Rockpool Bar and Grill was part of the Crown Casino and entertainment complex, right on the Yarra. We entered the building from the river promenade and found ourselves in a cool, high-ceilinged space with lots of mahogany wood, the chairs and banquettes covered in dark blue upholstery.
The waitress-slash-model greeted Rod by name and showed us to a table out on the terrace where a man was sitting in my favourite position, back to the wall.
‘Ah, there he is. Brendan!’ Rod waved on the way over.
I really didn’t know what an agent was supposed to look like, but realised I’d been anticipating a grey-haired man in a suit, or a fifty-something blonde with shoulder pads and a lot of gold jewellery. Brendan was neither.
He appeared to be in his early thirties, tall and thin with a pointy face and light brown hair that curled at his collar and had been plastered to the rest of his head with a touch too much gel. He’d buttoned his shirt up to the collar but hadn’t worn a tie, and that, combined with the mirrored sunglasses wrapped around his face, made him look like a young bogan slicked up for a court hearing.
‘Who’s this?’ Brendan snapped, looking me up and down.
‘Simone Kirsch,’ said Rod.
Brendan’s head moved back on his stalk of a neck and I wished I could see what his eyes were doing behind the opaque shades.
‘Simone, meet my agent, Brendan Reed.’
Brendan didn’t offer a hand so I just smiled and said, ‘Hey.’
The waitress asked if we wanted something to drink.
‘Another bourbon and Coke.’ Brendan rattled his glass.
‘Bottle of Krug,’ Rod said. ‘The ninety-two.’
‘What’s she doing here?’ Brendan addressed Rod after the waitress left. ‘I thought we were going to talk.’
‘And talk we shall. I’ve booked us a private room at the Cigar Bar for two o’clock.’ He sat down and motioned for me to do the same. I hesitated.
‘If you guys want to be alone, I can scoot off home.’
‘Nonsense.’ Rod turned to Brendan. ‘Simone has been assisting in the search for Austin. Which reminds me, I have to make a call.’ He pulled out his phone and stood. ‘You know, I’ve half a mind to see if I can’t convince her to join the team permanently. Maybe that’s what this investigation needs. A woman’s touch.’ He walked off.
‘His pecker needs a woman’s touch, more like,’ Brendan muttered under his breath.
I raised my eyebrows. ‘I take it Rod’s not one of your favourite clients?’
‘He’s my only client.’
I raised them some more.
‘Oh, I make money,’ he laughed sourly, ‘don’t you worry about that. I just don’t have the cachet of being a best-selling author.’
‘Write a book then.’ I hoped the champagne would come soon.
He stared at me, shook his head and drained the dregs of his drink. Ice clattered in his glass.
‘So, what’s your story?’ he said. ‘Angling to be the next Mrs Thurlow?’
‘What the hell are you talking about?’ I said.
He smirked. My phone started ringing so I checked the caller ID. Sean. I put it on silent, not in the mood to lie to a detective about my whereabouts.
‘Rod attracts his fair share of gold-diggers,’ Brendan said.
‘Gimme a break,’ I said, before thinking of something. ‘Is that what you reckoned Isabella was?’
‘Aren’t you all?’
My mouth actually dropped open at that one. I was just about to insult Brendan back with a creative combination of the nouns rat and face and a crude slang word for the female genitalia, when Rod returned.
‘I’ve got some bad news,’ he told me.
‘Nick?’ A little fillip in my stomach.
‘No, it’s about your car.’
‘What happened?’
‘There was an accident.’
‘Shit.’
‘Don’t worry. It’s not too bad and Dean got away with cuts and bruises. He’s taken your car to my personal mechanic. Has a bit of axle damage and needs some panel beating and a new windscreen, but it’ll be fixed in a couple of days and I’ve already paid for it, so you don’t have to worry about that.’
‘What happened?’
Rod frowned harder. ‘Someone tried to run him off the road. According to Dean a white car deliberately sideswiped him and he rolled, landed upside down in a ditch.’
‘Did Dean see who it was?’
