Dead Heat (41 page)

“Needless to say, guys I interrogated didn’t talk about it. They feared retribution, not just from me, but from their colleagues,
who wouldn’t have appreciated them giving me information without much of a fight.”

“What about the guy in Cairns?”

“He got caught in the middle.” His expression sobered, became withdrawn. “We used to get on okay, and because of that one
fact, the RBG reckoned he was unreliable. So they killed him in a way that set me up for his murder.”

Georgia turned when she heard someone come inside. It was Jill Hodges in her pristine uniform, ready to change Lee’s bandages.

She told Lee that she’d be back that afternoon, and he said, “Come here, Georgia.” He held out a hand.

She put her hand in his, totally unprepared for what he did next. He brought her hand to his mouth. Pressed a kiss in her
palm. Closed her fingers around it.

She was quivering all over. No gesture had ever ignited the passion that now seared through her with such power.

He let go of her hand, said, “See you around, then.”

She didn’t want to go, but Jill Hodges was already beside the bed, asking how her patient was, if he thought he needed something
for the pain, so she walked away on legs like jelly, her palm still tingling from his kiss, and just as she stepped through
the door and into the corridor, he called out, “Car’s all yours, okay?”

I
t took her a little while to settle down after that. She kept glancing at her palm, wondering how someone’s lips could have
such an explosive effect on her body and emotions. Her nerves were still in a tense state of alert, her heart bumping every
time she thought of him.

Her mother chattered away as Georgia drove them back into town. Gradually she felt her composure return and the tingling in
her veins lessen. After she’d dropped her mum at the National she reckoned she’d recovered nicely from the shock of Lee’s
kiss and headed for her caravan on Kee Beach. She tried Chris Cheung on Lee’s mobile, but apparently he was out and wouldn’t
be back until the following day. She didn’t leave a message, just said she’d call back the next morning.

Thinking of making a coffee, she went to the kitchenette, and next to the kettle she saw the piece of paper she’d angrily
scrawled on after speaking with the immigration department, a childlike sketch of a man hanging from a noose. God, how could
she have forgotten . . .

Immediately she yanked out Lee’s mobile and dialed. Zed answered on the second ring.

“Hi, it’s Georgia here. We spoke about the Zhong family.”

Huge silence.

“Zed?”

“I’ve been trying to reach you for ages,” he said, almost gasping. “Your phone isn’t working or something, it’s been driving
me mad. Where have you been? It’s been over a
week.
”

“Sorry. I lost it. Look, did you have any luck keeping Paul in Australia?”

Another silence. Sound of heavy breathing.

“I’m sorry, I’ve some bad news. Really bad news.”

Georgia rested her head on the plastic hood over the stove.
Please, no more.

“I couldn’t stop Paul’s deportation. I’m sorry. He left at the weekend. But there’s more.” Zed’s voice gave a tremor. “I’ve
friends in Beijing. I got a call from them this morning. Apparently Paul was arrested at the airport, when he arrived. He
didn’t have a trial. My friends say he was”—Zed swallowed audibly—“executed two days ago. Shot.”

She didn’t feel any sensation of shock, just a weird feeling of numbness steeped in the anguish of grief. Just as she’d felt
when she’d heard Tom had died. She closed her eyes against the rising tide of tears. Paul had died while she was in bed at
Margaret’s. While she was relishing those cool, clean sheets, caring murmurs lulling her to sleep, Paul had been executed.
Without his wife on the same soil to comfort him, or his daughter, he had died for wanting to be free.

She could feel the warmth of Paul’s handshake, hear his laughter, see his scarred face, his lopsided smile, the way he’d held
his wife’s hand, kissed his daughter’s hair.

“Sorry to be the bearer of bad news.” Zed cleared his throat. “His family will be able to stay, though. I’ve sorted it.”

Georgia cried a long time, and by the time she’d finished mopping up her tears, her mouth and eyes were swollen to twice their
normal size.

A knock on the caravan door.

“Georgia? You there?”

Georgia opened the door. India took one look at her puffy face and said, “What is it?”

Georgia told her. India immediately pulled her into her arms. She hadn’t thought of India being a huggy person, too aloof
and self- controlled for all that, but she gave a damn good hug. Shoulder to shoulder, hip to hip, no holds barred.

“I’m so sorry.” India pulled back and peered in her face. “I’d break open a bottle of beer with you but I’m meant to be driving.”

