The Shadow Maker by Robert Sims

pocket.
    ‘You cop?’
    ‘Detective sergeant.’
    ‘Okay. I sorry. You not troublemaker. What you say, officer - no harm done?’
    She stroked her throat, wanting to punch him, but instead mimicked him with a ‘Who you?’
    ‘I the Duck. Quack, quack,’ he said, taking off his sunglasses with a flourish. ‘Maybe you hear of me.’
    ‘Maybe,’ she replied.
    In fact she’d read the intelligence data file on him. He was a Vietnamese hitman with a military and martial arts background, not to mention a trail of bodies left behind him in south-east Asia. He was proficient in the use of guns, knives and his bare hands. His official status was political refugee, but he was currently employed as an enforcer for one of Melbourne’s biggest heroin smuggling gangs.
    ‘The Duck’ was his anglicised nickname, though the name on his passport, probably an invention, was almost as disconcerting - Duc Hung Long. According to the file he liked to boast that he was.
    ‘And since when have you been a bouncer for this dump?’
    He ignored her question, flicking away his cigarette and putting his sunglasses back on. Then he stood aside and gestured up the stairs. ‘You come in now. The Duck escort you.’
    Rita shook her head, gesturing back at him. ‘You first.’
    He shrugged and trotted briskly up the stairs ahead of her, a mobile phone suddenly appearing in his hand, presumably to text message her arrival.
    The Duck wasn’t the only one who looked out of place. As Rita reached the upstairs office she almost collided with a smartly dressed middle-aged Chinese man, who glanced at her briefly as he pushed past. She recognised him immediately as Victor Yang, a Triad gang leader who ran his own drugs and vice enterprises. What was he doing here on rival turf ?
    Tony Kavella’s voice called out to the Duck: ‘Show Mr Yang out.’
    The Duck did as he was told, leaving Rita to stroll through the door.
    Tony Kavella was sitting in a big leather chair behind a chrome and black desk, tapping at a laptop. A nest of new computer screens glowed alongside. It was clear that he’d gone hi-tech and upmarket since the last time she’d been here. Around him the office was cool and spacious, with white walls, a white marble floor and tall yucca plants in white glazed pots. Classical bronzes stood on marble stands and there was tinted glass in the arched Victorian windows. It looked like an interior designer’s idea of the setting for a cultivated businessman.
    Kavella looked up as Rita entered the room.
    ‘Fuck me,’ he said, immediately dispelling any notions the new decor might suggest. ‘So you’re the cop who’s come calling.’ He didn’t get up. Just slouched back in his swivel chair. ‘You here for business or pleasure?’
    ‘Not pleasure, sadly,’ said Rita. ‘Since I haven’t got an arrest warrant.’
    That brought a sour chuckle from Kavella’s lips, and a deadly gleam to his eyes. The eyes of a psychopath, she reminded herself.
    She’d profiled Kavella in detail and there was no doubt about his psychopathic personality. The son of a greengrocer, he had developed into a high school bully, though was smart enough to qualify for university, where he’d started a classics course at the behest of his aspiring but indulgent Greek mother. Impatient and ambitious, he dropped out after cornering the campus market in soft and hard drugs. A natural standover man, he didn’t indulge in drugs himself, but enjoyed the power it gave him over others. Casual violence came easily and helped him expand his connections into the city. The nightclub became his base and his legitimate front, from where he established his reputation among those on both sides of the law as a slick and intelligent operator. Yet although his mind was razor sharp, he had not developed a conscience and could inflict pain and brutality without hesitation.
    Now, as he lounged back and propped his shoes on the desk, he looked totally at ease with his success. There