Take Out (13 page)

Surprisingly enough Stevie’s parking spot at Central hadn’t been stolen in her absence. Things must be looking up, she told herself as she jogged the short distance to the Chemistry Centre, the envelope of paint scrapings burning a guilty hole in her pocket.

The Chemistry Centre was a long, low building of concrete blocks and curling pipes. Blood, tissue and urine samples, gunshot residues, suspect drugs and anything else requiring detailed chemical analysis were all delivered to the laboratories here. The facilities were available to the private sector as well as the police, but despite this knowledge, Stevie felt jittery and furtive. It would be typical to bump into anyone she knew, or caught in a tangle of red tape before she got where she wanted to be. She started to rehearse what she’d say to her boss if she were hauled before her again. This is an entirely different case ma’am, she’d say. I had no idea the death of Skye Williams and the Pavel cases were connected.

Bullshit they weren’t.

By the time she arrived, she’d managed to smooth some of the jagged edges of her nerves. She took a calming breath and pushed her way through the door into the poky reception area. After explaining the reason for her visit she presented her driver’s licence for scrutiny and filled out the request form in her small untidy hand. Nowhere did it ask the reason for the requested tests. Stevie bounced from one foot to the other as she waited to be processed. She should have expected this. You couldn’t get into any kind of government institution in a hurry these days.

‘I’ll take the sample down now if you like,’ the receptionist said at last.

‘Um, I’d like to speak to the scientist myself, if that’s okay.’

‘Sorry, civilians aren’t allowed near the labs.’

This time she produced her police ID, casually dropping the name of the chief forensic scientist as she did so. After consultation with her supervisor and a phone call, the receptionist granted Stevie entry.

With the
Get Smart
tune thumping in her head, Stevie followed a security guard down a warren of corridors and clanging fire doors, until she found herself in the paint analysis department. The young man at the reception desk told her Mr Douglas would join her soon, if she wouldn’t mind just waiting for a moment.

Mark Douglas pushed his way through the double door within a couple of minutes. Stevie leapt to her feet. ‘You
are
still here!’

‘Where else would I be, Stephanie Hooper, working on a cray boat in the Abrolhos?’ Despite the gruff tones, the warm kiss on the cheek told her he was glad to see her. Years ago they had dated casually, but with little in common to keep the spark going, the relationship had broken up without animosity. All he’d ever wanted to talk about was his job, she remembered. As she sat on the chair with him now in the reception area, she hoped nothing had changed.

They both refused the receptionist’s offer of coffee; Stevie’s nerves didn’t need any more stimulation.

She saw Mark glance at the wall clock above the desk. ‘You have a child now I hear?’ he asked to be polite.

‘Yes, Izzy’s seven.’ In a minute’s time, if she were to ask him to repeat the name and age of her daughter, she knew he wouldn’t remember.

‘Cool.’ He paused. ‘How did you manage to wangle yourself down here? Police samples are usually left up top.’

‘This isn’t exactly a police job. I needed to see you personally about this.’ She handed him the envelope. ‘This needs to be analysed asap. I have no signature from the OIC of the case because the tests are unauthorised. I’ll pay from my own pocket. I know private sector jobs are usually put way down the priority list, but I was hoping these tests could be done quickly.’

He examined her request form. ‘For old times’ sake?’ he asked without looking up from the paperwork.

She felt herself colour. ‘Well...’

‘I’d have been offended if you hadn’t come to see me about this. I’ll do my best. You understand what the tests involve?’

By the time he looked up again, her colour had returned to normal. ‘I have a vague idea.’ She braced herself for the lecture she knew was to come.

‘The PDQ is a searchable database developed by the Canadians. It contains information on more than 13,000 makes of vehicles and 50,000 types of paint.’

Stevie stifled a yawn and made some appropriate noises of awe.

