With that, she turned on her heel and stalked off back to her car.
I got a nasty feeling right below my two serves of cheesecake. Who the hell was driving the sedan? And what was Bligh holding out on me about?
Chapter 16
I WAS A FEW minutes late to pick up Cass but she was too excited about her new purchases to care. I dropped her at Lilac Street and changed into some gym gear, heading straight back out again to Rather Be Dead?
Plenty of nervous-glances-over-my-shoulder-looking-for-dark-sedans later, I parked in the underground car park and went upstairs to the gym. It took me forty minutes into the toughest level on the bike before I began to settle. When the program finished, I wobbled my way over to the bench press with a severe case of jelly legs.
‘Whoa there,’ came a deep voice from behind me and a strong hand steadied my swaying gait. Nice Guy, his palm cool on my back.
‘Hi,’ I said. ‘Thanks.’
‘You okay?’
‘Jelly legs from the bike,’ I explained. ‘Had a weird day. Needed to work some of it out of my system.’
His green aura expanded a little and the greyness shrank. He was in a pair of cut-off track pants and a tight tee. Okay, I couldn’t help but notice. He had a man’s physique without Tozzi’s extra kilos. Ed was muscled but barely out of his teens. Nice Guy was kinda perfectly in the middle of them.
‘Snap,’ he said, nodding in sympathy. ‘You want me to spot your weights for you?’
I gave a tentative smile. ‘Sure.’
We didn’t talk much while I grunted my way through three sets but I got an eyeful of his chest as he bent down to help me rest the weights. When I’d finished, I towelled off while he leaned against the bar rest.
‘You want to catch a bite sometime soon? I could cook for you,’ he said.
I froze mid-wipe. The question was totally unexpected and I had more than enough on my plate right now without contemplating a date with another guy. Still, I thought about it for a moment. I mean, it looked like Ed wasn’t being exclusive, so why should I be? And part of me wanted to get closer to Nice Guy’s calm green aura.
‘Um . . . maybe. Yes. Err . . . I don’t know. No.’
Instead of being offended by my indecision, he laughed. ‘Ah well, I’ll be here for a few more days if you change your mind.’
I gave him a smile and stood up. ‘Thanks for spotting for me. See you next time.’
My legs got me outside with some decorum, which was just as well because he watched me all the way.
Cass was in bed flicking through the cookbooks when I got home.
‘Dinner’s in the fridge,’ she said without looking up.
I peered into the cold cavern that normally only housed dried-out cheese and soured milk and saw a cling-wrapped plate of a delicious-looking chicken salad. My cheesecake over-indulgence had long worn off and my mouth was watering so I hurried to have a quick shower.
When I returned, I grabbed my plate and settled on the couch. ‘You make this?’ I asked.
She nodded. ‘Joanna showed me how. I never thought about putting meat in a salad before. Joanna says it’s all about the dressing. This one’s orange and pecan.’
I shook my head in wonder. Joanna’s interest in Cass was unnerving me. What could the vampire lady be planning?
Once the food hit my stomach, fatigue followed, making it too hard to worry much about Joanna. I checked my phone. Two missed calls from Nick Tozzi now. I contemplated ringing him back then dropped the idea. He’d just try to make me explain something I couldn’t.
‘Same again tomorrow?’ asked Cass.
‘Tomorrow I need to concentrate on Team Chesley. They use their own caterer, so they won’t come by the van.’
‘I can ask T-Dog.’
‘Yeah, do that. And I’ll talk to Sharee again. We’ll need to finish on time though. I have to get to the Aprilia office in Fremantle before 4 pm, see what I can find out about Clem’s and Dave’s backgrounds. Then I’ve got some other things to do.’
It was kinda weird having to share my schedule with a sixteen-year-old.
Cass looked a bit down in the mouth.
‘I’m going to a friend’s to get some self-defence lessons. Why don’t you come along?’
Her face sparked up. ‘Cool.’
We arrived at Hoshi Hara’s a little after seven thirty. I’d lent Cass some exercise gear, but my spare sneakers were way too big so she’d settled for bare feet.
