Saturday, O’Keefe. And you, Van Hassel, are off all other duties until next week. While I’m sure you acted courageously, if precipitously, out in the field, I don’t want either of you to get carried away with feelings that you’re not accountable. The reputation of the force has taken a battering recently, and it’s down to both of you to make sure the lawyers, the press and the Office of Police Integrity don’t have any fresh ammunition to fire at us. Am I making myself clear?’

‘Yes, sir,’ they both said.

‘And we could do without this!’ he snapped, tossing the morning newspaper onto his desk. ‘With the sort of tacky publicity you’ve been getting lately,’ he fixed Rita with a glare, ‘your career as a profiler could become untenable.’

She decided not to argue. ‘Point taken, sir,’ she said.

‘All right. Now both of you, get on with it.’

They stood up and left Nash’s office, closing the door behind them.

‘Mike Cassidy’s arse is grass,’ Rita muttered as she headed towards the lifts, O’Keefe clomping along on his crutches beside her.

‘You know how we blew it?’ he said. ‘We made the wrong call.’

‘In what way?’ she asked.

‘We should have let the bastards kill us!’

A full twenty-four hours had elapsed since Barbie’s return from Sydney and he was feeling tense. Giselle was overdue from Japan, having phoned from Tokyo to warn of delays. There’d been an underwater quake off Honshu causing structural damage, scores of injuries, disruption to flight schedules at Narita International and a tsunami alert.

‘Sounds serious,’ he’d said, though it was structural damage to his business plans that really concerned him.

With the deadline for the VR deal now only one day away, Jojima’s failure to say whether it was on or off was driving Barbie into a state of nervous agitation. When he’d asked Giselle about her time with Jojima she’d said, ‘It was like a field trip in anthropology.’

He couldn’t tell from her tone if that was good or bad and she’d refused to go into details over the phone. Now he was on edge, with her return flight due in the early afternoon. He was in no mood for the office, nor could he bring himself to eat. Breakfast was chilled orange juice. Unable to settle he wandered around the house, finally forcing himself to sit down on the sundeck by his swimming pool.

There he went through the morning papers.

To his continuing amazement Marita Van Hassel was still front-page news. Monday’s headlines about her deadly duel with the Duck had been sensational enough, allowing the nation’s tabloids to express their sentiments over the killing of the hit-man with customary zeal: duck shoot and quack quack, you’re whacked! Yesterday’s coverage on the aftermath of the Kavella shoot-out went further -

holy bloodbath and death rites in church - while a sober-minded broadsheet noted greek tragedy. This morning, though, her page-one image capped the rest, showing her in a brief bikini that exposed her copious charms under the inspired headline police siren
.

To anyone in the publicity business it was awe-inspiring. From heroic crime-buster to pin-up within three days. What a scoop. And what an opportunity. Any PR agent who got her on his books would be laughing.

He skipped the rest of the news, flicking through the pages to the TV reviews, and punched the air in triumph. ‘Yes!’

Just as he’d predicted, the spite now being displayed by his reality show contestants was grabbing attention. It had become a must-see spectator sport. The viewers were hooked, the critics were back on board. gold rush strikes a vein - the jugular! Barbie read it all with glee. Finally the cards were starting to fall in his favour after all.

By mid afternoon it was too hot to sit outdoors. The northerly wind was shaking the trees and buffeting the houses, like the draught from a furnace. It sent leaves clattering over the eaves and loose doors banging. Even hardy blooms in the garden plots were wilting from thirst as the parched lawns around them turned a coarser shade of desiccated brown. The local streets were as arid as dry riverbeds, the heat shimmering off the bitumen, and along suburban shopping strips pedestrians battled from door to door, the gusty conditions snagging their hair and flicking up dresses. High overhead a dirty-coloured film was seeping into the sky turning the sun to a vicious ball of red, while in the air hung a faint scent of burning, the ominous sign of bushfires.

Barbie skulked indoors in his air-conditioned refuge, waiting impatiently for his wife’s return. Nothing else mattered except the decision in Tokyo. But before he could press Jojima for it, he needed the intelligence Giselle was bringing. What had happened? Did her visit make a difference? The suspense was infuriating. To concentrate on anything else was impossible. He’d occupied his time by taking a long shower, changing into a white tennis shirt and shorts, then forcing himself to eat a light lunch even though he wasn’t hungry.

By the time her car arrived from the airport he was pacing up and down the parquet floor in a lather of anticipation.

