Cross Off (17 page)

Reuben swerved to avoid the cab. He was driving badly; his hands were damp, slipping on the wheel.

'Want me to drive?' Frost asked.

'No. I'll be all right. You ran up a hell of a phone bill today, George. Not that I'm complaining.'

Frost had spent the day making enquiries among criminal contacts, trying to garner information on the hit man. What he'd learned hadn't helped much—ex-army, which wasn't a surprise; 'a clever bastard', ditto. He had also summoned an accountant of his acquaintance to check over Reuben's financial and organisational proposal. The accountant had reassured Frost that he was on the way to being a man of property.

The BMW turned left opposite the White City tennis courts. Frost stared out at the park and water thinking that it was a nice neighbourhood—handy to everything and something to look at of an evening with a drink in your hand. He might consider getting a place for himself around here when he came into his money. The moored boats rocked gently on the water and small gusts of wind blew leaves along the paths through the park. Reuben began to relax. The familiar sights soothed him. His mind began to work on the question of a companion for the evening. He used several escort services, preferring commercial variety to personal commitment.

'I'll see you home,' Frost said, 'then I'll go and collect the guns and look up a couple of people who could be useful.'

Reuben nodded. He made the last turn and pulled into the apartment block's parking area. 'You can use this if you want,' he said, tapping the dashboard. 'As long as you're careful.'

Frost had assumed it. He got out and glanced around the parked cars—two Volvos, another BMW, couple of Mercs—no trouble here. 'What's the safety set-up?'

Reuben was juggling his briefcase and trying to detach the car keys from a ring. 'We've got a security door in the front. Two locks on my door. I'm one floor up.'

'Good.'

Tate saw the BMW pull into Reuben's space and the two men leave the car. He knew Frost by face and reputation. A hard man. A man to respect. Pity. He carried the empty beer bottle back to the bar and wiped it carefully with a paper towel, which he crumpled and put in his pocket. Then he moved into the kitchen and flattened himself against the wall. This position put him less than two metres from the door to the flat. Two or three steps and anyone entering was visible. He took out the .22 and checked that the action was smooth and the silencer properly attached.

Like an experienced golfer, Tate imagined the shot. Frost was almost a head taller, so it didn't matter whether he presented on the near side or not. He went first. Then the door had to be shut. That was important. And then he had to get between Reuben and the balcony. That's all there was to it. Tate rehearsed the moves as he waited.

Reuben was still trying to get the keys from the ring. He'd broken a fingernail and was swearing. 'Haven't had the fucking thing off since I got the car.'

Frost sniffed and hoped he wasn't getting a cold. You could pick up anything in a prison hospital. Reuben got the keys free, handed them to him and then opened the two door locks. Solid sounding locks. He jiggled the car keys in his hand as he walked in.

Tate shot Frost twice through the side of the head a few centimetres above the ear. The big man collapsed and Tate heard something metallic hit the carpet. He stepped behind Reuben and made sure the door was firmly closed. Reuben froze, his jaw gaping. The pistol had made almost no noise but the ejected shells pinged as they hit the ceiling. Reuben's brain was racing, trying to make sense of the strange sounds and the dreadful patterns on his retinas.

'Hello, Reuben.' A quick glance showed Tate what Frost had dropped—car keys. He showed the lawyer the gun and used it like a mesmerising wand to stir him into movement. Reuben stumbled forward into the living room. Tate shoved him down into a chair. Reuben was still holding his briefcase.

'Jesus, don't!' Reuben let go the bag and raised his arms up to cover his face.

Tate stepped forward and kicked Reuben's left knee. The lawyer yelped and lowered his arms.

'One question,' Tate said. 'Do you know where the Belfante woman is?'

A tiny flicker of hope entered Reuben's panicked mind. But his mouth was dry. He couldn't speak. He shook his head.

'Pity,' Tate said.

More hope. Reuben sucked in air, forced his
tongue to move in the dry cavity. 'You don't have to do that now,' he croaked. 'Look, I'm sorry. I was confused.'

Tate held the pistol steady, said nothing.

Saliva flooded Reuben's mouth, too much saliva; he gulped, swallowed, gasped for air. Tate's unblinking stare unmanned him. His bladder emptied involuntarily. The warm liquid drenched his trousers and the upholstered chair. Reuben wept as Tate raised the pistol.