‘Here’s the worrying part. The driver was wearing a mask—one of those plastic things for kids you buy in the supermarket or a joke shop? He pulled up and started to get out of the car, but when he saw Dean he jumped back in and took off. You know anyone who doesn’t like you?’
chapter twenty-five
I woke up early the next day, and already the morning was hot and bright, streaks of sunlight beaming through cracks in the blinds. Sean wasn’t in bed but I could hear him clattering around in the kitchen. I got up, eyes crusted, hair at the back of my neck matted with sweat.
Stupidly, I opened the curtains and nearly hissed and burst into flames, before turning and seeing myself in the mirrored wardrobe opposite the bed.
The huge mirror was great for sex, not so good for avoiding a glimpse of yourself first thing in the morning. I grabbed the roll of flesh that bulged between my singlet and undies and thought about lunch the day before. Steamed chicken breasts, I said to myself. And a run. But first, caffeine.
I tottered into the kitchen. Sean was ready for work, crisp shirt, damp hair, smelling of Tommy Hilfiger aftershave.
‘Hey, babe.’ I gave him a hug, or more accurately, lurched into him. ‘Coffee.’
He hugged back and patted me on the arse. ‘Kettle’s just boiled. I was full of plans to ravish you last night, but you were out for the count when I got back.’
‘Big day.’ I got the tin out of the freezer, the plunger from the cupboard.
‘It was like a sweatbox in here. The whole place was locked up tight and you smelled like you’d been on the piss.’
I’d staggered into the limo at two, drunk, but not so drunk that I didn’t think to have the driver walk me to my flat and help me check the place for intruders. He hadn’t even raised an eyebrow. After that I’d made sure all the windows were locked and the blinds drawn and I’d spent ages trying to figure out what was going on. Had someone really tried to run me off the road, or had Rod orchestrated the whole thing because he wanted access to my car? Later in the afternoon I’d watched TV for a few hours before falling into bed. No wonder I felt so drowsy—I’d had over twelve hours’ sleep.
‘Big day drinking.’ I decided it was a five scoop morning, dumped in the grounds and filled the pot with hot water. The freshly brewed coffee smelled chocolatey.
‘Drinking with who?’ Sean asked as he stirred organic honey into his porridge.
I almost told him Chloe, but something about his forced casualness made me think he’d probably rung her the day before, after he’d tried calling me.
‘Myself.’ I attempted to push the plunger down, not easy with so many grounds and the fact that before coffee I had all the strength of a newborn kitten.
The kitchen blinds were slatted open and I could see the treetops. The leaves were technicolour green and tiny sparrows quavered on the branches.
‘I love these oaks,’ I said, suddenly sentimental, knowing that wherever I ended up, I’d be out of the flat in two months.
‘Plane trees.’
‘Aren’t plane trees those flat-topped things in Africa?’
‘Different sort of plane tree,’ Sean said, taking over the plunging for me.
‘They look like oaks.’
‘Seen any acorns around?’ The veins on his arms bulged as he forced the mechanism down. ‘How come you were drinking alone?’
‘Had a hangover. Best thing for it.’
‘That’s not good.’ He frowned. ‘Neither is this ridiculously strong coffee. You have to look after yourself.’
He took his porridge and cup of tea out onto the balcony and I followed with the plunger and a cup, but only as far as the dining table in the living room. I could still talk to Sean through the sliding glass door, no sense making myself a sitting duck.
The first sip of the evil brew hit my stomach and shot into my arteries and veins. The world started to come into focus.
‘Have you thought any more about Vietnam?’ He turned his chair around to look at me, and seemed puzzled as to why I was sitting inside.
‘I was a little too drunk to really think of anything yesterday . . .’
‘Well, stay off the booze today, yeah? Take it easy.’
‘Sure.’
‘Sorry I haven’t been around lately.’
‘It’s not your fault.’ I blew on my coffee, sipped, felt the hairs on my arms stand on end.
‘After New Year’s I’ll have four days off. We should go somewhere. Down to my mum’s in Torquay?’
‘Mmm, be good,’ I said.
