Cross Off (15 page)

Back in his kitchen, fixing stir-fry vegetables and rice and drinking a can of light beer, he admitted the reason for his uneasiness. Ann. Had it been a mistake to bring her in because he wanted her and could use her to deflect his growing interest in Ava? Maybe. But it had kept him on his toes. Now guilt was cutting in. He decided that he wouldn't let the operation run too long, a week at most. If nothing broke there would only be one course of action left—the application of extreme pressure to Grant Reuben.

Early rising was not one of Vance Belfante's habits, but he had got used to it while in prison and, in any case, he scarcely slept in the hours before he set out for Centennial Park. The night had been a blur of cocaine, tobacco and flesh. Vance had had sex with three of the strippers, his appetite insatiable, his stamina limitless. When the club closed he steadied himself down with some wine and unloaded and cleaned the Ruger .38. He found it surprisingly easy to do—his mind was clear, his hands were steady and the gun's mechanism was entirely logical and a delight.

He was sitting in the bar with an open bottle of chardonnay beside the machine oil, tissues and cotton buds he had used for the job. He sighted along the top of the lightweight pistol at a vase full of dead flowers and snapped off a couple of imaginary shots.
The mechanism functioned smoothly. He remembered Frost telling him that the .38 wouldn't have a lot of recoil but that it was best to shoot low anyway.

Only a mug tries for a head shot first off. Head shots are for making sure
.

Vance was no mug and he'd make sure. He took a taxi to the flat in Bellevue Hill. His car had been taken by the police when the gloves and spade had been found in it. He'd forgotten that. Well, the fuckers would just have to return it, wouldn't they? Ava's Honda Civic was in the carport but the battery was flat. Vance looked at his watch and calculated that he had plenty of time—enough to have a shower, change his clothes and walk to the park. Start on his fitness program.

He entered the flat which smelled musty and stale. All of Ava's stuff had gone and the place had no good memories. No memories at all. He scarcely remembered living there. He and Ava'd get another place. A better one, bigger. After a quick shower he struggled into a pair of too-tight jeans, a denim shirt, sneakers and a dark-coloured nylon jacket. The pistol sat comfortably in the pocket. Before leaving he had two hits of cocaine. Two solid snorts of Geoff Caulfield's best. It had cost him more than he'd expected. Of course, he needed it just for now. To get this done. Then he'd give it away. Too pricey. But one of the great things about the stuff was that it made him feel lighter and younger. He felt he could run all the way to Centennial Park and not raise a sweat.

He arrived soon after the gates were opened. A couple of joggers entered and began their stretching exercises. Vance strolled between the trees, cutting across the paths towards the cycling track. The
morning was cool—almost cold—and overcast, but he was sweating slightly inside the jacket and his breath steamed. He was fairly familiar with the park. He used to go there with his family on picnics when he was a kid. Real dago picnics with mountains of food and gallons of grappa. One of his mates in his younger days had been a horse fanatic and used to ride there. Vance had ridden with him a few times but couldn't see the attraction. What was that guy's name? Good bloke, too. Forgotten.

The bicycle track was merely a road loop that had been favoured by riders for years. The accommodating park management had paved another section to join up with the loop and provide a two kilometre path. Vance had twenty minutes in hand. He located the one kilometre post and the clump of thick grass. He fancied he could see something in the grass but he couldn't be sure. A big Moreton Bay fig provided cover scarcely five metres from the marker. Vance settled into a recess in the trunk. He was cold now and zipped up his jacket. Couldn't smoke, which was a bugger. The air was damp as if rain was threatening. Would the guy come out to ride a bike in the rain? Course he would. He was picking up dough. Rain didn't stop you when you had something important to do. Vance felt good—strong and confident. Nothing like a brisk walk in the early morning. Maybe he'd take up bike-riding, too. He dipped into his pocket and got a small amount of coke on the tip of his little finger. He stuck the finger up his nose and sniffed. He waited.

Dennis Tate swooped past the marker, shot a quick glance and saw the yellow of the envelope amongst
the grass. He pedalled hard, enjoying the speed and the feeling of power it gave him to push the bike along. A few more laps to make sure everything was clear. He had the track to himself and he thought it would probably stay that way because it looked like rain. No fun riding fast in the rain and fast was the only way to do it. He leaned into a turn, pumping hard, bum up off the seat, bent forward over the handlebars. On the next time round he caught a movement. Just a flash. Where?

