by C. A. Larmer
“Jesus, horrific news, eh guys?” she said. “She could carry on like a chook with her head chopped off when she wanted to, but jeez she didn’t deserve to go like that. No way!”
“Like what?” Roxy asked.
“Oh, Davo didn’t fill you in?” She raised a scrawny eyebrow at the reporter.
“I don’t think she wants to know,” he replied.
Sharon grabbed the paper from her boss. “I think you’ve read enough for one day,” she said, thrusting it into Roxy’s hands before turning back to David. “I hope you’re gonna go easy on him. Know which side your bread’s buttered on and all that.”
“Oh lay off him, Shazza,” said Olie. “He’s a mate.”
“Yeah, well, let’s hope it stays that way.”
She glared at David for a second and then stalked out, cursing quietly under her breath. Roxy dropped into a chair and began reading the newspaper. As she slowly worked her way through it, David paced up and down behind her and Olie sat in a trance, not really looking at anyone or anything. This was yet another front page story, and this time David’s sensational prophecy screamed out from the leading headline: “Last Writes: Who is killing the great writers of Australia?”
That was not unexpected. He was absolutely right. Three successful genre writers were now dead; there was no avoiding that. The next line, however, was the one that really caught her eye. The sub-heading was “The Snow White murder”, then a few teasing lines announced that Tina Passion, “world-famous erotic romance writer”, had been found dead in her apartment with an apple in her hand. “Full story: Page 5”. Roxy licked a thumb and forefinger and flicked quickly to the relevant page where the details were indeed horrific.
Even though the police had little to say other than that they were treating the death as suspicious, an unnamed witness wasn’t quite so reticent. This source revealed that a “juicy red apple” had been found in the hands of Ms Passion by her distraught father who had shown up to take her out for a pre-arranged brunch on Sunday morning. While results from the post-mortem examination had not yet been revealed, the story strongly indicated that she had been poisoned, most likely from the apple. Roxy turned to Lone.
“A poisoned apple. Are you serious?” He stopped in his tracks.
“What?”
“Just because she’s got an apple nearby, what makes you conclude it had poison in it? Maybe she choked on it? Or maybe she just happened to be eating an apple when she was killed?”
“My sources say otherwise.”
“Sources?” She thought now of some sexy young police officer slipping him secrets between shifts, perhaps even between the sheets. “But even if she was poisoned, what’s to indicate that it wasn’t suicide?”
Oliver sat up with a start. “Hey, she was happy as Larry when I left her, I can promise you that!”
“Olie, I’m just playing devil’s advocate here, that’s all.”
“That’s okay,” David said. “These questions are valid. My sources tell me there were signs of trauma to the back of the head, indicating she’d been hit by a blunt object. They don’t know—yet—whether that killed her, or the poison. But there’s no way she could have hit herself, the angle was all wrong, apparently.”
“Unless she poisoned herself and then fell back, hitting her head?” Roxy suggested and Oliver looked ready to blow. “Not that I think she did, Olie, honestly. I’m just trying to sort it all out in my head.”
“I am telling you, Rox, Tina was in good spirits, had everything to live for. Another book coming out in just six weeks, we were at the proofing stage. She was even planning a trip to Rome to write the next one. There is no way she topped herself.”
David was also growing impatient with this line of questioning. “Roxanne, you are not seriously going to try to pass this one off as another suicide or a coincidence, too? I expected better from you. Three well-known genre writers have died in the past seven days. All under mysterious circumstances.” He held his palms out. “They have to be linked, don’t you see? They have to.”
She sighed, nodding slowly. He was right of course, it was impossible not to accept, but it was still hard to face especially because Oliver seemed to be caught up in the middle. David’s article mentioned Oliver’s name a few times, stating that he was Tina’s agent, and that he was the last to see her alive, but it did not link him specifically to the murder and she was grateful for this.
“So who’s doing this then?” she asked. “Do you really truly believe some crazed madman is out there bumping off writers?”
