Cherry Pie (23 page)

I took my whiskey to a red couch, and when I swallowed the liquor it burned a satisfying path down my gullet. I leaned my head back. Theories spun around in my brain but I was too exhausted and tipsy for them to make any sense. It had been a hell of a day. I closed my eyes and enjoyed the heavy feeling in my limbs. I’d finish this drink, toddle off down the road, check into the first place I came to, and collapse on a saggy single bed which would have either a chenille spread or an ugly flower printed duvet. I was feeling so relaxed I almost fell asleep until I sensed a presence. My eyes snapped open and I groaned. It was Trip.

He sat next to me, made a hand signal to the barman and stuck his arm along the back of the couch. I hauled myself forward so his hand wouldn’t brush my neck.

‘You take up Sam’s offer of a room?’

‘Nope.’

‘Then you must be waiting for me.’

Did the guy ever give up?

‘Thanks for finally telling me what happened that night, and introducing me to Doyle, but I’d really appreciate it if you’d just fuck off.’

I’d hoped he’d get offended and storm out but he just grinned and raised those devilish eyebrows. ‘Hard to get, huh?’

‘For you? Impossible.’

‘Mr. Sibley?’ Jose set down a brass tray bearing a bottle of expensive looking tequila, sliced lemon and a salt shaker.

Trip completed the lick, sip, suck ritual then placed his hand on my knee.

I pushed it away. ‘Trip, piss off. I’m tired.’

‘I’ve got a king sized bed in my room …’

Wanting to get out of there fast I finished my drink in a giant swig that burned my throat and brought tears to my eyes. Crunching through the last shards of whiskey flavoured ice I said, ‘This might be hard for you to accept, being in
People
magazine’s sexiest and all, but I just don’t fancy you.’

‘Why not?’

‘Let’s see. You’re arrogant, up yourself, violent. Do you want me to go on?’

‘Simone, that’s all an act. I’m different deep down. Why don’t you give it a chance, get to know the real me?’

I snorted. That was almost as bad as this cop who’d once told me he knew how to make me feel like a woman. What did he think I felt like? A rhinoceros? A single celled amoeba? A bloke?

‘Call an escort if you’ve got the horn,’ I told him. ‘We’re in Kings Cross, shouldn’t be too hard to find a fuck.’

Trip reached out his index finger and, before I could stop him, slid it down my cheek and neck and along my collarbone, a surprisingly delicate move for someone who had, half an hour earlier, careened around a pole like a frenzied chimpanzee.

I shivered. A reflex action, but he saw.

‘Ha!’ he said.

‘Doesn’t mean anything.’

‘You sure? Kiss me.’

‘What?’

‘I’ll tell you about Andi …’

‘You already did. She was at your place and nothing happened ’cause her phone rang.’ I wondered if the cops had traced that call. Probably. Would they tell me who it was from?

No way.

‘There was something else too …’

‘What?’

He pointed to his mouth. ‘One little peck.’

‘You’re full of shit.’

‘No I’m not. I worked with her four nights a week. I think I have a fair idea what might have happened to her.’

‘And you’ll only tell me if I kiss you? That’s somewhere between sexual harassment and bribery.’

‘I wouldn’t go that far. Unethical, possibly. Certainly sleazy. But I’m a chef, not a Catholic priest, so who gives a shit?’

I finished my Jameson’s, reached over and sprinkled salt on the back of my hand, threw back a shot of tequila and sucked hard on the lemon. A shudder ricocheted down my spine. I looked at Trip. It’s not like he was hideous or anything. In fact, as much as I hated to admit it,
People
had been on the money. And it was just a peck. What was a peck if it led to the one clue I needed to find Andi?

‘So help me,’ I said, ‘if you’re lying …’

He opened his eyes wide, attempting to look innocent.

I repeated the process with the tequila, spat the lemon onto the tray, squeezed my eyes shut and said, ‘Okay, do your worst. But no ton—’

Too late. He’d tilted my chin up, brushed the hair back from my face, and licked my bottom lip. The shiver returned.

Not that I was keeping tally or anything but it had been four months, one week and five days since I’d kissed someone, and the aborted attempt with Alex didn’t count. I tried very hard not to feel anything, but my lips had started to tingle, not to mention everywhere else. Trip tasted like tequila and he smelled like sweat, but good sweat, the nutmeg and cinnamon aroma you got walking past a bakery.

