by Robert Sims
She was still puzzling over his motives when she recognised the music. It was a Gregorian chant. For a moment, nothing seemed less appropriate to his personality. Ritual religious plainsong. How odd.
And incense. Another hint of something esoteric. Then it clicked.
She’d read a background file on him. Research material. Not the sort of information in the media. It included references to his family. How his father had served the Nazis in Estonia. A platoon commander in a police battalion during the Second World War.
A few years before his death, Barbie senior had been a war crimes suspect, implicated in the torture and killing of civilians, mostly Jews. He denied it and there was insufficient evidence. What was on record was his time in Australia. The man was a prosperous member of the community in Melbourne’s southern suburbs, the owner of a carpet business, and a local councillor known for his right-wing views. Together with his Australian-born wife, he was a zealous adherent of a Christian fundamentalist church. In other words, a religious fascist.
This, then, was Barbie’s father. And with a flash of insight, she saw the boy. The product of an authoritarian home burdened with the wrath of Jehovah, along with a secret and odious past. What had the child endured? What psychological devices had he used to survive and triumph? And religion? One way or another it would play a powerful theme in his life. Did he fear God, or mock Him? As she sniffed the ceremonial scent and listened to the haunting, monastic music, she knew it was the latter. His private retreat was sensual, profane. And her first-hand experience of his business life revealed a victory of commerce over morals. Perhaps he had none. And women?
How did he use women? Was rape part of his apostasy?
Or was she assuming too much?
Her criminal profiler’s brain told her he was guilty of something
- but she didn’t know what. Anyway, the night’s infusion of alcohol was clouding her judgement. And whatever Barbie’s flaws, he was certainly entertaining.
‘I hope I didn’t offend you earlier,’ he said. ‘I really am glad you made it.’
‘Quite a celebration,’ she said dryly. ‘Complete with sideshows.’
‘Keeps the customers happy. A few party games.’
‘Especially the lucky dip.’
He gave a low chuckle and said, ‘Sounds like you disapprove.’
‘Maybe I do.’
‘Personally or professionally?’
The question irked her and she let him hear it in her voice. ‘I can’t think of one good reason why you’d invite me.’
He paused, the champagne bottle tilted towards a glass. ‘If that’s what you think, why did you come?’
‘To escape a girls’ night out,’ she quipped.
Barbie pulled a sympathetic face. ‘Fair enough.’ He wasn’t bothered.
‘Their loss, my gain.’
He filled the glass and handed it to her. As he bent forward she saw again how well he moved. Very polished. Each gesture almost choreographed. A man with great self-control, but relaxed with it. She watched him fill his own glass and place the bottle gently back in the ice bucket. He’d shed the jacket and stood there in his tailored linen trousers and black silk shirt, the top buttons undone. She noticed his firm shoulder muscles and the smooth skin of his neck and chest.
He raised his glass. ‘To lucky escapes!’
‘Yours or mine?’
His eyes gleamed at her. ‘Both!’
There it was. The tease. He was in a wicked mood. Ready to play a sophisticated game of cat-and-mouse.
But so was she. ‘Cheers,’ she responded.
They both drank and looked at each other with a sort of mutual relish, heightened by the tang of champagne. As she crossed her legs, the slit in her skirt fell open on her thigh, exposing the top of her stocking and part of a suspender belt.
‘Have I dragged you away from your party guests?’ she asked coyly.
‘You have, but I’m glad.’ He eased himself into an armchair directly opposite her. ‘I hope the ambience here is more to your liking.’
‘It is. But the Gregorian chant’s a bit of a surprise.’
‘Not my style, you mean? Too celestial?’
‘I’ve just seen you playing host to the seven deadly sins - complete with vice girls. I’d say your style’s more devil than anything else.’
He chuckled sardonically. ‘If I’m the devil, who are you?’ His eyes moving over her body. ‘Jezebel?’
‘No. I’m definitely on the side of the avenging angels.’
