Pieces of a Lie

by Rowena Holloway

‘We’ve got an agreement about Quinlan, right?’

  ‘For Christ’s sake. Yes. What have you got?’

  §

  Slab gripped his 9mm Walther P99 and hurried across the pigeon-infested walkway that joined his workroom to the next building. A burst of rain hit the iron roof like a barrage of pebbles.

  How did Drummond even know about this place? The cop hadn’t tailed him, so he must be getting his information from somewhere. The sooner he shut down that leak the better, but first he’d make damn sure the nosey cop knew what he was up against. He galloped down metal stairs to the ground floor. Water sluiced through the hole in the roof and pooled across the cracked concrete. He did a quick visual of the access lane, but all he saw was a grey wall of rain. At least it’d cover his movements. Out of sight of the cop, he dashed across the empty street and slipped down a service alley that would let him come up behind the stakeout car. He couldn’t wait to see Drummond’s fear when he shoved the Walther in his face.

  Gun cocked, keeping low, he crept up on the sedan. One person in the driver’s seat. Looked like he was talking on his phone. Perfect. He’d get the drop on the bastard.

  The rain quit as quickly as it had started.

  ‘The Jane Carlson?’ he heard. ‘His mother?’

  Slab froze.

  Okay, so it wasn’t so hard for them to find out about his ma. It was probably all on public record. That didn’t mean they knew what he’d done. He’d never been charged. The snivelling kid routine was all it took to fool the social worker wankers. He hadn’t been so smart during his teens, but his time in juvie plus those few months in lockup, thanks to that old cow Justice Browne, had wised him up. Since then he’d kept himself so clean he was Teflon.

  ‘Right,’ the cop said. ‘Are you absolutely certain?’

  Slab wished he’d thought to track Drummond’s calls. It would have saved him getting soaked to the skin.

  ‘Sure. I know him,’ Drummond said. ‘He’s an antique dealer in town.’

  Fuck. Time to shut this do-gooder down.

  As soon as Drummond said his goodbyes, Slab tapped his gun on the driver’s window. The stooge reached for his pistol so fast, it was a wonder he didn’t shoot himself. Then he lowered the window, his piece aimed at Slab’s chest.

  Slab laughed. ‘Lucky you’ve got the safety on, ain’t it? Otherwise you might’ve shot your foot off. Then where would you be?’

  ‘Still right on your tail.’ Drummond smiled. The bags under his eyes said he was exhausted, but he seemed as alert as a clubber on crack. Slab could have put a hole in his head in a second. He wasn’t sure why he hadn’t.

  ‘You gonna shoot me in cold blood too, copper? I ain’t as easy to pop as that poor sod you slaughtered over breakfast. You keep stalking me, I’ll have to show just how good I am with this bad boy.’ As the rain started up again, he showed Drummond his 9mm, confident the do-gooder wouldn’t shoot.

  ‘Moved up from arson, have you? Still, I guess it’s hard for a twelve-year-old to get hold of a piece like that. What was your mother’s crime? Did she ask you to brush your teeth?’

  The cop was trying to rile him to get him off the shooting. No one but him knew what he’d really done to his ma and ‘Uncle’ Jimmy. If they had, those social workers wouldn’t have been swayed by a few tears.

  ‘Old man Drummond must be real proud of you,’ he sneered. ‘Shooting some kid’s dad, taking a swing at your superior, locking up your brother. You must be as popular as rabies in that posh North Shore mansion.’

  No reaction, not even a twitch. The cop had a good grip on himself. But he wasn’t the one standing in the rain, cold water running in his eyes and drenching his shoes.

  Drummond said, ‘Your mother knew all about popular, didn’t she?’

  ‘Shut your mouth.’

  He levelled his weapon at Drummond’s head. The cop released the safety on his Smith and Wesson.

  ‘I suppose she must have been pretty once,’ Drummond said. ‘Want to know what she looked like once the fire had finished with her?’

  Probably a lot better than she had before the fire got her. Slab bit down on a laugh and tasted the rainwater on his lips. Maybe he should explain it to the cop. Make him sweat for his girlfriend.

  He said, ‘Well, her brains weren’t splattered all over the front steps, that’s for sure. Not like that sucker you shot just for the hell of it.’

