Hermit Page 20

  ‘Ah, the fragrant Ms Russo. Send her my regards – Fraud never recovered from her leaving. She’s absolutely right, too. The Alvarez empire is changing from illicit goods into just dirty money. They never handle the merchandise any more, only the financial fall-out. It’s their big USP over the other drug gangs – they know how to finesse the cash. Others lose most of their profit margin turning hot money into cold, but not the Alvarezes. In fact, they might be acting as bankers for some of their rivals, weird as that sounds.’

  It was a tighter connection than Mike had bargained for; he’d thought it would be old school pals at best. A mid-range financial adviser beholden to the main Alvarez brother was tying up the books for Lou Cassavette.

  ‘So Cassavette was connected?’

  ‘Ah, not so fast, Mikey. In the dreamy world of intelligence, things are seldom as they seem. Put it to you this way: if you set up as an accountant and your only clients are called Alvarez, you attract attention. So to establish bona fide credentials, Duran also has plenty of genuine clients – Cassavette may have been one of those. But if I check . . . yes, Duran is still his accountant, as of now. He kept him when he moved and bought . . . Jensen’s Store, in lovely old Earlville. I was punched in the face there once: I bet most visitors say the same. So there is a tenuous connection, but don’t leap at it, Mikey.’

  That was true, thought Mike. As Dana constantly reminded him, connections had to actually do something, not just be nearby. Correlation is not causation, Mikey.

  ‘Any evidence Miguel ever leaned on Cassavette, to help with the magic tricks?’

  ‘Not that I can see. Though messages routed through Duran wouldn’t show up, necessarily. But it’s fair to say Miguel’s main weakness is a nostalgia for the good old days of his youth. Which of course were absolutely terrible – poverty, racism, crime, violence. And that was after he came over on a boat, where two thirds of them never completed the journey. I wouldn’t rule out some financial connection to Miguel – he might have had Cassavette washing cash, or he might have loaned him some for old times’ sake. Give me a couple of hours, Mikey. I have minions. They’ll check it out.’

  ‘Much obliged, Kaspar. Barb would send her love.’

  ‘Ha. If only. Bye, Mikey.’

  Spencer Lynch hadn’t occupied Mike’s mind much in the previous ten minutes. He wondered why he wanted the killer not to be Nathan Whittler. He suspected it was because he was picking up on Dana’s wish for it not to be Nathan. Assuming the Alvarez angle didn’t pan out, that meant it would most likely be Spencer and/or Megan. And so, he needed to get his own view of Megan Cassavette.

  Chapter 21

  Megan’s mother, Rita, lived on the outskirts of Gazette. Mike had acquired Megan’s mobile phone records and made a few notes: Lucy would go through them with a raptor’s eye.

  Gazette was a weird little place almost midway between Earlville and Carlton. Originally merely a stopping point on the road for fuel and supplies, it was gradually morphing into a mid-price village that majored on the older clientele. A large billboard on the edge of town for a ‘managed lifestyle facility’ happened to asterisk that it was seven minutes to Earlville Mercy Hospital. Probably five, Mike thought, with the lights flashing. Eucalypts went with the breeze as the clouds rolled in from the west. Off the main road through town, the traffic noise ceased entirely.

  The townhouse sat at the end of a walkway; vehicles were parked in bays near the entrance to the complex, and the footpath wound its way through easy-maintenance shrubbery, past six front doors. The attempts at Spanish colonial were half-hearted: white stucco streaked with stains from draining window boxes, anti-burglar grilles given a curlicue at the end. The week’s blustery weather had thrown bark cuttings from the flower beds on to the path. Rita’s house was at the far end, meaning several pairs of eyes on every visitor to the place. He could see a porch of terracotta tiles extended out into a scrubby lawn. A couple of metal chairs and a small table topped with colourful mosaic almost gave a Mediterranean feel, except that the sun had shuffled away and the westerly was gathering strength.

  Megan answered the door. Barefoot, tight-ish jeans and a biscuit-coloured sweater that was too large and fell slightly off one shoulder. She held the door like it was a protective lover, one thigh pressed against it. Suddenly, whole chunks of Lynch’s behaviour appeared perfectly reasonable. Mike gave a neutral smile and showed the badge.

  ‘You’re the detective?’

  ‘Mike Francis, yes.’

