Sharp Shooter (31 page)

‘Don’t forget, Craigo. It’s important.’ I let ‘grave’ slip into my voice.

‘Everything alright?’

‘I hope so,’ I breathed. ‘See you soon.’

I sprang out of bed, determined to bury my concerns by cooking a sumptuous breakfast.

Wal wandered out just as I reached the height of my culinary frenzy, and I plonked a plate of scrambled eggs topped with caviar in front of him. Without a word about the state of my scratched face, he sat down at Liv’s petite-but-elegant wrought-iron-and-glass breakfast table, and started shovelling it down.

As I crunched my four pieces of toast and honey, and gargled on a large glass of French-vanilla milk, I watched him. In his t-shirt and dangerously worn jocks, he seemed to be slipping down on the gaunt side of healthy for a guy who was normally stocky.

‘You been eating properly, Wal?’

He shrugged. ‘Sometimes. If I don’t fall asleep and forget. Doc’s given me a prescription to help with sleepin’ an’ all but –’

‘But?’

‘Can’t afford it now I’m out of work.’

‘Can’t afford what?’ trilled Liv. She appeared from her boudoir in a floaty pantsuit and divine barely-there makeup. Her upswept hair gleamed like the crown jewels under lights. A chunky necklace finished off her outfit perfectly; slightly eccentric but
so
interesting.

Wal’s fork clattered onto his plate and he just stared at her.

Liv isn’t beautiful like the Antonia Falk-Tozzis of the world, but there’s something utterly glamorous about her. Five years junior to Joanna, she looked twenty years younger. Her skin was many-avocado-facials lovely and her figure svelte. Mum always claimed it was because Liv’d never had children.

I could buy that.

‘Tara, what on earth happened to your –’

‘I’m OK, Liv. Long story. Please don’t ask.’

She stared at me for a long moment then moved her inspection onto Wal’s state of undress. ‘Wallace, where are your pants?’

‘Um –’ he started.

‘A gentleman never appears without pants at breakfast.’ She perched herself on the breakfast bar stool and poured an orange juice from the jug I’d filled. Liv could do haughty better than anyone when she put her mind to it.

‘Sorry, Lavilla,’ said Wal, turning a shade of tomato.

I sucked in my cheeks, and bit on them to stop from laughing.

‘Excuse me,’ he added as an afterthought, then jumped up and headed to the laundry.

When we heard the toilet door close, Liv rounded on me.

‘Now Tara, I let you off last night because you were clearly exhausted. But you must tell me what on earth is going on?’

I gave her the version I’d given Dad. Wal and I had been assisting the police with an investigation, things had heated up and now the cops had told us to lay low. I added the bit about the dead bird under my windscreen wiper and the blue BMW trying to run me over, just so that she knew it was serious.

Her eyes shone with excitement. ‘Wallace told me he was the security executive for a private-investigation firm.’

Executive?
‘Err . . . yeah . . . we’re sort of . . . working together for the first time. He brings certain skills to the table.’

‘Oh?’ she raised a wicked eyebrow.

I couldn’t believe it. Gorgeous, sexy, wealthy, smart, independent Aunty Liv was being flirty over psycho, down-and-out Wal. Then again, Joanna had often alluded to the questionable nature of some of Liv’s past lovers. I’d thought she was just being snobby.

Take a breath.

I mean there was no doubt that Wal was completely smitten with her. But that was to be expected. Liv had laid a carpet of broken hearts and bruised egos across Australia.

I had to put a stop to this particular conquest right now. ‘He’s just been diagnosed with narcolepsy,’ I said. ‘It’s making it hard for him to earn a living.’

Liv’s lips twisted in sympathy. ‘Truly? Poor man.’

Poor man?
I picked up my toast and began swallowing it down rapidly. First, Tozzi’s strange behaviour, and now Liv’s; the world had gone a little tilted.

‘Liv, I have to run in a team triathlon this morning,’ I said, seeking safety in a change of subject.

Liv lifted one perfectly drawn-on eyebrow. ‘Is that wise?’

