Deadly Investment Page 3

  “So it’s like giving your money to a computer?”

  “Right. And in fact you’ve hit upon what Scientific Money has done. Kantor developed a new economic theory, call it a formula if you like, that relies upon a very detailed analysis of the Australian economy and the companies operating in it. So Scientific Money has a huge array of computers linked together. They claim to have the biggest firepower used in funds management in the Southern Hemisphere.”

  By now, the table lay hidden under papers. On Tusk’s side, neat piles and his notebook. On Gentle’s side, a mass of papers, heaped and scattered, coffee cup rings all over them.

  “Who’d give their money to a machine?” Tusk said.

  “Good question.” Gentle smiled, a teacher rewarding his student. “That’s exactly what the financial world said when the Keppels did a big song and dance about their new fund in ’94. The prevailing view was that Scientific Money would sink without a trace.”

  Their coffee arrived. Tasted superb, Tusk had to admit.

  “But what the establishment didn’t realize,” Gentle said, “was that the investing public was ready for a new paradigm.”

  “Explain.”

  “Well, a paradigm is a new way of looking at things—”

  “I know what a bloody paradigm is. I meant, keep a move on. We haven’t got all day to prance around.”

  Gentle looked at him with exasperation.

  “Okay, okay.” Gentle tugged at his hair—why didn’t he get it cut? “After the ’87 sharemarket collapse, people were ready for new ideas. And research shows that most fund managers can do no better than just investing in an average group of shares. So the upshot is that Scientific Money’s first fund, Quant Fund #1, quickly became a success. It now has over $5 billion invested in it, which is amazing. Rollo’s one of the most feted men in the industry.”

  Gentle waved at a passing suit. Plenty of people seemed to know him here. A waiter cleared their cups. Tusk shook his head when Gentle ordered yet another coffee.

  “And Kantor?” Tusk said.

  “He’s not… wasn’t nearly as famous. He was the quiet bright guy behind the scenes, one of the brightest men in Australia.”

  Besides yourself you mean, Tusk thought. He flipped back through his notebook and took over the running.

  “The crime scene’s not all that helpful,” he said. “Kantor Keppel was found at 12:30 AM by a security guard doing a routine inspection. The body was lying at the top of the stairwell leading down to the parking garage. A mess, blood everywhere. The security guard freaked, called the police. Estimated time of death 10:30 PM—”

  “That lines up with the fact that he logged off his computer at 10:30,” Gentle said, hands flying.

  “Cause of death: a single blow with a heavy blunt object. Soot particles suggest a fireplace poker. Not found yet. From the body positioning, the police think the victim must have been at the top of the stairs, turned as his assailant opened the door behind him. They lifted fingerprints off the stair railing but they’re all of people who’d be expected to use the stairs, so that’s no help. No useful prints on the doorknobs or the body itself. No footprints. Oh, and Kantor’s briefcase was taken. No trace of it yet.”

  Tusk blinked, momentarily pierced by memories of cases long gone. He listened intently to Gentle’s summary—impressive, no notes yet minutely detailed—of the email and the security system with its implications.

  “Anyone traced the email yet?” he asked.

  “They’ve tried but without any luck. It’s not hard, you know, to set up a chain of anonymous email addresses that just can’t be unwound.”

  “Show me the case documentation on it.” Tusk read the email, shook his head. “See this note in the margin? Random junk, it says, and they’re right. It just doesn’t have the tone of a threat to a big time exec.”

  Tusk tried to ignore the growing hubbub of the restaurant revving up for lunch. Why did he find it so noisy when he’d spent years standing in pubs that must surely have had as many decibels? I’ve become a suburban git, he thought. And why not? What’s the city ever done but fuck me over?

  “You know, it all seems pretty simple to me.” Gentle sounded like a squeaky wheel in his excitement. “There are only four people who could have done it. Rollo or his wife Bella—what kind of a name is that anyway? Benedict Dancer, who I gather from his interview was pissed off at Kantor because of a salary dispute. And Marcia Brindle. All we have to do is figure out who had the motive, and we’ll solve the case, bingo.”

  Christ! Tusk nearly shouted it. He felt fifteen again, spiked with irritation, not at the smart-arse intellectualizing itself—he realized he rather enjoyed the stimulation—but at the arrogance.

