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On Saturday, I drove to my ex-wife’s house in Warilla, a small suburb that fringed the steel works in Port Kembla, and knocked on the front door.
She opened it dressed like the anime character Sailor Moon, and struck a provocative pose. ‘Hi, boofhead. What do you think? Whipped it up in three hours.’
‘Impressive, Dee. Is this for Supernova?’
We hugged and the smell of her hair took me back, as it always did, to the first time I hugged her at the front of the Hoyts cinemas on George Street, fourteen years previous. I felt the blue fabric on her right collar.
‘Nice colours. I like the laureates.’ I always did my best to fudge an opinion when it came to Dee’s creations. Kowalski’s and fashion didn’t mix. My shaved baldhead, and consistently black ensemble attested to that.
She showed me in, and when my eleven-year-old daughter Alice spotted me from the kitchen, she squealed and ran into my arms. ‘Dad!’
We hugged and rocked from side to side, a unique by-product of the Kowalski DNA. Alice also inherited my mawkishness, my height, my stubbornness, and my eye for detail. Sometimes I imagined her growing up to be a forensic scientist.
She pulled back and I felt a pang of alarm; the crown of her head stood level to my shoulder. She wore a cosplay costume, albeit one I didn’t recognise. Dee had relaxed rules when it came to clothes. Alice’s love for all things Manga definitely came from her mother’s side.
‘Listen, sweetie, I won’t be able to come around next weekend.’ I said. ‘I’ve got something on. Sorry, gorgeous.’
To my surprise, she shrugged. ‘That’s okay. What’s going on?’
I went into the kitchen and surreptitiously glanced around. At least three days’ worth of plates and saucepans littered the sink. Streaks of juice stained the breakfast bench, blackened grime encased the stovetop, and the splattered oil stains on the tile backsplash reminded me of a Jackson Pollock painting.
‘I’ll tell you in a minute, sweetie.’ I ran the hot water and organised the various piles into greasy and non-greasy.
Dee joined me in the kitchen and removed a tea towel from the handle on the oven. ‘Just leave it. I was going to do it after dinner.’
‘Sure. And what were you going to eat off? Saucepan lids?’
Dee’s partner, Brad, appeared from the hallway carrying an empty coffee mug and wearing a Comic Con tee shirt. A bookish academic, Brad never struck me as the handiest of handymen. It wasn’t unusual for Dee to text me when the taps needed new washers or when the pilot light under the hot water system blew out. I kept him in the corner of my eye and he smiled and winked at me.
‘How you going, boofhead?’ I put the plug in the sink and squirted a good dollop of dishwashing liquid into the water.
Brad shuffled his feet and cleared his throat. ‘Uh, hi Matt. How are you?’
I looked up and met his eyes. ‘I’m very good, Brad, and how are you?’
‘Yeah. Good. Fine.’ He nodded for a longer time than was necessary, then turned on his heel and skulked back down the hallway with his coffee mug.
I felt a nudge from Dee.
‘Don’t be mean,’ she said.
‘I wasn’t being mean. I looked him in the eye and I acknowledged him. It’s his prerogative how he responds.’
‘You know what I mean.’
Alice opened the fridge and pulled out a bottle of Coke, then took out a glass.
I stopped her before she poured. ‘Use this glass.’ I washed one and put it in the drying rack.
Dee dried it and passed it to Alice.
‘Are you working on any cases, Dad?’
‘As a matter of fact, yes—a murder case.’
‘No shit?’ Dee said.
Alice shot her a frown. ‘Mum. Language.’
‘Sorry.’
The sink filled up, I turned the tap off and placed half a dozen glasses into the foamy water. ‘Do you remember Zio Fausto?’
‘How could I forget?’ Dee turned to Alice. ‘He affectionately called me Hippy Lady.’
‘Well,’ I continued. ‘His nephew was killed down at Sussex Inlet last week.’
‘Shit, Matt,’ Dee murmured. ‘I’m so sorry.’
