by Elise Noble
“Uh, congratulations?” Luke offered.
“Can we just focus on getting her out of prison?”
Leyton’s shoulders dropped an inch. “Too right we can. And if we can’t do it legally, Mimi’ll bust her out.” From his tone, he was only half-joking. “I need to read through the police file again, right from the start. I suggest you two do the same—people tend to spot different things.”
“What are we looking for?”
“Leads to our possible witness, forensic anomalies, anything that doesn’t feel right. That doesn’t fit. Nobody gets away clean, but sometimes the clues are hard to spot.”
Luke got out a third laptop, Leyton pulled up an ugly green chair, and they clustered around the wheeled table. Jasper John had died in his kitchen, sprawled face down on the cracked linoleum with a bullet hole in the back of his head. An exit wound, according to the autopsy report. He’d actually been shot twice, but one of the rounds had still been rattling around inside his skull. By the looks of it, he’d died in the middle of making dinner. A pot of pasta sat on the stove, and half a pepper lay on the chopping board beside a knife. He hadn’t been afraid when he died. Whoever shot him had caught him by surprise, because otherwise, he’d have grabbed the knife to defend himself, surely?
“They found a number of unidentified fingerprints in the house,” Luke said.
“They did,” Leyton agreed. “We got a friendly contact to run them through NAFIS, but there weren’t any new hits. Whoever left them either never committed a crime, or they were too smart to get caught. And there was nothing from Brenner. He must’ve worn gloves.”
“Playing devil’s advocate here, but are we sure he did it? John wasn’t exactly squeaky clean. They found a large quantity of cannabis in the spare bedroom.”
“Brenner admitted as much to Kylie. Basically told her it was her fault for being stupid enough to get framed.”
While Russell hated the fact that Kylie had killed Brenner, he was glad the man was dead. His only regret? That it hadn’t been more painful. The tension radiating through him made his ribs hurt, and he forced himself to relax. To take deeper breaths and ignore the ribbons of pain that sliced through his chest. Focus on the evidence, Weisz.
Jasper John had been a small man, five feet six maybe, his haircut bordering on a mullet and his clothes on the loose side of relaxed fit. A size too big, possibly two. Had he been on a diet? A box on the counter had a picture of fruit on the side, and Russell zoomed in. FatBuster weight loss shakes. Yes, a diet. He squinted at the picture again. Something wasn’t right with it, but what? A thought niggled, but thinking made his head throb.
“What time did he die?” Luke asked Leyton.
“From the liver temperature, between seven and seven thirty.”
“And the emergency call was made at, uh, seven thirty-two. Fits.”
Luke chewed the end of a pen. Did he keep it for that very purpose? Russell had certainly never seen him write anything by hand.
“Scruffy guy,” he muttered absentmindedly.
“Yet he seemed hot on personal hygiene,” Leyton said. “There’s a note on the autopsy report that he smelled strongly of cologne and either breath mints or toothpaste.”
That was it! The truth hit Russell like a nuclear blast. Unfortunately. He gasped for breath, and his chest spasmed. He would have doubled up in pain if his muscles had cooperated.
“I’ll call the nurse.” Leyton scrambled for the remote control and jabbed at the buttons. “Get you some painkillers. Can you breathe? Is something bleeding? We need a doctor.”
He got halfway to the door before Russell managed to raise a hand. “Stop.”
“What?”
“The pot. Look…look at the pot.”
“Pot?” Luke scrolled through whatever report he was reading. “There was three kilos of it, plus a small quantity of cocaine and some Xanax. But I haven’t seen any pictures.”
“No, the pot on the stove. The pasta.”
“He was making dinner. So what?”
“Dinner for two. John was counting calories, and that’s way too much pasta for one person.”
“It is?”
“Yes, it is. Trust me—I only know how to cook three things, and spaghetti’s one of them.” Plus Russell knew the joys of dieting. Nobody serious about losing weight would load up on pasta like that. The pain came again, more intense this time, and he bunched the sheets up in his fists as beads of sweat popped out all over his body. “John was…he was…he was making a meal for two.”
