The Shadow Maker (21 page)

‘If you regain control of your faculties,’ said Rita, ‘and answer my questions.’

‘No problem. I’ll make some coffee.’ Josh clumsily tidied up the telltale mess. ‘You’re right, I need to clear my head.’

She followed him into the kitchen, where he grappled with the percolator, then stared at her with renewed perplexity. The hash seeping into his bloodstream was giving him an oblique feedback on his predicament.

‘This scene’s a bit surreal,’ he admitted. ‘And I’m famished. Fancy an omelette?’

‘I’m fine,’ she said. ‘But if you’ve got the munchies, go ahead.’

‘Thanks.’

She was in no hurry, so she sat on a stool at his breakfast bar while he got a frying pan onto the stove and smashed eggs against a mixing bowl, covering his fingers in globs of yolk.

‘Oh, for God’s sake,’ she said, getting up. ‘Let me do it.’

Josh watched while Rita expertly cracked and beat the eggs.

‘Want anything in your omelette?’ she asked.

‘Yes,’ he said, pointing to the fridge. ‘I want cheese and onions and bacon and mushrooms …’

‘I get the picture,’ she interrupted, adding the ingredients before switching the mixture to the stove.

With the omelette sizzling in the pan, she waited until he had drunk a mug of coffee before saying, ‘Now, I know you’re still a bit stoned, my dear Mr Barrett, but if you can concentrate, I need to ask some questions.’

‘Fire away,’ he said, ‘but as you’re cooking me lunch, you can call me Josh.’

‘Okay, Josh. I have reason to believe Kelly Grattan was the victim of a crime.’

‘What crime?’

‘Assault and attempted rape.’

‘Rape?’ The colour drained from Josh’s face. ‘My God.’

He looked unnerved - a flurry of emotions passed across his face.

‘When did you last see her?’

‘Nearly two weeks ago.’ He fumbled for a bar stool and slid onto it. ‘The day before she ended up in hospital.’

Rita was watching his expression closely. ‘Now I’ve got to ask you this formally. Did you hit Kelly Grattan?’

Anger flared in his eyes. ‘No!’

‘Did you sexually assault her?’

He beat the breakfast bar with his clenched fist. ‘Of course I didn’t! Kelly and I are …’ He hesitated.

‘What?’

‘Friends.’

‘You have a relationship?’

‘Depends on your definition.’

‘Sex.’

‘Yes, but …’

‘Tell me.’

‘There was no pressure, no commitments, and we kept it to ourselves.’ Josh shook his head. ‘No one at Xanthus knows and it ended months ago.’

‘Why did it end?’ asked Rita.

‘We both moved on,’ he shrugged. ‘You wouldn’t ask if you knew her reputation.’

‘Enlighten me.’

‘She’s known as a man-eater,’ explained Josh. ‘But I didn’t mind being gobbled. Sorry, bad joke.’

‘I spoke to Flynn earlier,’ she went on, serving him the omelette.

‘You told him Kelly put the squeeze on Martin Barbie because of stress.’

‘I assumed it was stress, but a sex assault makes more sense. She’d want to keep it quiet.’

‘And the pressure on Barbie?’

‘I found that out when I accessed a confidential instruction to the accountants,’ Josh explained as he tucked into his meal. ‘Barbie was talking about a seven-figure payout to Kelly. He called it
compensation
.’

‘Did he now?’ Rita reflected, gazing through the kitchen window at the sunshine streaming into a neat little garden with flowerbeds, rosebushes and a plum tree. A butterfly floated past. ‘So what’s your impression of your famous employer?’ she asked.

‘If that’s a formal question, then I’d say he’s a demanding boss but pays well and hires the best in the field.’

‘And off the record?’

Josh brandished a forkful of food. ‘What do you call someone who owns a Lamborghini, a bayside mansion, a trophy wife and maintains a wholesome, good-guy image while lacking all morals and screwing around?’

‘What would
you
call him?’

‘A slime-ball.’

‘Thank you, Josh,’ she said, climbing off his kitchen stool. ‘Your input has definitely helped my inquiries.’

‘It has? How?’

‘I believe Barbie’s seven-figure compensation payment to Kelly was hush money to cover up a brutal crime.’

‘For God’s sake, you won’t let on who told you?’

‘Don’t choke on your omelette,’ she said with a smile, ‘I’ll keep it confidential.’ She shouldered her bag, feeling she’d made some progress.

‘But you’ve given me reasonable grounds to question an icon.’

Jack Loftus watered his office fern while he listened to the case for questioning Martin Barbie.

