The Shadow Maker (42 page)

Giselle walked up to her with a formal smile on her face. ‘Can I help you?’ she said.

‘It’s your husband I need to speak to.’

‘He left the party a few minutes ago.’

‘I can’t get him on his mobile.’ Rita was feeling more awkward with each sentence. ‘Did he say where he was going?’

‘Business. That’s all he said.’ Giselle’s smile slipped a little. ‘You’re from the police, you say. Do you have any identification?’

‘Of course,’ said Rita and fumbled in her jacket pocket, dropping her ID and having to bend down to pick it up. She was blushing as she stood up again.

Giselle studied it carefully. She had a strange aura of control, like a priestess in her own temple. ‘How do you know my husband?’

‘I had reason to interview him - about a case involving one of his employees.’

‘But you’ve got his private and confidential phone number?’

‘He gave it to me.’

‘Is that so?’ Giselle’s smile had withered away. ‘When?’

‘On Friday. But that’s not the point. I need to see him urgently about some serious crimes.’

‘What crimes?’

‘I can’t go into that with you.’ Rita felt uncharacteristically defensive. She was on the receiving end of an interrogation. ‘I just need to talk to him.’

‘Absolutely not.’ Giselle stood her ground in her vast hall. ‘Unless you tell me exactly what this is about, you won’t make one further move to contact Martin. I can walk straight over to the phone and call a senior officer in the police force - Superintendent Gordon Nash. He’s a friend of ours. I can have him here in ten minutes.

Do you want me to do that?’

Rita swallowed. ‘No.’

‘And as for your association with my husband, I suspect it’s less than professional.’

‘Unlike yours,’ Rita blurted out before she could stop herself.

The expression on Giselle’s sculpted face turned to stone. But she was the type of woman who couldn’t be flustered. ‘If anything, that proves my point,’ she said evenly. ‘You were there, on Friday, at his celebration, weren’t you? Along with the other girls.’

‘Yes I was.’ Rita’s voice was rising with her temper. ‘And what do you think about that, Mrs Barbie? Your husband procuring prostitutes?’

‘I don’t think about it at all.’

‘What about other crimes - like assault and rape?’

‘If you’re implying my husband is involved in anything of the sort, our lawyers will eat you for breakfast.’ Giselle moved closer and ushered her towards the door. As she did, she whispered in her ear, ‘Even if it were true.’

Several minutes later Rita was still sitting in her parked car, listening to the party noises from the balconies. She thumped the steering wheel with her fists. ‘Fuck it! Fuck it! Fuck it!’

Then she paused for breath, staring through the windscreen at the night. There were pulses of lightning on the horizon and the sea was rough with a storm bearing down on the city.

She picked up her phone and called Strickland at the office.

‘I haven’t tracked down anyone from Xanthus yet,’ she told him.

‘I’m outside Barbie’s house but he’s not here.’

‘Seems like we’ve been over this ground before,’ said Strickland.

‘You’re sure you’re right this time?’

‘Absolutely. The smartcard is also a key card. It opens the studio doors at Xanthus, and everything the Hacker has said and done points to someone who’s intimate with the new computer game.’

‘I’ve got taskforce officers doing checks on company personnel,’

put in Strickland. ‘There are nearly fifty people on the books.’

‘But only a fraction of them would have direct access to the game,’ Rita pointed out. ‘And one of them is a killer.’

‘Just a friendly word of caution,’ said Strickland. ‘Don’t overstep the mark with Barbie or it could all blow up in your face. I’ve got a feeling you’re right about this and we’re closing in on the Hacker.

But we can’t make a move till we have positive identification or it could cause a real shit-storm with Barbie, as well as landing us with another bout of bad publicity. In the meantime, dig up what you can and I’ll back you when necessary.’

‘So I’m flying under the radar with your blessing?’

‘Don’t push it, Van Hassel. Where are you heading now?’

‘Next on my list is Eddy Flynn.’

‘Call me with an update.’

She tried phoning Flynn but got no answer, so she started the car, pulled out onto the beach road and drove towards the inner suburbs.

Flynn lived in an upmarket apartment block overlooking Albert Park. It was a modern white building set behind a stone fountain, a fringe of birch trees and a crescent driveway. Rita parked at the entrance, got out and pressed the buzzer for his apartment. No answer. This was getting frustrating. She looked at her watch - nearly nine-thirty. She noticed a buzzer for the caretaker and pressed it.