'No, no, don't. I'll pay anything,' he sobbed. 'You don't have to do this. It was a mistake.'

'That's right,' Tate said. He extended his arm. Reuben's head was bowed. Tate shot him three times at the base of the skull.

19

W
hat Ava told him threw Dunlop into deep depression. Lung cancer had killed his quiet, chain-smoking electrician father very quickly. He was forty-six years of age and within five weeks of wiring up his last house he was dead. His mother was still alive but had never really recovered her former cheerfulness. Ava herself seemed remarkably cheerful. Over the next two hours, she drank several stiff gins and tonic and lit her cigarettes with a flourish. Dunlop finished the champagne, switched to gin and got mildly drunk.

'C'mon, Luke,' Ava said, 'cheer up. I'm going to enjoy every day, and I'll do whatever you like to get that bastard. D'you reckon he had anything to do with Vance's death?'

Dunlop was glad of something to focus his despondent mind on. 'Dunno. Maybe. Do you remember when he was shooting? Back up there?'

Ava waved her cigarette. 'Not really. I was pretty well out to it. Kind of coughing noise, eh?'

Dunlop nodded. 'Silenced, low-calibre weapon. Nobody heard anything in Centennial Park, I gather. There were a few people about—joggers and so on.
Three shots, no noise. They found a shell. All very similar, but any professional killer'd do much the same.'

'Can't they match up those things, bits of bullets? Maybe he left one up in Cooktown.'

'Not really,' Dunlop said. 'You could tell if it was the same kind of ammo, but a real pro uses different sorts. And the firing-pin marks change every couple of shots.'

Ava played a cassette of Louis Armstrong and Ella Fitzgerald duets. Dunlop liked the music but refused to dance. He mixed two more drinks.

Ava mocked him. 'Like I once said, you're no fun.'

'Sorry. You've got a ton of guts, Ava.'

'Bullshit. I've had a good innings. Had a lot more out of life than I expected to. There's one thing I regret, though.'

'Can I do anything about it?'

'Nope. I wish I'd seen the old house at Cooktown.'

'Maybe you still can.'

'Doubt it, love.
Dum dee dum, dee dum . . . Stars fell on Alabama . . .
' Ava slid away in a slow, hip-swaying dance. Dunlop levered himself out of his chair and joined her. Katarina had been a good dancer and he'd learned the rudiments, enjoyed it on the increasingly rare happy nights out.

They were close together, moving slowly, Ava's head on Dunlop's shoulder, when Ann and Roy returned.

They were laughing and holding hands as they came through the door. Ann's denim jacket was white; she wore blue jeans, boots and a black felt hat. Roy had on a short, tight, black leather skirt, a black and white polka dot blouse under a leather jacket,
high heels. He wore a red wig and was the Ava of former times; the make-up accentuated his mouth and eyes, diminished the jaw line.

'Well,' Roy said.

Ann dropped her bag on the sofa and kicked off her shoes. 'New plan?'

Dunlop knew that he was fuddled by sex, wine, gin, tobacco smoke and music. He moved with slow deliberation to stab a button on the sound system that killed the music. 'No,' he said, looking at Roy who was scratching at his crotch under the skirt. 'Any result?'

Roy shook his head and went on scratching. 'Nylon itch,' he said. 'Terrible thing for us girls.'

There was a soft tap on the door that led to the other house. The door opened halfway and a man's head appeared. His eyes went wide at the sight of Roy and Ava, so alike and yet different. 'Something. Maybe,' he said.

Tate collected the five metal casings and put them in his pocket. Having seen so many dead people he was incurious about the corpses of Reuben and Frost. He was momentarily tempted by the car keys lying on the carpet just outside a pool of Frost's blood. An almost new BMW was worth a hell of a lot of money on the hot car market and Tate knew some of the sharpest practitioners. But he rejected the idea almost as soon as it formed—no physical connections to a hit, that was the rule. He glanced around to make sure there were no surfaces or objects touched and not wiped. Satisfied, he took the paper towel from his pocket and used it to turn the door
handle. He saw no-one on the stairs or outside the building. He walked calmly to his car parked in New Beach Road and drove away.

