Pieces of a Lie

by Rowena Holloway

  Wind, he thought. ‘You out at a scene?’

  ‘Since before dawn. High-profile case. We got a leak in the team and media hounds speculating all sorts of crap. The commissioner is riding our arses.’

  ‘Some things never change.’

  ‘You got that right.’

  The edge in her voice made it clear she wasn’t talking about the job.

  ‘I could really use your help on this,’ he said. ‘There are a couple of queer things about it.’

  ‘Queer how?’

  ‘The gang is skilled enough to get past high-end security systems, but they appear disorganised. In a recent robbery, they took practically nothing and missed a safe and a coin collection that were right out in the open.’

  ‘So? You should know as well as anyone that these guys are usually the dumbest sons-of-bitches that ever took a dump in a rainforest.’

  He smiled. ‘Still the same old Jodie.’

  ‘Who else would I be? I’m running out of time, Drummond.’

  He dropped the smile. ‘I think all that disorganisation is a bluff. This case is really about high-end antiques, and whoever is behind it knows their stuff. Can you see what you can find on Quinlan and his investments?’

  ‘You’re thinking of those rumours about his illegal gun collection. You reckon this might be about more than Quinlan’s investment portfolio?’

  ‘It’s possible.’

  He wanted to believe Quinlan’s involvement in Carlson’s syndicate was a coincidence, but Quinlan was the worst kind of lawyer, a bottom-feeder with well-connected friends and no ethics. Any digging he did about Quinlan would result in a biting call from his father, or worse—a tearful, boozy one from his stepmother pleading with him. Try to understand your father, Lincoln. He knows what’s best. That father-knows-best stuff hadn’t worked for years. The only person Nicholas Drummond cared about was himself.

  ‘And Jode? Look to see if there’s any connection with a Jacko Everton. It’s a long shot there’s anything on him in New South Wales, and the Everton embezzlement case down here is cold—thirteen years or so—but I keep falling over his name. There’s some kind of organised crime ring in which his daughter may or may not be involved, and now Quinlan has popped up. That’s too many coincidences for one hand.’

  In the background, someone called her name. The line crackled.

  ‘Look, I gotta run,’ she said. ‘If you’re gonna take on Quinlan, you’d better make sure your gloves are laced nice and tight before you make a move. Take care of yourself, Ponce.’

  The line went dead. That she wouldn’t risk her career for him wasn’t a surprise and he had no way of knowing if she’d follow through or write him off like everyone else back home, but she’d made him smile. Ponce. He hadn’t been called that in ages.

  §

  Mina looked from Gazza to Stubbsie. What they’d told her seemed unbelievable.

  ‘What did the police say when you told them that?’

  This time it was Stubbsie who looked at the table and Gazza who met her gaze.

  ‘See, we didn’t know for sure,’ he said, ‘didn’t even know we were both thinking it until a few days later when it all came out. By then no one was listening.’

  ‘Mum would have. If she’d known.’

  When everyone deserted them, her mother had been bewildered. A few words of support from Jacko’s old friends would have done a lot.

  Stubbsie touched his stunted fingers to her arm. ‘We didn’t think it right to dump that on her. We tried to go to Forbes, but his dad had shut the gate. Literally. He shouted at us through the intercom to leave his son alone. Called us the muck of Failie’s underclass.’

  Mina fiddled with a stained beer mat. Forbes had told her enough about his father for her to find that believable, but a few weeks after the theft was discovered, he’d defied his father and come around to offer his support. By then the cops had stopped listening to reason, thanks to Caro Davison’s vicious campaign.

  ‘Why didn’t you come forward later?’ It was an effort not to yell at them. ‘If you guys had spoken up at the time, Mum might have had a bit of peace.’

  ‘See, it’s the kind of thing that creeps up on a bloke,’ Stubbsie said. ‘First you’re shocked. Like everyone, you say, “Jacko? No way did he do a thing like that.” Then you start to wonder. Everyone else is so convinced. They reckon there’s evidence, that no one else had the opportunity.’

  ‘Well, they looked at Forbes for a bit,’ Gazza said, ‘seeing as how him and Jacko both worked at the council.’