Alice turned her head and bulged her eyes at her mother.
Dee gave Alice an apologetic look. ‘Sorry, honey bun. I’ll chuck a dollar in the swear jar.’
Alice said, ‘It’s two bucks for the ‘s’ word.’
Dee poked her tongue out.
Alice said, ‘Dad, did I know him?’
‘No, sweetie, Rob was older than you. My side of the family didn’t have much to do with Zio’s brother’s side of the family. Zio asked me, in not so many words, to look into it, just to see if I could turn anything up.’
Dee said, ‘Yeah, but a murder, Matt? You don’t just go out and ‘see what you can turn up’. Isn’t that what the police do, or the detectives or something?’
I nodded. ‘You know my family doesn’t really believe in what I do.’
Dee dried the inside of a glass and remained silent. She placed it in an overhead cupboard and left the door open.
‘Are you even licenced to investigate a murder?’
‘It isn’t what I’m trained for, which I think is one of the reasons why I took this on. Insurance work is like watching paint dry, Dee. Not that I’m glad Rob is dead. Of course, I’m not. I think I needed something to keep my mind ticking over. This might sound stupid, but in some ways, I feel indebted to my uncle.’
Dee remained silently judgmental.
With each visit, I became more and more aware that I no longer contributed in any great way to their intuitive tribe, and felt clumsy in my efforts to fit in. It didn’t help that, for whatever reason, I felt a general disconnect from humanity, which only compounded my feeling of segregation from both Dee and Alice.
Alice filled her glass with Coke, returned the bottle to the fridge, and emptied the glass in three gulps. When she put her head back to get the last dregs, her shirt rode up, and I noticed more puppy fat around her waist.
‘Dad, are you staying for a while?’
I looked at Dee and she gave me a ‘sure why not’ look.
‘I’ll stick around for a little bit if it’s all right with your mum.’
‘Cool.’
She went to run off, then stopped, turned, picked up her glass, rinsed it in the sink next to me, and passed it to Dee to dry. She then ran and fetched her iPad from the couch.
When she returned, she showed me the screen. ‘Can you download this app on your phone? It’s this new game called Guess Who. We each pick a person and then we have to guess who the other person is, okay?’
I grinned. ‘No worries. I’ll do it as soon as I’m finished here.’
Alice disappeared, and I dumped a plate into the rack. ‘I don’t want Alice drinking Coke.’ I said.
Dee snatched the plate. ‘It’s only sometimes.’
‘I’m just saying. Childhood obesity is on the rise—’
‘I know. I hear it every time I turn on the TV.’
‘And would it kill you to clean up around here?’
‘Matt, just don’t.’
I took a deep breath and we both fell silent for a while.
Dee picked up a plate and wiped it swiftly. ‘I’ll make you a deal. I’ll get Alice off the Coke if you get off my back about my lack of housekeeping skills.’
‘Deal.’
‘You can be a real boofhead sometimes, you know?’
‘I can be an arsehole too.’
‘No one’s doubting that.’
We finally finished the washing up after two sink loads, then Dee went and occupied herself in her sewing room while I went to the lounge room.
Alice sat on the couch with her tablet, her legs curled under her, trying to act nonchalant, even though she’d clearly overheard our argument.
I playfully grabbed her ankle, tickled her foot, and sat at the opposite end of the couch.
‘All right,’ I said as I took out my phone and checked that it was turned on. ‘What’s this app called?’
She stepped me through the download and we synched our devices via Bluetooth.
‘Okay,’ she said. ‘See how’s there twenty faces? You pick a face, then I pick a face. You can be player one, and you can go first. We have to ask questions and find out which face you’ve picked. Okay? Ready? Go!’
I loved the novelty of playing the old board game electronically. I made Alice laugh a few times, and that always thrilled me. Witnessing the nitty gritty daily life of the troika of Alice, Dee, and Brad made me yearn for a life of domesticity that I envied. I felt the outsider—the ins and outs of my child’s life forever contained within these walls. Parenting is the most rewarding thing I’ve ever felt, and the hardest. I doubt myself every day.