Back in Randwick, Tate did a blood test, injected insulin and prepared and ate his evening meal. He made a pot of coffee and sat over it doing sums. According to his calculations, he now had enough money to buy a property of the kind he wanted in the presently depressed market, and capital for improvements and living expenses for a time. He looked around the nondescript flat with its well-used furniture. He could pack everything he owned, clothes, sporting equipment, personal papers, into the Subaru, drive to Victoria and get the Bass Strait ferry. Two things to do first—collect the cash from the safety deposit box and eliminate Mrs Ava Belfante and Dunlop.

He roamed the small flat restlessly. He felt uncharacteristically indecisive. He was anxious to be off to Tasmania, to get out of the polluted city and into clean air where you could feel earth and grass under your feet. He wanted to hunt deer in the hills, to feel the recoil of the rifle against his shoulder and the excitement of the kill. He lay on his bed and attempted to examine his conflicting feelings. Tate believed in learning from experience. He searched back through his life for similar emotions and impulses, looking for guides to action.

'I've had this fuckin' feeling before,' he said aloud. 'When the hell was it?'

Not in 'Nam—that had been all wet jungle and ball-freezing terror. Not in Africa—blazing sun, lazy black bastards and lousy beer. Then he remembered. It had been after his release from prison. He'd
lain on a sagging cot in a stinking bed and breakfast place in Camden Town and the certainty had crept over him that he'd run out of luck in the northern hemisphere. That disaster awaited him if he attempted to exercise his skills here again. It was the same feeling. Something, some instinct, a sixth sense, was telling him to quit now, to forget about the woman and Dunlop. To just go.

Waiting made no sense. It could take weeks to find the woman. And for what? There was no money in it for one thing. And she'd been terrified. Probably couldn't identify him, and Dunlop might not have seen him at all. Waiting was dangerous. Tate left the bedroom. He needed a drink to help him sort this out. He found a bottle of red wine in a cupboard, opened it and poured out a large glass. The feeling of danger became stronger as he drank. He'd killed three men in the last twenty-four hours and none of them, strictly speaking, were professional jobs. Things were getting out of control. Forget about the bloody woman!

Then the memory of Ava's body flooded his mind. He could see the large, soft breasts and feel the smoothness of her thighs, recall the power he felt when he took her. He was stiffening, feeling an urgent desire. It was the first sexual arousal he'd had since the rape and its aftermath and it was powerful, not to be resisted. He needed a fuck. And then he could go to Tasmania. Tomorrow or the day after. Just visit the bank and hand in the flat key and go. He felt as close to happiness as he ever got. He finished the wine, checked his wallet for cash and headed for his car.

Tate thought he would probably end up in one of
the high class inner-city brothels, but he decided to cruise William Street first. Sometimes there were Asian or black women there that took his fancy, or very young ones. He drove down Oxford Street towards Taylor Square. The traffic was light and he was feeling aggressive and confident, well over the hump of the earlier indecision. He was passing the Academy Twin cinema when he saw two women emerge from the pub on the other side of the road. Tate experienced an almost physical shock. It was
her
. He caught only a flash of her face—wide mouth, bold eyes, the to-hell-with-you look and the sweeping red mane of hair, but it was enough.

He slowed and stopped at a light he would usually have speeded up to get through. A car behind him braked suddenly. The women sauntered down the footpath and crossed in front of him. He was dead certain—she had the look and the walk. He was alarmed to find that there was something familiar about the younger woman as well. Not the hair under the black hat, not the clothes, but something. They were walking back up Oxford Street. Tate turned left and left again. The blocked-off streets frustrated him. He pulled in to the kerb and jumped from the car. He jogged quickly, turned again and there they were, walking close together, laughing, like a couple of dykes.

A grey Datsun was making the turn into the street behind them, turning slowly, going nowhere. Tate walked along in the shadows, keeping the women and the car in sight. A lookout vehicle for sure. He crossed the road behind it, glanced up and saw the white jacket and the black hat and the leather suit and the red hair enter a narrow brick-paved street
closed to cars. The Datsun went past. Automatically, Tate committed its registration number to memory. Then he spun on his heel and walked fast. His heart was pounding and he could feel his sugar level dropping under the stress. He could have caught up by running but he didn't dare. He reached the paved street in time to see a beam of light and hear a surge of music cut off as a door was sharply closed.