‘Quite,’ I reassured her. ‘Very public. I run, I come back here. No one’s the wiser.’

‘Well, if you say so dear.’

‘I don’t want to go home yet, though. You know, in case the house is being watched. Could I borrow some running gear?’

‘Of course!’ She clapped her hands. ‘I’ve got
just
the thing. Used to do a spot of jogging. But what will Wallace do while you’re away?’

I hadn’t thought that far. In fact I had no idea what to do with Wal at all. I kinda owed him. ‘Well, not a lot, I guess. Except stay quiet until the cops come through.’

‘Excellent. He can help me with my shopping. We’ll have a little luncheon party after your event,’ she said, then disappeared back into her bedroom.

‘Liv – luncheon party?’

She popped her head around the door. ‘Just something casual, darling. I mean to say, you’ll be pooped.’

Chapter 46

I
ARRIVED AT THE
tri-meet just in time.

Liv had given me a lift in her Saab after we’d agreed that Mona – who was safely tucked in the basement – would be like flashing a neon billboard in a blackout for anyone on the lookout for me.

She dropped me at the Perry Lakes Stadium and I threaded my way through the gathering competitors, trying to ignore the glances I was getting from all the hardened tri-nuts, and the reason why I was getting them.

‘Tara?’ called out Craigo. ‘Over here.’

My hunky gym instructor stood in a huddle of other hunky guys near the registration tent. They stared at me openmouthed as I approached.

‘Morning,’ I said, lifting my chin, trying to brazen it out. ‘The cat scratched me, and I had to borrow some clothes.’

Craigo looked like he might pee his pants, but he manfully introduced me. ‘Tara, meet Lewis. He’s swimming for us. And James, he’s support crew. And you know Petey.’

Pete was one of Craigo’s more regular shags; a handsome, slim young man with blue, baby-doll eyes. Right now those eyes were popping. ‘Cat scratches! Black sequins! Gold lamé!’ he exclaimed. ‘You didn’t tell me she was a tranny!’

The four of them burst out laughing as I mumbled an explanation about not being able to get into my flat. Then I got busy filling out the rego form.

That done, I went over the route with Craigo. He’d stopped hee-hawing by then, but every now and then he bit down on his bottom lip. I’m not really sure what that meant. I didn’t dwell on it.

To tell the truth, I was getting a little prickly feeling on my skin that could have been pre-race nerves. Or something else. I kept glancing about, thinking I saw Sam Barbaro’s face every time a dark-haired guy came my way.

‘Are you listening, Tara? If you deviate from the course you’ll be disqualified. They’re strict on that sort of thing.’

‘Relax, Craigo,’ I said, tapping my head. ‘Got it in here. Now, did you bring the photo?’

He reached into his backpack and produced a photocopy of the newspaper clipping. ‘Is this the one?’

‘Sweet,’ I said, snatching it from him.

‘What’s so secret service?’ he asked.

I stared at the photo. There he was, in the middle of the second row – my suited man. Same bulky shape, same round face. I traced my finger along the credits. ‘Jensen Bridges. Who is he, Craigo?’

Craigo was staring at me. ‘Tara, what’s going on?’

‘I’ll explain after the tri, but it’s really important that I find out what he does for a job. Do you know?’

‘He’s a minister for something or other. Most of them are politicians, or lawyers. Those two are doctors.’ He pointed to two in the front row. ‘They’re two of my most well-heeled clients.’

‘Minister for what? What’s his portfolio?’

He shrugged, and I sensed his discomfort so I let it go. ‘Never mind. Thanks, you’ve been a great help.’

‘OK. Well, good luck. I’m heading down to the bike start. Lewie’s a strong swimmer, I’m expecting him out of the water first.’

Bugger! They’re seriously hoping to win
. I opened my mouth and shut it again. It was too late to start making excuses about my lack of fitness and sleep. ‘Luck,’ I said.

‘Back atcha.’ He disappeared into the crowd and left me to it.

I climbed the stand behind the start/finish line of the run, and stood in the back row while I called Smitty.

