Autumn Maze Read online

  “Greedy, that’s all, I think. They’re out of a job, anyway. I just fired them.”

  He opened the door, ushered Malone into a medium-sized office where four terminals and a chart, rather than pictures, graced the walls. The furniture was Italian modern, all sharp angles at crotch-level, designed to make castrati of careless clients. The big window behind the desk looked uptown into sun-blazing walls of other windows. Malone wondered who, if not the general manager, had the harbour view on this floor. In this town having a harbour view was the same as having your name on a roll of honour.

  Kagal rose as Malone and Ondelli came in. His university tie and Malone’s police tie made them look like undertakers against the other three ties in the room. “Inspector, this is Roger Statham and this is Leslie Bute.”

  Their youth surprised Malone, though he should have expected it. Neither of them looked more than twenty; Statham looked even younger, a schoolboy. He was tall and thin, still acne-scarred, with long blond hair and deep blue eyes that now looked bewildered and embarrassed. Bute was shorter, broader, dark-haired, a young bull who still had his balls but was shocked at how close he had come to losing them. Besides their flowered ties, both young men wore bright red braces, like some sort of regimental regalia. They stood up respectfully, as if they had both come from homes or schools that had taught them manners. Malone at once sensed that neither of these boys had the in-built antagonism to cops that he had become accustomed to. They would be helpful.

  He told them to sit down, then took a seat beside Ondelli, on the manager’s side of the desk. “I’ll talk with you later, John,” he said to Kagal. “Let’s hear what Mr. Statham and Mr. Bute have to say.”

  Both young men cleared their throats; then Bute said, “First, Inspector, I’d like to say we’re not criminals. At least I don’t think we are.”

  “Mr. Bute, I’m not here looking for crims. I’m here for information.” He glanced at Ondelli. “Detective Kagal told me there’d been some blips.”

  “Roger and Les were dealing with Rob Sweden. He got them in evidently because he needed to spread some money.”

  Malone looked back at Statham and Bute. “Righto, explain.”

  The two young men exchanged glances, then Bute said, “Rob came to us about three months ago, right?” Statham, who seemed to have trouble finding his voice, nodded. “He said we could make some money on the side if we helped him out. He had a client who wanted to clean up some money, he said.”

  “Have you done this before? Cleaned up money?”

  “Geez, no!” Statham found his voice, cracked and worn; he sounded as shocked at his own behaviour as at being caught. “I dunno why we said yes . . .”

  “Greed,” said their boss, not accusingly but like a specialist offering a diagnosis.

  Statham nodded, almost as if glad of the interpretation. “Yeah, that’s it.”

  “How much did you make?” Malone asked. “On the side?”

  “Not that much,” said Bute. “Rob said we’d make more as time went on. We made twenty thousand each.”

  “What do you normally make a year?”

  “Sixty thousand. Sometimes more, with bonuses.”

  Malone looked at Kagal. “We’re in the wrong game, John.”

  “Yeah, but we get the bonus of occasionally being shot at.” It was heavy-handed, but it made the three Casement men look, if not feel, uncomfortable.

  “How was the money to be laundered, Mr. Bute?”

  “Rob had this client. He deposited a million bucks, each of us had to handle a third. We were buying North American lumber futures—”

  Malone looked at Ondelli, who said, “Like I told you.”

  “How come this wasn’t picked up before now, if it started three months ago?”

  Ondelli looked only slightly ill at ease. “Inspector, I don’t think you appreciate the money that passes through this office. Rob was smart, he split the money. Three hundred, three-fifty grand, that’s not a large amount in our terms. It’d run by the observers without causing any real blip.”

  “So when did it cause a blip?”

  “When the client called in the money and we had to write the cheque. A million two. The call came late yesterday afternoon and if I hadn’t talked to you a coupla days ago, it probably wouldn’t have registered.”

  Malone, the counter of pennies, marvelled at a mind on which a million two (even the amount sounded unfamiliar) wouldn’t register. “Who was the client?” The three Casement men exchanged glances and Malone snapped, “Don’t give me any confidentiality bullshit, I’ve had enough of that for today. Who was the client?”

