‘I want her to trust me,’ he said to Alex softly. ‘I want her to come to me, in her own time, to tell me.’
‘What if she doesn’t?’
‘Then that’s probably more on me than on her.’
Alex sighed. ‘I’m still going to do my job, Dom. My priority is you and those precious kids.’
‘And I appreciate that, Alex.’ Alex was like a bull terrier – fiercely loyal, fiercely protective, and brutal when on the attack. At the moment, he was in holding position, but the man would take whatever steps necessary to ensure their safety. ‘I trust her,’ Dom said.
Alex smiled. ‘Great. I don’t.’ He grabbed a tissue from the covered box on Dom’s desk, gingerly picked up the mug and tossed the contents into a potted ficus near the window. Dom frowned, the reason for the jacket now glaringly obvious.
‘Is that really necessary?’
Alex’s smile didn’t waver. ‘It’s just for me. You can wait until she feels comfortable and safe and ready to share. In the meantime, I’ll find out some more.’ He pulled a folded paper bag from his pocket, snapped it out, and placed the mug inside. ‘I promise I won’t act on any information I receive unless I deem it relevant to your and the kids’ protection.’
Dom rolled his eyes. That was about as accommodating as Alex was going to be. ‘Fine.’
‘Now, there is one more thing,’ Alex said as he folded the top of the bag over and tucked it into the depths of his coat pocket.
Dom grimaced. After the information Alex had just divulged, he wasn’t sure if he wanted to hear more – but he hadn’t gotten this far in life and business by avoiding difficult challenges. ‘Let’s hear it,’ he sighed, walking around the desk to his chair. He needed a seat.
‘The police want to interview you,’ Alex informed him, and Dominic paused before taking his seat.
‘They’ve already interviewed me. Right after the accident, and then again when I was in Sydney for the coronial hearing.’
Alex nodded. ‘And they still haven’t found your ex-wife’s body, so now they want to talk to you some more.’
Dom rested his head back against the seat. ‘When?’ he asked with resignation.
‘As soon as you can get back to Sydney. You can drive back with me, if you like,’ Alex offered. ‘I could brief you in the car.’
Dom nodded. ‘Sure.’ Great. If they wanted to re-interview him, it showed him that their investigation had well and truly hit a dead end. The problem was, while they focused on him, they weren’t going after the real person responsible.
‘I’ll have to say goodbye to Julia and Jonah,’ he told Alex. ‘And Darcy.’ Damn. He felt like he’d just gotten home, and now he was leaving again, right when his family needed him. There was no question, though. He couldn’t bring the kids back to Sydney, not at the moment. If he was heading into a police station for questioning, there would be a media mob – there and in front of his home at Mosman. He didn’t want to subject the kids to that hell.
‘How long do you think I’ll be gone for?’
Alex shrugged. ‘One, maybe two days. They can’t file charges, it’s just an interview.’
Dom arched an eyebrow. ‘Was that meant to be reassuring?’
‘Yep.’
Dom shook his head. ‘It’s a good thing I don’t employ you for your tact.’
‘Yeah, that would suck for both of us.’
CHAPTER
19
Tony Blewitt smoothed the putty up over the sides of his nose, twisting his head in one direction, then the other to check his work in his bedroom mirror. It looked surprisingly good. He leaned over and hit a key on the laptop, watching the YouTube tutorial, pausing it every now and then to follow the instructions.
He was being very careful, though. Some of the items were specialist items that would raise a red flag for any subsequent investigation – a theatrical makeup purchase on his credit card, for example, so he’d improvised. Instead of using the soft putty the instructor had suggested – which would draw immediate attention if anyone went through his financial statements – he’d found modelling clay in the kids’ craft section of a department store, and buried the purchase amongst other mundane buys. He was sure they were pretty much the same thing.