Barbie took a sip of champagne, eyes gleaming as if he wanted to arrange her fall there and then. ‘I mentioned before there’s something I want to put to you.’
‘If it’s a proposition,’ she said, ‘I’ve already had one from the senator.’
He waved that aside. ‘I don’t mean this in a suggestive way, but how satisfied are you?’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Your job. Your career.’ He was being amiable. ‘Your aspirations.’
‘Somehow I don’t see you as a headhunter.’
‘You’d be surprised. I know, for a start, you have an honours degree in psychology. But it seems wasted in your current job.’
‘Comes in very handy, thank you.’
‘But is your ability recognised? Or are you frustrated?’
‘By what?’ she wanted to know.
‘Institutional prejudice. Bureaucratic inertia.’ His expression was earnest now. Conviction in his voice. It was unsettling. ‘Are you fulfilled in your work?’
When she answered, ‘Of course,’ they both knew she was lying.
He sat forward, very serious now, the glass dangling from his hand. ‘Come and work for me.’
She just looked at him, a startled expression on her face.
‘The media’s the real power in the world now,’ he went on. ‘We shape opinion. Create the future. That’s why we need the most dynamic people. It’s something I feel passionately about. We need people like you.’
‘Me?’
‘Absolutely. With your intellect and drive. And of course your looks.’ He flourished the glass at her in admiration. ‘And now your public profile …’
‘Okay, slow down,’ she said with a nervous laugh. ‘What exactly are you talking about?’
‘You’re front-page news. We’ve all read about what you did.’
‘That’s not a profile. That’s criminal casework. Last week’s headlines.’
‘Oh, God!’ He threw back his head in disbelief. ‘How wrong you are.’
‘Look,’ she said defensively. ‘I think I’m good at what I do …’
‘So am I.’
‘… but I’m not in the marketing business.’
‘Well I am. And I’m the best. Believe me, your publicity is priceless. A woman cop who blew away a hitman in her own bedroom
- who outgunned one of the city’s worst gangsters in a church shoot-out …’
‘That’s not strictly true.’
‘Nothing ever is. It’s how you sell it that counts. The tabloids, TV, have given you an image - and image is reality. Like it or not, you’re now a celebrity. Make the most of it. Come and work for me. I’ll pay you ten times what you’re earning.’
For a moment she was speechless, the idea swimming in her head along with the alcohol. Then she blurted out, ‘Doing what?’
‘Presentation. You’re a natural.’
‘I don’t think so.’
‘Then whatever you like. Production, research. Take your pick.’
The offer was bewildering. And very tempting. But despite his plausible sales pitch, she knew that it - like everything else about him - was deceptive. And the more she observed him, the more she realised how clever he was. That was the answer. That was how he’d emerged from a harsh childhood to achieve so much success. He had a grasp of human frailty because it was beaten deep within him.
Moral corruption was his Tree of Knowledge. It gave him insight.
He understood
the power of greed and glamour. He knew what buttons to press.
‘So you don’t have any particular role lined up for me?’ she asked.
‘I just want you on board.’
‘What sort of job security would I have?’
‘A five-year contract. If you went early, you’d get a very big payout.’
‘As much as Kelly Grattan?’
The name hung in the air between them. Along with the quiet chant of monks. But in that instant, the room went cold.
Without a word, Barbie put down his glass, got up, and walked over to the broad curve of the window. He stood there, his back to her, hands in pockets, looking out over the urban nightscape like an offended monarch.
Rita watched him with a new clarity. Now she knew why she’d accepted his invitation. Saturday night drinking and personal demons aside, there was another reason. It was to do with her sense of justice.
No matter whether she was on leave or off-duty, it would always nag at her. Like the sight of Kelly Grattan, propped up in a hospital bed. A smart attractive woman reduced to a victim - bruises on her hands, face scratched, skull fractured - and refusing to talk about it, because of the man who now stood a few feet away. The same man who was offering an extravagant, career-altering bribe to keep Rita’s mouth shut. Whatever his crime, he must be desperate to keep it hidden.