  “Pinatubo Engineering,” said Ondelli.

  III

  Going back to Homicide Malone said, “Check on Pinatubo, John, they’ve got to be registered here.”

  “Will do.” Kagal sometimes sounded as if he were in the army; when he became police commissioner he would also be a field marshal. “What about those jerks, Bute and Statham? Do we refer them to the Fraud Squad?”

  When he was commissioner he would sweep the city clean . . . “John, never give yourself more work than you have to. Let Fraud find them themselves. They’ve lost their jobs, that’s good enough for me.”

  Kagal said nothing for a while, then he looked sideways at Malone. “You think I’m an eager beaver, don’t you?”

  Malone had never ducked bumpers, even though he had been a poor batsman. “You are, aren’t you? I don’t hold it against you. I’d rather an eager beaver than a lazy bugger who bludged on his mates all the time. But you have to draw a line. What satisfaction would you get out of all the time and paperwork you’d spend on getting those two kids to court? And when you got „em into court, it’s a fifty-fifty chance the judge’d give them a slap on the wrist and put them on a bond for twelve months. Too many of our judges have a reluctance to go heavy on white-collar crims. No, John, slow down, that’s all I suggest. Police work was never meant for sprinters.”

  Kagal digested that; then he smiled. “I sometimes find you a pain in the arse, sir, but still I admire you.”

  “Likewise,” said Malone and for the first time liked the young man.

  Back in the office he did his own paperwork; then sat back and gazed at the note he had found on first coming back to his desk: AC Falkender called. You are to see the Minister at his apartment at 6 p.m. Lucky you. The note was in Clements’ large scribble.

  Then Clements came into the office. “You got the note? You going for cocktails?”

  “I’ll bet that’s what his wife serves—cocktails. If I’m lucky, I’ll get a stale beer. Why the hell me?”

  Clements dropped his bulk into the chair opposite Malone. “John Kagal told me about Pinatubo. I’ve already checked on it, as soon as Palady and Junor left. It was registered here two years ago, its full name is Pinatubo Medical Engineering. It was managed by a Mr. Belgarda, Ramon Belgarda. If Mr. Tajiri has anything to do with it, he’s not down as a registered director or executive. Their offices are down in William Street. I’ve been down there, it’s two rooms above an empty car showroom. Nobody home, the door was locked. I’ve been on to Romy. She’s just rung me back. Pinatubo used to import medical equipment into this country—operating tables, trolleys, stuff like that. There’s some of their stuff out at the morgue. Romy has made a few enquiries. As far as she can gather, Pinatubo hasn’t been selling medical equipment for at least six months, maybe more. It could of been set up as a front for—” He shrugged: take your pick of a dozen choices.

  “These kids I talked to at Casement’s, they said they knew nothing of Pinatubo. I believe them. They never met Tajiri or this other bloke—Belgarda? Rob Sweden was their only connection. I asked them if Sweden had ever mentioned Kornsey or Caccia, whatever name he used, but they just looked blank.”

  “He’s connected to it all, though.”

  “Of course he is. But how? Money is the key to this. It’s the be-all and end-all for these people, and I mean the lot of them. They are
either born to money or they’re born to make it, they marry for it or they kill for it. Or are killed.”

  “The commos must miss having you as their spokesman. You’ve taken in the whole capitalist system there.”

  “Romy once told me something, on our first case with her. She said when looking for the cause of death in a homicide, she started from the outer limits, eliminating everything as she went along that might’ve or might not have caused the death, till she got to a core of probable causes. I think we should do the same with these cases. How’re you going with her, anyway?”

  They had known each other so long and so well that neither of them was ever fazed when the conversation went off at a tangent. “D’you mean am I having second thoughts about proposing to her? Yes. But I always have second thoughts about everything, even whether I’ll have a piss.”

  “So, leaving aside whether you piss first time up, how do you feel now you’ve asked her?”

