The Stalk Club (30 page)

As he left one problem behind him, he turned his mind to
the next.  A mixture of emotions churned inside him as he looked again at the
photo he clasped tightly in his hand.

Nelson morosely worked his way through the seemingly
bottomless pile of witness statements - or
witless
statements as he often like to refer to them - from the Crenshaw
homicide investigation.  Even though it was only ten in the morning he felt
tired and lethargic.  He, Robards and Bovis had spent the entire previous day at
the Kings Cross Police station assisting the LAC Detectives in their
investigation before joining them at a local watering hole for what was
supposed to be just a couple of relaxing drinks.  Despite his very best
intentions, Nelson had eventually struggled home slightly after midnight, again
short changing his body of much needed sleep. 

He tried to work through his flat spot and forced himself
to concentrate on the work in front of him.  He noted that the LAC Detectives
seemed to have done a reasonably thorough job of collecting evidence and
interviewing witnesses, although Nelson made notes on some inconsistencies that
would need to be chased up.  The case appeared to be a matter of finding out
which of his relatives or business associates had knocked the old man off so
they could benefit from his death.  There was plenty of motive because Crenshaw
had amassed a property portfolio that was estimated to be worth in the vicinity
of $50 million.  Nelson mused that murder for profit was a re-occurring theme
in history.  Already the LAC Detectives’ attention had been drawn to the
youngest son and his wife who had been the last people to have seen Crenshaw
alive.   They were in debt up to their eyeballs as a result of losing big on
the stockmarket and there were witnesses to heated arguments over money in the
past between them and the deceased.

Nelson leant back in his chair and stared out the
window.  His thoughts drifted back to the Fogliani case and to Craig Thoms in
Silverwater mixing with some of the state’s worst criminals. 

Detective Sergeant Tony Robinson sauntered over to
Nelson’s desk, holding two cups of coffee, one of which he handed to Nelson. 
Nelson took the steaming brew appreciatively and felt the aroma seep into his
lungs and begin the revival process.

“You’re a lifesaver Tone,” said Nelson, grateful for the
distraction and the much needed pickup.  Robinson was also a Sergeant in
VanMerle’s team and had worked with Nelson in the past.

“I know, and by my calculations you owe me five coffees
now.”

“Is that all?  I thought it was closer to ten.  I’ll be
sure to remember you in my will.”

“Hey, I’ve got some information that might be of interest
to you.”

“Oh yeah, and what’s that?  You finally lost your
virginity?  That’s not that interesting Tone,” said Nelson with a deadpan
expression to the thirty-nine year old Robinson.

“Nope, it’s not that, but I’m still hopeful,” returned Robinson
with a smile.  “I took a call from the South Sydney LAC a while ago.  Word is a
couple of bodies have turned up.”

“So what’s strange about that?  Bodies are always turning
up around here.  You could even find some in the Homicide squad if you looked
hard enough,” said Nelson smiling at his own joke and nodding his head toward
the ancient, grey haired colleague at a neighbouring desk.

“True enough, but it’s where they turned up which will
interest you,” Tony said conspiratorially.

“Well are you going to tell me or will I have to beat it
out of you?” returned Nelson, his interest beginning to pique.  “Because I will
if I have to.  You know I can take you.”

“The story is that there’s been a warehouse fire in Strathfield. 
It took the Firies quite a while to bring it under control but when they did,
they found two bodies inside.  The early forensic reports are indicating that
they met with foul play.  Now the interesting point for you is that the
warehouse appears to be owned by the Fogliani family.”

“What?” said Nelson instantly casting aside his veil of
tiredness.  “When did this happen?  Who died in the fire?” he said, snapping
out the questions.  Robinson smiled genially at Nelson’s instant change in
demeanour. 

“The fire started around ten p.m. last night.  They haven’t been able to identify the bodies because they were pretty much crispy bacon
by the time they got to them.  We’ll have to wait on the dental records.  One
thing’s for sure, the Firies reckon it was deliberately lit.  Someone torched a
car inside the warehouse.”

