The Shadow Maker (6 page)

The only other visitors were a pair of hookers, apart from half a dozen delivery people with flowers.’

‘You didn’t let anyone in?’

‘No, and I questioned the street girls, friends of the victim, but they don’t think they know the man who attacked her. I’ve also taken the details of the florist orders, just in case they’re relevant.’

‘Good work,’ said Rita. ‘Email them to Kevin O’Keefe in Sex Crimes. He’ll check them out.’

She went into the room to find Emma much as she’d left her the day before, propped on pillows, sedated and still in ignorance of the full extent of her injuries. On shelves around her were lots of flowers in vases. Emma’s mother was still there, exhausted and red-eyed, but out of tears. As Rita greeted both women, Mrs Schultz handed over a photo of her daughter, as had been requested of her.

It was a studio portrait, a head and shoulders shot, showing a young woman with a girlish smile, rosy-cheeked, bright-eyed.

Rita reached out to take Emma’s hand. ‘Is there anything else you’ve remembered about the man who attacked you?’

Emma made herself more comfortable as she thought about it.

‘I remember he was clever,’ she said.

‘In what way?’

‘Some of the things he talked about in the car, you know, just making conversation on the way to the hotel. Stuff I didn’t understand.’

‘Such as?’

‘Computers, how they’re changing the world. Technical stuff.’

‘Did he give any examples?’ asked Rita.

‘When I told him computers would never replace sex, he said they were already improving it. I thought he was talking about internet porn, but he wasn’t.’

‘What
was
he talking about?’

‘Cyber sex games, he reckoned. He didn’t explain, just flashed a card at me. That’s when we arrived at the hotel.’

Rita paused and took the plastic evidence bag from her pocket.

‘I’ve got something here we recovered from the hotel room,’ she said. ‘It looks like a credit card, it’s plastic and it’s black with silver lettering on it. Just two words are embossed on it: Plato’s Cave.’

‘That’ll be the one he had; it’s certainly not mine,’ said Emma.

‘You think he stalked me from the club?’

‘I don’t know yet,’ Rita answered. ‘But it’s beginning to look that way.’

She sat in her car, tapping the rim of the steering wheel with the black plastic card in its bag. The silver lettering shone in the sunlight, and those two gleaming words - Plato’s Cave - glinted back at her like a provocation. Tony Kavella had escaped retribution more than once, but the last time was the one that grated the most.

It was Rita’s perseverance that had finally cracked Kavella’s vice ring. She got one of the girls who had been promised a movie audition to talk. Others followed. The villa was raided, the videos recovered, and all the men stupid enough to be caught on tape were seized. Kavella was taken into custody at his club, but his lawyers were already there. They successfully argued he had no case to answer on charges of abduction, conspiracy, blackmail and a list of counts relating to organised vice. Although his customers got heavy prison terms, he walked free from court. There were no witnesses to implicate him and no uncontested evidence to connect him. He’d mocked her best efforts to put him behind bars and was still banking the profits of his crimes. She wanted another chance to break him.

His drug and vice business was thriving, and the small, glossy card seemed to be compelling proof that Kavella had gone hi-tech with it. Loftus had said, ‘No evidence, no move on Kavella.’ Well now the evidence was in her hand.

‘Fuck it,’ she said, and called the squad room.

O’Keefe answered and she told him how the attacker had flashed the card at Emma Schultz and talked about cyber sex games.

‘You want to go after Kavella, don’t you?’ he said.

She took a breath then said, ‘Yes. Let me talk to Strickland.’

He put her on hold and left her listening to the recorded voice of the police service going through its self-promotion spiel.

As she waited for Strickland to pick up, Rita watched a middle-aged couple grappling in the hospital car park and hoped she wouldn’t have to intervene. They were swearing at each other in a mixture of English and Serbian. The woman had her arm in a sling but it didn’t stop her bouncing a can of Coke off the man’s head. He slapped her once, twice, then stormed off, cursing her, the world around him and the sky above.

When her call was finally picked up again it was Strickland on the line.

‘This better be important. I’m five minutes away from talking to the media thanks to your ex-boyfriend’s efforts. What have you got?’

‘A strong lead. A hi-tech connection to the Plato’s Cave nightclub.

Is there any reason now I shouldn’t question Tony Kavella?’

