The Heat (26 page)

No mystery why Ormerod had flown to Thailand. He's at the football. He gets a phone call from the police or a neighbour about the break-in, the shooting. There's a good chance police will find the hidden room—and whatever DVDs or computer files there are elsewhere in the house. He decides to flee ahead of an arrest.

Wyatt stepped in and crossed to the paintings on the floor. The larger was the David Teniers peasant scene, the smaller a Hans Heysen watercolour, moodier than his gumtree paintings, no sun saturation or distant blue hills. He liked it. Call it my bonus, he thought.

He found a ratty blanket in the junk room, wrapped it around the two paintings, and went downstairs.

A young woman stood in the hallway, her back to him.

Wyatt froze, ran his gaze over her. Tall, slim, blonde, with a hefty camera in one hand, a camera bag on a strap around her neck, she called, ‘Monique, we have to be quick.'

Wyatt coughed, startling the photographer, who spun around and said, ‘Oh, shit.'

Wyatt snarled, ‘You realise this is a crime scene? Who are you?'

Not turning from him, the photographer cast back over her shoulder in a sing-song voice, ‘Oh, Monique.'

‘Oh, Kate,' sang a voice from the kitchen.

‘We have a situation.'

‘Like what?'

‘Just get yourself in here.'

Wyatt didn't let up. He advanced down the corridor, looking and sounding like a cop. ‘I ask again: Who are you?'

The photographer swallowed, gave him a weak grin. ‘
Sunshine Coast Express
.'

Another young woman stepped into view. Slight, dark-haired, unperturbed to see Wyatt standing there. She edged past her photographer and shoved a digital recorder at him, opened her mouth to ask a question. He grabbed the recorder, twisted it out of her grasp, switched it off.

‘Hey!'

‘This is a crime scene. I won't arrest you, but you both need to leave, right now.'

‘How about a statement first?' Kate said.

‘Talk to the press office,' Wyatt said. He glanced behind her. ‘How did you get in?'

‘Side door. It wasn't locked.'

‘But you entered,' Wyatt said. He needed this over with, but he also needed them to go away thinking they'd run into a cop.

‘Come on, how about a statement,' Monique said, stepping close to him. ‘Like, a source close to police said today that dot… dot…dot.'

Wyatt said, ‘All you're getting from me is that I have a warrant to seize material relating to an ongoing investigation, all right? Now leave.'

‘What evidence?' said Monique, fixing on the paintings under the blanket. ‘Care to show us?'

Behind her the one named Kate was fiddling with her camera buttons. Wyatt reached past, grabbed the camera and twisted the barrel gently until she released it. ‘No pictures.'

‘Hey!' she shouted. ‘Give it back.'

‘In a moment,' Wyatt said.

It was a digital Canon, and he scrolled quickly through the recent shots. Plenty of the exterior, the hallway. Crucially, none of him.

Monique said, ‘Come on, no photo, no names mentioned, just give us a statement.'

Wyatt stared at her. He wondered how much time he had. He said, ‘The resident of this house is wanted for questioning on child sex charges.'

‘We know that.'

‘He's suspected of manufacturing a large quantity of child pornography.'

Monique looked doubtful. ‘That's not what my source said.'

Wyatt was motionless; his face gave nothing away; his mind raced. He let a little whiplash into his voice: ‘There's something I want to show you.'

She felt the chill, looked away, looked back at him. ‘We're game. Won't you get into trouble?'

‘I don't want anything swept under the rug,' Wyatt said stiffly.

He meant it. And he needed them to see him as a crusading cop.

They trooped after him up the stairs and into the junk room.

‘This? What about it?' Kate demanded, frowning around at the bed, boxes, an old cricket bat, strewn LPs and family photos.

Monique backed away towards the door. ‘Kate, come on, let's get out of here.'

His voice cutting the air, Wyatt said, ‘There's a hidden room behind that wardrobe.'

With Kate's eyes going to the wardrobe door as if framing her next photograph, Monique's to the line of the ceiling and the window, seeking the spatial anomaly, Wyatt crossed to the wardrobe, opened it, and slid the stale old pants and dresses to one side. He pressed the button that released the concealed door and slid it open. He stepped in, then turned to face them, blocking access.

‘Here's the deal. You get sixty seconds. You don't touch anything, because it's all evidence. Then you leave and you don't come back, agreed?'

