The Easy Sin (19 page)

“And what did you think of doing then?”
Like arranging a kidnapping
?

“I started looking for another job.” She uncapped the bottle, took another swig, capped the bottle again. Could someone go downhill from non-alcoholism? In the background the other four women, all unconnected, it seemed, had their bottles to their lips, like a silent back-up group. “Which I've decided to take.”

“Who with?”

She looked at him, still with no coquetry. “Inspector, am I under suspicion or something?”

“Why would you think that, Daniela? I never suspect my son's girlfriends.”

“You should,” she said enigmatically; and Malone wondered what Tom got up to, or down to, in bed. “I'm not Tom's girlfriend. We're just—friends. The job? I'm going to work for Kunishima Bank.”

“From IT to banking? The New Economy to the Old Economy?”

“They're connected these days. Don't you bank electronically?”

“No, I have it all in a jar under my bed. Take care, Daniela. And good luck at Kunishima. Especially take care there.”

He left her on that. When he looked back she had the bottle of spring water to her mouth again. Behind her the four women, bottles in one hand, had their mobiles to their ears.

He left Daniela with doubts about her still troubling him. Why had a job at Kunishima suddenly become available? Who had offered it to her? Okada? Tajiri?

He was halfway to his car when his own mobile rang. He stepped into a doorway, as if the call he was about to receive was from a sex worker. Instead, it was Paula Decker, not breathing heavily: “Sir, I
took
time out from the Magee apartment—someone else is on duty there now. I went up to the Aurora building garage and had a word with Mr. Okada's driver, from the Kunishima Bank.”

“Is he Japanese? You wouldn't have got far.”

“No, sir, he's Italian. I lifted my skirt a couple of inches and he was ready to talk.” Malone said nothing and after a pause she said, “Sir, am I being too facetious?”

“No, Paula. I'm just sorry we don't have those male advantages. I'm also wondering why he wasn't interviewed before this.”

“Today is his first day back at work. Mr. Okada told him to take a coupla days off.”

“That usual with Mr. Okada?”

“The driver says no. I asked him about Mr. Tajiri and Mr. Nakasone. Seems the three of ‘em aren't close mates. The driver says he's never driven Mr. Okada to Tajiri's place. He also said that Mr. Tajiri was not in the office today.”

“Does the driver know Miss Doolan?”

“No, he's never seen her.”

“Did he ever take Okada to the Magee apartment?”

“Never.”

“Where does Tajiri live?”

“I've checked that. He has an unlisted phone number, but Telstra turned it over to me. He lives at Kirribilli, just along the street from Kirribilli House and Admiralty House. He's a neighbour to the Prime Minister and the Governor-General. As respectable as you could ask. It must impress his
yakuza
mates back home.”

“Paula, don't forget—the
yakuza
connection is still not on the record. We don't want the media playing around with that, not on our say-so. What's the address?” She gave it to him. “Have you got wheels?”

“No, sir.” She sounded disappointed.

“Go down to the Quay, catch the ferry to Kirribilli—I'll wait for you there at the wharf.” This
was
not, strictly, Homicide business; but he was part of Strike Force RLS. Greg Random would understand. “Good work, Paula.”

“Thank you, sir.” She sounded as if she had curtsied.

He drove over to Kirribilli, two minutes away, parked the car and went down to the ferry wharf. Years ago he had caught the ferry from here to go to work; the skyline across the water, even life itself, had been much simpler then. The area had climbed up-market, bedsits had given way to million-dollar apartments. Breezes blew across from the city, carrying the scent of money.

When Paula Decker stepped off the ferry twenty minutes later he looked at her before he went to meet her. She was wearing a blue skirt and white shirt today and he saw that she had long slim legs that would have enhanced a stockings advertisement. He could understand why the Italian had responded.

“Are you armed?”

She patted the large handbag slung over one shoulder. “My Glock and also a capsicum spray. Are you expecting trouble?”

“I hope not. But just in case—”

Back in his car he drove it along Kirribilli Avenue, past the two official residences, and parked it at a bus stop. They got out and walked along to the waterfront block of apartments. Malone stood a moment, appraising them like an estate agent looking for business. Even the smallest apartment in the block would have cost a million and a half; the penthouse would probably bring three or four million. Tajiri was doing well for a
yakuza
.

