Private Oz (6 page)

I HADN’T EXPECTED that. Was the guy high? Was he crazy? Drug damaged maybe? I looked into his face. He seemed stone-cold sober, which was pretty amazing since he’d just drunk about a fifth of Bourbon. Actually he looked pretty cool, reminded me of Robbie Williams. Hemi seemed comfortable, hands in lap staring at the art. I was glad about that at least.

“Okay, Micky. What makes you think that?” I asked.

“I’m worth more dead than alive.”

“That doesn’t mean …”

“The bastard’s bent. I’ve been with him for three years. He picked me up when I was at my lowest point after leaving my old band. He’s a ruthless mother. You need that in a manager, but I know he wants me snuffed out.” Micky clicked his fingers in front of his face.

“If you really think that, why don’t you leave him?” Johnny asked and glanced at me for affirmation.

Micky laughed. “Wish I could!
Really
wish I could. But I’m bound by a watertight contract. Parker has me by the balls.”

“There must be …” I began.

“Listen, Craig, you’ve gotta understand. Forget it … There’s
no way out of the contract.” He drew a deep breath. “Look, man, it’s all about Club 27.”

I flicked a glance at Johnny. He stared back, shrugged.

“What is Club 27?” I asked.

“Christ! You don’t know?”

“Sorry.”

“Almost every dead pop star checked out when they were twenty-seven.”

“Really?” I turned to Johnny who seemed suddenly animated.

“Actually, yeah, that’s right,” he said.

“Kurt, Jimi, Janis, Jim Morrison, Amy Winehouse … it’s a mighty long list, man,” Micky added.

“So?” I said.

“Dude … I’m twenty-six.”

“WELL WHAT DO you make of that?” I asked Johnny as the doors of the elevator closed on Micky Stevens and Hemi.

“Seems genuinely scared, boss.”

We walked back into reception and saw Colette on the phone. She did well to disguise the fact that she was telling a friend about what had just happened. I frowned and she quickly hung up.

Johnny settled himself back into the chair he’d been in before the rock star visitation. I sat behind my desk, put my feet up on the walnut.

“Refresh my memory,” I said. “I was never a big fan. He was in Fun Park, right? Before he went solo and became a massive star.”

“Yeah, granddad,” Johnny replied with a grin.

“I’m more a Nirvana and Chili Peppers kinda guy.”

“Fair enough. Fun Park were big. Three No. 1 singles, a hit album. They’ve just reformed without Micky.”

“But his solo career eclipsed his old band, right?”

“Definitely. He is … was, huge.”

“Was?”

“Gone off a bit recently. Last hit was well over a year ago.”

“Which is an eternity when most of your fans are five- or six-year-olds!”

Johnny laughed. “A bit of an exaggeration!”

“Okay,” I said suddenly serious. “Could he just be delusional? He obviously has issues.”

“I guess we have to take him seriously,” Johnny offered.

“We do? Why?” I paused a beat. “Look, okay. I get it. He’s Micky Stevens … megastar and, I dunno, he seems like a pretty nice guy. But do we believe him?”

“We obviously need to know a lot more about his manager.”

“Alright,” I said firmly and lowered my legs from the table. “Let’s take Micky seriously – at least until we know otherwise.”

Johnny seemed to be lost in thought.

“I reckon this one’s for you, Johnny.”

“Me? On my own?”

“Most definitely. Right up your alley.”

He gulped. “Okay, boss … well … thanks … I guess!”

Twenty-four Hours Ago.

GEOFF HEWES HAD told himself years ago that he should never show that he was impressed by anything, especially rich men and their big houses.
Most
especially when those rich men in big houses were the ones he did business with. But whenever he went to Al Loretto’s palatial home in Point Piper it was a struggle.

A real English butler led him through to a vast conservatory at the back of the house. It overlooked a fifty-yard pool surrounded by palm trees. From each end six-foot-long gold-plated dolphins spewed water, a giant marble mermaid rose up on a plinth in the center of the pool. Loretto was sitting in one of a pair of vast wicker chairs at the far end of the glass-walled chamber. He was wearing a silver colored silk robe and reading the
Sydney Morning Herald
. The butler retreated leaving Geoff standing a couple of yards from Loretto. Aside from the water-vomiting dolphins, the room was silent.

Loretto lowered the paper saying nothing, forcing Geoff to speak first.

“You wanted a chat, Al.”

“Not happy, Geoffrey.
Really
not happy.”

Geoff flicked a glance at the other wicker chair. Loretto saw the gesture and ignored it.

“May I?” Geoff asked and pointed to the seat.

“No, you may not.”

