Sex on Tuesdays (19 page)

“Nope. But that doesn't mean he didn't have one originally. He could have destroyed it after murdering her.” Simon straightened up and turned to me. “Anyway, how did you go? Find anything relevant?”

“You mean other than the fact that Jack is a drug user and a hypochondriac?”

“No surprises there.” With a shake of his head, he closed the filing cabinet and stood up.

“Let's see what's in his computer,” I said switching on a desktop with Tomorrow's Technology written all over it.

“Probably need a password to get in,” said Simon. “But it's worth a try.”

“Mmm we do…how about
Gape
?” I typed in the word without success.

“Or
Prostitute
?”

“
IamGod
?”

“Ha. What about
Giantdick
?”

I grinned. “Or
Orgy
?”

Simon leaned over my shoulder, his arm brushing against my breast as he typed in the word,
Sex4me.

“Ooh, yeah…I'm all for that,” I told him and reached up to plant a kiss on the cheek. “But you'll have to wait until we get home, Casanova. My aging body wouldn't appreciate shagging on the top of a desk—especially when the desk belongs to a potential murderer. And that same potential murderer could arrive home at any minute and catch us in—”

I froze. Was that a door slamming? Muffled voices in the front room?

“Blast!” Simon quickly switched off the computer.

“Now what?” Hardly daring to breathe, I watched as Simon's eyes raked the room for somewhere to hide. Hell, I'd even try squeezing into the broom cupboard but knew I'd never get the door closed behind me.

We could hear Jack Rivers's angry voice echoing through the house. He sounded upset. There was a mumble from another person. Hard to tell whether the speaker was male or female. Whoever it was kept their voice low.

“Hurry up, Dani!” Simon beckoned me with one hand as he unlocked the window and prepared to slide it up.

I gulped. My heart was pounding so hard I was sure Jack and whoever was with him would hear the out-of-control crashing sounds from the next room.

It was as I darted across to the window that I spotted the photo lying on top of the shredded paper in the wastepaper bin—as though it had been knocked off the desk. A photo of the murdered woman.

“Simon,” I hissed, pointing at the bin. “Look!”

“No time now,” he said, his voice hoarse as he grabbed for my arm. “Come on!”

Dodging Simon's outstretched hand, I snaffled the photo and flicked it over. And there, through the back of the transparent frame, I read:
To my Jacky Boy. The hottest of the hot. Love, Sweet Lips.”

“Eureka!” I grinned at Simon who rolled his eyes and gestured wildly at the window.

“It's in my filing cabinet.” We could hear Jack assuring the other person as their footsteps drew closer to the office door.

With a last glance at the doorway, I slipped the photo into my pocket and with Simon pushing me from behind, clambered through the open window.

“Holy crap, Dani. Remind me not to take you on my next break-in,” ranted Simon two minutes later as we threw ourselves into his red Echo and he switched on the ignition. “You did more damage to my heart in those last few seconds than a lifetime spent smoking cigarettes.”

“Rubbish—and you quit smoking ten years ago,” I protested. “And now we have proof that Jack knew Mary.”

He frowned, not convinced. “Yeah…and almost got caught.”

“Simon,” I said drawing my fingers lightly over his thigh and smiling at his immediate response. “Would it help your damaged heart if I dressed up as a policewoman and arrested you when we get back to my place?”

Simon's eyes bugged as he flicked an incredulous look in my direction. “On the other hand,” he continued, voice slightly breathless. “If taking you with me into dangerous situations leads to playing cops and robbers afterwards—feel free to come along any time.”

20

Friday, 1:00 p.m.

I may never eat bread again.

Not only because the weight I've put on over the last six months suggests I'm in need of a carb-free diet, but also because looking at, or even thinking about bread, gives me vibes so dark I want to puke.

So naturally, I decided against a sandwich for lunch. Instead, I cut up an orange, apple and banana and felt quite righteous. Especially as after our early-morning crime spree, I'd arrested Simon and performed a strip search on his person—then he'd driven off to work while I spent the rest of the morning cleaning the house from top to toe in a frenzy of activity.

