Forgotten Page 5

  “Matty Galloway. He apparently owed Cabriati a favor.”

  “Galloway’s a good man. He must believe she needs you.”

  Reardon was still unsure if he really needed her.

  “You’re going to hate this, buddy,” Ethan said, as he pushed the white queen forward.

  Reardon shot an uneasy look at Ethan. He felt a small sense of relief when he discovered Ethan was referring to the game not Cabriati.

  “Check,” Ethan proudly declared.

  Reardon examined the move and scowled. He then flicked his head towards the printouts.

  “Righto,” Ethan reacted with a sharp salute. “Let’s have a look at this in more detail.” He swiveled his body, planted his feet firmly on the floor then spread the pages out on the table. “Cabriati’s name is oddly familiar.” He leaned forward, resting his elbows on his thighs. “Wasn’t she involved in something not that long ago? Give me a minute.”

  Reardon was happy to give him several.

  “The Bellante fiasco,” Ethan said.

  Reardon ran his hand across his face, felt the day’s growth lightly prickle his skin and thought of Thomas Bellante. A prominent Melbourne solicitor. Also reputed to be an unscrupulous trader of people. And as much as Reardon detested Bellante’s alleged sidelines, he had needed him.

  Bellante had become Reardon’s new lead.

  “Wasn’t she the one in Bellante’s last e-mail right before Bellante went bush?”

  Oh, she certainly was that. Reardon sighed, recalling his frustration at Bellante’s unexpected disappearance.

  “The one with the carked fiancé? Simon… something?”

  Reardon nodded but flinched at the adjective.

  “Well, I’ll be damned.” Ethan scratched his head and half-laughed. “I remember us spending bloody ages studying her profile, see if there was any connection between her, Bellante, his disappearance and those psychotic deadheads you’re trying to track down. But we found nothing, not one fricking link.”

  Precisely why Reardon had so easily dismissed Cabriati in the first place.

  “And now a woman gets shot at her home and she wants your help.” Ethan scoffed out aloud. “Shit, man, got to be a coincidence, surely.”

  “Don’t believe in coincidences.” Reardon stood, made his way to the bar and poured another bourbon. He could sense Ethan’s gaze burn an imaginary hole in the back of his shirt.

  “Bit early in the day for you,” Ethan said. “And with no ice. Hmmm, we are in a troubled form.”

  “You talk such crap, Ethan.”

  Ethan chuckled and returned his attention to the handouts.

  Reardon leaned against the bar, felt its solidity press into his lower back and took a sip of his drink. It helped smooth away some of the barbed sensations in his dry throat. He couldn’t deny that Ethan was right. He was in troubled form and it was very unlike him.

  The crinkly sounds of paper directed him back to Ethan. His head was downturned, still engrossed in reading. “I’m guessing this is why you’ve decided to help Cabriati? Because she might have some answers for your own cause?”

  Reardon said nothing.

  “Not like you, mate. You don’t use other people’s misfortunes for yourself.”

  This was different.

  “You can just ask her some questions… then let her go. You don’t need to take on her case to do that.”

  And make a possible mistake by dismissing her again? Reardon didn’t need that either.

  Ethan threw his arm across the top of the sofa and leaned back. “Judging by that totally pensive look, I’m guessing you’re doing it anyway.”

  Reardon semi-smirked. “Guess I am.”

  “Then what are we waiting for? Details, buddy, we need to jot down the details.”

  Ethan immediately shot up and strode to the interactive whiteboard angled not too far from Reardon’s desk. He picked up a marker, then with a hooked thumb gestured Reardon to get back to his laptop. “Bring up the e-mails,” he ordered.

  This time, Reardon saluted and headed back to his chair where he did exactly that. Within seconds, the e-mails appeared on the board, glaring back at them in bright, oversized print.

  E-mails dated November 23, 2009 from Thomas Bellante sent to a Charles Smith – someone who was a regular on Bellante’s list of correspondents.

  Bellante: In reference to Claudia Cabriati, he has accepted the request.

  Smith: Good. What about the other matter.