  “What about the emergency exit?” Tusk said.

  Dunce cap time, Gentle’s smirk said. “None of the staff with normal passes could have used that exit, otherwise they’d have been registered as going in but not coming out. The police went through the security system records for all staff in the office that day and found an entry record and an exit record. I guess Rollo or Bella could have gone in using an invisible pass, and then left through the emergency exit, but to what point?”

  “Maybe,” Tusk said, “the perp wanted the police to think that it was just a vagrant squatting in the stairwell. Because that’s exactly the position the police are taking at the moment, at least from my reading of the case file.”

  Gentle flushed.

  Gotcha, Tusk thought. “I doubt it would be difficult to slip into the building with a crowd of staffers. I bet you or I could do it without any problems.”

  He had to give Gentle credit—recovery was instantaneous. “In that case, there are a couple more suspects the police have interviewed. Willy Keppel, the third brother, doesn’t seem to have been a popular sibling. And a guy called Robert Friedman, who’s been hounding Kantor for years. Do you give the hobo theory any credence?”

  “It’s possible. The taking of the briefcase supports it. But no.” The pulped face loomed in Tusk’s mind. “You saw the face. That was no random killing, even by a nutcase. In fact, I definitely get a sense of something not quite right from the case file. Sam Vinci, the guy in charge, is a hell of a cop, yet they haven’t covered all the bases hard enough. Maybe the widow is right to hire some extra help.”

  And he’d noted his old friend Deirdre was on the case. Promoted to Senior Constable Lasker now. Maybe useful, maybe not.

  Gentle leapt up. “Speaking of which, we need to dash.”

  Tusk’s body felt relaxed and well oiled as he followed Gentle past the jam-packed bar.

  “You don’t pay here?” he asked.

  “Jesus, forgot again. Never mind, Hec will keep a tab.”

  Outside the bright autumn light in gentrified Block Place made Tusk blink. Isolated yellow and red autumn leaves lay underfoot. Christ, he could remember sleeping in one of the doorways here, back in the days when this was just a shabby shortcut. Now glasses clinked as mineral-water businessmen sat under restaurant umbrellas crowding the paved laneway. A tanned businesswoman strode past.

  Boy Wonder grinned inanely, as if he was a tour guide showing off the lane. He was slouched, one hand in pocket, the other clutching his mobile. Tusk tucked in his stomach, grabbed Gentle’s mobile. He’d been dreading the call home, but found himself jaunty as he told Dana he’d be out all day. Reason unspecified.

  “One thing,” Gentle said when they reached Collins Street. “I’m going to look at the theory, the magic formula, behind Scientific Money. If Bishop’s right, there may be a connection.”

  Tusk observed the scurrying people. Green-and-yellow trams. A beggar against a wall, head down. “Waste of time. Suspects are the key, not some bloody theory.”

  “You’re completely wrong.” Gentle tossed coins into the beggar’s cup. “Let me tell you why. Firstly—”

  “Shut up for a change,” Tusk grunted. He watched Gentle’s face fall, felt a surge of affection for him.

  T
ime check—11:29. As Gentle scythed ahead with his loping stride toward the parking garage, Tusk finally recognized the odd sensation lodged inside him. An R.E.M. lyric did it: “Aluminum tastes like fear, aluminum pulls us near.” For the first time in so long, he felt the reckless pulse of pursuit.

  I’m excited, he thought.

  Halle-fuckin’-lujah!

  CHAPTER 4

  “This place must be worth a couple of mil,” Peter said.

  Mick didn’t respond. Peter watched him head along the high white stone fence blanketed by ivy. Willow branches hung over the top. Unlike the huge two-story mansion next door, the frontage of the Keppel residence wasn’t wide.

  In the car, Peter had thought of asking his partner how to conduct interviews. How did one approach a potential suspect? Hi, I’m a private investigator, I’d like to ask you some difficult questions? But it all sounded too basic. Instead they’d discussed the facts of the case and their tactics.

  Peter’s stomach grumbled. He shaded his eyes to look down Mathoura Road toward Toorak Road. He’d noticed a busy restaurant on the corner, Toorak socialites sitting outside in full battle dress, sipping wine. He wondered if he’d have time to stop off there after the meeting.