  ‘Yeah, but not seriously. He didn’t have the clearance, or whatever, to get his hands on the money. And he didn’t have a motive, did he? Not coming from a rich family like that.’

  ‘What motive did they say Jacko had?’ She slumped against the chair back. ‘Come on. Surprise me.’

  ‘They reckoned he was after money for your mum’s treatment,’ Gazza said. ‘There was lots of talk at the time about stem cell research. Everyone figured that’d be expensive.’

  Thirteen years ago stem cell treatment wasn’t much more than an idea. Even now there was no cure for MS. God, people could be such sheep. ‘Where would they have gone for treatment? Why didn’t he take his sick wife with him? Did anyone bother to answer those questions? No, they didn’t. All this town did was embellish the few facts they knew and compete to see who had the best story.’

  A cheer from the television filled the silence between them. She turned and watched the game. On screen it was raining so hard it was a wonder the players saw anything.

  ‘Fact is,’ Gazza said, ‘if Jacko didn’t take it, who did? There was no one else who could have. That was always the clincher.’

  ‘It was the timing, too.’ Stubbsie looked at her with so much pity she wanted to rip off a couple more of his fingers. ‘The cops reckoned he’d arranged the barbeque as a cover for his escape with Bebe Bronson. We knew he didn’t.’

  ‘Now that we did tell the cops.’ Gazza lifted his empty schooner and signalled the guy behind the bar for two more.

  ‘It was a millennium party,’ Mina said. ‘New Year’s Eve. Hardly out of the ordinary. Mum said Bebe was run out of town thanks to those rumours.’

  ‘I reckon that’s true enough,’ Stubbsie said.

  ‘So doesn’t that poke a hole in the affair theory?’

  Stubbsie pulled at his lower lip.

  ‘We never believed it.’ Gazza gave her a smile. ‘But Jacko did have some other reason for having that party. Said it was so he could uncover something for your mum.’

  ‘Unveil,’ Stubbsie said. ‘Jacko said he’d unveil it at the barbeque.’

  ‘Yeah, that’s right. Unveil. It was some kind of private joke. He’d laugh. Then he’d say—’ He turned to his friend. ‘What was it he’d say, Stubs?’

  ‘Something like, “Not that you can unveil it. Not once it’s going. That would ruin everything.” We just laughed with him and figured it’d all be clear once he’d given her whatever it was.’

  What could it be? By then her mum was too sick to keep at her bronze making. She’d lost the dexterity and strength she needed to do it safely.

  Coming here had been a mistake. She didn’t have any answers, just a whole lot more questions and a river of new tears waiting to burst free. She didn’t have time for weeping. In a couple of hours she had to look poised and classy for Gibson’s party, and she still had to find something suitable to wear. Gibson hadn’t given her the precious invitation, but she wasn’t going to let that stop her. She’d earned her right to be there. As long as she looked the part and didn’t ruffle his feathers, Gibson wouldn’t make a scene in front of his precious elite.

  God! Why did this have to be happening now?

  When the beer arrived, she nabbed one for herself, forcing a surprised Gazza to order another. Neither man spoke. A news update flashed on the television screen: two bodies had been found caught in the mangroves downstream from the old quarantine station; last night, there had
been a shooting outside a city nightclub; a woman had been thrown to her death from a Sydney balcony. The world was a miserable place.

  ‘What about Forbes?’ she asked. ‘Did he know what was going to be unveiled?’

  ‘Said he didn’t.’ Gazza licked his lips and looked for his beer. ‘Seemed pissed about it too.’

  Stubbsie agreed. ‘I always thought Jacko and Forbsey had a falling out.’

  ‘Nah, not them two. They was thick as thieves.’ Gazza froze. His face reddened and he looked away. ‘I mean, I saw them going in and out of the house all night. They were laughing. Best mates, as always.’

  ‘Well, I don’t know.’ Stubbsie pulled at his lip again. ‘It was a long time ago, but Forbes wasn’t happy for part of that night. Maybe it was his old man making his life hell, as usual, or maybe he was put out by how tight Jacko had gotten with Smithy.’

  ‘Yeah, him and Smithy had their heads together a lot in the days leading up to the barbeque,’ Gazza said. ‘Always shut up when I walked in the room.’