‘Fuck, yes.'

He handed Kate her camera and watched her fire off shot after shot, while Monique muttered into her recorder. At one point Kate glanced at him inquiringly, pointing to a partly concealed DVD. Wyatt flipped it into view with a pen, waited while she snapped it.

Then he ushered them back into the junk room. ‘Now, go.'

‘What's your name?'

‘Go.'

‘What are you going to do now?'

‘I need to itemise everything. A team's coming to collect.'

‘How do we contact you?'

‘You don't.'

‘A name. We won't tell a soul.'

‘A source close to the police, that's my name.'

Kate grinned. ‘What were your parents
thinking
?'

She lifted the camera.

Wyatt's hand shot out. ‘Don't.'

Suddenly he wasn't a tired guy wearing glasses and an ill-fitting suit, a frustrated cop forced to whisper in a junior reporter's ear if he wanted justice. He was a man full of menace and prohibition. They backed out of the room.

He tailed them downstairs. ‘We'll see ourselves out,' Kate said.

He didn't want her lingering down the street, taking his photograph a few minutes from now. ‘I'll see you both to your car,' he said.

When they had driven away, Wyatt carried the paintings to the hire car and began the return trip to the airport.

He was halfway there when he spotted the black Lexus.
MINTY
read the plate under the grille, but clearly David Minto wasn't driving it. By the time Wyatt had transferred the paintings to the Corolla, Hannah Sten dozing behind the wheel, the Lexus had disappeared.

Still watching out for it, he returned the Holden to the rental office and walked back to the Corolla. Hannah had the Teniers in her lap, eyes shining. ‘No Nike running shoes or alligator shirt or Rolex watch?' he said, climbing into the passenger seat.

‘Thank you, no.'

‘Buckle up,' he said. ‘We have company.'

40

The airport buildings gave way to the open freeway and on the straight stretches, the speed limit varying between 60, 80 and 100 kilometres per hour, distant hills on the left, green stretches on both sides, Hannah Sten finally said, ‘Yes, I see the car.'

Wyatt didn't turn around. He'd been monitoring the Lexus in the side mirror, occasionally spotting it about three cars back. His pistol beside his thigh, he was also scouting the open country. If anything went wrong he needed the cover of buildings.

‘An associate of Minto?'

Wyatt knew it wasn't. It was Minto's killer. He'd glimpsed him earlier as they were leaving the airport, the Lexus no more than ten metres behind them. Jack Pepper, thoughtlessly close, hunched over the steering wheel. Staring fixedly at the Corolla as if he wanted to reach in and begin the mayhem.

Wyatt didn't know what miserable grievances drove Pepper but guessed he had killed Vidovic and Minto. He stared glumly at the unfolding highway as it gave way to roundabouts and finally streets, putting it together. When Wyatt pulled out of the armoured-car job with Vidovic, Pepper felt slighted. Worse, Vidovic stole his plan, the police swooped, his brother was shot. The only answer in Pepper's mind was to kill. Vidovic had given him Minto, Minto had given him Noosa, and Ormerod's address.

He touched Hannah Sten's knee. ‘It's someone with a grudge against me.'

She lifted an eyebrow. ‘That is not my concern.'

Just then, he knew he wouldn't see her again after today. ‘It is if he attacks us both.'

She chewed on that. ‘What do you propose?'

In his restless scouting of Noosa a week ago, Wyatt had paid attention to the hotels. One thing set the Chelsea Manhattan apart from the others along Hastings Street: valet parking. He supposed there were people who got a kick out of that. A sense of entitlement when they drove right in and handed their keys to a guy in a monkey suit. A guy who whisked their car away and hung the keys on a hook in a little booth—which was going to be very useful in ambushing Jack Pepper.

He directed Hannah Sten along Hastings and down into the Chelsea Manhattan parking garage. A kid of about twenty in a blue uniform with sufficient gold braid to command an army stepped out of the booth, trying not to curl his lip at the little hire car. ‘Flirt with him,' Wyatt murmured. ‘Use your accent on him.'