Strickland blew out a heavy sigh. ‘How should I know? I haven’t had time to look at the evidence. I’m too busy dead-batting this morning’s headlines. Make your own judgement call,’ he said and then hung up on her.

Rita clicked off the phone and gave a grunt of satisfaction. In effect, Strickland had just given her the go-ahead.

The midday sun glared over the city traffic, inflaming drivers and scorching pavements, as Rita pulled over in front of the nightclub.

The main entrance was a polished metal door with an iron ring, chained and padlocked. A small brass plate bore the club’s name. It was so discreet it went unnoticed by the stream of daytime shoppers passing by.

Plato’s Cave straddled a sleazy borderline area where Melbourne’s Greek precinct merged with Chinatown. Its neighbours to the left were the Acropolis Cafe and a Greek emporium, and to the right a Chinese pharmacy and a sex supermarket. Above the shopfronts rose the original Romanesque facade of the brick Victorian building, the date 1887 inscribed in stone amid the flaking paintwork. The club’s bar and dance floor occupied the cellar - a dim and sweaty cavern reeking of stale tobacco and illicit liaisons. But Kavella conducted business from an air-conditioned office on the first floor, reached by back stairs from a narrow lane. This was where Rita headed as she got out of the car, a tremor of anticipation in her step.

She walked down the lane through baking sunshine and the smells of spicy chicken. When she reached the stairs she found someone standing on the bottom step, smoking a cigarette. Despite the heat of the day, he was wearing a black suit, with the jacket buttoned over a white shirt and a precisely knotted tie. His shaved head glistened like oiled leather. He was slim and sinewy and his face was Asiatic, though his eyes were hidden by sleek, black sunglasses.

She tried to brush past him; he refused to budge.

‘If you don’t mind,’ said Rita, trying again to get past him.

One of his hands shot out, cat-like, and grasped her firmly around the throat. ‘Who you?’ he asked.

Rita tried to jerk out of the hold but his grip was strong. ‘Let go,’

she said through clenched teeth.

‘Maybe. Maybe not. I press little more and you unconscious.’ Grinning now, the sun reflecting off his numerous gold fillings. ‘How you like that?’

‘How you like to be arrested?’ she replied.

Instantly his grip relaxed and his hand was back in his pocket.

‘You cop?’

‘Detective sergeant.’

‘Okay. I sorry. You not troublemaker. What you say, officer - no harm done?’

She stroked her throat, wanting to punch him, but instead mimicked him with a ‘Who you?’

‘I the Duck. Quack, quack,’ he said, taking off his sunglasses with a flourish. ‘Maybe you hear of me.’

‘Maybe,’ she replied.

In fact she’d read the intelligence data file on him. He was a Vietnamese hitman with a military and martial arts background, not to mention a trail of bodies left behind him in south-east Asia. He was proficient in the use of guns, knives and his bare hands. His official status was political refugee, but he was currently employed as an enforcer for one of Melbourne’s biggest heroin smuggling gangs.

‘The Duck’ was his anglicised nickname, though the name on his passport, probably an invention, was almost as disconcerting - Duc Hung Long. According to the file he liked to boast that he was.

‘And since when have you been a bouncer for this dump?’

He ignored her question, flicking away his cigarette and putting his sunglasses back on. Then he stood aside and gestured up the stairs. ‘You come in now. The Duck escort you.’

Rita shook her head, gesturing back at him. ‘You first.’

He shrugged and trotted briskly up the stairs ahead of her, a mobile phone suddenly appearing in his hand, presumably to text message her arrival.

The Duck wasn’t the only one who looked out of place. As Rita reached the upstairs office she almost collided with a smartly dressed middle-aged Chinese man, who glanced at her briefly as he pushed past. She recognised him immediately as Victor Yang, a Triad gang leader who ran his own drugs and vice enterprises. What was he doing here on rival turf ?

Tony Kavella’s voice called out to the Duck: ‘Show Mr Yang out.’

The Duck did as he was told, leaving Rita to stroll through the door.

