by TJ Hamilton
“Lou’s …” He sounds out of breath.
“Lou. Hi. Sorry. It’s Chelsea. I’ve been held up at work. I can give you my credit card details over the phone, so you can run the breakfast rolls through the till?”
“Chelsea, Chelsea. Relax.” He laughs. “Is this what you’re worried about right now? It’s twelve dollars and I’m about to close. Fix me up tomorrow. Go and get some rest. You don’t sound yourself, love.”
I’m not myself right now. “Thanks Lou. See you in the morning.”
By the sound of Lou’s words, the evening news must be having a field day, capturing Pacer and I having our first weird moment since basically swapping oxygen for twenty-four hours straight. I think the sharing oxygen thing has made my head turn to moosh. I feel like a fool for ever doubting that this wasn’t going to be easy. This was never going to be easy. Everything was so nice when we were at Pacer’s minimalistic love nest. Now I understand why he has that place.
For all the same reasons I’ve hidden at Dolorous on the weekends. Being locked away from the world, but around a house full of staff has made being around people normal, until now. Now they suck.
Grabbing my bag and coat, I hold my breath as I open my office door. To my surprise, the office is quiet, but then it is almost six at night. It’s only ever senior barristers who stay back this late, if they have a trial on. There are three senior barristers and I’m the only junior, so my odds are good.
The quiet office gives me a moment to realise that I have used up a whole day of work because I’ve been focused on Pacer. He is paying me good money to manage his case, but I still have other clients to manage. I make a mental note to get Brad onto the other cases for me. If I didn’t have him as my lead assisting council, I would be lost. Once he’s got all the information collected that I need, I can make the assessment on how best to represent each case.
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.
Scrolling through the missed calls, none of them say ‘Pacer’. Chancing rejection, I search through the messages.
PACER: I ran because I wasn’t man enough to stay and protect you. I’m sorry.
I’m torn. Half of me wants him to sweat on that guilt because he was a prick, but the other half of me understands how claustrophobic this would feel. The life that Pacer and I are accustomed to—cameras always watching—makes the world seem a hell of a lot smaller. His is smaller again. How can I judge that?
I flick through to Pacer’s number and call him. The line jumps in and out as it rings. I walk to the end of the cage, and lean against the metal bar doorway.
“Hi.” He sounds hesitant, but it’s still him.
I clear my throat as I let out my one syllable reply. “Hi.”
“Chelsea? Are you there?”
I walk down the caged aisle to get better reception. “Can you hear me now?”
“Yeah, I got you. Where are you? Are you alright?” He sounds worried now. It makes my heart soften.
“I’m fine. I’m just getting some work done.”
“Chelsea?” The connection fades.
“Hello?” I reply.
“Do you want me to come past your place when you’re done?” I can hear his whole sentence without fault.
“No. I think we should really keep things cool while there is so much interest in us.”
“Fucking connection. Chelsea? Can you … what … you … cool?” Only fragments of his sentence come through, but from what I hear, he sounds annoyed.
“I’ll call you later, Pacer.”
The call drops out completely as I finish the sentence. I don’t know how much of what I said he could actually hear.
I don’t call him back. I need to work. There’s so much to uncover, and this may be the last chance I have of piecing it all together.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
It’s almost midnight. Where the hell can she be? She’s not in her office, she’s not at her parents’ and she’s definitely not home. Standing on the balcony of my newly purchased city apartment, I watch the last of the photographers leave the front of Chelsea’s house. I’ll hand it to them, they’re patient fuckers.
Now I’m really starting to worry. I’ve tried to call her again, but it’s the same reordered message I’ve heard for the past five hours. It’s time to call in the services of Scott.
The call rings once and the line picks up without a greeting, as usual.
“I need you to get the location of a phone that called me five hours ago,” I say.
“What’s the number?” His voice never sounds human.
“Just wait.” I press my way through to Chelsea’s contact details in my phone. “Zero, four, zero, one, eight, three, four, eight, zero, two.”
“Ten minutes.” The call ends.
Ten minutes goes quicker than I anticipated, and my phone buzzes with Scott’s number displayed.
“What did you get?” I answer.
“That number keeps bouncing between three towers in the city.”
“What does that mean?” I don’t know how bad this is.
“It means I can’t get a direct location, just a triangulation. It’s probably underground so when it drops out of one tower’s frequency, it will bounce to another.”
This doesn’t make sense. What is she doing?
