by C. A. Larmer
“Oh, I can’t stand the place. I just find it such a laugh. Look around you, this is all great fodder for our books, yes?”
“I guess so,” she replied, not convinced.
“And I have to tell you I do love Monday nights out. They’re the real deal.”
“How do you mean?”
“You know, less of the riff-raff out and about, just the important people.”
“Oh, I see, and that would be you and me, would it?”
He smiled. “You’re quick, I like that. That’s why I wanted you for the book.”
They were seated across from each other at a candle-lit table right in the centre of the room, and David gave Roxy a piercing look that saw her shifting in her seat, her confidence waning. She hadn’t noticed how blue his eyes were until now. They were almost translucent, like shallow rock pools, and they were beguiling.
What is it with this man? He was not her type at all, and yet he certainly knew how to push her buttons. It didn’t help that he was less clean-shaven today and had swapped his expensive suit for a more relaxed tight T-shirt and tailored leather jacket. Not quite something Max would wear but close enough. For reasons she wouldn’t admit to herself, she had dressed up tonight, and was wearing a silky magenta coloured dress, heeled boots and beads, but she noticed that she was still the most casually dressed woman in the room. And she was proud of herself for that.
“So you asked for me, specifically?”
“Absolutely. I’ve read your stuff, seen you around. In fact, I met you with Oliver at his office once about two years back.”
“Really?”
A slight shadow flickered across David’s eyes, muddying the waters. “We talked for a few minutes, you don’t remember?”
Roxy shifted again. “Hey, sorry about that, but you can’t take it personally. My memory is like a sieve at the best of times. Wouldn’t remember my own name if I hadn’t tattooed it to the inside of my eyelids.”
“That’s what they all say.” He glared menacingly for a split second before breaking into a wide smile. “I’m just messing with you, Roxanne. Can I call you that?”
“If you like. I do prefer Roxy, though.”
“Really? I don’t think it does you justice. In any case, I think you and I would make an incredible team, whatever we call each other.” He leaned back in his seat. “I think we have chemistry.”
“Oh,” she said, feeling a blush creep up and she breathed deeply to push it back down. “So! Where is that waiter? I’d kill for a merlot.”
He didn’t seem to notice her discomfort. “Allow me.”
David signalled for a waiter and, after some discussion, settled on a pricey Margaret River cabernet shiraz. When the bottle arrived he made a bit of a show, swirling the glossy red liquid in his glass and sniffing it before taking a slow, tentative sip. She half expected him to slush it around his mouth then spit it out into a bucket but he simply swallowed the mouthful and indicated for the waiter to pour.
After the waiter had left, David raised his glass and said, “To a great working relationship.” Then he toasted her, holding the glass to his lips while his eyes never left hers.
He was getting way ahead of himself now, she thought, taking a good gulp. “First things first, hey. What exactly are you after with this book?”
He shrugged. “Surely we don’t have to launch into work just yet?”
“Well, no, but—”
“So you read about Seymour Silva?”
“The dead writer, yes. Mostly thanks to you. The other paper barely mentioned it. I see you’re in the thick of it. What’s your theory?”
“It has to be murder, no question.”
“Really? I thought that hadn’t been determined yet. Why do you think it’s murder?”
He winked. She didn’t really like blokes who winked, especially blokes with gorgeous blue eyes that should remain open and staring firmly at her, as unsettling as it was.
“You’ll have to read tomorrow’s press to find that out,” he told her and then, when she groaned, he laughed.
“Come on,” she said. “If you want to work with me, you’re going to have to show you can trust me.”
“Okay, okay, I’ll give you the scoop for free. Suffice to say, he wasn’t just found dead, there were some circumstances that dispute the whole suicide theory.”
“Oooooh ... Such as?”
“For starters, there was no suicide note.”
“So?”
“So, he’s a writer. Surely a writer would leave a long and dramatic good-bye letter to be published posthumously. Wouldn’t you?”