Nelson thought hard for a moment, quickly sifting through
the information and discovering new angles and possible links to the Fogliani
case.

“Do VanMerle or Crighton know about this?”

“Yeah, they both do.  When I told VanMerle who owned the
warehouse he choked on his tea and immediately phoned Crighton.  From what I
could tell, I don’t think Crighton was particularly happy about it.  VanMerle
told me and Davis to stay tuned.  I think they’re still trying to work out what
they should do about it.”

“Yeah and I know why,” replied Nelson with a grim smirk.  “They
shut the Fogliani case down before we had a chance to sort out what really happened. 
If other people look into this case and find out that we’ve got the wrong guy
in custody, then it’s not going to look too good for them, or me for that
matter.”

Nelson barely noticed Robinson leave as he turned his
full concentration to the meaning of the new information.  His gut instinct was
telling him these two new deaths were somehow linked to his case and he was mindful
that this could be his best and perhaps last chance to set things right in the
Fogliani case. 

He made the decision to back his instincts and take the
rest of the morning to run the new developments to ground regardless of any
possible consequences.   

Robards and Bovis were still at the Kings Cross Police
Station helping with interviews on the Crenshaw case so Nelson would be on his
own.  He considered giving Robards a call and telling him what was going on or
even asking for help, but decided against it.  If his investigations came to
nothing he would steal back into the office and pretend to have been working
the Crenshaw case and hopefully no-one would be the wiser. 

He decided to call in some favours and dialed the number
for Raph Sanchez of the Gangs Squad.

“Sanchez speaking.”

“Hi Raph.  It’s Nelson.  Look, I need a favour.”

Raph Sanchez noted the business-like tone in Nelson’s
voice. 

“What sort of favour?”

“I need you to tell me where I can get some information
on what the Fogliani family might be up to.  Apparently, two bodies have turned
up in a burnt out warehouse in Strathfield that the Foglianis own.”

“Shit.  I wonder what the hell is going on there?”

“I don’t know but I’m going to find out.”  If Sanchez
knew that Nelson had been told to wrap up the case on the Fogliani murder he said
nothing.

“Look Nelson, I know you’ve been working the Fogliani
case from the start, but I’m not sure you should be chasing this one.  Three
murders in a week related to the Fogliani family sounds like our territory and
as soon as our Super hears about it I think he’ll be wanting us to take a
closer look.  Maybe Crighton was right after all and there is some sort of war
starting.”

Nelson chose his words carefully.  He knew he was
treading a fine line. 

“Don’t worry Raph, I’m not going to stomp on your toes.  If
the Gangs Squad want to take the case then that’s no problem, I’ll give you all
the case files.  But until then, I just want to take a quick look at things to
see if they relate to my current case, that’s all.  Now I know you guys have
plenty of contacts on the street who you pay an arm and a leg to for
information, so I’d be grateful if you could help me out this time and tell me
who I can talk to.”

Raph Sanchez thought for a moment.  He had an uneasy
feeling about Nelson’s request and wasn’t sure if his motives were as pure as he
had tried to make them sound.  And yet their friendship was still strong so he
begrudgingly cast his concerns aside.

“Alright Nelson, you win.  There’s a guy who we’ve used
in the past.  If anyone has an idea of what’s going on it’s him.  He’s got
links to all the underworld groups, new and old, because he’s done business
with all of them at some stage.  He’s about as well connected as they come.  The
bad news is that he hasn’t been too forthcoming lately.”

“You gotta name?” asked Nelson, trying to control his
eagerness.

“Mark Dendy.”

“Is he dangerous?”

“Probably not, but you never know your luck, so be
careful.”

“Thanks Raph.  I owe you one.”

“Oh you owe me more than one and I’ll be looking forward
to collecting one day.”