  Bellante: It’ll work out.

  Smith: It better… or else….

  “Or else what,” Ethan parroted their exact reactions when first reading the e-mails.

  To Reardon, a vast number of possibilities could have answered that question. The fact that Bellante disappeared mere hours later narrowed those possibilities quite significantly.

  “There were no other e-mails about Cabriati other than this one,” Ethan said it more as a question.

  Reardon shrugged. “That’s not to say they didn’t exist before we began intercepting Bellante’s messages.”

  “Or the fact that Bellante and Smith could’ve been communicating on something other than what we bugged.” Ethan uncapped the marker. “When did we first bug Bellante’s office and computer?”

  “Well over a year ago.”

  “Exact dates, man, not bullshit approximations.”

  “Wednesday, August 19,” Reardon answered, grinning. He closed down the e-mails, rocked back in his chair and watched Ethan scribble the date and the corresponding action on the board.

  Ethan stepped back, placed his hands on his hips and stared at his writing.

  “What?” Reardon asked. Ethan was being uncharacteristically quiet.

  “How many leads, Saul,” he whispered, turning to face him.

  Reardon felt his chest squeeze. He knew what was coming next and he rigidly clenched his jaw.

  “Six fricking years of leads, man, and every single one of them….”

  Ethan didn’t need to say anymore. Reardon knew the rest. Every single one of them had been dead-ends.

  Just as Bellante had been.

  “Aren’t you getting a little suspicious of it all?”

  Of course he was.

  “It’s like someone’s always one step ahead.”

  Reardon had already considered that, particularly when bearing in mind the high caliber of people involved. But what else could he do? He took a long slug of his drink and shook off the bristly sensations. “Move on,” he said in a low, cool voice.

  Ethan frowned and stared hard at him. Reardon looked away.

  “Move on it is.” Ethan returned to the whiteboard. “Monday, November 23, 2009 – Smith and Bellante communicate in regards to Cabriati.” He drawled out each word as he printed them. “Approximately four hours later, whoosh… Bellante vanishes like a polar bear in an end-of-the-world snowstorm.”

  Reardon winced, was glad to see Ethan’s notes excluded his over-dramatized simile.

  “When did our eagle-eye canoeists happen?”

  Nine days had passed before a group of teens discovered Bellante’s animal-scavenged remains along the marshy fringes of the Mitchell River, northeast of Melbourne. He passed this on to Ethan.

  “Got it,” Ethan said, scribbling furiously. “Wednesday, December 2.”

  “Then December 15 - Patrick Hollinger.”

  “The drug addict arrested for Bellante’s murder?”

  Reardon nodded. The evidence had been solid. Hollinger’s confession and his subsequent fatal overdose days later, secured it.

  “And still nothing more on the mysterious Charles Smith?”

  “Not a damn thing.” As frequent as Charles Smith had been on Bellante’s e-mail, the man appeared not to exist. His e-mail account, obviously created under an alias, was as worthless as Smith had now become. And no amount of searching conducted by Reardon could trace his identity.

  “Nothing more than what we already gathered from the content of the Smith/Bellante
e-mails,” Reardon said, “that Smith and Bellante worked for several racketeering organizations.”

  Ethan didn’t appear surprised. “So next came the victim at Cabriati’s home.”

  “Yep, a year later; Friday, December 3 - Alice Polinski. Age forty-nine. Formerly of Summit Road, a small acreage on the nearby outskirts of Nambour.”

  Ethan sketched out Polinski’s details onto his timeline. “And what did our Alice do there?”

  Reardon shifted his weight forward and collected his glass. It felt too warm and he now regretted not adding the ice. “Our Alice didn’t do much of anything. Spent some time in Sydney, then sixteen months ago moved back to Summit Road where she lived in total isolation.”

  “Seems a radical change of scenery. You said back.”

  Reardon discovered Polinski had lived in Summit Road for many years, rented the Sydney place during her short stint there. “Summit seems to have been her principal residence.”

  “Do we know why she went to Sydney?”

  Reardon shook his head.

