CHAPTER 2
The next morning, instead of watching Burke again, Gary went to his office to keep his business ticking over. The office was a couple of hundred metres from his apartment, at the top of a flight of concrete stairs between a solicitor's office and an H & R Block franchise. The glass front door said "Bloodhound Investigations". He already regretted that name, but wouldn't pay a sign-writer to change it.
Inside was a small room with several metal filing cabinets. Behind a solid oak desk with a computer terminal was a long window overlooking the street. On the nearest wall was his framed Private Inquiry Agent's certificate.
He'd been in business for almost a year. At first, most of his work came from other investigators, who gave him odd jobs or sent him their poorest and craziest clients. But as his reputation spread, he started attracting his own poor and crazy clients. Most of his work involved filming workers' compensation claimants, but he also caught thieving employees, recovered stolen goods, located missing persons and shadowed cheating partners. When times were really tough, he worked as a bouncer and process server.
He hung his jacket behind the door and punched the play button on his answering machine. A woman's voice: "Hello, Mr Maddox. My name's Barbara Thompson. I'm calling because you've been recommended. Please call my mobile so I can arrange an appointment. The number is …"
Gary phoned the number. After a couple of rings, a woman answered and identified herself as Barbara Thompson.
"Hello, I'm Gary Maddox, returning you call."
"Thank you. I've got a job for you."
"What sort of job?"
"I don't want to explain over the phone. Can I meet you at your office?"
"Sure. When's convenient?"
"Eleven o'clock?"
"Fine."
Gary hung up, turned on his computer and started typing up accounts. He'd finished a couple when he heard a knock on the door. George Oliviera had a ten o'clock appointment. Gary opened the door. It was him. He shook his hand and sat him down facing his desk.
Oliviera was a small man, in his mid-forties, with thinning hair, a weak chin and large paunch. He owned several Italian restaurants in Leichhardt with a business partner called Robert Zacharias. The restaurants were very successful. But Oliviera suspected Zacharias was stealing food and tickling the till. He employed Gary to set up spy cameras in a restaurant, covering the cash register and kitchen.
So far, the cameras hadn't caught Zacharias stealing anything. But they had caught him shagging OIiviera's wife several times a week. He usually bent her over a kitchen bench and made her scream with ecstasy. It was the dirtiest thing Gary had ever seen.
He wasn't sure whether to tell George about his wife's affair or not. Strictly speaking, he was employed to detect theft, not adultery. But George was paying for the surveillance and surely entitled to all the fruits of that endeavour.
Oliveira said: "How's your surveillance going?"
"I've watched hours and hours of tapes and, so far, haven't caught him stealing."
Oliveira looked disappointed. "You sure?"
"Yep. Maybe I missed something, though I doubt it."
"Well, I suppose you'd better continue, at least for another few weeks."
"Will do. But maybe he isn't stealing anything."
Oliveira shook his head: "Nope, he's up to something."
"How do you know?"
"It's a feeling I've got. I don't trust him."
"Why not?"
Oliveira shrugged. "Hard to say. Sometimes, he just won't look me in the eye."
"Maybe you're imagining that."
"Maybe, but I want you to keep going."
Gary shrugged. "OK."
Oliveira looked uncomfortable. "Umm, there's something else I want to talk about."
"What?"
"I've got another problem: I think my wife is, well, having an affair."
Gary lifted his eyebrows. "Why do you think that?"
"The way she's been acting recently: she's been really happy, which is pretty unusual for her; she's usually a total bitch."
"Maybe you should count your blessings."
"She's also dressing a lot better and she's changed in bed. Usually, she's like a dead fish. Now she's got some new moves." Oliveira leaned forward angrily. "I reckon someone's sticking his dick in a cunt that doesn't belong to him."
Gary had even seen that dick. "Maybe she's just trying to spice up your marriage?"
"Are you kidding? It died ten years ago."
"You got any idea who she might be shagging?"