Paula Decker pressed the buzzer under Tajiri's name. A moment, then a voice said, “Yes?”

“Police. We'd like to talk to Mr. Tajiri.”

“What about?”

“We'll tell him that when we meet him. Let us in.”

“Just a moment, please.”

They waited, and three cars went past, one of them flying a standard on its wings. The Governor-General was on his way to a function, while two detectives waited to interview his neighbour, a
yakuza
gangster-banker. Only in Sydney, Malone thought.

Then the voice said, “Please come in. First floor,” and the security lock on the front door clicked open. Malone and Paula Decker walked in, found that the first floor was at street level. A slim young man in white shirt, striped waistcoat and black trousers stood waiting for them at an open door.

“I am Teagarden,” said the young man. “Mr. Tajiri's butler.”

“Jack Teagarden?” said Malone.

“No, sir.” Slightly puzzled. “Jocelyn Teagarden.”

“But you play trombone?”

“No, sir.” Still puzzled. “Soccer.”

Malone gave up being a smartarse; he was getting old, the jokes were going downhill. In his mind's ear he could hear the needle screeching to a halt on his old vinyl of Jack Teagarden playing “Lazy River.” “Is Mr. Tajiri in?”

“No, sir.”

“Do you speak Japanese?”

“No, sir.” Jocelyn Teagarden spoke
No, sir
fluently. Butlers were a rare breed in Australia, but he, apparently, was a well-bred one.

“Then how do you and Mr. Tajiri communicate? I understand he doesn't speak English. Whom did you speak to before you decided to let us come in?”

Teagarden suddenly looked flustered, like a trombone player who had hit a flat note. They had come in through the small entrance lobby and now were standing in the big living room. Behind the butler sliding glass doors led out to a wide terrace; the city skyline was like a mural on a wall of the room, the Opera House shells hiding the lower face like a fan. Doors led off the living room, two on either side, all closed.

“I think you had better tell Mr. Tajiri we're not leaving till he comes out to talk to us.”

The butler hesitated, but before he could turn one of the doors opened; out stepped Nakasone. “Mr. Tajiri is not here, Inspector.”

Malone
looked at him, then turned his head towards Paula Decker, who up till now had been still and silent: “This is Mr. Nakasone, Detective Decker.”

Paula gave him a polite nod and he gave a small bow in return.

“He's from the Kunishima Bank. Yesterday I was told he didn't speak English.” He looked back at Nakasone. “A quick course at Berlitz, Mr. Nakasone? I know a Berlitz teacher who might help you.”

“No jokes, please, Inspector. Yesterday Mr. Okada was our spokesman. In Japan we do not all try to be vocal at once.”

“Not like here, eh? We're a very vocal lot. But today you're the spokesman?”

“Yes, today, Inspector. How can I help you?”

Malone looked around. The apartment was apparently rented furnished. There was nothing Japanese in the room except a print of a chrysanthemum against the outline of a snow-capped mountain, a picture as delicate as the flower's petals. Everything else in the room was solidly Ikea. Whoever owned the apartment hadn't splashed money around.

“Do you live here, Mr. Nakasone?”

“No.”

“Then you're just visiting Mr. Tajiri?”

“Yes.”

“Even though he's not here? Is that a Japanese custom?”

Nakasone said nothing; then Paula Decker spoke for the first time: “But you're visiting a woman?”

Up till now Nakasone had ignored her except for his small bow to her; he looked at her sharply, as if to admonish her for having spoken. “What woman?”

“The one who owns that handbag on that chair there.”

Malone hadn't noticed the brown leather handbag tucked into the curve of a club chair. He mentally patted Paula Decker on the back. He let her continue the questioning:

“You're not entertaining the Australian version of a geisha, are you?”

Nice
one, Paula
. But Nakasone said, “An insulting question.”

Paula went on: “Or would it be Miss Doolan? She's been missing since yesterday afternoon and we know she paid a visit to Kunishima just before she disappeared.”

It was a moment before Nakasone replied: “I know nothing about Miss Doolan. I heard the news this morning that she had disappeared, that she was Mr. Magee's girlfriend. But I have never met her.”