‘A car paint job is usually comprised of four layers. Four layer samples are collected worldwide, from car manufacturers, paint shops and junkyards, analysed by their chemical composition and coded into the database. These can then be used for comparison against paint samples taken from crime scenes or from suspect vehicles, providing an accurate picture of car manufacturer, make and model—I can show you how it’s done, if you like.’

Feeling herself beginning to sag, Stevie made an effort to straighten in her chair. ‘Sounds fascinating, Mark, but I mustn’t take up any more of your time.’ She stood to leave. Mark’s look of disappointment provoked a twang of guilt. Jeez, recently she’d been on enough guilt trips to open a travel agency. ‘So, the bottom line is can you tell me the exact make and model of the suspect car from this paint sample here?’

‘Provided it’s in the database. Vintage cars and custom jobs aren’t. Individual layers can be identified, though they are of course not necessarily an indication of model and make...’

Stevie cut him off. ‘And when will I have the results?’

‘Within the week.’

‘Sooner?’

‘I have to liaise with the PDQ in Canada.’ He smiled; dimples pricked both cheeks and she remembered her attraction to him all those years ago. ‘But I’ll do my best.’

He escorted her to the exit, turned as they passed through the heavy door. ‘I got married a couple of months ago. Jane’s a blood-spatter specialist in E wing.’

‘Congratulations,’ Stevie said and pecked him on the cheek. She hoped he’d be happy. He was a nice guy; he deserved it. (Image 13.1)

Something was crushing her, she couldn’t breathe. She fought for air, arms flailing, striking flesh and provoking a sharp cry of pain. ‘Jesus Christ, Stevie, be careful, you nearly cracked me in two!’

Monty! Christ
,
what was she doing? She sat up, pushed the hair from her face, and looked around, trying to get orientated. She was in the chair next to Monty’s bed, alongside a bunch of green curtains. She must have dozed off, head resting on the bed. With a hand against her chest, she willed her heart to stop pounding.

‘I’d give you some of this,’ Monty pointed to the morphine pump by his side. ‘But with you thumping around on top of me like that, I think I’ll need every last drop.’ To prove his point he pressed the button and administered another relieving dose.

‘I’m sorry,’ she shook her head and tried to shake the memory of the bad dream. ‘Are you okay?’

‘Better than you I’d say.’

She looked at her watch; she’d been at the hospital about two hours. One of the last things she remembered was helping the nurse assist Monty to the bathroom, supporting his elbow with one hand, the other pushing his drip, while the nurse carried the drains. The ordeal had been too much for him—and her too. She’d eased him back into bed and must have fallen asleep too.

‘Bad dream?’ he asked.

She nodded, passing him a glass of water from the bedside locker. ‘You’ve been told to drink more water,’ she reminded him.

‘Then bring me something to flavour it with.’ He sipped from the bent straw, examining it longingly. ‘Christ, I’d kill for a cigarette.’

‘You’ve got to be joking.’ Stevie took the glass from him and drained the rest of the water.

‘You were talking in your sleep,’ he said.

‘Was I?’

She said nothing more, concentrated on the noises from the passageway. A rattle, a rumble and a clink of spoons on china told her the tea trolley wasn’t far off. She was about to welcome the interruption when the sound continued past Monty’s room, receding into the background.

‘The trolley lady’s passed you by. You must have really pissed her off,’ she tried to joke.

Monty looked at her for a moment, unsmiling, then tilted his head to a rumpled newspaper on the visitor’s chair. ‘The accident was written up in Saturday’s paper.’ He collapsed back upon his pillows with a heavy sigh. ‘What a waste,’ he murmured, closing his eyes as if a wave had broken over him. ‘And here am I, old enough to be her father with years to go before my use-by date—if my surgeon is to be believed.’

Depression was a common side effect of heart surgery, and one of the reasons she had been sheltering Monty from the news. She searched his face, looking for signs of grief beyond grief. Thankfully at that moment, the morphine kicked in and he fell into a light doze. She continued to study his face, pale and drawn. Her gaze fell to the dressing down the centre of his shaved chest. As she envisioned the zipper- fdlike scar beneath, crusted with dried blood, she began to tremble uncontrollably.