Leyton thumped a fist on the table. “That’s it! That’s what we’ve been missing. The witness wasn’t a passer-by. She was in the damn house.”
“Who was she?” Luke asked. “A girlfriend? Why didn’t she come forward?”
Russell didn’t have time to contemplate the question before a nurse rushed in, took one look at him, and called for the doctor.
“What are these computers doing in here? You shouldn’t be playing games.”
Russell had managed to switch to his emergency screensaver, a recording of The Sims, but that didn’t appease her.
“Put all this stuff away.” She glared at Luke and Leyton. “You two should be ashamed of yourselves. Mr. Weisz had a major operation the day before yesterday.”
“I’m…I’m fine.”
“No, Mr Weisz, you’re not fine. You need to rest.”
“But—”
The doctor arrived and stuck him with a needle, the sting followed by a glorious numbness that allowed Russell to breathe again. But the man shared the nurse’s attitude.
“You gentlemen need to leave, I’m afraid. Let’s focus on keeping Mr. Weisz alive rather than his avatar, eh?”
Luke tucked one of Russell’s laptops into a bag and left it on the chair beside the bed, then he and Leyton packed up the rest of the equipment and backed out of the room under the watchful gaze of the nurse. She didn’t look like a woman to mess with, and truth be told, Russell was exhausted.
“We’ll be back later,” Leyton muttered as the door closed.
Could they be right? Had Jasper John had a woman in the house when he got shot? The place had been a tip—dust bunnies in every corner, dirty streaks all over the bathroom, men’s clothes scattered on the floor in the bedroom. Utterly devoid of a female touch. If Russell’s home looked like that, he’d have been mortally embarrassed had a lady walked in. Was it really possible John had a girlfriend? Surely if he wanted to impress a date, he’d have taken her out to a restaurant? Russell began to second-guess himself. Perhaps the man had just had a craving for carbs?
Then the questions faded away, and Russell saw Kylie again, walking towards him on the beach wearing that tiny green bikini. The one that made him want to drag her into his arms and keep her there for good. He should have done that. Should have chartered a flight to Morocco and gotten the hell out of Australia as soon as Brenner got away. Why hadn’t he?
Should have, should have, should have…
CHAPTER 19 - MIMI
MIMI TRAN CAME back down to earth with a bump.
Quite literally.
A little hop-skip, and she bundled her parachute into her arms and turned to look for her jump buddy. Dontae was right behind her, already jogging. BASE jumping was frowned upon—okay, it was illegal—in Brisbane, and the security guard at the construction site whose crane they’d borrowed had probably called the cops already.
Just after sunrise, the central business district was barely stirring, which gave them a clear run to Dontae’s truck, parked neatly on a side street. The first siren sounded as she opened the passenger door, and only once he’d started the engine did she allow herself to smile a rare natural smile.
“That went well.”
“Bitch, you’re crazy.”
Okay, perhaps she should’ve deployed her chute a second or two sooner, but what was life without a touch of danger? Adrenaline was her drug of choice, although coke would certainly be easier to obtain. She mentally rolled her
eyes as she thought of the bust at the pizzeria earlier in the week. Home fucking delivery.
“Still breathing, aren’t I?”
“You’re like a damn cat. Nine lives, and you always land the right way up.”
Not to mention the sharp claws. “Miaow.”
“Where do you want me to drop you? Home?”
Dontae was one of the few people who knew where she lived, but she shook her head. “The office.”
“Busy day?”
“Busy life.” Dontae was a friend—or as close to a friend as Mimi had—but they never discussed her work. Maybe that was why she liked him? Because he broke the law but didn’t try to break down the walls she’d constructed around herself? No, not walls. More of a nuclear fallout shelter. “You?”
“People’s lawns won’t mow themselves.”
