‘Has Nick contacted you again?’ I asked.
She shook her head as she chewed.
‘You don’t have any contact details for Desiree, do you?’ I asked. ‘An address or phone number?’ I really didn’t want to get Curtis involved.
‘She’s pretty private. Hardly anyone knows her real name, although I think Nick might have. All I have is an email and a post office box.’
‘No worries. She does her radio show tonight so I’ll see if I can “bump” into her at the station. Speaking of agents, you know anything about Rod’s, Brendan Whatsit?’
‘There’s been a lot of speculation about that guy. Rod doesn’t even need an agent. I mean, you’ve met him, he’s pretty assertive and brokers most of the deals himself. Brendan doesn’t do much except handle the contracts and apparently Rod pays him a
lot
more than ten percent.’
‘Why?’
‘Your guess is as good as mine. Is he Rod’s bum boy? His illegitimate son? An old friend he owed and wanted to give a ride to? Believe me, this has been discussed ad nauseum at cocktail parties and writers’ festivals for years. No one knows. I’ve never actually met him. What’s he like?’
‘Bit of a weasel.’ I told her about our lunch.
‘He doesn’t seem to have liked Isabella. Do you think . . . ?’
‘Don’t get your hopes up. I’ll have a bit of a dig, though. Can’t discount anything at this stage.’ I ate a couple of forkfuls of chicken salad. ‘Another person I can’t reach is Victoria Hitchens. I’ve tried everything. Any contacts?’
Liz thought about it while she brushed crumbs from her mouth. She bundled up the paper napkin and laid it on top of the sandwich. She’d only taken two bites.
‘You doing anything New Year’s Eve?’ she said.
‘Why?’
‘Victoria’s having a combined New Year’s Eve party and book launch on a boat on the Yarra. Great view of the fireworks, tickets are the hottest property in town.’
‘How would I get one?’
Liz reached down the side of her chair and pulled her big, caramel-coloured leather handbag onto her lap. She retrieved a long wallet with lots of compartments, slid out a slender envelope and waved it in front of my face. I opened it to find a gold embossed invitation.
Victoria Hitchens and Caravelle Press
cordially invite you to a masked ball to celebrate the launch
of Victoria’s new bestseller
Masquerade
New Year’s Eve
7 pm to late
MV Neptuna
Crown Promenade
Mandatory Fancy Dress
‘Her publicist used to work with me at Wet Ink,’ Liz explained.
‘Won’t she be disappointed you’re not there?’
‘There’ll be so many people she won’t even notice. And the last thing I feel like is a party, everyone staring, asking me questions about Nick.’
‘You don’t happen to have an outfit, do you?’
‘Yeah, I got one made, but . . .’
‘What?’
‘No way it’ll fit you.’
I stopped chasing around the last piece of chicken with my fork.
‘I’m not saying you’re fat,’ she said, seeing the look on my face, ‘just more muscular, sort of . . . broad around the back.’
Nice save, sorta.
‘No worries. I’ll go to a costume hire shop.’
She frowned.
‘What?’
‘I was talking to a friend the other day who’s going. Every costume place in town seems to be out of masquerade ballgowns. My friend actually flew to Sydney to hire something, maybe—’ ‘By masquerade ball we’re talking those corseted, Frenchy,
Dangerous Liaisons
style outfits, right?’
‘Uh-huh.’
‘I’ve got it covered.’
Liz raised her eyebrows.
I did. I’d remembered that one of Chloe’s girls’d had something made for a Marie Antoinette-turns-porno-slut themed show. I was sure she’d let me borrow it if the price was right.
A
fter lunch I strolled around Albert Park for a while, wandering into shops, touching jewelled candle holders and embroidered pillow cases that I couldn’t afford and didn’t really want anyway. The sales assistants seemed to sense it and after a few snooty looks I was back out on the footpath, at a loose end. I was too wired for another coffee, couldn’t have a real drink because that’d wipe out the rest of the day, and I still had five hours until Desiree’s sex-advice show. Going home or to the office was out of the question as I didn’t want my mad stalker to pick up my trail, at least not until I had Tony there to watch my back. I passed a sportswear shop, which reminded me I really ought to put in a couple of hours at the gym, but I didn’t have my gear. Unless . . .