The bathroom sparkled.

The carpets had given up every last one of their dust mites.

And even my clothes had been washed and scrubbed until they almost whimpered when I bent to pick them up and hang them on the clothesline.

However, on the grounds that I needed to replenish my energy levels, I sprinkled a heaped teaspoon of sugar on top of the fruit, and it was as I put the first chunk of apple into my mouth that Simon spoilt my upbeat mood by ringing with the results of the autopsy.

“Cantharidin?” I repeated blankly when he told me the name of the poison found in the tissues of the dead birds. “What the heck is Cantharidin?”

He cleared his throat. “Strangely enough…it's the correct term for the aphrodisiac Spanish Fly, which is made from the crushed and dried out bodies of the Cantharid beetles.”

Huh? And I thought my life was complicated back when the worst thing that happened to me was embarrassment caused by hot sweats in the middle of a one-on-one discussion with my bank manager. Now I had a killer baking me bread. I'd slept with my best friend. And to add oil to the already greasy waters, that same best friend was telling me I'd had a near-miss with a substance used to arouse the libido.

I ground my teeth together to stop from grabbing a passing fly and pulling out its wings. “But if it's an aphrodisiac, Simon, how come all the sex-crazed perverts who use it don't fuck like rabbits and then drop dead?”

“Well…” He sucked in a deep breath, evidently a mite embarrassed about the subject himself. “I guess it depends on the amount ingested. Say you wanted to increase your sex drive—which you don't,” he added quickly, “because your sex drive is way up there on a par with an eighteen-year-old nympho. But if you did, you'd only use a small amount of Cantharidin. Right?”

“Right.” Hmm…so Simon thought my sex drive was okay. Wow! That poor fly currently buzzing around Horace's food dish was only doing what came naturally. I smiled and bit into a chunk of sugary banana.

“But in this case, the poisoner must have added a full cup of Cantharidin instead of flour. He was making damn sure you'd only need to eat one slice of the bread to finish you off.”

“And if I'd still been writing my column for the
Tribute
, one of my letters would have been altered to suggest using Spanish Fly as an aphrodisiac. Right?”

Simon's sigh was enough to tell me he'd figured this out too. I didn't wait for his verbal answer, just bulldozed onward. “Okay, what's the exact wording on the autopsy report?”

“Do you really want to know?” he said to me and I could picture the concern on his face. “It's not pleasant.”

“Of course it's not pleasant,” I snapped, unable to stop myself from taking my confusion and fear out on Simon. “The birds are dead, aren't they?”

“You're right.” The rattle of paper sounded in my ear as he picked up the report. “Autopsy findings are necrosis of oesophageal and gastric mucous membranes. In other words their internal organs were literally burned away. Poison: Cantharidin. Toxicity reading: 6. Reaction time: immediate. Antidotes: none.”

Internal organs literally burned away.
My throat constricted as I gulped.

“The toxicity reading of six is extremely high,” Simon said and I heard the sounds of the busy newsroom in the background. “No wonder the poor bloody birds didn't have a chance.”

“Oh, God.” Tears welled as I rubbed the palm of my hand over my eyes and then reached for a tissue.

“Sorry, darlin',” he said, his voice low. “I'm being insensitive. I shouldn't have read the report to you.”

“No. I'm okay. I should be apologizing to you for biting your head off. Of course I wanted to know the results of the autopsy. It's just…just…you know….”

“Yeah, I know,” Simon responded quietly. “Look, why don't I bring another DVD around to your place tonight? Until the killer is behind bars, I don't think you should be on your own in the evenings. What do you say?”

“Thanks, Simon.”
But what about when this is all over? Will you still think I shouldn't be on my own in the evenings—or will we just go back to being no-sex friends?

