Lethal in Love

by Michelle Somers

  Fragrant aromas filled her nostrils, closely followed by the gurgle of coffee ready for pouring.

  Warring against the shake in her hands, she poured coffee over warm milk, added sugar, then withdrew to the living room, sinking into the couch, legs curled beneath her. Taking a deep, fortifying sip of hot heaven, liquid-form, she tilted her head back and closed her eyes.

  She ought to call her father. He should know she’d been cornered and questioned by Symonds. And more importantly, she had questions requiring his explanation.

  What was this investigation really about? And why did the OPI believe she had the answers?

  She shifted her legs, stretched against the spread of pins and needles, her palms embracing the heat of her mug as she sipped.

  Of the many rules governing an undercover cop, one was indisputable—no discussing the case outside the Department, immediate family included. Her father had been a stickler for the rules, especially those ensuring the safety of his girls. Which was why the accusations made no sense, and why she wondered what was really behind Symonds’ carefully worded questions.

  The Highbury Case. Named after a suburb in Melbourne’s northwest, rather than the brothers who’d sparked it. Josef and Johan Syvertsen had gained their citizenship one year before they opened a restaurant and bar in the little pocket suburb of Highbury. Nothing in the move seemed untoward, and not once did they make a showing on the police radar, until known underworld figures in and about the area began mysteriously disappearing.

  When police investigated, nothing rang bells. The brothers were clean. So her father was sent in to discover what the uniforms couldn’t. And he hit pay-dirt. But it took him a year out of their lives and—as she’d just discovered—a year in the life of a live-in mistress while working as bar manager at the Copper Cabana.

  Undercover was one thing, but unfaithful? Her chest tightened and she fought to swallow the disbelief clogging her throat. The Highbury saga may have begun three years ago, but was this the reason for her parents’ split? So many questions, and she doubted her father would have anything but roundabout answers for any of them. Still, she had to ask.

  She downed the rest of her drink and dropped the mug onto the table beside her armrest. Her fingers rubbed at her temples, but nothing stopped the heavy pounding inside her skull.

  It was a call that could wait until morning. The one to her mother couldn’t. More than ever, she needed her hot chocolate brand of comfort. Some soothing words to calm her spiralling disquiet.

  Dialling snagged her nothing but the chirpy sound of her mother’s voice asking her to leave a message. She hung up before the beep. No point leaving another when there were already a string clogging her voicemail, unanswered.

  She closed her eyes, blocked out the world and everything threatening to bury her whole.

  Before she faced reality, her father, the boxes of casefiles in her study, she needed something to ease the kinks from her body.

  She pushed off the couch, headed towards her en suite bathroom—with a detour to the fridge for a bottle of Moscato—and turned on first the cold then the hot tap in the bath.

  On impulse, she nabbed the up-till-now ornamental bottle of jasmine and ylang ylang oil and poured more than half the contents under the hot water stream. Then, dropping her clothes, she took a large swig of wine while waiting for the tub to fill.

  Her mobile said it was eleven. Half an hour since Seth had left. And she couldn’t stop thinking about what he was doing right now.

  Were they still sharing that drink, or had they elected to skip aperitifs in favour of another kind of sustenance?

  She stepped into the bath and sank into the heat, the slide of oil and water over her skin making her shiver and sweat all at once. The wine—on top of the numerous glasses of Italian red she’d consumed at dinner—was on a collision course with her head. Rational thought was a thing of the past, and she liked the feeling. Didn’t want to think or feel or do anything right now but immerse herself in the moment.

  She slid deeper still beneath the water, the roll of liquid over her body like the glide of skin over skin. She closed her eyes, savoured the sensation. Pictured a man with jet-black hair and steely eyes suspended above her. His lips fluttered across hers while one hand pierced the water, gliding slowly along the underside of her breast, over her ribs, across her tummy, down further still to the throbbing flesh, wet and wanting, between her thighs.

  Her breath hitched, lips parted, trembling, waiting for Seth to—

  Her eyes shot open. They should never have closed. Not when he was all she could imagine.

