Sharp Shooter

by Marianne Delacourt

  ‘So we’re “friends”, are we?’ he asked.

  I watched the lift lights as we shot to the third floor.

  ‘Well . . . in a way,’ I said, suddenly nervous. I could smell his aftershave and the perspiration underneath it. But more than that, his proximity was like pin pricks on my skin. It was a pleasant, if unsettling, distraction from the throb of my blisters.

  He stared down at me. Not many people got to do that and I hated it. But before he could respond, the lift opened into an open-plan office and twenty sets of eyes fixed on me.

  Nick encompassed them all in one sweeping glance. ‘This is Tara Sharp. A friend.’

  Curiosity rose from them like steam from a kettle, floating towards me and coating me in a moist film.

  ‘Um, hi,’ I said with a limp wave. I resisted the desire to look down at my bare, filthy feet.

  Nick ushered me into the one enclosed office on the floor and called out, ‘Jenelle!’

  A smart-looking redhead appeared and he closed the three of us inside.

  ‘Yeah, Nick?’ Her blue eyes were wide with interest.

  ‘Get the first-aid kit and show Tara the bathroom.’

  Jenelle stared at my feet. ‘Oh, you poor thing! Sure.’

  ‘Then go down town and pick up a pair of sneakers for her.’

  ‘No –’ I began to protest, but Tozzi’s frown silenced me.

  ‘You need shoes, Tara,’ he said.

  ‘Thank you.’ I sighed, then looked at Jenelle. ‘I’m size eleven.’

  She nodded. ‘I’ll do my best. This way.’

  ‘Come back in here when you’ve finished, Tara,’ Nick ordered. ‘Do you want tea?’

  I nodded, and to my embarrassment, my eyes started to fog. ‘Please,’ I said huskily.

  Jenelle showed me to the ladies – a bright, lacquered room with a paper dispenser and a deep basin – and left me to it. No questions.

  I washed my feet as best I could and cleaned down the basin afterwards. Then I crept back into Nick’s office, pretending not to notice the murmurs from across the open plan.

  Nick had a mug of tea waiting for me.

  I sat on a comfy couch, thinking how different Nick’s office was from Peter Delgado’s – despite containing similar objects. They both had leather couches, but Nick’s was a casual soft-pillowed style, not a stiff-buttoned Chesterfield. They both had large desks, but whereas Delgado’s was heavy, dark jarrah wood, Nick’s was glass and modern, and his wall hangings weren’t early Australian watercolours but basketball photos. The best one was Nick in his NBA gear sporting a sensational mullet and standing between Michael Jordan and Scotty Pippin.

  I pointed to it. ‘Wow! You met them?’

  ‘Yeah. Big moment for a twenty-year-old basketball nut from Oz.’

  ‘I’m jealous,’ I said. ‘Not of the haircut though.’

  He grimaced. ‘You really do say what’s on your mind, don’t you?’

  I shrugged. If I said what was on my mind right now he’d probably throw me out. I mean he was a very attractive man whose aura was so magnetic it made me feel like a pile of iron filings: little bits of me wanted to stick all over him. ‘I’m guessing people aren’t very direct with you?’

  He sat down behind his desk in the biggest chair I had ever seen. ‘Not so much that. It’s just that people aren’t always natural with me. Especially my players.’

  ‘Aaah . . . the trials of being the boss.’ I knew I was being stupid but I couldn’t stop my nervous mouth.

  He gave me a shrewd look. ‘Tara, why do I get the feeling you’re trying to distract me from something. Now tell me, why did you visit my mother?’

  I swallowed some tea and looked out the window. His view was typical inner city; rooftops and antennae. It was a generous window though.

  Like Nick, I suspected.

  I sighed. ‘I’m not stalking you, Nick. I had a visit from the police. They hinted I might become a suspect in the robbery at your mum’s. I . . . resented that. Lately I just seem to have a bad habit of being in the wrong place at the wrong time.’

  ‘I’d call it a talent,’ he commented. His body language relaxed as we spoke, his arms unfolding.

  ‘Whatever. Anyway, the cops told me that the guy they’d caught, Sam Barbaro, had been bailed by Peter Delgado. It all seemed like too much of a coincidence not to be related. I figured that he – the burglar – must have been looking for something on you.’

