The Stalk Club (12 page)

“Let’s go to my office where we can be more comfortable.” 

Fogliani led them to his office which occupied a sizeable
portion of the office space.  Robards’ and Nelson’s eyes were immediately drawn
to the view which stretched out to forever, taking in the harbour, the heads
and the Pacific Ocean beyond.  The exterior walls were floor to ceiling glass
and Nelson felt a brief moment of vertiginous anxiety as he looked straight
down to the street one hundred metres below.

Fogliani took his seat behind a large oak desk and his solicitor
sat beside him.  Two against two.

“Firstly let me say I’m sorry for your loss Mr Fogliani,”
began Robards.  “I’m sure this can’t be an easy time for you so we’ll try and
be as brief as possible.”  

“Thank you Detective,” said Fogliani nodding sadly.  He
took a deep breath, determined to keep his raw grief internalised and avoid
another public display of his emotions.  “These are nice offices, can I ask what
sort of business you’re in Mr. Fogliani?”

“Please, call me Michael,” he responded, glad for a less
taxing subject.  “We do many things here, mostly though we run an investment
company.  People pay me to invest their money for them.” 

“Stocks and bonds?” added Robards hopefully.

“Some.  We also invest in a few offshore projects and we
operate a couple of restaurants and a transport company.”

Robards nodded as if he was interested while Nelson just
sat, quietly listening.

“Michael, we need to know why your uncle was at St Peters
at ten p.m. last night.  Have you got any idea why he was there or if he was
meeting someone?”
Fogliani thought for a moment as if examining the question for a trap.

“No Detective.  My uncle didn’t tell me where he was
going last night.  If he went to St Peters to meet someone then I don’t
know who it was.  He was a private man who liked to keep his own counsel.”

Robards looked toward Nelson, wondering if he wanted to ask
anything, but he just sat silently, with his hands clasped on his lap, as if
waiting for a bus.

“Is there anyone else in your family, perhaps his wife or
some of his associates who might know what he was doing last night?”

“No,” replied Fogliani firmly.  “And I’d prefer that you
ask your questions of me and don’t bother my family.  I’m sure you understand
that they’re too distraught to speak to you right now.  It has affected my
mother and aunt very badly.”

“Of course.  Does your family have any business interests
in the St Peters area?”

“No.  Not in St Peters at least.  We have a couple of
warehouses but they’re in the inner west area.”

“I see.  Was your uncle involved in any bad business
dealings?” tried Robards again, trying to hide the note of frustration that was
creeping into his voice.

“No.  He was pretty much retired.  He helped me out in
the business occasionally, but for the most part he played golf and cards with
his friends at the club.”

Robards continued to forge onward.  “Is there anyone you
know who might want to harm you uncle?  Did he have any enemies?”

“No Detective, not that I know of.  He was loved and
respected by those who knew him.  In our line of business we have many
competitors, but that is all they are, competitors, not enemies.” 

Nelson watched him and noticed that the lie came easily. 
It didn’t take a genius to figure out that someone who had spent the last forty
years of their life screwing people over would have a list of enemies as long
as his dead arm.  He shook his head and smiled.

“Is there something amusing Detective?” asked the
solicitor, noticing Nelson’s gesture.

Nelson looked at him but then provided his response
directly to Fogliani. 

“Yes, there is something funny.  What’s funny is that you
think we have enough spare time to sit here and listen to all of your bullshit
answers.  We’re trying to find your uncle’s killer for god sake, but you’re not
going to lift a finger to help us are you?” 

Michael Fogliani and his solicitor sat dumbstruck by
Nelson’s comments. 

“I think I understand though.  You might be well educated
and sit up here in your nice office, but under your clothes and under your skin
you’re still your father’s son and your uncle’s nephew and you’re not going to
give us anything because that’s not the way the Fogliani family operates is it? 
At the end of the day we’re still the enemy to you aren’t we, even if we’re
trying to help you?”