  Damn the man for making her think about him, fantasise over him, want him. While even now he was likely in the throes of what they’d started in Carmello’s rooftop garden. With someone else.

  She jerked upright and water sloshed over the edge of the tub. She had to know. Didn’t know why, didn’t want to know why. She just needed to . . . know.

  She placed her glass on the ledge behind her back. Then, shaking the water from her hand, she reached for her phone.

  ‘I never took you for a teetotaller, Seth.’

  Richie’s burnt copper brows arched at the tall glass on the table containing Seth’s bitter lemon and soda. He raised his tumbler and knocked back a greater portion of his double gin and tonic.

  ‘I’ve had my fill tonight.’

  ‘And not just of drinks, it seems.’

  ‘I’m not going there, man. Jayda’s off limits.’

  ‘To you.’ He chuckled. ‘Nice to see even the best of us mere mortals get a bit of the no-go, once in a while.’

  ‘Glad to provide some light entertainment.’ The muscles in his gut tightened. The fact that Richie had guessed Jayda tied him in knots was almost as vexing as Jayda tying him in knots without even trying.

  He discarded the straw and sipped from his glass. ‘Now you’ve lured me here with smoke and mirrors, what’s the big news that couldn’t wait?’

  ‘Luke Reynolds is retiring in three months.’

  His mind skyrocketed in one hundred directions at once. A reporting position up for grabs at the Melbourne Telegraph.

  ‘Any idea who’s replacing him?’

  ‘You, if you get your ass moving with this story.’

  Seth positioned his drink over the water ring on the table, thumb rubbing at the condensation on the glass. ‘We still have no idea who the killer is.’

  ‘So you’ve got nothing else to go with?’

  He couldn’t help it, his mind automatically jumped to Dean; the battle-room state of his study; the OPI investigation.

  Richie’s face split into a grin. ‘There is something!’

  ‘No.’

  ‘You’re holding back, man. Why?’

  He looked up then. ‘It’s nothing.’

  Richie tilted his almost empty glass Seth’s way. ‘Ever since we met, you’ve wanted out of features and into reporting. Here’s your chance.’

  ‘How long have I got?’

  ‘You have an appointment with Carson Monday week. If what you’ve uncovered doesn’t equate to ground-breaking, our esteemed editor will look elsewhere.’

  ‘So there’s time.’

  ‘It’s her, isn’t it?’

  ‘Jayda?’

  ‘The fact you know who I mean has me convinced I’m right. She’s a source, Seth. Anything more and she’ll hold you back.’

  ‘Says the man who gave up a career in screenwriting for a woman.’

  ‘Who left me for another man.’ Stroking the tip of his beard, he narrowed his gaze. ‘Trust me, they’re not worth it. I’m talking from knowledge, the shitty firsthand kind.’

  ‘This conversation’s moot, because there’s nothing between us.’

  ‘Not for want of trying.’

  The deep gravel of the Godfather’s voice vibrated off the table. Seth sucked in a breath at the caller ID. ‘I have to take this.’

  Avoiding the knowing shake of his friend’s head, he dodged nearby
tables, accepting the call as he stepped through the exit, leaving the noise and bar behind.

  ‘Jayda.’ His greeting met with empty silence. His heart stalled. ‘Jayda, are you okay?’ He heard a gulp—swallowing a drink?—then a swish of water as if she were—

  ‘Jayda, are you having a bath?’ The rasp hit the back of his throat.

  Involuntary images of her naked body almost completely submerged in bubbles blasted into his brain. His mind said he was still pissed at her, his body had other ideas.

  ‘How’s your date?’ Her words jarred.

  He couldn’t help but grin. ‘Jealous, are we?’

  She spluttered, and another splash saw his imagination leap into overdrive.

  ‘In your dreams!’

  ‘Then why the call?’ Again his question met with silence. ‘Perhaps you want me to come over and sponge your back?’

