Bones of Contention (22 page)

Chapter Thirty-eight

Keeping her eyes peeled for the tan car, she doubled back to the hotel. She crossed the hotel parking lot on hyper alert and hurried into the Crocodile’s open jaws. Who was following her? Was he a hit man for Wendell, a private eye for Cleon, a spy for Jacko? No, he wasn’t one of Jacko’s men. She’d heard the guy order lunch and he was definitely an American.

Safely back in her room, she fastened the door chain and placed a chair under the knob. No one from the lodge could know where she was and she hadn’t noticed anyone on her tail when she left Katherine. Was she overreacting?

She mixed a gin and tonic and reconsidered her decision to play detective, acknowledging that if she gave proper thought to these crazy impulses in the first place she’d have a lot less reconsidering to do. In light of the stalker, she was feeling less sanguine about going all the way to Black Point. If Hambrick had gone there by land, he would have had to come through Jabiru. If she couldn’t turn up a sharp-eyed witness who’d seen him here, she needn’t press her luck any farther. Tonight, she would go around to a few local hangouts, show the photos she’d brought, and hope for the best. So long as she kept her eyes open and did her detecting in public places, she’d be fine.

The Manila envelope with her mother’s letter lay on the desk, mocking her. If she had the least iota of courage, she’d open it and read it right now. It was probably the farewell letter Lucien said Swan had written to Cleon. Her swan song to a dying man. No doubt it would be edifying. The dead had no use for postscripts.

She left the letter where it lay, lit a cigarette and went out onto the balcony. She didn’t go back inside until dark.

***

She found the Jabiru Sports and Social Club behind a gas station next to the lake. The club was well lit, but the closest parking space seemed a very long, dark way from the front door. A trace of fear skittered along her nerve endings. She opened the Rav’s window a crack. The shrilling of a thousand frogs pervaded the night and the acrid smell of wood smoke leached in through the vents. There was nobody in sight.

A bleary crescent moon loitered over the lake. She scanned the shoreline. A dead log floated in the shadows not four feet from her front bumper. A dead log or a croc disguised as a dead log? She shivered.

“Don’t think about it,” she said out loud. She closed the window, shut off the engine and scuttled toward the door.

Once inside the restaurant, her fears dissipated. There was a mixed crowd, black and white, and a general hail-fellow ambience. She took a small table close to the kitchen, quickly ordered the pork almond ding and the squid in black bean sauce, and settled down to people-watch. She had her newspaper photos of Fisher and Hambrick at the ready, but looking around at all the good cheer and normalcy, she began to get cold feet. How could she just barge up to a stranger and start quizzing him or her about a grotesque murder?

“This is your first day in Jabiru or I would have noticed you,” said a sonorous male voice behind her. He was tall for an Aborigine with inky black skin, a masonry of large, square teeth, and rows of raised, bead-like scars across his forehead.

“I just arrived this afternoon,” she said, feeling lucky. Was it possible that the nosiest man in town had found her first? “My name is Mallory Hayes.”

“Please call me Bill. My last name is formidable, an encumbrance needed only when filling out forms.” His accent wasn’t Australian, but Mack had expanded her ideas of what sounded and looked Aboriginal. Maybe Bill was another member of the Lost Generation, raised in New Guinea or someplace where scars were fashionable.

“May I join you, Ms. Hayes?”

“Certainly.”

He sat down, sipping some sort of liqueur.

“Do you live here in Jabiru, Bill?”

“Yes, Jabiru has been my home for the last five years. I find life here more spiritually fulfilling. In the age of electronic communication, one can arbitrage from the back of beyond.”

Bill was larding it on pretty thick, making sure she understood that he was a cut above the ordinary denizens of Jabiru. He was obviously in love with the sound of his own voice, but she was willing to chum the waters for a few minutes in hopes of catching a useful lead.

She said, “How fascinating. What sorts of commodities do you deal in?”

“Wheat, ethanol, financial instruments. One must be flexible.”

She said, “I was thinking exactly the same thing earlier today.”

“Are you here with a tour?” he asked.

“No. I’m an investigative reporter with the
London Times
.”

“I knew it! You have the perceptive eyes of a journalist. What is it that you’re investigating?”