After the introductions, Hoshi took us to the sleep-out, which he’d decked out with rubber mats and a boxing bag.
‘You stand there.’ He positioned us opposite him.
‘Now watch. I teach from gendai budo. Today, judo kata.’
He proceeded to demonstrate a range of quick movements like a strange dance.
Cass looked unimpressed.
‘Now you grab me, Missy. Grab me hard from behind like attacker,’ Hoshi told me.
He turned around and showed me his back, hobbling a few steps like a little old man. I did as asked, lunging forward to envelop him in a bear hug. The next thing I knew I was upside down and looking at his crotch.
He peered down at me. ‘Easy peasy Japanesy.’
Cass burst out laughing.
The evening progressed from there. I learned two important things before we headed home: how to break a grip, and to never let a fourth-dan judo black belt use you as his throwing partner.
Cass led the way out to the car and I limped after her.
‘I look through that list you sent, Missy,’ Mr Hara told me before we got in. ‘Nothing for girl Louise. For girl Kate, though, one name I know.’
‘Oh? Who?’
‘Fat Frog.’
‘Fat Frog?’
‘Yeah. He gimme nightclub job you do tomorrow night.’
‘He’s the owner of the club? And his name’s really Fat Frog?’
‘Yeah, yeah,’ said Hoshi. ‘Funny coincidence.’
Gibbs on NCIS didn’t believe in coincidences and neither did I. ‘Do you have the list?’
He disappeared inside for a moment and then returned with a sheet of paper.
I read the name he pointed to. ‘Vatroque.’
‘Hai. That’s what I say.’
My phone woke me in the wee hours again, right in the middle of a dream where Hoshi was throwing me off the Freo bridge.
‘What?’
‘Tara, it’s Bolo Ignatius. I’d like to use your bodyguard.’
Adrenaline coursed into my sleepiness. ‘Problem?’
‘Someone tried to break into my house while I was asleep.’
‘Tried?’
‘My burglar alarm tripped.’ He sounded rattled.
I took a deep breath. ‘Give me your address and I’ll bring my guy over there right away.’
‘Thanks. Money isn’t a problem, you understand. But I don’t want the police involved.’
‘Got it.’
But I didn’t really. What possible reason did Bolo have for keeping the police out of the picture if his life was being threatened? I was starting to have some doubts about my client.
I tried Wal. No answer.
Dragging myself out of bed, I pulled on jeans and put a track top over my pyjama tee-shirt.
‘Tara?’ said Cass sleepily.
‘Won’t be long. Go back to sleep.’
Wal’s new place was only a few minutes away so I was banging on his door before my brain was properly awake. He opened up dressed in a pair of jocks and holding a pistol. Nothing about his manner suggested he’d been asleep.
‘You didn’t answer your phone,’ I said.
‘Turned it off when I was trying to get to sleep.’
‘Doesn’t look like it worked.’
‘Nah. Freakin’ medicine. Can’t get it right,’ he growled. ‘One minute I can’t stay awake, the next I can’t sleep.’
I glanced nervously at the gun. ‘Can you put that damn thing away?’
He shrugged and stepped
aside to let me in. ‘Wassup?’
Even in the dim light of his bedside lamp, I could see Liv’s finishing touches around the room: a bedspread, a new blind at the window.
‘Bolo just called me,’ I said. ‘He wants protection. Someone’s been at his house tonight. Can you stay with him for a few days?’
Wal pulled some clothes on – jeans, a tee-shirt and a pair of running sneakers without socks. Then he went to the narrow cupboard, unlocked it and lifted out a familiar kitbag. ‘How serious are the threats?’
‘Not sure,’ I said. ‘They might just be trying to scare him. But they might not.’
I showed him the picture Bolo had sent me of the man hanging from a noose. He nodded as if drawing a silent conclusion and removed a couple of objects from the bag.
I glanced away. Best not to know too much about Wal’s weapons’ stash. I assumed he had a gun licence but I didn’t know for sure. As for his knives . . .
