Sleight Malice (27 page)

“I agree, but
it still doesn’t give us a motive. It could just be scare tactics, but it
doesn’t feel like that. She, or whoever masterminded it, went to a lot of a
trouble, not to mention the risks involved. Also, what did they-he-she gain by
having me believe you had been involved in an horrific car accident, your life
hanging by a thread? And why email me – not you – the video file? Stranger and
stranger.”

“Maybe they
think we’re in it together.”

“What’s it?”

She shrugged.
“Whatever they perceive I’m doing. If they’re spying on me, they’ll know that
we spend time together.”

“Guilty by
association, you think?”

“Well, it’s
better than the alien theory.” Setting the two cups of coffee she had made on
the breakfast bar, she nudged the cappuccino his way. “Do you have any other
ideas?”

“Not at the
moment.” He sipped his coffee, the tip of his tongue licking milk froth from
the corner of his mouth.

She gulped her
hot coffee, hoping to drown the flutter in her stomach. She looked up to find
him contemplating her over the rim of his cup. She crossed her legs, uncrossed
them and recrossed them again. “What if it’s not about me?”

One eyebrow
rose, then the other, his eyes widening. He leapt from his stool, as if he had
springs attached to his feet, his hands patting his pockets. Keys in hand, he
backed toward the front door. “I need to check something out at the office. Be
back as soon as I can. Make sure you set the alarm.”

“Oi! Shut up for a minute, you
lot. I’m on the phone here.” The locksmith’s booming voice cut through the
cacophony of loud music, voices and laughter, echoing in Fergus’s darkened
office. “Shit! Hang on a sec. A man can’t hear himself think in this racket.”

Fergus
continued to type, creating a new email and attaching a series of images. The
noise receded.

“Yow, Fergus.
Don’t tell me I fucked up again.” Thomas Black roared with laughter. “One for
the grandkids, that.”

Fergus didn’t
bother to point out to his single and footloose friend that he had to become a
father first. “Thomas, sorry to interrupt your drinking, mate, but this is
important.”

“Important is
my middle name.”

“Do you think
you could still recognize the woman who sweet-talked you into breaking into my
friend’s place?”

“Friend?”
Thomas scoffed. “Come off it. Has to be more to it than that.”

Fergus sighed.
“That’s not important right now. I need you to take a look at some photos. What
email address should I use?”

“Shit, mate,
can’t it wait? I’d have to go home. I’m at the pub.”

“Isn’t that
your second home? They must know you well enough by now to let you use a
computer.”

Thomas laughed.
“Too well. Send them to my Hotmail address and I’ll see what I can do.”

“Thanks, and
remember, for your eyes only. I owe you one.”

“You owe me
more than bloody one,” Thomas said and hung up.

Fergus clicked
on Thomas’s Hotmail address, adding it to the email, and pressed Send. If his
hunch proved right, then his friend would identify Christine Lynas as the woman
who had manipulated him into breaking into Desley’s townhouse. His client’s
wife certainly had motive: blaming him for the demise of her marriage after she
had been captured in flagrante with her husband’s younger brother. She had
sworn she would get even and what better way than to turn the tables – or
rather the cameras – on him. It was so obvious, he couldn’t think why he hadn’t
thought of it sooner.

He stared at
the screen, tapping his steepled fingers against his chin. Had that been the
problem all along? Had they approached the mystery of Laura Noble and Ryan
Moore’s disappearance from the wrong angle? Had they been looking too hard for
something that wasn’t there?

Desley pressed Play, not caring
what CD was loaded. Anything to fill the silence left by Fergus’s abrupt
departure.
“Stupid girl, stupid girls, stupid girls…”
Pink’s big, raspy
voice followed her from the living room into her office.

Slumping into
her chair in front of the computer, her gaze fell on the notepad with Fergus’s
scrawl. She picked it up and studied it. He had drawn a diagonal line through
the top phone number. The next number had lines fanning out from it, each
leading to a scribbled notation:
Barb - sister; trekking Himalayas; not
contactable 2 wks; [email protected].

Giving some
thought on what she should and shouldn’t include in an email to Laura’s
ex-boss, Desley switched to her Inbox and skimmed the unread messages: a
newsletter, a forwarded funny from one of her clients, an American Express
alert advising her that her statement was ready for downloading, another
newsletter—

The peal of the
doorbell cut through the music. She tensed, her breathing coming in short,
sharp gasps. All the extra security had catered to her fears, not subdued them.
Focusing on slowing her breathing, she went to see who would be calling at such
a late hour. Brandon had promised to phone when he was in the taxi on his way home,
and Fergus hadn’t been gone long enough to make it to his office and back
again. Or had he?

She crept to
the front door and peered through the peephole. She jerked back. How had
Fergus’s locksmith friend described her impersonator? The only details she
could recall were: big boobs, vivid blue eyes and dark hair. She put her eye up
against the peephole again.

Bright white
light flooded the entrance but the person standing on her doorstep wore a
large-brimmed floppy hat, obscuring her face in shadow. She couldn’t even be
sure it was a woman, a bulky puff jacket hiding any evidence of breasts, large
or small. As for the hair, the person could have been bald as far as she could
tell.

“Who is it?”
she called out, her voice stronger than she felt.

“It’s Selena.
I… I…”

Desley breathed
out and opened the door, leaving the security chains in place. “It’s a bit late
for a social call, Selena.”

“I didn’t know
where else to go.” Selena dropped her hand, revealing the side of her bloodied
and bruised face.

“Oh my God,
what’s happened?” Desley asked, wrestling with the security chains.

“A door,”
Selena said, her voice still shaky. “I walked into a door. I am such a klutz at
the moment.”