“I wouldn’t kill myself, so I guess I don’t know.”
He ignored this. “Plus he has a very bizarre manager who I’m looking into as we speak.”
David’s hand instinctively reached for the expensive smartphone he’d placed on the table earlier, and he checked it quickly before placing it back down, as though expecting an urgent call at any moment.
“And how do you know all this?” Roxy asked.
“I have my sources.”
“Oliver Horowitz?”
“Hardly. No, I go a lot deeper than that.”
“Let me guess, Oliver’s been wining and dining his forensic friend Kay Chong again?”
Lone paused for a moment, surprised. “You’ve met Kay, then?”
“Yes, I have.”
“She’s certainly very useful, that woman. But she’s not the only one.”
There was a cheeky gleam in his eyes and Roxy wondered whether Kay had also proven useful to David in the case of the Supermodel murders. She made a mental note to ask him about that, later.
“So, what’s the goss?”
“I just told you.”
“You told me nothing. Come on, you’re holding something back. Spit it out.”
“Okay, okay.” He took another mouthful of wine and then launched in. “According to ... well, let’s just call them ‘sources’, Seymour was also heavily drugged when he died and his wrist was slashed.”
“Sounds exactly like suicide to me.”
“Don’t be too quick to judge. That’s clearly what the culprit intended. The answer is all in the wrist.”
“Huh?”
The gleam in David’s eyes had intensified. “Seymour’s wrist wasn’t just slashed.” He paused. “It was slashed from the top of the left side down and then from the top of the right side down.”
She looked at him blankly. “Okay, and that’s intriguing because?”
“Think about it.”
Roxy blinked several times then began tracing the line of the cut along her own wrist, from one side down and then the other. “You mean he was sliced with an X-shape?” He nodded, smiling. “Sorry, David, I’m still not following.”
“An X-file, of course.”
Roxy couldn’t help scoffing. “You’re serious? You think he was deliberately marked with an X for The X-files? The old TV show about aliens and stuff? Why? Because he was a sci-fi writer?”
“Obviously.” Just then the waiter arrived to take their orders and David waited until he had done his duty before continuing on, his face increasingly animated. “I believe he was clearly trying to make a point, leave a message, so to speak.”
“He?”
“Yes, you’re right, it could be very well have been a woman. I wouldn’t put it past any of you.”
“Hey, watch it!”
He laughed. “It’s intriguing, though, isn’t it?”
Roxy had to admit it was. “Look, you’re preaching to the converted here. I love a good true crime story more than most people, but I think you might just be stretching this one a bit too far, David. For starters, The X-files hasn’t been on telly for years, so it’s a tenuous link at best. Plus, the ‘X’ could purely be the result of a frantic knife wound. A coincidence. Or if it was intentional, who’s to say Seymour didn’t do it to himself?”
“I don’t know, I think there’s something very suspicious about the whole
thing. It’s just a hunch I’ve got. I’m going to get to the bottom of it, I can tell you that for sure.”
Roxy stared hard at David and then broke into laughter, quickly trying to swallow it back down as she watched a wounded look sweep across his face.
“Am I really that amusing?”
David’s sensitivity made him even more attractive to Roxy and she leaned towards him, one hand at her lips. “Sorry, David, I’m not laughing at you, honestly I’m not. I just cannot believe I have met someone as interested in all of this as I am.”
“What’s not to be interested in? While we were all happily watching my new movie in a cosy cinema, some monster was slashing the life out of another human being. If it really was murder, what made him—or, yes, her—do it? Was it premeditated? Spur of the moment? It’s fascinating stuff and anyone who tells you differently is a liar.”
David was starting to get worked up, his eyes were sparkling again and he was now sitting forward, gesticulating with his hands. “I hate the way we have to pretend that murder is not polite conversation when it’s often all anyone can think about, read about. Humans are fascinated with death and particularly murder. It’s the reason the Supermodel Diaries did so well—sex, lust, murder, that’s what sells, it’s what people want to read whether they’ll admit to it or not.”