He slowed a little to give himself slightly better vision and more reaction time. His eyes probed the sides of the track as he went past the marker again. Behind that fucking tree! What was it? A puff of warm breath in the cold air? Something. Something moving where everything should be still. On the next circuit Tate looked up earlier and he was sure. He caught a glimpse of a face, quickly pulled back. What the fuck was going on? Once past the trees he was out of the watcher's sight for ten metres. He slowed, jumped the bike from the track and bucketed over some rough ground and into thick grass. He stopped, let the bike down quietly and freed his backpack. The silenced .22 was in his hand as he crept back towards the big tree.

Belfante panicked when the rider didn't reappear. Where the hell was he? He eased forward to get a better look. Risked sticking his head further around the trunk. The track was empty. He pulled out the pistol, more for reassurance than as a threat. He was really sweating now. The metal was slippery in his hand. He crouched.
I shouldn't be here
, he thought.
This isn't for me
. He thought he heard something moving behind him and he turned . . .

Tate was less than twenty metres away, moving silently, using the light cover afforded by some slender poplars. The man in the dark clothes turned and Tate recognised him. He saw the gun and didn't hesitate. He raised the .22, steadied it and shot twice at the thick body. The popping sound was no louder than a snapping twig. Vance Belfante grunted and straightened. He lurched forward, the gun still in his hand. Then he was falling but the gun turned up towards Tate who had kept moving. From a range of ten metres, Tate shot Belfante between the eyes. A plume of dark blood spurted into the grass.

Tate stepped over the crumpled body. The ejected shells had flown high and to the right as he'd anticipated. He saw two of them immediately and snatched them up. He couldn't locate the third. He ran forward to the bicycle track, pulled the envelope from the grass and stuffed it inside the waistband of his track pants. He came back, bent and picked up the pistol Belfante had dropped. Then he moved quickly through the trees back to his bike. The two guns and the envelope went into the backpack. He wheeled the bike to the track, mounted and sprinted off towards a road leading out of the park.

17

N
ews of the discovery of Vance Belfante's body in Centennial Park reached Dunlop shortly after nine a.m. He absorbed the scanty details quickly—ID confirmed by the photograph on the driver's licence; shot three times at close range with a low-calibre weapon; unarmed; carrying a quantity of cocaine.

He telephoned the Little Lloyd Street house and spoke to Waterford.

'Sounds like a drug deal gone wrong,' Waterford said.

'Maybe. Is Ava up yet?'

'Are you kidding? She's got her own clock. The day starts around eleven a.m. and ends about two a.m. You should know.'

'What's that supposed to mean?'

'She never stops talking about your holiday up north.'

Dunlop ignored this. 'How will she take the news d'you reckon?'

'Hard to say. She's got something on her mind. Something's worrying her while she's sober. She tries not to let that condition last too long.'

'Is she cracking up? Changing her story?'

'No. She wants to go through with what we're doing. She's very keen on it, actually. Looking forward to going out today.'

'To the doctor at one-thirty. Okay. You and Ann decide how and when to give her the news. Phone me if it buggers up any of our plans.'

No call came and Dunlop, wearing a hat and dark glasses, was a passenger in a fake taxi that travelled behind the VW Golf being driven by Ann Torrielli. The driver was an expert. On the run to Double Bay he moved around the roads, dropped back, speeded up, passed the VW and, apparently out-manoeuvred by the traffic, allowed it to pass him.

'Nothing,' he said as he turned into Ocean Avenue.

'You're sure?'

'He's better'n me if he's there.'

Ava's doctor's rooms were above Cross Street in a three-storey building. Dunlop left the 'taxi' at the Bay Street corner and watched Ann park. Ava got out and, even at a distance of sixty metres, Dunlop could see the change in her. The dark blue dress hung slightly loosely and she moved differently with less body weight to transport. Her hair was ash blonde, not the previous platinum outrage, and she had abandoned the extravagant earrings. There was nothing furtive or watchful in her stance as she waited for Ann to lock the car. She flashed the younger woman a smile and they strolled along the footpath towards a set of heavy glass doors. Ann was considerably shorter, Dunlop noted, and then made the correction—Ava wore high heels. Ann was in slacks, a long-tailed shirt to conceal her gun, and flats.

