Prodigal

by T M Heron

  “I know. Where are you? I can come to you.”

  An explosion of emotions goes off in my chest. And then I remember Helena and I’m not sure if I want something as special as Ingrid tainted by the presence of my sister.

  I’d offer to go to Ingrid, in fact this would be ideal, and we could perhaps end up where Ingrid and Scott the dean had in my mind. But I can’t bring myself to disappoint Mother by disappearing so quickly. In the end my overwhelming urge to see Ingrid and to know what she’s excited about wins. I give her Mother’s address and hurry off to the bathroom to check my appearance.

  Ingrid arrives an hour later, and half of winter blows in the door because I’m too busy gawking at her to notice. I introduce her to Mother, who looks smitten, and Helena, who has the good grace to just sit there looking pretty. Then I hurry her into my father’s study. Actually, I could probably claim this study as my own now.

  “So I had lunch with Scott,” says Ingrid. She looks breathless.

  “Scott the dean?” I say before I can help myself. “Did you not get my message?”

  “I did, but there were still unanswered questions. Like, who paid for her fees if she wasn’t on a scholarship? And, how did she get into the school at all if she’s not bright and her parents aren’t ex-alumni?”

  Who cares? I want to say. I had thought Ingrid might be excited to be seeing me. Or at finding something pertinent to the investigation. Now I’m sure it is post-lunch excitement, maybe post coital excitement, and I feel nauseous.

  “Her fees are being paid by a company called Munich Scholarships,” says Ingrid. “So what Anthony told the cops was technically the truth.”

  “Great,” I mumble. At some level I’m aware I need to step up and handle this a whole lot better.

  “But the school knows nothing about Munich Scholarships. It’s the first time they’ve done this. And when I looked them up they’re incorporated in the British Virgin Islands. So basically, they’re faceless. I’ve asked Scott to look into how Charlotte actually got into St Andrews. It’s going to be dodgy as hell. I just know it.”

  “It is. But how does ‘dodgy as hell’ translate into Jo being murdered?”

  “I don’t know. Maybe she had something over someone? But something is off there. Something isn’t right. Do you realize how hard it is to get into St Andrews? And how expensive it is? This would have to be our biggest find to date. We may be getting somewhere.” And suddenly she leans over and gives me a quick hug.

  The hug is unexpected, my erection immediate, and all rational thoughts leave my mind. I’m as speechless as a mute and hunched forward in an awkward position to hide the obvious, defenseless like a deer in the headlights. I wouldn’t blame her for thinking me autistic.

  It is at this moment I hear the movement of Helena’s wheelchair. Only it’s not Brent pushing her but Neville Schuler. The deflating impact on my arousal is immediate.

  “Helena wanted to come see what you’re up to,” says Neville.

  “Oh, that’s sweet,” I manage. I take my hand and force it to stroke Helena’s arm. The loving brother.

  “Have we met?” Neville is staring at Ingrid with undisguised admiration.

  “I think not,” says Ingrid. Although not as dismissively as I’d like. She stands up. “I should be going. I won’t take up any more of your family time, Jackson.”

  Ten seconds ago such an abrupt desertion would have left me a broken man. Now I can’t wait to get her out the door.

  “Who was that?” says Neville. “I want her number.”

  Helena angles her eyes and gives me a sneer of feline satisfaction.

  ◆◆◆

  On Monday morning high winds rock the building and the skies are dark. It feels as if something bad is coming which only adds to my anxiety. I never used to get anxious over anything. Now it seems to have become my default setting.

  I woke in the early hours of the morning from a nightmare that Ingrid was dating Neville Schuler. I was a full unimpeded partner in the nightmare and the Jo problems didn’t exist, but it was still a nightmare. When I awoke, I felt momentary relief that it was only a dream, until I remembered that she is having lunch again soon with Scott the dean. He probably doesn’t have new information to give her. I have a feeling he’s just measuring out the existing things he already knows over a series of lunch dates.