I started sinking back into the couch but he wrapped his arm around my waist and pulled me up. I touched his arm and felt a ridge of tricep. Gosh, he sure was buff. Probably strong enough to be able to actually lift me up and carry me around the room while he … I tried to block out the image. He pushed his tongue in, just a little way, not at all the arrogant thrust I’d imagined, and, well, I couldn’t just leave my tongue lying there like a dead slug. What if word got around that I was a lame kisser? So I kissed back, thought of Sean, briefly, but reasoned that kissing wasn’t cheating, not if the former president of the United States of America thought a blowjob didn’t count. And anyway, I wasn’t doing it for fun. This was for Andi, the greater good … and stuff …

Trip slipped one hand up my back, tracing my spine, and rested it on my neck, fingers playing with my hair. I got even more tingly until I couldn’t help it and pressed myself up against him, hard, and then he pulled me onto his lap and crushed me into his chest and I was just thinking that being a chef, he probably wasn’t averse to getting his tongue around all manner of exotic fare, when I heard a sound from across the room, the sort of pissed off ‘harrumph’ that old farts make when they can’t handle people making out in public. The disapproving grunt flashed me back to Elsternwick, and the fat cop’s words.
Alcoholic nympho … gets all her information rooting
people
. Holy shit. I’d been so indignant when he’d said it, but wasn’t that exactly what I was doing now?

I wrenched my lips from Trip’s, turned my head away before he could lunge in for another pash and saw Alex standing under the archway between the bar and the lobby, glaring at us.

‘Let me in!’ I hammered on the door and pressed my ear against the wood. All I could hear was the sports channel, turned up loud. ‘Alex!’

He’d turned on his heel after I’d spotted him, marched through the lobby and jogged up the sweeping staircase. I’d shaken Trip off and bolted after him but when he’d reached his second floor room he’d slammed the door and nothing I could say would make him open it. My stomach sank and tears pricked my eyes. What had I done? Would he tell Sean? If only I could explain that it wasn’t what it looked like. Christ, who was I trying to kid? It was exactly what it looked like, probably worse since I was still feeling all breathless and trembly and more than a little damp in the knickers. I couldn’t decide if the sick feeling was real guilt, or just the shame of being caught.

‘Alex!’

My banging must have woken the other guests, or perhaps Alex himself had summoned the security guard who was jogging toward me down the hall.

‘Open the door!’

‘Ma’am.’ The guard was an older guy in a beige uniform, keys jangling from his belt. ‘I’m going to have to ask you to leave the hotel, immediately.’

I ignored him and thumped the door with my fist. The guard grabbed my upper arms and started dragging me backwards. I dug my feet in and took a deep breath in preparation for yelling louder. I really wanted Alex to hear what I had to say before the guard hauled me off.

‘You of all people have no right to disapprove of me! No fucking right!’

The door opened inward and he stood there in his shirtsleeves. ‘Let her go.’

The guard wasn’t sure. ‘You know her?’

Alex nodded.

‘Sir, we can’t have this sort of carry on. If it happens again I’m going to have to call the police.’

Alex nodded. ‘It won’t happen again.’

‘It had better not.’

Alex stood back and let me into a room with high, ornate ceilings, long gold curtains and a Juliet balcony. All the furniture was modern, moulded and curved like the seats in the bar, and multicoloured. A chaise longue was bright red, the kidney shaped writing desk purple. A feature wall behind the king sized bed had been painted aquamarine. I sat on the bed and stared at the enormous flat screen TV on the wall opposite. An AFL game by the looks of things, but it was hard to see through my watery eyes. I sniffed, determined not to cry in front of him again.

‘I decided not to go back to Melbourne. I went to Food Expo and saw Trip Sibley instead and then we ended up at the—’

‘Hot Rock. I didn’t think you’d leave that easily. I knew you’d come back to the Cross so I hung around. I saw you leave the bar thirty seconds after Sam Doyle. I followed you.’

‘Why?’

He stared at the wall for a while and sighed. ‘I can’t tell you exactly what I’m working on, but it’s big and there are some very fucking dangerous people involved. You should take your mother’s advice. Go back to Melbourne, stay in that motel. What did you talk to Doyle about?’