"Yep. She works for a real estate agent - a real sleazebag. She's always saying nice things about him and he sometimes gives her a lift home."
The poor bastard had added one plus one and got three.
Gary said: "OK. What do you want me to do?"
"If I want her followed, will you do that?"
Gary didn't like matrimonial jobs. But Oliveira paid on time and without complaint, and Gary had all the proof he needed. The job would be a cinch.
Gary said: "Yes, I offer that service."
"Good. I'll think about it and let you know."
"OK. But think hard before you get me to follow your wife. You might find out stuff you don't want to know."
"I understand." Oliveira got to his feet. "Alright, keep up the surveillance and I'll speak to you in a few weeks."
"Will do."
Should he tell Oliviera that his wife was screwing Zacharias? He was still equivocating over that when Oliviera disappeared out the door.
He spent half an hour typing up some more accounts, including one for George Oliveira, and was slipping them into envelopes when he heard another knock on the door. Outside was a woman in her mid-fifties, wearing a navy jacket and skirt. She had a strong jaw, hard mouth and cold eyes. Not to be trifled with.
"Mrs Thompson?"
"Yes."
He introduced himself and led her over to the chair facing his desk. She sat primly, handbag on lap. He dropped into his armchair.
Looking nervous, she said: "Thank you for seeing me. I can't stay long - I've only got an hour off work."
"Where do you work?"
"St Vincent's Hospital. I'm a nurse."
Gary studied her hard features and hoped she wasn't the last woman he ever saw. "On the phone, you said someone recommended me. Who?"
"Mr Frank Calloway. I went to see him first. But when I explained what I wanted, he told me to talk to you."
When Gary left the police force, he spent a year working for Frank Calloway whose firm specialised in surveillance of workers' comp claimants. Frank didn't like assignments that were too difficult or dangerous.
Gary said: "Did he explain why?"
"Yes. Umm, he said you used to work on the drug squad and were just the sort of man I need."
Intrigued, he leaned back in his chair. "OK, what do you want me to do?"
She nervously cleared her throat. "I want you to find out who killed my son."
Gary raised an eyebrow. "How'd he die?"
"He was shot in Darlinghurst, about two months ago. It was in the papers."
She opened her handbag, pulled out a newspaper clipping and pushed it across the desk. Gary leaned forward and studied it. He vaguely recalled glancing at it a few months before.
MAN SHOT DEAD IN STREET
A man was shot dead in Darlinghurst yesterday evening.
Tony Robert Thompson, 27, was shot twice in the chest while standing on the pavement in Lang Street.
According to an eyewitness, the killer ran into an adjoining laneway, got into a blue Ford Sigma and sped away. Police later found the Sigma - earlier reported stolen - abandoned in Redfern.
A police spokesman said the eyewitness did not see the killer's face. However, he had grey hair and wore a dark-blue suit.
When an ambulance arrived on the scene, Mr Thompson was already dead.
The police spokesman said that Homicide detectives have no strong leads. However, they believe Mr Thompson's de
ath was drug-related.
Gary looked up at Barbara Thompson. "Why do the police think your son's death was drug-related?"
She avoided his gaze and chewed her lower lip. "Umm, they claim Tony was a drug dealer."
"What sort of drugs?"
"They mentioned cocaine and ecstasy, and a few others I've forgotten." She nervously pushed back a strand of hair. Her face quivered and sagged.
Gary said: "Did you know he sold drugs?"
She looked down. "I suspected it."
"Why?"
Her jaw trembled and big tears ran down her hard face. Gary automatically pushed a box of tissues towards her.
She took one and dabbed her eyes. "Sorry, this is very difficult for me. I keep wondering if, I'd been a better mum, Tony would still be alive. But it wasn't easy to bring up my kids. My husband left soon after Tony was born. So I had to raise three boys on me own. That was tough."
"I'm sure it was."
"They all ran wild and got into lots of trouble. Tony was the worst. He got expelled from three schools and arrested for shoplifting when he was sixteen."