  ‘And you don’t think the police might have thought of that?’

  ‘Depends on what you’ve told them. Besides, I bet I know basketball better than any of those cops. I thought I might pick up on something that they’d missed.’

  ‘And you expected my mother to just let you in and tell you anything you wanted to know?’

  ‘Well, not exactly. My mother knows her. I just prompted a reacquaintance.’

  ‘And how did that go?’ I could see him struggling between annoyance and curiosity.

  ‘I’m going over to her house tomorrow to help her clean up the mess. She didn’t want the hired help poking around in your things. And . . .’ I paused to take a deep breath, ‘you didn’t have time to help her.’

  Nick squeaked forward on his chair, slapping the table with his hands and sending me instinctively retreating into mine.

  ‘She said that?’

  I nodded and gulped more tea.

  He slumped back in exasperation. ‘Of all the – what time are you going over there?’

  ‘Errr . . . three-ish, I think.’

  He rubbed his forehead in a gesture of frustration. Then he got up and walked over to the couch and sat down beside me. One huge hand took hold of my wrist.

  ‘If you can find – if there is – a connection between Johnny Vogue and the burglary at Mum’s, Tara, then I would owe you the world.’ His gaze was like a chemical peel. ‘And I’ll make sure you get it. A job, a holiday . . . whatever you want.’

  The change in his mood and manner made me dizzy. I tried really hard to stay sensible. ‘I don’t want anything from you, Nick, and actually, I’ll owe you a pair of sneakers.’

  He froze, as if my answer was totally unexpected. Then something weird happened. There was a slight eruption in his aura like a solar flare. A thin strand of it shot out and hit me high in the chest, around the base of my throat. I could see the line of it as clearly as if a red rope tied us together.

  I jumped up to get away from it, batting at it with my hands.

  ‘Tara? What’s wrong?’

  I danced back a few paces until I was leaning against the edge of his glass desk. The strand stretched. ‘Uhh? Nothing. I . . . err . . . just . . . I suffer . . . panic attacks sometimes. Don’t worry, it’s just a reaction to today. It’ll pass.’

  Concern filled his face; real concern. It poured along the energy strand to my throat like I was a blotting paper for spilled ink.

  OMG he likes me. He really likes me.

  There was a knock at the door.

  ‘Come in,’ he called.

  It was Jenelle, carrying a plastic bag from Athlete’s Foot. She was flushed from rushing, curls of red hair sticking to her forehead. They complimented the fiery red of her aura. Mr Hara said red auras meant the person was high on materialism. ‘Only one size eleven in the whole of the city, I think.’

  ‘Thanks, J.’ said Nick.

  He looked cool and relaxed, unlike me who was attempting to stand on jelly legs.

  ‘No problem. Anything else I can do?’ she asked.

  Nick threw the car keys to her. ‘Run Tara home for me.’

  ‘In the Cayenne?’ That was almost a whoop.

  ‘I can’t do it. I’m meeting Tony here in half an hour,’ he said.

  Jenelle screwed up her face. At least, she didn’t as far as most people would know, but I could see the micro-expressions that pointed to distaste.

  ‘Wouldn’t want to miss that, bosso,’ she said.

  Nick grunted and turned his attention to his laptop. ‘
Bye Tara,’ he said. ‘Stay out of trouble.’

  I opened my mouth but couldn’t think of a damn thing to say.

  Chapter 30

  JENELLE DROVE THE CAYENNE like several bats fleeing several hells. As the speedo hit one hundred and ten k’s around Riverside Drive, I was forced to speak up.

  ‘Err, Jenelle,’ I squeaked. ‘Think it’s only sixty along here. How’s the boss about speeding tickets?’

  She reluctantly braked back to seventy. ‘I always wanted to race cars. Can’t seem to control myself when I get in one as fast as this.’

  ‘I’m the same,’ I said. ‘I’ve got a vintage Monaro. Cost me a fortune in tickets when I first got it.’

  ‘A Monaro? Lucky you! I drive a tinker toy; economical but boring as . . .’

  We sat in an amicable silence past the university and down through Nedlands.

  ‘So who is Tony?’ I asked.

  Jenelle braked for traffic lights and swivelled to give me a good old-fashioned stare. ‘Uh?’

