I finally spotted him half-hidden behind a willow tree on the banks of the Yarra, smoking another cigarette, his injured hand held up to his chest. Liz was talking to him and it looked like she was imploring him to do something, probably go to hospital for stitches, but he shook his head and waved her away. Just as I was about to approach, Isabella appeared from the port-a-loos and swept straight for him. I hung back, peeking out from behind a gum tree, too far away to hear exactly what they were saying.
First they shouted, then appeared to calm down. Isabella took the cigarette out of Nick’s mouth and had a couple of drags before grinding it out under one dainty Mary-Jane. In no time they were shouting again until suddenly Nick leaned in and kissed her. She pulled away and slapped him, then took his face in both her hands, pushed him against the tree and kissed him back, hard. Writers. I gave up trying to figure them out, went to look for Chloe and found her in the book-signing tent, in front of Rod Thurlow, the line behind her stretching out across the oval. He signed her copy of Lethal Force with a flourish and a smile, but she didn’t move on.
‘Now do my boobs!’ She leaned over the table and hung her cleavage in his face like she was a groupie and he was Tommy Lee.
Rod looked bemused. ‘Whoa. I’m not sure I have enough ink in my pen.’
‘Oh, come on, Mr Thurlow.’ She licked her lips and winked. ‘You look like the sort of guy who’s always got enough ink in his pen . . .’
Looking around I immediately found the reason for the display—Curtis and Desiree, perusing the true crime section, her hand wedged into his back pocket. I’d had just about enough; this wasn’t so much a writers’ festival as an expo for jealous lovers. I went over to them, and Chloe, who had just finished getting her tits autographed, glowered at me like I was Judas Iscariot, before pretending to browse the book stacks.
‘You weren’t kidding about the rough break-up,’ I said to Desiree, low enough so Rod wouldn’t hear. ‘That panel was a fucking fiasco. How long since they’ve been divorced?’
‘Oh, they haven’t quite untied the knot yet,’ Desiree said smoothly. ‘You have to be separated a year. Isabella wanted to fudge the date on the papers but he wouldn’t have it. Isabella wants to marry Rod on Christmas Day so it’s all a bit . . . fraught.’
She wasn’t wrong. Isabella came in and sat at the signing table next to Rod. Her cloche hat was on straight and she’d reapplied her lipstick.
‘Where have you been, darling?’ he asked. ‘People have been waiting to get their books signed.’
‘Sorry, got caught up talking to some of the audience members. They all agreed that Nick behaved appallingly.’
Suddenly there was a commotion at the entrance to the book-signing tent as a tall blonde swanned in. She had the figure and sweetly pretty features of a Miss Australia contestant and was trailed by a cameraman and a guy with a boom mike.
‘Isabella!’ said the blonde.
‘Victoria!’ Isabella stood and the two hugged, lightly. ‘What’s with the camera?’
‘Oh, it’s for a documentary. A year in the life of best-selling writer Victoria Hitchens.’ Victoria rolled her eyes.
Rod was giving Victoria a dirty look. Victoria put her arm around Isabella and spoke direct to camera. ‘This is Isabella Bishop, a terrific author and my best friend from high school. I don’t think I could have become a writer without her. She really inspired me.’
Isabella smiled graciously, if somewhat tightly, towards the camera.
‘Oh shoot.’ Victoria looked at her watch. ‘I’m late for my panel. So great to see you again.’
‘Mmm-hmm,’ Isabella murmured as Victoria swanned off.
Curtis’ phone emitted a jangly version of the Mission Impossible theme, and he pulled it from his back pocket. ‘Malone,’ he said. ‘Speak.’
It was another thing he did that irritated the hell out of me, and I wondered how a sophisticated woman like Desiree could stick him. Chloe I could understand. She could be almost as annoying as he was.
‘Hey, Andi, what’s happening?’ Curtis said.
Andi was a friend from my childhood, now a journalism student. Three months earlier she’d gone missing; her disappearance was the case that had led to my mum getting shot. Andi hadn’t gotten off lightly either: she’d nearly died, and had to have the lower half of her right leg amputated. She’d sold her story, not for money but for an opportunity to work on the newspaper who’d published it, and was now actually working as a journo while she finished her degree.
