by T M Heron
“Yeah, of course they will, eventually.”
When Anthony leaves, I throw back another quick drink. A smile, a real smile stretches the width of my face. Catch the other one? I allow myself an unmanly snigger. The other one is, no, has always been, several steps ahead of them. The other one is scrupulously careful. He’s not just any normal person. They will never catch the other one.
22
It’s Friday morning and I’m a little chemically depleted. Before I can do anything about it Jo bursts into my office, looking harried and excited. She’s flushed and hyperventilating, as if she’s just run up a flight of step. A sheen of perspiration glances her forehead and I squeeze the eyes of my imagination tightly shut to void any thoughts of her damp armpits or sweaty breasts.
Jo looks — I didn’t know she was capable of this — animated. I counter it with a polished demeanor of bland disinterest.
She places part of a newspaper on my desk. It’s old copy. The announcement of the identity of the two people found murdered in Dukie’s apartment. Dukie and Nature Woman. With the photo of Dukie freshly groomed, looking about seventeen in his King’s College uniform.
Jo has highlighted in yellow the offer by Dukie’s father of a $20,000 reward. She must have done this as soon as she saw the article because the highlight, just like the paper itself, has already started to fade.
“I’ve worked it out. I’ve finally worked it out. You’re not going to believe it,” says Jo. She stabs a strident digit on the photo of Dukie. “I’ve seen this guy in person. And so have you.”
A wave of queasiness rolls through my gut. “What?” I allow a mildly annoyed look to creep across my face. As if I see no relevance in any of this whatsoever. As if, yet again, Jo is frittering away billable minutes.
“I know it sounds crazy,” she continues bullishly. “But they made things difficult for themselves. The photo they’ve given of him is school age. But, you see, the man found was actually in his early fifties.”
“Fascinating.”
“Jackson, this man who was murdered, he’s the drunk who came up to you in Marcel’s. Remember? On Secretaries Day?”
“What?” It comes out slightly strangled. But Jo isn’t known for her powers of observation.
“He called you Frank.”
“I don’t recall.” I say this dismissively. But the conversation I had last night with Anthony is fresh in my ears. And before I can stop such self-destructive thought patterns everything I’m about to accomplish flashes before my eyes and starts to fade. My partnership, my future status, my inheritance . . . If the police hear this, I’ll be the last live person to have had contact with Dukie. Right bang on the day of his death. Only months after being a person of interest in another homicide.
And here is Jo, about to set all of it in motion. Leaning over my desk. So close to me I can smell her cloyingly sweet morning coffee and the half-pack of gingernuts she’s already polished off as an addendum to breakfast.
Resentment buzzes in my ears.
In the background Jo’s voice is regurgitating the events of Marcel’s, unaware they are already seared into my memory for life.
The buzzing gets louder.
I lean over Dukie’s photo, studying it intently. She leans forward too. Willing me to recognize him.
“Maybe if we gave the photo to one of those digital experts and had them age him?” says Jo, who is suddenly exploding with initiative. “For twenty thousand dollars it’s worth it.”
Twenty thousand dollars. Fuck. That amount of money will soon be so minimal to me. Yet here I am having to humor my fat bitch of a secretary over it. And she’s about to die for it. Because realistically, what other option do I have? It’s not like I can let her report her great discovery.
“I don’t see it. I really don’t see any resemblance,” I say finally. I unlock the top drawer of my desk and place the article in it. Jo’s hand jerks forward involuntarily as if I’ve just thrown her child in front of an oncoming train. I sit back in my chair. “Then again, I barely remember the incident.”
Jo is too focused on the money to flinch. She’s probably already spent it. On discretionary items that will have her net worth back to exactly what it is now within two years of having hypothetically received it.
“I’ll discuss it with Anthony sometime today,” I say. “But he’s busy and I’m busy and I don’t want you bothering him about it. Is that understood?”
Jo nods.
