Whispering Death

32

At two o’clock that Monday afternoon, Steve Finch was absorbed in slotting more RAM into an old desktop PC when the air cooled and shifted. Or he’d imagined it. What he wasn’t imagining was the man standing on the other side of the workbench that doubled as his counter and desk. He jumped, trying to hide the response. ‘Didn’t hear you come in.’

The man said nothing and Finch thought cop. He read him quickly: slight build, well dressed, aquiline nose, eyes twinkling with cold intelligence. The kind of cop, Finch thought, who catches criminals because he thinks like one.

‘What can I do for you?’

‘The name is Towne,’ the man said, flashing ID.

Finch glimpsed the name, a logo and some of the words before it was folded into a pocket again. ‘Federal? What would the federal police want with me?’

‘I’m told you’re the go-to guy if someone wants to fence a stolen painting,’ the man said.

Finch screwed his face into a scoffing dismissal. ‘I don’t know who you’ve been talking to, pal, but-’

Towne dug into another pocket and now held a small pistol. He wasn’t listening to Finch but gazing as if amused up and down the nearby shelves. With a grunt of satisfaction, he shoved the barrel into a rack of army greatcoats and fired. The coats were excellent sound suppressors. Finch gaped and bent to protect his groin. Then he straightened, trying to present a smaller target to the mad policeman.

‘You can’t do that.’

‘I just did.’

‘I’ll never sell them now.’

‘Oh, I don’t know, genuine army wear, complete with bullet hole,’ said Towne.

Finch’s commercial instincts clicked into gear. ‘But still…’

Towne pocketed the pistol and leaned over the counter in a matey fashion. ‘Let’s start again: I have it on good authority, namely the art and antiques squad, that you are the only show in town when it comes to fencing high-end paintings and other collectibles, like coins and stamps.’

Obscurely flattered, Finch said, ‘I’m not confirming or denying.’

The pistol came out again and Finch backed away. ‘No. Jesus. Put the gun away.’

Towne didn’t.

‘All right, okay, what do you want?’

‘You can start by telling me if you deal with this woman.’

A photograph of Suze, looking younger and a bit feral but still heart stopping. Finch cast glances around his shop as if searching the dim recesses of his memory. He took in the front door, the ‘closed’ sign turned out to the world. ‘Er, might do.’

Towne fired through the greatcoats again and said, ‘Think what you can charge for a coat with two bullet holes in it. I don’t want “might” or “maybe” answers, Steve.’

Finch slumped. ‘Her name’s Susan. Don’t know her last name.’

‘How do I find her?’

‘She always contacts me.’

‘She contacts you out of the blue and says I’ve got this genuine Brett Whiteley I stole yesterday.’

‘Look, she doesn’t usually flog art. It’s mostly cameras, coin collections, jewellery, watches…Nothing large or bulky. It has to be stuff she can hide.’

‘You don’t have a phone number.’

‘No.’

‘Address?’

Finch shook his head, desperately aware that he had little information to offer the trigger-happy cop. ‘Like I said, she comes in and shows me her stuff.’

‘I thought you said she contacts you.’

‘Not always. Not in advance. She turns up with some gear and I give her some cash and if it’s a rare item and I need to do a bit of homework, find a buyer, set a fair price, that kind of thing, then she’ll contact me again a couple of days later and…’

‘You’re babbling,’ Towne said.

Finch shut his mouth with a click.

‘I need to find her, Steven.’ An air of finality, brooking no argument.

Finch was frustrated. ‘Look, she never works locally. In this state, I mean. Always interstate.’

‘Anything at all? How she made contact with you in the first place, what car she drives, who her friends are…’

‘I don’t know anything. For a junkie, she’s super cautious.’

Towne frowned. ‘She’s a junkie?’

‘Yeah. Got an expensive habit to feed.’

‘Who’s her dealer?’

‘How would I know?’

Towne wasn’t satisfied. ‘A super thief, super cautious. And she’s a junkie?’

‘Well, I mean, I think she’s one,’ Finch said. His eyes lit up. ‘She’s got a kid, little girl. I’ve seen photos.’

Towne seemed rocked by the news. He recovered and said, ‘See, you do know things about her.’

‘It’s all coming back to me. She’s worried the heroin’s making her a bad parent so her sister’s raising the daughter.’

‘Sister? Where does this sister live?’

Finch muttered, as if talking to himself, ‘Maybe if I blew up a still from the security video…’ ‘Hello? Steven? Pay attention.’

Finch gestured hastily at the cluttered shelf above and behind him. ‘Hidden camera.’

‘Video or digital?’ demanded Towne, rapping out the words.

‘I’m fully digitised, permanent storage on hard drive.’

‘So?’

‘The other day she showed me some photos of her daughter and her parents.’

‘Parents,’ said Towne flatly, as if hearing more fresh information.

‘They’re old,’ Finch said.

‘Maybe she lives with them.’

Finch shook his head, keen to keep the air full of helpful information. ‘Old folks’ home somewhere.’

‘Where?’

‘With a bit of tweaking I should be able to get good close-ups, you know, background detail. That help you?’

‘Do it.’

‘What, now?’

‘You’ve just shut up shop for the day,’ Towne said.

Finch complied, thinking: Good luck Suze. You won’t last long, with this guy after you.