  ‘C’mon in. My mum’s gone to the supermarket but, being her, she’s left freshly baked croissants.’ It flashed through Mike’s mind that Megan was the kind of woman that men, by and large, would love; women, by and large, wouldn’t like at all.

  They sat at a small round table in a nook designated for breakfasts and light meals: Mike could see through a doorway to a larger dining room to the left. Megan had a pastry in front of her but sat on her hands and blinked a lot. In the living room, desiccated heat belched from a fireplace glowing with a faux flame on faux pebbles. On the kitchen radio, middle-of-the-road rock from the eighties.

  ‘I’m sorry for your loss, Mrs Cassavette.’

  She shook her head. ‘Megan, please, Megan. That other detective – the quiet woman? She was ridiculously polite. And Mum’s treating me like a rare artefact. I am not, in fact, made of spun glass. I could fall on the floor without shattering.’

  Mike knew to wait it out then ride the apology when it came. She fumbled with a sleeve.

  ‘Sorry, Detective.’ Despite the trauma, her gaze was clear and direct, confident. ‘Can I ask you something?’

  ‘Sure.’ He took out a notebook and pen and watched her watch him do so.

  She swallowed. ‘Why do you say that? That thing: sorry for your loss. That thing?’

  ‘Honestly?’ Sometimes people asked but didn’t really want to know. Especially when the statement had been directed at them.

  ‘Naturally.’

  He counted off the reasons on his fingers. ‘Well, firstly, we are. Sorry, I mean. We see lots of bereaved people – often we’re delivering the news. So, in many ways, it’s heartfelt. We know precisely what loss is, and what it means, and what it does. So we are sorry.’

  He paused to let that sink in. Megan clearly thought it was only a platitude and he could see her eyes mist slightly when he corrected that assumption.

  ‘However, we’ve also been told to say it and police officers are good at following instructions. We have a command structure for a reason. Thirdly, it’s been picked by smarter minds than mine as politically, psychologically and religiously neutral. It’s sympathetic, without being drawn into your emotional state ourselves. Also, it’s neutral, in case you’re a potential witness. Or a suspect.’

  He gave her a significant glance, but she stared back evenly, as if that last sentence were peripheral to her question. ‘Fourthly, there isn’t much anyone can say that makes a blind bit of difference. We’re not really allowed to give hugs or wipe tears, or anything that actually might help. The only way we can help is to find the truth of what happened.’

  She went back to picking at the sleeve; an unwound stitch he guessed she’d been worrying at since she put on the sweater. ‘Hmmm. Thank you. Your colleague didn’t say it, by the way. I liked her for that.’

  She pushed the plate back.

  ‘See, I’m struggling with other people’s reactions to my grief. It’s the first time I can remember losing someone close – Dad left when I was three – so I’m finding their behaviour a little weird. Even though I’d be doing the same things if I was them. If you see what I mean.’

  ‘We see people in all different stages. Believe me, whatever you’re doing is spot on, and no one can say it isn’t. No one knows what to do for you. Even if they somehow went through the same thing themselves, it would’ve been different. They kind of understand. Everyone wants to help you, but most of them in a vague way that doesn’t put them out too much.’

  Me
gan managed a smile then looked up to the ceiling in frustration. ‘Well, frankly, I’d rather be at work. I’d rather be doing something. Probably sounds callous. But work would fill my mind up, I think.’

  ‘Not the introspective type, huh?’

  Her eyes dropped to his suddenly, the sharpness deadened by disappointment. ‘Nope.’

  ‘In that case,’ he said, opening the notebook, ‘shall we do something by dealing with some questions?’

  ‘Shoot.’ She bit her lip and raised a hand. ‘Wait, that’s a bad thing to say to a cop, right?’

  ‘Ah, they teach us early about figurative requests to shoot.’

  They shared a grin and Mike saw how easy it was to be beguiled by Megan Cassavette. She was sharp, self-deprecating and had confidence without aggression. Lynch was not, as Mike had previously thought, a middle-aged fool. Lynch had seen a star and reached for it. Possibly overambitious in the final analysis, Mike thought, but it was a justifiable leap into potential oblivion. In Lynch’s eyes, Megan was worth the jump; worth the fall. Mike had the same question in his mind as Dana: how had Lou impressed Megan enough? Assuming he had.