‘Kelly was one of my most trusted employees,’ he said at last, his back to her still. ‘And whatever happened, that’s why I paid her a lot of money. No matter what you think.’
‘I think you know exactly what happened to her.’
Barbie didn’t respond immediately and didn’t turn around. He stood quite still in the muted glow of the candlelight, staring out through the sleek towers of the skyline to the darkness beyond.
‘Then you’re wrong,’ he said, composed now. ‘I hope the subject’s closed. And I should get back to my party.’
‘Of course.’ She finished her drink, put the glass down on the table and stood up. ‘It’s been very interesting.’
‘The job offer’s still there.’
She shook her head. ‘Thanks. But I can’t accept.’
‘Pity. There’s a lot more to you than a policewoman. And if you could get past your hostility, you’d see we have something.’
‘Like what?’
‘A rapport.’
‘Are we still talking business?’ she asked. ‘Or have we moved onto pleasure?’
‘Let’s call it emotional intelligence.’
‘And what’s on that agenda?’
He thought for a moment then said without humour, ‘Love thy enemy.’
As she left the casino complex there was only one person whose company Rita wanted - the man who was due to be wrapping up his think-tank presentation at the Windsor about now. She hadn’t told Byron Huxley whether or not she’d drop in on him, but after her encounter with high-level corruption he seemed more decent, considerate and attractive than ever. Sexier, too, though that could have something to do with her alcohol intake and the way Martin Barbie had aroused her animal emotions.
She arrived by cab at the grand old hotel as state government advisers were dispersing towards limousines. Once inside the conference room she found hotel staff dismantling the sets from the presentation. Huxley was nowhere to be seen, and Rita hurried to the reception desk and asked for his room number. He’d been booked into one of the Victorian suites, so she climbed a sweep of staircase and knocked on his door.
As he opened it, a broad smile lit up his face. ‘You made it after all,’ he said, delighted.
‘A girl can’t resist an offer of free champagne,’ she said, brushing past him into the suite.
‘Just as well I kept a bottle.’
He was still in his dinner jacket, but his bow tie hung loosely from his collar, and the top buttons of his white shirt were undone.
‘A great pad you’ve got here,’ she observed.
‘Designed for royalty,’ he said, waving a hand at the antique furniture, lush fittings and gilt-framed paintings. ‘For us to enjoy at the taxpayers’ expense, I might add.’
She nodded her approval as he popped the cork of the champagne bottle, the fizz of bubbles spilling over the glasses.
‘I have to warn you I’ve knocked off a few drinks already,’ she told him, ‘so I’m not entirely sober.’
‘Then I’ll try to catch up.’
They clinked glasses. As she tasted the bubbly she noticed it was cheaper than Barbie’s, but a lot easier to swallow.
‘Are you going to show me around?’ she prompted.
‘Of course,’ he said, leading the way. ‘Separate reception room, dining room - with table for eight guests - and sitting room. Through here is the marble bathroom, and there are two bedrooms: the guest room’ - he opened the door and she poked her head through - ‘and the main boudoir.’
She followed him, champagne glass in hand, into a spacious room with double bed, soft carpet and heavy curtains. Lights from the street filtered through the nets on the windows.
‘I think you should close the curtains,’ she suggested, putting down her glass on a polished dressing-table.
He went over to the windows and drew the curtains, cloaking the room in semi-darkness. As he walked back around the bed, she took his glass from him and put it down.
‘We should make the most of taxpayers’ generosity,’ she told him, grabbing hold of his shirt and undoing the rest of the buttons.
Huxley couldn’t get his jacket and shirt off quickly enough, flinging them onto the floor. As Rita ran her hands over his bare chest, he bent down and kissed her neck, then, when she rolled her tongue over his nipples, he threw his head back with a gasp.