“Seems like whoever baked that bread knew their poisons,” Simon mused, breaking into my thoughts. “I still say it reeks of Alice, but I checked her out and it appears she spent all of yesterday at some wacky Magic conference in Brisbane. I rang the conference organizer who confirmed she was definitely there. She said Alice was an amazing guest speaker. Takes a flake to know one, I guess.” He paused. I used the break to tuck a sliver of orange into my mouth and bite down onto it, savoring the juice as it enhanced my taste buds. “So, that leaves us with either Derek or Jack,” Simon continued, still musing over the possibilities. “Of course Jack had every opportunity to drop the package on your doorstep, but I can't for the life of me see that weasel standing in front of an oven, sleeves rolled up, baking bread. Or Derek for that matter.”

“And why me?” I wailed. “Why would Derek
or
Jack want me dead?”

“I don't know. Which is why, until the killer is caught, you need to lock your doors and stay inside. But I do have some good news,” he went on. “As well as your prints on the box the bread came in, forensics also found another fingerprint. Smudged—but clear enough to identify the owner.”

“What? The police know who left the bread on my doorstep? Why didn't you tell me this before instead of ordering me to lock my doors and stay inside?” I shouted.

Thank God. It was over. Now I could go back to my dull, boring life—a life without a killer breathing down my neck. “Whose print was on the box? Have they picked him up yet?”

“Well, that's the bad news,” Simon admitted. “The print the police found is not on their criminal database. But don't worry,” he jumped in before I could start shouting at him again, “they'll find the owner of that print. And when they do, there'll be an arrest.”

Shaking my head, I pushed the bowl of fruit away. “I don't believe this.” I said. “Isn't Jack's prints on their database?”

“Nope. No criminal record.”

“Damn!” And then I smiled as my eyes fell on the photo of
Sweet Lips Barbarella
propped up on my kitchen table
.
“What about the photo I found in Jack's wastepaper basket? Wouldn't that have Jack's fingerprints on it to compare with those on the box?”

“Dani—you are brilliant,” Simon announced, and I couldn't stop myself from purring at the warmth I heard in his voice. “I'll ring Gazza and get him to send an officer around to pick the photo up, pronto. Hey darlin', I think we've got him!”

“You bet.”

“Look, I'd better finish writing this report for tomorrow's
Tribute
before our esteemed editor-in-chief starts throwing rolled-up newspapers at me. The guy's been a nightmare to work for ever since he sacked you.” Simon sniggered. “Reckon Penny's been giving him hell at home.”

“Good.”

“Gotta go. But I want you to promise not to open your door to anyone except the police, your family, or me. Okay? And I'll see you tonight.”

I hung up. Until forensics put a name to that fingerprint, I was a live chicken waiting for the chopping block.

What if the killer broke through my kitchen window and jumped me? Would Horace attack him? I glanced across at my snoring canine and decided I was probably on my own. But what if the killer merely stood outside the window, took aim when I had my back turned and shot me. Bullets went through glass didn't they? I shivered, and that black hole of despair deep down inside beckoned and tried to suck me in.

Stop!
I shoved the black hole aside and straightened my shoulders. Everything will be fine. Simon's coming here tonight. We have a possible print belonging to Jack Rivers. Simon's coming here tonight. The killer will soon be behind bars.

And Simon's coming here tonight…. I grinned. Hey, I felt better already. And I didn't even care if Simon brought another one of his Wile E. Coyote DVDs along with him.

After rummaging in the kitchen drawers for a plastic zip-lock bag, I picked up the photo of Mary Foster. She'd been a beautiful woman…and now she was dead. Why? What reason would Jack Rivers have for murdering her? Holding the frame by two corners, I slipped the photo into the bag and placed it on the table ready for the police officer when he came.

And then it hit me.

There'd been no time to read the labels on Jack's many medications this morning. What if the incriminating
Cantharidin
was in his medicine cabinet?

If so, we had him.

