On the Run Read online

  Three blocks away, an ageing, portly Italian waiter, wearing a pair of ten-dollar shoes, wash-and-wear slacks and an apron that hadn’t seen a cleaner for a while, reached his grubby hand into his trouser pocket. As he got to the front door of the restaurant, he pulled out a set of keys and locked the door, at the same time throwing the security bolts at the top and bottom of the door frame. He turned off the lights, darkening the dining area on Lygon Street first and then killing the bulbs inside his restaurant. He walked towards the rear of the spaghetti bar, stopping halfway at the sight of a single gold dollar coin on the floor. He made quick work of the coin, dropping it safely into his pocket before disappearing into the kitchen. Tucked away in the back of the restaurant, at a table not visible from the street, was the subject of Cole Goodwin’s hunch.

  Inspector Mack was on his third short black. His face was jowled and he wore a heavy frown. He sat with the expression of a seriously troubled man, staring helplessly at the electronic organiser he had placed beside his coffee cup.

  Opposite him sat the only other man in the restaurant. An Italian at least twenty years his senior, and who carried enormous weight in the Italian community as well as in his stretched dinner jacket. The old Godfather, Antonio’s uncle, was sipping San Pellegrino mineral water and wrapping up their meeting. He spoke in hushed tones. Inspector Mack nodded obediently, as he had done for most of the night.

  Cole parked his car on the street under a magnificent oak tree that had probably been planted when East Melbourne was founded. He stepped out into the moonlight and looked at his poor work, two wheels up onto the gutter. He walked slowly across to his apartment block, pressing the door remote firmly as he glanced back at the flashing of the indicator lights. Two paces further on and he stopped dead in his tracks, listening to the sounds of silence. He was exhausted. His 37-year-old body felt twice that age; he yearned for a holiday on a beach, under a palm tree with a sand bucket and an umbrella drink. The bright city lights were straight ahead of him, at the end of his Victorian street. Possums had the run of the trees. He looked along both sides of the road, observing all the cars. Each one empty. None of the neighbours’ lights were on; it was well after midnight. From where he stood, he could see down the side of his apartment complex, and the three levels up. The beautiful building was constructed in an era when security wasn’t necessary.

  He looked at the maze of plumbing and sewerage pipes leading vertically to his top-floor windows. He stood deep in thoughts best left for daylight hours. He studied the ease of breaking into his building, his car, his world. Fatigue and too much sake made him stop. He climbed the stairs to the top level and strolled down the hallway to the door at number thirteen. The sight of it made him stop again and realise just how vulnerable he really was. He opened the flimsy timber panel door with a single key, turned on a light in his superbly designed apartment and closed the door behind him, locking it tight for the night. Or at least as tight as a 70-year-old door could be locked.

  17th April

  Leigh pushed heavily on the front door of the Australian Crime Authority building, leaving his sweaty handprint on the logo. Facing him was a receptionist sitting pretty in her crisply pressed protective security uniform. Leigh pulled up his stride, pushed his sunglasses to the top of his head and turned to the security officer.

  ‘My, my, you’re new,’ he said, presenting his very best cheery smile to cover his hangover.

  ‘And you’re old,’ she said. He dropped the sunglasses to cover his weary eyes as he ferreted around in his pocket for his identification. The pretty security officer smiled at a now befuddled detective.

  ‘I just meant you’re new … new. I haven’t seen you before, champer,’ he said presenting his ID.

  ‘I’m surprised you can see anything through those glasses,’ she replied before checking his identification against a list of authorised names. Her thick lead pencil scratched right through Leigh’s name.

  ‘So you’ve crossed me out, have you?’

  ‘Well and truly, Detective. Good morning,’ she said, hiding behind her smile. Leigh let out a sigh and turned to face the sterile corridor again.

