Tropic of Death (38 page)

‘Thanks for the lift,’ she said. ‘And a therapeutic debate.’

‘My pleasure. You’ll always be welcome at St Cedd’s, even if it’s just to refresh your view of Eden.’

She shut the door and he negotiated an awkward U-turn, waving to her from his open window.

‘I still think I’m right about Genesis!’ she laughed, as he drove off.

Rita walked slowly over to the Falcon, got behind the wheel and sighed.

So much for paradise, she thought.

She opened her bag and pulled out something Stonefish had given her. It was a glossy business card inscribed with the words
Ice
for Spice
. Rita’s immediate task was to find out if Ice had ignored instructions and downloaded from the
Rheingold
disk. If she had, more hell would break loose.

46
It was the most exclusive apartment block in Whitley Marina Village, ten storeys of Tuscan-style architecture behind a wall of imitation rustic stone. Wrought-iron gates opened onto a driveway lined with cypress trees. Rita drove down it and parked in a forecourt lit by lanterns and fringed with trellises. The place was quiet with no one around, just the sounds from the nearby marina, the wash of the waves and the clink of rigging against the masts.

She walked through a portico with terracotta roof tiles, showed her ID to the night concierge and took the lift to the top floor.

She was crossing the landing to the penthouse suite when the door opened and a man in a pinstripe suit emerged, his tie askew and cheeks flushed. As he stepped aside for Rita they recognised each other. She couldn’t remember his name but his face was familiar from among the ranks of bureaucrats attending the security review at the base. Grimacing, his eyes bloodshot and alcohol on his breath, he moved hastily to the lift.

She turned to the young woman leaning in the doorway of the apartment, a picture of lubricious charm in a gold scoop top, miniskirt and gold stilettos. At first glance her breasts were so prominent it was impossible to ignore them, though the augmentation was obvious. To Rita’s mind the contours were out of proportion - a petite frame carrying too much superstructure.

The girl’s face was equally disconcerting, with accentuated eyes, lips and cheekbones giving her a sensual, almost savage beauty.

Presumably that was the intention. From her platinum blonde hair to the flat abdomen and shapely curve of her thighs she could market herself as top of the range, thanks to a series of surgical enhancements.

While the overall effect was dramatic, the psychological impact was questionable. This girl was only twenty-one but she had completely redesigned and reinvented herself, and while the end product was highly lucrative, it was also potentially tragic. She seemed to have reduced herself to a receptacle for male fantasies, a walking billboard offering sex for sale. Rita had seen enough prostitutes damaged by their avidity to recognise the signs of self-exploitation and the delusional motives behind it. Ice, for all her financial success, appeared to be following in their footsteps.

‘Marilyn Eisler?’ Rita asked.

‘My professional name is Ice,’ she said. ‘I see you’ve got my business card but not an appointment. What do you want?’

‘To talk.’

‘At midnight? Must be some conversation you’ve got in mind.

Who are you?’

‘Detective Sergeant Marita Van Hassel.’

‘A cop. I should’ve guessed. Where’d you get my card?’

‘From your mate Stonefish.’

Ice folded her arms, trying to size up her visitor. ‘What’s this about?’

‘The disk he gave you. There could be repercussions. Can I come in?’

‘Not so fast. Are you saying I’m in trouble?’

‘No. I’m saying you’re in danger,’ replied Rita, annoyed.

‘Especially if you opened the disk.’

‘Why would I do that?’

‘Curiosity.’ Rita gave her a penetrating look. ‘You did download from it, didn’t you?’

‘So what?’

‘It’s linked to the murders in Whitley.’

Ice hugged her arms more tightly. ‘Rachel’s murder?’

‘Yes. And maybe four others.’

With a shrug, Ice waved Rita through the door. ‘Sounds like crap to me but I suppose you’d better come in.’

The penthouse had a feel of spacious luxury, the decor in keeping with the Mediterranean theme of the apartment block.

There were white throw rugs on a tiled floor, expensive furnishings, ceramics and oil paintings of the Tuscan landscape, scenes of Florence. A wide balcony offered a view over the marina, lights gleaming along the breakwaters, yachts in geometric rows within their artificial harbour.

‘At least you haven’t disrupted business,’ said Ice, kicking off her stilettos. ‘That was my last customer for the night. Take a seat.’

‘I need to look at your computer.’

‘Sit down, for fuck’s sake. I need a drink. That guy was an arsehole.’

