THE PRESENT
It was a professional hit. A man was felled by a single bullet to the head outside a brothel off Lygon Street in the Melbourne suburb of Carlton. The time was 10.25 p.m. on a Friday. The area was sealed off and police forensic experts were doing their thing, taking bullet fragments away and examining the area. No one had heard a sound, which indicated the killer had used a silencer. No one had seen anything either. Police searched the buildings and set up roadblocks.
Attention turned to identifying the murdered man. He had been protected by four armed bodyguards, who were unhappy about being taken into custody for questioning, along with six members of a Melbourne underworld gang. The gang members had hosted the victim and his guards at the Melbourne Cricket Ground, where they had watched a football match between Carlton and Melbourne. The sex workers and male clients at the brothel were also interrogated.
At midnight, when the police were still gathering information, reporter Vic Cavalier was five kilometres away at his home in the bayside suburb of St Kilda, watching a replay of the game. He could hear his girlfriend, Martha, stomping around in the bedroom upstairs, occasionally yelling something to him. It had been going on ever since he’d flicked on the TV. She was upset that he’d been at the game and that now, instead of engaging with her, he was watching the game again. A half-bottle of Scotch was sitting on a coffee table, and he was well into his third double when he received a call from his newspaper’s editor, Shelley Driscoll.
‘Can you attend a crime scene?’
‘Shelley, I’m having a drink . . .’
‘I thought you’d cut back . . .?’
‘I’ve been to the footy . . . Feeling a bit down.’ He glanced at his watch. ‘It’s after midnight!’
‘Are you watching the replay?!’
‘I’m relaxing.’
‘But Melbourne was thrashed, wasn’t it? I’ve never heard of a fan wanting to replay such a bad loss straight after experiencing it live!’
‘I want to see where they went wrong,’ he said unconvincingly. ‘I’m . . . you know . . . more of a “forensic” fan.’
‘I want you at the scene. It’s a murder and maybe a gangland job.’
‘Why me? You’ve just cut my days to three a week.’
‘This needs an experienced journo. There’s something odd about it. I’m asking you to go, Vic.’
Cavalier sipped his drink. ‘Can’t you send one of your full-timers?’
‘Okay, I’m ordering you to go! You know you’re treading on thin ice as it is.’
‘That’s blackmail!’
‘No, it’s an employer asking an old-pro employee to get his arse to Carlton.’
He’d just put the phone down when Martha, who had moved in only a fortnight ago, stormed into the living room, suitcase in hand.
‘I heard that call,’ she said. ‘You’re pissing off on a job after being at the bloody football all night. I’m not putting up with it anymore!’
Cavalier gestured helplessly.
‘If you’re not on some fucking cricket tour, it’s golf or god knows what!’ Martha brushed him away. ‘You’re drinking again, when you promised you’d stop!’ She sobbed. ‘I thought moving in with you might help. But it’s worse!’
She bustled out and slammed the front door. He heard her car start up and then career off.
‘Shit!’ Cavalier muttered as he slapped a black leather cap on his head, slipped into a warm jacket and hurried off, his bag holding an iPad and camera slung over his shoulder. He wove his car in and out of the very-early-morning traffic, being careful not to run red lights, a misdemeanour that had seen him accrue a lot of demerit points. One more and he’d lose his licence. He was also worried about the alcohol he’d consumed. He’d had nothing at the football but the three stiff Scotches since would have put him over the limit. Still, he tended to be a brisk driver at the most relaxed times, and now he was in a hurry and put his foot down. He gunned the car along Kings Way, and then into Carlton, near Melbourne University. Just as he reached the roped-off crime scene area, he heard the siren of the police car hot on his tail.
Cavalier walked briskly to the plainclothes and other police at the crime scene, flashing his press pass. He approached Bill Grant, a moustachioed man of about fifty, who was the state’s top homicide cop.
‘Vic,’ Grant said with a wry smile, extending a hand, ‘thought you’d retired!’