  At the end of the corridor, and up a flight of stairs, Leigh met another front door, this time without a pretty girl but with the latest security-code device. He keyed in his PIN and entered. The buzz of the noisy office staff hit him: a dozen or more detectives hard at it, reaching for telephones, arguing about cases, launching into their workday. A few of them acknowledged Leigh, stating the obvious about his hangover. He waved them away and moved towards the back of the office, home to his own team. Sandra was quietly pulling drawing pins out of police mugshots and an assortment of photographs pinned to a cork board. She carefully placed each photograph into a separate folder, matched to an information report, and stamped ‘Confidential’.

  ‘Packing up, sweetheart?’

  ‘Trying to. How do we shove three years into cardboard boxes?’

  ‘Who else is in?’

  ‘Everyone.’

  Sandra leaned over and pulled off a blown-up photograph of Cole and another of Jude. She stood looking at them. Leigh wandered over and looked at both photographs, as well as a few others of the couple arm in arm in restaurants and walking together in the gardens. Undercover photographs showing a loving couple: all part of their scam. At the height of the covert investigation the two operatives even became ‘engaged’, inviting their Mafia targets to the celebration to enhance their relationship with the Italian mobsters.

  ‘They were the happy couple, weren’t they?’

  ‘They were. What a sting.’

  ‘What a sting alright.’

  ‘Suckered the Italians.’

  ‘All the way to gaol,’ offered Sandra. She hesitated, looking for a missing photograph. ‘There’s one missing, the one of Jude and Cole together at their engagement.’

  ‘Maybe Jude souvenired it. Why didn’t she join us last night?’

  ‘Real boyfriend troubles.’

  ‘Ah … so he still thinks Jude and Cole are an item, eh?’

  ‘Wouldn’t you, if your gorgeous cop girlfriend went undercover with a hunk of a detective and spent her working hours living the high life?’

  Leigh didn’t bother answering. He dropped the photographs into a cardboard box and headed off in search of strong coffee. He took the long way around to sticky-beak at who might be in the Inspector’s office. Two steps away from Mack’s door and there was no need for second guesses.

  ‘I’ve assessed the risk to you, Sergeant, and there isn’t one. And that is the end of it.’

  ‘You know damn well there’s a risk. No one puts these bastards away without some comeback.’

  Inspector Mack raised his voice, ‘I’ll authorise the purchase of a security door for your home in a week or so. That’s all you’ll get. The job’s over.’

  Mack’s voice was loud enough for Leigh to hear as he walked past, attempting to merge with the corridor. Cole turned abruptly away from the Inspector and left the room, slamming the door behind him. The rest of the office ground to a halt.

  By the time Leigh returned to Sandra’s desk, coffee in hand, at least one box was full, and Cole was at his desk reading a movie magazine.

  ‘So, I heard the result of your risk assessment,’ said Leigh.

  ‘Yeah, interesting. There is no risk,’ Cole answered flatly, turning a page.

  ‘Would you expect anything else? We’re yesterday’s news.’

  For the next half hour, Leigh and Sandra worked quietly, filling the boxes, methodically deconstructing their work of the past years. Cole sat reading an article on how romantic movie star couples first met. Sandra peered over Cole’s shoulder every now and again.

  ‘Good girlie story?’ she asked teasingly.

  Cole looked up briefly, as if about to speak, then went back to one particular story.

  ‘Sweet yarn. Read it some time,’ he said finally. He left the magazine open at the article on top of the des
k. ‘I’ll leave it out for you.’

  The only other interruption to an otherwise uninspired morning’s work came from Spud. He rushed in from the outer office with an armful of print-outs, his shiny forehead rosy with excitement. He clutched the papers tightly to his chest until he reached Sandra’s desk, where he released them, leaving them to spew all over the cardboard cartons.

  ‘What the fuck?’ said Sandra as she stood with her hands now placed firmly on her heavy hips, blowing loose strands of wayward blonde hair from her face.

  By now Spud was an expert at getting the crew’s attention. He’d long known that detectives could be conveniently deaf when they wanted to be, and the surest way to gather their attention was to rush at them with an armload of papers and then dump them. Coupled of course with a compulsory look of urgency. The three investigators leaned towards the analyst.

  ‘It’s what you said last night.’

  ‘What do you mean what I said last night?’ said Cole.

