Geoff took a deep breath, feeling sweat bleed from his pores.
“I wanted to talk to you …”
“There’s nothing … got that? Nothing to talk about, Geoffrey. The salient point here is that I asked you very nicely to take the cameras out of the brothels and you did not acquiesce.” Another harder finger poke.
Geoff pulled back, eyes blazing, went to grab Al Loretto’s hand and missed. The finger stabbed him in the neck.
“Fuck you!” He took a swing and found himself pinned to the ground by two hundred and fifty pounds of security. He hadn’t even seen the guy appear.
A fist landed in Geoff’s face smashing his nose. A second blow hit him in the cheek so hard he thought his head was about to split open. Then he was being pulled up to his feet and Al Loretto was smiling at him.
“Geoffrey, Geoffrey … why are you doing this to yourself? Just when I thought we were becoming such good friends.”
Blood streamed down from Geoff’s nostrils, ran over his lips, dripped to the floor.
“Take him to the basement,” Loretto hissed.
Chapter 32
STACY FRIEL’S HUSBAND, David, had a very smart office on the forty-fifth floor of Citigroup Tower in the CBD. Greta had eased my path with a call earlier in the day. A secretary showed me in. David Friel got up from his desk and offered a firm handshake. He was tall and athletic, graying at the temples and wearing a conservative tailored suit. I hadn’t met him before, but he had the aura of a man who had aged ten years during the past forty-eight hours.
“You haven’t taken compassionate leave, Mr. Friel?”
“I was offered it of course,” he said, his voice a smooth baritone. “But I didn’t see the point. Why would I want to kick around the house? If I’m working I can focus on something other than …”
“Makes sense.”
Friel was in a daze I realized, no inflection in his voice, face expressionless. It was a state I recognized immediately.
“I’ve given a full report to the police. Not sure what more I can …” He trailed off again.
“Look, Mr. Friel, I know this is tough, but I have to ask some personal questions. I need to get some background. I appreciate it’s a raw time. I understand.”
“You do?”
I looked around at the white walls, a Balinese wall-hanging softening things a little. “I lost my wife and son three years ago.”
He stared into my eyes, his expression still vacant.
“An accident,” I added. It felt strange speaking about it with a complete stranger. It was something I never discussed. Perhaps it was simple empathy. I really could feel what the poor guy was going through.
He shrugged. “Ask away.”
I paused for a second. “Were you happily married, Mr. Friel?”
“As far as I’m concerned, I was. I think Stace was … And, I’ll save you asking, Mr. Gisto. I wasn’t having an affair, and I’m pretty sure my wife wasn’t either. I do realize this is your first port of call. It would make life easier if she had been … or if I was, I guess.”
“Okay, sensitive question No. 2. Money. Everything alright?”
He waved a hand around. “I’m third in line to the throne.”
Seeing my puzzled expression, he added, “Sorry, in-joke. There’s the boss, Max Llewellyn, then his son, then me. I pull down a seven-figure salary.”
I thought how that didn’t necessarily mean everything was cool, but moved on. “It may sound ridiculous, but can you think of anyone at all who may have hated your wife?”
“Stace was a normal wife, a normal mom, Mr. Gisto. She cared for the kids, had her book club, her gym class. Who would hate her enough to murder her … it’s nuts.”
“You’re absolutely sure? Within your social circle? Any grudges? Any big bust-ups recently, ever?”
He was shaking his head. “No. We are … we were part of a big social circle – golf club, yacht club, neighbors, work colleagues.” He stared straight at me. “But nothing … we were … rather boring, actually.”
“What about you, Mr. Friel? Do you have any enemies?”
His expression changed for the first time. A bleak smile. “Me? Mr. Gisto, in my business I’ve acquired so many enemies, if I lined them up, they’d stretch from here to the Harbour Bridge.”
Chapter 33
“WELL IT COULD be a lead,” Justine said. She’d met me at my apartment in Balmoral. I’d called her while driving home from seeing David Friel and she was now sitting on one of my sofas cradling a cup of coffee and looking, I thought, exquisite.
“I guess these money guys live close to the edge … plenty of wars.”