Chapter 18

  “MARY?” I CALLED her over as the team filed out.

  “What’s up?”

  “The Ho murder. Darlene’s found some interesting stuff.”

  “Yeah, I heard … Triads. You’re thinking drugs?”

  “Possibly, but from what Ho Meng said, his kid was hardly the sort.

  Darlene found no evidence he was using.”

  “May’ve been dealing.”

  “Well, yeah. But anyway, it’s speculation. It might not be drugs, the Triads are involved in all sorts of shit.”

  “Maybe it wasn’t the kid,” Mary replied. “What about the father, Meng? I’d be surprised, but we have to consider it.”

  “It’d crossed my mind. I don’t think he gave us everything he had yesterday.”

  “I agree.”

  I looked at Mary. I’d known her for years and I knew she had a soft side, but I think only a handful of people in the world had ever seen it and two of those were her mom and dad.

  “You know the guy a little. Reach out to him,” I suggested. “Find out if he has connections with the Triads.”

  “He must have. But he won’t like us probing.”

  “No, he won’t,” I replied. “But he needs reminding if he wants us to find his son’s killer that we have to have everything he can give us – not just about Chang, but about himself too.”

  She nodded and looked straight into my eyes.

  “You okay with that, Mary? The Triads are not nice.”

  “Oh, please! I’m a big girl and I thrive on ‘not nice’.”

  Chapter 19

  THE NEW SOUTH Wales police morgue was part of a modern building in Surry Hills, a couple of miles from the CBD. It was like all morgues everywhere – pristine, clinical, and it stank of chemicals and death.

  A tall, well-built man with a graying beard and wearing round tortoiseshell spectacles met us in a small, overlit anteroom. A pass was pinned to his lapel – photo and name, Dr. Hugh Gravely.

  He was friendly enough and showed Justine and me into the main part of the morgue. It was low-ceilinged, fluorescent strips. The stink was much worse here.

  Stacy Friel lay on the slab. Gray skin, wet hair pulled back, a red, crudely sewn up Y-shaped incision dominating her upper half. She would have been a very handsome woman yesterday, I thought. And suddenly a horrible pain hit me in the chest. I almost let it show, but reined it in. I knew what this was. I had been to a very similar morgue … after the crash. I had to see Becky and Cal. But later, I wished I hadn’t.

  “Victim was thirty-nine,” Dr. Gravely said, his voice emotionless. “Died from multiple stab wounds. Two distinct thrusts to the thoracic, two more to the lumbar. Each one deep. The knife had a serrated blade approximately eight inches in length. It punctured her liver and right kidney. The lumbar penetrations perforated the large intestine. The victim almost certainly died from heart failure precipitated by shock.”

  Justine stepped forward and inspected Stacy’s lower half. “You’ve removed the banknotes.”

  “They’ve gone to Police Forensics along with the woman’s clothes, jewelry – everything on her person.”

  Justine nodded.

  “I did examine them first, of course. But you’ll know about them from the police … right?”

  “No,” Justine and I said in unison. “What about them?” I added slowly.

  “Well the fact they’re fake notes … photocopies.”

  Chapter 20

  THE MOMENT THE woman in the $900 Jimmy Choo shoes walked into the offices of Private, I knew something interesting would come of it. I noticed things such as expensive shoes and I knew that women of this type didn’t come to places like Private unless there was something serious on their minds.

  Before she said a word, I’d profiled her. Lower North Shore Yummy Mummy, maybe Eastern Suburbs, but she looked a little too cool. Professional – once upon a time. Maybe a lawyer back in the day before the kids came along. She’d probably parked a BMW X5 downstairs, almost certainly had a personalized number plate. Kids would be at Shore School or Redlands. Husband … let’s think, either a stockbroker or a senior exec at one of the big banks.

  She exuded confidence as she crossed the floor toward me. “Hi, my name’s Pam Hewes,” she said, smiled briefly, a New Zealand twang to her voice. “I need advice.”

