6.

Cooper Reserve had once been an illegal dumping ground, but the local council had recently wrestled it into parkland. A surprisingly successful conversion, with well-used playgrounds and bike paths. Tedesco was standing by a food van, eating what looked like a bowl of grass. A large man with close-cropped hair; hunched over his food, he looked like one of the boulders artistically scattered throughout the park. Caleb headed towards him, checking his phone as it buzzed. The usual cold trickle of fear, but the text was from Imogen, not Kat. He shoved it back in his pocket without reading it: her threats could wait.

Up close, Tedesco’s food still looked like a bowl of grass. The truck was called The Gourmet Gut and seemed to serve a kale-based menu. Trust Tedesco to find the only healthy fast food in Melbourne.

‘Late lunch?’ Caleb asked.

‘Breakfast.’ Tedesco thought about it. ‘Maybe dinner. Caught a strange one.’

What would constitute a strange case for a homicide cop?

‘Am I going to regret asking?’

‘Nothing gruesome – guy found asphyxiated with a billiard ball in his mouth.’

OK, now he had to know. ‘How’d it fit?’

‘That was an early line of enquiry. Bloke had a hyperextended jaw, liked to do a little party act for his mates.’

‘So it was an accident?’

‘Nah, bad debt with a loan shark called Jimmy Puttnam. Jimmy usually sticks to whipping people with a cut-off garden hose, but he popped by when the vic was doing his act and decided to improvise. Pinched the guy’s nose shut. Allegedly. Thirty people and no one saw a thing.’

‘That was a fun story, thank you.’

‘All part of the service.’ Tedesco jerked his head towards a picnic table and walked over to it, Caleb following.

The detective could have discovered Imogen was a cannibal and his face wouldn’t show it. Not a man who shared easily, possibly why they got on so well. Strange to think they’d only known each other a year, a friendship forged when Tedesco had investigated the murder of Caleb’s best mate. Events that had brought them both pain, but about which they rarely spoke.

Tedesco pulled out his phone when they were seated, and showed Caleb the screen. A po-faced Imogen stared back at him; a plain background, like a passport photo. ‘This Imogen Blain?’

So it was Imm-o-gen: short I, soft G. Good call not to say it in front of her.

‘Yeah.’

‘She is a fed. Done a bit of undercover work.’

Caleb had prepared himself for it, but it was still a body-blow. He composed his face, trying to work out what to ask next. He’d given the detective as little information as possible about his enounter with Imogen. Tedesco almost certainly knew about Caleb’s part in Petronin’s death, but it was on the long list of things they didn’t, shouldn’t, talk about. ‘What’s the word on her?’

‘Smart, cuts corners, definitely someone to steer clear of. Which you already knew, given your last run-in with her.’

‘Where’s she assigned?’

Tedesco lowered his fork. ‘Cal. What are you doing?’ In his expression, echoes of a conversation they’d had four months ago. Caleb had been at his lowest point: sleepless, desperate, Petronin’s death playing on repeat in his head. The detective had arrived with a six-pack of Boag’s and the contact details of Henry Collins, the world’s most unflappable counsellor, a specialist in PTSD. More words said in that short visit than their entire friendship.

‘It’s not like that,’ Caleb said. ‘I’m good. Really good. But Imogen threatened me – I need to know who I’m up against.’

‘Threatened you how?’

‘You don’t want to know.’

Tedesco ate a forkful of kale while he processed the information. ‘Then why? Frankie’s long gone.’

Imogen’s line about wanting documents felt true. Caleb had found a key in Frankie’s belongings back in January, the kind that could fit a secure cabinet or safety deposit box. A few days later, she’d hiked through a bushfire to retrieve it from him. Smoke choking his lungs, injured and desperate, and Frankie had appeared out of the ember-touched air. He’d thought for a moment she’d come just to help him.

‘Frankie’s got evidence she wants. Documents.’

‘Blain shouldn’t be hunting for evidence – she’s a desk jockey these days.’

These days. Phrasing that could only mean Tedesco had more information.

‘What was she doing before that?’

Tedesco took a few seconds to answer. ‘Working in a federal taskforce called Transis. People went very quiet, very quickly when I asked about it. Feels like something bad went down.’

Caleb had come across the name Transis when he’d brushed up against Imogen last time, but he hadn’t been able to find anything except a cryptic reference on a now-defunct hacking forum. The hacking side of things could be worth pursuing.

‘What was Transis investigating?’

‘Crime.’

