by T M Heron
I dial Eliza. “Are you able to get Jo’s phone records from here for the Saturday of her death?” I’m so disgruntled I don’t even care if the cops hear this.
“I’ve already done that, Jackson. I’m looking at them now. I’ll bring them in.”
A creepy feeling passes over me. She’s probably trying to please me, but the last thing I need is Eliza inserting herself into my investigation.
“I’d rather you do your own work than look any further into this,” I tell her, when she delivers it.
She’s standing way too close and has placed a casual hand on the back of my chair.
“Sorry.” She says it politely, but there’s resentment in her voice.
“That’s not to say I don’t appreciate your initiative.”
Why do all the women in my life end up so full of entitlement?
“Have HR sent up the CV yet?”
Eliza frowns. “They’re saying they don’t have it.”
“They have to have it. All CVs are scanned onto the system.”
“Apparently the file was corrupted.”
“And we don’t have a backup? In this day and age that’s impossible. Tell them to get a backup.”
◆◆◆
The phone records Eliza has given me from the day of Jo’s murder show Jo wasn’t working as dutifully as I’d thought. I’m momentarily embarrassed. How did she trick me so easily?
One of the numbers looks very familiar. Ava. That’s right. Ava and I had been on bad terms from our argument the night before. She’d kept calling up. Trying to make things right. And I’d had Jo pick up the calls.
The length of one of Ava’s calls bothers me though. Twenty minutes. I wince. She would have been pouring her heart out to Jo. Telling her all about our troubles. And Jo would have sat there listening and agreeing and consoling. Pretending to be a nice person. While all the time she was voyeuristically gorging down the details of my private life.
My face reddens, and my skin crawls at the thought. Then I remind myself it’s all okay, she’s dead now.
Thinking about Ava leaves me more despondent than my sure to be fruitless review of Jo’s jobs. If only she wasn’t my alibi for Jo’s murder. I’m going to have to get rid of her soon regardless. I need my head straight.
I replace this unpleasant line of thought with a better one. Ingrid would never have blabbed on to Jo like that.
36
On Wednesday morning my first advertisement offering $50,000 for information leading to the arrest of the person who killed Jo appears on page three of the Dominion Post.
The hotline is immediately besieged with calls and my cell dings constantly with emailed summaries of every conversation. As excited as I am to read them, I am somewhat besieged myself. Finch is first — of course he is.
“Did you have anything to do with what went in the paper?”
“None of your business, Henry.”
“You should be fired,” he rages, smoothing his hands over the jacket of his cheap grey suit.
“I can’t be,” I remind him snidely. “I’m a partner.”
Anthony is not far behind him. “So, a helpline, huh?” He shoots me a friendly look from the doorway. He looks happy. He looks dangerous. “It must be nice to have so much family money to throw around.”
“You can think of this as my first philanthropic venture,” I say, with a flippancy I don’t feel. “Finding Jo’s murderer.
From the moment I decided not to resign, not to turn over and die, I have felt less intimidated by Anthony, and more determined not to show weakness. But I would never underestimate him. If I don’t sort this situation out it will be a grisly end for me, to be sure. I try not to think too hard about this least it derails me.
No sooner is Anthony gone than Detective Pacitto is waiting to see me.
“Just put him in a meeting room,” I fume to Eliza. But he shows up at my office anyway.
I give myself a mini boost by thinking about the illegal contents of my secret compartment only meters away from where he sits. Jo’s journal is there too. How he would love to get his hands on that.
Pacitto looks brassed off. “This farce in the papers fools no one,” he says, helping himself to a seat. “You’re good for this and we’re going to get you.”
“Just speak your mind, Aubrey. Get it off your chest.”
I can see when I use his first name that it antagonizes him. His eyes tighten ever so slightly. I’ll have to make sure I use it at every opportunity.
“You realize we can arrest you for interfering with an investigation?”
“And what a poor investigation it is thus far. Where’s your sidekick, Aubrey? Where’s Grierson?”
“It’s Grayson.”
“Whatever. I guess he’s off chasing clues?”
“Did you hear what I just said? You’re interfering with an investigation.”
“No, Aubrey, I’m not. What I’m doing is conducting my own inquiry. It will have no cross-over whatsoever with yours, because what I’ll be doing is looking at everyone else other than myself. Your one, by your own admission, is pursuing no one but me.”
Pacitto sits and eyeballs me, his cheeks reddening.
“And when all of this is done you guys — you in particular, Aubrey — are going to look like a bunch of incompetent fools.”
“If you receive any information of value you’re obligated to share it.”
“Hmm. Of course.”
“You’re not getting away with this. We’ll get you.” I’m sure Pacitto is still repeating his mantra as he leaves the building. Bastard. I’d like to explain to him how being right about Belinda’s murder has clouded his judgment on Jo’s. Perhaps one day I’ll get to.
At 3 p.m. I finally extricate myself from normal work and stair-climb twenty-nine floors down to the basement. My calves are smarting by the time I reach the bottom but it’s the only exercise I’m getting lately.
