The Easy Sin (14 page)

“Chicken stroganoff. The whites are in the fridge. Sixty thousand dollars. Romy said she wanted to cut his balls off.”

“She said that in a restaurant? Out loud? Where were you, at Machiavelli?” A restaurant for suits, where balls, metaphorically, were cut every day. “We'll have the Semillon. I'll give Con Junior a sip or two, start him young as a wine connoisseur. He's already got as much sense as some of them.”

Tonight was family night. Claire and her husband Jason were coming, bringing six-month-old
Cornelius
Junior with them. Maureen would be bringing her favourite of the moment, an ABC reporter named Eddie or Freddie or Teddy. And Tom might or might not be bringing a girl: his whims were below his navel, an unreliable region. It was a weekly ritual that Scobie and Lisa looked forward to, a small reward for all the effort of bringing up Claire and Maureen and Tom. Malone, an Old Testament sceptic, sometimes wondered how much Adam and Eve had missed out on. Family night in the suburbs of Eden couldn't have been a ball of fun.

“Is Russ on the I-Saw case? The murder?”

“Yes and no. I kicked him off to start with, then I needed him.”

“How's it going?”

“Nowhere, so far. The murder of the maid seems to be getting lost in the kidnapping. Everybody's talking ransom so much, or how much money has gone down the gurgler at I-Saw, the maid's on the back burner. If they have back burners in morgues. Do we have to talk about this?”

“You brought it up.” She turned from the stove, pressed herself against him and kissed him. “Resign tonight and let's fly.”

Then Tom came in the back door. “Oh hell, you're not at it again!”

“You're just frustrated,” said Malone. “You didn't bring a woman?”

“She'll be here in time for dinner. She's having drinks with a guy about a job. She worked for I- Saw till yesterday. You told me to look into I-Saw, remember?”

“How do you know her?”

“I dealt with her on the internet.”

“You've never met her?” Lisa was back at the stove.

“I took her out once or twice.” Tom turned a blank face towards his father; and Malone knew he had taken Whoever-She-Was to bed once or twice. “Her name's Daniela. Daniela Bonicelli. She's half- Italian.”

“Which half? Bottom or top half?”

“All right, cut out the juvenile jokes,” said Lisa. “We don't talk police business at the table,
understand?”

“
How long's she been with I-Saw?” said Malone.

“Almost since it started, I think.”

“Is anyone listening to me?” asked Lisa. “Police business is out. O-U-T. If you want to grill Miss—what?—Bonicelli, if you want to question her, you can drive her home.”

“What's she like?” asked Malone. “Attractive?”

“A dish. Sexy as all get out,” said Tom.

“Then I'll drive her home,” said Lisa.

“That's a drag. She lives out at Hurstville.” For Tom, like most of the young from the eastern suburbs, anything south or west of Central Station was a suburb of Jakarta (“there are so many, y'know,
Asians
out there”).

“There's the doorbell,” said Lisa. “Answer it.”

“How do you stand her?” asked Tom, grinning.

“A cop's patience,” said Malone and went through to admit Claire, Jason and baby Con.

Claire had matured into a younger version of Lisa: blondly beautiful, serene and in calm control of her husband. Malone kissed his daughter, shook hands with his son-in-law and tickled his grandson's two chins.

“You want to hold him?” Claire proffered the baby.

“No, thanks.” He was not an infant-loving grandfather; they were too often wet and smelly, they had no conversation and they were all autocrats. “Send him along to me when he's twelve. I'll tell him about the birds and the bees.”

“They learn that at day care,” said Jason.

He was a very tall beanpole of a young man, but moved without awkwardness, almost gracefully. One had to look twice at his face to discover he was good-looking; it was almost as if he had chosen anonymity as a look. He was relaxed, but still cautious. His mother and her lesbian lover had murdered his father; he had a dichotomy of feeling towards her, he still loved her, yet hated her for what she had done. How he would explain his feelings to his own son in later years was something that Malone often
wondered
about.

“How's work?”

“Round and round,” said Malone. “How's it with you?”

Jason was a civil engineer. “Enough to keep us going. Just.”

