Who Killed Jimbo Jameson?

Who Killed Jimbo Jameson?
by Kerrie McNamara

This edition published in 2014 by Storyworks Publishing

First published by Storyworks Publishing 2014

Wentworth Concepts Pty Ltd

PO Box 780, Edgecliff, NSW 2027

AUSTRALIA

www.storyworkspublishing.com

www.janecurrypublishing.com.au

Copyright © Kerrie McNamara 2014

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording or by any other information storage or retrieval system, without prior permission in writing from the publisher.

National Library of Australia cataloguing-in-publication data:

Author: Kerrie McNamara

Title: Who Killed Jimbo Jameson?

ISBN 978-1-922190-50-5 (Epub Edition)

ISBN 978-1-922190-49-9 (Mobi Edition)

Cover Images: Shutterstock

Cover design by Melissa Keogh

Internal design by Melissa Keogh

Editorial: Amanda Hemmings

Production: Jasmine Standfield

prologue.

The dancer shimmied her tail feathers on a truck float in Rio, oblivious to anything but the kaleidoscopic lights and pounding drums. Sweat flew off her glittering, shiny body, her hips shook and her breasts bounced and her head flicked her long blonde high ponytail in circles in time to the beating of the drums and the whistles.

Two muscular masked men coiled their limbs around her, their hands sliding over her breasts and flat stomach, pumping her buttocks as they thrusted against her in time with the music. They licked her neck and their tongues probed her ears and mouth as the crowd screamed encouragement, her head spinning as she panted for breath.

Working in rhythmic unison, the men's thrusting became more urgent: they gripped her body between theirs as the crowd yelled for more. One moved his head down to bite her breast, his hands pulling her groin to his. Lost in the music, she pushed him down to his knees and screamed into the heat of the night. Wrapping one leg around his neck, she pulled him close with her heel, grinding her sex against his face in ecstasy, leaning back against the second dancer just as he lost interest and released her to show the crowd his favourite moves, and she fell backwards…off the float, onto the street and into oblivion.

The rhythm and the music stopped abruptly for the feathered femme. She didn't hear the wail of the ambulance. She didn't hear anything for four days as she was kept in an induced coma and she certainly didn't hear the incredulous comments of the doctors when they checked her for internal injuries.

Her small satin wrist-bag contained breath mints, eye drops, two ecstasy tablets, the current recommended Mardi Gras dose of cocaine and a hotel key, which, when the police eventually checked against the hotel register, belonged to the holder of a Venezuela-issued credit card with a post office box billing address. They lost interest, deciding to wait until it was time to wake up the coma patient.

It was Mardi Gras in South America.

chapter one.

If I had my druthers, I wouldn't have been looking at Jimbo Jameson's dead dick. I'd have been en route to Broome with my brand new bikini and a stiff scotch.

But the night before, the key witness in my last big case had been murdered, so my holiday plans were rudely cancelled. And thirty minutes later I got a call that two bodies had been discovered in a hotel suite.

I then found myself looking at two stiffs on a king-sized bed. One was an unidentified redhead with grey roots and a tattooed arse, and the other was a rich, womanising, beer-swilling Aussie icon with more money than sense: Jimbo Jameson.

When I was a little girl I wanted to be an astronaut but I'm scared of heights, which also ruled out a career as a fighter jet pilot and a Sydney Harbour Bridge tour guide. I didn't fancy being a teacher but I would have liked to be a vet. Then my rat-fink sister pinched my best green eyeshadow and I found it in one of her shoes, which is when I decided to be a detective. My sister says that I'm sneaky and vindictive and don't share. I don't agree.

I just don't like bad people. And my sister.

My name is Madison Willow Griffiths. I was born in the original Royal Women's Hospital in Paddington and now I live in a two-bedroom terrace house less than a kilometre away. The previous owner left behind a blue budgie which I'd named Bert and a box of seed, but forgot to warn me about his foul temper and bad habits. He bit.

I'm too tall and my feet are too big, but at least everything else is sort of in proportion. My skin is Golden Beige by Maybelline and my eyes are blue or green depending on the light. Hair is either L'Oreal Chocolate Chestnut or Garnier Dark Golden Brown, depending on what's on special at the supermarket. I own a red Alfa Romeo 147, a car that is beautiful but somewhat temperamental. My credit cards are close to the limit and will probably stay there because my car spends a lot of time at Phil's Garage. Phil drives a Lexus.

My Alfa pays for that Lexus.

As I said before, someone shot the key witness to my last homicide case and then the only other witness suddenly developed amnesia. There went my holiday.

So that night I did the only sensible thing and consoled myself with a bottle of rather pleasant Barossa red which I drank in bed with a bar of chocolate and the Foxtel remote. I felt much better then, but not so hot the next morning when I dragged myself out of bed for my morning run around Centennial Park. The bunnies near the old reservoir steps and the endorphins cheered me up for a while, but then reality struck back and I was back at work.

I was sulking at my desk with my second cup of coffee when I stupidly answered my phone without checking the caller ID.

“Griffiths” was all I could manage, and to hell with the niceties.

“Where are you?” My boss. My bloody boss. The Chief.

