Autumn Maze (14 page)

“Nobody's talking to you,” said his wife. “How's the soup, Romy? It's a German recipe.”

“Delicious. I love cooking,” with a sidelong amused glance at Clements, “but cooking for oneself, there's no enjoyment in it.”

“Geez.” Clements put down his spoon. “All right, let's get married.”

“You hear that?” Romy looked at the Malones. “You're witnesses.”

“Refuse him,” said Lisa. “If he's genuine, he'll ask you again when you're alone. We shouldn't be hearing this.”

“What's the matter with you?” said Malone. “You've been working on this proposal for two years, now you're objecting to the way Russ has gone about it.”

“It's too casual,” said his Dutch wife. “Too Australian.”

“That's the way we operate in Homicide. We arrest people casually.
How about coming down to the station, mate, while we charge you?
That's the way we do it. It works.”

The banter was light, but all four knew there had been a commitment. Clements looked slightly bemused, as if he had stepped out of a plane in mid-air and wasn't sure he could work the ripcord on his parachute. Romy looked at Lisa and winked, but there was no smug pleasure on her face. Lisa, a romantic, was the one who looked as if she had been proposed to. Malone, the pragmatist, who knew Clements better than either of the women did, just hoped the big man would not have second thoughts in the morning.

He poured some wine and raised his glass. “To the two of you. May you be as happy as we have been.”

“We couldn't ask for more than that,” said Clements without awkwardness and Lisa got up, moved round behind him and kissed him fondly on the cheek, her arms round his neck. Then she looked across at Malone and he saw the glisten of tears and felt the lump in his throat, the sweet cancer of love.

Later, out in the kitchen where Romy was helping Lisa stack the dishes in the dishwasher, Lisa said, “There'll be a difference for you two. You're both in the same line of work, almost. I could never
stomach
what you do.”

“You get used to it.” Romy was as practised at the kitchen sink as she was at the autopsy table; plates and bones had much the same fragility. “Russ and I don't talk about it now. There'll be no need to change when we're married. I get upset sometimes, especially if it's a child, but death is worse for the living than it is for the dead. That's an old saw, but it's true.”

“I know that.” Lisa closed her eyes for a moment against the thought of ever losing one of her children; then she closed the dishwasher, set it going. “Scobie tells me sometimes what it's like when he has to call on a wife or family and give them the bad news. He hasn't told me anything about it yet, but I think he had one like that today.”

“He did. Russ told me.”

“The government and the public think that all police are paid for is keeping law and order. They don't know the half of it, damn them.”

In the living room Malone and Clements were looking at a television programme on law and order. A politician was working some micro reform on the English language: “No Austrayan guvment has ever know-en or show-en—”

Malone got up and switched off the set. “Bugger „em! When it comes to our work, no politician knows his arse from his elbow.”

“Including our Minister.” Clements was enjoying what he called his cooling ale, his standard after-dinner drink; not for him a port or a brandy, he was Aussie right through to his liver. “Greg Random was on the blower to me just before I left the office. Zanuch had been on to him and Sweden had been on to
him
. I gather it was our fault someone tried to do in Cormac Casement.”

Malone grinned wryly. “Isn't it always? You think there's some connection between the other murders and the attempt on Casement?”

Clements shrugged. “Your guess is as good as mine. It's a different MO, no subtlety about it. But maybe they worked it that way just to confuse us. He was lucky to get out of it, they could of locked him in the car. How'd you get on with Mrs. Kornsey?”

Malone
told him. “She knows nothing about her husband, or practically nothing. I'm hoping the safe in the garage will tell us something. Mr. Kornsey, whoever he was, had something to hide.”

Then the children came in to say goodnight. Claire and Maureen kissed Clements and Tom punched him gently on the shoulder. “No kiss?” said Clements, grinning.

“Garn, Dad would arrest me if I did that.”

Then the two women came in from the kitchen and Lisa said, “Romy and Russ are engaged.”