  ‘What do you think they were so tight about?’ There had to be more between Jacko and Smithy than her dad trying to sweeten the old guy’s temper.

  ‘Figured it was the party, because those two didn’t have much else in common.’

  ‘Except maybe that watch.’

  ‘My dad’s watch?’

  ‘Yep.’ Stubbsie shook his head. ‘Smithy sure liked that piece.’

  Mina hardly dared breathe. Could the answer be that simple? If his niece had been wrong, and the watch had come from Arnie Schmidt’s house, it was evidence. They’d want it back. It would explain everything—her attack, being followed by those two creeps who’d tried to run her down, the noises in her garden at night.

  ‘Do you think—’ She swallowed, her mouth suddenly dry. ‘Do you think Jacko gave it to him?’

  Gazza laughed. ‘No bloody way. Jacko was always banging on about how precious it was. Said when the time came, it and the dog were yours.’

  ‘Dog?’ Stubbsie chuckled and nudged his friend’s arm. ‘Might be time you quit the sauce, mate.’

  Chapter 25

  GIBSON PROMENADED ACROSS the crowded conference room. He felt a little naughty all dressed up on Friday afternoon with a martini glass pinched between his fingers and the heady scent of vermouth teasing his senses. Mina waited near the entrance. He was not thrilled to see her, but her appearance wasn’t unexpected; that girl never followed rules. At least the little red number she wore would set off his impeccable black dinner jacket beautifully. Maybe he should trade in the Jag for an Aston Martin.

  ‘Mina, so good of you to come. Drink?’ He led her through the crowd of well-dressed collectors and dealers of antiques, then released her hand to snatch a glass of wine from the tray of a passing waiter. ‘A Margaret River chardonnay. Lovely woody undertones. All right with you?’

  ‘Thanks.’ She inhaled the wine’s aroma and held his gaze. ‘Are you going to spring a new challenge on me?’

  Why did she have to bring that business up? Least said, soonest mended. He sipped at his martini. The blurred spice of her perfume gave the cocktail the suggestion of cinnamon.

  ‘You should wear that shade more often, Mina. I don’t usually like red on blondes, but you can pull it off.’

  She looked at him with mock astonishment. ‘Are you trying to flatter me into forgetting the subject? I’m surprised at you.’

  Oh, if she only knew. ‘I had a visit from your friend Drummond today.’

  She scanned his face then sipped her chardonnay. ‘How badly did he grate on your nerves?’

  ‘Do you know me so well?’

  ‘I wouldn’t be an effective negotiator if I answered that.’

  Gibson laughed. ‘Very good. Very good. I can see my lessons weren’t wasted. As evidenced by that Chinese screen. Spectacular find.’ He took her elbow and steered her through the crowd. ‘You could have kept that for yourself.’

  ‘I thought about it. I also thought about reclaiming that walnut cabinet you practically stole from me last week.’

  ‘Too late. Already sold.’

  ‘To someone I know?’

  ‘You will.’

  He watched pleasure light up her face when she realised that meant entry into the inner sanctum of his client list. She really had no clue. He waved at a wealthy couple interested in a particular Louis XIV mantle clock he had recently acquired.

  ‘He’s a newish client. A little rough around the edges, but loaded.’

  ‘Seeking another contribution to your retirement villa in Tuscany?’

  Did he detect a sarcastic edge in that question? Probably not. She was smiling, at least. He leaned in close. ‘I don’t spend time with these old curmudgeons for the love of it.’

  ‘Sure you do. You love the game almost as much as the profit.’

  ‘Oh, more. I like the game much more than the money. The money is the gilding on the lily.’

  §

  Slab watched Gibson steer her through the crowd of puffed-up nobodies quaffing wine and squawking in their over-educated voices. Gibson must have a thing about dress-ups. His suit looked straight out of the sixties, and if the martini was anything to go by, he fancied himself as Bond. They stopped beside his table.

  ‘Mina, I’d like to introduce you to Mr Paul Carlson,’ Gibson said. ‘Mr Carlson, this is Mina Everton. My protégé.’