  “Well, you’ve come to precisely the right place. Craig Gisto.” I waved her toward the conference room.

  I pulled up a chair for her and walked around the table, sat down, my back to the window, waited for her to start.

  “Oh God! I don’t know where to begin!” She broke eye contact. “My husband … his name’s Geoff. He didn’t return home last night. There’s no response to his cell or his office numbers. He didn’t show up at home this morning. I went to his office in the CBD. No one’s heard from him.”

  “I imagine this must be unusual or else you wouldn’t be here.”

  “Well, yeah. Geoff works hard, and … he plays hard. I knew that about him before we were married. Quid pro quo and all that, but he’s always kept some sort of balance – even if it was only for the sake of the kids. He has always come home each evening and if there was some emergency and he has to go somewhere suddenly he always calls.”

  “And you haven’t heard a word from him?”

  “No.”

  “You haven’t contacted the police. Why?”

  “Because … I’m not one hundred per cent sure that everything my husband does is absolutely legal.”

  “What does he do, Mrs. Hewes?”

  “Please, call me Pam … Geoff has fingers in all sorts of pies. Always has some new business scheme. He lends money, he invests in businesses. I find it hard to keep up.”

  I looked her directly in the eye. “And you, Pam? What do you do?”

  “I’m in real estate. I work at H and F Realty on the Lower North Shore.”

  “Do you have anything to go on? Any leads? Are you familiar with your husband’s associates, friends?”

  Pam shook her head and looked down at the carpet. “My husband plays his cards close to his chest. He tells me things, but I know it’s the tip of the iceberg. But, Mr. Gisto, to answer your previous question, there’s one thing you should know about my husband. Geoff does have associates – many of them – but when it comes to friends they’re pretty thin on the ground.”

  Chapter 21

  “GOOD MORNING,” HO said, standing and extending a hand.

  “Thanks for agreeing to meet me,” Mary said.

  They were in the bar of the Blue Hotel in Woolloomooloo, all oversized concrete buffet counters, post-modern piping and metal grills. She ordered a coffee.

  “I wasn’t being entirely straight with you and Mr. Gisto yesterday,” Ho began. “I don’t know Mr. Gisto, but I’ve done some checking and he seems like a worthy man. And besides,” he added with a small smile, “you obviously trust him and that is good enough for me.”

  Mary kept buttoned up, searched his black eyes.

  “The fact is, I believe my son was kidnapped and killed by the Triads.”

  “I know.”

  “You do?”

  “Our forensics expert found compelling evidence to support the idea.”

  “I see. Well I have a lot of experience with the gangs, going back years. I know how they operate.”

  “Your time in the Hong Kong Police Force?”

  “I was one of the senior officers involved with breaking up the Huang gang in ’94. I then headed up the task force that smashed two other big Triad teams in Kowloon and Macau. I emigrated to Australia with my family, a few years before I met you at the Military Police Training Academy.”

  “And you think this attack on your family was some sort of revenge?”

  “I’m convinced of it.”

  “Why?”

  Ho was silent for a few moments, gazing around the huge, almost empty bar. “I was sent a ransom note.”

  Mary raised an eyebrow. “Maybe we should start at the beginning, Meng.”

  “I told you yesterday the last time I saw Chang was on Thursday. I reported him missing the following day. Late that night, Friday, I received a package. A note demanding that I cooperate with a gang who are planning to smuggle heroin from Hong Kong. The note came in a box with one of my son’s eyes.”

  “And you didn’t go to the police with this information?”

  Ho shook his head. “No, I told you …”

  “You don’t trust the cops … Why?”

  “I’d rather not say.”

  Mary rested an elbow on the table and rubbed her forehead. “Okay,” she said, a little exasperated. “What happened next?”

  “Saturday night I received a call from the gang leader. He said I had twenty-four hours to agree to their ‘request’, or my son would be killed.”