Desley let her
in, guiding her straight into the bathroom. “Here,” she said, closing the
toilet seat lid, “sit down while I look for the first aid kit.”

Selena did as
she was told, perching on the edge of the lid, her eyes welling with tears. “I
don’t mean to be any trouble.”

“You’re not,
but I’m not a doctor. I really think you should be checked out at the hospital,
especially since it wasn’t that long ago you had concussion. Are you hurt
anywhere else?” she asked, remembering that on top of everything else, Selena
was pregnant.

“No, I don’t
think so,” she said, her voice croaky, her bottom lip quivering.

“That’s
something,” Desley said, opening the first aid kit’s red plastic case. She
snapped on a pair of latex gloves and opened a pack of antiseptic swabs. She
dabbed at the darkening blood on Selena’s cheek, grimacing each time her patient
winced. Cleaned up, the gash over her cheekbone didn’t look quite as bad, but
still serious enough to need sutures. “It must have been some door.”

“Don’t you
believe me?”

“I didn’t say
that,” she said, peeling off a butterfly closure and laying it across the cut,
making sure the edges of the wound met. “But I think you’re going to need
stitches.” She peeled off another strip.

Selena’s eyes
brimmed, the pain evident.

“Sorry, I’m
trying really hard not to hurt you. Nearly there.”

“It’s not
that.” Selena sniffed, blinking rapidly before bursting into sobs, the warm
tears spilling over the wound and Desley’s fingers.

Desley yanked a
handful of tissues from the box on the vanity unit and handed them to Selena.
She waited for the sobs to subside and then asked, her tone gentle, “So what is
it? Did someone do this to you? Is that why you don’t want to go to the
hospital?”

Selena burst
into tears all over again. At a loss for what to do, Desley pressed more
tissues into Selena’s hands. If it had been Laura, she would have been hugging
her, cajoling her into seeing a doctor and bawling along with her. But she
barely knew Selena, except as the woman who seduced and stole her husband.
Why
go to your fiancé’s ex-wife for help?
Desley wondered.
Why not turn to
Trent? Unless…

Her stomach
churned. “Did Trent do this to you?” She didn’t want to believe it, couldn’t
believe it, but though her ex-husband had never been physically violent with
her, in recent months she had witnessed his moods deteriorate. His excessive
drinking only fuelled his aggression, making his temper even more volatile.

Selena hung her
head, her fingers grazing the cleaned wound on her cheekbone. “I told you, I
ran into a door.”

“Does he know
you’ve been hurt? Do you want me to phone him?”

Selena’s hand
darted out, encircling Desley’s wrist, her fingernails digging deep. “No,
please don’t. He doesn’t need to know. He’ll just worry. I’ll be fine, really.”

“I still think
you should get checked out—”

The doorbell
rang.

Selena’s face
blanched, her expression counter to her words. She stumbled to her feet, her
eyes fearful.

“Who’s done
this to you, Selena? Is it Trent? You have to tell me…” The doorbell rang
again. “I’m sure it’s only Fergus, but stay here and I’ll go and check.”

She stepped
into the hall, hearing the bathroom door lock behind her.
“I'm not scared at
all,”
Pink sang,
“underneath the cuts and bruises.”
Desley doubted
Selena felt the same way.

She knew it
wasn’t Fergus when her visitor started pounding on the door. She sidled up to
the door and looked through the peephole, jumping back with a yelp when an
eyeball confronted her.

“Des, it’s me,
Trent,” he yelled through the door. “I know you’re in there.”

“What do you
want, Trent?”

“I just need to
know if Selena’s called you tonight?”

“And why would
she do that?”

“Shit, Des, I
don’t know. I’m really worried about her. She left a garbled message on my
voicemail earlier, but she’s not answering her phone and her parents haven’t
heard from her.” A pause. “Why won’t you open the door?”

“What, so you
can hit her again?”

Silence then,
“Hit her? How can you say that? I would never hit her. Has something happened?
Is she in there with you? Please let me see her. Please. Is she all right? Why
won’t you let me see her? Why—”

“Trent!”

“What?”

“Take it easy.”
She didn’t want her neighbors calling the police.

“Why? You’ve
just accused me of being a wife-beater,” he screamed out.

Jesus!
She checked the security chains were secure and opened the door a
smidgen. “Go away,” she hissed through the narrow gap. “Selena doesn’t want to
see you.”

“I just need to
know she’s all right. Please, Des, just let me see her for a minute. I love
her.”

Selena appeared
at Desley’s side, pushing past her to get to the door. Her hand snaked through
the opening. “Oh, tiger, do you really?”

“With all my
heart, babe. What happened? Are you all right?”

“I just had a
little accident with a door,” she said, unlatching one of the security chains
and giving Desley an I-told-you-so look. “It looks worse than it is.”

“Wait,” Desley
said, putting her hand over Selena’s, “are you sure this is what you want?”

“Of course it’s
what she wants,” Trent said, pushing against the door. “Why can’t you leave
things alone and mind your own business for once.”

Desley gasped,
lost for words.

Within seconds,
Selena and Trent were outside together, pawing at each other like two
love-struck teenagers. Selena eyed Desley as she nuzzled Trent’s neck, her smug
expression saying it all.

With a horrible
sense of déjà vu, a sense of yet again being a pawn in their warped games,
Desley retreated inside. They deserved each other.

Fergus studied Desley's face.
“Does the name Jeremy Stillson mean anything to you?”

Her gaze
dropped. “No, I don’t think so,” she said with a slow shake of her head. “Why?
Should it?”

“If the
manufacturer and hospital records are to be believed, he’s our body in the
fire. Are you sure you never heard Ryan or Laura refer to anyone by that name?”