Thrill City (18 page)
‘No best girlfriend?’ I thought of Chloe, who knew more about my life than I did.
He shook his head.
‘What about Victoria Hitchens?’ I ventured, thinking about the blonde romance writer whose name kept coming up.
‘That whore?’ He sneered like a growling dog—another crack in his veneer.
‘Excuse me?’
He fought for composure. Won. ‘I’m sorry. It’s just that they’d known each other since high school and Isabella thought Victoria was her friend—until Victoria turned on her and started saying terrible things behind her back. Jealousy, once again. Oh, she had the material success, but not an iota of Isabella’s talent. A hack. She’d never have been published if it wasn’t for her looks, which, I have it on good authority, have had a little help from the plastic surgeon.’
Meow.
‘You don’t suspect her, though?’
‘Of course not. She may be a bitch, but she’s no killer.’
‘What did your ex-wife think of Isabella?’
‘Not much, but don’t worry about her, she’s quite happy living with a more-than-generous settlement and a bronzed toy-boy on the Côte d’Azur.’ He narrowed his eyes and the flat, shark-like look was back. ‘You seem determined to absolve Nick.’
‘Oh, god no. Just playing devil’s advocate.’ I grimaced and performed what I hoped was a non-threatening shrug. ‘Why did Isabella go to his house that day?’
‘She wanted him to sign divorce papers. I didn’t know. I would have forbidden her. I wish to god she hadn’t.’
‘Isn’t it usual to send them, or get someone else to serve them?’
‘Yes, but she was at her wit’s end. He kept trying to put it off, pretended he hadn’t received them, disputed the separation date, that sort of thing. She’d talked once about forcing him to sign in front of her, then delivering the papers to the court so we could start proceedings and hurry along our wedding, but I told her it would be madness to see him. If only she’d listened.’
The butler had glided in and topped up my glass, so I sipped some more wine and nibbled at a fig, then a piece of nutty-tasting cheese.
‘Why did you do the writers’ festival talk? I mean, if Nick was so messed up and unstable.’
‘I didn’t want to at first, but Isabella convinced me. She really needed the publicity for her new novel. The market for literary fiction is very tight in Australia, but she always sells very well on the festival circuit. She’s such a beautiful speaker the audience can’t help but rush out and sample her work. Also, it was a chance for us to finally be on a panel together. Why should we let a petty jerk like Nick stop us?’
I didn’t mention that it also looked like an opportunity for Isabella to have the two of them fight over her and sit in the middle like the cat who’d got the cream. I tried one last tack.
‘Was Isabella in any trouble that you know of?’
Rod frowned. I reframed the question.
‘Maybe something Nick had gotten her into. Something to do with money? Blackmail?’
‘What on earth are you talking about? Nick, I can imagine, but Isabella? That’s absurd.’
‘Sorry, I—’
‘The police raised similar questions. They even intimated she was having an affair. I was outraged.’
I had the feeling I’d pushed it as far as I could and decided to finish up. I wanted to keep him onside in case I thought of anything important to ask later on.
‘Thanks, Rod.’ I smiled ingratiatingly. ‘I guess that’s it. Must be my turn to talk. What did you want to know?’
‘Everything you told the police and every single detail about your dealings with Austin. Even if it doesn’t seem significant to you, it might provide a clue as to his whereabouts. You don’t mind if I record?’ He pulled a tiny digital recorder out of his pocket and set it on the table. Made me uncomfortable, but I could hardly say no. I took a deep breath and another gulp of wine, and had just opened my mouth to speak when his fancy phone thing buzzed. He held out a palm as a signal for me to stop, and answered.
‘Mmm-hmm. Yes, I see. No, it’s not, but I can make it.’ He rang off and looked up. ‘I’m afraid I have to meet my agent for lunch. It’s rather urgent.’
‘Did you want to do this later?’ I suggested.
‘Not so fast, young lady. You’ve got your information, I want mine.’
‘But if you have to go . . .’
He squinted into the distance for a little while, tapping his manicured fingernails on the table top, before simultaneously clicking them together and pointing at me.
‘I have a plan.’
‘Yeah?’
‘I’m taking the chopper to Melbourne.’
‘Harley?’
‘No, helicopter. You ever flown in one?’
‘Can’t say I have.’