The fingerprint on the photo might be thrown out of court because it was gained illegally, but if I could find
Cantharidin
in Jack's bathroom, with Jack's fingerprints on the container and the prints match the print on the cardboard box containing the bread, he was a cooked goose.

Especially if Simon talked the police into obtaining a search warrant so they could enter legally and confiscate the evidence.

And there was an unlocked window in Jack's house—just waiting for me to open it.

Only one thing stood in my way. Simon. He'd warned me to stay inside the house behind locked doors. Like an exotic bird in a cage. I sighed, finished eating my healthy fruit and poured a mug of strong coffee with three sugars.

How could I not go ahead with my plan? After all, it was a chance to skewer Jack Rivers once and for all. And since when did Simon have the right to order me around?

I stood up and barged into my bedroom. Rammed open the wardrobe and chose suitable break-and-enter clothes from my meager selection.

That was the trouble with men.

They always wanted to be on top.

* * *

Twenty minutes later, I handed Mary's photo to a gruff, taciturn, young officer who I'd pick for a thug if he hadn't been in uniform. Then, the moment his car disappeared around the corner, I grabbed a dog lead from a hook behind the back door.

Horace must have heard the jangle of the disc on the collar. He woke up, and tail wagging, leapt off the sofa and bounded across the floor. Then, like a homing pigeon, he extended his neck, waiting for me to attach the collar and lead.

I figured no one would look twice at a middle-aged woman walking her dog on a crisp winter afternoon.

After parking my car in a quiet cul-de-sac a kilometer from Jack's house, I stepped out onto the footpath. Dressed in a navy tracksuit, a pair of well-used running shoes and a dark woolen beanie that covered my ears, I thought I blended into the scenery pretty well.

“Okay, boy! Let's go!” I told my bright-eyed, smiling greyhound and opened the rear door of my car, stepping aside as he hurled his thirty-five kilos of muscle in my general direction.

I had two plans worked out. Both necessitated me walking the kilometer to Jack's street from where I parked my car and then strolling past his house. If Jack was home, I'd execute Plan A. Horace and I would keep on walking, return to my car and I'd drive home and lock my front door behind me.

Simple.

However, if there was no car in sight, I'd put Plan B into action. Toss a ball into Jack's yard, encourage my dog to chase it and follow him through the gate. Horace could run around the yard with the ball while I climbed through the window.

Not quite so simple.

Taking deep regular breaths to keep focused and prevent pants-wetting fear from engulfing me, I marched toward Jack's street. My plans were in place. I could do this. Then, just before rounding the corner, I forced myself to slow to an I've-got-all-day, meandering stroll. After all, I had an image to maintain—middle-aged, creaky knees—taking the dog for a walk on a crisp winter's afternoon.

Image firmly in place, I turned the corner and stopped like I'd run into an invisible force field.

What was going on halfway down the street? My heart did a nose dive toward my cheap running shoes. Six police cars were drawn up at the curb. An ambulance screamed around the corner, sirens clanging. And a crowd of people had gathered to watch the entertainment.

And all this in front of Jack's house.

Holy crap! Perhaps I'd need a Plan C. I quickly tucked my chin into my chest, pulled my beanie further down over my face, and dragging Horace behind me, hurried to find out the cause of the fuss.

As the ambulance screeched to a halt outside the house, I peered around the bulk of a large policeman who was guarding the driveway. Two medics leaped out of the ambulance, raced around to the back doors, grabbed a stretcher and equipment and scuttled inside the house. Had Jack's ceiling mirror fallen on top of him? Had he mixed up his pills and had a bad reaction? Had he fought with someone whose name and past indiscretions was tucked away in his filing cabinet?

“What's going on?” I asked a straggle-haired woman still in her food-stained dressing-gown and slippers. She was smoking a cigarette and had propped herself against Jack's front fence as though she couldn't be bothered using her legs to hold herself upright.

“Jack Rivers lives in there,” she told me between puffs. “Do you know him?”

“Never heard of him,” I lied and moved closer to hear more.