“And I also don’t want you mentioning it to anyone else. Not here. Not at home. No one. If there’s someone you’ve already told, I need to know now.”
“Not a soul,” says Jo.
I subject her to a long skeptical stare.
“I don’t want anyone beating me to the reward,” she says triumphantly.
I breathe a little easier. “Very well. But understand you’ll lose your job if do go off on your own about this.” I click into my online calendar. “Anthony will probably want to set up a meeting with you Monday. Anything today is not enough notice. We’ll get the police involved after that.”
Jo beams.
“Don’t get too excited, for God’s sake,” I say cynically. “It’s a long shot. And only one of us thinks they recognize him.”
“What a shame Eliza didn’t get to see him,” says Jo. “She’d have remembered.”
“If I can redirect your focus back to work,” I say, “I’m going to need you here all of tomorrow.”
“That’s fine,” says Jo. “Brian’s on a hunting trip this weekend. He’s not back until Tuesday night.”
I bend my head back over my work, seeing nothing.
◆◆◆
I open my office wardrobe and my face stares back at me. Self-assured and unruffled. Impeccable in my navy suit. I glance down at my shoes. Italian. Buffed to perfection. My reflection soothes me.
The cops know Dukie was one half of the Park Rape Team. And now Jo can connect me to Dukie. I can’t stop her from going to the cops without drawing further attention on myself. And inevitably Jo will contact them, with a $20,000 reward up for grabs. Jo has to go.
I drink a bottle of mineral water and look out over the city. It’s fortunate her husband is away hunting until Tuesday evening. And it’s a shame I can’t get Jo out of the way today so I can be free to enjoy the rest of the weekend.
But I can hardly do her here at work. I have back-to-back meetings, and tonight I’m committed to a celebratory dinner with my mother I have been looking forward to. The Ray Investments board will all be there. I have no excuse good enough to justify asking Mother to call off the caterers. And really why would I? Cancelling last minute on such an influential group of people would be the height of career stupidity.
I glare at the doorway in Jo’s direction. Once again she’s rained inconvenience upon me. I don’t mean to complain. And I’m not an unreasonable man. Setbacks and inconveniences are part of life. It’s just the timing of it all, really. Why does it have to be now, when I should be enjoying the fruits of my labor?
◆◆◆
Mother has outdone herself. What started as a celebratory dinner with Neville and the Ray Investments board has snowballed into a black-tie soirée for fifty. Everyone arrived early, as Mother wanted it to be a surprise for me. Thank God I didn’t back out.
The reception for my surprise dinner is being held in a room our family has always cozily referred to as “the den”. The den is a rectangular space of about ninety square meters, with a four-meter-high stud. The floor is polished cherry-wood. Rare, expensive and wonderfully impractical.
The main feature is not the floor, however, but the six open fireplaces. They stand three in a row, positioned down both long sides of the room. They are flanked with some kind of imported rock that looks like pale granite but is flecked with copper. Tastefully obscured lighting magnifies this effect. Tonight all six fires are roaring, and winter does its dance outside alone.
The mayor is here, along with a couple of MPs, a sprinkli
ng of judges, and someone I recognize from the upper echelons of the Reserve Bank. A property magnate who owns half of the South Island makes admiring comments about one of the fireplaces to my mother’s favorite clothes designer.
I notice Bernadette in the background, resplendent in a strapless crimson number. She’s here strictly to supervise the photographers. The only guests from Bakers are the head partners: Anthony, Finch, Giles Davis from Litigation, Ryan Debrett from Infrastructure, Jude Wilde from Intellectual Property, and Melanie Gordon-Topps from Dispute Resolution.
I hate that Finch is here with his stately matron of a wife. Hobnobbing at this function in my honor, when he loathes me for absolutely no reason.
Mother is stunning and regal in a pale-gold, floor-length gown. Her hair and face have been professionally done. She mingles with ease. Laughing self-assuredly the way wealthy women should.