  “Hey, genius,” Mick called.

  An alcove was set back in the fence to enable a car to be parked, and there Mick had found an imposing gate with an intercom.

  Peter knew a bit about real estate—it was a frequent topic at Skulk Club meetings, some of the guys were near-professionals—and he’d learned that while Toorak had always been Melbourne’s most prestigious suburb, there were really two Tooraks. To the north and east, wide leafy streets held the greatest concentration of property wealth outside America’s Beverly Hills. Here in the southwest of the suburb, the standard was still high, but down a few notches. Garish new townhouses, squeezed onto smaller blocks, coexisted with old wealth in large houses. Off-street parking was at a premium, and BMWs and Mercedes Benzes lined Mathoura Road.

  “Yes?” Peter recognized the client’s imperious voice over the crackling intercom.

  He attempted to tidy up his hair. Old-time actuarial consultants had told him they always remembered their first clients. Would he recall this moment in twenty years?

  “Mrs. Keppel? It’s Peter Gentle.” Should he have mentioned Mick? He glanced at Mick to check whether he was offended, but the ex-cop stood stretching his arms like a bodybuilder.

  “I’ve been waiting for you, Mr. Gentle. You’re late.”

  The gate swung open.

  “Yeah sure, Tusk & Gentle are late,” Mick said. “At 12:06.”

  Inside, Peter stumbled on stone paving, his eyes struggling to adjust to the murky light. A small garden area had been transformed into a minor courtyard. A paved path curved to the house, lined by thickly planted trees on one side and red rose bushes on the other. A small fountain stood silent in the middle. He inhaled the sweet, earthy aroma of autumn leaves. A Siamese cat watched them for an instant, then slipped behind a half-hidden statue in the undergrowth. All sound from the outside world had cut out. Peter felt a chill on his neck.

  He climbed wooden steps to a small creaky veranda decorated with iron lacework. Next to them a new bay window showed an easy chair with lush cushions. Yellow leaves on the floorboards rustled at their approach. The front door, clearly original and repainted a deep brown, with a grandiose brass knocker, stood ajar.

  A polished gold sign beside the door read “The Island.”

  “Get it?” Peter whispered. “Great Keppel Island, the resort island on the Great Barrier Reef. That must have been Kantor’s sense of humor.”

  He nearly gasped when they walked in. The long hallway had been completely renovated. He admired the gleaming pine floorboards, the vibrant paint, and the oil paintings caressed by recessed lights. Everything glowed. This is success, he thought.

  “Do come this way,” the widow said.

  Peter grinned with relief as his client came forward. Imogen Keppel looked nothing like the Sunday school teacher he’d expected. If anything, she seemed younger than her fifty years, with curly auburn tresses streaked with minimal gray, and clear unwrinkled skin. She wore a severe black jacket and trousers over a white blouse. She must have been beautiful once, Peter thought. But the blue eyes that flicked from him to Mick in rotation were muddy and inflamed simultaneously, fired with—with what? Grief? It seemed more like anger. A tortoiseshell cat circled her cream shoes.

  The hand she extended felt dry as newspaper.

  He introduced Mick before they sat down in the room with the bay window, a large living room with a high ceiling. A vase bursting with an extravagant flower arrangement stood on the floor, and his nose itched at the heady perfume. Huge old lounge chairs and a deep brown coffee table, under which a plump gray cat slept, contrasted with pristine walls lit by lights on tracks.

  Lovely, Peter thought. But so impersonal.

  “Please help yourself to coffee and cakes,” Imogen said, moving to a lounge chair.

  “You have a lovely home, Mrs. Keppel,” Peter said, trying to sound like he knew how to start. “Have you been here long?”

  The tortoiseshell cat rubbed against Imogen’s legs, and another white cat entered and surveyed them, its tail waving. Peter’s older sister Julia had once brought home a black stray cat, a fierce creature with half an ear missing. They christened it Sooty and Peter grew to like it. Other than that, he had little experience with cats. He found the Keppel cats vaguely disturbing.

  “Thank you, Mr. Gentle,” Imogen said. “My husband and I put so much time into the design here. We bought it in 1991, but only redesigned it a couple of years ago. We were so happy here.”