‘Well then, you’ll definitely have to come. You can share your information on the flight, then have a spot of lunch with us at Rockpool.’
I was a little taken aback. The day was progressively morphing into an episode of
Lifestyles of the Rich and Famous
.
‘What about my car?’
‘I’ll get Dean to drive it down. By the time we’ve finished lunch and put you in a limo, it’ll be waiting outside your house.’
I didn’t like the idea of the blond security guy inside my car, and conducted a swift mental tally of what it contained. Bag full of clothes and wigs, half a hip flask of whiskey, nothing overly incriminating. The rego stuff in the glove box wasn’t a worry as I was sure they already knew where I lived. A sweep for bugs and tracking devices and a quick paranoid check for severed brake lines would be a small price to pay to avoid driving home, and I had to admit I was just the teensiest bit keyed up about getting a helicopter ride into the bargain.
‘Okay.’
‘Splendid.’
When I uncrossed my legs and stood up I realised I really, really needed to pee.
‘Can I use your bathroom before we go?’
‘Certainly.’ Rod walked me into his office and pointed to a door behind the desk.
The large bathroom contained a big old claw-foot bath, more terracotta tiles, and showcased another killer view over the vineyards. When I sat down on the polished wood toilet seat to pee I realised I must have been more dehydrated than I thought. Despite a major urge, all I could come up with was a minor trickle. After I’d washed my hands I cupped them for a few gulps of tap water, patted them dry on a fluffy chocolate-coloured towel, then nosed around the medicine cabinet. Aveda products, aftershave and a packet of Cialis. I received all the usual spam emails. Wasn’t it the same shit as Viagra? An unbidden image of Rod pumping enthusiastically away on top of Isabella flashed into my mind and I felt vaguely ill and awfully glad he hadn’t made a move.
Leaving the bathroom I heard Rod talking to someone in the hallway about getting the chopper ready for the flight. I was right behind the desk and the computer was still on, its screensaver comprising thousands of tiny, drifting stars. Unable to help myself I nudged the mouse with the back of my hand so that his Word file sparked back to life. I leaned forward to read it and was taken aback by what I saw:
The quick brown
fox jumped over the lazy dog. The quick brown fox jumped over the
lazy dog. The quick brown fox jumped over the lazy dog . . .
The sentence was repeated down the whole length of the page and I realised he must have been writing it when I first came in. He’d lied about finishing an important chapter— either that or his muse wasn’t much chop. What was his game? Did he think it would impress me, seeing the genius at work? I wondered what else he’d lied about.
I didn’t think he’d killed Isabella—his grief and anger had seemed pretty genuine—yet I doubted he was being completely straight with me. Or himself, for that matter. He gave the impression of being the sort of person who put a spin on things, creating his own version of events to suit his view of both the world and himself. Everyone did, to a certain extent, but Rod had a pretty severe case of it. He couldn’t have been completely blind to Nick and Isabella’s flirting at the festival, could he?
I suddenly realised Rod had stopped talking, so hightailed it to the doorway and almost smacked into him coming through.
‘Ready to go?’ He smiled, teeth so white and perfectly formed I wondered if they were real.
R
od’s chopper roosted on a purpose-built landing pad in a field behind the villa, gleaming in the sun. It was sleek and black with a pointy nose, long tail and a hint of the military about it, rather than the bubble-shaped craft I’d been expecting.
Despite the fact it could accommodate five passengers in leather seats in the back, I sat next to Rod in the cockpit, dazzled by an instrument panel so full of clock faces and controls it looked like we were about to nip into space and attempt a quick moon landing before lunch.
He flicked some buttons and switches in front of him, fiddled with something overhead, and the engine started a high-pitched whirr before the rotors began to thwack. He handed me a headset with a microphone attached and raised a lever between the seats. The machine wobbled and began to rise. Rod saw me watching him and assumed I was interested.
‘This one’s the collective control stick.’ He tapped the lever. ‘Raises and lowers the bird. The throttle between my legs is the cyclic control which I use to steer. It inches the axis of the main rotor in the direction I want to go. I push the foot pedals to work the rudder connected to the tail rotor. Left for left and right for right.’
‘Easy-peasy,’ I said.
‘Not exactly.’ His tone was stern. ‘Flying a helicopter is a very complex business. You want to know the number one cause of helicopter crashes?’