  ‘The guy he’s meeting with,’ I said, playing coy.

  ‘That’s Toni with an “i”. His wife, Antonia.’

  ‘Oh,’ I said. ‘I only recently met Nick. Haven’t had the pleasure of actually meeting his wife yet.’

  ‘It’s no pleasure,’ said Jenelle bluntly.

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘You’ll see. Or at least, you might. He doesn’t usually introduce his other . . . friends to her.’

  ‘Friends?’

  Jenelle blushed. ‘I’m talking too much. Sorry.’

  The dollar coin dropped. ‘Oh, you mean girlfriends. Well I’m not that,’ I said bluntly. ‘I’m just helping him out with something; sort of a working arrangement.’

  ‘Well that’s good. You seem nice, Tara, and Nick – much as I love him – doesn’t always pay attention to his girlfriends.’

  ‘So he’s a player, is he?’

  ‘He wouldn’t be if SHE was nicer to him. But don’t get me wrong,’ she added hastily. ‘He’ll never leave Toni. Not in a million. He married well. Her old man’s worth squillions.’

  Wonderful.

  She dropped me at home ten minutes later and drove off with a flash of red curls, careering around the corner like Speed Racer. I hoped Nick got the Cayenne back in one piece or it would be another thing on my conscience.

  First thing I did was feed the birds. Hoo was snippy, trying to bite me as I filled the seed container, and Brains was stand off-ish, refusing to come over for a scratch. I felt vaguely guilty about their moods. JoBob had been out since early afternoon and the birds clearly hadn’t had their walk. But it was almost dark now – maybe tomorrow morning before I went to Eireen Tozzi’s.

  I suddenly felt incredibly tired. The day had been long and crappy, and now I just wanted to have a hot, hot shower and lie down.

  So I did just that, nibbling the last of JoBob’s brie and biscuits in bed; wondering who the suit with Johnny Vogue was, and watching Scrubs re-runs on my LT until I fell asleep.

  I slept until well after midday, at which time I staggered out of bed and up to JoBob’s to borrow some bread.

  And milk.

  And sugar.

  And toilet paper.

  And soap.

  And teabags.

  And . . .

  ‘Tara, can’t you shop for yourself?’ asked Dad, making me jump. He was seated in his favourite chair and his eyes never shifted from the pro golf replay on his plasma.

  Now Dad was semi-retired he had two passions in life – his plasma and his MP3 player. Everything else had to fit around them.

  ‘Didn’t see you there, Dad. Sorry, been busy. Will replace it tomorrow. Promise.’

  I escaped with my armload of food booty, making a mental note that I needed to buy a laundry basket to make it easier to carry my food back to the flat.

  Breakfast, shower, rummage for clean clothes, iron crumpled clothes and straighten hair – in that sequence.

  I could hear the birds fighting in their cage, Hoo chasing Brains around and around. I took toast and a mug of tea outside and opened the cage door. They both climbed out immediately, as if to say ‘about time’. I watched them crawl around the outside of the cage, and up and down the lattice, until I remembered I had no car. A glance at my watch told me it was 2.30 pm. I lured the birds back into the cage with a piece of toast and honey, and snapped the gate shut.

  Eireen Tozzi wasn’t the sort of person you kept waiting.

  As I walked the back way to her house, Bok called me.

  ‘Sorry, T. Been so busy with these wankers, but they’re leaving tomorrow. What’s been happening?’

  I told him a version of yesterday’s events and could almost hear his teeth grinding.

  ‘Who do you think trashed your car?’ he asked.

  ‘Either Barbaro or someone else. I’m thinking someone else.’

  ‘That narrows it down.’

  I sighed. ‘I know.’

  ‘What are you doing now? How about coffee?’

  ‘Err . . . maybe not. I’m going to Eireen Tozzi’s to look through the things the burglar turned over.’ I waited for his disapproval but it never came.

  ‘That’s not a bad idea. I’ll call you. Later.’

  I tucked my phone away in my shoulder bag. Somehow, Bok saying ‘that’s not a bad idea’ scared me. It was like he’d left off the subtext, ‘You’re in deep trouble and you’re going to have to start doing something to get out of it.’

