The Stalk Club (8 page)

Nelson turned back and again viewed the crime scene.  He
tried to block out all external thoughts and absorb every detail of it into his
memory.  He studied the small warehouse and the position of the car in the driveway
down the side which led to the rear car park and loading dock.  He thought it
would be a nice quiet place to meet someone at night, as while the lighting was
good to the rear and front of the warehouse it was poorly lit down the side.  There
was a line of trees and shrubbery behind the car park at the rear of the
warehouse that provided a natural barrier between it and the park beyond.   

“If the murderer left in a car or even on foot, it’s possible
that one of the warehouses here, or across the road may have captured some
video of it, if their security systems are as good as security guard Ben said
they are.  There don’t seem to be any cameras covering the side of this
warehouse,” said Nelson as he cast the powerful beam of his Maglite torch
across the side of the building, “but I saw some at the front so we might get
lucky and find something.  When these places open up for business I want you to
go through them one by one and see what video footage they’ve got from last
night.  It’ll take you a while but it could prove vitally important.” 

“Sure thing,” said Robards, seeing the necessity, but not
relishing the thought of several hours of probable tedious work.

“Now let’s get into the search before those uniform boys
step all over our evidence.”

Detective Superintendent Crighton double checked the
Vaucluse address he’d been given by the night shift support staff at Police
Headquarters.  He directed his driver, a barred-up Senior Constable named
Clayton, to slow down and turn the unmarked white Commodore into the next
driveway on their right.  They were halted in their tracks by a pair of
imposing iron gates which were adjoined on each side by a ten foot high sandstone
block wall which encircled the perimeter of what appeared to be a sizeable property. 
A small security hut was situated beside the gate and two men sat inside,
viewing footage from a dozen video cameras located throughout the grounds.  Crighton
mused that the security measures seemed a little over the top for a family that
had purportedly left their shady dealings behind them.

One of the security guards took his feet off the bench,
stood up and lazily sauntered out to meet them.  His demeanour, like his dress
sense was casual, but he was solidly built and carried himself with the
confidence of someone who could handle himself.  He put his hands on the car
and bent down to peer through the door window at the occupants.

“You can go on up to the house.  They’re waiting for
you.  Just keep following the yellow brick road.”  He returned to his little
hut and the steel gates silently parted.  Senior Constable Clayton gunned the
police car through and headed up the driveway. 

Crighton had taken the precaution of phoning ahead
without explaining the circumstances of the visit.  He didn’t want to have to
sit around for half an hour while the family dragged their arses out of bed. 
They followed the well lit driveway and were soon confronted by the house.  It
was an enormous post-modern creation that made the neighbouring McMansions look
like cottages in comparison.  It had been built five years ago after the
Fogliani family decided that the forty square mock Tudor mansion that had
adorned the site for the previous sixty years was too small for their
purposes.  Crighton was quietly awestruck by the sheer magnitude of the house
and the neatly manicured gardens.  For just a brief moment he wondered that
maybe he had made the wrong career choice somewhere along the way.  He looked
over at Clayton whose mouth was slightly agape and wondered if he had similar
thoughts. 

He snapped out of his reverie and focused on the job at
hand. 

“Alright Senior, here’s how this is going down,” he said,
fixing him in a steely glare that left no room for negotiation.  “I will do the
talking and I will answer the questions.  You’re here for moral support only. 
Understood?”

“Yes Sir.”

“Good.  Hopefully we’ll be in and out in twenty
minutes.” 

They alighted from the car and made their way to the nine
foot tall glass front door, but before they had a chance to test the doorbell,
a swarthy, athletically built man, dressed in shirt and jeans, opened the door
for them.  He ignored Crighton’s greeting and ushered them into an empty formal
lounge to the left of the entry.  Crighton noted that the room was about the same
size as the housing commission house that he had grown up in.  The furniture
was minimalist, metallic and looked uncomfortable and was probably the creation
of an overpaid and overblown interior design consultant.

After a short wait, Michael Fogliani entered the room. 
Michael was the fulmination of a fifty year migrant family dream.  He was forty-two,
charismatic, had two business degrees from Sydney University and understood that
there were plenty of legal ways to make even more money than the illegal activities
that had given the Foglianis their initial start on the road to success.  Since
the death of his father some ten years previously Michael had taken over the
management of the family’s business interests and assets.  Overcoming protests
from some members of his family, including those of his Uncle Emilio, he had
steered the family money into a string of legitimate businesses and investments
and the Foglianis had never been more profitable or law abiding. 

“Superintendent Crighton, it’s nice to see you again,” said
Michael, extending his hand in a warm greeting coupled with a smile.  “And
Senior Constable?”

“Clayton.” 

Michael Fogliani was dressed in jeans and a striped Ralph
Lauren polo shirt.  Unusually for someone of Italian stock, his hair was naturally
blonde – parted boyishly on the side - and his eyes were a soft blue.  If he
seemed concerned about the nature and the late hour of the visit he didn’t show
it. 

“Please, take a seat,” he said gesturing to a white
leather lounge as he seated himself in an identical lounge opposite.  “What
brings you out here at this hour Superintendent?”  

Crighton was still trying to hide his surprise that
Michael Fogliani remembered him.  They had only met once, briefly, at a charity
sports dinner and auction eighteen months ago.  Crighton recalled that Fogliani
had dropped a lazy thirty thousand dollars or so on three or four items while Crighton
had regrettably spent seven hundred and fifty dollars on a framed and signed
photograph of Greg Norman striding up a St Andrews fairway wearing some very bad
lime green pants and tartan patterned vest.  After the auction, his wife had
chided him mercilessly for getting carried away in the heat of the auction moment.