Wiping her eyes, Georgia said, “You’re going back to Sydney?”

“Yeah. Flying out with SunAir”—she glanced at her watch—“in forty minutes.” Her expression turned anxious. “Will you be okay?
Would you like me to stay?”

“I’d love you to, but there’s no need. I’ll be fine.”

“I don’t have to fly out today.”

Georgia managed a wobbly smile, gripped India’s wrist and gave it a little shake. “I’m fine, honestly.”

“If you’re sure . . . I’d better get a hoof on. You’ll come see me? Give me a big profile to do for the color supplement?
You’ll be famous, you know, unable to show your face on the street.”

“I’ll cope.”

India grinned. “When are you going back?”

Georgia thought of Tilly and the piece of paper in her pocket with Chris Cheung’s number. Just a few more loose ends. “In
a couple of days.”

“What about Daniel Carter?” India’s expression was mischievous. “You seeing him?”

“I’m meeting him for lunch.”

“Now, there’s a hot date. Talk about gorgeous.”

“It’s not a hot date!”

“Sure, and I’m not a reporter about to go and file the second-best story of her life.”

Georgia drove Lee’s Mitsubishi to Mick’s Café to find Daniel sitting on a stool in the café window, reading a newspaper.

As she approached, he folded the paper and got to his feet. He’s lost weight, she realized. His jeans were loose on his hips
and his face had hollowed. She felt an urge to take him to her caravan overlooking Kee Beach and settle him on a sun-lounger
with a bottle of wine while she barbecued a fat sirloin steak, handfuls of sliced onions, and hot garlic bread.

He looked so
gaunt.

“Is something wrong?” he said, frowning.

She tried not to look at the way he’d had to tighten his belt, bunching his jeans into thick denim creases, and said, “I just
heard Paul Zhong got executed.”

“Who’s Paul Zhong?” Georgia turned to see Mick in his blue overalls looking at her with raised eyebrows.

“Nobody from round here,” she replied.

Shrugging, Mick went back to scrubbing a big metal pot with a bunch of steel wool.

“He was executed?” Daniel said. “Jesus . . . what happened?”

She ran through what Zed had told her.

“That’s terrible. His poor wife . . .”

Suddenly distracted, he slid off his stool and put a hand on his front pocket and withdrew his mobile, studied the readout.
“Won’t be a tick.”

Turning away, he said, “Hi, sweetheart . . . Yes, I miss you too, but look, I’m in a meeting right now . . . Yes, love you
too. Yes, I’ll be back soon. Promise I’ll read it to you, cover to cover, and then some more.”

Mobile back in his pocket, he turned back to her. “Sorry about that.”

“Is Tabby okay?”

“Nothing that a dose of Beatrix Potter won’t fix.” Glancing at the laminated menu behind Mick, who was still scrubbing his
pot, he added, “Do you feel like something to eat?”

With Paul’s execution hanging over her, she didn’t feel like eating, but she said, “I think we should.” She gave him a wry
smile. “My shorts feel like they’re going to fall off any minute, and your jeans . . . well, I’ve seen them fit better.”

He grinned, and as usual, her stomach lurched. She heard his voice from the night before—
He did save your life, Georgia
—and saw herself flying to Lee, his old enemy who wasn’t anymore, her heart torn down the center.

“Burgers are good for weight gain,” he said. “I’m planning on the cheese special. Lots of fat and mayo.” He went to the counter,
unfolding his wallet. “Double cheeseburger for me and . . .”

“The all-day brekky, sausage, beans, eggs, bacon, and fries.”

While Mick prepped their food, Daniel came back with a couple of cans of cola, popped his tab, took a long drink. Then he
said, “So what are you up to for the rest of the day? Heading back home?”

“Not yet. I’m going to Dutch’s. I want to tell him everything that’s happened. He’s going to bush-roast a barramundi, but
he did warn me he’d have to catch it first.”

They talked about Dutch briefly, discussed their favorite ways of cooking fish, grilled or fried, with garlic or without,
and when their meal arrived, Georgia took one look at her eggs, sunny side up, the crispy fries and bacon, and her appetite
kicked in. They didn’t speak much as they ate, which she reckoned was a good thing as she could concentrate on her fantastic,
greasy, full-on breakfast without interruption.