‘The investigation’s hit a wall,’ said Strickland, arms folded, Rita sitting beside him. ‘No leads, no fresh clues, we’ve run out of likely offenders to interview and none of the MX-5 owners who’ve been contacted is an obvious candidate. There’s plenty of forensic evidence - but no suspects.’

‘What about the smartcard?’ asked Loftus.

‘Professor Huxley reckons it gives access to a virtual private network,’ answered Rita. ‘But we can’t trace its manufacture, and we can’t link it to Kavella, or anyone else for that matter.’

Loftus put down the china watering can, a present from his grandchildren, and turned to Strickland. ‘You’re convinced the offender really attacked another woman before blinding the hooker, and it’s not just a figment of her coke-addled brain? I don’t want to stir up unnecessary crap by chasing phantoms.’

‘She was coherent, Jack,’ sighed Strickland. ‘And the only woman who’s emerged as a potential first victim is Kelly Grattan. She’s clearly a liar and a possible blackmailer who’s done a runner overseas.’

‘I did a few checks,’ put in Rita. ‘Kelly put her apartment on the market and booked a one-way ticket to Singapore, without leaving any contact address or phone number. The agents can’t even get in touch by email. They have to wait for her to call them.’

Loftus sat down behind his desk and looked Rita in the eye. ‘And you want to treat a television star as a suspect because … ?’

‘Not a suspect, Jack,’ she objected. ‘But someone who can shed light on a line of inquiry.’

‘Our only current line of inquiry,’ added Strickland. ‘But I’ve already got my knuckles rapped because of this case, so I’m passing the buck on this one to you, Jack.’

Loftus grunted, rubbing his brow.

‘I won’t be heavy-handed, I promise,’ said Rita. ‘I’ll treat him with the respect and awe he deserves.’

‘Okay,’ said Loftus. ‘But if you can’t substantiate any of it, you back off immediately. Got it?’

‘Yes, Jack.’

‘And how do you plan to approach Mr Barbie?’

‘I’ll catch him on set tomorrow.’

As Rita headed back to the squad room her mobile bleeped. The text was from Lola:
Need to talk asap. Am at Fed Square. Call me.

Well, she was overdue for a lunch break, thought Rita as she took the lift down to the ground floor, walked outside and jumped on a passing tram. Once seated, she pressed call-back on her phone.

‘It’s decision time, okay,’ Lola told her, ‘and I want your advice.’

‘I’m already on a tram heading your way,’ Rita said.

‘Oh my God, public transport!’ shrieked Lola. ‘That’s true friendship!’

They met in a cafe in Federation Square. Above them rose the glass, steel and zinc architecture of the atrium, flanked by shops and art galleries, the afternoon sun streaming high overhead.

‘So what’s this about?’ asked Rita, sharing a glass of wine and a gourmet salad with her friend.

‘I’ve found out who’s sending me flowers,’ answered Lola, ‘and you’ll never guess!’

‘Russell Crowe.’

‘No, he’s married. You just don’t keep up with showbiz gossip!’

‘One of the Wiggles.’

‘Behave yourself, this is serious.’

‘Okay,’ shrugged Rita. ‘I give up.’

‘A woman!’ Lola clapped a hand over her mouth in shameful delight. ‘And a hot one at that. She’s asked me on a date, so what do I do?’

Rita wasn’t sure what to say. ‘Does it make a difference that she’s hot?’

‘Of course it does!’ said Lola emphatically. ‘But she’s also got class - a fashion photographer on her way to do a calendar shoot in the Whitsundays.’

‘Lola, you’re not a lesbian.’

‘No, but I’m always in the market for new offers, and this one’s very flattering. She wants to fly me up to Hayman Island for a champagne dinner. To say no would be like turning down a free gift from Tiffany’s.’

‘Tiffany’s wants to get into your purse, not your pants!’

As Rita ran a hand through her hair in exasperation, the ringing of her mobile provided an excuse to escape the subject. To her surprise, the call was from Professor Byron Huxley.

‘I hope I’m not interrupting your work,’ he said.

‘Not at all,’ she told him. ‘I’m at Fed Square with a glass of pinot noir and a friend who’s having a shopping crisis.’

‘I’m just up the road at an education conference,’ he went on,

‘but we’ve adjourned for the day. Mind if I join you?’

‘Okay, though I’ll have to get back to the office soon. Had any further thoughts on the smartcard?’

‘I’ll tell you when I get there,’ he said.

As she hung up after giving him the cafe details, Rita wondered what exactly was on Huxley’s mind, but Lola was demanding attention.

‘Shopping crisis - very funny!’ she said. ‘Now without being smart, tell me what harm there’d be in accepting a dinner invitation.’

But Rita was too distracted. ‘How do I look?’ she asked.