  I took that thought to Eireen’s front door, past a snazzy, gold Mercedes convertible parked next to the fountain. It seemed a rather sexy number for a lady of seventy plus. Maybe she had visitors.

  I was right.

  Antonia – Toni – Tozzi answered the door wearing a silk mushroom-pink Alannah Hill shift and a violent red aura. Jenelle’s aura had been red too. But there was red and then there was ‘red’. Toni ‘Falk’ Tozzi was the latter. Not like Jenelle’s fleshy pink tones; more, drowning-in-fresh-blood.

  I recognised her straightaway from the other night, and the social pages. Her sandals matched her clothes, and the colour set off the amazing lush blonde hair which swept around her shoulders. Some women do the tousled chic look so well it’s nauseating. Why can’t they just look messy?

  ‘Are you the cleaner? Reeny said she had a girl coming over to help her,’ she said in a voice that sounded like she’d swallowed a plum and then regurgitated half of it.

  I squared my shoulders. ‘Yes, I’m the girl. Could you tell Eireen that Tara is here?’

  ‘Wait here.’

  I did as I was told until Eireen Tozzi appeared in an emerald green sheath dress, pearls and pink fluffy slippers.

  ‘Tara Sharp. I wondered if you’d remember. The young can be so irresponsible.’

  ‘Ready and raring to go, Eireen. That is, if you still want me. I see you have . . . err . . . relatives here.’ I stared at Antonia’s retreating back.

  Eireen tossed her head. ‘Pssst. That one is too lazy to lift a hand.’ She crooked her finger.

  I followed the diminutive figure, made shorter by lack of high heels, through the foyer, past the sitting room and down a long corridor. At the end of the corridor we climbed a set of elegant spiral stairs and entered the first grand door.

  Chapter 31

  YOUNG NICK TOZZI’S BEDROOM hit me hard psychically – like a piece of furniture dropped on my head from a great height. It wasn’t the first time I’d been affected by someone’s intimate possessions. There’s always residual energy from loved things. Compared to their personal aura, though, it’s more like a dull background radiation; how I imagine the Hubble telescope views the backdrop of the universe.

  To me, Nick’s room was more like a theme park at night. Certain objects glowed brightly. This told me two things: either Nick Tozzi was spending a lot of time in his childhood bedroom, or I’d developed an unnaturally strong connection to him.

  I glanced down at my chest. The cord from yesterday had disappeared but there seemed
to be a slight distortion in my vision right at the spot where it had joined the top of my rib cage.

  ‘See what he did to my Nick’s room?’ Eireen waved her hands in despair. ‘I’d kill him with my bare hands if I could.’

  I surveyed the emptied carton and overturned chest. ‘Well, don’t say that to the police, Eireen,’ I said. ‘They don’t take those comments lightly.’

  She turned on me, a miniature schnauzer in pink fluffies. ‘You think I’m joking?’ Her eyes blinked fiercely and her aura swelled and brightened, just like her son’s. I’m glad I’d never been in the room when the pair of them were having an argument.

  ‘Hi, Tara.’

  Damn!

  Nick leaned against the door frame, wearing shorts and a t-shirt. His legs were like massive, sculptured pylons. I dragged my eyes from his thighs to his face and his warm, caramel aura.

  But not before he’d noticed me looking.

  And so, unfortunately, had his wife, who tottered around the expanse of his wide body holding a glass of champagne with a strawberry bobbing in it.

  She gave Nick a sharp look in the suspicious manner of wives who were used to women admiring their husbands; or perhaps more than admiring. Jenelle’s comments had made me wary of Nick Tozzi.

  ‘Shouldn’t you be at work?’ I snapped.

  ‘We’re staying here at the moment – in the guest room – until our new house is ready. Didn’t I tell you?’

  Staying here? Well, that explained the packing carton.

  ‘What’s the cleaner speaking to you like that for, Nicky?’

  ‘Tara isn’t the cleaner, Toni. She’s here to help Mum and I sift through this mess. She does this kind of thing for a living.’

  ‘Maid hire?’ she asked, innocently.

  My hackles rose. ‘Actually, no. I’m not a maid or a cleaner. I’m a businesswoman, specialising in communication analysis and kinesic investigation. Kind of like a private detective. Graduated from Harvard.’

  ‘Harvard? I didn’t know they had degrees in such things.’