Satisfied that he had what he needed, he locked up, zipped the bag and walked to the door. ‘Let’s ride.’
I stopped outside Bolo’s place – a mansion a couple of streets away from Millionaires Row, and also uncomfortably close to Johnny Viaspa’s house. We walked up to the elaborate front door and knocked. Bolo peered out of a nearby window then I heard the beep as he cancelled the alarm and opened the door.
I did the intros and reassured my client that he was in good hands. And he was now that Wal couldn’t go to sleep.
The two men shook hands and went back inside together. I heard another set of beeps as Bolo reset the alarm.
On my way home, I did a spur-of-the-moment dogleg so I could drive past Viaspa’s house on Coke Road. I’d been keeping my distance from this area lately, having no desire to run into Viaspa, and even less desire for the cops to see me in the vicinity of his house. Fiona Bligh and Bill Barnes were decent, fair-minded cops, but Cravich and Blake – the pair who’d wanted to stripsearch me on one particular occasion – were looking for any excuse to cause me grief. But at 3 am, with no one on the roads, one little peek wouldn’t hurt.
I slowed down as I passed Viaspa’s wrought-iron gates. The ambient street light and my speed afforded me only a quick glimpse down the long driveway to his house, but I managed to identify two of the three cars parked there. One was the jumped-up limo Viaspa liked to be driven around the city in; the other one, tucked down the side, looked identical to the sedan that had been tailing me.
All sense of caution flew out the window into the night. Taking a right-hand turn at the next intersecting street, I parked around the corner and slipped my self-defence spray into my pocket. I couldn’t afford pepper spray so I was making do with good old-fashioned olive oil. It only stung a little but it made everything damn hard to see.
Walking back down the road towards Viaspa’s house, I realised I probably looked like I’d just escaped from an institution: bare feet, pyjamas barely disguised by crumpled jeans, and a track top with a hole in one elbow. I pulled the hood around my face and hugged the shadows.
One pass of the front gate revealed a blinking security system and a wall that was over three metres high. Luckily there was a side gate in line with the sedan. I’d have to trespass onto next-door’s property to peek through it. From what I could see, the neighbour didn’t have garden alarms. I didn’t give myself more than a second to think about whether it was a good idea or not before I was over the neighbour’s low front fence and feeling my way along their side wall.
Oww. Something spiky jabbed my butt through my jeans. Cactus. I moved back to avoid it and stepped into another plant. Jeesus, what was this? The Arizona desert?
I flashed my phone light and realised the whole garden was devoted to spiky succulents and tacky garden ornaments – namely gnomes and fat toads. Money clearly did not buy taste.
Using my phone to guide me, I practised my best minefield walk, but by the time I reached the gate in the wall, I was scratched all over. To make matters worse, though the gate was wrought iron, this side of it was patched over with timber. Johnny Viaspa’s neighbours clearly didn’t like having a view into his yard.
Flashing my phone light around to try to find an easier path back, I noticed a large empty plastic water container lying on its side next to the house’s air-conditioning unit. If I stood on it, I might be able to see over the wall to check the sedan’s licence plate. I had to know if it was the same car that had been following me. If it was, I’d call Fiona Bligh. I still had her mobile number from the last time a crazy was stalking me.
Getting the container over near the wall quietly was one thing, getting up on it was another. On its side, it was too uneven to balance on; on its end, it was too tall for me to climb up. I circled around a cactus and picked up one of the toads. It was damn heavy, but just big enough to get me up onto the container. Once there, I was able to touch the top of the brick wall but not see over it.
So close.
I wiggled a bit. The container seemed steady enough so I jumped, managing to get my torso over the edge of the wall. I balanced there for a second before I heard a soft clunk. Crap! That couldn’t be good. The container had fallen over when I kicked off it.
I managed to get my knee up, and levered myself around until I was lying along the top of the wall like a lizard on a rock. In the soft driveway light I could just make out the licence plate: UBE 610. I committed it to memory and squinted harder.
Now what?
I surveyed my options. Jumping down into the neighbour’s garden meant a high probability of landing in a cactus or on a gnome. That left jumping down on Johnny Viaspa’s side. The voice of reason agreed that was not a smart idea.