They wouldn’t. For three months after Maynard died, Mimi had mowed the lawn herself, cursing the entire time because she hated the pointlessness of it. The grass never stopped growing. She’d been on the verge of concreting the whole bloody lot when she bumped into Dontae at the top of Wallaman Falls early one September morning. They’d bonded over a shared love of heights, and now he tidied up her garden every week and took care of the cat when she was away.
While Dontae drove, Mimi stripped off her body armour and helmet. She’d pack up her parachute, a seven-cell ram-air with a specially modified slider, later. The table in the big conference room at Blackwood made the perfect spot for that.
“Stopping for coffee?” Dontae asked.
“Why ask when you already know the answer?”
He slowed to a halt outside her favourite coffee place, not one of the big chains but a blink-and-you’d-miss-it hole-in-the-wall run by three brothers. Two minutes later, she was back in the truck with a plain black coffee for her; a latte with caramel syrup for Dontae; plus a cappuccino for Merindah, her assistant, and five minutes after that, they pulled up outside Blackwood’s building.
“Same time next week?” Dontae asked.
“Find us somewhere to jump, and I’m there.”
She took the steps two at a time and paused in front of the retina scanner. A quiet click, and the door slid open. Not for the first time, she mused over how strange it was to have an almost legitimate job. Ten years in the shadows had left her marvelling at the small things—a receptionist who greeted her by name, colleagues who brought in cakes on their birthdays, a desk with a motherfucking plant.
Oh, and meetings. Who could forget the endless meetings?
“Leyton’s in meeting room four,” her assistant called the second she walked through the door on the third floor.
Early for him. Rix was more of a night owl. Which meant it was probably important, which meant she should probably go see him before she repacked her parachute. She dumped Merindah’s coffee on her desk then held out the bundle of fabric.
“Could you please put this in the conference room?” Smile, Mimi. Even after so many years, the expression felt forced, and she had to remind her lips to move. Politeness was an act with her. A part she played out of necessity. “Thank you.”
In meeting room four, Rix was slumped in a chair with the English geek beside him. One of Emmy’s people—and also her ex, apparently. Mimi couldn’t imagine Emmy dating a guy like that, but she said she hadn’t been in her right mind at the time.
“Yes?” she asked, perching on the edge of the table. The coffee had cooled now, but caffeine was caffeine. She took another mouthful. “Did you find something?”
They must have, or they wouldn’t have called her. Mimi didn’t normally get involved with cases like this, the mundane stuff, but this one was important to Emmy, and so there she was.
“We questioned Jasper John’s neighbours again yesterday afternoon, the ones who were home, at any rate,” Rix said. “We’re working on the theory that he might have had a girlfriend, and there’s a possibility she might have been the one to make the emergency call.”
“Why do you think that?”
“According to the ME, John’s mouth smelled minty fresh, and he’d doused himself with aftershave. No man does that if he plans to sit at home alone. Plus he was cooking enough dinner for two.”
Mimi wrinkled her nose. “His house was disgusting. I’d need to get paid to go in there.”
Rix stared at her. Like, properly stared. What was wrong with him? Was he having a fucking seizure? She reached out to poke him, then remembered Maynard’s training. Manners, Mimi.
“Are you okay?”
“What if that’s it? What if he was paying her?”
Luke nodded, his eyes coming alive. “It fits. That woman with the yappy dog said the girl she saw was pretty, too pretty for John, but she always dressed cheap.”
“Young ladies should be more modest,” Rix mimicked, his voice high-pitched. “There’s nothing wrong with a skirt below the knees.”
Bullshit. There was everything wrong with a skirt below the knees. You couldn’t run, you couldn’t jump… Sure, it gave a girl somewhere to hide a gun, but a loose sweater was ten times better.
“Is that all you have on her?” Mimi asked. “Trashy dresser?”
“Long brown hair, always worn loose, fine features, too thin. Favoured high heels and never smiled. We’re gonna go back and try the other neighbours, see if anyone else remembers her.”
“Keep me updated. Any news on Kylie? Has she come to her senses yet?”
