Game Changer

by J K Nen

  GAME

  CHANGER

  Logan’s Legacy Series

  JK Nen

  Copyright © 2020 JK Nen

  All rights reserved.

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except in the case of a reviewer, who may quote brief passages embodied in critical articles or in a review. Trademarked names appear throughout this book. Rather than use a trademark symbol with every occurrence of a trademarked name, names are used in an editorial fashion, with no intention of infringement of the respective owner’s trademark. The information in this book is distributed on an “as is” basis, without warranty. Although every precaution has been taken in the preparation of this work, neither the author nor the publisher shall have any liability to any person or entity with respect to any loss or damaged caused or alleged to be caused directly or indirectly by the information contained in this book.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Dedicated to the memory of my loving husband Thomas Nen (1963 – 2019):

  “You breathed your last knowing I loved you;

  When we meet again in glory;

  You will know;

  I love you still.”

  TABLE OF CONTENTS

  CHAPTER 1

  CHAPTER 2

  CHAPTER 3

  CHAPTER 4

  CHAPTER 5

  CHAPTER 6

  CHAPTER 7

  CHAPTER 8

  CHAPTER 9

  CHAPTER 10

  CHAPTER 11

  CHAPTER 13

  CHAPTER 14

  CHAPTER 15

  CHAPTER 16

  CHAPTER 17

  CHAPTER 18

  CHAPTER 19

  CHAPTER 20

  CHAPTER 21

  CHAPTER 22

  CHAPTER 23

  CHAPTER 24

  CHAPTER 25

  CHAPTER 26

  CHAPTER 27

  CHAPTER 28

  CHAPTER 29

  CHAPTER 30

  CHAPTER 31

  CHAPTER 32

  CHAPTER 1

  Hayden Birch, vlogger and filmmaker, whistled as he drove through the quiet, deserted streets. Even the six weeks of filming on location in Africa and the seventeen-hour red eye from LAX to Sydney failed to dampen his enthusiasm. As soon as his flight landed at 2am, he collected Minx for the hour-long drive home.

  He had every reason to celebrate. His crew captured killer footage of never-before-seen animal interactions. His Instagram teasers drew calls from big name Hollywood producers, all wanting a slice of the action. Those calls kept him in LA for another week. Three of those meetings looked very promising. His low-budget feature film was a bestseller in waiting. He could feel it in his bones. He would offer free screening to select schools, get rave reviews, then package it as an educational film to ‘guilt’ working parents into investing in.

  ‘Yes, pump more education into your children, he thought snidely. ‘Then spoil them rotten just because you work so hard to invest in the future of these ungrateful sperm that had the nerve to turn into children.’

  He could not comprehend ‘working parent guilt,’ slaving away to afford a lifestyle their children could enjoy. Parenthood did not interest him.

  Entering his familiar driveway, he caught his breath. The garden, illuminated by solar lamps placed strategically amongst native shrubs, cast a soft glow. Teresa and Miguel, his maid and gardener, kept his home spick and span. The Filipino couple were devout Catholics with a Protestant work ethic.

  The four-bedroom, two and a half bathroom beachfront home, was his pride and joy. He had sold his inner-city apartment to buy the rundown clapboard house, complete with weed-infested backyard three years ago. With the help of a contractor, he remodelled it into a stunning jaw dropper. The backyard pool, his favourite feature, replicated a rock pool at which he had spent many an idyllic childhood holiday at his grandparents’ Tasmanian farm. That pool, fed by a small waterfall, encircled by lush ferns and mossy rocks was home to green frogs and birds. His landscaper brought his childhood memories to life. The backyard resembled a small rainforest, the outdoor dining deck doing double duty as a lookout. Stairs led down to the beach and a little-used jetty. Hayden considered himself lucky. While his friends struggled with mortgages, kids and bitchy wives, he remained single and debt-free. He had no interest in donating his DNA to creating little germ sacks either.

