Who Killed Jimbo Jameson? (18 page)

“I always knew that I was in the wrong body and my mother was wonderful when I finally told her that I was going to transition. Then I made the mistake of telling my father, and he didn't take it well, to say the least. He screamed at me and he blamed my mother for turning me into a flaming queer, as he said, and he refused to see me or talk to me. He told Suzie not to talk to me, but no-one tells Suzie what to do and I really love her for that. She's such a wonderful person, isn't she? She flew over to help me recover from the operations and she was an absolute rock. Mum and I just love her and I look on her as my spiritual mother.

“I spend most of my time between Connecticut with my mother and Venezuela with my grandparents. This year I was in Rio for Mardi Gras, but I was dancing on a float and fell off and landed in hospital and was a bit late finding out about my father's death. I suppose that I should be heartbroken that he's gone, but he really was a mean old bastard and I'm only here because my mother insisted I come over for the funeral because it was the right thing to do. I came because I wanted to see Suzie. I'm not sorry that he's dead. There was a time when I would have cheerfully killed him myself, but I missed my chance and all those capoeira lessons when I was a boy have been completely wasted. Damn.” She gave a wicked grin and winked at Constable Jack, who had a sudden coughing fit.

“So I'm sorry that I don't really know much about what my father got up to and I suppose that there were many people who would have liked to kill him and you can include me on that list.” She looked straight at Jack. “So…am I under arrest?” She held out her wrists and smiled. “Handcuffs?” Constable Jack was turning pink.

“No? So can I go home now?” She turned to me and winked.

Yes, you can, I thought. Quickly. Before Jack has a complete sexual breakdown.

chapter twenty nine.

The Club Floor suites at the InterContinental are really something and the view is spectacular. I'd spent some time here on guard duty for visiting politicians a couple of years ago and it's an oasis of elegance. However, the two teenagers had managed to reduce their suite to a shambles of shopping bags, shoes, clothes, bottles, cans and chocolate wrappers. A man's shirt was hanging off a door knob and I could detect the strong notes of aftershave. Did the little darlings have a man stashed away? Was he the Napoli brother?

Dominique reminded me of Jace, especially around the eyes. Damn, I couldn't get his eyes out of my mind.

Ignoring a barely suppressed yawn I made the usual getting-to-know-you speech and was treated to an elaborate rolling of heavily made-up eyes from Mlle Dominique Le Fraise. She refilled her glass of champagne and leaned back, wriggling her toes. She may not have known it, but she shared her father's taste in toenail polish.

“I hate him. I've always hated him and I will always hate him. I hate what he did to mama, I hate the way he got away with everything. He left her. He left me. And do you have any idea how embarrassing it was for me when the story came out that I was his daughter? I had always thought that Yves was my father, and so did everyone else. Merde.”

“Who was Yves?” I asked.

“Yves was mama's friend. His salon was around the corner from our house in Paris, and he used to call me his princesse and let me play with his scissors. He taught me to ride and made me beautiful dresses and took me to all the Disneylands. And when he moved to Morocco I had my own rooms and servants and a hawk. He was my papa. Merde, even that fat old Greek that mama married would have been more acceptable. But no. One lousy item in the gutter press and everyone knew that my real father was an alcoholic nouveau riche Australian barbarian with a penchant for expensive horses and cheap women. He wasn't Yves. He was old and ugly and hideous and I hated him. Did you see his teeth? I never met him and I'm so glad he's dead at last.”

Dominique had never met her father, so why did she feel it necessary to attend his funeral? I asked her.

“Why am I in Sydney? We just hitched a ride to Melbourne with my brother and my so-called father died while we were in Melbourne, so we decided to take a look around. Paolo had to leave, but he's back and we can fly to Paris now.”

“Who's Paolo?” I asked.

“Oh, he's Maria's brother. The eldest one.” Dominique said. “He's an absolute darling. He flew back this week to pick us up. Well, he had to be in Auckland anyway so he stopped off here and so we've got a lift back to Paris.”

“No, we're going back to Rome.” A voice in the next room interrupted. “Papa wants us back for his birthday, remember?”

“Whatever.” Dominique picked at her skirt.

