‘Lou Cassavette. Hmm. Yes. Got the report now. Went to school with Alfonse and Miguel Alvarez. Ricardo, the eldest, was already beyond education and into career by then. Alfonse, as you know, Mikey, is doing thirty to life for being a complete psycho. Despite his shenanigans in maximum security, he’s basically out of the game. Whereas Miguel… yeah, Miguel is the one that might be relevant. I take it Mr Cassavette had a sad demise?’
‘He did. Killed in the store he owned, out here near Earlville. Knife through the heart at 5.30 a.m. We have a primary suspect, Kaspar; I’m covering angles.’
Kasparov harrumphed, but Mike could hear the clatter of fingertips across the keyboard. Kasparov had a feather touch.
‘Now, Mikey, as you know, Miguel is something of a master at hiding and moving the money. Much as I’d like to catch him, I have to admire the skill. As they start closing in on the various tax shelters around the world, Miguel is focusing more on nearby channels, where the Alvarez tentacles can easily reach. They want their money hidden, but where they can see it. If you see what I mean.’
‘I getcha. Go with what they know, stick to the knitting, that kind of thing?’
‘Exactly. You’re a quick learner.’ More clicks, and typing. ‘There’s a lot of people that hate you, Mikey, and wish you dead. But I think you’re okay.’
Mike sniggered. ‘Your majesty both embarrasses and entertains me.’
‘Ha. Yes, here he is. Your dead man. Cassavette. Ugly bug, isn’t he? Used to be the manager of the Lightning Quick store on O’Brien Street. Which would have been perfect as a laundromat for the likes of Miguel. Let me delve… tax authorities liked him for it, to be honest. But he had an accountant called Duran, kept them at arm’s length. Ah yes, Hector Duran. One of Miguel’s protégés and, I believe, on his way up the food chain as a result.’
‘Dana always says to follow the money.’
‘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.’