  “That would give you until Sunday night. And they did murder him.” Mary shook her head slowly.

  “I’ve concluded they were going to kill Chang in the car and dump his body in a public car park.”

  “But why?” Mary said. “Surely they would have been more discreet.”

  “Quite the opposite, Mary. They would have wanted to advertise it. I’m not the only Asian businessman in this city. If I keep refusing they could go elsewhere. They wanted to broadcast the murder, as a warning to others – that’s how they operate – fear and arrogance.”

  “But you did refuse them,” Mary said.

  “I could not agree to their demands. They are targeting me because of my past. Helping them smuggle heroin would go against everything I believe in.” He stared her out. “You may seem outraged, Mary. But believe me, I will live with that decision for the rest of my life. It was the hardest thing I’ve ever had to do.”

  Chapter 22

  Thirty-six Hours Ago.

  PAM HEWES’ HUSBAND, Geoff, was in his favorite chair in his favorite pub, The Cloverleaf in Darlinghurst, and he was feeling pleased with himself.

  He’d had a good week so far. That afternoon, he’d won a couple of grand at the races, squeezed over ten thousand more from the small businesses he was lending to in the Western Suburbs and heard that the brothels he managed for Al Loretto, the biggest underworld name in Sydney, had increased their profits.

  He was about to take a sip of beer when he felt a tap on his shoulder. He whirled round and was startled to see Al Loretto himself standing way too close. Another man Geoff half-recognized was positioned behind him, arms folded.

  “Hey, Al,” Geoff said, doing well to disguise his surprise. “How are you?”

  Loretto didn’t reply for a moment, just stared down at Geoff surveying him with his hard black eyes. He then pulled up a chair, leaned forward. “Geoffrey,” he said quietly. “Do I or do I not pay you well?”

  “What do you mean, Al?”

  “Simple question. Do I recompense you adequately for your services?” Al had made an effort with the Oxford English dictionary. Thought it was impressive.

  “Yeah, course you …”

  He gripped Geoff’s lapel and his companion took a step forward. “Then why are you being so disrespectful, Geoffrey?”

  Hewes blanched.

  “You want to further capitalize on your employment position? Is that it, amigo?”

  Geoff went to reply, but stopped as Al Loretto tightened his grip, his breath on his cheek. “How did you come to the conclusion that I would be happy for you to install cameras in my brothels? Hmm?”

  Geoff tried again to reply, but was cut short.

  “Didn’t you imagine for a second that it was just a tad disrespectful, Geoffrey? Was there not a skerrick of doubt, not a moment when you thought you might ask me first?”

  “I didn’t think you would have a problem with it,” Hewes managed to say.

  Loretto stared at him in silence again.

  “I thought …”

  “I don’t pay you to think, Geoffrey. Oh no. I do the thinking.” The gangster tapped his head.

  “So, what do you …?”

  “What do I want? I want you to cease and desist. Not hard to understand is it, pal? Take the fucking cameras out this afternoon and do what I pay you to do. Any more questions?”

  Geoff looked at him blankly.

  “Good,” Loretto answered, stood, picked up the almost full glass of beer and poured it over Geoff Hewes’ head.

  Chapter 23

  I’D JUST WALKED into the lab at Private. Darlene was at a computer, tapping away. The police had sent over everything from the Stacy Friel murder scene for her to study. “Anything?” I asked.

  “Not a lot more than the Police Forensics guys have found, I’m afraid. The banknotes are photocopies … high-quality – about the grade of a top-end domestic printer.”

  “Fingerprints?”

  “I wish! No … Zip. Actually, to be honest, I didn’t expect anything. The killer wore latex gloves. I found traces of the cornstarch powder that coats standard gloves.”

  “And nothing special about that?”

  “Nope. These gloves could have come from any one of a hundred outlets, a thousand – Coles, Woolworths, any drugstore.”

  “Okay. Anything else?”