  ‘Mack’s phone number on the Asian’s sheet of paper,’ whispered Spud.

  ‘So?’

  ‘Well, I snuck into work a few hours early this morning and put Mack’s home and mobile phone numbers through my NATSCAN system. You know, the one that records the link of every phone number to every job ever done by the Anti-Mafia unit?’

  ‘Cut the lecture and get on with it,’ said Leigh.

  ‘Well, Mack’s mobile number got one hit,’ Spud offered, his smile now stretching from ear to ear.

  ‘ To whom, may I ask?’ Leigh’s sarcasm was lost on Spud who was enjoying their growing interest, and drawing things out just that little bit longer.

  ‘A hooker from Surry Hills in Sydney. Last week.’

  ‘So what? He’s having a root while at a conference in Sydney? Come on, Spud, is that all?’ said Sandra.

  ‘Maybe,’ said Spud, ‘but I did the background on the hooker. She works at Fluffy BeGood parlour in Paddington.’

  Cole smiled as he looked at Leigh, who couldn’t contain himself and burst into laughter. ‘Come on, champer … Fluffy BeGood massage parlour, what a name!’

  ‘Does it get any fatter than that?’ said Sandra impatiently.

  ‘I mean, who’s going to walk into a parlour with that name?’ said Leigh, still sniggering.

  ‘Our boss, by the sounds of it,’ said Sandra.

  ‘Chill, guys. I’m serious. BeGood is owned by a shelf company with three directors, all square-heads.’

  ‘And tell me it’s going to get better,’ added Sandra, as she began to search through some of Spud’s print-outs.

  ‘You’re not chillin’.’

  Spud dropped his voice just a fraction to deliver his pièce de résistance.

  ‘One of the square-heads is also listed at ASIC as the sole director of the Griffith Regional Horticultural Supply company.’

  By then Spud had their complete and undivided attention. At that very nanosecond they saw Inspector Mack walking down the corridor towards the kitchen with an empty coffee cup in one hand and his electronic organiser in the other.

  ‘And I just finished a financial search. The horticultural company’s biggest account is our now incarcerated leader of the Mafia, Antonio,’ completed Spud. He looked as proud as punch as all eyes now focused on the arse end of Mack.

  The chef gently spooned the two orange roughie fillets onto the brilliant white china plates and added a Caribbean citrus salad with a sprig of fennel to top off his creation. He took half a step backwards to view his work and looked awfully pleased with himself. He quickly pulled the semi-soiled cloth from his waistband to wipe a minute smear from the lip of one of the plates. Once he turned away from the dish, a toey waiter took possession of the two plates and weaved his way into the restaurant, making a bee-line for a table of two against the massive glass window at the front.

  Cole and Jude were seated with smirks on their faces as they shared a bottle of pinot grigio. Jude wore a fine black silk blouse with a plunging neckline that exposed her dainty lace bra. Cole took notice as he pulled the wine bottle from the ice bucket. Jude, catching his gaze, ran her fingers seductively along the line of her cleavage before correcting her blouse.

  ‘You’ve seen it before.’

  ‘But not a hell of a lot more, unfortunately,’ Cole said, offering up a sad puppy look. They both giggled.

  The waiter walked into their fun and placed a plate in front of each of his guests, then fussed enthusiastically over the salt and pepper shakers before leaving them.

  ‘So how’s the new team treating you?’

  ‘It’s okay,’ offered Jude, her smile falling away.

  ‘The change will be good.’

  ‘You reckon … I suppose we couldn’t keep working together,’ she said.

  It had been a week since Jude asked to change crews. A last-ditch effort to try to sort out her private life, now that the undercover operation was over.

  ‘So … are you going to marry him?’ Cole quizzed.

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘I’ve heard that before.’

  ‘He’s so jealous,’ said Jude as she emptied her first glass.

  Cole splashed more wine into her glass and then his own.

  ‘Maybe he has reason to be?’ Cole offered optimistically as he looked above the bottle, now in mid-air, at Jude.

  ‘You and I never really did anything,’ countered Jude.