He’d kneaded it and shaped it, moulding it around the sides of his nose and up along the bridge. It felt weird, the extra weight hanging off his face – but it was making a drastic difference to his appearance. His lips curved. He was going to brave the lion’s den. He was going to walk straight into St James’s corporate office and deliver a parcel. He looked over at the small box on the bed. It looked just like a normal delivery, but when St James opened it, it was going to cause such a stir. And St James would open it. He’d read the morning paper. The man was in town to deal with a coronial enquiry on his wife’s death.
Tony snorted. Now there was a nutter. He’d met the woman at a couple of the corporate Christmas parties. She’d been gracious, yet cold. At one event, he’d snuck out the back to smoke a joint – they always relaxed him at this sort of awkward social soiree. She’d been in the kitchen, arguing with the waitstaff. He became aware of the scene too late to pay any attention to the words, but he’d certainly seen her smack the waitress in the face. He’d stood there, shocked, his joint dangling from his lip, and she’d turned and noticed him. She wasn’t embarrassed or scared. The crazy dame had smiled sweetly at him as she’d sauntered past, pausing only to remove the glowing handmade rollie from his lips to drop it onto the stone paving and crush it beneath her shoe, all the while staring at him with that sugary-sweet, innocent smile, then had walked back into the party.
Yeah. Crazy with a capital C, that’s what she was. He’d thought to use the scene against St James at some point, a little embarrassing blackmail, but the man must have realised his wife was as nutty as a fruitcake, because he upped and divorced her four months later.
Now St James was back in town, and Tony was about to wreak his revenge. His fingers trembled with excitement, and he had to calm himself before continuing with his disguise. Once he’d gotten the shape of his new nose to his liking, he reached over for the small bottle of clear fluid sitting on his dresser. He was supposed to be using some liquid sealer, but he couldn’t find the one mentioned in the tutorial, so had purchased a nail polish sealer instead. It was a fairly innocuous buy, and he could always say he’d bought it for his ex-girlfriend. See? Always thinking. You had to be careful with what you purchased. The cops could look through all your financial statements, and check all the CCTV footage at potential retailers, but all of his ingredients had been bought with that in mind. Even if they could find him buying the modelling clay somewhere, it was just modelling clay. He could always claim he was getting it for his sister’s bratty kids – no smoking gun there.
He used the tiny brush to paint the sealer over his fake nose. Damn, his nose was itchy, and this crap stank. Fortunately the smell would be gone by the time he walked into St James’s office and handed the parcel to the receptionist.
He waved a sheet of paper over his face, trying to hasten the sealer’s drying process. He twisted again, checking it out in the mirror. It was a bit shiny, and maybe too long – he was borrowing the technique from a Halloween tutorial – but it was effective. The nose changed his features so much – what if he mimicked the process for a fake chin? That would change his appearance even more, and he really didn’t want to be recognised. He’d worked at the St James offices for a couple of years, and walking in to deliver the parcel was a brazen move, but one that could be done with an adequate disguise. If he tried to post it, something could go wrong. If he tried to courier it, then someone, somewhere, would want his address and payment details – too easy to track. No, he had to do this himself. Besides, it would be such a buzz to waltz right in and leave this particular problem for them.
He went to work on the clay, moulding it to his chin. He frowned. This was harder – it kept falling off. He smoothed the clay out further along
his jaw, then checked his reflection. Wow. Sure, the clay was an interesting grey colour on his face, but once it was covered by a skin-toned foundation, it would look quite real. Not even his own mother would recognise him. If she was sober enough to remember she had a son, that is.
Satisfied with the size and shape of his pointy nose and bulbous chin, he reached for the makeup he’d taken from his girlfriend. He’d considered buying his own, but then realised that if he did, he’d have to ask questions – what brand, what colour would suit him… If he asked questions, he could look suspicious – or gay. No, easier just to concoct a reason to drop in on his ex, and nick the almost-empty bottle right off her bathroom vanity.
He looked at the contents of the bottle dubiously. There was a layer of oil above the pigment. He read the label. Shake before use. He shrugged, then shook the bottle until the contents were mixed thoroughly. And women wore this gunk on their face all the time. He shuddered.
Getting a cotton ball from the bag he’d set aside just for this moment, he upended the bottle, then swore when the contents splashed out over his hand and down his sleeve, some of it staining the top of his dresser.