I think my mother is finally starting to live again. If I wasn’t slightly distracted by the Jo situation this realization would make me happy — which is a bigger surprise than the dinner.
I would like to be able to relax into this occasion. Consume every atom of it. It’s all about me and how special I am. I was born for it. But a nagging suspicion is gnawing away at me. I have a black premonition Neville Schuler will do his signature act of turning up with my sister in tow. The thought of a photo from tonight with Helena in it, making it to the society pages, which is where these photos will undoubtedly go, fills me with dread.
If Helena shows up, my mother will insist on a family photo. The three of us.
And on top of the humiliation of having our family photo make it to the society pages is the even more sinister repercussion of being face to face with Helena. I know without a doubt my sister will be able to intuit my plans for Jo. I just don’t know what cryptic threatening shit she’ll have to say about it. She says anything she wants to me these days, her personality a polar opposite to the sunny-natured, loving child she used to be. The last few times I’ve been forced to keep company with Helena she’s made taunting remarks about Belinda, Dukie, and Nature Woman. I’ve told her they’re spurious, but now I wish I hadn’t dignified those remarks with an answer.
I try to conceal my worry as I casually survey the room. Neville is late. He’s always late to anything I’m attending. And usually it’s because he’s stopped by to see or collect my sister. I’m sure both are done with the utmost offense in mind.
I snare Mother as she floats past. “Mother, you’re a darling. This is great.”
“Only the best for you, Jacky.”
“You won’t call me Jacky in front of any of these people, will you, Mother?”
“Not if you don’t want me to, dear.”
I drain my champagne flute.
“I don’t see Neville’s anywhere.”
“Oh, he’ll be here.” She pats my arm. “You still look worried.”
“No, of course not.”
Just that him and Helena are probably out to ruin my night.
I hurry to the men’s room, lock the door, lay out a line on the marble counter. As I inhale, I remind myself I am in control. I am a superior being who is more than equipped to deal with the current situation. As I snort my second line, I decide it would be good if Neville did bring Helena. It’s about time the bitch was put in her place. She should have died that summer’s day when she plummeted two stories from the pool-house roof.
◆◆◆
Of course the show is not over for me once the party ends and everyone goes home. No, as ever I have work to do.
Chang eyes me belligerently. His ensemble is Nike this time. If it wasn’t for his expression, he’d look like a Californian new-age guru. “Why do you always show up so late?”
“It’s urgent,” I say, unapologetic. “I need someone gone, by tomorrow. Gone-gone.”
Chang looks unmoved.
I glower as I think how much they charged me for the poisoned cigar I didn’t end up using, which sits redundantly in its special non-permeable pouch in my desk at home. Three thousand dollars. I’m a goldmine to these guys. I want to tell him to throw me a goddam bone. Then I remind myself every relationship has rules. And in this one I’m the needy party.
Chang sits, smooths his tracksuit pant, and buzzes Warren.
Minutes later Kevin appears in the doorway looking docile and pointless.
“Wrong bell. Go away,” says Chang, punching another button. He puffs out his cheeks. “He’s useless at everything. That’s why I put him in a profession. He got an A in that last assignment.”
I nod politely and refrain from pointing out the obvious. That while Kevin may be acing his assignments I sure as hell won’t be able to have one of the solicitors at work sit the finals for him. Regardless of Chang’s money and influence Kevin will stumble through life impressing no one and oozing mediocrity.
Warren walks in and I immediately feel less anxious. Warren is a problem-solver. Warren works in his lab developing all kinds of improbable inventions. His talents seem to know no limits. Like chemistry and biology and electronic devices. His usefulness overrides my apprehensions that he’s gay. Give me a gay Warren over a eunuch like Kevin any day.
“What’s the emergency?” says Warren.
“Jackson needs to kill someone. Tomorrow.”