Sean must have mistaken my pensive mood for deliberating whether to move overseas with him, and he launched into an excited ten-minute monologue outlining all the great things about the country and the job while I nodded, occasionally interjected with a ‘sounds great’, and weighed up the costs and benefits of telling him that someone wanted to kill me.
The drawbacks were many: I’d have to explain where I’d been when someone screwed with my car, which would make it obvious what I was up to, and he’d disapprove and probably jump to the conclusion that I was getting threats because I was looking for Nick. We’d have an argument and he’d insist I give it up, perhaps even threatening to tell Detective Talbot, who, out of spite, would cancel my PI licence for the rest of my natural life. I’d not only have to drop the case and give Liz her money back, but Sean would insist I hide out somewhere boring and safe—say, the Australian Federal Police College in Canberra—and there was the next two years mapped out for me and I’d feel even more trapped than I already was.
Of course, there was one rather large advantage to be gained from telling Sean: not dying. But if someone really wanted to knock me off they could have done it any time, and it would have been especially easy if they hadn’t sent a note to warn me of their intentions. So what the hell was going on? Did someone just want me scared and out of the way? Why? There wasn’t enough coffee in all the world to get my head around it.
I realised Sean was asking me a question.
‘Sorry?’
‘I said, what are you up to today?’
‘Thought I’d go into the office, pay some bills, say hi to Chloe, maybe the gym . . .’
. . . call Liz, hunt down Victoria and Desiree.
‘You need money?’
‘No.’
‘Sure?’ He reached for his wallet but I waved him away. He checked his watch. ‘Shit, I should get going,’ he said.
‘Drive me to the office?’ I didn’t think it would be wise to leave the house alone.
‘Where’s your car?’
‘Mechanic.’
He frowned. ‘Again? I thought the RACV checked it out before you bought it, gave it a good rating.’
I shrugged.
‘Sure you don’t wanna take the bus?’ he said. ‘I gotta leave in five.’
‘Be ready in thirty seconds.’
I drained the rest of the coffee, threw on lightweight stretch jeans, a clean singlet and thongs, grabbed my small backpack and stuffed the death threat inside, just in case I decided to show it to him. I’d shower at work.
I stuck so close to Sean as we walked to his neat but battered white Saab that I bumped into his back when he stopped to unlock the door.
‘Whoa, you alright?’
‘Yeah, sorry, still half asleep.’
It wasn’t a long drive but I checked for tails all the way, pretending to admire the architecture on Glenhuntly Road, which mostly comprised blocks of sixties brick flats.
I kissed Sean goodbye, let myself into my office, logged onto the internet and actually did pay some bills, then had another coffee and tried to work out what to do about the threats. It was ridiculous, I couldn’t live like this, locked up tight and jumping at my own shadow. If I didn’t tell Sean, then who else could help me?
My old boss, private investigator Tony Torcasio? He’d tell me to go to the police.
Sam Doyle, the ex-gangster I’d met on my last case? He was a nice bloke, had sent me whiskey and was always asking after my mother, however he didn’t exactly have police connections and anyway, he was based in Sydney.
Alex?
Why hadn’t I thought of him before? He had connections in the service yet wasn’t actually working, which meant he might be more inclined to doing things a little off the books. We already shared one rather large secret, what was one more?
chapter twenty-six
I ate a small tin of tuna in spring water I found stashed in the office kitchenette and felt instantly thinner, showered in the closet-sized bathroom, blow-dried my hair, and spent about twenty minutes putting on makeup of the ‘I’m not wearing any’ variety.
I decided against calling and forewarning Alex; it would only give him a chance to tell me to piss off. I just hoped he was home, and that Suzy wasn’t. If Alex’s new bride caught me sniffing around her man there was a high probability of an out and out catfight. She’d certainly taken a swing at me in the past.
My Ford Futura was out the back, but I wasn’t going to take it and make life easy for my stalker. Instead I scoped out the street through the venetian blinds at the front of my office, and when I didn’t see any immediate threat, locked the door behind me and hailed the first cab that came along. I told the driver to take me to Mentone via the coast road. It would take a little longer but was more scenic and had fewer lanes than Nepean Highway, making it easier to spot anyone on our tail.