A short, dark-haired girl walked into the suite, waving her nails. She was the girl who'd been with Dominique at the funeral. “What do you think, Dom? A mani and pedi for $40. How much is that in real money? Will you be long? And Paolo wants to check out that place with the indoor pool tonight. I'm starving.” She opened the mini-bar. “And thirsty. Drinkies, anyone?”

She caught sight of Constable Jack and her eyes lit up.

“Um, hi. I'm Maria. Maria Napoli. I'm Dom's friend” She held out her hand to Jack and moved in closer to him, completely ignoring me. At least he remembered that I was standing next to him.

Jack introduced himself, then turned to me. “And this is Detective Griffiths.” The brat didn't even look at me. Instead, she walked across the room drinking straight from a piccolo.

“Whatever.” Such a bored little bitch. She sat back in an armchair, crossing her legs high so that she could dangle her shoe from a painted toe.

Not a good look, sweetie. Your legs are too short for that pose to work.

There wasn't much on Maria Napoli, but plenty on her family. Mostly bad. They breed 'em mean in Palermo. Her father was claimed to be in semi-retirement but that was probably because he had politicians on his payroll and they were keeping his nose clean. Three brothers. Four uncles. Two in Italy, one in Melbourne, one in Sydney. The Sydney uncle had a modest rap sheet, and there was nothing on the Melbourne one. Nothing that could be proved, that is.

“Miss Napoli,” my voice took on the tone that teachers use to quieten an unruly class. “You said that you're Dominique's friend. How long have you known her?”

“We were at boarding school together.”

“Dominique has told us that you've been in Australia for three weeks now. So have you enjoyed your stay?”

“It's been OK. I liked the Gold Coast, but I haven't seen much of Sydney.” She looked hopefully at Jack.

“And how long will you be staying?”

She sighed and rolled her eyes. “I think Paolo is going back tomorrow or the next day. Not sure. We'll go when he goes.”

“And Paolo is your brother?”

“Yes.”

“And he's staying here with you?” What sort of mother lets her daughter traipse half-way around the world and stay in a hotel with another teenage girl? But then, if your daddy is a mafia don, you're safe just about anywhere.

“Yeah. He's crashing with us.”

“Dominique has told us that he's a pilot and he flew you out here and dropped you off in Melbourne.” I said.

“Uh-huh.” No reaction there.

“Did you enjoy Melbourne?”

“It was OK. A bit boring, but I wanted to see my little nephew.”

“And did your brother stay with you in Melbourne? Was his visit business or pleasure?

“Non lo so. He came to my uncle's place, had lunch, and had to leave. Hey, why are you asking me questions about my brother?” She drained the bottle and dropped it on the floor.

“Oh, just interested. You're very lucky to have a jet and a pilot at your disposal, aren't you?”

She wriggled in the chair and sighed yet again.

“Yeah. And you know what? We have two of them and it's just fan-fucking-tastic. So eat your heart out, detective.” She glared at me. “Actually, why are you asking me questions? Why are you asking us questions? We came out here because we wanted to see my little nephew and we were in Melbourne when her father died. And Dom never even met him because he beat up her mother then pissed off and didn't come back. We wanted to do some sightseeing, and then we decided to hang around for the funeral. That's all.” Her eyes were flashing now. “Dom, this
is boring. Papa has told me that I shouldn't talk to the police unless Uncle Tony is with me, and I don't think you should either. She picked up her mobile phone.

It was evident that today's conversation was about to come to an end, so I left the two spoiled brats with their Louboutins and their iPhones in their suite and hoped their hair extensions fell out. My feet were hurting and I cursed what was left of my feminine vanity. Why on earth had I even thought of wearing high heels? Gabbie had been wearing flats, so what was I trying to prove? I twisted my hair into a high bun and found one bobby pin to fasten it. The glamour bit really isn't my thing, so who was I kidding? My brain was overloaded with Jimbo Jameson's complicated relationships and I was glad that this latest interview was the last on my list.

Constable Jack jabbed at the lift button and grimaced. “Those two are trouble. What do you think?”

“They need a good shake, and I need a drink, Jack. Coming?”