  “Relatives?”

  “None so far.”

  “And no obvious connection with either Bellante or Smith.”

  “Not yet.” Even though Reardon’s gut stressed there was a connection, a bloody strong one.

  There was a brief moment of silence. “So what was Alice doing in the Zephyr complex?” Ethan asked. “Holidaying?”

  Reardon flicked his head to one side. “Maybe. However, you don’t normally get shot while holidaying.”

  “You think?” Ethan returned the marker, grabbed his beer and fell back into the sofa. “So what’s your take on this?”

  “Why does Cabriati want our help? She continues to claim she doesn’t know Alice Polinski. If that’s the case, wouldn’t she just spend a few shell-shocked days milking sympathy from her friends and then get on with her life?”

  “True. So she’s lying?”

  “The thought has apparently crossed the minds of some of our smarter little friends in blue. But if Cabriati did have anything to do with Alice’s death, the last thing she would want is our help.”

  “All very interesting, buddy. But it’s nothing the police can’t handle.”

  This instantly brought images to Reardon, of specific members of one particular workforce. He cocked a crooked eyebrow at Ethan. Ethan’s automatic grin revealed their heads were in the same space. “Okay, well some of the police. But still a possible pushover to solve.”

  So why did Reardon’s instincts keep telling him otherwise? Reardon stared at his drink, was mesmerized by its rhythmically circling fluid.

  And he wondered.

  He wondered what a seemingly innocent twenty-eight-year-old schoolteacher would have to do with an unscrupulous man like Thomas Bellante and the brutal murder of a middle-aged woman.

  Whatever the answer, Reardon knew one thing.

  He had to find out.

  Chapter 6

  Claudia

  December 13, 2010

  3:25 pm

  WITHOUT INDICATING, I abruptly wrenched my car onto the gravelly roadside and hit the brakes, slamming the car still. It instantly sparked off a cacophony of angry horns. Combined with the unbroken rumble of committed motorists, it only worsened the already dull thudding in my temple.

  I rested my head on the steering wheel, took comfort in its soft, thick casing and breathed deeply. But it did little to lessen the pain or the increasing uncertainty bubbling in my stomach.

  I couldn’t believe what I was about to do, seek the help of a complete stranger. Had I really become that desperate?

  I could picture Mel’s head nodding furiously, her eyes rolling several times and I grunted. Mel had been the one who originally set up the meeting. At first, I had complained about it to her. But, in the end, who was I to disagree, particularly when the alternative was the very cold, very intimidating Detective Inspector Weatherly.

  The mere thought of the man was enough to send me back to that awful night nearly two weeks ago.

  The night has changed, mutated into something wild and ugly.

  I am crouched on a plastic chair hugging my knees, rocking. Sticky, red fluid has thickened on my cool skin and feels odd, unreal, its unfriendly odor far too familiar. A female police officer is sitting nearby. She is asking more questions. But this time, I don’t answer. My head is too crowded with my own questions.

  Bright, painful lights conceal the nearby darkness. Orders are loud, impatient, and the tireless drone of inquisitive bystanders drowns out the once soothing hums of the sea. Orange tape flaps intermittingly, enclosing the horrifying scene, imprisoning me.

  I sneak a morbid glance at Alice’s crumpled body. People swarm her, buzz around her as if she’s some sort of scientific display. I turn my head in disgust.

  Slow, even footsteps become louder, then stop. I look up to see a man. He immediately reminds me of a feral fox with his sharp, narrow, facial features and his shrewd, murky grey eyes, vigilantly studying, waiting. His silvery hair is slicked back, not a single strand out of place, as perfect as his dark, creaseless suit.

  He introduces himself as Detective Inspector Weatherly. His voice is oily, arrogant. “We need you to answer all the questions, Miss Cabriati, not just the ones you want to.”

  He is glaring at me. I attempt to glare back but eventually my eyes drop to my tangled fingers.

  “Claudia!” It is Mel and my shoulders immediately slump with relief.