Ingrid is already there, sitting at a table I had Eliza organize earlier in the day. She wears a belted maroon suit reminiscent of the 1940s. Her hair is pulled back into some kind of slide, making her neck look long and elegant. She looks, without exaggeration, like a movie star. Immediately I feel turned on. And hopeful. The last time we spoke I thought things flowed really well. Today can build on that.
“The hotline has had one hundred and twenty-seven calls,” she says. No salutations. Just straight into it.
“That’s great, isn’t it?” I try not to feel slighted.
“We’ve had our share of crazies, of course.” She slaps a folder on the table.
I start paging through it. There is a log at the front with names, call times and a one-line conclusion on each call.
“I’m recognizing quite a few names here.”
“That’s because a lot of staff from here have called up,” says Ingrid. “Many have already spoken to the cops but they’re worried if they don’t come to us as well they won’t get the reward.”
“That’s not a bad thing. It means we get to know what they told the cops.” I start to read through the transcripts.
“They don’t know the recipient of this information is you,” says Ingrid.
“That’s just as bloody well,” I say, after reading half a dozen. “Everyone is slamming me.”
For a moment I think back to Jo’s diary. I guess if she told half these people even a quarter of what she put about me in the diary, there’s a lot of people knowing about our bad blood. Of course she won’t have told them what a lazy fat bitch she was. No, she’ll have kept that to herself.
I skip through a few dozen more, but they are already boring me. They’re short, mainly about me and aren’t flattering or even insightful.
“Was there anything of particular note?” I say finally.
“Nothing so far,” says Ingrid. “But a lot of people don’t read the paper until after work. And sometimes it takes time for information to disseminate.” She stands up and starts getting her things together.
/> “Wait.” It’s out before I can stop it.
She pauses, and something about her looks less imperious, more receptive than normal.
“Dinner? Tonight?”
I don’t know what I’ll do if she says yes, as my mind has immediately become blank as to all my favorite restaurants.
She smiles. “How about we just get through the investigation?”
I smile. “How about we not?”
She raises an eyebrow, smiles again and walks out of the room. I’m left basking in the glow of her least cruel rejection yet. I think we both know where this is leading.
◆◆◆
Back upstairs I go online and start reviewing the first of the six files I singled out as contentious. It’s a difficult task to do with any gusto as in my heart I don’t believe it’s going to be of any value to the investigation. I’ve never enjoyed any aspect of file review anyway and it’s twice as boring when you don’t know what you’re looking for. I find myself pinpointing faults in other people’s work methodologies and this angers me. I find myself wanting to look up the people from Bakers who called me in to the hotline so I can put faces to the names, and this angers me. I find myself becoming distracted by the exchange I’ve just had with Ingrid downstairs, and this excites me.
In the end I’m a strange agitated mix of angry and excited. It leaves very little room for concentration. What I need is a visit to Savannah. That would calm me. That would refocus me. But it’s entirely impossible. Even if I could dodge my surveillance there is every possibility I’d end up with company on the back lawn. Instead I’m going home to Ava. The least relaxing possibility of all.
With the prospect of that on my shoulders I stand at the window and wonder exactly how I’m going to get hold of the files Jo worked on for Mel. No great idea comes to mind. In the end I decide it might be a good day to finish early. It’s only 6 p.m. and I’m exhausted but wired.
Gordon Nesbitt catches me just as I’m about to leave. “Why are you going through JNL and NZ Movers?”
JNL and NZ Movers, of course, are two of the six files I’m reviewing as part of my investigation into Jo’s murder. But I’m not going to tell him that.
I smile lazily. “I’m looking at using Coopers for a Ray Investments project. They did similar stuff for us on those mandates.”
“Christ, I can think of better examples to look at than JNL.” Gordon pulls out his iPhone. “Alison Johnson is who I use with Coopers. She’s a great accountant. I’ll text you her details.”
“Great.” I have to hold myself back from shoving him out of my way. There are a million things running through my mind. I want to go. But he lingers there in the doorway. Checking out my office.
“Like what you’ve done. I hear John Morgan’s having his office redone by Gilbert Stuart.”
“Well, you know what they say. If you want it done properly, get a queer to do it.”
Gordon laughs heartily. “I’m waiting round for a conference call from the UK. You want to get a drink after work?”
I try to look disappointed, which is what a man like Nesbitt would expect. He thinks the world rotates around him. He also misguidedly thinks his acceptance of me as a new partner is important to me. “I’m leaving now,” I say.
“Come back in then. We’ll make a night of it.”
“Can’t. I’ve got a dinner.”
“Ah, the lovely Ava.” Gordon gives me a leery look and I can tell he’d sleep with her in a second if the opportunity arose. He’s the kind of guy who has no loyalty whatsoever around women.
I smile.
“I’m having a cocktail evening Saturday night. It’s to raise funds to get the Getty collection to New Zealand.”
I continue smiling. I’m not going to say I’ll come because I don’t go to anything unless there’s something in it for me.
Gordon of course doesn’t think for a minute I’ll be anything other than flattered at his last-minute invitation. “Well, tell the lovely Ava we look forward to seeing her Saturday.”