“Okay,” Geoff drawled. “What’s up, Al?”

“What’s up Al?” Loretto mimicked, putting on a silly voice. “I’ll tell you what’s fucking up, Geoffrey. You are lucky I’m even talking to you. I should have just had you popped in the head.” And he made the appropriate gesture with his fingers at his left temple.

Geoff knew what he was talking about. He’d known what this was about when he received the call from Al Loretto’s assistant’s assistant that afternoon.

Loretto was out of the chair, his nose a foot from Geoff’s. “Don’t fuck with me.” He punctuated each word with a finger poke to Geoff’s shoulder. By the third one, it hurt, but Hewes couldn’t show it. “You didn’t take the cameras out my brothels.”

Geoff took a deep breath, feeling sweat bleed from his pores.

“I wanted to talk to you …”

“There’s nothing … got that? Nothing to talk about, Geoffrey. The salient point here is that I asked you very nicely to take the cameras out of the brothels and you did not acquiesce.” Another harder finger poke.

Geoff pulled back, eyes blazing, went to grab Al Loretto’s hand and missed. The finger stabbed him in the neck.

“Fuck you!” He took a swing and found himself pinned to the ground by two hundred and fifty pounds of security. He hadn’t even seen the guy appear.

A fist landed in Geoff’s face smashing his nose. A second
blow hit him in the cheek so hard he thought his head was about to split open. Then he was being pulled up to his feet and Al Loretto was smiling at him.

“Geoffrey, Geoffrey … why are you doing this to yourself? Just when I thought we were becoming such good friends.”

Blood streamed down from Geoff’s nostrils, ran over his lips, dripped to the floor.

“Take him to the basement,” Loretto hissed.

STACY FRIEL’S HUSBAND, David, had a very smart office on the forty-fifth floor of Citigroup Tower in the CBD. Greta had eased my path with a call earlier in the day. A secretary showed me in. David Friel got up from his desk and offered a firm handshake. He was tall and athletic, graying at the temples and wearing a conservative tailored suit. I hadn’t met him before, but he had the aura of a man who had aged ten years during the past forty-eight hours.

“You haven’t taken compassionate leave, Mr. Friel?”

“I was offered it of course,” he said, his voice a smooth baritone. “But I didn’t see the point. Why would I want to kick around the house? If I’m working I can focus on something other than …”

“Makes sense.”

Friel was in a daze I realized, no inflection in his voice, face expressionless. It was a state I recognized immediately.

“I’ve given a full report to the police. Not sure what more I can …” He trailed off again.

“Look, Mr. Friel, I know this is tough, but I have to ask some personal questions. I need to get some background. I appreciate it’s a raw time. I understand.”

“You do?”

I looked around at the white walls, a Balinese wall-hanging softening things a little. “I lost my wife and son three years ago.”

He stared into my eyes, his expression still vacant.

“An accident,” I added. It felt strange speaking about it with a complete stranger. It was something I never discussed. Perhaps it was simple empathy. I really could feel what the poor guy was going through.

He shrugged. “Ask away.”

I paused for a second. “Were you happily married, Mr. Friel?”

“As far as I’m concerned, I was. I think Stace was … And, I’ll save you asking, Mr. Gisto. I wasn’t having an affair, and I’m pretty sure my wife wasn’t either. I do realize this is your first port of call. It would make life easier if she had been … or if
I
was, I guess.”

“Okay, sensitive question No. 2. Money. Everything alright?”

He waved a hand around. “I’m third in line to the throne.”

Seeing my puzzled expression, he added, “Sorry, in-joke. There’s the boss, Max Llewellyn, then his son, then me. I pull down a seven-figure salary.”

I thought how that didn’t necessarily mean everything was cool, but moved on. “It may sound ridiculous, but can you think of anyone at all who may have hated your wife?”

“Stace was a normal wife, a normal mom, Mr. Gisto. She cared for the kids, had her book club, her gym class. Who would hate her enough to murder her … it’s nuts.”

“You’re absolutely sure? Within your social circle? Any grudges? Any big bust-ups recently, ever?”

He was shaking his head. “No. We are … we
were
part
of a big social circle – golf club, yacht club, neighbors, work colleagues.” He stared straight at me. “But nothing … we were … rather boring, actually.”

“What about you, Mr. Friel? Do you have any enemies?”

His expression changed for the first time. A bleak smile. “Me? Mr. Gisto, in my business I’ve acquired so many enemies, if I lined them up, they’d stretch from here to the Harbour Bridge.”

“WELL IT COULD be a lead,” Justine said. She’d met me at my apartment in Balmoral. I’d called her while driving home from seeing David Friel and she was now sitting on one of my sofas cradling a cup of coffee and looking, I thought, exquisite.