"When did you find out he was involved in drugs?"
"When he was about twenty, he got arrested for selling some ecstasy tablets to an undercover cop. A judge gave him three years."
"Where did he do his time?"
"Wagga Wagga Gaol. When he got out, he promised to go straight. But he never got a job and always had lots of money. So I suspected the worst."
"And so did the police?"
"Yes. Informants told them he was selling drugs."
"Where was he going when he was shot?"
"Don't know. He lived in Potts Point. So he must have gone to Darlinghurst to see someone - probably the killer."
"Was he armed?"
"The police say he had a pistol in a shoulder holster, but never touched it."
And he got shot in the chest. Sounded like he knew - and trusted - the killer.
Gary said: "Do the cops have any good leads?"
"No. They've reached a dead end and are closing their investigation."
Gary wasn't surprised they hadn't found the killer. Drug-related murders were always difficult to solve and got a low priority. The cops probably thought the killer deserved a medal.
Gary leaned forward in his chair. "And you're not satisfied with that?"
Her face grew fierce. "Look, Mr Maddox, I know Tony wasn't a good man. But he was my son and didn't deserve to die like that. Nobody does. I want to find out who killed him and make sure he's punished. That's why I need your help."
He couldn't blame her for wanting justice. Tony Thompson sounded like someone only a mother could love. But that was the whole point: she was his mother.
Gary said: "Mrs Thompson, I'd love to help. But I'm sure the police have conducted a thorough investigation. There's no point repeating it, particularly now the trail's cold. You'd be wasting your money."
She leaned forward, looking determined. "I know. That's why I don't want you to repeat what they've done."
Gary looked mystified. "Really? What do you want me to do?"
"Find Tony's girlfriend."
"His what?"
"Girlfriend, Trixie Powell. I bet she knows who killed him."
Gary raised his eyebrows. "Have the police spoken to her?"
"No. She disappeared the same day Tony got killed."
He hunched forward and put his elbows on his desk. "Really? Tell me more."
"According to the cops, they went to Tony's apartment after he got killed and she'd already left. Most of her clothes were gone. So it looks like she packed her bags and ran."
"Why?"
"I'm only guessing. But I reckon she knew who killed Tony and didn't want the same treatment."
"Why do you think that?"
"She lived with Tony for three years. They were very close. She musta known what he was doing and who'd want to kill him; she probably even knew who he went to see in Darlinghurst. That's why she ran away: she's afraid the killer's after her."
"OK. That makes sense. Did the cops try to find her?"
Barbara Thompson snorted. "All they did was put her name in their computer. So, unless she gets arrested for something, they'll never find her."
Gary felt his excitement grow. This job sounded a lot more interesting than the mundane crap he'd been doing recently, and Barbara Thompson looked far more solvent than most of his clients. Still, he didn't want to give her false hope.
He said: "This is a big country, Mrs Thompson. There are lots of places to hide. If Trixie doesn't want to be found, she'll be hard to locate."
"I know. That's why I've come to you. Mr Calloway said you're very resourceful. He said you were on the drug squad, so you know the scene."
He leaned forward. "OK. Let's assume I look for Trixie and I find her. Why would she talk to me?"
"I don't want her to talk to you. I know her, and Tony was my son, so she'll probably talk to me. And if she won't, well, at least I tried."
"OK. But, if we find out who killed your son, it might not be a pretty story. You might find out stuff about him you don't want to know. Sometimes, we've got more to fear from the past than the future."
"Mr Maddox, Tony was my son, so I don't care what he did. I just want to find his killer, understand? I want the bastard to pay; I want justice." She looked ready to execute the guy herself.
"OK. But this won't be cheap. Looking for people can take a lot of time."
"I'm not poor. I've worked hard all my life and saved quite a bit. I can pay your fees."
"Really? I charge $800 a day plus expenses. Also, for a job like this I expect $10,000 up front."