Very helpful. Tedesco’s personal ethics were so solid, they had their own gravitational pull. If he went in too hard the detective would clam up; if he didn’t push hard enough, they’d both sit there in silence until one of them died.

‘Cybercrime?’ Caleb asked.

‘No.’

‘Gangs?’

‘No.’

‘Drugs? Intelligence? Sex-trafficking?’

Tedesco sighed. ‘Financial. White-collar stuff.’

‘Thank you. Any more details I can painfully extract from you?’

‘I have no further information, extractable or otherwise.’

‘Could you hunt down some files?’

‘No. Feds don’t like sharing with state cops at the best of times, and this is definitely not the best of times. Whatever Transis got caught up in, you need to stay away. Remember the new motto – Make Good Decisions.’ He delivered the words deadpan.

‘I knew I shouldn’t have told you that.’

‘And yet you did.’ Tedesco forked in a few more antioxidants and stood. ‘Right, home to sleep.’

Discussion over, not to be reopened.

‘Thanks for your help. Appreciate it.’

‘Don’t mention it.’ A request, not a platitude. The detective strode towards the carpark, carefully placing his bowl and fork in the recycling bin as he went.

Caleb sat, fighting back the rising panic. Imogen wasn’t just any cop, but one who’d worked undercover and didn’t hesitate to use intimidation and illegal weapons. He had to find Frankie.

As he headed for the car, he checked Imogen’s text.

—36 hours

***

Frankie’s sister lived in a money-kissed suburb to the east of the city. Victorian mansions and gleaming cars, dress stores containing three items of clothing, all grey. Even the library was tastefully discreet, with iron lacework and a polished brass sign. Maggie’s house was a modern glass and timber creation that seemed to float in its lush garden. Good news in the presence of a black Audi parked in the driveway, even better news in the hip-height front fence; an intercom was always a stumbling block, but it would stop this visit in its tracks.

Caleb parked a few houses away, his ancient grey Commodore blending perfectly with the cars of all the cleaners, nannies and dog walkers. He turned off the engine but didn’t get out. Maggie was a connector and broker, with more than a few ties to the underworld. She was also Petronin’s ex-wife. The divorce had been ugly, but that probably wasn’t going to buy Caleb much slack. When he’d tangled with some of Maggie’s mates last year, she’d tried to kill him. God knows what she’d do for dead ex-husband. He sat for another minute and still couldn’t come up with anything better than ‘wing it’.

No one answered his knock. He pressed the doorbell and knocked again, the door rattling with each blow. It had dropped on its hinges, leaving the lock only partly engaged. Incredible how many people left these things unfixed. Like Kat and her landlord. Just took an hour to rehang a door; two, if you first had to convince Kat to let you do it. He rang the bell again – nothing.

There’d be laptops and phones inside, probably in clear sight. He checked over his shoulder, then gave the door a hard shove. It swung open to reveal a light-filled hallway. ‘Hello? Maggie?’

He pressed a palm to the floor: no beat of footsteps or music. A brief wait for any dogs to appear, then inside and quickly down the hall, checking each room as he passed. Soft carpet and filmy curtains, all in creams and greys. Maggie had come a long way from the childhood two-bedroom fibro Frankie had once described in a rare moment of sharing.

A landline in the kitchen, but no mobile phone. Through to the rear of the house, a large room with ash floorboards and furniture, floor-to-ceiling windows, the eye drawn to a photo display on the internal wall. A mix of portraits and group shots, a lot of them featuring a young girl. Maggie’s daughter. Petronin’s daughter. About the same age as Kat’s eldest niece, so around nine, with a solemn gaze and fine features, honey-brown hair. Not a single fake grin for the camera. A large photo of her and Petronin was hung eye-height for a nine-year-old; father and daughter wearing bright red clown noses, arms around each other – laughing. A weight dropped into Caleb’s chest. He stood staring, then turned away.

A quick hunt around the room unearthed a mobile phone: plastic, with large square buttons, factory film still on the screen. Unlocked. His spurt of excitement evaporated as he scrolled through it – just a burner, with no contacts and only a handful of sent and received texts, none of them looking as though they were to or from Frankie. He pocketed it just in case and headed for an open door. A book-lined study with a plush couch and white-tiled fireplace, an open laptop on a desk by the window.

He was two steps into the room when the smell hit him: the same iron stench from the Children’s Farm. From his dreams.

He didn’t want to know, didn’t want to look.

He walked slowly to the end of the couch, heartbeat spiking.

Blood.

A woman slumped on the floor by the hearth, her eyes closed, unmoving.

Maggie.