Unfinished Business...
ELLIOTT collected us an hour later, his eyes widening as he drove through the security gates. He hadn’t expected to find us playing chasey on the Romano front lawn.
I hadn’t either, but it was preferable to staying inside that oppressive house. For a while, being outside had been only marginally less oppressive because Pietro had followed for a chat. Either that or he’d seen me gazing at the life-sized Madonna and Child statue that dominated the garden and was wondering what I was thinking.
“Beautiful isn’t it?” he’d said.
“In the right context. This isn’t it.”
He was disappointed. “You mean, because this is what you call a crime family, we aren’t allowed to have faith?”
I was thinking of the victims of the Romanos’ obscene trade. “Is that what your old man taught you? Don’t worry how many kids you hook and kill with your foul shit. Just turn up for Mass on Sundays, whack a few hundred bucks in the plate and everything will be hunky-dory. Indulge your way through the pearlies, eh?”
While Romano chewed on that one, I reflected that I’d like to be a fly on the wall when St Peter ran his history through the computer. With any sort of luck, I’d be deputed to heave him into Charon’s ferry.
Romano smiled, a condescending smile that showed he believed in his distorted version of Christianity. “I can live with my conscience, Mason. I wonder if you can do the same?” He turned and made for the door. As he opened it, he looked back. This time, the smile was mocking. “I don’t put all my money in the plate. Some of went on that helicopter of mine, the one that just might’ve saved your bacon today.” By the time I realised how specious his argument was, the bastard had disappeared.
On the trip back to town, we gave Elliott a rundown on the events in the high country. On the basis of what he didn’t know couldn’t hurt him, we left out the bit about me keeping part of the tape. Exhausted little Angela slept the whole way, still clutching the faithful Pinky. We went to Sandra’s flat, where she filled a suitcase with clothes and other necessities, and then it was to the Brighton house of Sandra’s sister.
Joyce Barton was a couple of years older than Sandra, but no less intelligent and almost as good-looking. A divorced and childless art teacher, she loved Angela as her own and was delighted to look after her while her sister took care of some ‘urgent business’. I left them to work out the details while I went home to clean up and then head back to Homicide.
Rod Collinson listened attentively while I briefed him on the goings-on, minus my retaining part of the tape.
“Bastards!” he exclaimed. Whether he meant the Romanos or McDowell and his mob I wasn’t sure. He punched his palm. “The only decent bit of evidence gone. Now the chances of finding who killed Connie are practically bugger-all.” He gave me the querying eye. “...unless you are on to something else...?”
Coterie member or not, I respected my boss and didn’t want to lie. I did the next best thing. “I’d like to keep young Elliott for a while,” I said. When he hesitated, I added, “...to help my research into the techniques of missing persons location.”
He repeated his trick with his left eyebrow. Five minutes later, I was on my way to Internal Affairs. There was some sorting out to be done.
Incongruously, the IA Department was external to headquarters. Two clicks away, in fact, and with better security than the Reserve Bank. Which, in a cynical organisation like the police force, gave rise to a lot of black humour. “Snooper Seminary” it was called.
I knew from experience where to park and where to go. The lift lobby on the top floor led to a cubby house of a waiting room. In one wall, a sliding glass partition gave view to a frosty-faced receptionist, without whose finger on the electrical door release, you got no farther. Despite the bitch knowing me, she insisted on seeing ID. I told her I wanted to see the boss. She told me she would ask. Two minutes later, a po-faced Smith appeared.
“What do you want?”
Not the greeting I’d expected. Not by a long shot. The Mason warning bells started ringing. If something were amiss, there was no point in dealing with underlings.
“Neilsen, of course. And don’t give me any of that he’s-not-in bullshit.”
Smith was startled, by either my profanity or my referring to his boss sans rank. Perhaps both. He noticed the receptionist listening while pretending not to so he hustled me into the lobby.
“What the fuck are you up to?” he hissed. “We know you bought your way off the mountain. Without the tape, you’ve got no deal. It’s back to square one.”
Deal? I didn’t know we had a deal. I’d been doing Neilsen a favour. What I did know now was that he knew the tape was gone and, that being the case, I was no longer of any use to him. So much for his ‘all for one and one for all’ spiel. Not that I’d believed all that sanctimonious crap.
I told Smith so, giving him the look that experts reserve for hopeless tyros. “I was awake-up just as soon as you put this in my car.” I handed him the bug I’d discovered. “Bloody pathetic.”
He frowned. “Not ours. Not one of ours.” He looked fair dinkum. On the other hand, he was probably as adept at lying as I was.
“Sure,” I said. “But listen. Your information is way off beam. I still have half the tape.” I went on to explain which half and how it was more than sufficient for Neilsen’s machinations. Or had been, now that I was personum non gratum.
Poor Smith. You could almost see the wheels turning as he cast about for some way to put himself and his boss back in my good books.
Fat chance.
“So here’s the new deal,” I said. “Yours truly is bloody sick of being the patsy. As from now, I’m looking out for number one. Which means, if your boss wants the tape, he’d better come up with a good offer. Otherwise, I flog it to the media.” I grinned. “Might do that anyway; they pay quick.”
I left the Seminary warmed by the memory of Smith’s pale and worried complexion as he scuttled off to share the bad tidings. But the warmth diminished as one question returned to demand an answer.
Who told Smith I’d bartered the tape?