  Slab stood and looked her over. She wore a dress that tied behind her neck with a huge red bow, like a gift just waiting to be opened. By the time he got through with her, she’d be happy enough to let him. The Everton chick made a point of checking him out the way he had her. He grinned and smoothed the lapels of his tailored Zegna suit. He looked sharp. He looked like money. The blonde muttered some social nicety and looked at her shoes, vintage stilettos that had seen better days. Gibson beamed like an idiot. If there was a big enough profit in it, the bloke would serve the girl spreadeagled on a plate.

  ‘Thanks, Gibbo. I can take it from here.’

  The little dealer’s smile froze and the girl clutched his arm.

  She said, ‘I’d like Mr Gibson to stay.’

  He would’ve bet his penthouse she was wishing the bloke was welded to her hip. Gibson hovered until Slab slid him a look.

  ‘Love to stay and chat,’ Gibson said, ‘but I’ve got people to see, deals to make.’

  Slab only noticed he was gone by the look on the blonde’s face, but she sat when he did and made a visible effort to be pleasant.

  ‘Do you collect antiques?’ she asked. ‘Or is the cabinet your first piece?’

  ‘The cabinet? Oh yeah, that. A friend of mine needed a place to store bits and pieces. I thought it was as good as anything else.’

  She managed not to drop her jaw but only just. He wondered what she’d say if he told her exactly what he did collect.

  ‘You paid top dollar for it. Over six thousand.’

  ‘It’s only money. Gibbo got a nice slice of that, I reckon. How much did you get?’

  She pressed her lips together and sat back, her arms folded. He summoned a nearby waiter and nabbed a flute of champagne from his tray of drinks.

  ‘Have a glass of champagne while we chat.’

  ‘Why did you ask to meet me?’

  ‘To offer you the chance to join the big boys.’

  He held out the glass and showed her the steely glint that had made men cower. She took the glass but set it on the table and waited for him to explain.

  ‘Make much money in this business, do you?’ He picked up his Scotch and sniffed. Not the best stuff. Mid-range. Not aged enough for his taste. He set it back down without drinking.

  ‘That’s a rather personal question.’

  ‘Just making conversation, babe.’

  Slab surveyed the room. Drummond hovered on the fringes doing his best to blend in, but the stooge was a head taller than most of the toffs and his dark hair stood out against the pale décor. When the cop zeroed in on the blonde, Slab acted.
He leaned in close and played with the tail of the fat bow at her nape. She smelled of clean hair and subtle perfume. So different from his usual chick. Beneath the makeup was a bruise that disappeared beneath her hairline. Her dress looked good, but the fabric was cheap, coarse.

  ‘What’s this, a knock-off Vera Wang?’

  She frowned. Did she think no one would notice? Strands of curly hair had escaped her topknot and drifted in the flow of airconditioning. He let go of the ribbon and twirled his finger around one of the free strands. She did her best not to flinch, but she started blinking like she had a nervous tic. He nearly laughed out loud.

  ‘Gibson made the sale,’ she said. ‘Go play with his hair.’

  ‘He hasn’t got enough of it, babe. And you’re better looking.’ He dropped his hand to her bare shoulder. ‘How’d you like to earn enough to buy ten of these, every week if you want?’

  Her gaze slid to his hand and then to his face. ‘You bought a cabinet, Mr Carlson. Not me. I’m not for sale.’

  ‘Everything’s for sale. Everyone has a price, it’s just a matter of how high. Basic economics. For instance, take your old man. He found his price, didn’t he?’

  She made a move to stand, but he gripped her shoulder and kept her seated.

  ‘You’ll sit and listen to me, or I’ll announce to this whole gathering how you ripped me off, how you’ve been setting Gibson up with fakes.’

  ‘They’d laugh you out of this room.’

  He admired her confidence. ‘And just why is that?’

  She raked her eyes over his suit and hand-tooled shoes. ‘Because no matter what skin it wears, a snake is still a snake.’

  ‘Watch it. With one phone call I can bring down you and your little mate Gibbo.’

  Her gaze searched the crowd, probably hoping to haul Gibson back to her side, but she got a look at Drummond loitering in the shadows and ducked her head. Her fingers fiddled with the stem of her glass.

  Interesting. He sipped at the mediocre Scotch. Sometimes things just fell into place. He set down his glass and grabbed her hands. She looked at him in surprise and he drew her close before she could try anything.