“The murder of another journalist. Bryce Hambrick.”

“A terrible thing. It was in all the papers. Was he a colleague?” His voice was tumescent with concern.

“No. But my paper is giving the story a lot of coverage.”

He nodded. “What do you journalists say? If it bleeds, it leads? Well-known journalist brutally murdered in an exotic location, no suspects. The public is voracious and must be fed. But what brings you to Jabiru? Mr. Hambrick was murdered on an island belonging to the Tiwi people.”

She said, “The Cobourg Peninsula isn’t all that far from Melville by water. I’m looking into the possibility that Mr. Hambrick passed through Arnhem Land on his way to Melville. I know you must have seen his picture on the news.” She brought out the newspaper with Hambrick’s picture and showed it to him. “Did you by any chance see him come through Jabiru?”

He scrutinized it for a hundred years, give or take. “No. I don’t think so. I’m probably just remembering the photograph.”

Her food came. She picked at it and looked around the room for another interview prospect. “Do many people go overland to Black Point?”

“Not many,” said Bill. “One must have a permit, of course, to go on to Oenpelli. It’s nearly three hundred kilometers from there and the track is quite arduous, often impassable.”

“I assume there’s no record of Hambrick applying for a permit to travel overland through Arnhem Land, but is it possible he could have been a passenger in someone else’s vehicle? A local? Or somebody who did apply for a permit?”

“Of course. There is no cause to search private vehicles.”

She said, “A friend of mine thinks that Hambrick may have taken a boat from Black Point.”

“There are no boat rentals. He could have met someone there who had a boat.”

She seemed to have garnered all the info Bill had to offer and was wondering how to politely send him on his way. There was one last question and she could think of no way to couch it that didn’t risk giving offense. Substance abuse was the bête noire of every Aboriginal culture the world over, but if anybody in Jabiru could parry an embarrassing question, it was this dude.

“Bill, has there been any scuttlebutt in the community about drug smuggling?”

“Drugs?” His smile flattened.

Uh-oh. “I’m sure the people of Arnhem Land aren’t involved, but I have reason to believe that Black Point is a port of call for something illegal.”

“Black Point would hardly rank as a port.”

“Drop site then. Maybe it’s not drugs. It could be weapons or currency. Any type of contraband. It’s possible that Bryce Hambrick uncovered the operation by accident while reporting another story or,” she hadn’t thought of this before, “he could have
been
one of the smugglers and there was a falling-out among thieves.” She pulled out the obituary of Desmond Fisher and showed Bill his picture. “I think this man was one of the smugglers.”

Bill’s forehead corrugated in thought, making the scars bulge. “He wore a sun hat with flaps that covered the sides of his face, but yes. This man was here.”

Dinah’s toes twinged. “Sixtyish, salt-and-pepper hair and beard, safari jacket? He’s kind of an Ernest Hemingway lookalike?”

“Yes. Desmond Fisher. He gave me his name. He talked to me about making a living will.”

This was too good to be true, wasn’t it? “When was this?”

“About two weeks ago. He ate here at the Social Club with a tour guide named Zachariah. The two conducted themselves as if they were, how shall I say, up to no good.” He smiled at his colloquialism.

“What did they do that struck you wrong?”

“Their slyness, their deportment.”

Deportment? Dinah made a special effort not to throttle him. Was he spinning her some kind of an intrigue in order to get his name in the paper? With his jones for attention, he wasn’t above spinning. She pressed him for particulars. “Did Fisher say where they were going? Did you hear anything about their plans?”

“They had bought camping supplies. Dr. Fisher said they were going to hunt pig. Zachariah owns a four-wheel-drive vehicle. They were loading it with propane tanks, ice chests, and so forth. They could have gone on to Black Point. It’s about a six hour drive from the East Alligator crossing. Perhaps they had someone with a boat waiting for them there.”

Dinah was used to coincidences. Coincidences rained cats and dogs in her world. Why should she shy away from this one? Jabiru was a small town, Fisher was a big gasbag, and Bill was a disinterested witness. There were probably other witnesses whom Jacko would find when he brought his investigative team to Jabiru.