‘Yeah? Who’s there?’ came the response.

‘Police,’ she said, holding her ID up to the security camera.

‘Orright. Hang on a tick,’ came the reply before the door clicked open.

As Rita crossed the entrance lobby, the caretaker emerged from his ground-floor flat to meet her. He was brawny and square-jawed with bleached hair flopping across his forehead - the type of man who looked at home on a surfboard. He was wearing baggy shorts, an Eminem T-shirt, a pair of thongs and an inquisitive grin.

‘I wish this bloody weather would break,’ he said amiably. ‘So what’s up?’

‘I’m trying to get hold of one of your residents here,’ she said.

‘Eddy Flynn. Do you know if he’s around or away on holiday?’

‘Nah. He wouldn’t tell me anyway. Keeps to himself. But I noticed one of his cars was in the garage this mornin’.’

‘Okay, thanks.’

‘Is he in trouble or somethin’?’ asked the caretaker.

‘I just need to ask him some questions,’ she said.

‘You’re the first cop who’s ever turned up here,’ he went on. ‘But it doesn’t surprise me it’s about that Flynn character.’

‘Why do you say that?’ she asked.

‘Well, y’know. Real narkie bastard. Ignore you for months, then chuck a berko over nothin’.’ He shook his head. ‘Just a matter of time till he got in a blue.’

‘Is that right?’ she said.

‘Yeah, and the rest. Reckon he’s got a cocky loose in the rafters.’

She had to smile. ‘Interesting diagnosis. Any particular reason for it?’

‘I dunno - somethin’ shonky about him. Always on his own.

Never has any mates visit. And the hours he keeps - in and out in the middle of the night, buzzin’ around in that noisy ute of his.’

‘A ute? What colour?’

‘Black.’

‘You said it was one of his cars. What else does he drive?’

‘A bloody little sports car.’

‘What type - a Mazda?’

‘Could be. But all those little bum-bouncers look the same to me.’

‘Okay,’ said Rita, the smile gone from her face. ‘I need to get into his apartment now. Do you have a pass key?’

‘Yeah, sure.’

He went back into his flat and returned with a key ring. ‘There y’go.’ He handed it over. ‘It’s on the fourth. Help yourself.’

‘Thanks.’

‘No sweat. Turn the place over for all I care.’

Her heart thumped as she rode the elevator up to the fourth floor, wondering what she’d find. The door to Flynn’s apartment was at the end of an empty landing. She let herself in and switched on the light.

It was cool, air-conditioned and spacious - a neat, well-furnished residence. There were leather chairs and sofas, colour coordinated curtains and cushions and rugs, hi-tech fittings, imitation Art Deco shelving and sliding glass doors that opened onto a balcony with a view over the park and lake. She did a walk-through from lounge to kitchen to bathroom to bedroom and back again, then stopped, a little perplexed. It was a startling contrast to where she’d been during the afternoon - her visit to Maynard’s place. This was the complete opposite - a perfect specimen of a single pad. And yet, something wasn’t quite right.

It took her a while to spot what it was. Then she realised. It was too perfect. This apartment was straight out of a brochure - not just fastidiously tidy, but also impersonal. She could see no family photos on display - in fact, no photos at all. There were no books anywhere, no magazines scattered around. The CD and DVD

collections stood in their racks in pristine condition. And the shelves were sparsely decorated with minor objets d’art that could have come out of a catalogue. As she surveyed the rooms, just one thing stood out - one item that betrayed some wayward individual taste. It was a picture on his bedroom wall - a framed print of Gustave Dore’s
Red Riding Hood,
with its sinister image of the wolf, its claws exposed, in bed with the little girl
.
As she stared at it, a cold sensation crept down her spine. She felt like she’d missed something.

It was right in front of her.

The picture was mounted on walnut panelling. But the central panel wasn’t just part of the wall. At waist height there was a recessed handle. The panel was also a door. She reached out and opened it.

Inside was a small adjoining room - used as a computer den.

She walked in and gasped at what she saw. There were screens and keyboards and electronic decks, with VR accessories of goggles and gloves. Like the rest of the apartment, it was neat and spotless.