‘What do you know about a guy called Jensen Bridges?’ I asked, without preamble.

She paused for a moment. Smitty took Who’s Who questions very seriously. ‘He’s Julie Bartlett’s cousin. He went to law school in the States, and then came back here to go into politics.’

‘State or federal?’

‘State, I think.’

‘Do you know what his portfolio is, Smitts? It’s important. Really.’

‘Let me check with Henny. I tend to haze out when I hear the word “politics”.’

I counted the flags fluttering along the back of the grandstand while I waited. There was only a light wind. Perfect conditions for running.

‘Henny says he’s in sport and recreation,’ said Smitty, when she came back on.

‘Oh,’ I said, disappointed. ‘Is he sure?’

‘Darling, Henny’s never wrong, you know that. Wait – oh, hang on . . . apparently Bridges only shifted there very recently, after someone retired. He used to be in mines and petroleum.’

‘True?’

‘
Darling!
’ she said, meaningfully.

‘Tell Henny I love him. I love you both.’

‘Good luck with the race, T. See you after.’

I sat down and let it sink in. The minister for mining was in bed with Johnny Vogue, which meant that whatever scam they were running on assay reports had to be bigger than just Nick Tozzi’s exploration lease. This was the leverage I needed to get Johnny Vogue off my case.

With trembling fingers I rang Peter Delgado.

He answered quickly, in a distracted voice. ‘Yes?’

‘Tell Johnny Viaspa that I know who his bent politician is. I’ll keep it to myself if you back off and he shelves his plans for damaging Nick Tozzi’s life.’

‘Tara Sharp?’

‘Yes. Tell him to leave Tozzi and me alone, or I’ll blab to every newspaper in the country that he’s in bed with Jensen Bridges.’

The silence on the end of the phone was protracted. ‘You know who you’re blackmailing, don’t you?’

This was the part where I hung tough, even though my guts felt like they’d vaporised. ‘Quite,’ I said in a plummy voice. ‘And I’ve made arrangements for that information to go to the police should anything happen to Nick or me. So let’s just pretend we’ve never met.’

Another pause. ‘I’ll convey your message to Mr Viaspa,’ he said eventually.

‘Good. I’ll return your retainer and hope I never see you again, Mr Delgado.’

‘Don’t be naive, Tara. Things don’t work –’ His call cut off abruptly, as if someone had grabbed his phone before he could finish the sentence.

He didn’t call back. Hopefully he’d fallen down a hole, or driven into the back of a bus.

Still trembling, I lay down along the bench seat. Had I really just played hard ball with the bad guys? I
was
nuts.

Suddenly, I felt tired. I tried napping for a while, but the bench was too hard, and my nerves were jangling. Eventually, I gave up and checked my messages.

There was a text from Bok wishing me luck and saying he’d see me later today
wen we cn toast unemplymt & blisters.

The blisters would be mine, the unemployment his. Poor Bok still hadn’t found his celebrity spread.

There were also several missed calls from JoBob.

I called back, preparing to hang up if Mum or Dad answered. Thankfully it went to message bank.

‘Just letting you know that I’m picking Brains up from the vet’s on Monday. She’s fine but none of us can visit her because she’s . . . in quarantine until then,’ I said.

Lamest lie in the history of lame lies, but they could crossexamine me later.

I thought about ringing Fiona Bligh and telling her everything, but I’d dug myself in too deep to do that.

Instead, I stuck my phone in the strap of my crop top, climbed back down to the pen and began stretching out amid all the other competitors doing the same. I kept my cap pulled low and tried to distract myself with the chat around me.

The tri had attracted over a hundred teams – not bad for a small city comp. Somewhere in the melee there was bound to be someone I knew. Yet, in Liv’s gold lamé running shorts with the black sequined love heart on the butt and velvet crop top, I could do without the recognition.

‘Tara Sharp! Which tranny did you mug?’

Crap.
I peeked up from under my cap.
Worse than crap
. Jenny Munro: bitch basketballer turned ironwoman. What was she doing slumming it in a team tri?