Michael Fogliani’s face turned bright red

“You’ve no right to talk to my client in this manner,”
said Marini, already tossing around some potential legal options in his mind.

Nelson ignored the comment.  “Now I’m going to ask you
one more time Michael.  Do you know who your uncle was going to meet at the St Peters industrial area last night?”  Nelson sounded out his words slowly, as if
speaking to a child.

“No Detective, I do not know,” replied Fogliani through
clenched teeth, holding Nelson’s gaze.

“Do you know anyone who might want to kill your uncle? 
Actually, let me rephrase that.  Among the people that your uncle has robbed,
cheated or hurt during his lifetime, do you have any idea which of them might
have been responsible for killing him?”

Michael Fogliani seemed to involuntarily gasp which he
quickly converted into a clearing of his throat. 

“No Detective.  As I said, I honestly have no idea who
might be responsible for the death of my uncle.  I can’t force you to believe
me, but over the last ten years my uncle has left his past ways behind him.  He
is, was, an old man for god sake.”

Satisfied that Fogliani either didn’t know who his uncle
was meeting or wouldn’t share the information if he did know, Nelson stood up
to leave.  

“Michael, one last thing.  You might think the best way
of dealing with your uncle’s death is to give us nothing and then tear up the
city seeking vengeance on anyone who was remotely linked to his death, but
guess what, the people of this city don’t want gang warfare on the street, so
if you’re thinking of starting something, then don’t.  It’s my job to find the
killer and that’s exactly what I’m going to do, ok?  So don’t go getting in my
way.”

Nelson and Robards cleared the city centre heading west
on the M4 on making their way back to Headquarters.  At one p.m. on a Saturday
afternoon the traffic was about as good as it got and they sat on one hundred
kilometres per hour for the most part.

“Well I think that went well,” said Nelson, with a
straight face that a B grade actor would have been proud of.

“You’re kidding aren’t you?” replied Robards looking at
him in disbelief.  “Why’d you have to go so hard at him like that?”

“Because he was stonewalling us and wasting our time. 
Better to set him straight and know that we’re not going to take his crap.”

“Do you think he’ll make a complaint to Crighton?” 

Nelson considered the thought for the first time.

“Maybe.  Doubt it though.  I reckon his family doesn’t
talk to cops unless they absolutely have to.  It’s who they are.”

They lapsed into silence until Robards’ mobile started
ringing to the tune of the pop song that was currently sitting at number one on
the download charts.  Nelson frowned at the noise as it scrambled his thoughts. 
He tried to follow the audible side of the conversation and became increasingly
intrigued.  After Robards hung up it took all of Nelson’s control not to
immediately start interrogating him like a serial murder suspect.  Sensing
this, Robards focused his attention out the car window as the world sped by in
a series of grey flashes.  Nelson not-so-patiently waited him out and after a
long minute Robards put him out of his misery.

“That was Sabine from the lab.  She’s got some good news
for us.”

“Why’d she call you and not me?”

“Maybe she finds me irresistible.  She’s only human.  Or
maybe your phone has gone flat again.  She said she tried to call you but it
went to voicemail.  Don’t you ever charge it?”

Nelson checked his phone and realised it was indeed
flat. 

“Shit.  I only charged this thing a couple of days ago. 
It’s a piece of crap.  I need to get a new one but that cow Sharon in supplies,
treats every new requisition as if the money was coming out of her own pocket.”

“Are you finished?”

“Sorry.  You were saying something about good news?”

“Yep.  The blood on the gloves we found at the crime
scene is a match to Emilio Fogliani.  And it gets better.”  Again Robards paused
overly long for effect like a reality TV show host about to announce who had
been voted out of the show, and in the process, turned another fifty of
Nelson’s hairs grey.  “She found a couple of fingerprints on the inside of the
glove and CISB were able to get us a match.  The guy’s got some priors too.” 