He raised one shoulder. “That’s what it looks like. Have you spoken to Gilda Maltin since Sunday? Does she know anything? Anything that might help Oliver?”
Roxy shook her head. “She’s a policewoman first and foremost, she wouldn’t tell me anything.” In fact, she had learned a lot from Gilda but she had promised not to spill the beans to David Lone, and she wasn’t about to break her promise. “Anyway, she’s not actually on this case.”
David seemed disappointed, as did Oliver who held his head in his hands despondently. Then he sat straight up.
“Friggin’ hell, Tina’s dad is going to fry me,” he wailed.
“But you didn’t do anything, Oliver,” Roxy said.
“I didn’t protect her. I should have protected her.”
“That’s insane. You were her agent, not her bodyguard.”
“I was the last person to see her alive! Maybe the killer was lurking around her apartment, maybe I walked straight past him, and didn’t see him ...”
Roxy folded the paper over, then reached across and smacked him gently across the head. He looked at her aghast. “That’s for being an idiot,” she said. “Tina’s father can not expect that you were going to watch his daughter every minute of every day. She was a grown woman for goodness sake, verging on middle age.”
“Still, Lorenzo hated me. He’s never gonna forgive me. Never.”
“You don’t need his forgiveness, Oliver, you didn’t do anything,” Roxy reiterated.
David coughed. “Guys, I’ve really got to get back to the office—”
Oliver held a hand up. “Before you do, though, Davo, can I ask you a big favour?” He glanced at Roxy. “You too, Rox.”
David sighed and finally took a seat in the director’s chair beside Roxy, but his right foot was tapping away madly. He clearly had a lot on his mind.
“You’re both gun investigators,” Oliver began, “you’ve proven that time and again.” He looked from one to the other imploringly. “I need your help. Desperately. I need you to find out who’s been doing all of this. Not just to clear my name, but to help Tina and William and, yes, even loony old Seymour.”
David frowned. “I’m already on this story, 24/7. I will find out who did this, I can assure you of that.”
“Yeah, but you’re on it for the Tele. I want you to help me.”
David’s frown deepened. “What? Work for you instead of the paper?”
Oliver shook his head. “No, no, I just mean ...” He broke off. “I don’t know what I mean ...”
“I’m sorry, mate, but my first loyalty is to the Telegraph, and to my readers. To truth,” David added firmly.
There was an awkward silence. Oliver looked stung and Roxy glanced from him to David and back again.
“What does that mean?” she demanded of David. “What are you saying?”
“It means I have to stay impartial.”
“So if you discover something that is not in Oliver’s best interests ...?” She let the question dangle there and he shrugged.
“I’m a journalist, Roxanne. I have no choice.”
Well, that’s not exactly true, she wanted to say. He did have a choice and he was choosing truth. She swallowed her anger back down. He was right, of course, there was no denying that. He was a journalist. He should be choosing truth. She sank back into her seat with a sigh while Oliver looked mortified.
“Davo!” he was saying, waving a hand at hims
elf and then back at David. “We’re mates, right?”
David shrugged again and Roxy felt compelled to rescue him. She was also a journalist. She knew how these things worked.
“He has to do what he has to do, Oliver, you must understand that.”
Oliver didn’t look like he understood that at all and David stood up.
“Look, I haven’t got time to argue my code of ethics with you. I’m not out to lynch anyone but I can’t take sides either. I have to report what I find and I’m sorry if that hurts you.” He paused. “I’ve really got to get back to it. Do you have anything else you want to tell me, Oliver? Anything that might help?”
The agent’s anger was now bubbling over; he had lost all sense of perspective and looked like a caged rat. “Just that I didn’t do it!” he wailed. “I had no reason to bloody do it! I’m not capable of killing anyone, especially someone as beautiful as Tina, or old William. No way, I did not do this thing! Tell that to your readers!”
“Easy, Oliver,” Roxy said. “He’s just doing his job. Come on, David I’ll see you out.”