But unlike the other rooms, this one had photos on the wall - maybe a hundred of them - tacked in rows to corkboards. They were all explicit, hard-core and illegal - a nauseating gallery of child pornography. Lining the shelves below were hundreds of labelled discs with numbered references from Kidophiliax, a paedophile website that had evaded law enforcement agencies around the world. Rita appeared to have walked into its production room.

It was now imperative to find out what was on Flynn’s computer.

She slotted in the Plato’s Cave smartcard and tried to log on. The system immediately recognised the card, responding with a series of security steps, but these were beyond her limited hacking skills and the system denied her access.

She phoned Strickland and told him what she’d found.

‘Right, I’ll send one of the computer boys straightaway,’ he said.

‘I’ll join you there later when I’ve got a search warrant. We don’t want to trip up over procedure.’

Rita left the computer den and went and stood by the balcony doors, giving her a clear view of the driveway.

She watched and waited, counting off the minutes as the first heavy spots of rain started slapping against the windows. Lightning flickered intermittently. Her eyes scanned the late-night traffic for any sign of either of Flynn’s cars heading towards the apartment block. His return now would be bad timing. But within ten minutes an unmarked police car arrived, and moments later she let an officer from the Computer Crime Squad into the apartment, directing him towards the secret room.

‘Gross,’ uttered the officer, taking in the mass of images. ‘This guy is one sick bastard.’

He sat down, slotted in the card and bashed away at the keyboard, while Rita returned to the window to keep watch. It wasn’t long before he emerged, shaking his head.

‘It’s no good,’ he told her. ‘The card gives entry to the system all right, but there’s a sophisticated set of security protocols. I could take all night and still not be able to hack into it.’

‘Shit.’

‘Is there anyone you can ask who’s familiar with the system?’

‘Maybe there is,’ she said, pulling out her mobile and trying Josh Barrett’s number again. This time he answered.

‘What’s up?’ he asked.

‘I’m at Eddy Flynn’s place,’ she said. ‘I need you here. Now.’

He could hear the urgency in her voice but was mystified. ‘I don’t understand.’

‘I’ll explain when you get here. Do you know where he lives?’

‘Actually, no.’

She told him the address and said, ‘As quickly as you can.’

The computer crime officer returned to the den while Rita resumed her position by the window.

Rita was still watching when a black Falcon ute pulled into the driveway below. It stopped at the front entrance.

She swore under her breath. At any other time it would have been a welcome sight - the arrival of the type of car identified at the scene of the Hacker’s third attack. It was like another piece of the jigsaw slotting into place. But right now it complicated things.

She was busily working on a cover story to explain her presence in the apartment when a figure got out of the car and glanced up at the building. With a gasp of recognition, she forgot any idea of pretence.

He looked sleek and trendy in his black leather jacket, black shirt and chinos, his hair slicked back. He moved with a casual sureness that she’d seen in him before. How could she have miscalculated so badly? The figure who’d emerged from the car wasn’t Flynn at all. It was Josh.

This changed everything.

Her mind was racing as he pressed the buzzer downstairs. She released the security lock and spoke to him through the intercom, telling him to come up. Her voice was calm, though she felt anything but. She opened the apartment door, leaving it ajar, and backed off a few paces. Then she unclipped her holster and told the computer crime officer to stay where he was and keep out of sight.

Josh strolled into the apartment, a pair of dark glasses hanging from his pocket.

She told him to close the door behind him.

He pushed it shut and said, ‘So this is Flynn’s place?’

She pulled out the gun and pointed it at him. ‘Get down on your knees. Put your hands behind your head.’

He looked at her dubiously. ‘Is this some kind of sex game?’

This time she shouted at him. ‘Do what I tell you!’

With a scowl, he knelt obediently and asked her, ‘Have you gone barking mad?’

She brushed that aside. ‘That car you’re driving. Is it yours?’

‘It’s a company car.’

‘You’re lying. I checked the Xanthus records. No utes on the books.’

He swallowed nervously. ‘They’re not registered to Xanthus.’

‘Why not?’

‘Barbie keeps them on the books of a loss-making firm he bought.’

‘Why?’

‘Some accounting dodge he’s up to.’