She was wiping her plate clean with a fry when he said, “I ought to see Lee this afternoon. I know we owe him an apology,
but . . .” He trailed off and picked at a stray thread hanging from his shirt.

“He said not to bother. He knew it would make you uncomfortable. He seems fine with it.”

“Oh. Right.” Pulling his penknife from his pocket, he clicked open a small blade and cut the thread free, rolled it between
his fingers. “So when do you leave for Sydney?”

“I’m not leaving. Not until I find the saboteur.”

His face smoothed into neutral, just like when they’d first met in Mrs. Scutchings’s kitchen a fortnight ago. His cop face.
“Georgia, didn’t you hear what Patrick said? There’s no
evidence.
”

She leaned forward, her tone fierce. “Bri and Suzie died. I want whoever did it, no matter what.”

“You’re like a dog with a bone once you get started.” He was leaning back, half smiling, but the neutral cop expression was
still there. “I kind of admire your doggedness. You’d make a great police officer.”

She gave a startled laugh. “No thanks!”

“Seriously, Georgia.” His expression turned from neutral cop to concerned friend. “Don’t you think enough is enough? I mean,
it’s not as if the insurance company isn’t paying out.”

“That’s not the point!”

“But nobody’s in the frame. If Yumuru’s vitamins had turned out to be an antibiotic, then it would be a different story, but
as it is . . .”

“What if he planned it? Made sure I took nothing but a sample of vitamins to absolve him?”

Daniel scrunched up his paper napkin, tossed it to one side. “You’re saying that Yumuru knew you were going to come into his
healing center one day, could be any day of the week, any day of the month, to trot into Tilly’s room and grab the syringe?”

“Well, not exactly . . .” She hadn’t thought it through.

He rolled his shoulders and gave a heavy sigh. “It’s really bugging you, isn’t it?”

“Yes.”

She was about to tell him about Chris Cheung when he suddenly seemed to come to a decision and put his elbows on the counter,
steepled his fingers in front of his face.

“Okay.” He dropped his hands, looked at her direct. “So long as I get Becky’s permission, I’ll start an investigation.”

“Oh, Daniel, thank you.”

“But for God’s sake, don’t tell anyone. Least of all Patrick. If he thinks I’m wasting time . . .”

“I won’t say a word.”

“Meantime, I think you should go home. Take a break.”

“No.”

“Jesus, Georgia.” He leaned forward, expression earnest. “Will you just take a look at yourself? You’re obviously at the end
of your rope. Your clothes are hanging off you, you look as though you haven’t slept in weeks . . . You’ve been under enormous
strain lately. Don’t you think you need a change of scenery to get your health into gear?”

“My health is just fine, thank you very much.”

She thanked him for lunch, then grabbed her handbag and stalked out of Mick’s Café without looking back.

Half an hour later Georgia walked toward Lee’s room, and despite her relief that at last Daniel was going to help, she was
still angry. So she was at the end of her rope, was she? Well, talk about the pot calling the kettle black considering his
newly haggard and wasted form. He should try a change of scenery for his own health, dammit.

Giving a brief wave to Dr. Ophir, who’d stitched the palm of her hand after the crash, she strode down the hospital corridor,
wondering where the stringy policeman guarding Lee’s room had gone. No chair. No interminably bored expression. She knocked
on Lee’s door, and entered on a woman’s bright “Come in.”

Georgia pushed open the door, and stopped dead.

The bed was being made and Lee wasn’t there, nor was the pile of well-thumbed magazines. The nurse making the bed was Jill
Hodges, who greeted Georgia with a sympathetic grimace.

“I know. We’re all a bit gobsmacked too. One minute he’s here, the next he’s gone. He left a couple of hours ago. He didn’t
say anything about where he was going.”

“But what about his wounds?” Georgia protested. “Surely he ought to be in hospital?”

“Not according to him.”

Grabbing her mobile, she checked that Lee’s number was still stored on her phone from the night he’d rescued her mother, and
dialed. A woman’s monotone answered: “Sorry, this number is unavailable. Please check the number and try again.” She suddenly
remembered him saying, “Car’s all yours,” and felt a clutch of panic beneath her breastbone. He’d already had a plan . . .
he’d been telling her the Mitsubishi really
was
all hers. He knew he’d be leaving.

“Did he go by taxi?” She was almost gasping. “Did someone pick him up? Did you see?”