  ‘So I wanted to ask you about last night and this morning, if that’s all right.’

  She crossed her arms as she leaned forward, resting her chin on her forearms and staring at the fireplace. It made her look child-like, lost. Unkempt dark curls drifted across her temple.

  ‘So, Spencer Lynch arrived at what time?’

  She closed her eyes for a second. ‘Ah. Okay.’ She looked up at him. ‘Spoken to Spence?’

  ‘Twenty minutes ago. So all those cards are on the table.’

  ‘Damn. No point trying to keep him out of it, then?’

  ‘He’s front and centre right now. Timescale, please?’

  She lifted from her arms, as if to concentrate better. ‘After I’d texted Lou and he’d texted back, I went out and . . . uh.’

  ‘Gave the Bat Signal?’

  She sat back sharply and rolled her eyes. ‘Jesus, we really became an open book, didn’t we?’

  ‘Some neighbours read a few pages weeks ago.’ He let her take in the fact that their subterfuge hadn’t survived a couple of nosy citizens. ‘Okay, you did that at what time?’

  ‘Lemme think. Uh, after eleven but before twelve. Spence arrived just before midnight. The clock in the hall strikes on the hour and we were standing next to it at midnight: made us jump. Um, he left about six, I think. Yeah, maybe a few minutes after.’

  So far, so good. Mike recalled the records showed she’d texted Lou at 2330. If she was telling the truth, Lynch wasn’t there at that point. If she was lying, however, she might have bloodlessly texted Lou goodnight from underneath Spencer Lynch. Her reply wasn’t precise enough that it would look like a concocted story; it was merely close enough.

  If he believed her, there was no way either could have been at the store to stab Lou. Right now, Lucy was contacting the electric company: analysing the smart meter’s data may alibi both Megan and Lynch. If he didn’t believe her, she or Lynch had time to go to the store and kill Lou and then return. Meanwhile, the other person might try to convince the meter there were two people there.

  He couldn’t shake something about Megan. He was suspicious of her motives in choosing Lou as a partner. Maybe Lou had been as together as she seemed to be, but he doubted it. He concurred with Dana that Lou had married up and Megan had settled. Maybe Megan liked being with someone and knowing she was smarter than them. Some people did: it topped up their self-belief every night. His suspicion of her earlier motives for marrying Lou seeped in; something felt off-kilter.

  ‘You see, from my perspective, Megan, you alibi Spencer, and he’s your alibi.’

  She didn’t swallow, look away or bat an eyelid. ‘Yes. Yeah, I can see that. Well, we sure didn’t invite anyone else around. And we both switch off phones . . . you know, kind of a golden rule. So no, I can’t think of how you’d prove we didn’t go out. No. Can’t help, I’m afraid.’

  If she’d mentioned the smart meter, he’d have wondered. Lynch had raised it, and it was a left-field idea: if Megan had also done so, it would have felt forced and conspiratorial. Omitting it gave her credibility. Unless . . . maybe not mentioning it was a double bluff: a pre-arrangement she’d cooked up with Lynch. Dana had mentioned that her radar had pinged when she spoke to Megan, but she hadn’t known why. Mike had the same sensation now.

  Nothing more to gain from the alibi angle, so he switched. ‘You were beginning divorce proceedings?’

  Megan rubbed her wedding band, seemingly without irony: something to occupy her hands. ‘Well, depends what you call beginning. Hadn’t filed the papers.’ She paused momentarily. ‘It was tricky to do it right. That’s how Spence and I met.’ She shook her head. ‘You’d worked that bit out already, sorry.’

  ‘Why so tricky?’

  She sat back and stared at the pastry on the plate. ‘Look, I didn’t want to hurt Lou or harm anything he was doing. And what he was doing was trying to run that store, build it up. The revenue the store generated wasn’t enough to secure the loans it needed.’ She looked up. ‘You know: the exact same loans that enabled the shop to generate the revenue? Banks live inside circles like that. Anyway, for us to get the loans in the first place I had to co-guarantee, based on my income with City Mutual.’

  Mike sat back himself and put down the pen. ‘Ah.’

  ‘Exactly. The moment I file for divorce, the bank figures my income’s disappearing and the business loans aren’t viable any more.’ She stopped, and when she resumed her voice was further away. ‘Lou loses a wife and the shop; probably declared bankrupt. Spence and I were trying to work out the, uh, transition.’