“How come Apple can pinpoint iPhone’s exact locations, but you can’t with all your gadgets and skill?” I snap.
“The phone doesn’t have Wi-Fi turned on. Nothing I can do.”
My anger builds. “Just give me the triangulation then.”
Why the hell wouldn’t she have her Wi-Fi turned on? What the fuck is she doing? It’s driving me insane that I don’t know what she’s up to. What if something’s happened to her?
“It’s in the vicinity of Sussex Street. Between Liverpool and Druitt Street.”
I frown as I think about the location. “There’s a fair distance between those streets.”
“It’s all I’ve got.” He abruptly ends the call, in true Scott fashion.
If Reed has gotten to her, I will commit more than just murder. I will sell him off, piece by piece. There are plenty of people who will pay me good money to have their chance to get at the corrupt motherfucker.
Our deal has worn thin since he double-crossed me with Collins, so I’m in no mind to negotiate anymore with the asshole.
Grabbing my keys from the dining table, I race out the front door and down the hallway to the elevator. Stabbing my finger vigorously into the elevator’s call button isn’t enough to stem the fury bubbling inside me. My temper is getting the better of me today. No matter how much I try reminding myself that my feelings for Chelsea will only lead to a lifetime of running from watching eyes, I can’t help what’s happening. It’s beyond my control.
The wandering mind can be a cruel enemy when uncertainty lingers. The sinking feeling something that something bad has happened keeps edging its way in. By the time the elevator has reached the ground level, I’ve practically convinced myself that Jackson Reed has Chelsea in a room somewhere. I couldn’t live with myself if something happened to her. It’s my fault that my temper spiralled out of control and I left her like that. I should’ve ignored Michael Lawson’s bitch of a wife. She knew what she was doing, and I let it rule my anger. I wasn’t man enough to stop it. I was weak.
Making my way out of the front entrance to the apartment I rented across the road from Chelsea’s house, I catch sight of her getting out of a cab.
Thank fuck for that!
The looming images of her gagged and tied to a chair in a dark room dissolve from my mind. I step back into a darkened alcove next to her building entrance. She looks around the empty street and makes her way to her front door. Leaning back into the darkness, I watch her.
She’s still in the same clothes that she was in when I saw her last. Where have you been, honeybee?
When you invest so much time and effort into knowing everything about someone like I have with my honeybee, not knowing something now is like driving without lights at night.
Chelsea closes her door, and a light flicks on inside. She pulls down her blinds for once. Finally, she’s starting to take her privacy more serio
usly. She used to keep the blinds open. You never know who might be watching, honeybee.
Satisfied that Chelsea’s now home and safe for the night, I make my way back inside and head to Franco’s car parked in my basement car park. I need to find out why she was over that part of the city.
Was it for work or something else? I have the feeling she’s not going to give up on Reed, no matter what I threaten her with. Which means I’m going to have to deal with the parasite sooner than I had planned. This has been coming to him for a long time. When people like Jackson Reed try to run with the big boys, they always fuck up one way or another. I told the others that it was only matter of time before he made a deal that he couldn’t fulfil. Reed’s days on this earth were always going to be limited when he started playing both sides of the fiddle.
Driving through the city at this time on a Monday night is only asking for trouble. The only people out past midnight tonight are cops and crooks. With my curfew just being lifted this morning, the cops will be on the look out for me too. But at this point, I don’t care. I need to find out what Chelsea has been doing for the past five hours, so I take my chances and drive as casually as possible towards Sussex Street.
Sussex Street is a one-way street, so I start at Druitt Street and make my way along it, watching out for anything that might give me a clue as to what she was doing. The street is dark and empty. There’s nothing in particular that strikes me about this location. Crossing over two blocks, I slow when I make out the figure of a guy walking along the footpath. As I pass, I stare at him behind the concealment of my blackened windows. I recognise him from somewhere. Looking along the buildings for an idea as to where he came from, I note that nothing looks significant. Roller doors to loading docks, closed entrances to office buildings and vacant shopfronts—there’s nothing along here that provides an answer.
I’m sure that guy was a cop. Is that who you were with, honeybee?
My interest has now piqued, even more than it had before. What are you up to, honeybee? Whatever she’s doing, I hope she’s not putting her trust in the wrong people. There isn’t a single cop in this city that I would trust. They’ve all proved to be as crooked as a dog’s hind leg. Particularly the ones who deal with Reed—their snouts are deep in the trough.
