Private Oz (3 page)

Three Years Ago.

IT WAS ONE of those perfect Sydney mornings. Pristine blue sky, not a cloud in sight, a crispness to the air that made you kid yourself everything was right with the world. Even the traffic was light for 7 am and I had the roof down on the old Porsche convertible I’d bought fifth-hand ten years before.

We were en route to the airport. Becky, my wife of nine years, our three-year-old son, Cal, and me. Becky looked amazing. She was wearing a diaphanous dress and a thick rope of fake pearls. She was tanned from the spring sunshine. When she moved her hands, the collection of bangles at her wrists jangled. She’d put on a bit of weight and looked better for it. We’d made love that morning while Cal was asleep and I could still visualize her.

I glanced round and saw her long auburn hair blown back by the warm breeze. She was excited about our trip to Bali. We all were … our first holiday in two years. I’d been working hard to build up my PI agency, Solutions Inc., and I was only now able to take a week off, splash some cash on a fancy resort.

I’d woken up that morning feeling more relaxed than I had
for years. I’d had nice dreams too. I was back on our wedding day. Nine years before. It was a bitter-sweet occasion. I’d bumped into Becky by chance one morning at Darling Harbour. The old spark was there, we were both single. It just happened. We were meant for each other. Within a year we were married.

Mark must’ve heard I was with Becky, but seeing as I hadn’t spoken to him since my second year in college, I had no idea what he’d thought about it. He would never forgive me for what happened at his party. I could hardly blame the guy. What did sting for a while was that only a few of my family turned up at the registry office in Darlinghurst. But hell, it was a long time ago and even that wasn’t going to ruin my mood.

Cal was strapped in the back, a suitcase next to him. On top of that was the brightly colored Kung Fu Panda carry-on bag he planned to wheel to the plane and put in the overhead locker. He’d not flown before, but I’d told him all about it the previous night in lieu of a bedtime story. Cal had the same auburn hair as his mother, the same eyes. In fact, there wasn’t much immediately obvious about his looks that confirmed he was mine. But he definitely had my temperament – patient and calm, but vicious when riled.

“So you looking forward to the trip, little man?” I called to Cal over the noise of the road and the wind and the powerful engine. “I know I am.”

He nodded. I saw him in the rear-view mirror, a big smile across his face, baby teeth gleaming.

“What you looking forward to most, Cal?”

He thought for a moment, forehead wrinkled. Then hollered: “Catching fish!”

I glanced over to Becky and we both laughed. I turned back and saw the pickup truck on the wrong side of the road coming straight for us. And I knew immediately that this was the end. I could feel Becky freeze beside me, watched as the ugly great vehicle covered the distance between us. With each vanishing yard, I felt my life … our lives together … drain away.

I DON’T REMEMBER the impact … no one ever does, do they? The horror began when I started to open my eyes. But at first, everything was blurred and I was stone deaf. I just saw colored shapes. Then my hearing came back … but I couldn’t make out a single human sound. Instead, a loud, shrill whine, the engine free-wheeling in neutral.

I felt a drip, drip, drip on my face.

My car had rolled and ended up driver’s side to the tarmac. I could see a shape close to, almost on top of me. Gradually my vision cleared enough to make it out. Becky’s face. Her dead eyes open, staring at me … droplets of her blood falling onto my cheek.

I tried to scream, but nothing came out. I couldn’t speak, just produced animal noises in my throat. Tried to pull away, horrified, I turned my head slowly. A pain shot down my spine. I could just see Cal in the back. He’d slumped to the side, body contorted.

I managed to twist in the seat and had the presence of mind to feel for Becky’s pulse. Then I saw the cut in her neck. She was almost decapitated.

I felt vomit rise up and I spewed down my front. I thought I’d choke and a part of me wished I would. I could visualize the new life if I were to survive. A life alone, my family gone …
just like that
.

I turned back to Cal, unbuckled my seat belt, gained enough leverage to slither into the rear of the car.

“Cal? Cal?” My voice broke. “Aggghhh!” I screamed again. Another stream of vomit welled up and out. I started to cry.

“Cal?” I pulled him up. His head lolled, blood trickling from the side of his mouth.

I thought I saw his eyelids flicker. “Cal?” I shouted again. I got his wrist, pulled it up, tried to find a pulse. His arm wet with blood. My fingers wet with blood. No pulse.

“CAL … CAL.” I shook him.

I reached for my cell, pulled it from my jacket but it fell to pieces in my hand.