  ‘Her muscles melted off her bones. Did you know that? Her skull cracked. Her extremities were reduced to ash. That’s what you did to the woman who gave you life.’

  Life? Drummond had no idea. ‘Did you like screwing Everton’s kid?’

  Drummond barely moved, but he may as well have done a double-take.

  ‘I’ve got ears against lots of walls, mate. You keep harassing me and I’ll take it out on her. You ain’t gonna find her quite so appealing when I’m done.’

  ‘I thought Derek Gibson was more your type. I saw him making eyes at you all afternoon.’

  That faggot crack made his trigger finger itch, but it was too soon, and too near one of his favourite workrooms. Drummond would keep. If the Everton chick gave him any trouble, he could do them together.

  ‘Take care of yourself, copper. Next time you won’t see me before I put a bullet through your skull.’

  §

  Candii had just snorted a line when she saw him pacing the corridor. Shit. Slab hated it when they did stuff at work, and from the look of him he needed a good fight and a rough ride. She was still hurting from the last round and she didn’t have freaking time for another. If she went on too late, the punters were down to dollar notes and slurred promises. She had a plan. And her plan needed money. Not Slab Carlson in one of his prove-I’m-a-man moods.

  Beyond the narrow door hung with a gauzy silver curtain, the twins wrapped up their act to the frenetic pump of techno and the whoops and hollers of punters off their heads. There was nothing like being high in the strobing light, techno bouncing in her ears, punters’ faces sweaty with lust as she wrapped herself around the pole and let them imagine what she could do for them if they had enough money.

  Slab caught her as she hurried to the stage, nearly losing his grip on her slick bicep. In her new leather bikini with the rhinestone studs, her oiled body looked hot. And oil made the dance more dangerous. She liked dangerous. The thought of it made her insides pulse.

  ‘I’m on in a minute, darlin’.’ She glanced toward the silver curtain then smiled. ‘You don’t want the punters to get antsy, do you?’

  ‘You know what I want.’

  She knew, all right. The guy was mad-scary, but when he was hot for it she could get back at him for all the shit she had to put up with. And anyway, she was pissed off. He’d screwed that girl right in front of her before they went off someplace special. Not so many years ago, that had been her. Slab had got her high then let his mates at her until she couldn’t go back. Now she didn’t want to. Coke got her through the worst of it. These days she liked the fat losers lusting over her as she danced. And she loved that she could make big, nasty Slab Carlson come sniffing.

  She let him shove her back against the wall. He had that dead look in his eyes, just like he’d had with that girl. Slab had his tongue in her mouth before she could act. His clothes were damp, like he’d been caught by a sprinkler. His tongue dislodged her chewing gum. He spat it to the floor.

  ‘Why you always gotta chew that shit?’

  ‘Turns some of them on.’ She managed a grin. ‘School girl fantasies.’

  He pinned her hands above her head and looked her over. ‘Not even in the dark could you pass for a schoolgirl.’

  Candii went for his face with her extra-long nails. The fight got him hot, and she’d learned a long time ago not to fake it. There was enough hatred beneath her lust for her to mean it. She was number one. It was her who kept the girls in line and filled this place with punters every night. And what did she get for it? Not enough.

  Chapter 28

>   MINA HUGGED HER BAG to her side. Though the tall windows intensified the morning heat, goose bumps puckered her skin.

  Why had she even come here? It was stupid. Dangerous. Worse than that, Slab Carlson thought he’d won. His sleazy gaze felt more invasive than when he’d had his hands all over her at Gibson’s party. The tattooed Maori standing guard in the private elevator and the broad-chested accountant hovering in the background underscored her stupidity.

  The penthouse was all glass and granite, a fitting mausoleum for its owner. Green-tinted windows stretched the height of the room and surrounded a good two-thirds of the open living area. Far beyond the city, where the haze of summer hugged the horizon, Mina glimpsed the azure sea and the patchy gathering of clouds. The early heat had destroyed all evidence of last night’s downpour.

  If only her memory could be as easily burned free.

  The text had come as magpies sang her awake. She’d hoped it was Linc, then despised herself for it. Despised him for making her feel such a useless emotion. That hatred had carried her here.