  Her sharp intake of breath said that was exactly what she wanted. Every manly bone in his body screamed to desert his friend and go to her before she had the chance to change her mind. Only, wasn’t that exactly what he suspected would happen?

  ‘Just checking you’re keeping your promise and details of the case to yourself.’

  Even her rationalisation rang of stonewalling. He could hear it in her voice. Read it between every clipped, cursed word that left her lips.

  He gripped the phone to his ear and turned towards the doorway and where Richie waited for him inside. He closed his eyes, cursing himself for every kind of a fool.

  Jealousy and alcohol would not be the precursor bringing them together. He’d never taken advantage of a woman, wasn’t about to start now. She’d be lucid and willing when they at last tumbled into his bed together. Not if. When. She wanted him. It was just a matter of time until she fessed up and gave in.

  ‘See you tomorrow morning at nine.’ He swallowed, as he tried not to think about what he’d given up. ‘Enjoy your bath.’

  Then, before he could change his mind and beg her to wait, he disconnected the call and headed back into the bar.

  26

  The noose was tightening around the bitch’s pasty, stubborn neck.

  His fingers flew over the keyboard, clipping yet another inch from a rope that would see her last breath squeezed from her lungs. It was just the beginning. In time he would steal everything she valued, just as she’d done to him.

  He couldn’t help but grin as the beep indicated he’d breached the bank’s security. Pathetic, really. Their firewalls and encryption were no match for a master.

  The account he sought appeared on the screen almost instantaneously. Its security settings were child’s play to alter. No need for verification messages or a daily withdrawal limit.

  He flexed his fingers. And for his last trick . . . a disappearing act of mega proportions. With the tap of a key, the account balance plummeted, and lost dogs in Melbourne suddenly became all the richer.

  Irony at its finest.

  It took less than a minute to cover his tracks. Then he logged out and swivelled in his chair to face the window.

  Darkness embraced the near deserted street below. Too quiet. Too calm. Perhaps a timely reminder? One to demonstrate the futility of her efforts to conquer him.

  Fire burned up his oesophagus and into his throat. He pushed up from the chair and headed for the kitchen. Knocking back a mouthful of water, and the tablets that doctors stated would only give him time, he squinted, staring at his legacy, his one incentive to keep going. That and the knowledge that everyone who’d played a part in his demise would be gone before him.

  He dumped his glass in the sink, grabbed his jacket and keys. Time for an evening stroll.

  His pulse quickened as he made for the door.

  27

  Early morning sun glimmered through slatted blinds as Jayda pushed through the heavy laboratory door. She squinted, wishing she’d brought her sunnies. All the while her head spun and her stomach churned, a reminder that she and too much alcohol never mixed well.

  At first the room appeared deserted, the hour too early for most in Victoria’s Forensic Services Department. But as the door swished shut behind her, she spotted an exception to the rule.

  Nodding her thanks to the officer beside her, she approached the overloaded but orderly desk.

  Her heart hadn’t stopped thundering since she’d received Will Andrews’ call at seven-thirty that morning. He wanted her to pop by. His office was an hour’s drive from her apartment—not a mere ‘pop by’ scenario. The request meant he’d found something.

  It just had to.

  ‘Will?’

  His head jerked up from a large microscope, revealing bushy grey brows and a face that suggested experience, mainly of the good variety. It was a face she remembered well from her childhood—frequent family dinners with friends, and Police Department barbeques.

  ‘Ah, Jayda.’ His expression melted into a web of wrinkles that made her think of Santa. A tall, slim, clean-shaven version.

  ‘Sorry to interrupt.’

  ‘No problem. Looking down a microscope is like entering another universe. It’s easy to get lost and forget everything, including Margaret and an overcooked pot roast waiting at home.’

  She couldn’t help but smile. ‘Sounds familiar.’

  He turned in his chair, his expression measured and circumspect. ‘How’s your dad?’

