“Thanks Mike. Appreciate it.”
Nelson left the SOCOs to finish their work and turned to Robards who had finished speaking with the security guard and had been listening quietly to Nelson speak with Mike Martinez. Nelson looked at the security guard, who was now disconsolately leaning up against his car with his arms crossed.
“Hey Pete. Glad you could make it. Hope my call didn’t interrupt anything.”
Robards smiled briefly. “Na.”
Nelson made a mental note to quiz Robards later about his nocturnal adventures.
“What did you get from the security kid?”
“He said he discovered the body on his rounds at about ten p.m. and then phoned it in. He claims not to have seen anything or heard anything else.”
“How long in between rounds?”
“Two hours.”
“That’s not very often.”
“No. He said there aren’t many break-ins around here because most of the places have decent security systems. Plenty of easier targets he reckons.”
“Fair enough. So Fogliani was murdered between eight and ten. That fits with what Mike thought. What’s his name?”
“Ben Pounder. He’s twenty-one, goes to Sydney University and does this a few nights a week to make ends meet.”
Upon hearing his name, the security guard sauntered over to Nelson and Robards. Nelson noted he had a bit of size on him and would be a reasonable proposition with the baton that was clipped to his belt.
“Can I go now? My shift ended an hour ago so I’m not getting paid for this.”
“You got his details Pete?”
“Yeah.”
“Sure you can go Ben,” said Nelson. “We’ll be in touch if we need anything else.”
Nelson watched as the security guard drove away in a Suzuki Sierra that was emblazoned with cheap looking security stickers and a couple of flashing lights attached to its roof rack.
Nelson turned back and again viewed the crime scene. He tried to block out all external thoughts and absorb every detail of it into his memory. He studied the small warehouse and the position of the car in the driveway down the side which led to the rear car park and loading dock. He thought it would be a nice quiet place to meet someone at night, as while the lighting was good to the rear and front of the warehouse it was poorly lit down the side. There was a line of trees and shrubbery behind the car park at the rear of the warehouse that provided a natural barrier between it and the park beyond.
“If the murderer left in a car or even on foot, it’s possible that one of the warehouses here, or across the road may have captured some video of it, if their security systems are as good as security guard Ben said they are. There don’t seem to be any cameras covering the side of this warehouse,” said Nelson as he cast the powerful beam of his Maglite torch across the side of the building, “but I saw some at the front so we might get lucky and find something. When these places open up for business I want you to go through them one by one and see what video footage they’ve got from last night. It’ll take you a while but it could prove vitally important.”
“Sure thing,” said Robards, seeing the necessity, but not relishing the thought of several hours of probable tedious work.
“Now let’s get into the search before those uniform boys step all over our evidence.”
Chapter 11
Detective Superintendent Crighton double checked the Vaucluse address he’d been given by the night shift support staff at Police Headquarters. He directed his driver, a barred-up Senior Constable named Clayton, to slow down and turn the unmarked white Commodore into the next driveway on their right. They were halted in their tracks by a pair of imposing iron gates which were adjoined on each side by a ten foot high sandstone block wall which encircled the perimeter of what appeared to be a sizeable property. A small security hut was situated beside the gate and two men sat inside, viewing footage from a dozen video cameras located throughout the grounds. Crighton mused that the security measures seemed a little over the top for a family that had purportedly left their shady dealings behind them.
One of the security guards took his feet off the bench, stood up and lazily sauntered out to meet them. His demeanour, like his dress sense was casual, but he was solidly built and carried himself with the confidence of someone who could handle himself. He put his hands on the car and bent down to peer through the door window at the occupants.
“You can go on up to the house. They’re waiting for you. Just keep following the yellow brick road.” He returned to his little hut and the steel gates silently parted. Senior Constable Clayton gunned the police car through and headed up the driveway.
Crighton had taken the precaution of phoning ahead without explaining the circumstances of the visit. He didn’t want to have to sit around for half an hour while the family dragged their arses out of bed. They followed the well lit driveway and were soon confronted by the house. It was an enormous post-modern creation that made the neighbouring McMansions look like cottages in comparison. It had been built five years ago after the Fogliani family decided that the forty square mock Tudor mansion that had adorned the site for the previous sixty years was too small for their purposes. Crighton was quietly awestruck by the sheer magnitude of the house and the neatly manicured gardens. For just a brief moment he wondered that maybe he had made the wrong career choice somewhere along the way. He looked over at Clayton whose mouth was slightly agape and wondered if he had similar thoughts.
He snapped out of his reverie and focused on the job at hand.
“Alright Senior, here’s how this is going down,” he said, fixing him in a steely glare that left no room for negotiation. “I will do the talking and I will answer the questions. You’re here for moral support only. Understood?”
“Yes Sir.”
“Good. Hopefully we’ll be in and out in twenty minutes.”
They alighted from the car and made their way to the nine foot tall glass front door, but before they had a chance to test the doorbell, a swarthy, athletically built man, dressed in shirt and jeans, opened the door for them. He ignored Crighton’s greeting and ushered them into an empty formal lounge to the left of the entry. Crighton noted that the room was about the same size as the housing commission house that he had grown up in. The furniture was minimalist, metallic and looked uncomfortable and was probably the creation of an overpaid and overblown interior design consultant.
After a short wait, Michael Fogliani entered the room. Michael was the fulmination of a fifty year migrant family dream. He was forty-two, charismatic, had two business degrees from Sydney University and understood that there were plenty of legal ways to make even more money than the illegal activities that had given the Foglianis their initial start on the road to success. Since the death of his father some ten years previously Michael had taken over the management of the family’s business interests and assets. Overcoming protests from some members of his family, including those of his Uncle Emilio, he had steered the family money into a string of legitimate businesses and investments and the Foglianis had never been more profitable or law abiding.
“Superintendent Crighton, it’s nice to see you again,” said Michael, extending his hand in a warm greeting coupled with a smile. “And Senior Constable?”
“Clayton.”
Michael Fogliani was dressed in jeans and a striped Ralph Lauren polo shirt. Unusually for someone of Italian stock, his hair was naturally blonde – parted boyishly on the side - and his eyes were a soft blue. If he seemed concerned about the nature and the late hour of the visit he didn’t show it.
“Please, take a seat,” he said gesturing to a white leather lounge as he seated himself in an identical lounge opposite. “What brings you out here at this hour Superintendent?”
Crighton was still trying to hide his surprise that Michael Fogliani remembered him. They had only met once, briefly, at a charity sports dinner and auction eighteen months ago. Crighton recalled that Fogliani had dropped a lazy thirty thousand dollars or so on three or four items while Crighton had regrettably spent seven hundred and fifty
