Sharp Shooter (16 page)

That done, I rolled out of bed and into gym shorts.

My first mouthful of cereal got stuck in my nervous throat and I abandoned the idea of breakfast. I started worrying again over who had tidied my room while I was out. What if Peter Delgado and Johnny Vogue had sent someone in after Los Trios left, and planted a bug?

I rang Garth. He sounded early morning grumpy. ‘Wilmot.’

‘Garth, it’s Tara. What does a bug look like?’

He paused. ‘Six legs, exoskeleton –’

‘No, I mean a surveillance bug.’

‘Why are you ringing me at 7 am in the morning to ask that?’

‘You read spy novels. I just thought you might know.’

‘Well, I don’t.’

‘Oh.’

‘Tara? What’s going on?’

‘Nothing. But I’d appreciate it if you didn’t discuss my recent past with anyone.’

‘You mean Constable Bligh?’

‘If the name fits . . .’

‘So you want me to lie to the police? You can be so annoying, Tara. I mean, it’s your fault they were asking questions in the first place.’

I’d give him annoying!
‘And you’re such a pompous prat sometimes, Garth,’ I said and hung up.

Bok rang almost immediately. ‘Everything OK?’

‘Dandy.’

‘I want you to cancel your appointment with Delgado.’

‘Why?’

‘I can’t come with you. The national head of marketing is flying in from Sydney unexpectedly. I have to pick him up from the airport.’

‘No probs,’ I said calmly. ‘I’ve got a contingency plan.’

‘T?’

‘I’ve hired a bodyguard. Nothing major, just someone to watch my back.’

‘You’ve whaat!’ shrieked Bok, his voice rising to that kinda strangled, can’t-get-enough-air-in-my-lungs pitch.

‘Take a deep breath,’ I said. ‘It’s under control. Delgado’s not going to do anything to me in broad daylight at his office. I’ll call you straight after. Bye.’

I sent a quick text to Wal telling him where and when to meet me, then switched my phone off so Bok couldn’t call me back. Chucking the phone in my backpack, I headed out the door to the gym.

Like lots of people, I have a love–hate relationship with exercise. I love being fit but I hate doing the work to get there. On top of that, many years of competitive sport has given me an overdeveloped conscience: too long without a workout of some sort and I begin to feel guilty.

Plus, the way things were going in my life I might need to be able to run fast.

This morning’s class was boxercise, which I’d found I had a reasonable talent for. In my very first class, I’d accidentally punched Craigo in the jaw, knocking him down on his tight arse. Since then, he’d always stood behind me to correct my movements.

I let all my worry and frustration work its way out during class until I’d raised a huge sweat and cleared the space on the floor with my flailing limbs.

Craigo came over to me as I was stuffing my towel back in my gym bag. ‘Everything alright, Tara?’

His accent was slightly European and his aura was a tasty green, like mint jelly.

‘Sure,’ I replied. ‘Why?’

He shrugged in his way. ‘No reason. Listen, I’ve entered a team in a triathlon next weekend and the girl doing the running section has pulled out with an Achilles injury. Is there any chance you could fill in? I’ve heard you used to be a runner.’

‘Triathlon? How far?’

‘Just a standard ten-k run. Three thousand dollars prize money split three ways.’

I hadn’t run ten kilometres in over ten years – but the thing about ex-athletes is this: we hate letting anyone know that we’re not fit. And what the hell, we might win, and I needed the money. I’d made some crap decisions lately, this one couldn’t be worse than the others. ‘Sure,’ I said.

‘Fabuloso!’ He pulled a flyer out of his bumbag. ‘Here are all the details. I’ve also written my phone number on the back. See you at the course an hour before the start.’

I tucked it in my bag on top of my sweaty towel. ‘No problemo.’

I sauntered nonchalantly over to the noticeboard, as if I accepted invitations to do team triathlons all the time. Nothing new had been posted, but I spared a moment to smirk at the over-fifties photo again.