“Just as well I'm going back to work,” said Claire. After nine months off, she was starting as an associate with the biggest law firm in the State. Malone, a cop, wondered at the future: not only too many lawyers, but too many
women
lawyers. “I've never learned to spell
budget
.”

“She didn't inherit any of your tight-fistedness, Scobie,” said Jason.

“I think we adopted her.”

It was banter, the sort of lightweight glue that holds families together when nothing serious is threatening.

Then Maureen arrived with her man of the moment; or the nano-second. Her tastes changed too quickly for her parents to keep up with her; they just prayed that these playthings never hurt her. She referred to them as her toy-boys, but never in front of them. This latest one was Neddy: Neddy Brown. Malone recognized him. He was an ABC reporter, one of the new breed who referred to the
de-bree
left by floods and bushfires and thought
fantastic
a cover-all adjective for everything from delight to disaster. Tertiary education, Malone often thought, taught them not to waste words.

He was short and compact and amongst Malone, at six-one, Tom six-three and Jason six-four he looked like a rugby scrum-half waiting to be thrown the ball by the big men in the line-out.

“This is a fantastic coincidence, Mr. Malone. Only today I was assigned to the Errol Magee kidnapping, so I guess our paths will be crossing—”

Malone decided to cut him off at the pass: “I'm not on the kidnapping. I'm just handling the murder of Magee's maid—”

“They're connected, though, aren't they?”

“Drinks, anyone?” said Lisa, doing her own cutting off at the pass. “Get that, will you, darl?”

The front doorbell had rung. Malone escaped, went down the hallway and opened the door.
Daniela
Bonicelli had arrived; a dish, sexy as all get-out. She had dark, appraising eyes, a short straight nose and lips like a baby's teething ring. Malone marvelled at his son's luck, at all the bon-bons that just seemed to fall into bed with his son.
Fantastic
!

“Daniela? I'm Tom's father.”

“I can see the resemblance. The eyes, the widow's peak—” Without moving she was all over him, like a silk rug.

“Come in. Did you get the job? Tom told me—”

“It's mine if I want it. I'll decide tomorrow—”

She turned her back for him to take off her jacket, looked back at him over her shoulder. All of a sudden he wanted to laugh: she was a Late Late Movie fan, she had seen Lana Turner and Lauren Bacall do this. He had always told Tom to find a woman with some mystery to her. Daniela Bonicelli was as mysterious as Marge Simpson. She would be no help at all on the I-Saw case.

Then Lisa, cruising like a destroyer escort, was in the hallway. “Oh, you must be Daniela. Has my husband—” Malone could count the space between the letters—“has he made you welcome? He's gauche around women. Come in and meet the younger men.”

“I'll get some more drinks,” said Malone and went down to the kitchen. A minute or two, then Lisa came in. “What were you expecting? Me to rape her in the hallway?”

“She wouldn't know what rape is. How does Tom get himself involved with girls like her?”

“He's not
involved
. He's like Maureen—she's one of his toys. I think.”

“How did we raise such libertines? Will you be driving Miss Bonicelli home?”

“Not unless you hold a gun at my head.”

“Fat chance. Kiss me.”

He did and Maureen, in the kitchen doorway, said, “Don't you two ever stop?”

“Only when we're interrupted. Did you bring Neddy here to interrogate me?”

“Come off it, Dad. You know I wouldn't do that. He's a nice guy, he understands
family
. He's got four brothers and four sisters, his mother was a nun.”

“
She must be wishing she'd stayed one. How are Neddy and Jason getting on with Daniela?”

“Boy, she's a bundle, isn't she? Did Tom win her in a raffle? She worked at I-Saw, did she? How well did she know Errol Magee?”

“Why?”

“We had a
Four Corners
meeting this morning. We're going to do an investigative piece on I- Saw. Who lost money and how much. I might talk to Daniela.”

“Not tonight, you won't,” said Lisa. “Get everyone seated. I'm bringing in the first course.”

“Where do I put everyone?”

“Put all the men in Daniela's lap. That should please her.”

But dinner, as it happened, went off beautifully. When Lisa brought in the dessert Daniela rolled her dark eyes. “Diplomat pudding! My favourite—my mother makes it.”

Lisa warmed to her; or anyway turned off the refrigeration. “Do you like to cook?”