And then, as if from a blow to the stomach, she couldn’t seem to find her breath. With difficulty she tried to concentrate on drawing a steady stream of air into her lungs, but it seemed to slam against an invisible, impenetrable barrier.

Is this how it was for Skye during the last moments of her life?

Stevie panicked as she fought for air. Slipping off the bed, she bent at the waist, one hand on Monty’s mattress, and struggled to breathe. A paper bag, she needed a paper bag. She found one on the tray table, grabbed it with shaking hands and tipped the grapes from it. Several rolled to the floor. After a couple of inhalations the relief was almost instantaneous.

‘Are you all right, Mrs McGuire?’ A nurse carrying a clipboard strode to the end of Monty’s bed and inspected his chart. Stevie didn’t care about the incorrect title, said she was fine despite feeling like a popped balloon.

‘I sometimes think this is harder for the loved ones than it is for the patients,’ the nurse said as she checked Monty’s vital signs on the monitor, glancing down as a grape popped under her foot.

‘Sorry, I’ll clear those up,’ Stevie said, dropping to her knees to pick up the grapes and bumping the side of the bed as she did so. Monty woke up with a startled grunt. The nurse smiled and placed the thermometer in his ear. Stevie would have liked a longer delay, wanted the nurse to stay longer, but the thing didn’t take long to cook, beeping after only a couple of seconds. Monty’s eyes met hers, his searching expression telling her he’d not forgotten their earlier conversation.

When the nurse left the room, he said, ‘So, what you going to do about it?’

Stevie feigned ignorance. She sat on the side of the bed and gave him a puzzled shrug.

‘Skye’s death. Tell me what the hell’s going on and stop treating me like a piece of cut crystal.’

As it happened, talking to Monty provided as much relief as breathing through the paper bag. She told him she thought Skye’s death was connected to the death of Delia Pavel and the disappearance of Jon and Ralph. In trying to protect Monty from this, she reflected, she’d been damaging herself. The more she spoke the more objective she became. The spark of interest she saw in his eyes jumped into her own, re-kindling the old investigative feelings on which she thrived: the flutter of nerves through the stomach, the thrill of the chase.

She explained what she’d discovered from the MCI officer, Tony Pruitt, and the streak of green paint on Skye’s car. ‘With Pruitt otherwise occupied and Fowler in the office, I went back to Skye’s smashed car and took a paint scraping and dropped it off at the lab on the way over here.’

‘That’ll cost money.’

‘I’ll pay from my own pocket. Even if it can’t be used as evidence in court, it’ll help guide me in the right direction. The guy in the lab reckons he should be able to get the make and maybe even the model of the car.’

Monty paused. ‘That guy at the lab—that wouldn’t be Mark Douglas would it?’

Stevie looked away. ‘Maybe.’

‘Jesus, Stevie, despite evidence to the contrary, you’re not above using your feminine wiles, are you?’

‘I’ll do whatever it takes.’

‘And then what?’

‘I’ll do my best to help out.’

‘You mean you’ll go round treading on people’s toes, pissing them off and carrying out your own investigation. Angus won’t go with it. You know how he plays by the book.’

‘Me? Tread on people’s toes?’

Stevie slid from the bed and kissed his cheek. ‘I’ve got to go, have a date.’

Some of the sleepiness left Monty’s eyes; he straightened in the bed as much as he was able. ‘What, where, who?’

‘Clubbing.’ She turned from the door and shot him a Marilyn Monroe wink. He was muttering about feminine wiles when she left the room.

Fowler opened his door wearing a torn rag of a T-shirt and faded, baggy board shorts. For a moment Stevie thought she’d stumbled upon the wrong apartment.

‘Hi there,’ she said, masking her surprise at his more than casual attire. ‘Can I come in?’ His eyes widened. If the startled look was anything to go on, he was as surprised at her change in image as she was of his.