There was a shriek from the two girls and they rushed at Romy and hugged her. Tom waited till his sisters had stepped back, then he put his arms round Romy, lifted his face and kissed her on the cheek. Then he looked at Clements. “Okay, Uncle Russ?”

“Okay.”

Clements looked suddenly happy and relaxed, as if his parachute had opened safely.

II

Greg Random had come across to Homicide for the morning conference, but sat in the background, his unlit pipe hanging from one corner of his mouth. Occasionally it rose, like a pointer's nose, as one of the detectives produced another item of evidence.

“We opened the Kornsey safe,” said John Kagal, putting two plastic bags on Malone's desk. “There were some tools in it, but I didn't bring those back. There's a small computer outside on my desk, one of the latest. I've run through it, but it seems brand new, there's nothing in its memory. He could've been getting ready for some project.”

Malone emptied the plastic bags. There were half a dozen photos; two postcards of Manhattan; an Esso map of New York City, yellowed and cracked; two passports and an airline ticket, first class, to Hong Kong; a bundle of US one-hundred-dollar bills; a bank book and a bank statement; two boxes of headed notepaper; two boxes of ammunition and a Colt .45 automatic. “The average contents of the average suburban safe?”

“Mr. Kornsey wasn't your average suburban Joe,” said Kagal. “The passports are American, but
in
different names. Terence Kornsey and Joseph Caccia. Same photo, though, same date of birth. The money, it adds up to twenty-eight thousand dollars. The postcards have nothing on the back of them, so it looks as if he might've bought „em for sentimental reasons, a reminder of home. The map has a small biro circle on it, out in the borough of Queens. I'd say that was where he came from. The photos are all of him with someone. Some with an elderly couple who could be his parents, one of them with a girl, a real bimbo . . . No offence, Peta. She really is.” He held up the photo.

Without moving closer to look at the photo, Peta nodded. “I'll take your word for it, John.”

Kagal looked at her a moment, then he picked up the last photo. “Then there's this one of him with two guys who I wouldn't trust, on face value, with anything worth more than a dollar.”

“What about the notepaper?”

“One for a company called Sue City Investments—there's an address in Hong Kong, plus a box number. The other's for Hannibal Development, same address in Hong Kong, a different box number. No phone numbers, no fax numbers. Looks like a few sheets and envelopes have been used from each box, but that's all.”

Clements was looking at the gun. “This isn't brand new, it's been used. He must of thought he might have to use it in a hurry, the magazine is full.”

“Turn it over to Ballistics.” Malone was examining the bank book and statement. “Why ain't I surprised? Our old mates again, Shahriver International. Three hundred and eighty thousand bucks has gone through his account in the past three months, most of it to, cunning bastards, Overseas Transfer. That tells us nothing.” He picked up the airline ticket. “One way to Hong Kong. I don't think we need to tell Mrs. Kornsey, not right now anyway, but it looks like her hubby was planning to split on his own.”

“Well,” said Random, taking his pipe from his mouth, “what would you say to Mr. Kornsey being Mafia? I think you need to get on to the FBI.”

Random respected the chain of command: he left it to Malone to give the order to Andy Graham: “Andy, get on to Washington now. Tell „em what we have and ask „em if they can add to it.”

Graham was on his feet and out the door like a heavyweight greyhound out of a trap. Random
looked
after him, shook his head, and the other detectives all grinned. “I think he'd run all the way to Washington, if you'd let him,” said Kagal.

“Sure,” said Malone, “but he'd come back with everything you sent him for.”

It was a reprimand and Kagal recognized it, but said nothing. Clements picked up the awkward moment: “I think it's time someone went over and saw Cormac Casement.”

“I'll do that now,” said Malone. “You go down to Shahriver, bring in Mr. Palady, the boss, and the English bloke who's the general manager. Tell „em we'd like a chat.”

“What about me?” said Kagal, sounding as if he felt he was being left out.

“Start getting everything together in our computer, straighten everything out. This is starting to look like a Chinese betting shop. You bring the flow chart up to date, Peta.”