Curtis turned away from me and Desiree, dug his notebook out of his shirt pocket and started scribbling on it. ‘Uh-huh. Yep. No kidding? Shit yeah, I’d be into it. Now? Pick you up in twenty.’
‘What’s going on?’ I asked.
‘A body’s been found just outside of Daylesford. Word on the street is it’s Lachlan Elliot.’
‘Who?’
‘Investment banker who disappeared eighteen months ago. Toorak guy. Had links to bikies and organised crime.’
I vaguely remembered seeing the story in the papers and on the news. There’d been rumours he owed money and had faked his own disappearance.
‘It’s gonna be a big one, so me and Andi are teaming up. Malone and Fowler. Has a ring to it, don’tcha reckon? Andrew Rule and John Silvester have had it too good for too damn long. They better get wise there’s a new true-crime team in town.’
Chloe was lurking behind a pile of books, pretending not to listen, and Curtis did a hair flick to cover his glance back to check she was there.
‘Hey, babe,’ he told Desiree. ‘Gotta blow this popsicle stand.’
She slid her arm around his waist and they performed an ostentatious kiss with rather a bit too much porn-star tongue. Curtis smacked his new girlfriend on the arse, slid on a pair of those mirrored sunnies favoured by American highway patrolmen, and swaggered off into the day.
I’d had enough of the freak fest and went to find Chloe so we could go home. She was flipping through a book, but when she saw me she hurriedly stuffed it back onto a shelf. I could have sworn it had Sex Secrets of a Thousand Dollar an Hour Callgirl in the title.
chapter seven
The next morning I woke with a start, heart beating fast, and it was a few seconds before I realised why. Shit. It was Sunday, November the eighth; Alex was getting married and Sean was arriving back from Vietnam. He was going straight to Alex’s from the airport so I wouldn’t see him until late that night, but I still had a lot to do before then. Hair cut and dyed, nails painted, eyebrows shaped, solarium, Brazilian. Amazing how feral you could turn when no one was getting up close and personal.
I had a couple of hours to kill before my first appointment, so I got up and drank a plungerful of coffee, pulled on terry-towelling short-shorts and a faded Mickey Mouse t-shirt, threaded the house key into the laces of my ancient, worn-out runners, and headed out for a jog. The path beside the canal ran all the way to the ocean, behind houses where flowering vines curled around fences and indolent cats snoozed in the sun.
As I ran I thought about the debacle at the festival the day before. It was funny, I’d always thought strippers were the most fucked-up profession, but those writers were sure giving them a run for their money. Perhaps they spent too much time ferreting away in their garrets, living inside their own heads, slowly going mad. It was supposed to be healthy to engage in artistic pursuits, but honestly, sitting on my arse all day writing stories about characters who didn’t exist would have driven me bonkers. Stripping was my creative outlet, even though people scoffed when I tried to explain that, and I knew I’d have to give it up completely, soon enough. At twenty-nine I was getting too old, and it didn’t exactly do wonders for my PI reputation either, but I knew I’d miss it. Not to mention the fact that I was hopeless at painting and sure as shit couldn’t play guitar. Maybe I could write a book about my adventures, seeing as how everyone else seemed to be. Although they weren’t so much adventures as an embarrassing list of fuck-ups.
At Ormond Esplanade I jogged on the spot as I waited for the walk sign, dashed across the road, and then I was running south along the bay, dodging bike riders, roller-bladers, dog walkers and young mums with high-priced prams. Grey-green water lapped the sand of Elwood Beach and a soft, salty wind cooled the sweat on my face. I sprinted all the way to the lifesaving club and stopped for a drink at the bubbler before turning and running back. At the public toilets I veered onto the grass and pounded up the hamstring- and lung-punishing Elwood Hill. Leaning against the white wooden lookout I stretched my quads and tried to get my breath back. Up there I could see the palm trees of St Kilda, the arc of the Westgate Bridge and the skyscrapers of the CBD. On a clear day Geelong was visible across the vast curve of Port Phillip Bay, but that morning a hot haze hung in the air, smelling of ozone, reminding me of the one occasion I’d visited Los Angeles.
I was fourteen, and it was the last time I’d seen my dad, who lived there with his new, American family. We’d never been close—he and my mum had split when I was tiny—but after that last visit we’d never spoken again.