Nelson grabbed his coat and strolled lazily out of the building
as if he was going down the street for a coffee.  Once outside, he made his way
to his own car, hoping that he hadn’t been noticed.  He drove it out of the car
park and headed for the club in the city centre where Sanchez had said Mark Dendy
was a part owner and could be found most days.  Thirty minutes later Nelson lucked
a park on Pitt Street almost directly in front of the club and passed through
the glass doors, glad that despite the early hour it was open for business. 
The club was small and had a country and western decor to it which seemed
mildly ridiculous to Nelson.  He made his way to the bar and asked the barman –
a tall pimply faced redheaded kid - for Mark Dendy.  The barman nodded wordlessly
toward his left as he grumpily continued to tidy up the mess that the night
shift should have cleaned up but didn’t.  Nelson made his way to the small betting
lounge and found only one occupant who was attentively watching Race 1 from Wagga
Wagga racetrack.  

“Mark Dendy?” Nelson asked casually.

“Who wants to know?” replied the man, without taking his
eyes off the race in progress, his ire growing as the horse he’d backed for five
hundred slid inexorably towards the rear of the field.  Nelson briefly studied
the man before him.  He had lank dark greasy hair fastened behind his neck in a
ponytail.  His blue eyes were tired and creased and he wore a faded and stained
Hawaiian shirt.  Nelson judged him to be about fifty years of age but in
reality he was only forty-two.

“Detective Nelson, Homicide squad.”  Nelson flashed his
badge briefly, more from habit than to impress.

Dendy took a quick, furtive look at Nelson and a shadow
of derision passed across his face, which made Nelson smile briefly.  In some
ways, Nelson enjoyed dealing with people like Dendy because there was no
confusion.  It was black and white that he was the enemy of the police and
society.

“Mark, I’m not going to beat around the bush because
that’s not my style,” Nelson said firmly.  “I need some information and I need
it quickly.”

Dendy cursed as the race finished and threw his betting
ticket on the ground.  He turned and faced Nelson.

“Oh?  What sort of information?” he replied with false
geniality.

“I want to know about the Fogliani family.  First Emilio
Fogliani was murdered and now two bodies have turned up in one of their
warehouses and I want to know why.

“I’m always prepared to help out where I can Detective…..”

“Nelson.”

“Nelson.  As I was saying,” said Dendy, as he began to
show slightly more interest at the prospect of recouping his losses.  “Sure, I
know some stuff about the Fogliani family but I’m not sure it’s in my best
interests to be telling it to the likes of you.”

“Why not?”

“Because people like the Foglianis and their friends
don’t take too kindly to their private affairs being discussed with the cops.”

“It’s ok, I won’t tell them anything.”

Dendy smiled tightly.

“Ok Detective man, but my information don’t come cheap.”

“How much?”

“Maybe five grand might make me loosen my tongue a
little.”

Nelson felt a growing disgust for the man as his fetid
breath and body odour assaulted him.

“Five grand?  Sounds a little steep,” replied Nelson, a
frown creasing his forehead.

“Yeah well information can be expensive.  If you don’t
like the price you can go and crawl back into the arsehole you came out of.”  Dendy
turned away and grabbed another betting card.  He had to rush because race two
in Shepparton was coming up in four minutes and he had a solid tip that had
been given to him by his friend’s uncle who knew a guy who knew the trainer of
the horse, or something like that.

Nelson realised the conversation appeared to be over as
far as Dendy was concerned.  He sighed bitterly.  “I don’t have time for this
shit,” he mumbled under his breath.  He briefly thought about leaving Dendy to
his losing streak, but the thought of reaching another dead end left him with a
sick and sour taste in his mouth.  He looked up and noted the black dome video
cameras in the ceiling and then took a quick look around the club to see who
might be watching.  The place was empty except for a few disaffected elderly
patrons who were onto their third schooner already and the barman who was applying
himself diligently to washing five hundred schooner and midi glasses.  Nelson
grabbed Dendy’s arm and twisted it roughly and quickly behind his back.