  ‘World looks different from up here, don’t it, babe? Bet you could get used to this view.’

  Carlson tugged at the straps of her bag. He had a cigar clamped between his teeth and a livid scratch down one cheek. He stank of tobacco and overpowering aftershave. She shrank from him. When he arched his brow and smirked, she realised her mistake. He got off on intimidation.

  ‘It’s a wonder you haven’t set yourself alight.’ Mina waved her hand in front of her face and moved away. ‘You’re not supposed to use the whole bottle.’

  His smile tightened. ‘Least you can do is be gracious when I’ve gone to the effort of introducing you to Bernie.’

  The accountant’s gaze slid away from hers, as though the grey-veined floor tiles had become irresistible. Carlson sauntered to a granite-topped island bench that separated the living area from the stark kitchen. Three champagne flutes waited beside a bottle of Verve. Droplets of moisture slid along its frosted curves.

  ‘Celebrating, aren’t we, Bernie?’ An effortless twist by Carlson freed the cork with a pop. ‘Why don’t you fill her in?’

  Bernie Johnstone lifted his head, nodded, then thumbed toward the window. ‘We’ve just got planning permission to develop that old racetrack down there. Fifty elite apartments with private gardens and a central common. High-density living at its finest. Isn’t that right, buddy?’

  His rich voice lacked authority. He was putting on a good show, but clearly she wasn’t the only one in this room scared of Carlson. She looked down at the deserted racetrack, a sun-scorched expanse bordered by city streets and a smattering of unkempt trees. There had been huge controversy about its development, including rumours of kickbacks to city councillors after the speed with which it had gone through.

  ‘Don’t worry,’ Carlson said. ‘It ain’t gonna ruin my view.’

  As if that mattered to her.

  Development seemed a bit of a stretch for someone who dealt in strip clubs, but then so did antiques. Maybe he was trying to move into more legitimate businesses, just as eager to leave his past behind as she was.

  Yeah, right. The thug revelled in his reputation. He enjoyed the fear he evoked.

  Carlson handed them each a glass. ‘Bernie here nearly missed the final meeting with the development committee. You’re bloody lucky it went through, mate. Any later and you would have missed your slot.’

  ‘Not my fault. Kids stole my watch.’

  Mina sidled toward the penthouse elevator, though she had no idea how she’d deal with the big Maori with the fearsome tattoos who stood guard inside. Carlson blocked her way and thrust the glass at her.

  ‘I’m not here to drink champagne.’

  ‘You don’t wanna be rude.’

  ‘Tell me where my father is, Mr Carlson.’

  ‘Friends call me Slab.’

  ‘And they’re still friends?’

  Bernie opened his eyes wide and gulped his champagne.

  ‘Take the effin’ drink.’ In his too smooth, too tanned face, Carlson’s eyes were slits. ‘It’s French. Expensive.’

  She took the glass. Carlson had opened the bottle in their presence, and Bernie had gulped down most of his without ill effects. What the heck? Good champagne might make Slab Carlson easier to handle. She sipped. Carlson grinned.

  ‘I’ve been telling Bernie he needs a new watch. Maybe something unusual. You got yourself a new watch recently, didn’t you, Mina?’

  The champagne went down the wrong way. She coughed. The only way he could know that was if Kegs or the creepy kid had told him. Carlson watched her with a knowing smile, as if he didn’t care that he’d just admitted a link with the break-ins. That knowledge might be all Linc needed to prove his case.

  Linc. Oh God. Last night she’d just about ripped his clothes off. She’d fooled herself into believing his passion for her body meant he could love her. Her. An Everton. It wasn’t a name, it was a label tainted with deception. “You don’t have to let your father rule you,” he’d said. If she went to him with this he’d definitely think she was involved. He’d probably arrest them as a group.

  ‘Looking a bit flushed there, babe.’ Carlson chuckled.

  She stole a glance at Bernie. He stared into his empty glass as if he’d like to crawl inside and disappear. She wouldn’t mind doing that herself. As soon as she set eyes on Lincoln Drummond, she’d known how it would be. He liked how she looked, but he loved what he thought she could do for his career.