“So whose handbag is that?” said Malone. “There's no Mrs. Nakasone or Mrs. Tajiri, is there? If it's an Aussie geisha you're entertaining, we'll understand, we're broadminded. But just so's we'll know . . . Teagarden, open that door there and ask the lady to come out. We shan't hurt her.”

The butler hesitated, waited on his cue from Nakasone. The latter looked as if he might suddenly erupt in a burst of temper; one could almost see the effort at control. He drew a deep breath, then nodded. Teagarden moved to the door and opened it.

Malone would not have been surprised if Kylie Doolan had come through the doorway. Instead Louise Cobcroft appeared in it.

Malone sighed; this case was turning into a revolving door circus. “Hello, Louise. Holding hands again?”
I'm getting to be as sour as that middle-aged cop in
NYPD Blue,
the one who never smiles
. “Or are you like Daniela, taking a job with Kunishima?”

“Yes. And I'm not holding hands, nor am I an Aussie geisha.” She gave Paula Decker a look meant to slice her; but Paula just smiled. “And I don't think it's any of your business.”

She was not flustered, she was cold and defiant. In the company of Caroline Magee and Daniela Bonicelli she had been quiet, just background to their defiance. Now she was throwing up her own barricades. She was smartly dressed today, in a black slimline dress with a silver belt and high-heeled shoes. Her hair was loose but neat and she was remarkably attractive. Errol Magee knew how to pick his women.

“Oh, you're wrong there, Louise,” said Malone. “You'd be surprised just how wide police business can spread. The civil rights know-alls will give you chapter and verse.” He wondered how he
sounded
to Paula Decker, but she showed no expression. “You're all deserting Mr. Cragg?”

“He's already deserted us. You're okay in the police service, but out in the real world we have to look after ourselves.”

“So we're being told, all the time.” Malone turned to Nakasone, who had been almost rigid since Louise Cobcroft had come through the bedroom doorway. “Is Kunishima taking over I-Saw from the receivers?”

Nakasone hesitated, then nodded. “If the price is right, yes.”

“Five cents on the dollar?” Clements might get back a few bucks.

Nakasone unexpectedly smiled; he had good teeth, expensive ones. “More than that, Inspector. We would hope to get all the money that Mr. Magee has stolen.”

“And where is Mr. Tajiri now? Out looking for it?”

“No. He is away on business.”

“Bank business or
yakuza
business?” Malone knew he was being reckless, but recklessness sometimes paid off. Be a samurai, he told himself as he stared at the Japanese, wield the sword or whatever it was they used.

Nakasone was unimpressed: “You are very foolish with those sort of remarks.”

But Malone had seen Louise Cobcroft raise her chin and frown, as if she knew what the
yakuza
was. It was time to leave, now the pot had been stirred, if by a sword instead of a spoon.

“I'd think twice about taking the job, Louise. Goodbye, Mr. Nakasone. Tell Mr. Tajiri that we still want to talk to him.”

Teagarden showed them out. He, too, was frowning, as if suddenly wondering what extra duties a butler might be called upon to do.

Out in the street Paula Decker said, “You put the wind up Miss Cobcroft.”

“I think we put the wind up Mr. Nakasone, too. But we still have to find Miss Doolan.”

As they went to get into their car Paula said, “Who is Jack Teagarden?”

“Was, not is,” said Malone. “One of the best jazz trombonists ever, if not the best.”

She
opened the car door and got in. He slid in beside her, anticipating her next remark: “Never heard of him.”

Ah, he thought, lyrical and Celtic all at once, the small horizons of the young. “You disappoint me, Paula. Your generation thinks that the Big Bang of Creation was in the 1960s, that Woodstock was the Garden of Eden. Back in prehistoric times we had music and movies and sex, all the things your generation thinks it invented. Some day I'll bring in my LPs of Bix Beiderbecke and Benny Goodman—”

“LPs?” She was all innocence. “What are they?”

“Pull your head in,” he said, put the car in
Drive
and drove back through the present: clogged traffic, road rage, middle-finger salutes and some girl on the car radio screaming (not singing, like Doris Day or Kay Starr) lyrics that sounded like
Yah, yah, yah
. He was getting old, no samurai mob would take a second look at him.