on his laptop. The laptop automatically detected the presence of the memory stick and brought up fingernail size pictures of the photos. Michael double clicked on the first photo which expanded it to full size. The first image showed a man who seemed to be moving towards a car that Michael recognised as his uncles’. He recognised the car because he had been there when his uncle bought it. The man’s left was mostly blocked by his body but Michael thought he could see that he carried a gun in his hand. The second image showed what appeared to be the same man moving away from the car. The third and final image was a zoomed in upper body shot of the same man. Despite obviously having been taken at night, in an area of limited lighting, the photographs were of good quality and finely detailed under the circumstances.
Michael stared closely at the face that confronted him and inwardly seethed with anger. There in front of him were pictures of his father’s only brother being murdered. His uncle’s ghost seemed to reach out from beyond the grave and whisper in his ear to grab the gun which was stored in his office safe, search the streets for his murderer and exact natural justice with his own bare hands. He fought for control of his emotions and calm eventually won the day. It was his trademark. He could be just as hard nosed and cruel as his father ever was, but while his father’s blood ran hot and his temper quick, Michael’s blood ran cool, his mind calculating.
The photos seemed legitimate, but he knew that any fifth grader with an ounce of Photoshop ability could put Jennifer Hawkin’s head onto Tiger Woods’ body in a matter of moments, so he was reluctant to believe the authenticity of the photos without further supporting proof.
He sat in his office for the next half hour, quietly thinking about his next move before settling on a course of action. He picked up a business card on his desk and dialed the number.
“Detective Nelson speaking.”
“Good Afternoon Detective. It’s Michael Fogliani here.” He was smooth and in total control again. “Firstly, let me apologise for the way our first meeting went. As you understand I am still grieving over my uncle’s death. It has been a difficult time for me.” He sounded believable because it was the truth. His mother was still inconsolable even though she had never particularly like Emilio, and his aunt, Emilio’s wife of forty-one years, had been sedated and bed-ridden since his death.
“It’s ok. I can imagine things are tough for your family right now.” responded Nelson evenly. “What can I do for you Mr Fogliani?”
“Please, call me Michael. I just wanted to know how your investigation is proceeding. I understand that you’ve arrested someone in relation to my uncle’s murder. Is that correct?”
“Yes it is.” Nelson felt a moment of regret at not having phoned him and personally brought him up to date as Crighton had instructed him to do. It was poor form and he knew it. “I had planned on calling you and letting you know but I’ve been tied up.”
“That’s alright Detective. Detective Robards gave me a call on Sunday afternoon to let me know.”
“Yes, yes of course.” Typical Robards efficiency, let’s give him another commendation.
“I’m grateful for all your efforts in arresting someone so promptly.”
“Just doing my job.”
“Do you think that’s the end of it then or do you expect to make further arrests?”
Nelson hesitated before answering and Michael pondered its meaning.
“I’m not really sure at this stage. All I can say is that we are continuing with our investigations.”
“Look Detective, I’m not asking you to divulge anything that could endanger your case but my family once had some bad business dealings with an ethnic group and I’m fearful that Emilio’s death is related to that and that they may still be targeting my family. I just need to know if I should be hiring extra security?”
Nelson again hesitated before answering. He felt there was something wrong with the conversation but couldn’t pinpoint where his concern was coming from. He remembered Crighton’s words about keeping Fogliani informed wherever possible.
“No Michael, I don’t think your family has anything to fear. The man we have in custody is Caucasian and does not appear to have any ethnic background or connections with organised crime groups. We think he probably acted alone. Our evidence against him is strong but he has made certain claims about his innocence that we are looking in to. That’s really all I can tell you at this point.”
“Thank you Detective. That’s all I needed to know. Oh, and please let me know if there are any further developments.”
“Will do Michael.”
Michael Fogliani hung up the phone, quietly pleased with the results of the conversation. Detective Nelson as expected had given little away and yet he had given up more than he knew. He reasoned that although Nelson had arrested someone in relation to his uncle’s death, he didn’t sound completely convinced of his guilt. That, and Nelson’s reference to the lack of ethnicity of the person who had been arrested, fitted neatly with the story he’d been told by the anonymous female caller an hour previously. Fogliani re-studied the face in the photographs. The skin tone of the man in the zoomed in photograph was definitely brown, not white.
“Perhaps she was telling the truth,” he said to himself.
Michael Fogliani decided that it was time for him to take action, although he did not make the decision lightly. He reasoned that if ever there was a time to step back into the past and get his hands dirty again then this was it, to seek revenge for his uncle’s murder.
Over the past ten years he had tried to raise his family above the ordinary criminal activity that had laid the foundation of their fortune and which he was now rapidly multiplying through legitimate means. It hadn’t been easy. Friends had been lost and sacrifices had been made along the way. He had given away a lot of the influence, power and networks that his father and uncle had worked so hard to establish, but it had been worth it in the end.
He had put an end to most of the family’s illegal activities, but not all. Unbeknown to the Gangs squad and anyone else who looked at the Fogliani family, they had quietly retained one of their most lucrative illegal sidelines. Every couple of months or so a Sydney based, deep sea, fishing trawler made a slight detour from its regular fishing grounds to meet up with a large, fast, cabin cruiser that was based in Vanuatu and operated legitimate charters for wealthy holiday makers. The small but precious cargo of cocaine – with a street value of around eight hundred thousand dollars - was passed to the trawler, sealed inside a watertight metal box and attached magnetically to the underside of the hull.
At the first sign of trouble the cargo could be jettisoned by a remote switch inside the cabin and collected later by remotely triggering a GPS beacon located inside the box, although this had never been required. No money changed hands at the time of the exchange either. Payment was routed to the supplier through a myriad of related companies and transactions.
The drugs were quietly and carefully offloaded in the middle of the night and their distribution onto the streets of Sydney was handled through a tightly controlled and trusted network of family friends. It was a smooth, low risk operation, which went unnoticed by the police and added some extra cash flow to the Fogliani’s operations. It was one of the last direct links the Fogliani family maintained with the underworld community which came in handy at times when men with special skills were required.
Michael Fogliani rode the lift down to the basement of the building. Although reception was poor it was still sufficient to make a call. When he was sure he was alone he pulled out a phone. It wasn’t his usual mobile phone but rather a prepaid version that had been purchased with cash by his niece for eighty dollars at BigW using a false licence. In short it was untraceable. The voice that answered was familiar and trusted completely.
“Hi. It’s me. I have an urgent job for some of your friends. Can we meet tonight at the usual place?”
Chapter 41
As Nelson slowly opened his eyes to the new day he felt like he was closer to eighty-five years of age instead of his actual thirty-five. He successfully fought against the feeling of exhaustion that threatened to engulf him and dragged himself out of his bed. The previous days work had been long and tiring. He, Robards and Bovis had worked their new murder case until eight p.m., studying the forensics reports and case notes made by the investigating officers. And then, despite his aching lethargy Nelson had steeled himself with a large coffee and spent a further two hours working up a profile of Kylie Faulkner’s past in the hope of linking her to Emilio Fogliani with some tangible evidence.
He had experienced mixed results with his research. Kylie Faulkner was a cleanskin, in that according to the