“Love to. I alternate between the kitchen and the gym—it's the only way I can keep my weight down. Errol used to laugh at me—”

“Errol?” Malone couldn't help himself.

“Errol Magee. We lived together for six months.” Then she looked around at the silent watchers. “Have I said something wrong?”

Malone looked down the table at Tom, whose smile was almost a smirk. As if to say,
This is why I brought her.

“Not at all,” said Claire. “We're always interested in the rich and famous.”

“Errol?” Daniela had a nice laugh; it shook every rounded inch of her. “He was rich, sure—once. But he was never famous, never wanted to be, he said. He hated being photographed.”

“When did you—er—live with him?” asked Malone, avoiding Lisa's stare from the far end of the table.

“Oh, three years ago, maybe a bit more. Just when things were starting to click for him. Oh, this dessert is fantastic!” She swallowed a mouthful. Then we sort of broke up—”

“
But you stayed on at I-Saw?” Tom, also avoiding looking at his mother, put the question.

“Of course. The pay was fabulous and I was worth it.”

Malone had to bite his tongue not to ask what her worth was. He looked along the table at Lisa, who just smiled:
she
knew what Daniela was worth.

“Those of us who were there early got stock options.” Daniela grimaced; then saw the look on Lisa's face. “Oh no, it's not the dessert! It's fantastic—I'm loving every mouthful. I'll tell my mother about this . . . No, the stock options. One week they were worth eighteen dollars, a month later—” With her spoon she made a sharp downward motion. “That's the story of life in IT, isn't it? Never knowing when to sell.”

“And you feel no resentment at the way things have gone?” It was Claire, the lawyer, who asked the question in Malone's mind.

Daniela put her spoon down on her plate, as if her appetite had suddenly been spoiled. “Yes, we all do. We'd wring Errol's neck if we could find him.”

“Did he have any other girlfriends at I-Saw?” asked Malone, risking his own neck as he avoided Lisa's look. “He had a wife, you know.”

“Did he?” Daniela looked genuinely surprised. “Well, how about him! Yes, he had other girlfriends from I-Saw, but they were just, you know, one-night stands.”

“What an exciting life you modern girls live,” said Lisa and closed the subject; one could almost see her slamming the door on it. “More pudding? Mo, when is
Four Corners
going to do an investigative piece on TV cookery shows? There were thirty-seven, last time I counted. Cooks are taking over TV, not Murdoch and Packer.”

Malone smiled in resignation at her. She could run a UN peace conference and get peace, even bring order to an Italian or Japanese parliament. He would have to talk to Daniela Bonicelli tomorrow morning.

The phone rang in the hallway and he got up and went out to answer it. It was Clements, sounding dispirited: “I've just got home. We had no luck—Miss Doolan's disappeared. We kept
surveillance
on the garage for two hours, but there was no sign of her. Okada came down at six-thirty and drove out in a Lexus 400. No sign of the other two Japs. I went upstairs and checked on Kunishima's trading floor. Nobody had seen Nakasone or Tajiri. I think we might have another kidnapping on our hands, mate.”

“So long as it's no worse than that.”

“Who'll pay ransom for her?”

“Maybe they'll be ransom for each other, her and Errol. At the moment, mate, I don't really care. Have you sent everybody home?”

“Everybody but Sheryl and The Rocks girl—Paula? They're spending the night at Magee's apartment, case Kylie decides to come home. But it doesn't look good . . .”

“How's it with Romy?”

“Still chilly. See you tomorrow.”

Malone hung up, checked his notebook, then rang Sheryl Dallen at the Magee apartment. “She come back yet? No? Righto, Sheryl, call her sister, tell—Monica?—to call you if Kylie shows up. Tell her not to panic, that Kylie may have her own plans.”

“Do you think she does?” said Sheryl.

“No,” he said and hung up, suddenly tired. It was not physical weariness, but exhaustion of the spirit. Like Whoever-it-was, he had “seen the future—and it stinks!” Or was it not the future, but the past? He remembered a toy from his childhood, a glass globe with a landscape inside it, that changed from sunlight to darkness as one turned the globe, as if one held in one's hand the prism of life. His seven-year-old mind had grasped none of the message, it was a toy for wonderment, not enlightenment. Only now did he read the message.