After we played a few rounds, Alice said, ‘Hey, Dad, I’ve been practising the flip.’
I eyed her mockingly. ‘Prove it.’
‘Come in the backyard. I’ll show you.’
I followed her out through the sliding door, and we took up positions on the lawn, facing each other.
She came in quickly and accurately. She gripped my wrist, levered my weight, and although she didn’t flip me over she managed to lift me off the ground an inch, before collapsing on the grass out of breath.
She sighed. ‘I’m not very good at it.’
‘Yes, you are. I’m genuinely impressed.’
‘Brad’s helped me with my core strength.’
I nodded and felt another wedge come between us, a reminder that we spent more time apart than we did together.
Dee appeared at the doorway. ‘Sorry. Alice has a playdate with Maddi. I was supposed to take her over. I completely forgot.’
Alice gripped my arm and we made pouty sad faces at each other. She walked me back inside.
I quickly ransacked the chocolate jar in the kitchen for a Flake, and Dee met us at the front door.
‘Don’t feel bad,’ Dee said. ‘Just call ahead next time. Okay?’
‘Will do. Have fun, ‘Lady A’.’
I hugged Alice and she clutched me tight
‘Love you,’ she said. ‘See you in two weekends?’
‘Absolutely. Can’t wait. We’ll do something. I’ll pick you up at eight.’ I threw a chocolate into my mouth. ‘Ate. Get it?’
Alice’s face went slack.
‘Never mind, Alice—bad Dad jokes.......’
I let myself out, got into the ute, and started to pull out.
Alice stood in the doorway waving.
I waved back, and honked the horn all the way to the end of the street. I tried to stifle the empty, hollow sadness that crawled into my stomach, telling me there were only so many days that Alice would still want to play Guess Who? with her Dad.
***
I spent the rest of Saturday compiling information I’d gathered on my outstanding insurance matters—one involved a hit and run, and the other was a potential false claim for injuries in the workplace, not unlike the Frank Brodie matter. I decided to go out for lunch, and bought a box of beer-battered flathead fillets and a white wine at Levendi, a trendy pop-up takeaway joint situated by the shores of Belmore Basin. A handful of swimmers lulled the afternoon away before the crisp autumn winds hit.
A young couple played with their infant son on the sand, speaking in another language—perhaps Syrian.
I wondered how much devastation they’d seen, how much death, how much despair.
When I’d scraped out the box with the last morsel of fish and washed it down with the wine, I took a walk along the cycle track to the continental pools. The yellow kiosk and bathers pavilion reminded me of my teen years lying on the hot concrete after a swim. The adjacent natural rock pool sparkled luxuriously. I climbed the stairs to my street, which runs along a cliff offering views over North Beach, and had to regain my breath at the top. I hadn’t been to the gym in two weeks and could feel it. I looked out over the ocean, where, on any given day, I could see no less than three ships perched on the horizon, their lights like lonely beacons.
I checked my watch and couldn’t believe it was after four o’clock. Lunch had become an early dinner. The road had cleared of traffic, unlike January weekends when tourists flocked south from Sydney, lined the street, and enjoyed the local seafood and ice cream vans, both major draws for families of all ethnicities. I crossed the road to my strata complex, an early eighties industrial minimalist eyesore, radical at the time but not winning any awards today. I accessed the internal stairs, climbed the landing to the second storey and went into my flat. When people see where I live, they wonder how I did it. I say I worked sixteen-hour days across two jobs, went for an apartment with no views, and didn’t waste my money on fads, excessive takeaway food, or women.
That came later.
My flat was in its usual state of disarray—notebooks, magazines, and novels laye scattered across shelves and low tables, and cases of wine sat stacked in the corner of the living room. I noticed a new message on my answering machine and hit play.