My email from last week hadn’t worked either—just bounced back with the message ‘delivery failure’. I debated with myself whether it was worth tracking him down, and wondered why I wanted to contact him anyway. Because Mum wouldn’t talk to me? And what did I hope to get out of it? Money? Fatherly advice? A tearful reunion?
Yeah, right. He’d never tried to get in touch with me.
I ran down the other side of the hill past the dense scrub, which, combined with the public toilet, made the area such an attractive gay beat, sprinted across the park then up Glenhuntly Road past the Elwood Lounge, video store and cafés. Left on Broadway, then I slowed to a shuffle. I’d almost finished my loop when one of my shoes finally carked it, flopping open like the mouth of a panting dog. Rivulets of sweat ran down my back, seeping into the waistband of my shorts, and I was just nearing my unit-block, mentally planning my day, when I got the creepy feeling I was being followed. I whirled around and saw a stretch limo with tinted windows come to a halt behind me. I didn’t have to be a detective to put it together—white limo, Alex’s wedding day. For half a second I had the idea he’d gone AWOL from his own nuptials and had come straight to my place to tell me so. Then the driver’s door opened and out popped Sean.
He was wearing a tuxedo and a shit-eating grin and he leaned one arm on the roof of the vehicle. In the other hand he held a bouquet of orchids, filched from the wedding party by the look of things. I’d been so caught up being angst-ridden about Alex that I’d forgotten how goddamned gorgeous Sean was. He was a couple of inches taller than me, a young-looking thirty-five with a boyish face, and his perfectly formed lips had a pronounced rim that always caught the light. His short red-gold hair ruffled in the breeze, setting off his perpetually glinting, slate-blue eyes, and beneath the monkey suit I knew his body was lean and tightly muscled. My heart was beating fast and I couldn’t remember how to breathe. Act casual, I told myself.
He tilted his head, inverted his eyebrows and put on his best Connery-inspired Bond drawl. He already had a Scottish accent, but he did have to lower the register a tad.
‘Shields.’ He smirked. ‘Sean Shields.’
I put one hand on my hip and smirked back, trying for sultry although I probably resembled Forrest Gump after his trans-national marathon. ‘Guess that makes me Pussy Galore.’
‘Damn right it does.’ He was trying hard to keep the suave expression, but his mouth kept lifting at one side. The smile was infectious. I’d also failed to remember how much fun he was, and his remarkable enthusiasm, and facility, for oral sex. I couldn’t believe that just a few moments before I’d actually been disappointed he wasn’t Alex.
I switched from Pussy G to Dr No. Or maybe it was Dr Evil. Either way, the German accent I spouted sounded pretty hammy. ‘So, Mr Shields, we meet again. From where did you appropriate the limousine?’
‘Commandeered it for my mission.’
‘Which is?’
‘Get in the back seat and you’ll find out.’ He clicked open the door.
chapter eight
Monday morning I was stuck in traffic on Punt Road, heading north to Nick’s place in Abbotsford. I’d tried to call him to make sure he was still up for the ride-along, but he hadn’t answered his phone that morning or the day before. I was pretty annoyed and could have just gone about my business without him, but he’d advanced me quite a large sum which I really didn’t want to give back. I figured if I fronted up regardless, I’d have fulfilled my part of the bargain and the money was mine to keep.
To tell the truth I was hoping he wouldn’t want to come. It would be awkward after witnessing his scene at the writers’ festival, and I didn’t want to dick around. My plan was to finish the job in record time, type the report, attach the photos, then hurry back to Sean. I kept remembering the day before and getting little aftershocks when I thought about his tongue on my clit and his cock in my pussy, the two of us tussling in the back of the limo among plastic-wrapped hire suits and boxed corsages. At first I’d protested—I hadn’t had time to preen myself and I was too sweaty and hairy to fool around—but Sean had insisted he’d take me any which way, and after a few seconds I wouldn’t have cared if I had ten centimetres of regrowth and a bush down to my knees.