“Nah. I'm out of here. I've got to pick up a new board from Avalon. I'll probably stay the night so that I can try it out tomorrow morning. I'll call you, OK?” Bloody surfers. How many boards does he need?

chapter thirty.

The bar at the InterCon is as good a place as any for a quiet drink and I took the opportunity to experiment. The cocktail list was comprehensive and I decided on a Caprioska. Cold. Lethal. Just what I needed and so thoroughly deserved and besides, all that vitamin C almost makes it healthy. Sighing, I kicked off my shoes, placed my briefcase on the table and was soon absorbed in reviewing my notes. So many dead ends. So many people wanted him dead. So why were we worrying about who had shot a dying or already dead man? And a prostitute that no-one had come forward to “claim”. I felt sorry for Chelsea.

What was I missing? There was something about those two spoilt brats upstairs that I'd missed. What was it? My hair fell down again, so this time when I twisted it up I skewered it with my pen. So much for sophisticated elegance. It doesn't work for me, so why kid myself?

The Caprioska worked its magic. I took a deep breath, closed my eyes and leant back against my seat. One more day and I hadn't shot anyone. But I hadn't worked out who shot Jimbo. And Chelsea. Poor Chelsea. On the other hand, my sex life was going very well. But if it was so great, why did just the thought of Jace Jameson give me butterflies in my bottie?

I sensed his presence before I heard him. “My favourite detective.”

I opened my eyes as Jace Jameson slid next to me on the banquette, placing his drink next to mine on the table and flashing me a smile that lit up all my dark and empty spaces.

“So tell me, Detective Griffiths. Are you on duty?”

He was dressed in a soft black leather jacket, black silk t-shirt and faded blue jeans. I couldn't see his shoes but he looked like he'd just stepped out of GQ and he smelt of man musk and citrus. Flustered, I tried not to stutter. “Definitely off duty, Mr Jameson. How was your father's wake?”

“I can think of nothing worse than wasting a perfectly good afternoon being nice to a pub full of drunks and people who don't know me but think they have to suck up to me. There were about four people there that I really like, and we had dinner together last night. The rest don't matter.”

“I'm so sorry that your father fell out of his coffin. Is Bradley OK?”

“He had a heart attack. The last few weeks have been hard on him, and then I heard that
he got some bad news about his daughter just before the funeral started. Don't know what happened there, but he was evidently pretty cut up.”

Did Bradley learn about Brooke and Jimbo? I played dumb. There was no need to upset Jace, too.

“Where is he now?” I asked.

“St Vincent's.”

“He's in good hands. Who's his doctor?”

“Christian Barker. He's supposed to be the best.”

I smiled. “Chris is my best friend. I've known him since forever. We have coffee together most mornings.”

He raised one perfect eyebrow. “Really?”

“Not what you think. We share the same taste in men.”

“Well, in that case, he can live. I just hope the caffeine doesn't give him the shakes.”

“He tells me it actually steadies his hands.”

“So tell me, detective. Are you waiting for someone?”

“Me? No. I'm just taking it easy. It's been a long day and I deserve some time off for good behaviour. TGIF and all that.”

“And what about bad behaviour, detective? Can I interest you in some bad behaviour?” He picked up the cocktail menu.

Oh my god. He's flirting with me.

“That's very tempting. What do you suggest, Mr Jameson?” I can flirt back. I can do that.

“Well, ma'am, I reckon you might enjoy a Cowboy,” he drawled. “Or what about an Orgasm? I could definitely organise at least one of those for you I think you'd like a Screamer? His eyes sparkled and crinkled at the edges and I felt a blush heading north from my toes. So wicked.

“What do you suggest, Mr Jameson?”

He made an elaborate show of consulting the menu.

“Well, I'm always partial to a Long Sloe Comfortable Screw Against the Wall, and I just love the idea of Sex on the Beach. But then, of course, nothing beats a Slippery Nipple. That's always nice.” His eyes were twinkling as he put the menu down on the table and took my hand in his. “You may think an Afternoon Delight is very pleasant, but at the moment I recommend some
good old Jameson's. Not necessarily straight up. We could always add some ice cubes, or you might like to pour it over something.”