by Vicki Tyley
He touched the keyboard, the dark screen fading to reveal a blue and green menu. “Go for it.”
Great security, she thought, taking a seat in front of the computer. At the very least, she would have expected a request for the user to re-enter a password.
She selected Reports from the menu toolbar. It didn’t matter that it wasn’t an application she was familiar with; it was Windows based. Under the Activity and Audit Reports tab, she found the information she was looking for. Viewing the data on-screen, nothing jumped out at her. Audit number. Date. Time. Location. Access Code. Apartment Number. It all looked in order, but how could that be? She printed the report to study later.
However, before she could stash it inside her file, the door opened. She didn’t know who got the biggest shock, her or Ethan. She just stood there like an idiot, one hand clasping her file, the other suspended mid-air, the unauthorized computer printout pinched between her fingers. She knew from the heat flooding her neck and face, she looked as guilty as she felt.
“This is a secure area. Do you mind telling me what you’re doing?”
Ignoring the ginger-haired security guard lurking in the background, she met Ethan’s gaze. “Freelancing.” Those inky-blue eyes no longer seemed so alluring.
He shook his head, frown lines marring his forehead. “What’s that in your hand?”
“A file.”
He scowled. “No, the other one.”
“A report.”
“Let me see,” he said, holding out his hand. “Please.”
“I went to see you like we arranged. What happened?”
“The report, Jemma.”
With a sigh, she relinquished it. “I also tried to phone you. Twice. I’m only here because I couldn’t get hold of you.”
He snatched it from her fingers and without looking at it, folded it in two. “We can continue this conversation at the office. You,” he said to the security guard, “I’ll deal with later.”
Mouthing ‘sorry’ at the bemused guard, Jemma followed Ethan outside.
“Care to tell me what that was all about, Ms Dalton?”
His gruff tone took her straight back to her school days. She bowed her head, feeling like the rebellious teenager caught smoking in the girls’ toilets again. Except now, she was an adult. She took a breath and looked up. “I’m sorry,” she said, splaying her hands. “I know it was wrong, but what else was I supposed to do? I had to prove I’m not crazy. Well, not completely, anyway.”
“Whoa. Back up. What the hell are you on about?”
“Not here. And not at your office either,” she added, not keen to show her face there again in a hurry. Before she knew it, she had invited him up to the apartment. Shutting out the little voice in her head telling her she hardly knew the man, she led the way. He wasn’t a complete stranger and besides, she reminded herself, as property manager, he had access to every apartment, if he so chose.
She let him into the apartment, picking up the broom she had used to barricade the door the previous night before he could trip on it. “I can offer you black coffee... or black coffee.”
Dismissing her offer with a quick flick of the wrist, he crossed to the other end of the room. His back to the glass balcony doors, he unfolded the activity listing. “Mind telling me what you were hoping to achieve with this report?”
“Sure you don’t want a coffee?” she asked from the kitchen.
“This isn’t a social visit.”
“I’d have never guessed,” she said, the sound of the water running into the stainless steel kettle drowning her words. She turned off the tap. “Coming.”
Making a conscious effort to keep her body language open, she fronted him. “You make the place look untidy,” she said, in a feeble attempt to lighten the situation. “At least sit down.”
His expression unchanged, he hesitated for a moment before dropping into one of the armchairs. She opted for the couch; it was closer to the door.
“I know what it must look like, but I’m not really a master criminal.”
“No?”
She rubbed her eyes, gritty with fatigue, and wished she were anywhere other than there. Preferably home in her own bed. “No…”
“Go on, then.” He leaned back in his chair, his right ankle crossed over his left knee revealing a teal-blue sock the color of his tie. The report lay face up in his lap. “I’m all ears.”
Heaving a weary sigh, she proceeded to tell him about waking in the early hours to someone entering the apartment, her call to Chris, his call to the security office, and the subsequent news that the security system had not logged any activity for that period. It was the cutdown version; she didn’t have the energy for more.
Ethan dropped his foot to the floor and sat forward, his whole demeanor changed. “You’re saying that someone broke in here last night, but that security had no record of anyone entering or leaving the floor?”
She nodded. “And before you say it: no, I couldn’t have dreamed it.”
“Strange,” he said, more to himself than to her. Stroking his chin, he studied her. “Why didn’t you say something this morning, instead of all the underhanded snooping?” His gaze dropped to the printout in his lap. “By rights, I could have you charged.”
Her breath escaped in a loud huff. “Why not? My life couldn’t get much worse—”
A loud trill from Ethan’s jacket cut in. “Excuse me for a minute,” he said, pulling his mobile phone from his pocket and getting to his feet. “I have to take this.”
She watched as he opened the sliding door, stepped out onto the balcony and closed the door behind him. Shoulders hunched, he stood with his back to her, the phone to his right ear, his left hand clamped over his other ear.
The printout he had confiscated from her earlier lay within reach on the carpet, where it had drifted when he had stood up. Glancing first at Ethan and then back at the floor, she stretched sideways and down, catching the edge of the paper between her fingers.