He swore as he mopped up the mess with a tissue, then tried to dab the tissue across his new nose and face, not wanting to waste any – there wasn’t much left in the bottle. He paused and looked in the mirror. Colour bloomed across his face in blotches. Using his fingers, he massaged it in, paying particular attention to his new features. After several minutes he stopped and stepped back, eyeing his work critically. He was glad he’d given himself a close shave before putting it on – the skin was smooth and even. Sure, the chin and nose were a slightly different colour to the rest of his face, but it was still in a normal range of variation. As this was only a get-in, get-out mission, he thought it would pass a basic inspection. He nodded. Good.
He bent and scooped up the wig that was sitting on his bed. That had been more difficult. There were some really good costumes and wigs on eBay, but those purchases were easily traceable. He’d had to go to a little hole-in-the-wall arcade in Chatswood. The shop sold men’s and women’s lingerie and costumes to wear in the bedroom, and had a meagre collection of wigs. He knew the afro collection just wasn’t going to cut it. He wanted to look different, but not weird.
So he’d settled for the Beatles-looking wig. It had been too long and the style of the cut was most definitely out of fashion, but he’d modernised it with a little trim here and there. He pulled the dark wig on. He turned his head from side to side, peering at his reflection.
Not bad. If this project against St James didn’t pay off, maybe he should consider hairdressing. He frowned, and touched at the fake hair that seemed to kick up in tufts in odd spots over his scalp. A bit short in those places, but considering this was his first attempt, not bad.
He reached for the baseball cap that sat on the corner post of his bed, grimacing. Manly Sea Eagles. Not his favourite team, not by a long shot – but he was trying to be completely different, so wearing the cap of a team he detested fitted right in with his plans. Nobody would believe he’d wear the monstrosity. He adjusted the cap, then frowned. The whole ensemble seemed to shift with each movement. What if the hat fell off? The wig might go, too.
He bit his lip, then pulled out his odd-job drawer, sifting through the contents until he could find what he needed. He lifted the small bottle out of the drawer and flipped off the lid. Removing the hat carefully so as not to disturb the wig, he upended the bottle and squeezed the superglue onto the wig. He paid particular attention to the tufty spots, figuring that if the hair was shorter, there would need to be more glue needed to bridge the gap between wig and cap.
He pressed the cap down, grimacing as he felt the cool gel seep through a few random spots onto his head. Must have cut the wig lining. He held the cap down for a moment or two, then cautiously lifted his hands. It stayed on. He eyed the fake nose and chin. Maybe…?
He gently pried off the clay nose, coating the underside liberally with superglue before reattaching it to his face. Once he was sure the glue was dry, he repeated the process with his chin.
Tony twisted his head from side to side, giving it a firm shake. Nothing budged, neither the wig and cap, nor his homemade prosthetics. Hot damn, he was good. The rough, choppy hair was almost identical to styles he’d seen students wearing on the train. Very on-trend. Maybe he should do his own Master of Disguise webcast tutorial. After St James got what was coming to him, though. Otherwise it might give away his plan.
He grinned at his reflection. He looked so different. The cap, the wig, the bumps on his face. Yep, totally unrecognisable. He gave himself the thumbs up, winking at the mirror, then turned to gently pick up the little cardboard box from his bed. He was good to go.
‘Tell me again what your movements were on the day of the accident.’ Detective Charles leaned on his folded arms, glancing idly down at the file on the table in front of him. Detective Fuller, of the local area command, sat quietly off to the side, content to observe for the moment.
‘My client’s already answered that question,’ Archie Wyatt, Dom’s lawyer, stated calmly. The man had been his father’s personal lawyer, and now advised him on all legal matters – including the matter of his divorce. Dom held up a hand, despite his frustration.
‘It’s fine, Archie.’ Dom’s muscle ticked in his jaw. The detective was just doing his job, he reminded himself. That’s what Alex had stated, repeatedly, in the car on the way over to the Harbourside LAC. His security advisor wasn’t permitted to observe or participate in the interview, so had decided to hang out with one of his brothers instead. Dom knew where he’d prefer to be.