‘Matthew, hello. This is Carmine Demich. Fausto, my brother, he tell me to ring you. If you can please you call me back.’ He left a return number and rang off.
The voice was definitely European, the vocal chords scarred by whiskey, cigarettes, and sorrow—I had vague recollections of it from my youth.
I made sure to save the message to guard against any future repercussions, then went to the freezer, cracked some ice cubes into a glass, and poured three fingers of scotch into it. After a strong pull on it, I sat down and called the number Carmine had given me.
He answered after two rings and I introduced myself.
Carmine said, ‘You remember me?’
‘I do. I remember meeting you when you lived at Appin. It might have been over twenty years ago.’
‘Long time. Long time. Did my brother talk to you?’
I hesitated.
‘Is okay,’ he said. ‘I send him the paper from last week.’
‘Zio told me what happened. I didn’t know Rob very well, but I understand this must be a hard time for you, and I offer my condolences.’
‘Thank you. You are very kind.’ He sighed and cleared his throat. ‘Matthew, listen, my son, Roberto... you know what these bastards do to him?’ His voice broke and I heard a sharp intake of breath. ‘He died alone, Matthew, in the open, like a dog.’
He started sobbing, and I could do nothing but listen. He blew his nose, apologised, then regained his composure. When he spoke again, his voice had a harder edge.
‘The police don’t give a shit. The detectives don’t give a shit. Nobody sees anything, nobody knows anything. Who do this to my son? A fucking animal. I don’t know what I do, Matthew. Maybe I kill this man. I don’t know. I waste five thousand dollars—five thousand dollars—on private investigator. Mooregold. You know this man?’
That was a shock. Zio didn’t tell me about this. Maybe he didn’t know.
I said I didn’t know anyone named Mooregold, and couldn’t help feeling a little disconcerted at having been second banana in the matter.
‘He come, take my money, walk around in fucking circle. After two days, he tells me nothing he can do.’
The line went silent, which I took to be a signal to provide some professional reassurance.
‘Mr. Demich—...’
‘Call me Carmine. Please.’
‘Okay, Carmine. I can investigate Rob’s murder for you, and I won’t ask for five thousand dollars. I have a consistent record for finding people and closing outstanding matters.’
‘How many people you catch?’
The question came across as more of an accusation, but I ignored it.
No skin on this one.
‘Out of a hundred and sixty fraud cases, I’ve managed to bring charges against all one hundred and sixty offenders.’
The line went silent. Maybe he wasn’t entirely convinced that I was telling the truth. I didn’t blame him after his less than satisfactory experience with this Mooregold fellow. He might be desperate for help, which provided leverage in my favour, not a hindrance. I tried hard not to convey my eagerness across the phone, or any sense of obligation. I’d made a promise to Zio Fausto and, much to my personal chagrin, the pull of a murder case became more and more enticing as time went on. I felt confident in my skills, but less assured of my ability to provide reconciliation between Carmine and Zio Fausto.
Carmine asked if I could see him Monday morning at nine.
I told him I could, and that I’d bring a copy of my contract so we could discuss the financials on the day.
He sounded satisfied with the arrangement and, before hanging up, reminded me once again how much he’d paid for the other investigator.
I took some cheese out of the fridge and a box of salted crackers, sliced the cheese and piled the crackers onto a plate, then moved to my laptop. After some minor searching, I found Rob’s Facebook page. His wall had been filled with angel poems and expressions of grief—messages along the likes of ‘RIP Rob’ and ‘Will miss you brutha’ appeared under photographs of him in better days. His personal info said he was twenty-three, single, and worked for Homestead. I also found an ‘in memorial’ Facebook page with an album of photos showing Rob’s casket. I never understood why anyone would create one; it only reminded everyone left behind that Rob wasn’t coming back. What do you do with a memorial Facebook page? Update it with weekly graveside photos? I hated feeling so jaded, but I couldn’t help it.