Mimi asked because it was expected of her. Sympathy wasn’t one of her strong points. But secretly, she empathised with Kylie more than she’d ever let on to her colleagues. Only Emmy and a few shadowy government officials had ever known the truth about Mimi’s past, and like Maynard, most of them were dead now. People in Section Zero didn’t have a long life expectancy.
“Nope. Her lawyer says she’s shut down. Says she’s a lost cause.”
Mimi had once thought that about herself. Perhaps she should give Maynard’s successor at Zero a nudge, see if he needed a new recruit? Actually, no. Kylie was good in a crisis, by all accounts, but she was too damn nice to dispose of people on a regular basis. And nervy. She’d never handle the pressure. Besides, she wasn’t alone, not the way Mimi had been. Kylie had the whole of Blackwood looking out for her.
“No point in wasting time trying to convince her otherwise. Get people out on the street to look for this brunette instead.”
“Are you busy today?”
“I am now. I’ll call if I find anything.”
A sex worker… Where to start? The men would take the streets. It was the obvious place to start, but none of the girls would be out till later. How about their girl? They were talking three years ago, and not many lasted that long in the sex industry. The lucky few turned their lives around and went straight, while others were lost to drugs or illness or occasionally murder.
Mimi was the exception to the rule, she supposed. She’d lasted ten months, and her escape hadn’t been so much of a dash to freedom as a slow descent into hell. Fucking Maynard. She still missed the old guy.
Her BMW was in the underground parking garage, right where she’d left it about a week ago. Most of the time, she preferred her bike, a sleek black Honda, but she tended to take a car when she visited the women’s shelter. Sometimes she needed to run an errand or give one of the girls a ride somewhere.
Jasmine House was an unassuming three-storey building, a former office block converted into studio apartments, temporary homes for women who needed a helping hand. The old conference rooms had become a lounge and communal dining area, and the ground floor housed a small gym as well as the staff offices. There was always at least one resident advocate on hand to assist. The RAs answered the phone and provided counselling and support so the girls didn’t feel alone at what was a pretty shitty point in their lives. Mimi had bought the building with money she liberated from a sex trafficker two years previously, and she paid the RA’s salaries out of the money she made at Blackwood.
Around half of t
he residents used to work in the sex industry, so she figured it’d be a good place to start in the search for Jasper John’s female friend.
The management team tried hard not to let Jasmine House feel like what it was—a last resort for many of the women. They’d painted the lobby a calming magnolia, scattered comfortable seats around a coffee machine, and a forest of greenery let in dappled light while discouraging prying eyes. A young blonde was curled up on one of the sofas with a novel when Mimi let herself in.
“Hey, is Annalise around?”
“She’s talking to a new girl. They might be a while, I think. Thanks for bringing more books.” She held up the one she was reading. “I’m halfway through already. And also the phone. I haven’t called anyone yet, but…”
“There’s no hurry.” Sally’s last phone had come to a nasty end when Mimi threw it at her former pimp. Broke his nose. Promised to break his teeth too if he tried coming after Sally. “I’m actually looking for a girl. She may have been in the industry three or four years ago, working around Durack.”
“Is she in trouble?”
“Not at all, but she might have witnessed a crime back then, and I need to find out if she knows anything.”
“What crime?”
Mimi hesitated. She didn’t want to bring darkness into this place, but then she thought of Kylie sitting in a ten-by-twelve box flooded with artificial light.
“A murder. Somebody else got the blame, but she was set up, and I’m trying to clear her name.”
Sally’s eyes widened. “A murder? Who died?”
“A man called Jasper John. He dealt cannabis and ran a poker game at Mikey’s bar over in Inala.”
“The guy on the news? They said a cop shot him.” Sally’s eyes bugged out again. “That’s who you’re trying to clear? The cop? She killed another guy too. Strangled him with her bare hands—that’s what they’re saying.”
“Everything they say on TV is bullshit. She’s not a cold-blooded killer.”
No, that was Mimi. The more she thought about it, the more the idea of Kylie Nichols raising a silenced pistol to a man’s head and pulling the trigger without flinching was laughable.