This room reminded him of another time, when he was much younger, and more vulnerable. He hated this room. The table that looked like it was a public school reject, the hard, uncomfortable chairs. Just like the chair he’d sat in when the officer had interviewed him after he’d found his parents and his sister. Question after question about his mum and dad, and Jen, and who would beat them and cut them and leave them to die…but he wasn’t so young or vulnerable, this time.
Alex had warned him to expect certain tactics, and so far he’d been right. First there was the polite chit chat. Then there were the open questions. They’d been there for over an hour already. Now came the challenges.
Once again, Dom relayed his account of the day, conscious of the audio and video recorders. Using his diary as a prompt, he went over the meetings. Then there was an ever-so-brief visit to the White Bay site – which prompted more questions from the detective. He was occasionally prompted by Detective Charles with a carefully phrased, ‘And what happened when you left there?’ or ‘What happened next?’
The one thing he didn’t need a prompt for was his retelling of the call, his panic and fear, his immediate mobilisation. He’d wanted to get to his children, make sure they were safe.
‘And your ex-wife? What did you want to make sure about her?’
Dom met the man’s eyes, knowing he was trying to provoke him, and ashamed he’d almost succeeded.
‘Of course I wanted to make sure she was all right, too. There’s no hiding the fact that we’re divorced, but don’t believe everything you read in the magazines, detective. Ava and I couldn’t live together anymore, but that didn’t mean that I’d stopped loving her altogether, or that I wished her ill.’
‘Or dead.’
‘Or dead.’
‘Why did you break up? If it was such a fairytale marriage, and you two were still so in love, why did you divorce?’
Dom hesitated. Ava was the mother of his children, and outside of the closed court proceedings, nobody knew his reasons for the divorce. He’d let Ava disclose what she wanted, allowed her to keep her dignity.
‘Did you cheat on her?’
‘No.’ He’d been tempted, sure, and there were plenty of willing women, but he’d never cheated on Ava, on any woman. He’d wanted their marriage to survive – for the kids.
&n
bsp; ‘So, she cheated on you.’
‘No.’ At least, not until they were separated, and he couldn’t really call it cheating. Technically they’d still been married, but the relationship had been well and truly over.
‘Why did you break up, then?’
Dom met the detective’s gaze. ‘It’s personal.’
‘Dom—’ Archie murmured.
‘Try me,’ the detective urged.
Damn, this was hell. After all this time, he still didn’t want to talk about it, to disclose it. It didn’t put him or Ava in a positive light. ‘Our divorce has nothing to do with the accident.’
Detective Charles leaned forwards. ‘What was the settlement?’ He turned a few pages of the file in front of him. ‘Oh, yes. A vacation property at Wisemans Ferry, a vineyard in the Hunter Valley, a condo on the Gold Coast – an apartment in New York?’ The detective shook his head, then continued. ‘Along with a one-off payment of seven million dollars…’ The detective raised his eyebrows and glanced at Dom for clarification. Dom nodded, and the detective went back to reading the report. ‘A small portion of shares in St James Constructions, two cars – one of which was sabotaged, incidentally – and a substantial allowance for the children.’ The detective whistled. ‘Sounds like she screwed you, but good.’
Dom frowned, and Archie leaned forwards. ‘I think you’ll find that Mr St James was very generous in his offer. If you go through the report with more attention, you’ll find the settlement exceeds Ms St James’s demands.’
‘Well, that is very generous, then, Mr St James. One could almost think it was a pay-off…’
The detective met Dom’s gaze expectantly. Dom raised an eyebrow. He knew what the man was trying to do. It wasn’t going to work. ‘Is that a question?’
Eyes narrowing, the detective leaned back in his chair. ‘I guess it is.’
‘No, it wasn’t a pay-off. She’s the mother of my children. I want her and my kids to be safe and well. Why wouldn’t I want to look after them?’
Runaway Lies Page 17