I clicked on the album, and six rows of about twenty photos of the service appeared in neat thumbnails. Wreaths and flowers adorned the coffin, alongside a framed photograph of Rob around the age of eighteen or nineteen. In contrast to the crime scene photos, this one gave me a better look at my unfamiliar distant cousin. He’d possessed an angular, tanned and healthy face. His dark eyes squinted slightly against the sun, and he smiled tightly. His hair had been cropped close, and it swirled on his scalp in a unique pattern that hinted at triple crowns.
I also came across a photo of a thin old man in a dark suit and tie. He had dark wavy hair, slightly greyer at the sides. His back slouched, and his triangular face showed more lines on it, the smile now a downturned frown. Definitely Carmine Demich.
I searched the Caselaw website for criminal listings under Rob’s name, and found numerous convictions: drug possession, possession of illegal firearms, and an eighteen-month gaol conviction three months prior, which he avoided thanks to a court bond. The charges went on: supplying a prohibited drug, possessing a prohibited drug, having goods in custody suspected of being stolen, and dealing with the proceeds of crime. I scrolled the list and, to my surprise, came across two completely unrelated common assault charges against Carmine Demich from twenty years ago. I succumbed to my curiosity and opened the court transcript.
The testimony referred to a Saturday night in Nowra, where Carmine punched a man to the ground for ‘making threatening gestures,’ and to a Friday night a month later, when Carmine assaulted an Asian man.
Not exactly the innocent wallflower, then.
I went through more of the Caselaw matters and noticed a name, Andy Coates. He’d pressed charges on Rob the previous month for assault, and when I made a quick Google search, his name appeared in a news article from four years ago as a bit player in the Hell Spawn bikie gang, and one of the participants in a bashing at Melbourne’s Tullamarine airport. On top of the conviction for affray, police had linked him to the importing of illegal firearms, which cost him a short stint in gaol. I looked in other places and found a link to the online local rag, The Advertiser, where an article detailed the purchase of the Sussex Inlet Tavern by three locals, and their plans to renovate it. One of the names mentioned was Andy Coates, no doubt turning over a new leaf in his life after completing his sentence. Another article reported the tavern was allegedly linked to money laundering schemes, but no proof had been found, and the story died.
I printed the court matters, took a folder out of my tiny desk drawer, slid the printouts into it, and wrote ‘Robert Demich’ with a thick Artline texta on the cover. A search of ‘Homestead’ brought up a home site development on the south coast. I viewed it on Google maps—a large area of swamp on the southeastern side of Sussex near St. Georges Basin. According to the paraphernalia, the first stage of home sites had been completed as part of a three hundred million dollar proposal for the development of four hundred homes.
The website boasted the construction of eighty-eight homes, each with golf course frontage, a retirement village, a lifestyle village, a commercial site, and a clubhouse. There had already been a lot of development in the village since the local member broke soil, including the canal development, and the completion of a couple of townhouse projects. The local mayor, Hugh O’Loughlin, wasn’t averse to spruiking the amazing advancements the development would bring to Sussex, despite the opposition’s views on the subject.
I had no time for politicians. In recent years, I’d observed, not without some amusement, the Coalition’s policies homogenising with those of Labor.
I checked my emails and, as a last resort, decided to search YouTube for anything Rob might have posted—it seems every man and his dog has a YouTube channel these days. After some extensive cross searching, I found a YouTube channel Rob created called ‘burnout_boyz’. The thumbnails featured muscle cars dragging each other through suburban streets at night, various cars spouting plumes of white smoke, spinning their rear tyres at maximum revs, or footage of cars filmed at Summernats in Canberra. The footage appeared amateurish, shot with mobile phones.
I found no less than forty videos on the channel, and clicked on one called, ‘dog date get it up ya.’ The handheld mobile phone footage showed a dimly lit lounge room. A blonde girl in her twenties sat on a couch, holding a bong, and attempted to get away from a German Shepherd latched to her leg, much to the merriment of the cameraman who egged the dog on. The girl screeched, and squirmed, and tried to light up the bong.