Bill said, “I have a friend who works in the Visitor Center at Black Point. He has a good memory for faces. He will know if Hambrick or Fisher boarded a boat from his dock. I’ll speak to him in the morning and arrange a meeting so you can show him the photos.”

Her skin tickled. This was the classic had-I-but-known scenario. A guy has a vital clue and promises to reveal all, but he can’t talk right now. He’ll do it tomorrow. Inevitably, he’s dead as a mackerel by sunrise. “Can’t we talk to him tonight?”

“I can try to reach him if he is in town. Where are you staying, Mallory?”

“The Crocodile.”

In her excitement, she’d forgotten to eat. She asked the waiter for a doggy bag and told Bill to call her the instant he got hold of his friend. “And tell him to be extra careful.”

“No worries, Mallory.” He showed her a toothy smile.

She flashed to the croc masquerading as a log and asked him to walk her to her car.

Chapter Thirty-nine

The Crocodile was lit up like a Star Wars set. Before getting out of the car, she looked around carefully for any sign of the tan car or the shaven-headed man. She kept a hand on the Glock inside her tote as she walked from her car into the hotel. The dazzlingly bright lobby was empty, which heightened her heebie-jeebies. She ran up the Croc’s left front leg to the second floor, and down the backbone into the safety of her room.

Once inside, she locked and chained the door and buttressed the desk chair under the knob. The room was cold as Siberia. The dials on the air conditioner wouldn’t budge and she left the sliding glass balcony door open to let in some warm air. The courtyard below appeared deserted. Strange ferns billowed in a dry breeze and threw eerie shadows across the pond. The rooms on the other side were dark behind their heavy drapes, but somebody had left his balcony door open and a TV gunfight resounded through the night. Across the courtyard catty-cornered from her room, a red ember caught her eye. Somebody was standing on his balcony smoking a cigarette. Smoking and watching.

She closed and locked the door and pulled the drapes. A large moth of a particularly repulsive type followed her inside and she grabbed the room service menu and went after it. She lost it under the bedside table where she discovered a hole in the drywall with a stubble of wires poking through. It was an unfinished electrical socket. Anarctic temperatures, live wires, loathsome insects. It almost made her homesick for Crow Hill. Almost.

She lost the moth under the bed and could only hope that he fried on a hot wire or froze to death before lights out. Freezing, herself, she snatched the bedspread off the bed, wrapped it around her shoulders, and paced. The same TV shoot-’em-up was blasting through the wall from her next-door neighbor’s room. Probably some international spin-off of
Law and Order
. In a fit of recidivism, she thought of Nick. If she didn’t hate him so comprehensively, he’d be the perfect person to talk to right now.

There had to be something constructive she could do while waiting for Bill’s Black Point friend to weigh in. She reread the
Darwin Star
’s account of Hambrick’s murder. The body was discovered by Tiwi fishermen who notified the territorial police. The remains had been exposed to the elements for several days and the exact time of death could not be determined. There was the requisite rundown of blood and guts; a quote from the police about the dearth of suspects; an overview of Hambrick’s career; a summary of the articles he’d written while on assignment Down Under and their possible relevance to his murder; and at the very bottom of the inverted pyramid of facts, the announcement of a wake to be held by the deceased’s mates at the Ducks Nuts Bar & Grill in Darwin.

Only in Oz, thought Dinah. If his wake was held at the Ducks Nuts, Hambrick was evidently a regular. Maybe he’d confided something juicy to one or more of his fellow elbow-benders. The wake was a week ago, but maybe one of them was enjoying a brew there right now. Q and A over the telephone would be a crap shoot, but nothing ventured, nothing gained.

She was on hold for a long time, during which she considered what story would get the most bang for the bull. She could pose as a reporter from London or some faraway place, but the Ducks Nuts was probably a watering hole for reporters like Hambrick. His murder was their scoop and they’d be none too keen to share it.

She could pose as a detective. Just a few more questions if you don’t mind. But even if she could pull off a credible Aussie accent, Jacko would’ve left his calling card and anyway, impersonating a cop was a prosecutable offense pretty much everywhere.

Hambrick wasn’t married and in the photo he looked unkempt enough to chance that he wasn’t gay. What about an old girlfriend come to town for a visit who’s just heard the sad news?