Dunlop followed them on the other side of the
street, taking care not to be reflected when Ann swung the glass door out. He was concealed behind a pillar when she swept the scene with a searching look before following Ava through the door. Dunlop gave them several minutes, then he entered the building and did a rapid check of entrances and exists, fire stairs and elevators. Satisfied, he crossed the street and went into a coffee bar. He bought a cappuccino and took a seat which gave him a view of the entrance. Ava had been on time for her appointment but with doctors that didn't mean anything. He could be in for a long wait.

Dunlop drank two cups of coffee and ate a croissant. He sifted through the elements of the case as he ate and drank. Ava hadn't looked to be prostrated with grief by the death of her husband. Well, why would she be, seeing that the bastard had put out a contract on her? He wondered if she'd get herself up in black for the funeral. Funeral. There was a thought. An exposure opportunity. Dunlop considered it as he stirred the dregs in the bottom of the cup. Too dangerous, but maybe Roy could do his impersonation. He'd enjoy getting into something black and slinky and the veil would be a help.

The waitress approached him warily. 'Will there be anything else, sir?'

After the Strathfield massacre, Dunlop had noticed, people were edgy about single men drinking multiple cups of coffee. He smiled and stood. 'No, thanks. Good coffee.'

The waitress looked relieved, returned the smile and handed him the bill, for almost twice what he was used to paying in Marrickville. Dunlop left the coffee bar. He wondered what had kept Ava at the doctor's for
so long. And somehow he didn't believe that Vance Belfante's death had anything to do with drugs.

Tate had been trained to regard anger as a waste of energy, a delay in the process of putting things right. The rain that had threatened held off and he was able to keep up a good speed on the ride back to Randwick. He concentrated on the hills and the traffic, contending with the motorists for space on the roads and riding hard to make up for the abbreviated work-out. Tate had lost count of the number of men he had killed as a soldier and civilian. Body counts meant nothing to him and certainly the death of one more man at his hands was insignificant—unless it posed some kind of a threat.

He checked his blood sugar, which was perfect, dead centre in the middle of the normal range. After showering he ate the remainder of his breakfast. When exercising early, it was his practice to eat half of the meal before the work-out and half after. It seemed to produce good results. He made coffee and cleaned and reloaded his pistol. Then he examined the Ruger. Good gun. Cleaned with the wrong kind of oil by an amateur, he decided, but it would have done the job just the same. Small hole going in and a fucking big one coming out. Full load of high quality ammunition, everything in perfect working order. A professional's weapon. He laid it aside and slit open the envelope.

When he saw the wads of cut and folded newspaper he forgot his training and lost control. He shouted, upset his coffee mug and ripped the envelope and its useless contents to shreds. He swept the
debris and the dripping mug to the floor and pounded his fist on the table until the jarring began to hurt his elbow and shoulder. He was breathing hard, sweating and grinding his teeth. He opened his mouth to yell abuse and then, as abruptly as it had left him, the self-control returned. The last thing he needed was his neighbours at the door, questions being asked, strange noises being remembered later. He turned on the radio and cleaned up the mess.

He was calm again, dressed and shaved with fresh coffee in front of him when he heard the news broadcast announcing the discovery of the body in the park.
Police are treating the death as a case of murder
, the news reader said.

Tate grunted as he snapped the radio off, 'Pig's arse. Fucking self-defence is what it was.'

He sipped his coffee and tried to work out what Reuben's motive might be, other than to screw him out of his fee. The lawyer must have told Belfante where and when to wait. No-one else knew the time or place. Why? Reuben couldn't have imagined that the fat slob would have been any match for
him
, could he? Of course, Belfante could have got lucky but it was a bet with very long odds. So Reuben must have set Belfante up. Again, why? Whatever the reason, Tate took grave exception to it all. Failing to pay his fee was one thing, conning a free execution out of him was another. The appropriate action was clear in Tate's mind, no question about it.
After I've extracted every last living dollar he's got
, Tate thought,
Reuben is a dead man
.