  “Biological matter from the woman’s vagina. I could tell you where she was in her menstrual cycle and whether or not she’d had sex during the past twenty-four hours. But I can’t give you anything practical about what was put into her.”

  “She wasn’t raped?”

  “Definitely not.”

  I looked round the lab. Benches on each side. On top of these stood impressive-looking machines with elaborate control panels and flashing lights. I recognized a powerful microscope and a centrifuge, but that was about it. The rest might as well have been Venusian technology.

  “The cops gave you all the material you need?”

  “Yeah, personal effects plus a file containing several hundred photographs of the crime scene. I’ve analyzed Stacy Friel’s jacket. I can confirm the police pathologist’s assessment of the attack – the number of stab wounds, the angle of entry, the type of knife. Although of course, the weapon hasn’t been found. I wish I could have been at the crime scene. It’s hard working second hand like this. I might have caught something the cops missed.”

  “I understand,” I replied. “And you found nothing unusual with anything Police Forensics handed over?”

  “No, Craig. I’m sorry. Hate to admit it – but right now I’m drawing a complete blank.”

  Chapter 24

  I WAS STARVING – it suddenly hit me as I left Darlene’s lab and strode into reception. Johnny was there talking to our receptionist, Colette. Justine was coming toward us through the main doors a few feet away. She looked hot and flustered.

  “I feel like I’m going to get sunstroke every time I step outside,” she declared.

  I laughed. “I thought LA was hot.”

  “Yeah, but not like this!”

  I grinned and glanced at my watch. “I’m going to grab a snack. You hungry?” I asked her. “Or how about a frappaccino?

  She looked surprised for a moment. “Great.”

  There was a café on the ground floor. We got coffee and muffins and started to head back to the elevator. I checked my watch again, realized I had a spare thirty minutes.

  “You got anything to do for half an hour or so, Justine?”

  She shook her head as she sipped the frappaccino through a straw.

  “Well then, I know just the place for you. I think you’ll appreciate it.”

  “Oh!” she said. “A man of mystery …”

  Chapter 25

  WE WALKED DOWN Macquarie Street close to Circular Quay. Straight ahead of us stood the Opera House, the tiers of wide steps leading to its massive windows just a couple of dozen yards away. People were sitting on the steps drinking Slurpees, coffee, Coke. We turned onto the Quay and I pointed out the sights to Justine. She was quiet, taking it all in, but not “oohing” and “ahhing” as some tourists might. I liked that.

  We walked in the shade, an arcade of shops to our left. An aboriginal man was playing a didgeridoo over a hip-hop beat spilling from an iPod plugged into a big speaker.

  “Very post-modern!” Justine observed. “So where exactly are you taking me?”

  “Don’t want to spoil the surprise.”

  We came to a bar, tables and umbrellas outside, families eating late breakfast. A big flat screen on the wall inside was showing a soccer game from the English Premier League, Chelsea vs. Tottenham. I led the way through the bar and up a flight of stairs. On the wall was a small sign. It said: ICE BAR.

  “What’s this?” Justine asked and spun round, puzzled.

  I stepped up to the counter. A few other customers milled about. Sixty seconds later, I had two tickets in my hand and guided Justine around a corner. An immaculately tanned blonde was waiting for us by a rack of fur coats.

  Justine turned to me again.

  “Okay, this is the deal,” I said. “You want to cool down? The Ice Bar is set to minus twenty Fahrenheit. Everything is made from ice including the cocktail glasses. We stay in for a drink – twenty minutes. You’ll feel a lot cooler by the end of it.”

  I had to laugh as Justine pulled on a nerdy fur-lined anorak and mittens. It wasn’t really her. But she seemed to be loving it all. We went into the antechamber to acclimatize. Here, it was just 18oF. From there we went into the Prep Room, temperature, five degrees. Then the door to the bar swished open and we were inside. The digital thermometer on the wall told us it was minus 20oF … and it felt it, even through the thick socks, the boots, the fur-lined anorak and the mittens.