  And while I was tossing and turning and trying to rid myself of the residual doom hanging over me from the nightmare, my thoughts turned to Savannah. Since I decided to fight for the partnership I’ve tried not to think of Savannah. I need to focus on one problem at a time. When Jo’s murder is solved and I am in my rightful place at Bakers I will deal to Savannah’s father for once and for all. In the meantime I can’t afford the distraction. Nevertheless she does keep appearing in my thoughts. It is exhausting.

  First thing in my office I lock the door and have a generous line of coke. Today I need to make something happen on the most exhausting problem of all: the investigation. After Sunday it feels as though Ingrid is the only one gaining traction. My own efforts, the file reviews and the hotline, have gone nowhere. This can hardly be impressing her. A vision of Ingrid and the dean flashes before my eyes and I rub my face in despair.

  “Are you okay?” Eliza is standing in the doorway.

  “Of course. I’m fine. How are you getting on with that project we discussed?”

  This is code for her firm-wide email sweep to try and find out how Jo was employed.

  “I’ve set something running. It will take a few hours. Is there anything else you need me doing on that mandate?”

  With her IT knowledge, her flagrant ignoring of boundaries, and her unerring devotion to me, Eliza is turning out to be the perfect EA. If only half my team could replicate this.

  I leap up from my desk and guide her by the arm out into the corridor. Again, unconsciously, she touches the arm where I’d held her when I let go. “I want you to print off Jo’s work phone records for the last six months. Both external and internal. Go through them and make note of every individual she called. You’ll have to call the external numbers obviously to find out.”

  Eliza nods.

  “If you could put it in a timeline. I’d be interested to see who she called and how often.”

  Eliza nods again and I reward her by gently squeezing her other arm.

  Once I’m back in my office my worries once again descend upon me. I fight them into the background and try to plough through some real work. With all the time I’ve been spending on the investigation my real work is banking up like never before. It’s the least of my worries, though. If I don’t work out who killed Jo in the next twelve days I won’t be around to face the consequences of failing deadlines and letting client issues slip through the cracks.

  At 2 p.m. Eliza and I meet in a private breakout room. I’ve had more coke and Eliza has used her endless initiative and ordered tea and cakes. God knows which client she will have charged it to.

  “I’m not finished with the phone numbers exercise, but I thought you’d like to know that Jo didn’t work half-days on Fridays so that she could drive all the way to Silverstream to see her physiotherapist.” Eliza pours us both tea. “I found who her physio was when I called one of the unknown numbers. She hasn’t been to physio in months. At least, not if these phone records are to be believed.”

  It would seem I was clueless as to what my EA was actually doing with her time. Both when she was at work and when she wasn’t. “What the hell did she do on Friday afternoons then?” I say, a little too loudly.

  “I can tell you that,” says Eliza. “I’m not sure of the order but on Fridays Jo went to a day spa and saw a masseuse.”

  In a split second the feel-good of my high evaporates and I’m filled with anger. It spreads through my body like a fire. Fat lazy deceitful bitch. “What?” I yell. “What?”

  “She called both places every Monday. Then most Thursdays she had a quick call to both places as well,” continues El
iza, oblivious to my mental state. “Perhaps to confirm her bookings.”

  “What were the names of these places?” I say. I’m forcing myself to speak quietly now and my throat feels constricted.

  “Cathedral Day Spa and the Hataitai Massage Center,” says Eliza. “They’re quite close together.” She gives me a strange look.

  “Thanks,” I manage. I leap up and hurry out of the room before I put my fist through a wall.

  ◆◆◆

  By the time Ingrid and I meet in the basement at 4 p.m. I have managed to put a lid on my emotions. The result is an eye tic. I’ve dimmed the basement lights, so she won’t notice. I’ve also had a wine. I’m afraid to take any more drugs on top of what I’ve already had today while I’m carrying this much anger.

  “Cathedral Day Spa?” says Ingrid. “That’s one expensive trip.”

  “How expensive?” I say. Without asking her approval I pour us both a wine.

  “I’ll look into it but at a guess maybe $300 for an appointment.”

