Who Killed Jimbo Jameson? (2 page)

His lips were faintly smeared with the same red substance as his penis. Lipstick? His groin was encrusted with what looked like cream.

I remembered that muscles that were very active before death stiffen more quickly, which
explained the erection, especially if the cock ring had kept the blood where it was needed. There was an old appendix scar and scars around the right knee and left hip, and a depressed round scar on his left thigh that looked like an old bullet wound. The Medical Examiner motioned that it was time to move the bodies.

My initial assessment was that he'd been on the receiving end of a blow job which had been rudely interrupted. The lividity pattern told me that while blood had pooled when he was on his back, the blood should have pumped out, not trickled. Why? He'd been shot three times. The woman had been shot twice. There should be blood dripping down the walls and probably decorating the ceiling and the windows. But there wasn't. Nothing was adding up. There wasn't enough blood for two shooting deaths. And why were there petechial haemorrhages in his eyes?

The bedside table held a bottle of little blue and pink pills, a mirror smeared with white powder, a $50 note and a small ziplock plastic bag with a quantity of white powder. Still open. Black credit card with white powder residue on one edge. No needles. No spoons. No lighter. An aerosol can of whipped cream was on the floor.

The contents of the box and the bottle would keep the lab busy for about five minutes, but it was already evident that Jimbo was a cokehead who couldn't get it up without chemical assistance.

Who, or what, had killed Jimbo Jameson and the mystery redhead?

chapter two.

The hotel manager hovered at the door, chewing his nails and glaring at the security manager who was puffing himself up and making entries in his very own notebook. There is nothing worse than a security guy with an inflated sense of importance and a burning desire to be part of the investigative team. Meanwhile, the hotel suite was roped off and being powdered, printed and photographed and would probably become part of local folklore as the Jimbo Jameson Murder Suite.

They say karma eventually gets you, and Jimbo was an excellent example, but I don't know what I did to deserve that day. My head was pounding, the tic in my right eye was back and I knew that if I didn't get a caffeine fix soon I may have had to resort to making myself a cup of instant muck from what was left of the hotel “hospitality pack”.

Jimbo was definitely dead, but I feared that with my luck, he could just sit up, laugh at the fuss, and pour himself a beer. He'd been prodded, scraped, photographed and packaged for his trip with the body snatchers to the morgue. He was their problem for a while and I must say that I was glad to get out of there.

The photographer snapped his bag shut with a flourish and took one last look around the room. “Way to go, Jimbo. Way to go,” he said.

“Yeah. The papers are going to love this. He's even made it in time for the Sunday shit sheets. Come on, let's go, Jack.”

On reflection, I should have known what would happen as soon as we walked out of the front door and into the scrum of photographers, film crews, radio microphones and thrill-seekers. The flashes fried my retinas and the microphones hemmed me in as I navigated the footpath to the squad car. The previously nail-nibbling hotel manager opened the car door for me, but he was looking hungrily at Jack as he did it. And was it my imagination, or was he getting a bit of attention from the cameras?

“Let's get the hell out of here, but can we please get some coffee before we do anything else?” I closed my eyes and watched the lights pop in and out and listened to my heart through my temples. Just five minutes more. I ratted through my briefcase and found a half-eaten block of Cadbury's which looked OK after a bit of a dust off. It's not exactly Godiva, but it's mother's
milk to me.

Constable Jack fastened his seat-belt and turned to me. “Lights and siren? Or would that be too painful?” Smartarse. I shook my head carefully and pointed ahead. “Get onto William, then turn right at the Coke sign into Darlinghurst Road and park where you can. I need a double shot macchiato, and I need it fast. Please.”

Out of the corner of my eye I watched as he steered the car through the Friday afternoon chaos of Elizabeth Street. So handsome. So bloody healthy! A chocolate-covered-Jack-popsicle fantasy reared its oh-so-gorgeous head and I closed my eyes again to slide back down into definitely unprofessional thoughts of milk chocolate, satin sheets, silk scarves, Senior Constable Jack Reynolds et moi. Constable First Class Jack Reynolds. Constable First Class-192cm-tallbuilt-like-a-Greek-god Jack Reynolds.