Keeping one eye on Ethan’s back, she scanned the report. Audit number. Date. Time. Location. Access Code. Apartment Number. Exactly the same data she had viewed on-screen. She ran her finger down the first column.
166584
166585
166586
166587
She stopped. Four entries were missing. The log jumped from transaction 166587 to 166592. She leapt from the couch, almost shouting out in her excitement. She knew she hadn’t completely lost the plot and here was the proof.
“I was right,” she said the instant Ethan stepped back inside.
“Right about what?
“This.” She flapped the report in his face. “Four entries have been deleted from the log. Four entries from around the same time as my intruder.”
He frowned, his eyes narrowing. “Maybe it was a computer glitch. They happen.”
She shook her head. “No, it’s too coincidental.”
“I’ll look into it.” He scratched the back of his head. “But can we talk about it later? I have to go, sorry,” he said already walking away.
“But what about changing the locks,” she called out as the door slammed behind him. “I need some help here…”
For the second time that day, he had cut and run.
CHAPTER 6
Jemma lugged the last shopping bag into the apartment. With a loud groan, she collapsed back against the door. Sweat dripped from her every pore. Her face felt as if could light up a runway, her head fit to explode. Not to mention her hands, still throbbing from the weight of the bags. What had possessed her to go grocery shopping during the hottest time of the day? Vowing to order online in future, she kicked off her sandals and started relaying her purchases to the kitchen.
The intercom sounded while she was crouched down in front of the refrigerator, in the throes of unpacking salad vegetables into the crisper. Swearing, she straightened up and moved to the end of the bench.
An older man’s face, his square jaw vaguely familiar,
stared into the camera.
She pressed the button. “Yes?”
“Marcus Bartlett, Jemma. You called about changing the apartment locks.”
Now she knew why she recognized his face. She just hadn’t realized he was also Tanya’s landlord. Buzzing him in, she loitered near the door, listening for the lift.
Though it could have only been seconds, it seemed to take forever. Thankful she couldn’t see what she looked like, but still wishing she’d had the chance to freshen up before meeting her sister’s boss, Jemma took a deep breath and opened the door.
Tall and suave, silver-haired Marcus Bartlett looked better in the flesh than he did on television. His neck that of a bodybuilder, he had the physique men half his age would have envied. Wearing a mustard-colored, open-necked shirt and black trousers, he carried himself with a confidence bordering on arrogance. Clear blue eyes scrutinized her.
“Good to finally meet you,” he said, strong hands gripping hers. “I just wish it were under better circumstances.”
She invited him in. “Can I offer you a coffee or a cold drink, Mr Bartlett?”
“Marcus, please. Thank you, but I can’t stay long.” He surveyed the room. “Another time perhaps. I just wanted to introduce myself and let you know the apartment’s yours for as long as you need it. I also believe you requested that the locks be changed. Can I ask why?”
Her hand gravitated to her mouth. He was entitled to an answer, of course. She just wasn’t sure how much she should or could tell him.
“There’s no problem,” he said, stepping toward her. “I’m only concerned something has happened I should be aware of.”
“Put it this way, I would sleep better knowing who had keys to this place. Do you know?”
“You’d have to check with the manager’s office. I assume they keep a record of who has what. No doubt there’s a master key, as well. But that still doesn’t answer my question: what happened last night?”
Her back went rigid. “Last night? Do you know something?”
“You’ve been here less than 24 hours,” he said, his eyebrows knitting as he peered down his nose at her. “It doesn’t take a genius to put two and two together.”
She shook her head. “Sorry, I’m not thinking straight. I didn’t get much sleep last night or…” Her shoulders sagged, the effort to remain upright almost too much.
“That much is obvious. Here,” he said, pulling out the closest dining chair, “sit down before you fall down.”
She mumbled a thanks and dropped onto the soft leather seat.
Resting her eyelids for a tiny moment, she felt the air move as Marcus brushed past her, smelt the mossy scent of his cologne. She opened her eyes. “Didn’t you say you had to be some place? Please don’t let me keep you.” She closed her eyes again, hoping that like magic, he would be gone when she opened them. Not that she didn’t want to talk to him; she just wasn’t in the best state to carry on an intelligent conversation.
“It can wait,” he said. “I’m not going anywhere until you tell me what’s going on.”
She opened one eye. Marcus had seated himself at the head of the table, his body skewed so one forearm rested on the smoked-glass tabletop and the other along the arm of the chair. He watched her with something akin to concern.
“The long and short of it,” she said, “is someone with a key let himself – I think it was a man – into the apartment in the middle of the night. But he left as soon as he realized I was there. No harm done and I doubt he’ll risk coming back, but you’ll understand now why I want the locks changed.”
He made no comment, simply pulled his mobile phone from his pocket and punched a combination of buttons. She listened to the one-sided conversation, thankful she wasn’t the one on the receiving end.
“Right then,” he said, closing his phone. “A locksmith will be here within the next hour.”
“Thank you.”
“Tell me more about this man. What do you think he was looking for?”
She shrugged her shoulders. “Your guess is as good as mine. Maybe he thought Tanya had something worth stealing. Who knows?”
“Do you think you would recognize him again?”