  Mina plastered on a polite smile. ‘How many kids do you have, Mr Johnstone?’

  Bernie looked like she’d just announced she was auditing his books. ‘Kids?’

  ‘You said your kids stole your watch.’

  ‘Oh. Yeah. Uh, two. A boy and a girl.’

  He glanced at Carlson then back at her before hurrying to the kitchen to set his champagne flute back on the bench. Barely stopping to shake Carlson’s hand, he headed to the elevator, his pace marked by squeaking shoes. When the doors opened, the minder lifted his eyebrows. Carlson nodded.

  ‘Congratulations again, mate.’ Bernie saluted a farewell.

  Once the doors closed she’d be alone with the thug who made his living by debasing women, and this penthouse and the minder in his elevator suggested that wasn’t all he was into. She set down her glass. This could be her last chance to leave.

  Before she’d taken more than two steps, Carlson grabbed her arm tight enough to read her blood pressure. ‘You and me have business.’

  The elevator closed. There were doors to the balcony, but the penthouse was five storeys up. Her only hope was the fire escape, but she had no idea where it could be. Her best chance was to bluff her way out.

  She tossed her hair. ‘No need to get rough.’

  ‘We’ll see.’ Carlson let go of her arm. ‘Make yourself at home.’

  Okay, she’d play along. She’d do a reconnaissance right under his nose, find the fire escape and get the hell out of here. She moved toward the row of black and white images that flowed along the convex wall.

  ‘Pretty sweet place, ain’t it?’ He leaned against the island in the sparse kitchen and spread his arms. ‘Bet you wouldn’t mind a piece of this?’

  Did he mean him, or the penthouse?

  The red, café-quality espresso machine in a kitchen recess was the only spot of colour in the monochrome apartment. Two huge white couches sat on an expanse of black shag pile rug. The end tables were black and chrome, as were the phallic-looking table lamps. Even Carlson was dressed in black: a finely woven muscle-hugging t-shirt, jeans and heavy biker boots.

  Were they the boots that had laid into her ribs the other night? Carlson’s build didn’t look right and he wore different aftershave. Yet her assailant’s clothing had been bulky enough to hide that physique, and there was no reason to think Carlson used the same aftershave every day.

  Carlson preened. Christ, the creep thought she was checking him out, when the touch of his hand
on her bare skin had made her flesh crawl.

  ‘I don’t want any piece of you, or this, Mr Carlson. I prefer bluestone cottages. The kind built by honest, hardworking men and women.’

  That slapped the cockiness out of him. His entire body went rigid, like it was a struggle to keep his fists to himself. Underneath all that muscle was probably some snivelling little loser who only felt like a man when he was beating up women. She wrapped her arms around her tender ribs. She’d got the better of that fat forensics guy, but after the other night, she’d lost some confidence in her self-defence skills.

  So that he couldn’t guess her thoughts, she turned her back and peered at the black and white artwork. They were photographs, artistic close-ups, all shadows and dips and valleys.

  ‘Oh!’ She stepped away, her hand at her mouth.

  ‘Play your cards right, babe, and maybe I’ll let you pose for me. You ain’t my type, but I can make an exception. If I have to.’

  As if it was her life’s ambition to have her intimate body parts displayed on his wall.

  She turned to find he’d moved from the kitchen to perch on the arm of his lounge chair, his obsidian attire stark against the polar leather. She hadn’t heard a footstep. Her sandals clacked on the marble floor every time she moved. How had Carlson managed to move so stealthily? She needed to find the fire escape. Fast.

  It cost a lot to turn her back on him. Thankfully, the light fell so that she could see his silhouette reflected in the glass as she moved along the line of images. She came to a slimline keypad and realised a door was fitted into the wall. Carlson watched her. When she ran her fingers across the numbers, he chuckled.

  ‘Fancy a look at my collection? I guarantee you’ve never seen anything like it.’

  His leer sent a chill through her bones. If that display on his wall was his idea of art, she didn’t even want to guess what he kept locked away.

  ‘Tell me where my father is.’

  ‘Who said I knew?’

  ‘You did.’

  He stroked his chin. ‘Did I?’

  ‘I’m not here for laughs. We had a deal.’