  I take a huge swallow of wine and feel better for it. “For all the difference it made,” I mutter.

  “What?”

  “Nothing. Are you able to visit the Spa first thing tomorrow? Find out what you can. I’ll look into the massage place.”

  “Of course. I can’t believe the cops didn’t find this.”

  “I can.”

  “Between that and St Andrews she was living well beyond her means,” says Ingrid softly. “I wonder how she was actually paying for it. Certainly not out of her bank accounts.”

  Ingrid takes a sip of her wine and I’m rewarded by the look that passes over her face.

  “Where the hell was she getting the cash?” I say.

  “I think by this time tomorrow we’ll be so much more the wiser,” says Ingrid. Then she gives me her first real smile.

  A physical sense of pure well-being passes over me. I pour myself another wine. “Do you have time to finish the bottle?”

  “I don’t see why not.”

  And so, at the end of a terrible day, we have our second unofficial date.

  41

  It’s first thing Tuesday morning and I’m sitting in a car outside the Hataitai Massage Center. The Hataitai Massage Center is somewhat misleadingly named as in reality it represents a one-man band called Mariel Mahessi. Mariel works out of a small Californian bungalow on the edge of Hataitai.

  Seymour Price is sitting beside me. Seymour is a drinking buddy from Litigation. His grandfather and father are both judges. But I haven’t brought Seymour along for any of those reasons. He’s here because he’s a bully. He was also only happy to drive out of the firm car park with me hidden in the boot. My surveillance team will still be happily sitting outside Bakers.

  Behind us in a black Lexus are two other men from the firm, Dominic Bartley and Bobby-Joe West. Built like a tank on legs, Dominic, who is also a bully, could pass as Seymour’s twin. They look like primates in suits.

  Bobby-Joe, on the other hand, would struggle to reach five foot six. But in person he’s scarier than Seymour and Dominic put together. An exemplary specimen of the non-existent line between genius and madness, he is of manic demeanor, with the face of a psychopath. It’s rare for Bakers to unleash Bobby-Joe on clients. He’s totally harmless — I think. But regardless, the partners keep him cloistered in the bowels of the organization, marrying financial arrangements with legislative loopholes in order that the wealthy may avoid taxation.

  He’s excited to be out today, you can tell. Pupils microscopic in his pale blue eyes. If there was a moon, he’d be howling at it.

  None of them know why they’re here today. Seymour and Dominic simply understand there’s a need for intimidation. And for Bobby-Joe it’s an outing.

  “Imagine living in this area,” says Seymour. “Got any C?”

  I shake my head. I could oblige him on the coke, but I don’t want anyone over-hyped.

  “Why’d we bring that demented prick along?” Seymour jerks his head in the direction of the Lexus.

  I ignore him and look at my watch. Ten past nine. We’re ten minutes late for my appointment with Mariel. In his situation I’d be fuming and slamming another couple of hours onto the billing. But Mariel is exercising the much-overrated virtue of patience. I’ve seen a human-sized shadow pass by one of the windows several times. Certainly Mariel is wondering where his next client is. But I’d like to draw him out on his balcony to absorb the full impact of our approach.

  At twenty past nine the front door opens and Mariel appears. He looks right and left down the road. Then his gaze is drawn to the shiny black luxury vehicles parked directly outside.

  “Time to go,” I say.

  Seymour and I get out. Behind us I hear doors closing as Dominic and Bobby-Joe follow suit.

  I open the gate and walk up Mariel’s path flanked by Seymour and Dominic. We’re looking so damn impressive I can almost taste it. Mariel steps back slightly and is half-in, half-out of the door by the time we reach him.

  “Mariel Mahessi?” I say, standing a little too close. I tower over him.

  I hold out my hand. He takes it and I give his knuckles a good crush. He inhales sharply, but he’s somewhat distracted by the stone-faced goliaths looming behind me.

  “May we come in?” I say. I love faking courtesy in situations where the complete absence of options is implicit.

  “What’ve I done?” says Mariel nervously.