Instead, I began crawling along the top of the wall towards the front gate. The wall was only half as wide as me, so each forward movement was a feat of balance.
When I was only a metre from the main gate, Viaspa’s front door opened and light flooded a large section of the yard. I flattened myself along the wall and tried to make like a statue.
Johnny Viaspa stood silhouetted against the light, hair untied and loose around his shoulders. An overweight retriever sniffed around his feet.
I could smell his sulphurous aura even from across the yard and it brought back memories of his viciousness that got me shivering. I held my breath, praying he didn’t come outside. Thankfully, he shoved the retriever out with his foot, and shut the door again.
This action also had its pros and cons. On the positive side, I got a better look at the car, the numberplate and the Hertz rental sticker on the front window. On the down side, the dog was now sniffing along the bottom of the wall, looking for a good spot to do its business.
I waited until it started to dig, then wriggled the last section along the wall, trying to ignore the brick-burn on my stomach.
The dog looked up and growled.
I swiped for the iron upright, overstretched and missed it. The momentum caught me and I started to fall. A last desperate lunge brought me in contact with the gate. The next sensation should have been the smack of my face meeting the pavement but a rough jerk brought me up short. My tee-shirt had hooked on the crown-tip of one of the iron poles.
I was hanging from the gate, staring out to the street.
Thank God it was 3.30 am.
The dog growled again and began tugging at the back of my jeans. It could smell the muesli bar I had crumpled in my back pocket. I prised it out and threw it to the dog. Then I swung my feet forward and fumbled in my front pocket for my phone to speed dial Bok. It went to message bank.
I couldn’t ring Ed – not after the Wal sleep-tackling episode.
Smitty couldn’t shift my weight.
Wal might be able to help out, but he was protecting Bolo, and I didn’t want my most lucrative client yet seeing me in this situation.
That left only one alternative – Tozzi.
He answered in a few rings with only a slight croak in his throat. ‘Tar-ah?’
‘Nick,’ I whispered. ‘I’ve
got a problem.’
Chapter 17
‘WHAT’S GOING ON?’ Tozzi said.
‘I’m stuck on the front gate at Viaspa’s place.’
‘Stuck?’
‘Hanging. I fell off the wall and the iron post has hooked up my pyjamas.’
‘Your pyjamas? What the –’ ‘Please. Come and help me off before someone sees me. The dog’s been let out to pee.’
If it hadn’t been Johnny Viaspa’s place, Tozzi might have laughed at me, possibly even told me it served me right. ‘I’ll be there as soon as I can. Do you have any protection?’
‘Only my olive oil spray,’ I whispered.
‘What are you planning to do with that? Cook them?’ His voice was muffled.
‘I couldn’t afford pepper spray,’ I snapped. ‘Olive oil in the eye makes everything blurry.’
‘Listen. If they find you, start screaming. Better the neighbours hear and come out to see than you ending up at the bottom of the Swan in concrete boots.’
‘Please hurry.’
He hung up.
The dog growled again and gave a short bark. It was up on its front paws, dangerously close to my butt, like it was building up to bite right through my butt cheek. I wiggled one way and then the other, trying to get out of reach. But that got it antsy and it gave a loud yip.
‘Shhhh, doggy,’ I said.
The only other consumable thing around – other than me – was the olive oil.
Keeping my legs out of reach, I unscrewed the nozzle and reached behind me to drip some out. The yip stopped in favour of a snuffle and some noisy licking at my ankles.
I kept the drip, drip going until a pair of headlights turned onto the street and drove past.
Please let it be Nick. Please let it be Nick.
Finally, I caught a break. Tozzi parked the Lambo out of sight of the gate and came back for me. He tossed something over the fence.
‘What’s that?’ I asked.
‘Dog biscuits.’
In a matter of a few seconds, he’d lifted me bodily off the two-and-a-half metre high pole. Not many men could do that. I weigh eighty kilos for a start. But Tozzi’s a two-metre giant who once played in the NBA.
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