By the time I climbed into Mona, though, I was cursing my stupid ego for accepting, and trying to think of which illness I could suddenly develop. The whole dilemma kept me distracted while I drove home, showered, got into jeans, heels and a t-shirt, and headed for Klintoff House.

Amazingly, Wal was early, loitering outside the front door like a criminal, in black, skin-tight jeans, a black singlet that showed off his maze of tattoos and brawny roadie’s shoulders, and black Dr. Martens boots. His hair was in a plait secured by an elastic band that sported a dangling skull’s head. To top it off he was smoking a black Sobranie.

Bogan City channelling Russian Mafia.

‘Nice ciggies,’ I said.

He nodded and blew a smoke ring. ‘Keep them for special occasions.’

I didn’t dare ask why this was a special occasion. ‘OK. I don’t need you to say anything or do anything. Just sit in the waiting room and look like you might tear the place apart if I don’t come out of my meeting.’

‘Right on.’

Right on? Who said ‘right on’ anymore?

I started to walk in the front door but Wal jumped in front of me, maintaining a head-swivelling surveillance as we crossed the lobby and headed up in the lift.

‘We’re in the lift, Wal,’ I said. ‘And it’s just you and me.’

‘Vigilance is next to godliness,’ he replied.

He kept up the same behaviour out of the lift and into the offices of Positoni & Kizzick.

Giggler Francine was at the desk, listening to her dictaphone and clacking on the keyboard with her acrylic nails. When she saw Wal, her eyes bugged and I noticed her right hand reach under the desk. Then she saw me and her hand relaxed.

So Peter Delgado had one of
those
buttons. I wonder who it was hooked up to. I bet it wasn’t the local police.

‘Take a seat, please, Ms Sharp and Mr . . . ?’

‘Grominsky,’ said Wal with just enough surliness to be scary.

While we dropped our butts on the appointed chairs, Giggler removed her dictaphone, got up and walked over to the filing cabinet. Her red skirt was so tight, and so short, she reminded me of a frankfurt sausage that had been dropped into hot water.

Obviously it didn’t conjure the same image for Wal. He sat bolt upright like someone had shoved a packet of frozen peas down his pants.

‘You didn’t tell me to wear white to the party,’ I said to her in a conversational tone.

‘Excuse me?’

‘You were supposed to tell me to wear white.’

We locked eyes for a second. Hers were wide and feigned confusion. Mine were glowering and full of ‘I won’t forget it.’

‘Oh, I’m sure I sent you a message. You must have forgotten.’

‘No,’ I said steadily.

She looked away first, a flush rising up her bare neck.

I settled back in my chair with folded arms, and continued to give her my stare. I was psyching myself into controlled anger mode. Best antidote I knew for being scared witless.

Delgado walked through the door a moment later. His dark brown aura was pulsing a little but it rippled when he saw Wal.

Wal, thank whoever, had stopped ogling Giggler and assumed his most menacing look: faint sneer beneath the cheap sunglasses, legs wide apart, muscular forearms crossed in front of a barrel chest.

I stood up.

‘Morning, Ms Sharp and . . .’

‘This is my associate, Mr Grominsky. He works with me from time to time,’ I said.

Wal liked the ‘Mr’ tag, I could tell from the slight lift of his stubbly jaw.

‘This is a private meeting, Ms Sharp,’ said Delgado. ‘Between you and me.’

‘Of course,’ I nodded. ‘Mr Grominsky is accompanying me on to my next appointment. He’ll wait
right here.
’

Delgado looked annoyed. ‘Very well.’ He held the door open for me.

‘Back shortly,’ I said to Wal, and walked in.

This time I was too nervous to enjoy the luxury of the Chesterfield.

Delgado shut the door and sat down behind his desk. ‘Last Saturday night has had some unfortunate ramifications for you,’ he began.

‘It sure has,’ I agreed. ‘I don’t remember you mentioning anything about the likelihood of a drug raid at the party.’

‘I was referring to the fact that you eavesdropped on my client. Mr Viaspa is not happy. However, I’ve convinced him to overlook your faux pas, if you provide useful feedback to us.’