  He has cleverly deduced no one is here for a massage. He lets go of my hand and anchors himself to the door frame in an attempt to keep our gathering within view of the street.

  Then Bobby-Joe’s head appears from around Dominic’s elbow. Mariel emits an involuntary squeal of fear and I take the opportunity to back him into his hallway. My cohorts close in behind us exuding menace and, in Bobby-Joe’s case, madness.

  “Is there somewhere private we can talk?” I say.

  Mariel is pressed against the wall. He has back-stepped and back-stepped until his own house has prevented him from moving any further away from us.

  “What, all of us?”

  “Just you and me. These men have some checks to run.”

  “What kind of checks?”

  “Ones you don’t want to know about.”

  Mariel leads me to a corner room at the back of the house. As we sit down doors are already opening and closing as Seymour and Dominic make their way through the house.

  “Are there drugs in this residence?” I ask.

  “No,” says Mariel. “I swear.”

  What a shame.

  I look properly at Mariel for the first time. He wears a fitting, sleeveless Adidas tank-top and snug micro-shorts. His feet are bare. Mariel is of medium height, with thinning sandy hair that undoubtedly owes its beachy look to foils. The sun beds are probably part of a gym deal as he has good definition for his build. He has pared-back, sinewy, muscled hands and forearms. The skin from his hands to just below his elbows is oily.

  “Let’s start with something easy,” I say kindly. “You had a client called Jo Johnson. What did she pay for an appointment with you?”

  “One hour is two hundred and fifty dollars.” Mariel has the decency to look ashamed.

  “Two hundred and fifty dollars? I’m in the wrong profession. You must have magic hands.”

  Mariel and I both know he doesn’t have magic hands and he hangs his head and looks miserably at said hands.

  “How did she pay?”

  “In cash,” says Mariel immediately.

  “Always in cash?”

  “Always.”

  “Was there a set time for her appointment?”

  “She always had a two o’clock appointment.”

  Bobby-Joe’s misshapen head appears at one of the windows and Mariel starts. “Christ! Who are you people?”

  “We’re a specialized team investigating Jo Johnson’s murder,” I say. “We’re not the police, so don’t bother mentioning your rights or warrants or a lawyer.”r />
  “Wh-, what do you want from me?”

  “We want to know why you haven’t come forward to the police yet with any information.”

  “I don’t have any.”

  “We think you do.”

  “I don’t. I barely knew her.” He twists awkwardly in his seat, but his face looks earnest.

  “You saw her weekly for a massage. You were literally her social life. You probably knew her better than her husband did.”

  Mariel looks out another window to see Dominic yanking the padlock off his garden shed and prizing open the door. It’s a phenomenal touch.

  “What are they doing?” he says.

  “I’d appreciate it if you stayed focused,” I say. “If you had any involvement with Jo or know anything at all, you’re lucky we got to you first.”

  “Before who?”

  “That’s not something I can share with you.” I sigh. “Jo was mixed up in something serious. It got her killed. If she told you anything about it, you’re probably in danger. Your personal safety is neither here nor there to me. But for your own sake, if I were you I’d start talking.”

  “I don’t know what I can tell you. I’m just her masseuse.”

  “Was her masseuse. You can start by telling me why she kept these visits a secret.”

  “I didn’t know she did.”

  I sit there and stare at him. It’s a special stare I’ve perfected for subordinates I want to emasculate. I look straight at them, but if I get it right it appears to them as if I’m seeing through them. I’ve overheard solicitors discussing it before so I’m pretty sure I’m not deluded about the power of this stare.

  “I don’t think . . . she wasn’t happy in her home life,” Mariel says finally.

  “It wasn’t the husband. How did she get to her appointments? Was she ever dropped off by someone else? Picked up by someone?”

  “Not that I saw.”

  “Well, how did she get here?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “I find that hard to believe.” I give him the stare again until he winces. “Did she seem different at all lately? Did she happen to mention anything was bothering her? Anything? Or was there something she was excited about? Come on, Mariel. The woman loved to talk. And masseuses are like psychologists, everyone talks to them. She must have mentioned something.”