Sten didn't ask why but went into full charming helpless foreigner mode, smiling, talking, standing close, handing over the keys. Wyatt stood back where he was part of the shadows and saw the boy flirt back and wave to Hannah as he slipped behind the wheel and gunned the Corolla across the oil-stained concrete floor to a space on the opposite wall. Only two empty bays remained, which suited Wyatt. He took Hannah's hand and they walked to the stairs that led up to Hastings Street. They stopped halfway up, listened. Wyatt grinned. Pepper had driven in behind them and was now urging the valet to get a move on. With any luck, he was pissing him off.

They walked and window-shopped, strolling along the footpath towards the end of Hastings Street. Wyatt lingered where he could watch Pepper's reflection in car mirrors and shop windows, occasionally in a tourist's sunglasses. Eventually Hannah said, ‘The man with the pretty haircut and linen jacket?'

‘Yes.'

Shortly after that she said, ‘And now he has removed his jacket and moved his sunglasses from his forehead to his eyes. A man of many faces.'

Wyatt grinned. They stepped into a souvenir shop and twirled a rack of postcards. Sten bought a fridge magnet and they crossed the road outside the French Quarter and bought an ice-cream. The move surprised Pepper. He ducked under a canvas awning and examined a menu on a stand.

Strolling, lapping at the ice-cream, Wyatt and Sten retraced their steps. When they were opposite the Chelsea Manhattan, they crossed the road. Wyatt stopped to gaze in a jeweller's window and Hannah entered the hotel lobby. Wyatt knew that Pepper would stay with him, not follow Sten. And the fool was alone; no offsider to watch what Hannah would do next.

Wyatt lingered. Five minutes later, the Corolla nosed out of the parking garage, ready to enter the stream of traffic on Hastings Street. Wyatt trotted to the car, slipped into the passenger seat, exchanged a grin with Hannah and they were away, driving sedately towards the surf-club roundabout. Pepper, caught on the hop, dithered a moment, then charged down into the parking garage to fetch the Lexus.

Wyatt, watching him disappear, said, ‘Okay, stop here.'

Hannah pulled over. Wyatt got out, ran across the road and back along Hastings Street to the Chelsea Manhattan. Entering the lobby, he sauntered past the reservations desk and into a lift. It must have been the one just used by Sten. Her scent lingered, a trace in the air that sharpened him, his vision, his hearing, the sensitivity in his fingers when he pressed the down button.

The lift whispered, the doors opened onto the parking garage. He stepped out silently and edged to his left, behind a concrete pillar, until he was swallowed up by shadows.

Voices travelled to him, amplified in this cavern under the street, Pepper apoplectic: ‘
What the fuck do you mean, you've misplaced my keys?
'

‘I'm terribly sorry, sir,' the parking attendant said. ‘If you can give me just a moment.'

A moment worth a hundred dollars of Hannah Sten's cash. It would buy Wyatt a couple of minutes. He ran at a crouch along the wall to the Lexus, Pepper meanwhile screaming in the valet's face, ‘
Find it, you moron
.'

The valet seemed to forget he was acting. He got upset. ‘Sir, there really is no need to—'

‘
Don't “sir” me, you little shit. Find the fucking keys
.'

‘Ah, here they are, sir.'

‘Fucking moron.'

‘I'll be right back.'

‘Fucking hurry, all right?'

By then Wyatt was crouching on the hidden side of Pepper's Lexus. When the locks disengaged, he opened the back door and slipped into the gap behind the driver's seat.

He heard the door open and felt the car rock as the valet got behind the wheel. ‘Thank you,' he said.

‘Hey, no problem,' the valet said. ‘It's not going to come back on me, is it?'

‘
Don't turn around
,' warned Wyatt. Then, in a normal voice, ‘It's okay, you're in the clear. He's a mate, getting married this week…'

He slipped his hand between the seats, a fifty-dollar note between his fingers. ‘A bit extra for your trouble.'

The note was snatched away. ‘Got you,' the valet said, understanding that this was some kind of harmless prank. He shot the Lexus towards the parking booth.

Then Pepper was in the driver's seat, edging out on to Hastings Street, and Wyatt was grinding the barrel of the Ruger into the back of his neck. ‘Hello, Jack.'

Pepper jumped in fright, almost losing control. ‘
You fuck
,' he shrieked.

‘I want you to turn left, down to the spit,' Wyatt said patiently. ‘Keep your cool, drive slowly, take your time.'

‘
I'll kill you
.'