‘Where did you learn that?’ he groaned.
‘Never you mind,’ she answered, raking her fingernails down the middle of his back with one hand, while the other slid into his trousers, clamping him in a groin hold; his penis was already hard.
He pulled her mouth up to his and kissed her until she pushed him back onto the bed, laughing.
While he struggled out of his shoes and pants, Rita stripped off, tossing her clothes onto the floor beside his. Her body was impressive
- strong and athletic, with full breasts, her slim buttocks smooth and glossy in the dim light.
She bent down to him, her voice husky, close to his ear. ‘I’m going to fuck your brains out.’
‘You’re bad,’ he said with a wolfish smile.
‘You’d better believe it.’
And that’s where the conversation ended as she got astride him on all fours, lowering herself till the pointed tips of her breasts brushed his cheeks. She kissed him again, her lips and tongue gliding softly over his. Then she sat up, straddling his thighs, his erection rigid and straining inside her. As he pushed deeper, she arched her spine and tossed back her head, running her fingers through her hair. It was a moment of intimacy worth waiting for, letting herself go and moaning freely, as her body responded to the erotic rush.
They sat in white bathrobes on either side of an antique dining table, eating a late breakfast in Huxley’s hotel suite. The full menu, including fried courses, toast and coffee, had been delivered on a silver service by a waiter in a frock coat. Rita sipped juice and picked at a fruit bowl as she watched Huxley tucking into a plate of sausages, bacon and hash browns.
‘I’m ravenous,’ he explained.
‘I’ve noticed,’ she said.
He finished his fry-up and yawned. ‘Would you pour me a coffee?’ he asked.
‘Yes, dear,’ chuckled Rita, filling a china cup and pushing it across to him.
‘This is an unexpected surprise.’
‘Enjoy it while it lasts,’ she told him.
He stretched, yawning again, a contented smile on his face. ‘We seemed to have a lot of sex last night.’
She threw some grapes at him. ‘We were at it like rabbits,’
she chided.
‘We must do it again soon.’
>
‘Then finish your coffee,’ she said, standing up, loosening her bathrobe and letting it drop to the floor. ‘How about now?’
Huxley didn’t need any further encouragement, flinging off his robe and chasing her as she ran, naked and shrieking with laughter, to the bedroom.
It was late morning when Huxley pulled his Range Rover into the driveway of Lola’s apartment block to drop off Rita.
‘If I didn’t have a damn postgraduate barbecue to go to I’d spend the rest of the day with you,’ he complained. ‘But I’m guest of honour.’
‘That’s okay, you’ve worn me out enough already,’ she said.
As she opened the door to get out he took hold of her hand.
She turned and looked into his eyes.
‘I need to see you again soon,’ he said, expression serious.
She stretched towards him and kissed him softly on the lips, before getting out, laughing happily. ‘I think that can be arranged.’
Rita walked into the apartment to find Lola groaning her way through a black coffee, head in hands, elbows on the kitchen table, a loose silk robe covering her.
‘Oh God,’ moaned Lola. ‘Why did I mix my drinks?’
‘You seemed fine when I left,’ said Rita.
‘Yes, but then Erin ordered some cab sav. We got through two bottles of it.’
‘Sake and red wine? Bit of a funky mix.’
‘Erin’s got the palate of a petrol can. It’s her fault,’ said Lola, letting out another groan. ‘And what have you been up to, swanning back home the next day with a smug look on your face?’
‘Well I drank champagne for the rest of the evening.’
‘If you ended up shagging Martin Barbie I owe Erin a hundred bucks.’
‘Your money’s safe,’ said Rita. ‘But guess what?’
‘What?’
‘I spent the night at the Windsor.’
‘Thank God - at last! You got it together with the hunky professor.
I knew you were made for each other.’
Lola was interrupted by Rita’s phone ringing. The call was from Jack Loftus. Nothing urgent, he told her - he just wanted to come and see her. He’d be there in half an hour.