As they passed through the front office, Sharon was just picking up the ringing phone and gave David a death stare that would have shaken mere mortals, yet David didn’t seem too perturbed, and Roxy wondered how he managed to stay so detached. She envied him that.
Back on the street, pedestrians trudging past, the traffic roaring beyond, David took Roxy’s arm and swung her gently around. His piercing eyes bore into hers, and she felt a little uncomfortable again. She hated the way he had that effect on her.
“I hate this job sometimes, you know,” he said. “But you understand my predicament, I can see that. You understand what I have to do.”
“Yes, sadly, I do. But Oliver didn’t do this, David. You’ve got it all wrong.”
The look he gave her then was chilling. He looked at her as though she were the most naïve little girl he had ever met. She fell back against the wall.
“My God, you really believe he did it.”
He shrugged one shoulder again. “The police certainly do and I’m sorry, but I can’t help but wonder. He’s got no decent alibi, not one. He was missing in action for all three murders. What are the chances of that? You’ve got to look at the facts.”
“So you know about ...” She couldn’t bring herself to say it but he understood.
“My film premiere? Of course I do. I didn’t miss that one. While you and I were sitting quietly watching the movie, Oliver snuck off, like a thief into the night. The police know all about it, too. There’s CCTV footage showing him walking out of the theatre, about halfway through, around the same time Seymour was killed.”
“He was going for a smoke.”
“Extremely long smoko. According to the footage, he didn’t return for forty-five minutes, Roxanne. Forty-five minutes.”
She flinched. “Do the police know where he went?”
“He says he just went for a stroll, wandered about aimlessly. Another street camera caught him walking away from the theatre, in a northerly direction around the same time but there’s no sign of him after that, not for that period anyway.”
“Damn it.”
He nodded and leaned back against the wall, his shoulder just touching hers.
“Maybe a shopkeeper or a witness recalls seeing him nearby? They could be his alibi?”
“The police are onto it, I’m onto it. But I have to prepare you, Roxanne, it does not look good.”
She sighed. “Okay, what else have you got? Any CCTV cameras outside Tina’s apartment?”
“Not that I know of. I do know he was witnessed leaving the restaurant with her at about 11:45 p.m., that’s what the waiter tells me, and then the shopkeeper at the convenience store near his apartment spotted him there, buying a few groceries, around 12:30 p.m. Bloody odd thing to be doing.”
“Not if you know Oliver. He doesn’t keep normal hours like the rest of us. Okay, so what time did Tina die again?”
“The police say it was some time between 11:00 p.m. and about 1:00 a.m.”
She did the math. “Enough time, then.”
“Enough time.”
“Shit, shit, shit! Okay, what about our gardening friend William? Please tell me Oliver wasn’t spotted anywhere near William’s house at the time he died.”
“Got nothing there, no sightings of Oliver at all that I’ve heard of, which is good news, and also bad, because that leaves his alibi wide open.”
“And William died around the same time, right?”
“Yes he did, between about midnight and 2:00 a.m. on Wednesday night, or more precisely, Thursday morning. That’s why I think it’s a serial killer. Same modus operandi.”
“But of course there were no sightings at that time. Oliver would have been tucked up in bed, alone, trying to get some sleep.”
“Still doesn’t help. And as I say, the cops seem to have him pegged as suspect number one.”
She groaned and turned to face him. “That’s the bit that’s the most aggravating! Why on earth are they even looking at Oliver’s whereabouts? What possible reason would he have to kill all three writers, let alone one? It makes absolutely no sense.”
David’s phone beeped and he glanced down at it. “Shit, I really have to go, but we’ll talk again, I promise. We’ll sort through this.”
“But what about your book? I’m supposed to be interviewing you this afternoon.”