  Clements bit his lip, then nodded. “I’m happy. So’s she.”

  “Good.” Then Malone looked up at Andy Graham in the doorway. “Yes, Andy?”

  “Nothing from the FBI yet.” He scraped his feet, as if about to take off for Washington to find out what was delaying them.

  “Waco, Texas,” said Malone. “That’s probably all that’s on their mind, Waco.”

  The horrific end to the siege of the religious cult at their headquarters in Texas had thrown up a glare that had gone right round the world. The FBI itself was now under siege for its handling of the long stand-off, but Malone’s sympathy, like that of most cops, was with the law enforcement men. It was an old cliché but true: hindsight was the perfect example of twenty-twenty vision. And no one was ever as decisive in their criticism as those who did not have to make a decision.

  “Keep at them, Andy. But gently, try some Aussie diplomacy.”

  “What’s that?” said Clements.

  “Our request is probably going through the system, same as it does here. The Yanks have as many bureaucrats as we do. More, probably.”

  “You think I should try going through their embassy in Canberra?”

  “Forget that, that would only add to the system. We could be here till Judgement Day and I don’t think that’s on the calendar yet.”

  Graham disappeared and Clements said, “You’re being extra patient, aren’t you?”

  “No, I think I’m like you. I’m having second thoughts. I’ve got the feeling that if ever we solve these cases, make the connection, we’ll be wishing we were at Tibooburra.”

  IV

  The door to the Sweden apartment was opened by Luisa, the Filipino maid. She was in her thirties, plump, plain, but not unattractive with a flat-cheeked face and long-lashed dark eyes that had a remote look about them, as if she had not entirely left the slopes of Zamboanga, her home province. She ducked her head to Malone, but gave him no smile of welcome, instead looked apprehensive. Malone wondered if she was an illegal, if Sweden, unknowingly, was like those White House executive nominees who had neglected to check on their servants’ credentials. But illegal immigrants were not Malone’s province, he had enough bother with the natives.

  There was a smile of welcome from Rosalind Sweden, who came forward hand outstretched. “Inspector! How nice to see you again. You’ve met my sisters,” she said, as if he were the dim sort of man who went through life never remarking the women he met.

  “Of course,” said Malone, irritated, and perversely spread the suavity like honey. The three sisters, collectively, were formidable and he decided the best way of combatting them was with silk gloves. Unlike most Irishmen, he was not afraid of a woman, but in the plural he preferred to treat them with caution, which is the way even Latin men do.

  “My husband has been delayed, he’s been held up by some demanding constituent. It comes of representing an electorate like this.” She waved a hand as if they were in the middle of an unemployment camp. Malone had never bothered to check his Minister’s electorate and he wondered what the poorer voters would think of their member living in a pad like this.

  “Are you any closer to solving Rob’s murder?” said Juliet.

  Malone held up his finger and thumb half an inch apart. “We’re making progress. Homicides are rarely solved the same day. Except domestics,” he added, putting salt in the honey.

  “Domestics?”

  “When a wife kills a husband,” said the Police Minister’s wife. “Or vice versa. I’m learning the jargon since Derek has been bringing home papers from the office.”

  Malone had never shown a paper from the office to Lisa in all their married life. “You find the papers interesting?”

  All three sisters caught the note in his voice; they had been reading men’s voices since kindergarten. “Of course, Inspector. I did a year of sociology at university.” It had been a waste of time, she had soon discovered there were no rich sociologists. “But I suppose you look at the papers differently. You write them.”

  So far he had written none on the Sweden case. “I’m sure you’ll find the papers on your stepson interesting when they’re all in. Especially if I can link up his murder with another one.”

  That sat them up; he actually thought he heard Ophelia’s girdle creak. They looked at each other, then gave him the glare of a concentrated gaze. “Another murder?”

  “Have any of you heard of a man named Terry Kornsey? Or he might’ve called himself Joseph Caccia. He was an American.”

  There was a flicker in only one of the three pairs of eyes: Ophelia’s. Then all three heads were shaken. “The names mean nothing to me,” said Rosalind. “Julie? „Phelia?”