“I guess these money guys live close to the edge … plenty of wars.”

“And there’s also the symbolism of the money … the fake money.”

“Of course. All a bit vague though, right?” I said.

“Oh, totally. But we have to start somewhere, don’t we?”

“You’ve talked to Greta. Anything?”

“Just confirmation of what we already know. My sister is part of the same social scene. There’re always silly feuds between the moms … the usual thing, rich women, bored, overindulged; husbands never there. They crave excitement so they invent problems between themselves. Same in LA, London, anywhere.”

“Yeah, but I can’t get past the relationship angle. You said it – bored women, husbands never there. Perfect recipe.”

“Sure. Look, Craig, Greta told me stuff. Half the women she
knows are having affairs with their personal trainers, tennis coaches, you name it. But she reckons Stacy and David weren’t like that.”

“She’s sure?”

Justine nodded.

“So we check out David Friel’s associates. See if any of his enemies hate him enough to kill his wife.”

“Find out if he’s been a ‘naughty boy’ you mean?”

“Oh don’t even question that!” I said. “The guy lives in a five-million-dollar mansion and earns a seven-figure salary. As he more or less told me himself, he’s definitely been a ‘naughty boy’.”

Justine gazed out at the view across Middle Harbour, checked her watch. “I’d better go.”

As I led her to the door she turned suddenly. “Nearly forgot … Would you like to come to my sister’s fortieth?”

I was startled for a second. “Well … er … yeah.”

“It’s at a restaurant called Icebergs at Bondi. Greta raves about it.” She took a breath. “She almost called the whole thing off, but Brett and I talked her round. When I pointed out that she couldn’t let the bastard who murdered Stacy rule her life, it got her blood up. She can be quite fierce when she’s riled!”

“When is it?”

“Tomorrow night.”

“Well, I’m honored.”

Justine held my eyes and grinned mischievously. “Don’t be. You’re the only man I know in Sydney!” Then she pecked me on the cheek and left.

JOHNNY HAD THE smallest office at Private HQ and shared it with the photocopier, which in effect meant he shared the space with the receptionist, Colette. But he didn’t seem to mind. Johnny was an expert at filtering out noise and distraction and just getting on with things. It was a skill he’d picked up as a kid. He had to do his homework in a tiny living-room while his father watched the racing, his mother did the ironing and his older brother argued with his younger sister. He still managed to get straight As in his exams.

Now he was staring at the monitor, his coffee ignored on the desk beside the keyboard. He’d been following a paper trail, well a cyber trail, to find anything juicy he could on Graham Parker. But the facts were scant.

He looked away from the screen for a few moments to survey what he had written on a legal notepad next to the coffee cup.

Parker was fifty-six, American, born in Utah. Went to Brigham Young University, studied Economics. He dropped out after two years and became a minor pop star himself. Played on the New York CBGBs scene in the late seventies fronting a band called Venison. Then he became a manager for Toys and,
later, Rough Cut, who were pretty successful. He left America in 2010, hooked up with Micky Stevens as the singer was leaving his old boy band Fun Park six months later and turned the guy into a huge solo star.

Johnny returned to the computer and tapped a few keys. The screen showed sales figures for Micky Stevens’ three solo albums. He’d peaked with his first,
Love Box
, which had made the US Billboard Top 10. But since then his career had begun to falter. His last CD,
Much 2 Much
, was a flop except in Australia.

“So, there’s your motive,” Johnny said under his breath. “If Stevens is right and the manager is trying to have him snuffed out, it’s because his career is on the ropes. Parker’s going for the ‘dead pop star revenue’.” He spanned back to the screen and began to type.

The next ten minutes were a waste. He went through all the official sites linked to Stevens, Fun Park, old material on the bands Parker had managed in the ’80s. Nothing. Well something … Parker had been a junkie, had served six months for possession in 1979, spent time in rehab … pretty
de rigueur
.

He was about to give up when he found a blog thread about Micky’s old band. From there he stumbled upon a chat exchange between half a dozen fans of Fun Park and a couple of people who evidently detested them. Most of it was inane garbage and Johnny began to scroll down faster and faster, until a sentence jumped out …
Parker’s bankruptcy was the best thing that ever happened to Micky Stevens. What would the useless son of a bitch have done after Fun Park if Parker hadn’t left the States to start again?

Johnny stopped scrolling and reread the two sentences. Then he checked the responses. There were no more comments, they’d just moved on. He threw himself back in his chair, a tingle of excitement passing through him. It was the first chink in the investigation and he was determined to prise it open.