  She crouches in front of me. I notice her clothing first, faded blue gym pants and an over-sized T-shirt. “You have no bra on,” I whisper, suppressing a roguish giggle. But I fail and laughter invades the dismal atmosphere like a poisonous intruder.

  Mel glances at her visibly erect nipples, then stares back at me. “Fuck the bloody bra, Claudia. Are you all right, just tell me you’re all right.”

  I nod but it is fragile.

  Mel grips my elbow and carefully helps me up.

  “What’re you doing?” Weatherly barks.

  Mel throws him a long, examining look. “Taking her home with me… now.”

  A brief and heated exchange follows, until the detective growls and unexpectedly gives in. The next thing I remember is Mel guiding me into a waiting taxi.

  She holds me in the back seat, tightly, gently. I can smell the sweet scent of citrus on her and find it soothing.

  “I think I knew this woman,” I say, as I glance at the cab driver. He appears lost in the mundane lyrics from the radio. Nevertheless, I lean closer to Mel’s ear; speak in what I hope is a decipherable whisper. “I think I know from where. But I can’t tell the police; they’d think me crazy.”

  And the thought that I possibly am, doesn’t quite escape me.

  Mel pulls me closer still. “We’ll sort it out,” she says. “Whatever it is, we’ll sort it out.”

  I lifted my head from the steering wheel and thought of the days that followed. Police visits, invading journalists, nosy neighbors and of course, my family, who were totally beside themselves with worry, my father in particular, pleading for me to return to their home.

  As did Mel.

  But I couldn’t. I wanted seclusion. I wanted the comfort of my own surroundings. And that’s what I did, successfully squirrelling away in my home, amongst what was safe and familiar.

  I straightened up further and glanced at the dashboard clock. It only confirmed what I already knew, that time was moving faster than I liked. I re-focused on my meeting with this man… this….

  I swore and frantically rummaged through my green beaded bag until I found his name scrawled on a crumpled piece of paper.

  This… Saul Reardon.

  I repeated it over and over. As I did, I sensed a quiet strength about him. And then I laughed. I had to be going crazy. Right? I knew so little about him. Other than what Matty Galloway, Simon’s younger cousin, had told me three days earlier.

  We had met on the beach, across from my complex. He had heard what had happened and wanted t
o help. I was unsure how he could, until he passed me the paper with Saul Reardon’s name and number.

  “I don’t understand,” I say, staring at the paper and then at him.

  Matty looks like an ad for the grunge look in low-hanging shorts and a black T-shirt that bears the words - ‘Stop following me. I am not a shoplifter.’ Several piercings decorate his long, narrow face.

  “I know Simon would’ve wanted me to help,” he says. For a brief moment, there is a pained sadness in his sleepy, hazel eyes and my own hurting heart reaches out to him. I know how much he had respected Simon, loved him, even though they were so dissimilar in just about every way possible. I squeeze Matty’s hand and smile.

  He smiles back. “Anyway,” he continues, “the only thing I thought of was this.” He nods towards the paper. “I don’t know how much trouble you’re in, Claudia, maybe none, maybe shitloads. But what I do know is if you need someone, see this man.”

  I say nothing.

  Matty hooks a thumb in his pocket, scrapes back his long, dark hair. To me it looks as if it needs a good wash. “Few years back,” he says, “I got myself in a heap of shit.”

  Somehow, this doesn’t surprise me. “Did Simon know?”

  He shakes his head. “Simon had already done enough for me… didn’t want to disappoint him… you know?” His voice is a little rickety. “Well, this man helped me instead. He’s totally cool at what he does.”

  “Which is what exactly?”

  “He just, well… helps people in trouble.”

  “Like a private investigator?”

  “Nah, just the opposite, not something he wants advertised if you know what I mean.”

  I have absolutely no idea what he means, and I am convinced this shows on my face.

  “I was pretty screwed up, Claudia. Saul Reardon, he was like amazing. Don’t know how he does it but he does. He has the skills, knows the right people. More importantly, he just cares. He saved me literally. And he can save you too.” He stops and his eyes waken wide. “I mean, that’s of course if you need saving.”