‘My . . .
faux pas
?’

‘Yes.’ He stared at me. ‘Now, Nick Tozzi . . .’

Crunch time!
Did I outright refuse and leave? Did I tell him maybe, and then do no such thing? Or did I do as he and Johnny Viaspa wanted me to – spy on Tozzi?

I discounted the last one immediately. Nick Tozzi had bought me croissants and picked me up, soaking wet, out of the river. My alliances were cast. Besides, in some ways Eireen Tozzi scared me more than Johnny Vogue.

The first option didn’t thrill me much either. I liked to think I had reasonable integrity, but I didn’t want to end up wearing concrete boots because of it.

‘Getting close to someone takes time. And our first meeting got interrupted, so I think you’re going to have to be a lot more specific if you want information quickly. What exactly did you want me to find out?’

‘We believe that Mr Tozzi is in some financial difficulty. We want you to ascertain how much.’

‘Why?’

‘You already know more than is healthy for you, Ms Sharp. Keep your curiosity for Tozzi. And then bring the answers back to me. You have a few days.’

‘Or?’

Delgado got up and walked around the desk. I didn’t like the way his aura was vibrating, or the tense, coiled look of his body, so I jumped up off the Chesterfield and backed towards the door.

He followed me until I was pressed against the handle.

‘Your faux pas may be considered irredeemable.’

‘That sounds like a threat, Mr Delgado.’ The undercurrent of his psychic energy was drowning me. ‘What will you do? Try to run me over on the street?’

To any normal observer Delgado didn’t appear to react. But I saw a number of signs suggesting he didn’t take my bait. For one, his aura didn’t change. Second, his eyes widened the tiniest amount and his eyebrows rose. Third, the psychic undertow stopped sucking me down.

He was surprised.

Crap.
Maybe it hadn’t been Sam Barbaro. Or, at least, not on Delgado’s bidding.

‘You wouldn’t want to put ideas in my head,’ he replied. ‘Saturday then, Ms Sharp.’

I fumbled behind for the handle and almost stumbled out of the door when it opened suddenly. Wal must have been standing at the door because he caught me.

He looked at Delgado and then me. ‘I was just coming to get you,’ he said, meaningfully. ‘We’re late for our next appointment.’

I nodded, relieved.

Chapter 26

I
OFFERED TO BUY
Wal a coffee and cake. He’d surprised me by acting pretty much the way I’d wanted him to: threatening but passive.

If that was the silver lining on my day then maybe I needed to reconsider the direction my life was going in.

I mulled over that, and other things, while I waited in the queue at the OBH cafe, one of the most popular hotels on the beachfront. On summer weekends the foot traffic completely outnumbered the cars as the stylish young ones migrated up and down to the different pubs, like gorgeous butterflies sampling pollen. I’d done it myself a few years ago, but now I preferred to avoid that area on Sunday afternoons.

I picked the OBH cafe because Wal wasn’t a Latte Ole kind of guy. And call me shallow, but I didn’t really want anyone I knew to see us and think we were
together.

My message bank carolled when I switched my phone on. I’d missed calls from Mr Honey and Nick Tozzi.

My heart did a little bit of a hoola. I called him right back.

‘Tozzi,’ he answered.

‘Sharp,’ I snapped back.

He paused and I wished I could see what that warm aura of his was doing.

‘Are you alright?’ he asked.

‘Are you?’

He expelled a breath into the phone. ‘Hold on a moment.’ A few rattling, crunching moments later he came back on. ‘I’m not the one somebody tried to run over.’ It sounded like he was out in the wind with his hand cupped over the phone.

‘Oh that,’ I said airily. ‘No problem.’

‘I hear you made a social call on my mother?’

‘Umm . . .’ The conversation wasn’t going the way I’d hoped.

‘Whatcha want?’ interrupted the waitress in a timely manner.

‘One English Breakfast tea, one short black and two custard tarts,’ I replied. ‘I gotta go, Nick.’