Must. Contact. Brad.
***
The elevator and main foyer are much the same as the office—scarce. I’ve seen glimpses of people in doorways, but that’s been it. I’m sure they were all just cleaners. All I know is they took no notice of me and I took no notice of them. Just the way I’d hoped.
By the time I reach the tall sliding glass doors of the building’s main foyer, it’s already dark outside. It fascinates me to see how quickly the city changes at night. The city goes from peak hour bustle of every corporate worker leaving for the day to eerie ghost town, all within an hour.
A paparazzo who used to work for my Mum sits on a ledge of a built-up garden at the front annex of the building. The moment he sees me coming through the doors, he leaps up and starts snapping a flurry of pictures.
“Maurice, my family will have you out of a job if they find out you’re doing this.”
Frowning, I question what this city is coming to if it finds my relationship with Pacer so riveting.
“My Mum even likes you,” I add.
Maurice stops firing off pictures for a moment and shrugs. “Sorry, Chelsea, your photographs are worth a lot of money to someone at the moment. We’re getting top dollar for an exclusive shot. The others all gave up and thought you’d gone home, but I knew you’d still be up there.”
I smile, “Fuck you, Maurice. Find someone else to annoy. Didn’t Mariah Carey or someone arrive into town for you to piss off?”
“Come on, Chels … you know how this works.”
Don’t Chels me. His voice becomes distant as I walk away.
He’s right. I know exactly how this works. Hopefully he has the shot he can trade that allows the papers to make up some bullshit story to sell tomorrow. Taking more notice of what’s around me, I jump into the first cab with its vacancy light on.
“Corner of Kent and Bathurst Streets, thanks.” I try to avoid eye contact in the hope that the Indian driver doesn’t recognise me.
If he drops me on the corner, I can walk to the building and make sure no other photographers are following me. The last thing I need is someone finding out where I’m going. I couldn’t do that to Travis.
Within minutes we’re where I want to be. Handing over a note, I get out of the car.
“Keep the change.” I wave my hand out in front of me to stop the driver from taking a good look.
Doing a scan of the street, I walk as quickly as I can towards the archive headquarters. Buzzing the intercom at a door beside a massive roller door, I keep a watch around me to see if I notice the sparkle from a lens anywhere in the street.
“Metro Storage. You pile ’em, we file ’em.” Travis’s voice comes through the speaker.
I laugh. “It’s me.”
The door buzzes so I pull on the long handle and scurry inside. Travis wasn’t joking when he said they pile ’em. Towers of boxes are stacked high in the loading dock space. Travis coming down from the stairs at the far end.
“Surely this is a safety hazard?” I walk carefully through the aisle of boxes.
Travis laughs as he talks. “Don’t say that too loud. The bosses will be down here quick smart, making me get through these quicker.”
I have to hand it to Travis; he is the epitome of resilience.
I hold out my empty hands. “Sorry, I couldn’t bring you a coffee after all. I just didn’t want to risk anyone else in this shit city seeing me.”
“Yeah, I can imagine that’s like dodging bullets at the moment.” He’s never without his humour. “I can run up and grab us coffee and something to eat, if you plan on staying?”
I nod. After today, this will be the perfect hideaway and distraction, all in one.
“Okay. Let me take you down to all the files on Fratelli, and I’ll head out to grab us some food.”
“Thanks so much, Travis. I really needed this.” More than he realises.
“So is there anything in particular that you’re looking for?”
I continue following behind. “Just names, really. Something to shed more light on who was in charge of a couple of investigations. The officer in charge has been omitted from the case file that I have.”
Travis shakes his head. “These files have generated a lot of interest lately. Just a few weeks ago, two homicide detectives were down here, searching through these same files.”
“Did they say what they were retrieving exactly?” I know that’s not normally how they look for information.
Travis’s hair has more grey than it did the last time I saw him. This place is aging him quickly. For a man who’s only in his thirties, he looks as if he should be at least ten years older. Although his case was one of my wins, it’s always felt like a loss. Particularly when I come here for his help, which has only been twice, but two times that he could lose his job over. I won’t need to do this too many times in my career, so I’m sure his good deed will go unnoticed by anyone but me.
We walk down a thin corridor of cages, piled high inside with boxes of all the city’s criminal matters that have had their time in court.
“The murder cases are always down the back.” Travis tilts his head towards me as we walk. “They have to stay in archives for ninety-nine years. I won’t be getting rid of them any time soon, so they remain down here in the depths of the criminal history of our city.” He wiggles his fingers out in front of him as if it’s some sinister ghost story, which in reality, it is.
These cages hold all the city’s dark secrets. Untold motives, crimes that have gotten off on a minor technicality—all the parts the media couldn’t get hold of sit here.
There are only two caged doors to choose from, and Travis takes the one on the left. Unlocking the padlock, he swings the door open.
“When you find the boxes you need, you can bring them out to my office to read over, if it’s easier? I’ll head out and grab us a coffee and some food.”
“Thanks, Travis. I know what you’re risking by doing this.” My gratitude still doesn’t sound like it’s enough.
He screws his nose up, and swats his hand. “Please. Come on. You’re risking just as much to make sure there are fair trials, and still the justice system misses the ball.”
No truer words.
The moment Travis leaves the cage I start scanning along the boxes to get to the Fs. Finding FRATELLI is easy. His father, Vincenzo Fratelli, has quite a collection of boxes of his own to add to Pacer’s collection. Vincenzo Fratelli’s boxes are worn. The grey cardboard has faded more than Pacer’s modern document boxes that sit alongside them.
Putting my bag down on the raw concrete floor of the cage, I drag the stepladder over to where I need it and kick off my heels. I slide the first box out and drop it on the ground, and repeat the same with the next three boxes. There’s no time to waste by going out to Travis’s desk, so I jump off the stepladder and toss open the first box. Flicking through the folders, I find one of the homicide investigations that had its lead investigator omitted from my paperwork.
Drawing my finger from one line to the next, I get to the officer in charge.
Inspector Lawson. Inspector Michael Lawson. Now I understand Pacer’s little comment to the Inspector earlier—her husband was one of the first people to charge Pacer with murder. Is that why they hate each other so much? For a chick, Karen Lawson seemed to do an awful lot of chest bumping with Pacer.
Rummaging through my bag to grab my notebook, I stop the second I feel my phone. Pacer’s response is understandable. His investigations all seem to be linked, one way or another.
Do I search through my phone to see if there’s a message from him? What if it’s not there?
I stop debating the issue and drag my phone out from my bag. Sliding the home screen open, I see there is hardly any reception in amongst the thick barrier of paper that’s between the world outside and me.