  “No.”

  “Was he a friend of Rob’s?” said Juliet. “Thanks, Luisa.”

  The maid had brought in some canapés to go with the drinks she had served. Malone had noticed that she had poured the drinks with the measured skill of a barmaid. He had asked for a light beer and she had poured it without choking it with a heavy collar.

  “Rob never brought any of his friends here,” said Rosalind. “Except girls. Very pretty girls with nothing between their ears.” A description that had never fitted her or her sisters.

  “Maybe I should talk to some of them. Can you remember their names?”

  “Not their surnames. They were always Caroline or Felicity or Joanna.”

  “Nice North Shore names,” said Ophelia. “Murderers never have names like that, do they?”

  Come to think of it, no they don’t. “You follow the crime stories in the papers?”

  “Only since my brother-in-law has become Police Minister. Hello, Derek, we’re talking murders.”

  The look of disapproval on Sweden’s face as he came down from the front door was blatant. “Jesus, „Phelia, do you have to turn everything into party chatter? A whisky, Luisa, a double.”

  “My, we are in a mood.” Ophelia stood up. “I think it’s time I went back to the hospital. I’m bringing Cormac home tomorrow. We’ll have a nurse come in, just in case. Goodbye, Inspector. Good luck with your inspecting. Are you handling my husband’s case?”

  “Only indirectly, Mrs. Casement. I think it’s been entered in the papers as assault, not homicide.” It was cruel: they both knew it, but she didn’t blink.

  She put on a hat, drew on gloves: it was like watching someone getting ready to go out to face the 1950s. The hat reminded Malone of the large-crowned caps worn by Soviet generals, who looked as if, if a wind blew up, their heads would spin away in the updraft. But Ophelia would never lose her head any way at all.

  “Nobody will kill Cormac. He’ll die in his own time,” she said and left. Winds would blow round her, but never through her.

  Sweden took Malone into a small study; Rosalind called after them, “Do you want us, too?”

  “No,” said her husband, “this is police business.”

  Malone was at once wary, wondering in what sense this was police business. He followed Sweden into the study, closing the door when the Minister
gestured for him to do so. A quick glance around the room gave Malone a new look at the Minister: unless the bookshelves were there just for show, Sweden had wider and deeper interests than Malone had suspected. There was what looked like a whole shelf of political history, national and international; a book by Gough Whitlam was somehow stuffed between two volumes of a biography of Lyndon Baines Johnson, a juxtaposition that would have sent the ex-President cross-eyed. There were books on music, art and there were two shelves of what Malone, lately converted to reading, took to be serious fiction: Bellow, Greene, Malouf. Then he saw the two vases of flowers and the small triptych of the three Bruna sisters on the wall. He guessed this was as much Rosalind’s room as her husband’s, this was where she read the papers.

  Sweden slipped off his jacket, took off his tie (a police tie, Malone remarked), sat down and motioned Malone into the chair on the opposite side of the small, neat desk. He sipped his drink, taking his time, looking at the detective with deliberate scrutiny that was insulting. Malone held his temper.

  At last Sweden said, “So what do you know that hasn’t been in your reports?”

  They were one-on-one, outside police precincts; Malone let his tongue go: “What makes you think I’m holding anything back?”

  Sweden was about to take another sip of his drink; the glass was stuck halfway to his mouth. “Don’t let’s you and I get off on the wrong foot, Inspector.”

  “I think we’ve already done that. You’re accusing me of holding something back on your son’s case.”

  “Aren’t you? I’ve looked at the summary briefs, there’s bugger-all in them. You want another beer?”

  Malone put down his empty glass. “No, thanks. Look, you’re the father as well as the Minister. I’ve learned a few things about your son that smell—would you want me to put those in the reports before I’ve had time to double-check whether they’re true or not? I’m a father, too. That comes first, before being a cop.”

  Sweden put down his glass, leaned forward. The small room was warm and there was a shine of perspiration on his bald head. “Okay, point taken. So what have you learned?”