Cursing the fence of electronics separating us, I popped the lump of furry chocolate into my mouth and wallowed in my chocolate fantasy.

“How can you even think of doing that? That's filthy!”

Oh, you have no idea, Constable Jack. You have no idea. I licked the last of the chocolate from my fingers and turned to look at him. Physical perfection gift-wrapped in a plain-clothes suit and tie, with the exception of the little flakes of sunburnt skin dusting his ear which lent a teensy edge of vulnerability that could possibly require some extra attention with massage oil. Oh, what could I do with that massage oil.

So far, I knew that he grew up in Byron Bay and he looked like he was a surfer. Ambitious. Politically connected. So where did his tan line begin and end? Speedos or boardshorts? Waxed or furry? Salty gold fuzz glinting on a hard, tanned body was almost too much to hope for. Or what about sweat beading over smooth, oiled pecs? Definitely too much to hope for. I leant back with a sigh and indulged my daydream until the car pulled up in Darlinghurst Road.

“You grab some seats and I'll get your fix. Double shot macchiato, wasn't it? Anything else?” he asked. I shook my head carefully and staked a claim to two stools in the sun. The regulars acknowledged me and went back to their gossip, then I closed my eyes and tried to break down the investigative process into manageable parts. Homicide had grabbed the case and I wasn't the lead detective, but my inner control freak couldn't help trying to take charge.

The sun was blocked out by something huge and my meditation was shattered.

“You look like shit, girlfriend.” Just what I needed to hear.

“Is that a diagnosis, doctor?” I opened my eyes and there he was. Dr Christian Barker. My very favourite cardio-thoracic surgeon, complete with stethoscope, blue scrubs and matching eyes. My favourite gay cardio-thoracic surgeon and emergency handbag. I've known Chris since high school and love him dearly. He's smart, funny, drop-dead gorgeous and cooks a mean tagine. God knows that I've tried to convert him to the joys of women, but he's a popular sperm donor for clucky lesbians so those clearly superior genes aren't being lost to the world.

“Big day, Chris. Big day. And it's not over yet.” I shifted to accommodate an extra stool next to me. “We're on our way to Watsons Bay and the morgue and there's going to be a mountain of paperwork and I really don't want to start. So if you don't tell me something wild and wonderful right now I will just have to shoot you.”

“Oh girl, you don't know? Jimbo carked it. The full disaster. Blow, booze, bullets and blood. My friend Brett says the police are all over the place and the press is going wild. Oh my god, it's a fucking blockbuster. Someone shot him. He was gay, you know.”

I groaned. News certainly moves fast in this bloody town. Who needs 2GB when you've got 2GAY-FM? We'd left the hotel ten minutes ago and already the gory details were out there and the gays had claimed him as one of theirs. It always happens.

“Chris, I don't know how you do it. How did you know?”

“Well, my friend Brett is the assistant manager at the hotel and he said that a housemaid found the body. There were bullet holes in the bed and the police…Oh my god, was that you there? You're the detective? I should have realised when Brett said that there was a megabitch…Oops. Sorry.” He had the good manners to stop there. “I never know when to shut up, do I?” Laughing, he slapped the back of his hand. “So where's Marco today?”

“Marco is probably getting off the plane in Rome as we speak. Lucky bastard.”

We chatted easily about the delights of Roman coffee and Chris commiserated with me about my cancelled holiday, which was the most sympathy I'd received all day.

Constable Jack placed my coffee and biscotti in front of me and Chris's eyes lit up as he made room for another stool for him.

“So who's your friend, Maddie? And where did he come from?”

Chris didn't wait for me to answer and turned to Constable Jack. “Oh, so you're the hottie
who was with Maddie at the hotel? Brett definitely told me about you. What's your name?”

“Chris, this is Jack. He's learning the ropes from me while Marco is in Rome.” I tried to sound casual, but why, oh why, did I have to mention “ropes” in front of Chris?

