“Anyway, whatever the reason he was here, he was sitting in his car at the time he was shot,” said Nelson, indicating the rectangular outline that had been taped on the ground where the car had been parked.
“And as far as we can tell, he came alone,” added Robards.
“Why would he do that? I mean why would he be out here alone in the middle of the night?”
Nelson watched as Robards thought hard.
“It would have to be a meeting. But I wouldn’t come out here in the middle of the night unless I was armed.”
“But we didn’t find any weapon on Fogliani did we? And the body didn’t appear to have been tampered with because he still had eight hundred bucks in his wallet, so let’s assume for the time being that he didn’t bring a weapon.”
“It was fifteen hundred bucks, not eight hundred. That would mean that he felt comfortable, not threatened by whoever he was coming to meet. Maybe it was an old friend, or a business associate, or even a woman.”
“Right. He’s not stupid. Gangsters don’t normally live to become sixty-one year old Grandpas unless they’re ahead of the game.”
Robards moved to a position inside the rectangular outline and pretended to be Emilio Fogliani sitting in his car. Nelson stood where he thought the shooter would have fired from based on the information supplied by Mike Martinez. The few journalists who had remained on site focused their attention and their cameras on the two Detectives who acted out their macabre play in front of them.
“But then, while he was waiting, someone walked up to the car and bam, bam, bam, shot him in the chest and head.”
Nelson tried to imagine the scene but struggled to bring it to life. He shook his head and massaged the back of his neck, trying to fight off the lethargy that felt like it was seeping into his mind. He was ready for another coffee whereas Robards, who was existing on even less sleep than him, still looked sharp.
“I’m just not feeling this one Pete. Nothing feels right. Have you got any ideas?”
Pete Robards rubbed his chin for a moment as he thought.
“I’m thinking, that because there were no defensive wounds on the body, he probably didn’t see it coming. That either the person who he was meeting pulled out a gun and shot him before he had a chance to react, or maybe the shooter sneaked up to the car and completely surprised him.”
Nelson surveyed the area from where he was standing, trying to mentally factor in Robards’ theories.
“That sounds reasonable and yet….”
“What? What is it?”
“Well in some ways it smells like a hit. I mean, the money was left in the wallet, he was out here in this place in the middle of the night alone, and he was shot from close range. It has characteristics of a clean, well organised hit.”
“But why does someone decide to whack a retired sixty-one year old gangster? Why now?”
“That’s the sixty-four dollar question. Let’s go ask Michael Fogliani what he thinks.”
Chapter 18
Michael Fogliani’s company offices were located on the thirty-third floor of the Dresden Place office block on Pitt Street in the centre of the city. Nelson insisted on stopping for a bottle of water and a ham and salad sandwich from the little cafe in the foyer to fill the gnawing hole in his stomach that the fruit he had eaten earlier had not even gone close to filling. He and Robards rode the high speed elevator to their destination, yawning to pop their ears as they ascended.
“Why don’t you take the lead on this one Pete,” Nelson muffled through a mouthful. “I’ll butt in when I’m good and ready.”
“Sure thing.”
Nelson tucked the remainder of his sandwich into his pocket as they pushed through the glass doors of the offices which occupied a quarter of the floor. They were greeted by a young woman wearing a professional looking business suit and a lustrous olive complexion who ushered them to a comfortable leather couch in the foyer. She politely asked them to wait for Michael Fogliani to finish up a conference call. Nelson occupied himself with the remainder of his sandwich while they waited.
After twenty minutes, Michael Fogliani came out to greet them, accompanied by another man. Fogliani was immaculately dressed in what Nelson guessed was a thousand dollar Italian suit but Robards knew was actually closer to four thousand. It made Nelson momentarily peruse his own apparel which he knew could not compete.
“Sorry to keep you waiting Detectives,” he said, shaking hands with each Detective and meeting their eyes. “This is my family solicitor David Marini,” he said, introducing the tall, lean man at his side. “I’d like him to sit in on our conversation if that’s alright.” Nelson wasn’t surprised by the addition. He thought to himself that Michael Fogliani probably didn’t even take a crap without a solicitor present to advise him of any potential ramifications. Nelson and Robards exchanged brief handshakes and tight smiles with the solicitor who smiled back at them like a shark circling a school of baitfish.
“Let’s go to my office where we can be more comfortable.”
Fogliani led them to his office which occupied a sizeable portion of the office space. Robards’ and Nelson’s eyes were immediately drawn to the view which stretched out to forever, taking in the harbour, the heads and the Pacific Ocean beyond. The exterior walls were floor to ceiling glass and Nelson felt a brief moment of vertiginous anxiety as he looked straight down to the street one hundred metres below.
Fogliani took his seat behind a large oak desk and his solicitor sat beside him. Two against two.
“Firstly let me say I’m sorry for your loss Mr Fogliani,” began Robards. “I’m sure this can’t be an easy time for you so we’ll try and be as brief as possible.”
“Thank you Detective,” said Fogliani nodding sadly. He took a deep breath, determined to keep his raw grief internalised and avoid another public display of his emotions. “These are nice offices, can I ask what sort of business you’re in Mr. Fogliani?”
“Please, call me Michael,” he responded, glad for a less taxing subject. “We do many things here, mostly though we run an investment company. People pay me to invest their money for them.”
“Stocks and bonds?” added Robards hopefully.
“Some. We also invest in a few offshore projects and we operate a couple of restaurants and a transport company.”
Robards nodded as if he was interested while Nelson just sat, quietly listening.
“Michael, we need to know why your uncle was at St Peters at ten p.m. last night. Have you got any idea why he was there or if he was meeting someone?”
Fogliani thought for a moment as if examining the question for a trap.
“No Detective. My uncle didn’t tell me where he was going last night. If he went to St Peters to meet someone then I don’t know who it was. He was a private man who liked to keep his own counsel.”
Robards looked toward Nelson, wondering if he wanted to ask anything, but he just sat silently, with his hands clasped on his lap, as if waiting for a bus.
“Is there anyone else in your family, perhaps his wife or some of his associates who might know what he was doing last night?”
“No,” replied Fogliani firmly. “And I’d prefer that you ask your questions of me and don’t bother my family. I’m sure you understand that they’re too distraught to speak to you right now. It has affected my mother and aunt very badly.”
“Of course. Does your family have any business interests in the St Peters area?”
“No. Not in St Peters at least. We have a couple of warehouses but they’re in the inner west area.”
“I see. Was your uncle involved in any bad business dealings?” tried Robards again, trying to hide the note of frustration that was creeping into his voice.
“No. He was pretty much retired. He helped me out in the business occasionally, but for the most part he played golf and cards with his friends at the club.”
Robards continued to forge onward. “Is there anyone you know who might want to harm you uncle? Did he