  He hit the controls to raise the garage door and parked his shiny red Lexus. Everything was as he had left it. Teresa and Miguel were visiting family in the Philippines. They were due back in a couple of days. It was good to be back home. The ceiling to floor mirror on the wall reflected an image he wished he could capture forever. The button-down white linen shirt and beige pants showed off his tan and highlighted his sun-bleached blonde hair, turning the tips white. With emerald-green eyes and even teeth polished a dazzling white, he felt like a demi-god.

  “Damn, I look good, if I may say so myself,” he declared to himself.

  With daybreak only a couple of hours away and Hayden as high-strung as a cat on a hot tin roof, he needed to sleep. He was hosting a dinner party for a few friends tomorrow night. God forbid he drop from jet lag in the middle of his own shindig. He looked forward to seeing his friends. Well, almost all of them.

  He refused to think about Rodger. Beautiful, irresistible, nymphomaniac Rodger. Once upon a time, Hayden could not imagine life without him. Thoughts of “what might have been” drove him crazy. Rodger left him for a Polynesian bodybuilder.

  “I’m sorry honey, it’s not you,” Rodger’s English lilt conveyed a sincerity Hayden was not sure he felt. “It’s me.”

  He convinced Hayden they were not breaking up, “just taking a break.” Bitterness rose like bile whenever he recalled that conversation. Hayden’s star was on the rise and Rodger would only be in the way, despite his protests to the contrary. Hayden agreed to a trial separation. In hindsight, he realised he really had no say in the matter. Rodger had decided, and that was that.

  Days before he left for Africa, a mutual friend posted videos of a weekend getaway on Instagram. Rodger and his new beau could barely keep their hands off each other. Hayden cried himself to sleep. It was not the first time Rodger had left him for the flavour of the month. He always came back, and like a fool, Hayden took him back. Not this time. He would use his head. Be cool. Logical. Firm.

  He had barely pulled himself together, flown to Africa, and spent six wonderful, soul-cleansing weeks on safari. A couple of one-night stands reinvigorated him.

  Truth be told, Rodger the delightful little charmer with lithe body and Hoover-hose mouth, was a consummate gold digger. Hayden wanted to believe he was over Rodger. Yet a small part of him nursed the hope that the little tramp would walk back in through that door, beg his forgiveness, get on his knees, then with that delicately shaped mouth, send Hayden off to that familiar place of ecstasy. He shuddered. He would not think of Rodger. Not this morning.

  He removed Minx from her cage. The midnight-black feline purred in his arms. He let himself into the house.

  The smell hit him at once. A strong cloying smell of incense, possibly lemon grass. He caught an underlying whiff of formaldehyde used in embalming fluid, the kind his grandfather used at his funeral parlour. He warily checked the powdery substance on the doorknob. Had someone broken in while he was out? A flicker of hope flared briefly. Rodger was back. He still had his key, and Hayden had not asked for it b
ack in the hope that he would let himself in. His resolve to kick out the love rat wavered.

  Then he saw them. Iridescent peacock feathers on the floor. Not strewn carelessly about but placed strategically along the corridor that led to the dining room, held in place by what he thought looked like tiny pieces of Blu Tack. Had Rodger brought someone here for a tryst while he was gone, he wondered, as his stomach turned at the thought. He moved forward gingerly, cringing with each footfall.

  He smelled her before he saw her.

  A gold plated throne, the kind used in stage productions, took centre stage on his massive oak dining room table. Both the throne and the footstool were inlaid with embroidered green silk. The table stood on a rug with the Milky Way woven into it. Someone had converted his dining room into a king’s court of a Broadway musical. Imitation marble plaster pillars at the four corners of the room were surrounded by florist buckets filled with pink, white and red plastic lilies.

  The sight of the dead woman on the throne rooted him to the spot. Dark, wavy hair flowed down her shoulders, a diadem nestling delicately on her head. Its fake stones glittered brightly in the glow of the electric fire in the fireplace. Hayden loved Greek history, and he could see the familiar thread in the staged scene. The body did not scare him. He had grown up around dead bodies. Hell, his father inherited the mortuary business that had been in the family for generations.

