The Game You Played (28 page)

Sunday afternoon

ROB KEPT HIS EYES GLUED TO a short-legged woman with petite boobs and big hips as she walked from the bar, four glasses of wine carefully balanced between her fingers. “Nice.”

“Bit stumpy for my taste, mate.” I shrugged.

“I like ’em like that.”

The bartender handed two beers to us. We remained sitting on the stools. We’d met with a new client ten minutes ago. He’d wanted to meet at the bar of the hotel he was staying at, but he hadn’t actually wanted to drink. Rob and I were left high and dry and thirsty.

I sipped my beer. “Then explain Ellie.” Everything about Ellie was slim and lanky—even her hair. She was slightly taller than Rob, and when she wore high shoes, the height difference was noticeable.

“Ellie just happened. I was with a little, short girl before her. Charlotte. Something about the way she made me feel in bed was hot, like I was this big rampaging bear or something. It really turned me on.”

“So, what do you feel like with Ellie? The smallest of the three bears?” I turned back to the bar, chuckling to myself.

“Real funny, Basko.” Rob loosened his collar, tugging at his tie. He hated what he called his monkey suit.

“You don’t appreciate Ellie enough.”

“Yeah, I do. I can look at other girls, but she’s the best. Anyway, she’d cut me off at the knees if I ever cheated on her.”

I smiled. “She’s certainly the best when it comes to sales at the agency. Ever gonna let her run the auctions?”

He shrugged to hide his sudden and obvious discomfort. “She’s not ready for that.”

“We’ll lose her.”

“She won’t go to another agency.”

“Won’t she?”

He didn’t look so sure.

Immediately, I thought about Phoebe and what I’d done with Kitty. I was going to lose Phoebe. No, I’d already lost her. I’d slept with another woman and Phoebe had been on a date with another man. Did what I’d done even count as cheating if the marriage was over? I didn’t want it to be over. Maybe Kitty was what I needed for a while to get my head straight. Any man trying to deal with Phoebe would be sent around the twist. It’d cut me in two when Phoebe had asked if I was trying to decide which woman I wanted. She’d been right—I was. If Phoebe wanted me, then it was her I wanted, always. But if she didn’t want me as fully as I wanted her, then I had to look elsewhere.

Three guys about our age walked past and seated themselves on the stools on the right side of me. Two of them were talking in loud, American voices about the girl they’d nailed the night before—both in the same bed, apparently. I couldn’t help a mental picture from jumping into my head. One of the two was short and chubby. The other a tall, slim Black American.

The third, sitting on the stool next to me, was concentrating on his phone. I caught the message he was texting.
Change of heart.
Need to see you again. Tomorrow? Please?

I wanted to tell him to run. Don’t get caught up with a woman. Be like his buddies. He was a good-looking guy. Yet he was the one running after a girl.

He glanced up and grinned, putting his mobile away. “Apologies for my friends. They shoot their mouths off everywhere they go.”

I nodded, returning the smile. “Sounds like an interesting night.”

“They’re just making the most of it. We’re only here for nine days, then to Brisbane, then home.”

“What part of the US are you from?”

“Maine originally. In Seattle now.”

“Loved Seattle. Haven’t seen Maine. Except maybe in a mental picture when reading Stephen King novels.”

He laughed. “Yep, they seem to be set in Maine. You’ve travelled America?”

“Not for a holiday. Just for business. We’ve bought up quite a few US properties, and we’re sitting on them. I own a real estate business.”

“Yeah? We’re a lot cheaper over there than you guys. But I wouldn’t mind investing here if prices are going up fast. What’s a one-bedroom apartment go for near the harbour?”

“Sydney real estate’s a mecca for overseas investors. But like you said, it’s hell expensive. You’re not going to see as much of a rise from a one-bedroom apartment as you would for a two-bedder. People want that extra bedroom and more space in general, and they’re prepared to pay for it.” Leaning across, I shook his hand. “I’m Luke. If you have any questions at any time, just give me a call.” I pulled out a business card from my wallet.

“Thanks.” He took the card. “I’m Dash. Dash Citrone.”

“Yo! Dash!” One of the guys that Dash had come in with hollered at him, even though he was only a couple of feet away. “You famous, man. You’re on TV!”

I glanced up at the TV. The guy sitting beside me was indeed up there on the screen. On a hotel balcony no less, pulling up his trousers. A group of five men stood there with Dash, clapping and cheering. The other two that were at the bar were there on the balcony, too. There were two women, one of them facing away from the camera, shimmying into a tight dress. Some wild party that must have been.