Half an hour later and five hundred bucks broker I walked out of the shop with a whole new workout outfit, including shoes and socks. The bill had taken my breath away, but shit, I needed new runners and had hardly spent any of the money Liz had paid me for the job.
The gym was opposite the Elsternwick railway station and sat above a chicken shop on Glenhuntly Road. If the wind was right you could smell chips and gravy in the aerobics room. It was a big barn of a place and not the slightest bit stylish or trendy, which suited me fine. The women dressed in bike shorts and big floppy t-shirts, and most of the men had abundant back hair and wore nylon running shorts that ballooned at the thigh so you could see their jocks, if they were wearing any.
I felt out of place in my new, matching cotton-lycra tights and sleeveless tank, but soldiered on nonetheless, doing an hour on the treadmill then another of free weights for every muscle I knew of, and some I didn’t. By the time I’d finished my legs were so wobbly I barely made it down the stairs to the change room.
After the gym I called Sean and told him I had something important to tell him. He was finishing at nine and we arranged to meet at a bar in the Royce Hotel, right across the street from the St Kilda Road Police Complex and walking distance from the radio station in Southbank where Desiree was doing her show.
I parked my butt on a low cinderblock wall opposite ROCK FM at seven o’clock, an hour before Desiree’s broadcast was due to start. The area was semi-industrial and the building two storeys of brick, with mirrored windows and double doors out front. I’d peeked through when I first arrived and saw a security guard behind a perspex screen. Looked like everyone had to sign in before gaining entry and I hoped that applied to Desiree too. I remembered her and Chloe’s mini-catfight at the writers’ festival, Chloe saying,
like, that’s your real name?
, and I wondered what it actually was. Kylie? Bertha? Liz had told me Nick knew, but I couldn’t ask him.
It was still light and I flipped through my file on Nick while I waited. I was just coming to the depressing realisation that my internet printouts and scribbled notes led to absolutely nothing when a sleek black Mercedes with tinted windows pulled up, a driver in front and two figures in the rear. The man in the back, a chunky guy in a dark suit, jumped out, ran around to the other side of the car and opened the door. A tall woman with a sleek red bob stepped out.
I ran across the road towards her, stuffing the file back into my bag.
‘Desiree!’
I was totally unprepared for what happened next. The chunky guy came at me and shouldered me in the chest, and I dropped like a G-string at a buck’s party. The driver, thinner and dressed in the same kind of suit, ran over. Both of them pulled guns.
‘Get on your front! Hands where we can see ’em!’
I was too winded to move and lay on my back wheezing, attempting to suck in air.
‘Whoa, guys, hold up, I know her.’ Desiree laid manicured fingernails on the first guy’s enormous besuited bicep, and he reluctantly lowered his arm. ‘Simone Kirsch, right? I met you at the Summer Sessions. Curtis’ friend?’
I couldn’t actually talk so I nodded yes to the name question and shook my head for the Curtis one. The men re-holstered their weapons, and the driver held out a hand to help me up. I stood up, doubled over until I got my breath back.
Desiree wore a knee-length pencil skirt and a tight, vaguely S&M-looking halterneck top. ‘Sorry about that,’ she said, ‘they thought you were someone else.’
‘Who?’ I panted.
She ignored my question. ‘What are you doing here?’
‘I need to talk to you about Nick Austin.’
‘I don’t think so.’
As she walked away I grabbed her wrist and the suits advanced. When I let go they backed off, just.
‘Do you know where he is?’
‘Of course not.’
‘Do you think he killed Isabella?’
‘No.’ She crossed her arms.
‘Who did?’
‘I have no idea. What’s it to you, anyway?’
‘I’m trying to help Nick, and you’re not doing him any favours by lying.’
Desiree sucked in her cheeks and lifted her Roman nose. The big guys were looking over, ready to shoulder me again, so I inched forward, speaking quick and quiet.
‘I think whoever killed Isabella is after Nick and they’re also after you. Why else would you have armed bodyguards?’
‘The books I write ensure I get more than my fair share of strange fans.’
‘You didn’t have security at the festival.’
She turned to leave. I didn’t dare approach with the goons ready to go me, but I did raise my voice.
‘Why does somebody want to off you? What does it have to do with the money Nick’s paying?’
Nothing.
‘For fuck’s sake, Desiree, I’m on your side.’