Crighton leaned forward with his hands on his knees, trying
to use his most sympathetic and understanding voice.  He noticed that two old
women stood in the shadows of the doorway listening, perhaps sensing something
that Michael didn’t.

“I’m afraid I have some bad news Mr Fogliani.  Earlier
this evening we discovered a body in a car in the suburb of St Peters.  The
identification that we found on the deceased indicates that this person was
your uncle, Emilio Fogliani.”  

If Crighton had expected a hardened, unemotional response
from the son of an underworld legend he was mistaken.  The colour instantly drained
from Michael Fogliani’s face and tears welled up in his eyes.  He tried to hold
them back in an attempt to hide his raw emotions but they flowed freely
regardless.  Their omens confirmed, the two women in the doorway clutched each
other, left the room and could be heard wailing in another part of the house.

“How?  What happened?” Fogliani asked through his tears, incredulous,
his voice thick with emotion.  “Do…do you have any information on how he died Superintendent?”

“We’re still looking into that Mr. Fogliani.”

“Please, call me Michael,” he responded automatically.

“Michael.  We do know that he was shot several times and
that it appears to be a homicide.”

Fogliani wiped his eyes on his sleeves and tried to stem
the flow.

“I want to assure you that we’re looking into this and
will leave no stone unturned to find out what happened.  We will keep you
informed at every step of the way.”

“Good, and thank you.”  The tears started again.  “I’m
sorry for this.  It’s just that I lost my father about nine years ago and now
my uncle.  I thought we’d left all the grief in the past, yet here we are
again.”

“I am sorry for your family’s loss Michael.”

“Thank you Superintendent.”

“I’ve assigned two Detectives to the case.  Their names
are Nelson and Robards and they are some of our best officers.  They are
investigating the crime scene as we speak and will no doubt want to speak with
you in the near future.  If you could make yourself available to them it would
be appreciated.”

“Of course, of course.  I look forward to hearing from
them and will give them my full co-operation Superintendent.”

The wailing from the other room increased in tempo and
gusto, momentarily distracting Michael Fogliani.

“If there is nothing further gentlemen, I need to attend
to my mother and aunt.”

“Yes of course Michael.  I will leave you with my card.
Please don’t hesitate to call me if you need anything.”

“Thank you.” 

Crighton stood up to leave.  “Oh and one more thing, someone
will need to come down to the city morgue in Glebe to make a positive
identification of the body.  The detectives can organise a viewing for you.” 

Fogliani nodded numbly at the thought.

Kylie
Faulkner ascended the stairs in the Redfern apartment block she had been
visiting on a regular basis for the previous few weeks.  There was no lift so
her already shapely calves got a workout on their way to the fourth floor.  Normally
she dressed down so as not to attract attention in a neighbourhood that was not
renowned for its safety, but because of the hour and the occasion, she decided
to take the risk and was wearing nothing but a woollen knee length coat and
high heels.  And anyway, at six o’clock Saturday morning there was no one about
to witness her mad dash from her car into the building and up the stairs.

Her
knock on the apartment door was quickly answered by her recently acquired
boyfriend, Manuel Torres.  Despite the early hour, he was wearing a blue singlet
and shorts and was covered in sweat after just returning from an eight
kilometre circular run through the quiet streets.  He had barely slept the
previous night and needed the run to clear his mind.

“Morning
baby,” she said, reaching up to kiss him and then stepping past him into the
apartment.  She noticed with concealed amusement that he had made an attempt to
tidy the small one bedroom apartment in preparation for her visit.  “I’ve got a
surprise for you.” 

“Oh?” 
He closed the door behind her and smiled, already feeling the tension beginning
to ease from his tired limbs.  Her presence always calmed him. 

“Yes,
you deserve it for what you’ve done,” she said, her eyes flashing with
excitement.  She let her coat fall to the ground revealing her nakedness. 

“Now
come and do whatever you want to me.”  It took him the barest of moments to become
aroused and pull her into the bedroom.

They
had met in a sports bar six weeks ago, just two weeks after his release from
prison.  Manuel had just begun to find his feet on the outside and had gone to
visit his friend Bruno Trulli at Pellegrinos.  After dinner and a quiet
discussion with Bruno in Hyde Park he had gone to a sports bar to play pool and
meet up with some of his workmates.

Being
an attractive woman sitting in a sports bar on her own at eleven p.m. on a
Friday night, Kylie had attracted plenty of looks from men.  Most of them would
have liked to have taken her home and shown her the best few minutes of her
life thus far – according to them - and despite being well and truly out of
most of their leagues, some of them gave it their best shot anyway. 

She
ignored the offers of free drinks, the cheesy one-liners and the looks she
received until after thirty minutes she caught the one she was after.  At the
time, she had started to think she was losing her touch.  She held the stare
from Manuel’s dark eyes for about four seconds, before ending it with a half
smile and looking back to her drink.  She didn’t have to wait long as he approached
her after some goading from his workmates.  Their first night together was wild
and energetic and s
uch was her performance and his pleasure, it
was never going to be just a one night stand.  His enjoyment
was heightened because it was the first time he had been with a woman since before
he had been sent to prison.  From that night onwards their relationship had blossomed
and deepened and Manuel quickly found himself thinking that he had found the
one who was made for him.

**************

They
lay naked on the bed, Kylie facing away from him.  The morning sun arrived and
cast its weak beams across the bed and their white and brown skins.