Six men. Two girls.

“Oh, man, no . . .” Dash groaned. He jumped from the stool, watching the screen in shock. “How the hell did anyone get footage of
that
?”

“They must’ve been filming from the balcony straight across from ours.” The tall dark guy beamed.

The girl in the tight dress turned.

She had Phoebe’s face.

But she couldn’t be Phoebe.

“There’s that chick you porked,” the fat guy snorted. “She got out of there fast after we showed up.”

My brain refused to catch up with what was happening on the screen. My thoughts stuck in wet cement.

A voiceover began on the TV while the scenes repeated in a loop.

In the latest of a series of bizarre incidents, Phoebe Basko—the mother of missing Sydney toddler Tommy Basko—was seen cavorting half-naked with a group of notorious American pickup artists. The men are here to run seminars that instruct men on how to pick up women for sex.

Just days ago, Phoebe Basko was taken away by police from a Cremorne-bound ferry for accosting an elderly woman. Mrs Basko reportedly believed that the woman was sending her kidnapper-style letters about her missing son. This belief was found by police to be baseless.

Last week, Mrs Basko and her husband, Luke, received three letters in rhyme about their son, Tommy, and the day he disappeared from a Sydney playground. Police investigations have so far been unable to uncover the identity of the writer of these letters.

Pictures of Phoebe flashed on the screen. Pictures of Tommy.

Citrone threw up his hands as he turned back to his friends. “Her name’s
Phoebe
? And she’s married?
And
she’s got a missing son? Fuck, I had no idea. Explains why she was so secretive.”

Dots connected in my head, each point firing and exploding.

The man standing beside me had sex with my wife. And who knows how many of the others she’d slept with? But I had one name for certain. Dash Citrone. It was Phoebe he’d been texting.

By the time I pulled myself to my feet, I could no longer think or breathe. Swinging my clenched fist, I punched Citrone in the jaw. He crashed backward over the stool.

Arms grabbed me from behind. “Luke! Leave it alone!” Rob wrestled me away.

I should have been grateful that Rob was pulling me towards the exit. Because I wanted to smash Citrone into the ground until there was nothing left of him.

Rob insisted on driving me home, telling me he’d go back to the bar and smooth things over and make sure that Citrone didn’t lay charges.

Finally, I agreed. Rob was right. Something like this could blow up bigger than Ben Hur. Especially if the media got hold of it. Our company could be affected.

What the hell was Phoebe doing in a hotel room with American pickup artists? Was it an attempt to get back at me?

Rob dropped me outside my house.

I should have headed straight inside. But the rage I felt inside kept me there on the street. As Rob pulled away, I took out my phone, my mind raging, calling Phoebe every name under the sun as I tried repeatedly to get her on the phone. As I expected, she didn’t answer. If she wasn’t with Citrone anymore, where was she? Out partying with other men?

My chest sank as I turned and walked to my gate.

Something was in the mailbox. I realised I hadn’t checked the mail since last Thursday. I pushed the mailbox key in and retrieved three letters. Two bills and one plain envelope.

One plain blue envelope.

Phoebe wouldn’t, would she? She wouldn’t send yet another letter?

The answer came to me.

Yes, she would.

My wife was batshit crazy.

I tore the envelope open. And unfolded the thick blue paper inside.

My knees buckled when I saw what was on the page. I fell to my hands and knees, vomiting into the garden.

Sunday afternoon

I WALKED THE BUSY CITY STREET, barely feeling the cold air on my bare legs. I wasn’t wearing the tights that I’d been wearing when I left Nan’s house this morning. I’d dressed in a flash when Dash’s crowd had turned up.

God, they were
pickup artists
. Why hadn’t I guessed? Or at least found out Dash’s full name and looked him up. I’d been too focused on my own things.

Switching on my phone, I smiled at a text from Dash:
Change of heart.
Need to see you again. Tomorrow? Please?

He’d sent the message half an hour ago. I’d been making my way through the city since I left his hotel, and I was about to enter the playground. Normally, I avoided this area—the anxiety attacks that it triggered made me visibly tremble.

But I needed to remember more about the phone calls. After grabbing a coffee and croissant from a café, I continued on to the water play canals. The area was largely empty, the rain having driven most families away. And night was drawing in fast. In July, night fell by five. Only a scattering of children and their parents wandered through the playground.

Sitting at the edge of one of the canals, in the exact place where I’d last seen Tommy, I set my coffee and paper bag down beside me. I slipped off my shoes and let my toes slide down into the frigid water. Tommy had played with his yacht here. People stared at the strange woman sticking her feet in the water on a winter’s day, but I didn’t care.