“Whaddyamean, ‘where are you?'” I hissed into the phone. “I can tell you where I'm not. I'm not in Broome. Remember? You cancelled my leave yesterday.”

“Suck it up, detective. And where's Marco? He's not answering his phone.”

Marco is my partner-in-crime. Detective Marco Maiolo. He's taught me all I know, which is about one-tenth of what he knows. Marco has seen it all, done it all. Twice. And got away with it.

“If you paid attention, chief, you'd know that he's on his way to Italy.” I was starting to whine. “He's on holiday, remember?”

“You're breaking my heart, Maddie. Tell you what. If Marco isn't here, you can use Jack Reynolds. He'll pick you up in fifteen minutes.”

“Who's Jack Reynolds? Never heard of him.”

“He's down from Byron Bay. Constable, but ambitious. An A Lister. Politically connected, so behave yourself, Maddie. Thinks he wants to be a detective, so don't scare him.”

“So you're telling me that I have to break in a virgin?”

“Very good, detective. Outside, in ten minutes, and straight to the Park Hyatt. Then get the wife to formally identify him. And play nice please.”

He was standing next to the squad car. The light was bouncing off his hair and his eyes were clear and sparkling and he just oozed health and goodness. This had to be Constable Jack Reynolds. Oh yummy.

Oh bugger. My hair looked like shit and I hadn't had time for more than a swipe of mascara and some tinted moisturiser. And I could feel my neck going red.

“G'day. You must be Detective Griffiths.” Even his voice sounded good. “I'm Jack. Jack Reynolds.”

“Hi, Jack,” I managed to chirp. Oh my god, did I really say hijack? How original. The blush reached my nose. “Call me Maddie. Everyone else does.” He walked around and opened the car door for me. Wow! I had a Cinderella moment.

“Do you know how to get to the Park Hyatt?” I squeaked.

“I think I can find my way, Maddie. It's on Elizabeth, isn't it?” He was close enough for me to smell him. Clean. Soap, with just a whisper of something else that smelt bloody good to me. My ears caught fire.

Ten minutes later I was standing in a room at the Park Hyatt, looking like a dork in protective overalls and paper shoes, trying to ignore my need-some-caffeine headache and concentrate on the task in hand. Two naked deceased persons. One female, sprawled prone over the body of an elderly man. There were two bullet holes in her back. Her body was slightly diagonal to the supporting body and her face was hidden in a pillow and a mass of dyed red curls. She had a tattoo of a pirate on her right buttock. Classy.

I recognized Jimbo Jameson immediately, but then, who wouldn't? Everyone knew Jimbo, the knockabout larrikin millionaire businessman with a fondness for beer and beautiful women and a talent for creating headlines: he was a dead-set legend to millions of Australian men.

And even in death, he was larger than life. Florid cheeks, trademark ponytail, diamond earring. And a boner. I made a mental note to ensure that the forensic photographer's files were kept locked up. The tabloid press would have a field day with this case and the internet would explode. His body was prone in the middle of the king-sized bed. There was one bullet hole in his forehead and two more punctuated the mat of silver fur covering a barrel chest which tapered to a greying bush circling a disappointingly average circumcised penis that was smeared with what looked like red lipstick and dried cream. His penis and scrotum were
contained within a complicated cock ring, and a penis pump was beside the bed. I may be a detective but I'm still a woman, and I'd often fantasised about what it would be like to fuck Jimbo, but it looked like I hadn't missed much.

His face was purple, swollen, his tongue protruded from his mouth and his eyes bulged in disbelief that he, the great Jimbo, had taken his last breath.

I suppose it was a miracle that he had lived this long. Over his sixty-eight years on this earth he had wooed, cheated, betrayed and manipulated the women in his life, amassed a series of obscene fortunes and catastrophic bankruptcies, spectacular marriages and cataclysmic divorces, and redefined the meaning of burning the candle at both ends.

His father had abandoned him. His mother had worshipped him. His sister adored him. Everyone loved Jimbo. And someone had hated him enough to kill him.

Legend goes that he lost his virginity at ten years of age. Ten was his lucky number: his company was TenTen Holdings, his car rego plates all started with X, and he only ever dated women who rated a “10” on Dudley Moore's Arthur scale. I suppose the fascination with the number also extended to the legend of his prick, but the evidence in front of me showed that an optimistic six was probably more like it.

The forensic photographer moved, giving me a chance to get closer to the body. His chest was slick with blood, and the bedding was soaked. The hole in his head was relatively clean, and there was brain tissue spatter around the pillow and bedhead. Was this a paid hit? I motioned to the photographer to focus on the bullet holes and moved slowly around the body.

The fingers were long and thick. Nails buffed and manicured, and the right pinkie nail was long. Crime Scene Ops scraped under the nails, paying particular attention to the white debris under that nail. Naughty Jimbo. I've seen that before, and I knew what we'd find there and in the nostrils and in his blood. His toenails had also had a manicurist's attention, and were painted black. What is it with some men? Is there a secret society out there for men who get off having their toenails painted? Do they get a buzz from knowing that under their Zegna business suits and their black silk socks they are just naughty little boys?