When Malone and Random were left alone, the senior man said, “Do you have any trouble with John Kagal?”

“No. Why?”

“He's smarter than the rest of us, including you and me. Let me know if he gets too smart, I'll move him somewhere else.”

Malone shook his head. “No, Greg. Russ and I like the competition. We need someone to give all the nasty jobs to.”

“You're a mean bastard underneath, aren't you?”

“Why else would I be a cop?”

They smiled at each other, like actors who knew it was best to write one's own reviews.

III

Between them the three old men, some years ago, had ruled the State. Casement had been king of the financial circles, Vanderberg of the political, Aldwych of the criminal. But they had never been together before, though they had met in pairs in two instances. Jack Aldwych was the odd man out; he had never met The Dutchman before. He had come to the hospital this morning, not because of any
concern
for Cormac Casement, but because of concern for Jack Junior. A murder and an attempted murder so close to his son was too much for the old crim's peace of mind.

Casement's hands and arms were wrapped in dressing; there was also a burn dressing on his right cheek. He was no longer in shock, but yesterday's experience had marked him for the rest of his life. He had long ago lost his fear of dying, but he had not been prepared for his murder.

“Are you here for my vote, Hans? It's not worth it. I backed the wrong horse three weeks ago.”

“Didn't you all?” said Vanderberg gleefully; anything that set the conservatives back on their arses almost convinced him that God did take an interest in politics. “But I'm working on you—a vote in hand is better than chasing one in the bush. I've just come back from telling the wheat-and-cow cockies this State government couldn't run a chook raffle. But it was like talking to a mob of sheep. You ever do any jobs in the bush, Mr. Aldwych?” He was a politician, not a diplomat: criminals voted, too.

“There was never any real money in the bush, not in my line of work.” Aldwych smiled, amused by this old pol, as crooked, in his own way, as himself.

Vanderberg looked at Casement with an expression that might have been sympathetic. “Oldies like us shouldn't die violently. Past a certain age, we should be allowed to die quietly.”

“Are you going to go quietly?” said Casement.

“No bloody fear.” The grin, meant to be amused, was just ugly. “What about you, Mr. Aldwych?”

“I'm retired. If I was gunna die violently, it would of happened years ago.” Remembering the attempts on his life and the anguish of Shirl as she had sat by his bed.

Casement had been lying listlessly in his bed when the two men had arrived; he had felt on the edge of his grave. He had also, surprisingly, felt lonely. He had no siblings and there had been no children from his first marriage; he had dozens of acquaintances but no really close friends; there was only Ophelia. He had been surprised at how he had welcomed the two surprising visitors.

Now, watching them, both unscrupulous in their respective fields, he had perked up. His own past was scattered with scruples that, for one reason or another, he had found superfluous. But, compared
to
these two, he was all honesty and principle. Though conservative, he had never been a snob and these two rascals fascinated him. They were better than any of the medication the nurses had poured into him.

“These two young punks who tried to kill you—” Aldwych put the question bluntly. “You think they were connected to whoever did in young Sweden?”

“I honestly don't know, Jack. I'm not an expert on killers.”

Aldwych smiled, unoffended; every man to his trade, had been his motto. “I could start some enquiries—”

“Jack, you know the underworld—” It was an old-fashioned term that dated him. “Why would anyone from your
milieu
want to kill me?”

Aldwych had to guess what his
mill-yer
was. “Cormac, it's the
underworld
where people go for a hitman. Did they steal anything?”

“My briefcase. And a watch Ophelia gave me.”

“How much?”

“How much was it worth? I don't know.” He had the very rich's ignorance of price tags, those who don't value trivial possessions; it was he who had paid for the Bentley, but only at Ophelia's insistence; she had said that a Bentley was more chic, less gauche, than a Rolls-Royce. His wife's snobbery amused him rather than annoyed him. Love, if not blind, was often vision-impaired, as the euphemists called it. “It's the sentimental value, if you like. But it's those kids themselves—”