Rita dumped her bag on the floor beside an armchair and sat down reluctantly as Ice lifted a bottle from a silver bucket and poured two glasses of champagne. She padded over in her bare feet and handed a glass to Rita before flopping back onto a sofa and taking a gulp.

‘Ah, that’s better. So what’s all this bullshit about the disk?’

‘If you’ve seen what’s on it, I assume you realise the implications.’

‘I may be a school dropout but I’m not stupid,’ said Ice. ‘It could shut down the base.’

‘Exactly.’

‘Serve the bastards right.’

‘I know you’re speaking from personal experience.’ Rita hadn’t forgotten about Ice’s relationship with Paul Giles and the encounter with Maddox. ‘But you don’t want to make enemies of them.’

‘What can they do?’

‘Think about it,’ said Rita. ‘National security gives them an excuse to operate outside the law. Rachel Macarthur just had a printout.’

‘Get real. Rachel was alone in a dark alley, at night, in the roughest part of town. That’s looking for trouble.’ Ice swallowed more champagne. ‘Not the sort of mistake I’d make.’

‘You knew Rachel?’

‘I met her a few times. She tried to recruit me to the cause.

I agree in principle but it’s not my scene.’ She shook her head and shuddered. ‘The night the body was found I was there in the club.’

‘With Paul Giles?’

‘Yes, that dickhead.’

‘Why do you say that?’

‘Because he’s a fucking stalker. Obsessive. And because he got me interrogated at the base.’

‘By Captain Roy Maddox?’

‘Yeah. Another dickhead.’

‘Surely that’s a warning you can’t ignore,’ said Rita. ‘He’s the type who’ll crush you without blinking.’

‘Maddox doesn’t scare me. Nor do you.’ Ice tipped the rest of the champagne down her throat. ‘I’ve been dealing with that type of man all my life. Still am.’

‘Men like Bowers?’

‘What I have with Billy is purely a business arrangement.’

Then Ice gave a bitter laugh. ‘Now I know who you are! You’re the one who tried to bust him in Melbourne. I thought your name was familiar. Are you up here for another shot at putting him away?’

‘Actually, Bowers is doing that all by himself. And a word of advice: keep away from him and don’t let him know about the disk.’

‘I told you, I’m not stupid.’ She got up and refilled her glass.

‘So what’s your angle, Van Hassel?’

‘I was seconded here to help catch Rachel’s killer. That’s what I’m trying to do.’

‘There’s got to be more to it than that. What’s in it for you?’

‘Nothing you’d understand. Have you still got the disk?’

‘I did what Stonefish told me to - drove down the Bruce Highway and dropped it off at his private postbox in a cyber cafe in Rockhampton. It’d be gone by now.’

‘In the hands of his secret courier service,’ said Rita, sagging back in the chair.

She’d hoped to get her hands on the
Rheingold
disk but it had eluded her. For the moment, she didn’t know what her next move should be. Perhaps there was nothing more to do tonight and she should go back to her hotel. It had been a busy day, even though the interlude at St Cedd’s had been strangely peaceful. In contrast to the island monastery, the penthouse and its environment seemed synthetic - like the mock Tuscan architecture, the marina, even the woman standing across the room from her.

Rita took another sip of champagne and gazed at the landscapes on the wall. ‘Have you been to Tuscany?’

‘Where?’

‘The scenes in the paintings - part of Italy.’

‘Oh, right.’ Ice pulled a face. ‘I did a businessman at Rome airport once - executive lounge.’

Rita nodded. ‘Close enough.’

‘I paid an interior designer to sort out the apartment,’ explained Ice. ‘And now I’m planning to sell up and move on. I’ve got a lot of clients in Japan, thanks to the website.’

‘So can I take a look at your computer?’

‘No one looks at my computer except me and Stonefish.’

‘How much of the disk did you download?’

‘All of it. Saved and filed away.’

Rita put down her glass. ‘Listen to me. You’ve got to delete it immediately.’

‘No way. It’s worth too much.’

‘Is it worth your life?’

‘You’re being a drama queen. Anyway, it’s already out there.’

‘Meaning?’

‘I’ve started putting it to good use,’ said Ice dismissively. ‘And from what you’ve told me, Rachel Macarthur would approve.’

‘What have you done?’ demanded Rita.

‘I emailed it to the protest group this afternoon. They’ll know what to do - and how to shove it up the bastards at the base.’

‘You put it online,’ said Rita with disgust. ‘Brilliant. That should alert the base.’