  He studied her closely. The white chiton, the undergarment worn by ancient Greek women, clung to her curves. The kolpos, a blouse of sorts, hung loosely on her body, with fake baubles sewn into them. Her feet rested on the footstool. Gold-painted cuffs encircled her upper arms. A veil attached to her diadem hung down the back of her head. An imitation gold sceptre lay loosely on her lap. A tiny jewel-encrusted peacock was tacked to the armrest of the throne. A porcelain cow as big as Minx curled around the base of the footstool. The woman’s right hand loosely clutched a small fan of peacock feathers. A few golden apples were scattered at her feet. Minx chose that moment to leap out of his arms and streak out the door.

  He knew he should call the police but curiosity got the better of him. He moved closer to study her face. No obvious fatal wound that he could see. Almost lifelike, she could have been a queen who nodded off on her throne. Despite the waxy pallor of death, he could tell that in life, she had been toffee-complexioned, possibly Indian. Jet-black wavy hair framed her heart-shaped face. Narrow nose with slightly flared nostrils. Full lips. She was beautiful. Even in her Grecian outfit, he could tell she had been in good shape. Slim but enough padding for nice feminine curves. Something niggled at his memory. She looked familiar. Minx’s sudden reappearance and meow of protest brought him back to reality with a thud.

  ‘What if the killer was still in the house?’

  The question shrilled in his brain like a fire drill. He scooped the cat up and bolted for the door. Three blocks down, he crouched behind a garbage bin to check if anyone was after him. At 4am, it was eerily quiet. No one was about. Still clutching Minx, he fumbled for his phone. His hands shook so badly, it took several attempts to dial triple zero. As the dispatcher picked up, asking what his emergency was, it hit him. The woman in the house had been in the news all over the world. She was the Maldivian-born wife of mining magnate, Ted Winters.

  Evelyn Winters had gone missing three weeks ago. And she was now in his house, very dead.

  CHAPTER 2

  The panting grew louder with each footfall. It took her a second to realise it was coming from her. The trees, their trunks shrouded with shrubs and vines, added to the forbidding aura of the dark forest. She could not see where she was going, but was afraid that if she stopped, he would pounce. She ran as fast as she could, legs leaden, breathing in short, sharp gasps. Torrential icy rain hit her skin, like watery pinpricks. A sudden flash of lightning bathed the forest in an ethereal light. The vegetation was sparser here. She knew this area well. She crossed the small creek in a single leap as another deafening clap of thunder followed a flash of lightning. Looking back over her shoulder, she could still see the shadowy figure after her. This was not good. A less-beaten path appeared before her. Although she wanted to follow it, her legs refused. As if they had a mind of their own, her legs propelled her onto the well-worn path, carrying her towards her doom. Just like the red shoes in the fairy tale that wanted to dance on.

  Gasping like a racehorse coming home, Lisa Logan clawed her way out her dream fate. Beside her, Chuck remained fast asleep. Disoriented and sweat-soaked despite the 4am winter chill, she got out of bed, grabbing the bedside table to steady her shaky legs. She needed a shower.

  When the ice-cold water had exorcised remnants of sleep, she rinsed off with hot water. As she towelled herself dry, she used the hair dryer to clear the full-length foggy mirror. Her damp strawberry-blonde hair looked brown, the ends slightly curled. Honey-green eyes, red-rimmed from too little sleep and the long shower, stared back at her. Tiny crows’ feet clung to the corners of her eyes. This morning, they appeared deeper, highlighting the dark under-eye circles. A bump on the bridge of her slightly upturned nose from a childhood accident involving a swing and a boy named Kawage. She remembered her father jokingly demand compensation from Kawage.

  “That’s a fine Nordic nose you just damaged there,” he told Kawage. “Do you have any idea the generations of Nordes that passed that nose to Lisa?”

  He had ended this with a smile to ease Kawage’s horror at what he had done.

  Logan shrugged away the memory. She had not thought of her father, Kawage and that long-forgotten accident in ages. Ignoring of fashion and beauty trends, she dressed for convenience and comfort, wearing pantsuits to work and jeans on the weekends. Though underweight for her 160 centimetre height, her heavy bone structure packed enough curves to easily fit into size 14-16 jeans.