  ‘Well … not everything, but only because you’re engaged, otherwise we …’

  ‘Maybe,’ said Jude, cutting him off mid-sentence, the smile returning to her face.

  They spent a minute glancing cautiously at each other as they pushed their expensive fish around their plates. Neither of them seemed to have an appetite any more. Something was troubling Jude.

  ‘What is it? Is he giving you that much stick, the boyfriend?’ said Cole.

  Jude dropped her knife and fork and leaned on her elbows.

  ‘It’s not just him, Cole. It’s a whole lot of stuff. I mean, I often wonder what could have happened with you and me.’

  Cole reached for his wine.

  ‘Maybe some things are best left hanging,’ he said.

  ‘Maybe.’

  ‘Maybe again, Jude. Lots of maybes.’

  ‘And that’s my problem, Cole. Lots of maybes.’

  The knife and fork got her attention again and she started to eat.

  ‘Spud rang me an hour ago.’

  ‘Bloody Spud. I can only imagine what he’s told you.’

  ‘He reckons Mack’s bent, and Antonio will fix you up.’

  ‘All Antonio will do for the next twenty years is count the days. Don’t worry about him.’

  ‘You are such an idiot, Cole. It’s the fucking Mafia. And you screwed them over. They won’t forget.’

  ‘We screwed them over, remember?’

  ‘Yeah, but I was just your handbag. You bought the drugs. You suckered in Antonio.’

  Cole did his best to avoid the rest of the conversation. The waiter busied himself topping up their wines before he moved on to annoy the next table.

  ‘What are you going to do, Cole? Your security’s at risk.’

  The question was met with silence.

  ‘What are you going to do?’

  Cole rinsed the fish from his mouth with pinot grigio, and swallowed.

  ‘I have no fucking idea.’

  ‘Okay, Boss. I understand. But when are the next promotional exams?’ Leigh asked Mack as they sat in the tearoom alone. Leigh was tracing circles on the table with his empty coffee cup.

  ‘The sergeant’s exams are twice a year. You know that, Detective. Have you done any preparation?’ Mack asked, uninterested but stuck with yet another silly question from his subordinate. He only half listened as he flicked through a girlie magazine.

  Leigh glanced over Mack’s shoulder to the kitchen doorway where Sandra was standing, covertly watching, silently gesturing for Leigh to keep talking.

  ‘So when do you thin
k I should start studying? And could you give me some advice, Boss?’

  As these ridiculous questions were being fired at Mack, Spud was hidden in the Inspector’s office nervously holding the electronic organiser and keying in possible code-names. ‘Dorothy’. Instantly the code-name was rejected. He tried another, ‘Collingwood’, the boss’s football team. No. He placed the organiser back on the desktop and snuck out into the main office area. On the way out he noticed a wad of paper sticking out from the inside pocket of the boss’s sports jacket. Sandra walked past the office door and indicated for him to hurry up. He shooed her away. He pulled out a bundle of share certificates from the coat pocket. The top certificate he could read clearly. It was for the purchase of 2000 blue-chip shares in the buyer’s name of Wall Street Lady. He quickly returned the papers to the inside pocket, patted down the jacket and stepped from the room.

  Only three paces from the office door he was met head on by Inspector Mack, who was on the run from Leigh.

  ‘For Christ’s sake, Leigh, if you want to do the bloody promotion exams, just do them. Stop bothering me with these inane questions!’

  Mack frowned at Spud, then at his office door, then at Leigh, failing to join the dots. Spud kept walking, heading directly for Sandra’s desk. Leigh executed the perfect U-turn and followed behind.

  ‘Yes? No?’ asked Sandra expectantly, with both hands working nervously through her mop of hair.

  ‘No,’ answered Spud.

  The three of them sat in silence, deep in thought.

  ‘How many codes have you tried?’ asked Leigh.

  ‘Too many. I’m sick of waiting for him to go to the dunny. I’m sick of his coffee breaks, and I’m sick of your promotion aspirations, Leigh.’

  ‘What could it be?’ said Sandra.

  ‘If he really is corrupt, what would a corrupt copper use for a code?’ said Spud.