Tony Kavella was sitting in a big leather chair behind a chrome and black desk, tapping at a laptop. A nest of new computer screens glowed alongside. It was clear that he’d gone hi-tech and upmarket since the last time she’d been here. Around him the office was cool and spacious, with white walls, a white marble floor and tall yucca plants in white glazed pots. Classical bronzes stood on marble stands and there was tinted glass in the arched Victorian windows. It looked like an interior designer’s idea of the setting for a cultivated businessman.

Kavella looked up as Rita entered the room.

‘Fuck me,’ he said, immediately dispelling any notions the new decor might suggest. ‘So you’re the cop who’s come calling.’ He didn’t get up. Just slouched back in his swivel chair. ‘You here for business or pleasure?’

‘Not pleasure, sadly,’ said Rita. ‘Since I haven’t got an arrest warrant.’

That brought a sour chuckle from Kavella’s lips, and a deadly gleam to his eyes. The eyes of a psychopath, she reminded herself.

She’d profiled Kavella in detail and there was no doubt about his psychopathic personality. The son of a greengrocer, he had developed into a high school bully, though was smart enough to qualify for university, where he’d started a classics course at the behest of his aspiring but indulgent Greek mother. Impatient and ambitious, he dropped out after cornering the campus market in soft and hard drugs. A natural standover man, he didn’t indulge in drugs himself, but enjoyed the power it gave him over others. Casual violence came easily and helped him expand his connections into the city. The nightclub became his base and his legitimate front, from where he established his reputation among those on both sides of the law as a slick and intelligent operator. Yet although his mind was razor sharp, he had not developed a conscience and could inflict pain and brutality without hesitation.

Now, as he lounged back and propped his shoes on the desk, he looked totally at ease with his success. There was a certain dangerous charm about him too, his dark good looks combined with a hypnotic gaze and seductive manner. Along with the computers and upmarket decor, he’d also smartened up his appearance, adding to her suspicions.

Gone were the beard, moustache and shoulder-length hair of their last encounter; he was now clean-shaven and neatly groomed. She saw it as a mask to conceal his true identity just as, when trouble arose, he managed to conceal himself behind a phalanx of lawyers, accountants and portfolios.

Something else was new as well. Directly behind his desk was a steel door where no door had been before. It led into the adjoining property. On the wall beside it was a security keypad with a slot for a smartcard. What expansion of his criminal business did it conceal?

Perhaps the crime she was investigating.

‘No warrant, huh?’ he said. ‘So you must be appealing to my better nature.’

‘Let’s not get into the realm of fantasy,’ said Rita. ‘Mind if I sit down?’

‘Be my guest,’ said Kavella, waving a hand at the upholstered leather chair just vacated by Victor Yang.

As Rita sat down, she tossed the black Plato’s Cave card onto the desk in front of him. ‘Recognise that?’ she asked.

Without taking his feet off the desk, Kavella reached over, picked up the card and removed it from the clear plastic evidence bag. He studied it for a moment, turned it over twice, then looked at her with no expression.

‘Can I keep this?’ he said, deadpan.

‘No,’ said Rita, observing him closely. ‘It’s police evidence.’

He shrugged, tossed it back at her, and gazed through the tinted windows at the sheet of sunlight glaring from the building opposite.

‘So I take it the card is yours?’ she asked.

‘Take it, leave it, stick it up your arse,’ he replied, stretching back with his hands behind his head. ‘Do what you like. I’m saying nothing till I know what this is about.’

From her jacket pocket Rita drew out a photo of Emma Schultz and flicked it across the desk as if it were an ace in a poker game.

Kavella raised a sceptical eyebrow but pulled his feet off the desk and leant forward in his chair.

‘Recognise her?’ snapped Rita.

He let her wait for the answer, then said, ‘Of course I do. The blind prostitute in the news. What’s she got to do with me?’

‘She was here at your club less than an hour before she was picked up and attacked.’

‘So what?’

‘Your calling card was left by the attacker.’

‘That card?’ he asked, pointing at the one on the desk.

‘Yes.’

A flicker of a frown passed over his forehead, before disappearing.

It was enough to convince her that something was worrying him.

‘What is it, Kavella? More of your nasty games catching up with you?’

‘Don’t flatter yourself, Van Hassel. You know fuck-all about fuck-all.’ Despite attempts at self-control, his nostrils flared with anger.

‘There’s only one thing obvious here - that you’re on a fishing expedition. Wouldn’t surprise me if you’re wearing a wire.’