‘You’re ignoring me!’

‘Can we set aside your Sapphic fantasies for a moment? I need to know if I’m presentable.’

‘You look fucking great,’ Lola said impatiently. ‘Like a blonde babe ready for action. Why do you need to know?’

‘We’re about to be joined by a bit of a hunk.’

Huxley turned up looking more city executive than academic in a sleek-fitting business suit. Somehow it accentuated his youthful good looks.

‘Here he comes,’ said Rita, as he approached through the galleria.

‘That’s a professor, you’ve got to be kidding me!’ said Lola, with a hefty nudge. ‘If you don’t jump him, I will!’

‘And disappoint your lady-love?’

‘This is more like it,’ said Huxley, as he reached their table. ‘The conference was a form of slow torture.’

Rita introduced Lola. Huxley shook her hand firmly before sitting down and beckoning the waiter. ‘Glasses of red all round,’

he said.

‘I mustn’t go back drunk,’ Rita warned him.

‘Oh, relax,’ said Lola. ‘You’re off-duty in a couple of hours, and half the cops are alcoholics anyway.’

Huxley chuckled.

‘That’s rich, coming from a member of the media,’ retorted Rita, before turning to Huxley. ‘Not to mention the drunks wandering the groves of academe.’

‘We have the occasional doctorate toppling over a lectern,’ Huxley admitted, as the waiter served the wine. ‘But that’s in the Arts Faculty.

In science we’re strictly sober.’ He raised his glass. ‘Cheers!’

They clinked glasses and laughed.

‘You can lecture me anytime,’ Lola told him, making him blush.

Rita changed the subject. ‘You were going to tell me more about the smartcard.’

‘Yes, I took a more leisurely look at the data and schematics I downloaded from the card,’ said Huxley. ‘I’m sure it’s a VPN key, as I suspected.’

‘What’s that, and is it something I should have?’ asked Lola.

‘A key card for a virtual private network,’ answered Huxley.

‘Something no woman should be without for remote access to a mother network with highly sensitive data. Anyway, I’m convinced this particular one is Australian-made, probably here in Melbourne, with a level of encryption that can’t be cracked but could be bypassed.’

‘How?’ Rita wanted to know.

‘It depends on the authentication components,’ explained Huxley.

‘If it’s a two-factor process, such as a key and a login, you’ve already got one of them - the card. With the right laptop it might be possible to shoulder-surf the second, and hack your way in.’

‘But first I’d need to know whose network I was hacking into,’

Rita suggested.

‘Yes, and I’ve no doubt this card connects to top-secret information.

We’re talking government, industrial or commercial secrecy.’

‘What about criminal?’ asked Rita.

Huxley sat back. ‘If that’s the case, I’d be very worried about the data being protected. But if the card was made for gangsters, they had to hire experts to produce it.’

‘We’ve approached the top dozen software firms in Melbourne,’

Rita told him, ‘but they all deny knowledge of it.’

‘Well, you’ve covered the right ground, so either it was made interstate or one of the firms is bound by confidentiality and is lying to you.’

‘Will you two stop talking shop?’ demanded Lola. ‘Or I might as well go back to my preview.’

‘What preview’s that?’ asked Huxley, smiling.

‘A new exhibition at the National Gallery.’ Lola nodded across the atrium. ‘Fashion from the 1960s - psychedelic, see-through and topless.’ She leant forward. ‘Works for me.’

Huxley gave a reflex glance at Lola’s cleavage and blushed again, making both women laugh before Rita ticked her off. ‘Stop teasing.’

‘Never,’ said Lola, downing the rest of her wine. ‘Not even when I’ve got a Zimmer frame!’

Sunlight gleamed from the fractal facades of the architecture as they crossed the square to the intersection.

‘I just can’t get used to the design of this place,’ complained Lola.

‘Too much metal and glass, like a set from
Star Trek
.’

‘I like it,’ said Huxley. ‘It’s all geometrical logic.’

‘Oh, you’ll get on brilliantly with Rita,’ groaned Lola, as she hailed a cab. ‘You can tickle each other’s intellectual fancies.’

As Lola jumped in a taxi, Rita told Huxley, ‘Don’t mind Lola, she can see sex in a tractor catalogue.’

‘I like her too,’ he said, adding coyly, ‘and
her
surface geometry.’

‘Down boy,’ said Rita. ‘That’s Latin dynamite in D&G casing.’

‘You’re right,’ he conceded. ‘Beyond my expertise.’ He gave her an amused look. ‘But what a learning curve.’

‘I’ve got to get back to the office,’ Rita said, with just a hint of regret. ‘But I think I’ll walk off the wine.’