The Criminal Identification Specialist Branch or CISB for
short, was part of the Forensic Services Group and specialised in all aspects
of identification of suspects and offenders, particularly in the area of
fingerprint examination.

Nelson pumped his fist in pure delight.  It was as
animated as Robards had ever seen him.  Nelson slammed the steering wheel of
the car a couple of times for good measure.

“That’s great news.  It’s the break I was hoping for.  Sounds
like we’ve got enough for a warrant on this guy.  When we get back I want you to
put a profile of him together so we know who we’re dealing with and track down
a current address for him so we can pay him a visit.”

“Consider it done,” said an equally jubilant Robards,
savouring the natural high that came with a breakthrough on an important case. 
“We’re going to nail this bastard to the wall.”

“After that you’d better go talk to Crighton and let him
know what’s going on.  But don’t go talking to that fat seal Brede.  He’s got a
big mouth.  If Crighton wants to fill him in then so be it.” 

Robards smiled broadly.  Giving Crighton some good news
was his kind of job.  

“Will do boss.”  It was one of the good things about
working with Nelson in that wherever possible he hived off any jobs that even
remotely resembled public relations, preferring to stay behind the scenes and
concentrate on doing the ground work.  It gave Robards the opportunity to increase
his profile.

“When you get an address for the suspect, get someone to
sit on him until we get the warrant ready.  Get Bovis if he’s available, he
won’t do anything stupid.” 

Constable Bovis was a mature aged recruit to the N.S.W.
Police Force and despite being thirty-one, was the most junior member of
Inspector VanMerle’s Detective team.  Nelson liked him because he had more
common sense than some of the young hotshots that came to the Homicide squad eager
to make a name for themselves.

“In the meantime,” continued Nelson, “I’ll keep the
paperwork going and check up on the final autopsy results and with forensics. 
I’ll also find out if anything has come up on the video tape yet.  Hopefully,
touch wood,” said Nelson tapping himself on the head, “things will start to
fall into place now.”

When they reached headquarters, Nelson and Robards divided
and went about their allotted tasks.  Nelson sat at his desk and fired up his
computer.  While he waited for it he thought about how the gloves fitted into
the case.  It was a good breakthrough and had the effect of re-energising
his wearying body as if he’d skulled ten cups of coffee.  He was looking
forward to an afternoon of methodically analysing the various streams of
evidence they now had and building a picture of what went down in St Peters in the middle of the night.  

Nelson checked his email and found a copy of Arnold Faulkner’s
autopsy report waiting for him in his inbox.  He quickly scanned through the
report and noted that there was no new information of any great importance. 
Plain and simply, Emilio Fogliani had been shot three times from close range
and had died as a result of the gunshot wounds. 

“It’s a no-brainer,” said Nelson quietly to himself as he
read it and then laughed at his little joke.

He put in a call to Mike Martinez in the forensics lab. 

“Hi Mike, it’s Nelson again.”

“Hey Nelson.  I was just about to call you.” 

“Sure you were.  That’s what all the girls say to me too.”

“That doesn’t surprise me somehow.  Anyway, it’s great
news about the gloves.  I’m glad we could help you cake-eaters fill in a
piece of the puzzle.”

“Makes a nice change.  Have you got anything new for me
other than your insults?”

“Yeah, we managed to match the footprint plaster cast
that was taken at the scene to a type of fairly expensive hiking boot that’s mostly
sold in a number of outlets specialising in outdoor stuff.”

“Outdoor stuff?  Like camping stores?”

“Yeah.  It’s a good print too, so if you can find the
boot we should be able to match it up pretty easy.”

“Good.”  Nelson was pleased with the way the evidence was
starting to stack up.  He hadn’t expected the footprint to somehow miraculously
identify its owner but knew that if they could find the person who had made the
footprint, matching it would be another nail in their coffin.  Nelson’s goal in
every case was to build a bank of overwhelming evidence, so that the accused
had no room to wriggle out, no matter how good his lawyer was.