Later, after the wedding, he’d staggered back to my place and we’d done it all over again, my carefully blow-dried hair turning into a bird’s nest once more. Being pissed, he spilled his guts, confessed how much he’d missed me and how bad he felt about not being there when all the hideous shit with my mum went down in Sydney. I’d told him to shut up, it wasn’t his fault and he had nothing to feel guilty about. Then he’d asked if he could stay a few days. Curtis was still subletting his place and couldn’t find anywhere else to rent, so I said sure. It was only for a little while, and he promised to cook and clean and provide sex on tap.
I’d also managed to get some goss on the wedding. Sean knew I’d unintentionally shown up at the bachelor party, but not about Alex following me into the toilets. I’d been worried Alex’s scumbag cousin would spill the beans, but Sean’s face hadn’t betrayed any trace of suspicion as he told me about the day.
Apparently the ceremony had gone ahead without a hitch, but Alex had gotten really smashed at the reception, and Sean and some other groomsmen had to hustle him out of there and put him to bed. He couldn’t have had much of a wedding night. The strange sense of disappointment I’d felt on hearing the ceremony had gone ahead turned into an evil kind of satisfaction. It was sick, but I couldn’t help myself.
I drove my boring, sensible Ford Laser past Nick’s place. The entrance wasn’t much to look at, just a high wall with a garage and a door, but I guessed the rest would be pretty posh. The street was in an upmarket part of Abbotsford, and one side was crammed with renovated terraces and converted warehouses. The other, Nick’s side, featured expensive homes perched on a slope overlooking the river. Unlike his fictional character Zack, I didn’t get a park out front. A BMW, Toorak Tractor and rubbish skip were in my way, so I pulled in half a block up and doubled back.
The sun beat off the asphalt and I was hot in my Portman’s skirt suit. If Nick was actually home, I was sure he’d get a kick out of my corporate look: court shoes, black-rimmed glasses and sleek ponytail. Four years of stripping costumes and characters had made me not only a master of disguise but a halfway decent actor. I wasn’t going to be performing Shakespeare at the Globe in a hurry, but was pretty confident I could nail Neighbours or Home and Away if I had to.
I rapped on the steel door, bruising my knuckles, and waited. No answer. I found a bell to the side of the doorframe and pressed. Nothing. I tried again. Sweat was beading on my forehead and beneath my pantyhose, causing the gusset to sag. I tried to tug up the nylon through my skirt, thinking that although gusset was probably the most disgusting word in the English language, it’d make a good name for a female punk band.
With my
ear to the metal I pushed the button again, heard the bell chime and something else—music, turned up pretty damn loud. At least that meant he was home. I tried the door, assuming it would be locked, but the handle depressed, the mechanism clicked, and it swung open a couple of inches. Not a good sign. No one left their doors unlocked in the big city, especially not in a fancy house a couple of k’s from the housing commission towers.
A small kernel of fear cracked open in my stomach, my mouth dried up and very bad thoughts swirled around my mind. Nick on a bender since Saturday afternoon, falling over and hitting his head on the side of the coffee table. Nick pissed and choking on his own vomit; or worse, drunk and despondent over Isabella, he’d slit his wrists in the bath, hung himself or got hold of a gun . . . I knew from personal experience what a couple of those options looked and smelled like, and graphic images danced in front of my eyes. I thought of calling the cops so I wouldn’t have to go in, but what the hell would I tell them? For all I knew he could be in there relaxing on a Jason recliner, wearing a Hawaiian shirt, drinking a piña colada and getting a blow job from a fan. Nick would be pissed off, the cops would have the shits and I’d be a laughing stock.
I glanced down at my hand on the door handle. It was trembling. You’d think the things I’d seen would have made me hard-edged but it was the opposite. I was turning into a sissy, a nancy, a goddamn girl. Toughen the fuck up, I told myself. Get your arse in there. Go.
I pushed on the heavy steel door, took a couple of steps and found myself in an entrance hall. Down the other end was a door, to my left the garage access, and in front of me, a little to the right, a suspended staircase made of polished blond wood. A shattered gin bottle lay on the floor, and as well as the solvent stench of cheap booze I smelled something underneath it, organic and nasty. Something like blood? My stomach spasmed and the bones in my ankles felt brittle all of a sudden. The music was coming from the top of the stairs so I took a deep, ragged breath, crunched through the broken glass and climbed, calling out all the way.
Thrill City Page 5