◆◆◆
The lovely Ava is apoplectic with rage and disbelief.
“Over,” she says. “How dare you! Why?”
She stands at the end of the bed, half-undressed, her $3000 suit lying on the floor. I hate the way she does that.
“It’s not working out,” I say.
“What do you mean? I think it’s working out just fine.”
“Well, I don’t. And if it’s not working for one of us, then as an item we’re over.” I pause. “I’d like you to leave tonight.”
“What? You can’t just throw me out.”
“I’m not. You don’t live here. All you need to do is put your stuff in your car and leave.”
“I don’t understand.”
It’s very simple really. Ava’s alibi is no longer required. And for the first time in my life I’ve met someone I want who isn’t sixteen years old.
I’m under no delusion that anything major is going to happen with Ingrid any time soon. In fact the thought of sleeping with her terrifies me. I’ve never cared whether or not I’ve satisfied a woman in bed before. I’d go as far as to say I’ve never satisfied a woman. In any manner. Now I’m wishing I’d at least attempted it. But how was I to know I’d one day need that skill set?
All of this aside, I want to be able to say, if asked, that I’m single.
I also just want Ava gone now. Not some fly in the ointment of my perfect new life.
“I’m going for a drive now,” I say. “Can you be gone by the time I get back? Don’t turn this into something ugly.”
I’m just about to drive off when Ava comes running out of the house, hair streaming behind her. She hasn’t even dressed. She tries to open the door, which I locked on seeing her approaching. I look at her through the window. My face expressing what I feel — nothing.
Ava bangs her hand on the window. “Let me in. You can’t do this.”
I put the car in reverse, start backing carefully down the drive. Ava runs alongside of me, barefooted. By the time I reach the road she’s screaming like a banshee. “You can’t do this to me! I hate you!”
I hurriedly scan the street for neighbors, slam my foot on the accelerator and speed off. Ava is soon nothing but an angry dot in my rear-vision mirror.
37
I celebrate Ava’s departure first thing Thursday morning by changing all the codes in my home alarm system. I also tell Reception she is no longer allowed to visit me in my office and is to be treated as potentially hostile and escorted off the premises by Security. I have a suspicion that after the debacle in my office with Belinda they will take this request seriously.
As of this morning there has been nothing useful reported on the hotline. Jo’s neighbor has phoned in offering the picture of me that was taken by her security system and I’m beginning to understand why the cops think it’s me. There is something more personal in it for Pacitto as well. He knows I killed Belinda. He knows they arrested the wrong person. Getting me for Jo’s murder is his chance to right a wrong. Maybe he thinks if they get me for that I’ll confess to Belinda as well. Then Kaleb Perry can go free.
Despite everything I slept well last night. When I woke I had a good idea as to how to get the two files currently sequestered in Mel’s office. My solution is a guy called Frederick Young, one of Corporate Market’s top solicitors.
Frederick Young sits in my office. Frederick is highly intelligent but also smart. He works mainly for Mel. Good-looking, and impeccably dressed with a clipped private-school accent, he reminds me of a younger version of myself. Only he’s a genuinely nice person.
Frederick’s eyes make a discreet sweep of my office. He’s heard about it, no doubt, but this is his first opportunity to see it first-hand. I’ve been told one of the partners in Litigation has already spent a bomb on ordering new furniture for his office. Soon it will be a stigma to be a partner at Bakers and not have an office full of personalized furniture. This pleases me greatly.
; “I’ve taken a mandate from Ray Investments to purchase this company,” I tell Frederick. “I want you to take a look at it.”
I hand him one of RIL’s more interesting prospects. Frederick takes the file and looks predictably amenable. Just like every other solicitor here, he’s hungry to work the best clients.
“But there’s also something else,” I say, “And I need to know you will treat this in complete confidence before we discuss.”
“Of course,” says Frederick. What else would he say? He’d sacrifice his left testicle to come up through Bakers on the coattails of Ray Investments.
“I’ve hired a private investigator to look into Jo Johnson’s murder,” I say.
Frederick is the consummate professional. He was braced for something good when I stressed the confidential nature of what I was about to divulge. Even so, his eyes widen.
“Somebody had to do something about it,” I say. “The police are getting nowhere.”
Frederick nods.
“I’m going to be reviewing some of the jobs she worked on,” I continue, as if what I’m planning is perfectly normal. “Most of them are on the system. But two aren’t. I need you to retrieve the corresponding physical files.”
“Okay. Where are they?”
“They’re locked up in Mel Kilbride’s office.”
“Uh, sure,” says Frederick. But he swallows nervously.
I don’t bother explaining myself. It would set a bad precedent. Instead I place a note paper with the names of the two files I want in front of him.
Frederick picks it up. His hands are masculine but well-manicured. That’s good. In addition to teeth I always look at hands. Aside from faces it’s what one sees when looking around a meeting table. I don’t like them to be excessively hairy. And I won’t have a nail-biter on my team. Better to wear a neon sign advertising you don’t have the stomach for stress.
“This initiative is confidential,” I say. “However, if you don’t feel you’re up for it . . .”