‘Not really.’
‘Pilot error.’
I must have looked ashen. ‘Don’t worry,’ he said. ‘Been flying these babies since the eighties.’
I did feel sorry for him, despite my suspicions, his self-important boasting and his ostentatious spread. It had to be hell losing someone you loved, just like my mother and her boyfriend, Steve. Although ‘boyfriend’ didn’t sound quite right when you thought of their ten-year relationship and how they had planned to grow old together. I remembered how I’d felt when I thought Alex was dead, sort of scraped out and empty and sick. Just thinking about it made me teary, so I ruthlessly derailed that particular train of thought.
The chopper dipped and rose, following vine-rowed slopes and swooping over lush fields and houses so quaint and charming they had to have been two-hundred-dollar-a-night B&Bs. Rod circled the valley, followed the blacktop out of town, turned down the music and asked me to tell him everything I knew about Nick. So I did.
Well, most of it. I didn’t tell him about Isabella and Nick’s kiss because I thought it would piss him off, and for all I knew, rage could easily be a contributing factor in ‘pilot error’. I also didn’t mention Liz, or the money Nick had needed to borrow off her. Client confidentiality, plus I’d given my word. I did, however, disclose that Nick had implored me to warn Nerida and someone whose name started with J. Rod told me that he didn’t know any Neridas and that J was not really enough to go on. True.
By the time I’d finished we were coming into the city, banking over the Collingwood housing commission flats, then red-roofed, tram-line-bisected Fitzroy and finally floating above the wide, tree-lined streets, bluestone buildings and park-dotted blocks of the CBD. I picked out landmarks: the Rialto tower, Fitzroy Gardens, the MCG. In the distance, perched on the broad blue curve of Port Phillip Bay, St Kilda glittered in the summer sun. A few seconds later we were crossing the brown swathe of the Yarra River and heading for the helipad on the riverbank opposite the Casino.
‘I’ll admit I enjoy the fruits of my success. I won’t lie about that.’ He lowered the collective control, manipulated the throttle and we began to descend. ‘But I work damn hard for it and I think I deserve it. Plus, I make sure I put something back. I’m passionate about the environment, I’ve visited with the troops in Iraq, who just love the Chase books. I occasionally do writing workshops with people less fortunate, street kids, prisoners. I think it’s good for the public to see the many different facets of Rod Thurlow. People know me as the best-selling scribe, or the Hollywood power broker, but are unaware of my charitable works.’
‘Which prison?’ I asked.
‘Sorry?’
‘Which prison did you do the workshop in?’ I was acquainted with a few folks in the big house.
‘Port Phillip.’
I shuddered. ‘You meet a guy called Emery Wade?’
He shook his head. ‘I don’t recall any of the names, although I do remember being amazed and a little disturbed to have so many felons as fans. Chase Macallister is a very upstanding character and the books have a real moral message. I can’t imagine how those offenders identify with Chase, but they do.’
‘Everyone’s the hero of their own story,’ I said, and felt quite clever, especially since I had started to come down from the mid-morning wine and was getting that dirty feeling at the back of my eyeballs.
He scoffed and shook his head. ‘Not those fellows.’ And then he floated the chopper down right in the middle of the landing pad, soft as a feather.
R
ockpool Bar and Grill was part of the Crown Casino and entertainment complex, right on the Yarra. We entered the building from the river promenade and found ourselves in a cool, high-ceilinged space with lots of mahogany wood, the chairs and banquettes covered in dark blue upholstery.
The waitress-slash-model greeted Rod by name and showed us to a table out on the terrace where a man was sitting in my favourite position, back to the wall.
‘Ah, there he is. Brendan!’ Rod waved on the way over.
I really didn’t know what an agent was supposed to look like, but realised I’d been anticipating a grey-haired man in a suit, or a fifty-something blonde with shoulder pads and a lot of gold jewellery. Brendan was neither.
He appeared to be in his early thirties, tall and thin with a pointy face and light brown hair that curled at his collar and had been plastered to the rest of his head with a touch too much gel. He’d buttoned his shirt up to the collar but hadn’t worn a tie, and that, combined with the mirrored sunglasses wrapped around his face, made him look like a young bogan slicked up for a court hearing.