There’s a gap in my memory after that. Next thing I knew I was clambering through the passenger window. The buckled window frame and remnants of glass were cutting me open, but I didn’t care. I landed on the road, guts churning, blood in my eyes diluted by tears flowing down my cheeks. I groaned … a primordial sound.

There was a revolting smell … petrol, rubber … I managed to get to my knees, leaned on the car and pulled myself into a hunched, twisted figure, feeling like an octogenarian suddenly. The front of the pickup truck stood ten feet away, hood crumpled, windshield smashed. I could see the top of the driver’s head above the steering wheel.

I shuffled over. From far off came the sound of sirens.

The door of the truck fell away as I yanked on the handle
and I just managed to step back before it landed at my feet. It was an old, screwed-up wagon. The driver hadn’t been wearing a belt. His face smashed in, spine snapped. A vertebrae protruded from his shirt back.

I leaned in, caught the smell of alcohol. Then I saw the can of beer on the floor of the passenger side. It lay in a puddle of foaming liquid.

The fury hit me in a way I’d never experienced before or since. It was pure, all-consuming. I grabbed the guy’s hair, yanked his head back. His features were just recognizable. He was maybe twenty-five, blond, little goatee.

I felt the vomit rise again, but this time I held it down, lifted my fist, smashed it into the dead driver’s face. I hit him again and again. “BASTARD!… AAGGGHH!..MOTHER-FUCKER!

I kept hitting and hitting, the dead man’s shattered head lolling around.

Then I felt a hand on my shoulder.

JUSTINE SMITH WALKED into the hotel room on the top floor of The Citadel overlooking Darling Harbour. It was fantastic. Luxurious room, shimmering evening sun. Sliding doors opened onto a walled deck, a jacuzzi sunk into the balcony.

She’d naively hoped the opening of the Sydney branch of Private would offer some welcome relief from the usual death and destruction back home in LA. Fat chance!

She kicked off her shoes and walked into the bedroom. It was cool, the air-con set just right, the bedding turned back, a chocolate placed on the pillow. The room smelled of orange essence.

Unbuttoning her blouse, she turned and caught her reflection in a wall of mirrors. Slipping off her skirt, bra and panties she stood naked considering her body.

“Not bad, baby,” she said. Did a half-turn to her left. She had a narrow waist, flat tummy, firm boobs. “Gotta be some benefits from eating nothing and having no bambini, I guess.” She did a pirouette and headed for the bathroom.

Then she changed her mind. Pulling on a robe, she went back in to the main room, slid open the doors and felt the crisp
heat. A refreshing breeze came in over the harbor. She strode to the chest-high wall, admired the view.

Two minutes later, Justine was naked and immersed in bubbles, a glass of Krug on the side of the jacuzzi. “God! This is the life!” she said aloud and rested her head against the soft cushioning behind her neck. With her eyes closed, she reached for the champagne flute, brought it over and let the bubbles explode inside her mouth.

Her cell rang.

She groaned, and a voice in her head said: “Ignore it”. But that wasn’t in her nature. She lifted herself from the jacuzzi, padded over to the phone, naked and dripping.

She saw the name on the screen – GRETA. Stabbed the green button.

The first thing she heard were sobs.

“Greta! What is it?”

Something unintelligible.

“Hey, sis … slow down.”

More sobs. Finally a sentence. “Oh, Justine. One of my friends has been murdered.”

JOHNNY AND I were in my office going over the police report on the Ho kid.

Johnny’s only twenty-three, not much older than the victim. Born in Lebanon, he came over here with poor immigrant parents when he was three. Could have ended up a criminal or dead, but he was far too bright for that. He got out of the ghettos of Sydney’s Western Suburbs ASAP, found a legit job and took a Psychology degree in his spare time. He was still working on the Psychology degree. I trusted him, and trust is always top of my necessity list when it comes to the job.

“There are two Ho boys, right. Chang’s the younger by three years,” Johnny said. “Mother died when he was five. Rich businessman father … probably never home.”

I nodded. “Severely disturbed by his mother’s death?”

“Definitely. His deafness made him determined to prove to his father he’s every bit as good as his older brother, Dai.”

The phone rang.

“Justine …” I began and she cut over me. Johnny could see my expression darken and raised a questioning eyebrow.

“What!” I exclaimed. “How long ago? Alright, we’ll go to the
Thorogoods’ place together. I’ll pick you up in five. The Citadel Hotel, right?”

“What’s up?” Johnny asked as soon as I clicked off.

I was already out of my chair. “A murder in Bellevue Hill, friend of Justine’s sister, Greta.”

“Christ!”