I watched the tiny, trickling stream. Desperately trying to remember the voice on the phone that day six months ago. I ate a portion of the croissant and tossed the uneaten part to the pigeons.

I became aware of people on the edges of the playground that didn’t seem like parents or tourists. They were looking for someone.

One of them looked my way and froze.

Suddenly, I knew who they were looking for.

They jogged straight towards me, as though I was about to flee instead of sitting here quietly with my shoes off. Something about them told me they were police. Plainclothes police.

Something was wrong. Something new and terrifying.

The shorter of the two reached me first. “Mrs Basko? Phoebe Basko?”

“Yes?”

“I’m Detective Gillian Farley. And this is Detective Kelsey Donahue.” She gestured towards the second woman who’d arrived. “We’d like you to come down to the station with us. There’s an urgent matter.”

“About Tommy?”

Detective Farley eyed the other detective before looking back at me. “I’m afraid we don’t have any information about this. Detective Gilroy needs to see you. That’s all we know.”

This wasn’t about Tommy directly. It was about me. Was it the phone call from six months ago? Had they worked out who was at the other end of the call?

Holding my breath, I gave a sharp nod. I walked with them to their car—unmarked, of course. It was obvious to me that they knew exactly why I was being brought in. It was obvious in every attempt they made to talk about the weather and the jazz festival as Detective Farley drove the busy city roads.

I refused to talk.

I’d had enough of games.

There was an eeriness about the police station when I walked inside with the detectives. Everything seemed to be swept up, everything concentrated on one point. And that one point centred on me. The faces of the police throughout the station turned to me as I was escorted by the two detectives into the interview room. Elliot—Kate’s husband—was one of the constables behind the counter today. I avoided his face.

Three detectives with deadpan expressions waited inside the interview room. Trent Gilroy, Annabelle Yarris and Ali Haleemi.

I knew all their names, like characters in a TV series.

Luke was there, too. Just like another character. He eyed me with the same deadly serious expression as the detectives. Nothing like a husband would look at a wife. No sense of familiarity there.

What was happening? Why wouldn’t anyone tell me? What was it that had dragged Trent Gilroy into the station on a Sunday?

Trent asked me to take a seat. “Phoebe, I’m going to ask you a question, and then I’m going to ask you to look at something.”

I seated myself without answering.

“Firstly, the question,” he said. “Did you send another letter?”

Was he testing me in some way? Or was there really, actually, another letter? I shook my head.

“Are you certain?”

“Why are you asking me?”

“Because of this.” He turned his laptop computer around so that I could see the screen.

I cried out loud.

An image of a piece of blue paper with fold marks.

A rhyme, like the others.

But more than that.

A large splash of dried blood—droplets of it sprayed across the printed words.

My stomach gripped itself as I turned my head, bile shooting into the back of my throat.

“Forensics has already made a number of findings about the blood,” Trent continued in a matter-of-fact tone. “Is there anything you want to tell us about the blood on this letter?”

“God, please don’t let it be Tommy’s.”

“We’ve run tests,” Trent said. “I have to tell you that it
is
Tommy’s blood.”

I covered my mouth with both hands, scarcely able to breathe.

Tommy’s blood.

I stared across at Luke. He stared back, his eyes grown fierce.

Trent watched the exchange between Luke and me and then spoke again. “The next thing I have to tell you is that the blood is not fresh. It’s old. The lab says it could be as many as six months old.”

Six months.

My eyes tracked back to the computer screen as I realised I hadn’t yet read the rhyme:

Little Boy Blue

Lie down to sleep

Unwanted baby

Rest in peace

A raw, physical pain tore through my body.

Rest in peace.

Tommy wasn’t supposed to be resting in peace. He was a little boy.

In desperation, I looked to Luke again.

There was no comfort in Luke.

No warm place in this room.

“Phoebe,” came Trent’s voice. “Your doctor is on her way here. I need to tell you that the case with these letters has now taken a very different turn.”

“Wait,” I cried, “you have a camera. You can see who put the letter there. You can see for yourself.”

By the look on Detective Haleemi’s face, I could tell there was a problem. “We took the camera away yesterday,” he told me. “We didn’t believe that it was needed anymore.”

Trent walked across to stand in front of me. “Forget the camera, Phoebe. We’ve already been through all that. We’d like to ask you some questions. I’ll inform you of your rights first. You have the right to remain silent and engage a lawyer before you communicate with us again.”