He shook his head firmly. “No can do, Roxanne. I just haven’t got a spare minute to focus on anything but this case. I’d love it if you could keep working on the book, though, do your research, interview some people. Do you think you can crack on without me while I focus on the Last Writes murders?” She nodded halfheartedly, prickling at his tagline. “Good, because this is huge, Roxy. This story is too big to ignore. Hell, it’s an investigative writer’s wet dream, if you’ll excuse my saying so. I couldn’t have designed it better myself. There’s no way I’m letting this one go. No way.”
Roxy winced. That’s exactly what she was afraid of.
Back in the office, Sharon was preoccupied on the phone so Roxy slipped past her again and into the chair opposite her agent. He had disappeared into his own gloomy world and didn’t look up, so she gave him a few minutes to reenter the earth’s orbit while she mulled the mess out.
And what a mess it was.
Just one week ago, Oliver Horowitz was on cloud nine. He had a bunch of very successful, very alive writers who were all bringing in good money. He had book deals and film launches and was watching his authors fly up the best seller lists. She recalled that glamorous cocktail party following David’s premiere, and how happy Oliver had seemed. He was finally making good money and his future looked bright.
Today, everything was bleak. Oliver’s life was being dismantled in front of him and, with the likes of David Lone on the story, would very soon be dismantled in full view of the public, too. How could it not?
Unlike David, however, Roxy did not believe for one moment that Oliver could do what the police clearly suspected. Yet even she had to admit, it did not look good. If she were a cop she would be pointing the finger firmly at him. He was the common link. Oliver had no alibi for all three murders. And he was present when one of the murder weapons was planted in Norman Hick’s car.
But what was his motive?
That’s what she kept coming back to, and what baffled her the most. Perhaps a better question was: what was the real murderer’s motive? Why would someone want to see three writers dead? These three in particular? If she could answer that, she realised, Oliver might just stand a chance.
Roxy sat quietly for a few seconds, chewing her lower lip and thinking about this. It was such a big question, however, she just couldn’t get her head around it. Perhaps she needed to break it down into parts? To focus on one murder at a time.
Her mind went straight to Tina Passion and things seemed slightly clearer. She knew of at least one person who might have a motive to want to s
hut the erotic fiction writer up. She just needed to focus on that.
“Sorry, Rox,” Oliver said, suddenly coming back to his senses. “I’m worried, really worried. The police just called. They want me back at the station this afternoon for more questioning.”
Her heart sank even further. “You have to take a lawyer with you this time. No more speaking to the police, hell, no speaking to anyone, without one.”
“Shazza’s onto it.”
“That includes our friend David Lone.” He caught her eye. “I’d advise this of any journalist but especially one as good as David. You keep your mouth shut from now on, don’t say a word to him, okay?”
He nodded slowly, the dazed look returning.
“Forget about David, I’m going to help you, Oliver, I’m going to sort this mess out. There has to be a logical explanation for all of this and I’m going to find it. But you have to trust me and you have to stay quiet. Okay?”
“Okay, okay, I won’t say a word. But how’re you going to do it? You already told me your cop friend is no use.”
“I don’t need Gilda. I need another way in and I know just the person to help me.”
Chapter 19
Maria Constantinople was a larger than life character. Brazen, bawdy and, best of all, the editor of one of the nation’s top-selling, trend-setting women’s magazines Glossy. She could always be counted on for some back-up bucks when the ghostwriting dried up, but today Roxy was counting on her to help save Oliver’s life.
Maria’s office, the exact antithesis of Oliver’s dingy digs—all bright lighting, plush furnishings and fashionable young things teetering about in designer heels—was certainly buzzing when Roxy strolled in and, having rung ahead, the receptionist, Trevor, wasted no time leading her past the ogling staff towards Maria’s inner sanctum.
The editor’s office was a spacious, glass-walled cubicle, strategically designed to keep a firm eye on her quivering minions while Sydney Harbour glittered behind her. Today, Maria was standing, staring out at that harbour, one hand on her ample hip, the other holding the latest igadget up to an ear that was dripping with an enormous, dangling silver and blue gypsy-style earring.