It used to bother me that Chang talks about this kind of subject material so unambiguously. I was expecting they’d have some kind of code. But I figure given Warren’s genius with electronics the house is guaranteed to be bug-proof.
Warren sits down and pours himself a quintessential cup of green tea. “Is he strong?” he asks.
“He’s a she.”
No one bats an eyelid.
“It needs to be quick and fail-safe,” I say. “I’m going to her house and she has to be gone before I leave.”
Chang and Warren suddenly break into Cantonese. I can’t shake the feeling they doubt my competency to execute whatever solutions they’re considering. I feel like interrupting with my latest three achievements: Belinda, Dukie and Nature Woman. But a man who seeks to defend himself by way of bragging only reinforces any perception of inadequacy.
“We have a special mixture you can inject. The best place is under the armpit or on the inside of the groin,” says Warren finally. “She’ll have a heart attack. Nice and natural.”
“I’m not good with needles,” I say, confirming everything they were probably just discussing about my deficiencies.
“I’ll give you some saline-filled ones to practice with,” says Warren, ever the problem-solver. “You can try them on a leg of lamb, or an orange. Depends on body type. Is she big or small?”
“She’s huge,” I say. “And she’ll struggle like buggery. It’ll look like she’s been in a cage fight before she had her ‘heart attack’. And it’d take about three men to hold her down.”
“Sounds like a buffalo,” says Chang. “I hope it’s not your lady.”
“You could stun her first,” Warren jumps in. He’s starting to look excited at the challenge. “We’ve got this thing that, it’s like a cross between a, uh, a Taser and a stun gun. You can get them from about three meters.”
“I’m still not liking the syringe,” I say feebly. In fact the thought of blindly groping among the loose folds of Jo’s armpit or God forbid, groinage makes this method an undisputable no-go.
“We have it in another form. Would you be able to administer drops to her eyeball?” says Warren.
“If she was stunned,” I say, knowing the prospect of peeling back Jo’s eyelid will still push me to the limit.
“It’s not without its risks. You’ll need to wear special gloves.” Warren frowns. “And you’ll want her more than stunned. She’ll need to be incapacitated. This is going to be expensive. Are you sure you can’t do the syringe?”
I nod, trying not to look defensive.
When Warren leaves the room to put my parcel together Chang says, “I need payment for this tonight.”
I’
d already anticipated this. They’re worried I’ll mess up and get caught.
“Ten thousand,” says Chang, and I can tell he’s just pulled that number straight out of his ass.
“I could pay someone to do it for that,” I say, furious inside.
Chang just looks at me. “We need some help shifting a bookcase before you go,” he says.
23
It’s Saturday. The morning of Jo’s death. I’m at work. I pulled a muscle helping Chang and Warren shift the mother of all bookshelves last night and I don’t feel like being here. But it’s the best way to keep an eye on Jo.
Despite it being the weekend there’s a general feeling of bonhomie around the office. Most of course would rather be nursing their hangovers in the steam room at the Freyberg Complex. And the odd person no doubt is staring bleakly at their laptop wondering why they chose a career in law, and what happened to the rest of their life. But deadlines wait for no one and the dollar does not discern between weekday and weekend.
“Ava called,” sings Jo as soon as I step into my office.
I allocate her an enormous pile of Ray Investments work to do. There’s no point in not using her productively just because she’ll be dead in ten or so hours. I stand at my door and look at her. The crepey flesh under her eyes is darker than normal. She probably couldn’t sleep for thinking about the $20,000.
For myself I slept soundly. Ava and I had fought when I got back from Chang’s. Over what I can’t remember. It ended with Ava sleeping in a guest room and me having my best sleep in a long time.
◆◆◆
I while away the next two hours looking through a design catalogue. Now that I’m going to be partner, I’ve had an idea that will trump even Anthony Hartman’s Turkish rug. I’m going to take all of the chrome-and-glass shit out of my office and replace it with real furniture, paid for by me. A total overhaul.