I spent a fair bit of time twisted around in the back seat, staring out the window, and when I was satisfied we weren’t being tracked, sat back, checking out the big glass-walled beachside houses on my left, and the sparkling, sailboat-studded bay on my right.
Less than half an hour after I’d hailed the taxi, we were pulling up in front of Alex’s place in Mentone, a modern-looking block of four apartments constructed of blue rendered concrete, glass and panelled steel. It was the kind of thing proudly advertised as ‘architect designed’ in the real estate lift-outs, which always made me snigger. Who the hell else was going to design a goddamn building?
Alex’s flat was on the upper floor, overlooking Beach Road and the thin patch of parkland that bordered the bay. I stood in the park under a straggly pine and gazed up at his huge balcony, looking for signs of life. Nothing. Crossing the road I strolled around to the rear of the building where the six-foot-high corrugated-metal gate blocked the entrance. As I lifted my finger to ring the buzzer, my heart was thumping and I realised my pulse rate had steadily increased from the moment I’d decided to come. It wasn’t fear of Suzy, because I knew she worked pretty regular hours at the Flinders Street Police Centre, and if she answered the intercom I could run like hell. I wasn’t even worried about my would-be assassin at that moment because I was confident I hadn’t been followed.
That left Alex.
It was because of him my heart was in my throat and I felt nauseous and dizzy. Get over it, I told myself, to no effect. Recognising the cause of my jitters only made them worse. I had to remember I was there because I needed his help, not for a romantic rendezvous. He was married and I was living with Sean, and besides, I didn’t do that sort of shit anymore. Neither did Alex, I guessed, until I recalled the Christmas party and how he’d told me I could make it up to him: I was thinking something along the lines of what happened at the pub . . .
Remembering the intense way he’d stared at me when he said it made me swallow involuntarily and I felt a familiar tingle run up and down my inner thighs. Maybe it was just as well no one was answering the buzzer. I felt like a bit of a dick, thou
gh, not having asked the cab driver to wait.
‘Hey,’ someone shouted from the street adjacent to Alex’s.
I turned. An old man in a wide-brimmed hat and long-sleeved shirt stood in the front yard of a brick bungalow. He wore gardening gloves and held a pair of pruning shears.
‘Who you looking for?’ he said.
‘Alex Christakos.’ I crossed the road so we wouldn’t have to shout. ‘Friend of mine.’
‘The copper with the dicky arm?’
‘Yeah.’
‘Just missed him.’
‘Damn.’
‘Went down the tavern.’
‘Tavern?’ I checked my watch. It wasn’t quite ten.
The guy saw me looking and grinned.
‘It’s twelve o’clock somewhere, love. Mentone Arms. Down Beach Road just before the surf club.’ He swiped sweat off his forehead with his shirtsleeve. ‘Might head down myself after I finish this.’
‘Thanks. Maybe see you there. His wife’s not with him is she?’
‘No, why?’ A sly grin.
I found the tavern fifty metres down the road, in between the surf club and a fish ’n’ chip shop. It was a squat brick building with a board out front advertising pensioner lunch specials: pork roasts, chicken schnitzels and discounted pots of beer. The inside was dark and cool, with a low ceiling and bar on the right-hand wall. Televisions screened racing and football, and an arch to the left led to a TAB area for betting. I heard faint, chirruping chimes and guessed the poker machines were hidden somewhere further back.
The only patrons were a couple of old codgers sitting at the bar, who turned and looked when I walked in, and Alex, sitting at a high round table, who didn’t. He was busy sipping a pot of beer and studying a form guide. My heart picked up again, drilling so fast I thought it might give out. I took a second to study him from behind.
He wore much the same outfit he’d had on at Christmas, faded black t-shirt and an old pair of jeans. He still hadn’t cut his hair and it curled almost to the collar of his t-shirt, the fabric of which was so thin it outlined the bones of his broad shoulders and the curve of his back. I was overcome with a sudden urge to press my breasts against him, smell his neck and run my fingers down his spine.
Thrill City Page 15