“Well, if anyone knows all about ropes it's Maddie. You know, she's really into knots. And whips. And chains, if you're really lucky. You'll beg for less.” He laughed. I cringed.

Jack nodded. “I'll remember that, Chris. But you know, I might be able to teach her a thing or two that I learned in the Boy Scouts.” He grinned at me and winked. “Always be prepared and all that. Dib dib dib.”

Chris was delighted. “Oh, do come and tell Doctor Chris all about it.” He patted his thigh and winked.

“Thanks for the invitation, Chris, but my heart belongs to Maddie,” countered Constable Jack, and my heart leapt. Looks, a hot bod, brains and repartee: Constable Jack, you are just too perfect.

Chris laughed. “Yet another knockback. I'm devastated, but remember – when she breaks your heart, I'll be here to sew it back together again.”

My attention was diverted to more immediate matters. Coffee. I began to feel better at the first sip. As I swallowed the rich fluid every cell in my body whispered “Oh, thank you.” The biscotti were a great idea, and my headache retreated with every heartbeat. I squinted into the sun and shook my head carefully.

“Stay away from this one, Chris. I saw him first.” Did I really say that?

“Well, if you're going to be like that, I'd better go.” With another wink and a big smacking air kiss, he stood and strode down the road towards the hospital.

“Nice guy. One of your conquests?” Constable Jack asked. I smiled, knocked back the last of the macchiato, and stood up. “Come on, big boy. Let's go get the widow and show her the sights of Glebe. Once she has identified him we can go home.”

And I could unpack my suitcase. I mentally scratched out all my beautiful plans: feeding the wild dolphins at Monkey Mia, cocktails at sunset at Pinctada Resort. Sleeping in. Massages. Bubble baths. I could even have turned off my phone and been completely uncontactable. Which is what I should have done the day before. Oh bugger.

Jack hit the lights and siren to get us through the Friday afternoon traffic and I called the car
service department and yet again they broke my heart. One more week without a car. I couldn't remember what the latest disaster involved, but it was expensive and my car needed a new part and it had to come out from Italy. I have a horrible suspicion that it would have been cheaper for me to fly to Milan, pick up the offending part, and bring it back myself. Perhaps that's what Phil was going to do.

chapter three.

The Jameson family home on the beach at Camp Cove was behind a high sandstone wall and decorative iron gates. Tall palm trees were silhouetted against the early sunset light and the afternoon breeze wafted the aroma of a barbeque that must have been close by. I realised that breakfast had been a very long time ago. We pushed through the reporters and photographers and hit the gate buzzer.

The gates slid open and the door to the house was opened by a tall, leggy brunette with a short helmet of impossibly shiny silky hair, luminous skin, white teeth, red lips, brown, almost black eyes and a loud voice with an accent I couldn't quite place. She was wearing low-cut, cream silk pants and a tan silk top over definitely no bra and she was holding a champagne flute in very manicured hands. She introduced herself as Jacqueline Jameson, Jimbo's widow. I hated her at first sight.

“Come in, come in, darlings. I've been waiting for you. We're just finishing up here. Things have been a bit crazy today and I haven't had time to scratch myself.” She took a sip and turned to walk away from me. “Just let me get changed. Won't take a minute.” There was no stopping her. “Come through. It's just us. No biggie.”

We followed, drawn to the magnificent view of the harbour through the full-length glass doors. Pool. Beach. I have often wondered why some people find it necessary to have a pool when they live on a beach.

The lounge area was marble and bleached wood and big white lounges, with a huge portrait of a nude Jacqueline dominating one wall. Outside, a middle-aged bald man was standing at a huge barbeque, waving at us with large tongs. I recognised him from newspaper articles: Peter Gates, aka The Saint. Press agent to the great and the good and the not-so-good for a minimum commission of only thirty per cent. A man with a make-up case and a hairbrush introduced himself as Floyd. Just Floyd. “Don't look at me, detective. I'm sure I have an alibi, although I dreamed about cutting off that ratty pony tail.” He snipped imaginary scissors in the air and gave me a cheeky grin.