“The cops are all over the street. The woman was found in a car just a few yards down from the Thorogoods’.”

I EXITED THE garage and pulled onto George Street. It was almost dark, still hot. Checked my watch … 6.57. The city was aglow, shoppers bargain hunting in the January sales.

The traffic wasn’t great and it took me more than the promised five minutes to reach the hotel. Justine was waiting in the drive-thru outside the main doors. She looked amazing in white linen pants, a tight top, her hair flowing over her shoulders, slightly damp at the tips.

We merged with the highway traffic. “Did your sister offer any details?” I asked, and tried to put out of my mind the intoxicating smell of perfume wafting from the passenger side.

“She was a mess. The victim is a family friend, apparently. Known her for years.”

I drove east down Park Street and onto William Street, and we fell silent. I could hear a siren far off and the rush of air in the sticky night.

Bellevue Hill is mostly old money with a sprinkling of nouveau business gurus and gangsters. From William Street we took New South Head Road, drove about three miles, then hung a right into a wide, leafy street, Stockton Boulevard.

The Thorogoods’ house was an ultra-modern place that backed onto the Royal Sydney Golf Club. Its wide, glass-balustraded balconies offered views east toward the ocean.

Justine led the way up the granite path.

Greta, eyes moist, mascara run, opened the door before we reached it, and beckoned us in.

“So what happened?” Justine asked as her sister fell into her arms. We walked into a vast living-room and sat in a horseshoe of low-slung white leather sofas.

“It was about six o’clock. Brett had just got home. The phone rang. We heard sirens and saw the blue and red police lights, the screech of tires as the squad cars pulled up … just over there.” Greta pointed through the window. “Brett told me to stay here. But look, the kids are both on sleepovers. So I thought … what the hell? I snuck out.”

Her face froze for a second. She looked at us, her eyes watering. “I wish I hadn’t.” She swallowed hard. “Stacy’s got three kids … There was blood everywhere.” She broke down and Justine encircled her in her arms, letting her younger sister sob into her shoulder.

I FETCHED A glass of cold water from the kitchen and handed it to Greta. She seemed to calm down a little, wiped her eyes, took a deep breath.

“Greta,” I said as sympathetically as I could, “is there anything at all unusual about Stacy? Anything that could suggest she would be targeted?”

She looked lost. “No. Stace was just a regular mom. We got to know each other through the school. Her eldest son’s the same age as Serge.”

“Okay, Greta, I know this might sound insensitive, but were Stacy and her husband happy?”

She shook her head. “Craig, please! I’m upset but I’m not stupid! My husband
is
the Deputy Commissioner!”

“Yeah … sorry.”

“As far as I know, Stacy and David are,
were
happy. You never can tell, though, right?”

I glanced at Justine. “I’m going to …” Flicked my head toward the street. Justine nodded and turned back to her sister.

Outside, the road was dark except for the glow of headlights
and crime scene floods spilling around a corner on the far side of the street. I crossed over and ran toward an alleyway, the road brightening as I went.

The end of the lane was cordoned off with crime scene tape. A cop was standing just my side of it. I showed him my ID. He glanced at it, then asked me to wait a moment. Two minutes later, he was back with a young guy I’d seen with Thorogood last night.

“Is the DC …?” I asked.

“Just left for HQ, Mr. Gisto. Inspector Talbot’s given you the green light though,” and he offered little more than a nod, lifting the tape to indicate I should follow him.

I could see the back of a car in the alley. It was a new Lexus SUV, an LX 570, doors open. The intense white of the flood-lights lit up the number plate: STACE. Forensics were already there – blue-suited figures picking and poking around.

I strode toward the driver’s side. The dead woman was strapped into the front seat. The seat had been lowered back almost to horizontal.

Mark saw me and came over. “I’m only agreeing to you being here because Thorogood insisted,” he said woodenly and lifted his cell to indicate that he’d just spoken to his boss.

I ignored him and walked over to the body. The woman’s face was disfigured with what were clearly cigarette burns all over her cheeks and down her neck.

She was, I guessed, early forties, a blondish bob, well-preserved figure, wore an expensive watch. There was a huge diamond next to her wedding ring. She was dressed in a flimsy cotton dress. Someone had placed a green sheet over her from the abdomen down. It was difficult to see how she’d died.

“Tortured and then stabbed repeatedly in the back,” Talbot said and pulled the woman forward. A mess of congealed blood, three … four long black gashes.

“What’s with the sheet?” I asked.

“Look for yourself.”

I pulled aside the fabric – and took a step back.