  ‘I see now. Finance was never my strong point.’

  He hadn’t quite twigged when Lynch had mentioned all this. He’d presumed it was tricky to sell property or they’d had a joint investment fund or something. Now that he thought about it, unwinding the intricacies of such a relationship – without anyone getting pulled to pieces – wouldn’t be simple.

  ‘Oh, I’m pretty good at it, actually,’ she replied. ‘No good at sport, can’t sing, but okay at finance. We were looking at me moving out and not telling anyone; carry on helping with the loan until Lou could get on his feet. But it’s a small town and the bank would hear about it. Spence said that’d be worse, because we couldn’t control the when or the how. Besides, it might prove never-ending; you don’t get much closure on either side if you’re still that entwined. Spence’s happy to pay the loan himself or guarantee it himself. But, of course, Lou would rather d— I mean, Lou wouldn’t accept that: his wife’s new partner keeping him afloat. So, as I said, tricky.’

  ‘No way he could reschedule the debt? Get an investor?’

  Megan smirked. ‘So you do know something about it? Ah, the banks would never play ball. They slice and dice people like us every day; barely ruffles a feather. Lou had some guy who seemed interested in taking a share, but it was wrong from both sides. The guy wanted the site, not the store; thought he could get it re-zoned for executive homes. He drifted off a couple of weeks ago when that was a non-starter. Besides, Lou’d fought to get a store he could build up himself: kinda takes the point away if you’re doing someone else’s bidding.’

  ‘I getcha.’ Megan had an interesting choice of words there, he thought, recalling what he now knew about Alvarez. That angle wasn’t going away; it kept peering out from the shadows. ‘And all the loans were through the banks? No other partners, no family or friend money involved?’

  Megan frowned. ‘Not that I know of, only the banks. That was the problem, Detective – there were no other sources to tap.’

  Maybe there were, thought Mike. He wondered if Megan – who’d helped to run the Lightning Quick store before moving here – knew Miguel Alvarez. He decided to hold back that particular ammunition.

  ‘Your husband, Megan. Was he someone who suffered fools gladly? I’m wondering if he pissed anyone
off, or they pissed him off.’

  ‘Your colleague beat you to it,’ she replied flatly.

  No, she didn’t; we’re each asking, to see if the answers tally, thought Mike. He waited patiently until Megan huffed, and continued.

  ‘He wasn’t violent, no. He originally came from a pretty bad neighbourhood, Detective. Out on the Flats. He showed me the block, once. Needles everywhere, burning tyres and scraggy horses in the middle of nowhere. You could put your finger through the render. All the walls dripped. Every day of Lou’s childhood his snot was black, and he coughed like hell. He also saw what resorting to violence did to people. So no; not aggressive. That said, he could mix it if he had to. But here, he didn’t have to. Does that cover it?’

  The Flats was an area of sixties architectural disasters on the east side of the city, built on land that was cheap because it flooded. Mould flowered in every house and stairwell; kids died of asthma; property got ruined every few years. It quickly degenerated into a semi-slum and never recovered. If Cassavette had survived there, thought Mike, then as an adult he was either a broken toy or tough as they get. Or maybe both.

  ‘Why haven’t you contacted Spencer since you got the news this morning?’

  ‘Hmmm. Precisely to avoid this kind of conversation. And for him to avoid this kind of conversation.’ Her response came quickly – it felt rehearsed. She’d been preparing for police questions about her actions and motives. Not grieving. ‘You embarrass Spence at his office?’

  ‘He came to my house for a playdate.’

  She smiled. ‘Oh, that’s a little better.’ She glanced at the window, maybe hoping her mother would return and distract them both. Her smile faded fast.

  ‘They’re a bunch of snobs at that firm. Fire him at any hint of police action. Ease him out if he helped break up a marriage.’ She jerked a thumb at herself. ‘Ostracise him if his new partner lacked the right . . . pedigree.’ She looked back at him again and he felt slightly skewered, in a pleasant way. ‘I didn’t want any of that to fall on him, if I could avoid it. I figured you’d be pulling phone records right away: if all it showed was a woman talking to a divorce lawyer, things might have stayed below the radar.’