“Nuts. You want somebody paged?” The voice was irascible.

“Yes, please. Bryce Hambrick’s best friend.”

There was a pause. “Who’s this?”

“A friend from the U.S. He told me he hung out at the bar when he wasn’t working and I…Please, I only just found out…” she embellished her ruse with a small, dry sob, “I have to talk to somebody who loved him as much as I did.”

“Bloody hell.” There was a thunk. Over the sounds of the crowd, she heard, “Hey, Sam! Some sheila says…”

Gay after all? Dinah wished she knew anything at all about Bryce Hambrick’s life, but then that was the point of this phone call.

“Is that you, Mary Ann?” It was a woman, whiskey-voiced, brusque. “If I’d known your last name or your address, I’d have written you a letter.”

Could it be she was unacquainted with Mary Ann? Dinah finessed it. “Bryce and I were supposed to meet in Darwin and take a trip into Kakadu National Park, but I arrived and, well, you know.”

“I do know,” said the woman. “I know that you’re a liar and you’ve got a hell of a lot of nerve. Who are you and what do you want?”

The penny dropped. “There isn’t a Mary Ann, is there?”

“I’m Mary Ann and if he had anything on the side, I’d have murdered Bryce, myself.”

“You and he were more than friends, then?”

“Who wants to know and why?”

Stumped for another lie, Dinah fell back on the truth. “My name’s Dinah Pelerin and I…”

“You’re staying at the lodge where Desmond Fisher died.”

“That’s right. How’d you know that?”

“Friends where they count. Why’d you lie?”

“Because I think I know who’s behind his murder, but I need some corroborating facts.”

“And I’d need to know how you come into the business before I’d give you the time of day.”

“I was dragged into the business because my family is under suspicion for Hambrick’s murder and Fisher’s, too. If you can tell me anything he may have said about the story he was working on or his itinerary or the people he talked to or planned to talk to…”

“Fisher was murdered?”

Dinah felt blindsided. First bitten by a lie, then by the truth. “Are you a reporter, Mary Ann?”

“Mary Ann Becker of the
Star
. The police aren’t calling it murder. What do you know?”

“Nothing yet. But I think I’m onto something important in Jabiru and if you’ll help me out, maybe I can get you an exclusive.”

“You think the two murders are connected?”

“Yes.”

“What is it you want and what do you have to barter?”

Omitting names and specifics that might boomerang on her in three hundred point boldface in tomorrow’s headlines, Dinah bartered. “I think Bryce stumbled onto a drug smuggling operation.”

“Drugs? Why haven’t the police homed in on this?”

“They haven’t seen what I’ve seen,” answered Dinah.

“Okay. Here’s the poop on Bryce. He was a political heretic, always looking for a pet cause to debunk or a pious halo to knock cock-a-hoop. The party line, anybody’s party line, he took as a personal challenge, a balloon he just had to pop. He twice won the Pringle for excellence in journalism, but he wasn’t a snob and he never was…” she broke off with a frog in her throat.

Until now, Hambrick had been for Dinah an abstraction, the faceless victim of a ghastly murder, devoid of personality. Mary Ann’s little eulogy humanized him. She said, “It must be hard for you to talk about him.”

“No use getting mawkish. But he would’ve hated to die like a character in a bloody Crocodile Dundee flick.” She laughed. “Although he did wear one of those hats with croc teeth on the hatband. At five feet four, he looked as if the croc had bitten off the top half and corked the rest for later, but Bryce thought it made him look less of a Pommie.”

Endearing, but not the kind of poop Dinah had hoped to get. “And Bryce never mentioned anything or anyone that he might have been investigating in Arnhem Land?”

“Not to me. He was there a couple of months ago doing a story on white poachers harvesting prime didgeridoo timber for mass production by non-Aborigines. Evidently, there’s quite a burgeoning global market. He came back complaining about Nigerian hustlers harassing the tourists. He said anyone not from Australia wouldn’t realize they weren’t Aborigines and might be taken in.”

Dinah felt ill. “How did he know the hustlers were Nigerian?”

“Oh, he’d spent a lot of time in Nigeria. He recognized the ritual scars of some tribe or other. Yoruba, I think it was.”