She was ignoring me, climbing the steps to the radio station, when in an instant it became clear. How could I have been so stupid? Bodyguards.
Like, that’s your real name?
Nick in my flat telling me to warn—
‘Nerida!’
She stopped, slowly turned.
‘After Nick was shot he said to warn Nerida and J somebody. You’re Nerida, aren’t you?’ I was talking softly so the bodyguards couldn’t hear.
She paused like she was wrestling with something.
‘I was Nerida Saunders. I’m not anymore.’
‘How did Nick contact you?’
She didn’t answer, just shook her head, but something in her face seemed to soften and I pushed on, sure I was in with a chance.
‘Then who’s J?’ I kept my voice low. ‘Is it short for Jason or Jayden or what? Has Nick warned him, too?’
She chose her words carefully, clearly not prepared to admit to any contact with Nick. ‘Nobody can find JJ.’
‘JJ?’
‘He’s a poet . . .’ Her eyes misted over for a second and she wobbled slightly on her heels. I wouldn’t have been surprised if she’d sunk to the concrete step, rested her head on her knees and started to cry, but she didn’t. She blinked rapidly, straightened her back, sniffed and checked her watch. ‘I have to go.’
‘Do you want me to try and find JJ?’
‘Stay out of it, Simone, unless you want to end up like Isabella.’ She put her hand on the door handle, started to push.
‘Desiree, what’s this all about?’ I pleaded. ‘Give me a hint, at least.’
‘You want advice?’ Her face was composed now, all hard planes, sharp cheekbones, Cleopatra eyes glittering like a cat’s.
‘Anything.’
‘How’s this? False fingernails and anal stimulation just don’t mix. It’s from chapter three.’ She opened her handbag and handed over two books wrapped in black fishnet and held together by hot pink ribbon. A fuchsia sticker announced ‘Sizzling Summer Reads, Two for One Special’. The first was her autobiography, the second the sex tips.
‘Christmas promotion,’ Desiree muttered, then looked over my head and addressed the guards in a clipped tone. ‘Make sure she’s gone by the time I’ve finished my show.’ She slipped inside the station.
Damnit. She knew exactly why Nick had run and she wasn’t going to tell me. I wondered if Curtis had an inkling as to what was going on. It would mean I’d have to talk to him and he’d find out I was up to something, but maybe that was a sacrifice I had to make.
What was the connection between Desiree, Nick, Isabella and this JJ dude? Who wanted to off a bunch of writers, why, and how the hell was I gonna find out?
I followed the short concrete path back down to the roadway. One of the guards had the boot up and was removing a bucket full of rags and car polish. Inside were two Louis Vuitton suitcases, stacked on top of each other.
‘Desiree going somewhere?’ I asked.
The guy straightened up and slammed the trunk.
‘Piss off.’ He pointed.
‘Sure.’ I stuck my hands in my pockets and started down the street. The sun had just set and bright orange clouds streaked the darkening indigo sky. It was almost time to meet Sean. I walked to the end of the road and turned left, pretty sure the street I was on was parallel to St Kilda Road. If I kept going for a couple of blocks I’d be able to hang a left and hopefully pop out not far from the police complex and the bar.
As I walked, my mind raced. I didn’t know shit, really, but discovering that Desiree was Nerida made me feel like I was finally getting somewhere.
I was curious about the Desiree/Nick connection. He was the only one aware of her real name, as far as I knew. Had they had a fling? At least I had another avenue to investigate. I also wondered what JJ the poet’s story was, and itched to get on the internet and do a search. If I couldn’t find out anything on publicly available sites then maybe I could get Tony Torcasio to check everyone out on one of the many databases he subscribed to.
Where the hell was the street that connected to St Kilda Road? I kept trying to turn left, but ran into lanes blocked by brick buildings that made up the arse end of the Victorian College of the Arts. Irritating, because I ached from the gym, my hip and shoulder smarted from where I’d connected with the tarmac, and I was sweating in the heat. I badly wanted to flop into a comfy chair at the Amberoom and could practically taste the glass of crisp, cold sparkling I was determined to order.
The sky was darkening and the air glimmered with that mysterious twilight afterglow. Urban crickets, hiding in the walls of converted factories and scrappy patches of weeds, started their summer-evening chorus. In the distance trams dinged their bells, and I heard cars swishing across the Kingsway overpass en route to the airport or the western suburbs.