  The curve in her lips stiffened. Old-school loyalty was the only reason she was here. The only reason she’d been permitted to burden a workload already full to overflowing—a given in the FSD. And while she was willing to take what being her father’s daughter afforded her, she wasn’t willing to go anywhere near how her father really was—considering the new-to-light facts she still hadn’t confronted him with.

  ‘As good as can be expected.’

  ‘I’m sorry about Bec.’

  That familiar moisture warred against her lids. ‘Me too.’ She blinked. ‘I don’t want to take up too much of your time. Did something come up in the DNA analysis?’

  His entire face crinkled into what could only be described as a beam. ‘More than something.’ His chin lifted, his expression lighting up like an athlete who knows he’s won gold. ‘We got a match.’

  ‘His name is Roan Madden.’

  Jayda wavered between bear-hugging Will and turning cartwheels over the highly polished linoleum floor.

  Gotcha!

  Nut-brown eyes considered her from over tented fingers. ‘Heard of him?’

  ‘Should I have?’

  Will left his chair and crossed the lab before disappearing into a kitchenette. She followed, heart hammering against her ribs. Not in a good way.

  He scrubbed his hands, grabbed two cups from the dishwasher and placed them on the bench next to the sink. ‘Coffee?’

  She bit her lip and shook her head.

  ‘Tea, then?’

  ‘Uh, no thanks.’

  His arms crossed over the starched white of his lab coat as he rested back against the bench. ‘After your dad’s call, I pulled the cold-case evidence from storage. As you know, Doris Tombes was the Night Terror’s first victim. There was a bloodstain on the right sleeve of her sweater. Doris must have fought back, and scratched or cut her attacker.’

  ‘Roan Madden.’

  He nodded. ‘Seems so.’

  ‘So, who is Roan Madden?’

  ‘A man convicted of murdering his wife just over twenty-five years ago.’ At last. Something that made sense.

  ‘He has a history of violence.’ She could barely breathe for the excitement. ‘I wonder if his wife had blonde hair and blue eyes.’

  Will turned back to the bench and poured himself a water. ‘She had brown hair dyed red.’

  ‘Oh.’

  Where up until now Will had been an open book, suddenly the pages slammed shut. The line of his shoulders appeared awkward and he seemed determined to avoid any and all eye contact.

  ‘Did anything else show up?’

  ‘His wife’s
dissimilarity to the vic profile is probably why the police never linked Madden with the earlier Night Terror killings. That, and the fact they had no evidence.’

  It was as though she hadn’t uttered her last question; as though he hadn’t heard.

  ‘I’ll work through the remaining evidence, but there’s no doubt we have a very likely suspect for those cold-case murders.’

  Thoughts swirled and ideas formed, an endless stream, one trailing the other. Her mind was running so fast, it was impossible to keep up.

  ‘It fits! He stopped killing when he was caught and convicted, and started murdering again once he was released.’

  She grinned. Why wasn’t Will grinning back? ‘This is great. Better than great. Does Hackett know? Have they located Madden?’

  ‘I sent my full report to Hackett last night.’

  The mobile in her jeans pocket began to ring. She ignored it, watching her father’s old friend sip then lower his drink before uttering words that made no sense.

  ‘There’s no way Roan Madden committed any of the recent murders. Not while he’s still serving a life sentence in prison.’

  Seth pressed redial, cursing every deity known and a few more untested ones just for good measure.

  Five past nine and Jayda wasn’t answering her door or her mobile.

  He dumped the takeaway coffee holder onto her doorstep as the call clicked over to voicemail once again.

  Damn her!

  He scrubbed the back of his neck, any residual humour long gone.

  Sleep had been impossible after last night’s phone call. The moment his eyes closed, images of Jayda and bath bubbles had blasted his brain; her auburn tresses slicked back, her body submerged in hot, steamy water, only her head and the taut, raspberry tips of her nipples peeking through the foam.

  He groaned. As pissed as he was at her, she still had him hard and wanting. He scanned the hall and tugged impatiently at his fly, the pressure unbearable against a reaction that seemed inexhaustible since the moment they’d crossed paths.