“Easy, tiger, I’m with you there. It’s always grabbed my attention and I’m more than happy to admit it.”
He seemed relieved by this and raised his wine glass to hers, giving it a solid clink. “See, what did I say? I knew we’d be perfect for one another.”
This time she couldn’t suppress the blush that was sweeping across her cheeks.
Chapter 7
The following morning Roxy awoke with yet another hangover, unusual for her so early in the week. She moaned as she dragged herself into the shower. This David Lone character was proving to be a bad influence, she thought, then smiled at the memory of a truly enjoyable evening out. They had followed up dinner with drinks at Bar 11, an inner-city lounge bar that was just as pretencious as the restaurant, and she even recalled a little dancing before she’d had the good sense to flee into the night.
David was certainly charming but Roxy knew she had to watch her step. This was business, after all, and what was that saying about never mixing the two?
She lathered herself with soap, and couldn’t help smiling. Until now she’d never had to worry about that. Murder mysteries aside, her past ghostwriting clients had all been relatively dull; usually monopolised by the only people who could afford to have a book written for them—the old and the wealthy. But David Lone was different. He was young, good looking and a riveting conversationalist. For the first time, Roxy could actually relate to one of her clients. And he was right. On paper, at least, they were a perfect match. Not only were they were both passionate about writing, she also discovered as the evening progressed that David was interested in many of the things she found important, like politics, the environment, travel. And, yes, even murder.
She had to admit that she was particularly drawn to his fascination for death. For the first time in her life, Roxy felt comfortable chatting with a man about true crime. He got it.
“Just because you’re interested in murder doesn’t make you any more evil than anyone else,” he’d said and she had nodded her head vigorously, the warm red wine tingling through her veins. “It just makes you more fascinating as far as I’m concerned.”
She had felt a sense of jubilation wash over her then, recalling the numerous conversations that Max Farrell had aborted over the years often angry with her at the mere mention of death. How often had she tried to chat about an article of interest or a news story on TV only to find him tense up and wave her away? At last, here was a man who did not shy away from the reality of life which, like it or lump it, includes death, some of it unexpected and macabre.
Roxy stepped out of the shower and dressed casually before heading to the sunroom to put her thoughts down on her trusty laptop. She created a new folder marked “Lone Wolf” (she always named her files cryptically, it was an odd habit she couldn’t explain but persisted with nonetheless) and then opened a Word document, this one plainly titled “Q&A”. At the top of the page she typed: If I decide to do it! Then she added a few quick questions, including, “Where does David source his information from?” and “What first sparked his fascination with death and murder?”
Roxy then sat back and rubbed her temple, squinting out past the flourescent green ferns to the gleaming yachts bobbing about in the bay in front of her apartment block. She lived in the inner-eastern suburb of Elizabeth Bay which was a high-density area bursting with an eclectic mix of low-income, arty, bohemian types, well-to-do socialites and DINKS (double income, no kids). Roxy didn’t really feel she belonged to any of these sub-cultures, but she loved the area nonetheless, and she loved her tiny little pad, its chipped, whitewashed walls and sunny perspective. The view, alone, was worth the sometimes crippling mortgage. She stared out at it now as she tried to gather her thoughts.
At this stage, Roxy didn’t have a lot to work with. They’d barely discussed David’s biography last night and, thinking about it now, she realised that every time she turned the conversation towards it, he just as smoothly steered them back off track.
Was he avoiding something? she wondered. Or was he just having too much fun?
In any case, it meant they would have to meet again, this time at a more sober location—there were so many things yet to nut out before she would sign on the dotted line. Still, as she searched for David’s number through the cards in her purse, Roxy knew very well that there was no turning back now. This was one man it seemed she could not resist. Her mother would be proud.