‘Not quite, mate.’
They both looked around to see two cops closing in on Cavalier on foot.
‘Sir,’ one of them, a young female, said, ‘this man was speeding along Grattan Street. We . . .’
‘That’s okay, Constable,’ Grant said, taking her aside, ‘I asked him to come in quickly. He has some information vital to this investigation. But you’ve done the right thing.’
The young cops retreated. Cavalier looked inquiringly at Grant.
‘I rang your editor,’ Grant said, a serious expression replacing his languid world-weariness. ‘I wanted you here.’ They walked back towards an alley. ‘Want a look at the body?’
‘Not really.’
‘C’mon. Helps focus the mind.’
Light rain began to fall as they wandered over to the body lying under a sheet on the alley’s cobblestones. A cop pulled back the sheet and Cavalier braced himself. There was a huge hole in the front of the victim’s head. The bullet had struck nearly dead centre of the forehead, about four centimetres above the eyes. The brain was exposed, with parts of it and blood dripping from the skull.
‘No smell yet,’ Grant proffered, ‘so we reckon the deed was done within the last two hours.’
Cavalier stared until the homicide cop covered the body. ‘Haven’t seen one like that for a while,’ he said. ‘Do we know who he is?’
‘Thought you’d be interested in that, given your expertise on the drug lords,’ Grant said, pulling two passports from his pockets. ‘A Mexican: Virgillo Labasta.’ He showed Cavalier one passport and then the other. ‘He entered the country on this one, which is false. Know him?’
‘I certainly do,’ Cavalier said with a frown, ‘he’s number two in the world’s biggest drug cartel.’ They locked eyes. ‘He’s the cousin of the big boss, Leonardo Mendez.’
‘Hmmm,’ Grant said, realising the size of the case, ‘I recall you said to me about five or six years ago that Mendez was top of your list of suspects of those behind your daughter’s disappearance . . .’
‘Yeah,’ Cavalier said. ‘Mendez was big then. He’s huge now.’
They both looked down at the body again, before Grant smiled briefly and said, ‘Someone may inadvertently have done you a big favour.’
Cavalier gave a non-committal nod and said: ‘I’d like to do more research on this bloke. My file on Mendez is big, but not my file on this one.’
‘If we learn anything, we’ll let you know.’
Cavalier was distracted by the sight of a tall Asian woman in a fashionable three-quarter coat and brown leather cap.
‘Do we have any idea why Labasta was here?’ he asked. ‘He was clearly doing business, but with whom?’
‘Educated guess,’ Grant said, waving a hand at the brothel. ‘This lovely place is owned by Kev “Caveman” Mollini.’
‘Okay. It has to be a drug deal of some sort.’
‘It wouldn’t be electrical goods from Thailand and Mexico, although his card claims this business.’
‘Thailand?’
‘Chiang Mai based.’
Cavalier shrugged. ‘A Mexican drug cartel branching out in South East Asia,’ he murmured as he took out a notepad and scribbled.
The tall Asian woman came close, bent down, removed the sheet and examined the body. Cavalier stared, noticing her large brown eyes and full lips. She glanced up, caught his gaze and looked away. The woman covered the body again, stood, flicked back her long black hair and began taking shots with a camera of surrounding buildings.
‘Nice hat,’ Cavalier said to her. She looked around, glanced at his hat, gave the barest hint of a smile and went on taking shots.
‘Who’s that?’ he whispered to Grant.
‘Jacinta Cin Lai. She’s a “Thai special investigator”, working with the feds,’ he replied, with more than a hint of disdain.
‘The feds? Are they onto this?’
‘The Wombat was here sniffing around about half an hour ago. You just missed him.’
‘Do we know what she’s investigating, exactly?’
‘I asked the Wombat. He wasn’t too forthcoming.’
Grant paused. ‘I hate the feds interfering.’
‘What else?’
The cop shrugged and gestured to the body. ‘All I know is that a lot of shit is going to fly off the fan.’