  Logan plucked freshly laundered underwear, tee and shorts out of the laundry basket to change into. She returned to the bathroom with her cleaning basket for remedial therapy. Growing up in the Highlands of Papua New Guinea, her mother used to confiscate cleaning items from her, before forcing her to “spit it out.” The irony was that her mother had been just as bad. After her father’s death, mum turned to hard manual work on the farm. Like her mother, Logan employed physical labour to cope with stress and insomnia.

  Mum broke her neck from a fall when she climbed a tree to remove dead branches, leaving Logan to care for her younger brother Joshua. Sweet, sensitive Joshua, with his hazel-green eyes and blonde halo of curls, died just two years ago.

  Her troubles began soon after Josh’s death. She could not get a full night’s sleep for the nightmares that haunted her. Remedies she employed failed. Gin and rum nightcaps were ruled out for the excruciating headaches, while Xanax and Valium left her more exhausted the next day. In the end, she bedded down nightly to catch whatever sleep she could. When the nightmares got her up, she got busy, cleaning the house, or in the warmer months, tinkering in her garage.

  Now she tackled the shower stall with sugar soap and scrubbing brush to remove grime. Then measuring out a cup of bicarbonate of soda with just enough lemon juice to make a paste, she used an old toothbrush to clean the grout between the tiles. Her trusty bicarb, vinegar and water solution had the tub gleaming to her satisfaction.

  For the toilet, she combined a cup of bicarbonate of soda with 3 cups of vinegar. Following the mild explosion from the caustic acid, she poured it into the toilet and quickly closed the lid. When the fizzing died down, she lifted the lid and scrubbed, even under the rim. A quart of bleach later, the toilet looked like a detergent advertisement. Chuck often jested that Logan’s microscopic eyes alone could see where germs lurked in their spotless home.

  The ‘his ‘n hers’ hand basins were easy. She polished the silver enamel taps with CLR until they shone and wiped down the basin. Finally, she scrubbed the floor and wiped it dry with an old towel. As she worked, she mulled over the murder case she was working on with her partner, Adam Steele.

&n
bsp; Her senior sergeant rank had not come easy. Feted as “a rising star” within the ranks of the New South Wales Police Department, she knew that if her emotional baggage was made known to the department, she could kiss promotions and major cases goodbye. She cleverly contrived to keep her private hell away from the job.

  Logan did not trade personal details or war stories with anyone at work. It worked against her. Colleagues thought her aloof, cold and calculating. Still Dr Charles Holland, aka Chuck the Mail Order Man, psychology lecturer and Logan’s lover, understood her. He recognised defences built over time to protect a fragile psyche. Logan’s perfectionist streak triggered analysis paralysis.

  In matters of the heart, Logan was wary. An ex-boyfriend once called her a ‘cold-hearted bitch.” That barb cut her deeply. It was true that she was emotionally distant, but she had been working on it when the bastard shot through. He married a haranguing control freak. Logan had seen the miserable pair arguing at the local supermarket once. Her self-satisfied smirk was not lost on him. He had the grace to look away. It seemed he got the emotional engagement he craved, however toxic, with an awful, nagging fishwife. Poetic justice was sweet.

  Logan forced her mind back to the case. Joan Stacks vanished, her cold, lifeless body discovered three weeks later in a seaside holiday home in Dubbo, the third single mother snatched off the streets by a serial killer calling himself Z. With the deaths of legal eagle Janine Maher and Dr Adele Rose well on their way to being cold cases, public agitation reached fever pitch.

  Joan’s family and friends could not think of any enemies. Her online yoga business was a success. Customers snapped up her line of environmentally friendly, bamboo-based household linen once they hit her online store. She remained good friends with her ex-husband Bill Stacks eight years after their divorce. He had custody of the children, an arrangement she preferred. She had the kids over for the holidays and every other weekend and travelled with them on buying trips to Asia and Africa. Though Bill remarried, no one knew if Joan dated anyone.