  Peter assuaged his hunger with a large vanilla slice. Pastry flakes drifted onto his suit.

  “I am so glad that you have taken on this assignment,” the widow said. “Mr. Bishop spoke so highly of your record and your skills, although I must confess he did not tell me that you would be so young.”

  Peter noticed Mick’s face twitch. Bishop had clearly sold them on false premises. The sugar hit of the icing kicked in and Peter rubbed his thumbs together to stop himself leaping up to pace.

  “We’re older than we look, Mrs. Keppel,” Peter said. “What can you tell us about your husband?”

  Imogen twisted a pink handkerchief in her hands.

  “My husband was a special man. He swept me off my feet when I was young. Are you aware we have been married thirty-two years?” She twisted her handkerchief harder. “He was a genius, Mr. Gentle, a genius. His company relied upon him absolutely. I just don’t know what they’re going to do without him. He revolutionized investment. He has awards from all over the world. He deserved a Nobel Prize. And the police are simpletons. I have never in my life seen such incompetence, never in my entire life.”

  Peter knew the raw history, from the case interviews and his own memory. Kantor had married Imogen in 1967, just before moving from Melbourne to the Australian National University in Canberra, to start his illustrious first career as an economics professor. In the mid ’70s he was a visiting fellow at MIT in Boston, during which time there had been talk of a possible Nobel Prize. He returned to Melbourne in 1980 to take up a local academic post, and in 1987 moved to join his brother Rollo at the major investment bank, Coombs Holcomb. And what a second career!

  Peter looked at Mick, so still he could have been carved into the lounge chair. Say something, big guy, he thought.

  “Mrs. Keppel,” Mick said on cue. “How many children do you have?”

  “Only one. The light of my life.” Imogen looked to the door. “Come in, dear.”

  The woman who stood in the doorway struck Peter as a spectre, white on black. Her jet-black hair formed a shiny halo around a perfectly oval face, pale as hotel marble, and she was encased in black from neck to feet. She stood immobile, green saucer eyes focused somewhere above Peter’s head. Purple lipstick glistened, a smudge trailing down her chin. She wore a black dres
s elaborate enough for a ballroom, highlighting large breasts. Her belly strained at the dress and the skin on her white arms hung slack. Silver crosses dangled from her ears. Black boots and black gloves with ties running up her arms completed the picture. How old is she, he wondered, eighteen or forty?

  “Straw dear, do sit down,” Imogen said.

  Straw sat down next to her mother, shoulders slumped, a tiny second chin incongruously at odds with the smooth skin of the oval face. Her eyes never met Peter’s, and he knew immediately that she wouldn’t speak.

  “Mrs. Keppel, do you know anyone who would wish to harm your husband?” Mick asked.

  “Mr. Tusk, my husband was one of the most respected men in Australia, loved and admired by so many. All he sought was the best for his family, not just Straw and me, but all his wider family. And he often said his aim was to bring light to the lives of ordinary Australians.”

  Peter’s feet began tapping silently on the carpet. He couldn’t stop glancing at Straw. A botched statue, she sat unstirring. A hairless cat, skinny and freaky, jumped up on her lap and purred. She didn’t touch it.

  “But talent attracts envy and hatred.” Imogen’s voice lost its careful tone, taking on an accented harshness. “The police seem to think some random tramp snatched his life away. Did you see him, Mr. Gentle? Did you see what some animal did to him?”

  Peter looked into Straw’s movie screen eyes, willing her to comfort her mother, but she sat calmly. Surreal, he thought.

  A shimmer of tears appeared in Imogen’s eyes. “Someone who hated him killed my poor husband. Someone… I want you to find him. Talk to that crazy man, Friedman, always ringing my husband up at home. Talk to my husband’s no-good brother, living a life of sin.”

  Her voice rasped, nearly hoarse. Peter felt pity as she picked up a cup of tea with trembling hands. Her eyes locked onto his, burning with intensity.

  “Mr. Gentle, the world is a wicked place. Cast your net wide. Consider Scientific Money’s competitors, I know what big companies will do to stop the new stars like my husband. And he argued with that neighbor of ours, what’s his name, Straw dear?”