Several phone calls and a few hours later, Roxy was back in Oliver’s office, sitting in the battered old armchair, pen and paper in hand. Beside her, on a squeaky new director’s chair, was David Lone, dressed casually now in a chambray shirt and jeans, looking fresh as a daisy with a wide smile on his lips.
Did the man never suffer hangovers? Roxy wondered, begrudgingly.
Oliver’s mind was elsewhere. “Come on then, Davo, spit it out. What have you got to be so smug about? Happy with your X-files scoop in the paper today, eh?” He nodded in the direction of the tabloid newspaper that was folded over itself on his desk.
“Not that, no,” David said. “Although my scoop has hit the airwaves. That’s all they’re discussing on talk-back radio today. Have you been listening to the dialogue?”
“Mate, I’d rather slit my own wrist with an X than listen to talk-back. So if it’s not that, why are you looking like the cat who ate the canary?”
Roxy raised one hand high in the air, like an eager school child. “I know! I know! You’ve uncovered some more juicy details about the Seymour Silva case.”
David chuckled. “Top of the class for you,” he said. “But we’re not here to talk about Seymour Silva. It’s all about me today.” Now both Roxy and Oliver scowled at him and he laughed again. “All I can say is, I could have a very big scoop coming out in tomorrow’s paper, bigger even than the X-slash. If my investigations pan out, and I think they will, it’s going to ruffle quite a few feathers, I can promise you that.”
Oliver looked apprehensive. “Really? What have you found out?”
“Nothing confirmed yet,” he said, reaching around to pull his iPhone out of his back pocket. He glanced at it quickly, then placed it on the desk in front of him. “I’ll know more soon. Until then ...” David pretended to zip his lips shut and Oliver glared at him for a few moments.
“You do know what you’re doing, right?”
“Naturally.”
He sighed. “All right, let’s get on with it then, what’s to discuss?”
“I haven’t got any questions. I say we just get started on my book as soon as possible.”
“Ah ... hang on a minute,” Roxy stammered. “I haven’t actually agreed to do it yet, in case anyone ha
sn’t noticed. I need to confirm a few things before I sign up.”
“Fair enough,” David said. “What can I confirm for you?”
“Well, for starters, let’s discuss the tone of this book. I’m not real big on the sleazy tabloid style, if that’s what you’re after.”
David grabbed at his heart as if in shock and Oliver leapt to his defense.
“Er, I think, Roxy, I might have given you the wrong impression yesterday.”
“You mean the impression that you wanted me to write a sleazy tell-all?”
He grimaced. “Yes, that one. I’ve since spoken to the publishers and Dave here, and they don’t want ‘sleaze’ so much as ‘best seller’.”
“That’s right,” said David, turning his whole body to face her. “I don’t want it to be sleazy. I’m not sleazy, so why would my book be? But I do want it to be a fantastic read. I want to sell copies, I mean, what’s the point of doing this otherwise?”
Roxy could think of many reasons to write someone’s life story—to create history, set the record straight, entertain and inform—but she chewed her lower lip and let them continue.
“We just want a fantastic read,” Oliver repeated. “And we want to strike while the iron’s hot. The film’s just out, David’s books are soaring up the charts, it’s time to get his story told.”
“And, again, tell me why you don’t want to write it yourself, David?” He shrugged as though it were unimportant. That wasn’t going to cut it. “I mean it,” she said. “I understand why people normally employ me—most can’t write to save themselves, or don’t know how to get started—but you’re different. You’re a pro. Why not write it yourself?”
He sighed impatiently. “Because, Roxanne, I want you to write it. I’m a little young to be writing my memoirs, yet my story is kind of intriguing, if I don’t say so myself.” He winked, grinning. “Plus, I think the audience will perceive it as more revealing if it’s written by a so-called ‘outsider’. Then of course there’s the fact that I just don’t have the time. I’m pretty busy right now, in case you hadn’t noticed. I’m trying to finish this blasted book on doping and elite athletes, and I’m also on the Seymour Silva case for the Telegraph.”