I flopped on my back on the billowy doona and stared at the ceiling. My eyes were starting to dry. ‘Andi. My mum. I think he was lying about some stuff but I just can’t believe he’s evil incarnate like everyone’s telling me. He’s dodgy, sure, but I don’t think I’m in danger from him and I don’t think he did anything to Andi. Whether he had anything to do with Gordon’s murder, who knows? As for Trip, well, he said he’d trade information for a peck on the cheek and things just got a little out of hand. You won’t tell Sean?’

Alex shook his head. ‘Telling him wouldn’t serve any purpose and you weren’t joking when you said I had no right to disapprove. When I think of what you and I almost got up to while I was still dating Suzy, before I asked her to … but you know what really pisses me off about tonight? You’re a good investigator. You don’t need to flirt with Trip Sibley to gather evidence. It cheapens you.’

Cheapens me? I had a flash of anger. He’d done a bit more than flirt with me for information once and I bet that didn’t make him ‘cheap’. Being a guy it probably meant he was a stud.

I breathed deeply in and out of my nose but let it slide ’cause I really didn’t want him to tell Sean. ‘I haven’t been flirting with Trip,’ I explained. ‘I’ve been a total bitch.’

Alex crossed his arms. ‘Sometimes not flirting can be flirting.’

The fuck? ‘Well shit,’ I laughed, ‘damned if I do and damned if I don’t. Got anything to drink?’

‘You don’t need another drink. Eaten anything apart from the oysters?’

I shook my head.

‘Where are you staying?’

‘Nowhere.’ I rolled on my side and looked at him. I really didn’t want to get off that mattress, it was like floating on a cloud. Alex leaned back on the desk, arms still crossed.

‘Right,’ he sighed. ‘You can sleep here. I’ll order some room service and one of those rollout cots.’

‘No, it’s fine.’ I struggled to sit up, but the bed was so big and soft and fluffy.

‘Your mum would kill me if she knew I’d turfed you out onto the streets of Kings Cross. So would Sean. No argument.’

I yawned. ‘Can I have a shower?’

He went to the cupboard, extracted a bathrobe and held it out to me. ‘All you ever do is shower.’

‘I’m always dirty.’ I shrugged.

He opened his mouth to say something, but stopped himself just in time.

The next morning I woke to find myself sprawled diagonally across the king sized bed, still wearing the bathrobe. I’d fallen asleep watching a cheery little show about plane crashes on the Discovery Channel and by the looks of things had forced Alex onto the rollout. Oops.

Squinting at the clock I saw it was eleven thirty and a note on the bedside table told me he’d gone out and would be back around four. I yawned, stretched, rolled out of my feather down bower and staggered over to the mini bar to pillage a tiny, outrageously expensive packet of real coffee I’d spied there the night before. I shook the precious grounds into a small plunger and snooped through Alex’s things while I waited for the trendy stainless steel kettle to boil. I was hoping to find something pertaining to his fraud case, but all

I came across was a black leather toiletry kit, a copy of
Time
magazine and a pair of balled-up socks.

Alex’s room was at the back of the hotel and when I took the plunger out onto the small semicircle of a balcony I expected it would overlook another garden of shiny sculptures and undulating shrubs. Instead I was confronted by an ugly eighties apartment building blocking out the sky.

I sat back in my wrought iron chair, propped my feet up on the rail and sipped the steaming black coffee, wondering what to do. If the interview with Andi’s friend Daisy didn’t yield any clues I’d have to accept I’d hit a dead end … unless I could find out who’d texted Andi before she left Trip’s. If he’d gone to his interview and told the police what he’d told me then surely they’d have checked the phone records by now. They’d never tell me who the message was from, but they’d probably let Joy know. I wondered if she’d even answer my calls after that shit with her and my mum at the barbecue.

Probably not, but I’d try later on, regardless.

I finished the coffee and, not really knowing what to do with myself when I wasn’t taking my clothes off for a living or skanking around wheelie bins, decided to have a spa. The bathroom was massive, decked out with gold plated taps, rose coloured marble, mirrors and glass. I ran water in the giant tub, whacked in some bubble bath that had been laced with essential oils and labelled ‘Romance Blend’, ponytailed my hair on top of my head and fired up the jets. In no time a cappuccino-like froth was threatening to spill over the sides and I slipped into the warm, sweet smelling water. Bliss. I frolicked for a little while, pretending to be a seal, then piled suds on top of myself, blew them off and flicked them across the room. No matter how old I got, bath foam and bubble wrap never lost their charms.