“Not a chance. As I told Chris, the light from the corridor was behind him. I can’t even be sure it was a man.”
Marcus flexed his fingers, the small diamond in his ring glinting. “This Chris a friend of yours?”
“Not exactly. More a friend of Tanya’s. His family used to live down the street from us. He and Tanya dated for a while.”
“In Perth?”
She nodded. “Before Tanya moved to Melbourne. Chris called in yesterday to check on me and offer assistance.”
“You mean he’s here in Melbourne?” Marcus asked, pointing at the floor.
“Sorry, yes. He’s a detective sergeant with the Victoria Police now.”
He ran a hand across his mouth. “So you did report last night’s incident to the police, then?”
“Not officially. As it was, I’m sure Chris thought I was imagining things.”
Marcus pinched the bridge of his nose, his eyes squinting as if in pain. “Not DS Christopher Sykes by any chance?”
She brightened. “Do you know him?”
“Yes. Yes, I do,” he said with a solemn nod. “He was involved in the investigation into Sean’s death.”
Jemma thought it strange that Chris hadn’t mentioned it, but then again, attending the scene of a non-suspicious death was all in a day’s work for him. After all, the hanging death of her sister’s fiancé had been ruled an accident. If a strange sex act that went too far could be called an accident. Though shocked, it hadn’t surprised her that Sean had indulged in auto-erotic asphyxia.
The intercom interrupted any further conversation.
Marcus stood and offered her a hand. Not wanting to appear totally pathetic, she eschewed his help and struggled to her feet unaided.
“Speak of the devil,” she said, checking the intercom monitor.
Glancing at the door, Marcus withdrew a slim, silver case from his shirt pocket and opened it. “I’ll give you a call in a day or two,” he said, handing her his business card. “If you need to speak to me in the meantime, please don’t hesitate to call. All my numbers are on the card.”
He was out the door before she could draw breath. She was beginning to think she smelled or something.
Leaving the door ajar for Chris, she took the chance to grab a glass of water from the kitchen. She downed it in three gulps, the ice-cold water helping to revive her flagging body. She refilled her glass and, resisting the temptation to pour the contents over her head, went to greet her third visitor for the day. Any thought of her visit to Melbourne not attracting any attention had long gone.
She heard male voices, low but terse, out in the corridor. Before she could check it out, the door burst open and Chris strode in, muttering under his breath. Two steps in, he came to an abrupt stop, as if suddenly realizing where he was. A thin smile replaced his scowl.
“What was all that about?” she asked, gesturing toward the door with her glass.
“Don’t worry about it. It’s nothing.” His tone suggested otherwise.
CHAPTER 7
“Hold on a sec, Gail,” Jemma shouted over the noise of the locksmith’s drill. She closed the study door. “Sorry about that.”
“Goodness, it sounds like you’re on a construction site.” Her aunt paused before adding, “I’ve always fancied a man with a jackhammer.”
Jemma laughed. “Has anyone told you you’re incorrigible?”
“Who, me? You must be thinking of some other sex-starved fossil.”
“Fossil?” spluttered Jemma. “You’re not that old.”
“Who said anything about old?”
“Yep, incorrigible.”
“And you’re a hard person to get hold of.”
“Sorry about the phone tag.” Jemma swapped hands. “I did send you an email,” she said, checking her Inbox to
see if her aunt had replied.
“Yes, I saw that and I’ll make sure I get the coroner’s letter in the mail today,” Gail said, her tone sobering. “But Jemma, love, the real reason I’m ringing is that I think I may have done something I shouldn’t have...” Her voice trailed off.
Jemma held her breath, waiting for her aunt to continue.
“I think I might have let the cat out of the bag…”
What cat? What bag?
“Ross called around here earlier today looking for you. I just assumed he knew about Tanya.”
Jemma exhaled.
Gail continued. “Why didn’t you tell me you and he were having problems?”
“I meant to. I really did. Just with everything else that’s been going on—”
“Never mind that now. I completely understand. Just so long as you’re okay.”
Although Gail couldn’t see her, Jemma nodded. “Did you tell Ross where I was?”
“I didn’t need to. When he learned of your sister’s death, he pretty much guessed straight away where you had gone.”
Jemma closed her eyes. Knowing Ross, he wouldn’t fork out his hard-earned cash on a plane ticket. Their relationship didn’t mean that much to him.
“What do you want me to tell him if he turns up again?”
“He won’t, but if he does, tell him I’m still in New York.”
She was met with a stunned silence, then, “You’re not in Melbourne?”
“Ignore me, Gail. Private joke. I’ll explain it another day.”
They chatted for a few more minutes, Jemma asking after her aunt’s precious pug dogs and finishing with a promise to look after herself.
Her chest constricting, she disconnected the call. She stood and paced tight circles around her chair, her fist jammed into her mouth. Gail was all the family she had left and here she was, almost 3000 kilometers away on the opposite side of the country. But as hard as that was, she owed it to Tanya’s memory to uncover the truth behind her death. Jemma still couldn’t bring herself to believe her sister had intentionally taken her own life. Regardless of her frame of mind. There was more to it; there had to be.
