I went to bed thinking of Grant Osborne so, naturally, he crowded my nightmares. In those nightmares, I was chasing Osborne, then he was chasing me. Then I aimed my gun at him. Then he raised his hands to strangle me. At that moment, I woke with a start, to the sound of my telephone ringing. I brushed my hair from my eyes, reached for the phone and muttered a confused, “Hello?”
“The bastard’s been shot,” Vincent Vanzetti said.
I blinked and within that second, I was wide-awake. “Which bastard?”
“Osborne.”
“When?”
“This morning.”
“Dead?”
“Don’t know.”
“Who shot him?” I asked.
“Don’t know that either,” Vanzetti said, “but the filth have fingered V.J. for the hit.”
I scrambled out of bed and looked through the window. The streets were wet, displaying evidence of overnight rain. A minor fact, maybe, but I filed it away in my noggin, then said to Vanzetti, “Okay. I’ll make enquiries. I’ll be in touch.”
After a quick shower and toast on the run for breakfast, I drove into the city, to the central police station. There, I asked for Detective Inspector ‘Sweets’ MacArthur, claiming that I had evidence. It was a white lie, one I’d used previously; Sweets always seemed to forgive me, though if the roles were reversed, I doubt that I’d be so magnanimous.
I met Sweets in his goldfish bowl of an office. There, I asked, “You got a minute?”
Sweets scurried around his office, from filing cabinet, to computer, and back again. “I got thirty seconds,” he said.
“What happened?” I asked.
“Grant Osborne, the financier, shot, wounded.”
“Will he live?”
“Probably.” Sweets paused. He pointed to his upper arm. “The wound’s pretty superficial.”
I nodded then stepped back as Sweets answered the telephone. While Sweets offered the caller a series of monosyllabic grunts, I glanced around the office, to a map detailing local trouble spots, to a coat stand supporting Sweets’ raincoat and trilby, then to a picture on his desk portraying his wife and children.
At the conclusion of the phone call, I stepped forward and asked, “You figure V.J. Parks as the shooter?”
Sweets threw a bonbon into his mouth. He nodded then sucked vigorously. “Parks was seen, at the scene of the crime.”
“By whom?”
“Osborne’s missus, Maya. She saw Parks leaning over her husband. Furthermore, Parks had Vincent Vanzetti’s gun in his hand.”
“You’ve check ownership of the gun?”
“Yeah. It’s Vanzetti’s.”
“And the bullet that grazed Osborne’s arm was fired from that gun?”
Sweets nodded. “A perfect match.”
“So maybe Vanzetti fired the gun.”
“If Vanzetti fired the gun,” Sweets reasoned, “you reckon Osborne would still be standing?”
I thought about that, but only for a second. “Probably not,” I said.
“Definitely not,” Sweets said. He sat behind his desk, leaned back, raised his arms and placed them behind his head. Sartorial elegance escaped Sweets; indeed, if I didn’t know better, I’d swear that he was colour-blind. Today, he wore a lime green shirt and navy trousers, along with an orange tie. The tie contained creases and evidence of breakfast: egg and bacon with lashings of tomato sauce, at a guess. As Sweets chomped away on his bonbon, he asked, “Any idea why Parks would take a pop at Osborne? I mean, he’s only one fight away from a shot at the world title; he’s got everything going for him.”
“He has,” I agreed, “except Osborne raped his girlfriend.”
“What?” Sweets leaned forward; he placed his elbows on his desk.
Ignoring the maelstrom of activity in the outer office: the ringing telephones, the raised voices, the occasional bursts of laughter, I told Sweets about the rape and its effect on Vittoria Vanzetti, and about the Vanzetti family and their desire for revenge. All this information dropped V.J. Parks further into the mire, supplied him with a motive. However, sometimes you have to retreat before you can move forward.
“Why didn’t Vittoria Vanzetti report this?” Sweets asked.
“Because she’s a Vanzetti,” I said. “And because she’s a woman.”
Sweets scowled at me. He picked up a pen and scratched his head. “Times have changed, Sam; rape victims get more support these days.”
“Yeah,” I said, “but judges still smile indulgently at rapists before handing them a token sentence or their freedom. Times have changed, but some people’s attitudes have not.”
“So,” Sweets reasoned, “Parks took the law into his own hands.”
I shrugged. Certainly, V.J. Parks had a motive for murder and the evidence was stacked against him. However, if only for Vittoria’s sake, I longed to find a loophole, a wrinkle in that evidence, an equitable way out.
“I’d like to talk with Parks,” I said.
“Can’t allow that, Sam,” Sweets frowned; “you have no authority.”
“I’m working for the family, remember?”
He paused, then shook his head. “No, it’s more than my job’s worth.”
I sighed, then waved a hand around his office, a demonstration of my frustration and my need to talk with Parks. “Since when have you been a jobsworth, Sweets?”
Sweets broke the rules to talk with me; he broke the rules to pass information on to me; maybe I took those indiscretions for granted; maybe I owed him a little respect and gratitude. Someday, somehow, I’d find a way to repay him, but for Vittoria’s sake, for my sake, I had to speak with V.J. Parks, now.
“I don’t know, Sam,” Sweets said, his tone and body language wavering.
“Does Parks have a solicitor?” I asked.
Sweets nodded, “Lawrence Gouldman.”
“Of Fry, Gouldman and Fletcher?”
“Uh-huh.”
“What if I swing it with them, to act as their investigator?”
Sweets paused. He swallowed his bonbon. He glanced, briefly, at his colleagues in the outer office. He shuffled the papers on his desk. He gazed at the photograph of his family, at his sons and daughter. Then he nodded and said, “Okay, but I’m in on the chat.”
I thought for a moment then smiled. When you receive an offer you can’t refuse, you have to accept.