‘You can’t faze me. I know how to look after myself.’ Ice’s hands were on her hips, eyes defiant. ‘I’m smart enough to run a successful business, own luxury apartments in three other countries and still have three million bucks in the bank. What have you got to show for your hack work?’

‘A future.’ Rita stood up. ‘You haven’t listened to anything I’ve said.’

‘Why should I? I haven’t met a straight copper yet.’

‘Well, I can’t force you to listen.’ Rita sighed and picked up her bag. ‘And now I’ve got to track your email. Did it go to anyone in particular or just the campaign office?’

‘I sent it to Stonefish’s friend, Eve.’

Rita shook her head. ‘For a smart woman you’ve been very stupid.

You’ve not only put your own life in jeopardy, but hers too.’

Eve’s phone went straight to voicemail. Rita left a message then drove fast to the other side of town, parked beside the concrete shopping centre and sprinted along the pedestrian precinct, deserted at this time of night, the sound of her footsteps echoing among the pillars as she ran. When she reached the shopfront below the campaign office she stopped and caught her breath, glancing up to the top-storey flat. The windows were open and she could see the flicker of candlelight. Soft music drifted downwards.

She found the buzzer for the flat and kept on pressing until Eve’s voice came through the speaker.

‘Who’s that?’

‘Rita Van Hassel. Sorry to call so late but I need to talk to you. It’s urgent.’

‘No problem. Give the door a hard push when you hear the bleep, then climb the stairs to the top.’

‘Okay, thanks.’

Once inside, Rita trotted up two flights of stairs to find Eve standing in an open doorway wearing only a bra and shorts. She’d obviously pulled them on quickly. Rita smiled. This woman, with her natural beauty and effortless poise, was a refreshing sight after the encounter with Ice.

‘Come in,’ said Eve, gesturing at a small, untidy sitting room.

‘We’re a bit messy.’

Rita walked in to a clutter of lumpy furniture lit by the glow of several candles. There were cushions and sheepskin rugs on the floor, along with wineglasses - two of them. The plaintive voice of Eva Cassidy came from a music deck. The fragrance of joss sticks filled the air.

‘Sorry to interrupt,’ said Rita.

‘That’s okay.’ Eve gave a wicked laugh. ‘Your timing could have been worse.’

Just then the photo-journalist, Julien Ronsard, barefoot and in jeans, emerged from a passageway pulling on a T-shirt.

‘Hello,’ he said with a self-conscious smile. ‘Nice to meet you again.’

‘I wouldn’t have disturbed you if it wasn’t necessary.’

‘Your visit is obviously important.’

‘Yes,’ said Rita, still trying to calm her breathing. ‘So can I get straight to the point?’

‘Of course,’ said Ronsard. ‘But at least sit down and catch your breath.’

‘Would you like some water?’ asked Eve.

‘No, I’m fine, really,’ said Rita, sitting on the edge of a chair.

‘I need to ask about something that was emailed to you. It was sent by Marilyn Eisler - Ice.’

‘Now that’s interesting,’ said Eve. ‘I did get something from her this afternoon and I emailed her back but didn’t get a reply.

So I’m still in the dark.’

‘Why?’

‘Her email said she was attaching a report on Whitley Sands,’

answered Eve. ‘The attachment had the title
Panopticon
so I guessed it could be the same material that Rachel had. But when I opened the document it was completely blank, as if it had been erased.’

‘What does it mean?’ asked Ronsard.

Rita gave a sigh of relief. ‘It means you’re safe. Ice was trying to email what she’d downloaded from the
Rheingold
disk - the damning report on the base.’

‘So what’s wrong with that?’ asked Eve, dropping into a chair opposite.

‘You made the point yourself. The report was a factor in Rachel’s death. I haven’t figured it all out yet, but I’m convinced the disk has been somehow instrumental in the series of murders here.’

‘Including the man in the mud?’ asked Ronsard.

‘Starting with him. My guess is that all the victims had direct or indirect contact with the disk.’

‘So you go along with Eve’s theory,’ continued Ronsard, ‘that officials at the base are implicated in the killings?’

‘Off the record - yes.’

He nodded. ‘Presumably that means the head of the security force, Captain Roy Maddox.’

‘You know about Maddox?’

‘We’ve been doing our research.’ Ronsard sat down on a sheepskin rug, cross-legged. ‘According to some websites, the CIA’s actively involved at the base. I met a likely candidate down at the Diamond. A man called Demchak. A cold man. A violent man, I believe.’