He was hovering at the open front door as she walked through the pillared archway of the porch, looking cool and elegant in a mauve silk top, matching skirt and shoes, and dark glasses. In her wake came the driver, lugging her cases.

‘I need a drink,’ she said.

Barbie followed her into the kitchen where she mixed herself a vodka and tonic with lime and crushed ice. She drank it swiftly then put the glass down on the breakfast bar between them.

‘That’s better,’ she said, staring at him unemotionally.

‘For God’s sake,’ he said. ‘What happened with Jojima?’

Giselle opened her handbag, took out a thin pad and dabbed at her lips. Barbie watched each move intently, trying to read clues from her behaviour, but she was too good an actress for him -

indecipherable. He gave up, went to the fridge and pulled out a can of cold lager, slamming the door shut.

‘There’s no need for petulance,’ she said evenly.

He accepted the rebuke, flipped open the ring-pull and sat facing her on a high-backed stool. ‘Okay, no problem,’ he said. ‘Let’s talk about the modelling.’

She gave him a frosty look. ‘You don’t give a damn about the fashion show.’

‘I would normally, but it’s a bit hard to concentrate with a deal worth hundreds of millions of dollars on the line.’ He wasn’t happy with the way this was going. It was unlike them to squabble.

She took off her dark glasses and laid them on the counter. ‘At least that’s a flattering sum for prostituting myself.’

Barbie didn’t dare say anything. He filled the pause by lifting the can to his lips and swallowing a long, slow mouthful of beer. It was pleasantly refreshing.

‘As for the modelling,’ she went on matter-of-factly, ‘I had to cut short my appearance. I told the designers I was ill.’

‘But you weren’t.’

‘No. But I was certainly indisposed.’ She sighed, sat down on a breakfast stool and threw him a look that could have decapitated him. ‘What you want to hear, I’m only going to tell you once. Then we’ll never speak of it again. And tomorrow our lawyers will draw up a new set of contracts, giving me a fifty per cent financial interest in all your companies. Do you agree?’

He raised his eyes to the ceiling as he swallowed another mouthful of beer. This one nearly stuck in his throat. There was no choice, though. If the deal was off, he was bust anyway. If the deal was back on, it was Giselle who’d swung it.

When he looked at her again he said, ‘Agreed. It’s a fair bargain.’

‘Good.’ She sank forward on her elbows, eyes downcast. ‘It lasted all night. Jojima couldn’t get enough of me. As a western fashion model I fulfilled all his wet fantasies. He pretends to his colleagues he’s into heavy
manga
- brutal comic book stuff, animated films - where women are reduced to sex objects.’ She closed her eyes and massaged her temples. ‘But what he’s really into is self-abasement, water sports.’

Barbie put the drink aside and clasped his hands as if in prayer.

‘I need to know some specifics.’ His voice was quiet and patient.

‘Logistical details, like where and when. For example, did he take you out to a restaurant? Were other company executives present?’

‘At the start of the evening, yes. It was all agonisingly polite and correct. Jojima and two other executives. After the meal he escorted me to my hotel room. That’s where we fucked. From there he drove me to his private retreat outside Tokyo. I’ve kept the address.’

She folded her arms and hugged them to her chest. ‘I had to play along while he indulged himself. There was a lot of begging and spanking. I had to chastise him while jerking him off. Finally he stuck his tongue up my arse while I pissed on him. It was de humanising.

I’ve never been so humiliated in my life.’

‘When you last saw him, what was his attitude?’

She thought for a moment and said, ‘Very humble and solicitous.

He implored me to say nothing.’

Barbie flopped back with a pensive expression on his face, fingering the cold beer can distractedly. ‘Excellent,’ he said at last. ‘I think it’s time I had a chat with him.’

Barbie sat in the padded comfort of his computer den, the stern face of Kenshi Jojima on the video link in front of him. As usual they’d greeted each other with bland niceties, before Barbie added another nicety with barbed edges.

‘My wife has told me how you devoted so much time and attention to her in Tokyo. You shouldn’t have, Kenshi. I would hate your work life to suffer.’

From the screen came silence as Jojima’s jaw stiffened. He knew he’d been threatened - his career, his reputation, his honour were in jeopardy. He didn’t say anything, just sat waiting for the inevitable question.

‘So?’ Barbie continued mercilessly. ‘What is your decision on my new game? Is the deal on?’