Gary waited for her to blanch. She didn't even bat a heavily lacquered eyelash - just wrote out a cheque for $10,000 and handed it over.
She said: "That should get you started. I'll spend $20,000 to find Trixie. And, if you find her, you'll get a $5,000 bonus."
Gary thought about the huge amount of work he didn't have and decided to tilt at windmills for this woman. He casually slipped the cheque into the top drawer of his desk. "Mrs Thompson, you have a deal."
"Good."
"Do you have a photo of Trixie?"
"Yes." Barbara Thompson reached into her handbag, took out a photograph and handed it over. "I took it last Christmas when they came over to my house for lunch."
Trixie Powell looked quite attractive, with frizzy blonde hair, a delicate face and large unstable eyes. Several deep lines suggested she was a druggie of some sort.
Gary put the photo on his desk. "So tell me. What sort of woman has a name like Trixie?"
Barbara Thompson giggled. "A real weirdo."
After his new client left, Gary strolled around to the post office and mailed off the accounts he'd just prepared. Then he ducked into to the office of Fraser & Co, Solicitors & Attorneys. The firm's principal, Terry Fraser, employed about half-a-dozen lawyers who were always frantically doing whatever they did.
He told the receptionist he wanted to see her boss. Before she could answer, Terry emerged from his office and steamed towards them. He was in his early fifties, with silvery hair, chubby features and a prosperous gut.
Gary first met Terry when Terry was a macho cop on the Armed Robbery Squad. Then Terry realised that the scum-bag lawyers acting for guys he arrested made a lot more money than him with far less risk. So he got a law degree. Now he was wealthier, fatter and a lot more stressed. It was tough having assets he could lose. He once traded shots with a bank robber in a city street. Now he panicked every time the stock market got the jitters.
Terry often employed Gary to do workers' comp surveillance - like the Burke job - or serve legal process. He said: "Hello Gary, follow me."
He led Gary down a short hallway into an office with a wide mahogany desk and huge leather couch on a parquet floor. A whole wall was festooned with licences, commendations and certificates, including one for swimming 50 metres freestyle at the age of six.
 
; Behind the desk was a large photograph of Terry during his glory days on the Armed Robbery Squad, leading a handcuffed bank robber into court. It told clients that Terry always got his man.
As Gary sat down, he noticed some changes. On a small bookshelf behind to the desk were several self-help books: Wayne Dyer, Anthony Robbins, Deepak Chopra, Bruce Dirk. Mellow music - played on a sitar, flute and tambourine - softened the air. Terry's life had obviously taken a new direction.
Gary said: "What's the music?"
"Indian stuff. It's to helps me meditate."
"What?"
"Meditate. I've been reading Bruce Dirk. Have you heard of him? American guy. Says that through meditation you can connect with your Higher Self and find peace and happiness."
"Why the hell do you need to find peace and happiness?"
"Because I'm under intense pressure. Every time I look at my payroll ledger, I want to cry. Then I look at my debtors' ledger and feel even worse."
Jesus. Terry used to bounce hardened crims off the walls of interrogation rooms. He once got a bank robber to lay down his shottie without drawing his pistol. Now he worried about paying a few lousy bills.
"Listen, Terry, if you really want peace of mind you should give away all your worldly possessions - including this business - and live in an ashram."
Terry leaned back in his chair and sucked his teeth. "That is not a constructive suggestion. Now, why are you here? How's the Burke surveillance going?"
"Not great. Burke's almost too lazy to breathe."
"Well, keep after him. He's claiming big bickies; the insurance company really wants to nail him."
"Sure thing."
Terry sighed, reached behind him and turned off the music. "I need a break. Let's go to Angelo's for a cup of coffee."
"Sure. But only if you leave your mobile here."
Their last few times they were in Angelo's, Terry spent most of the time on his mobile phone. Gary was sick of it.
Terry frowned. "What if a client's got an urgent problem?"
"He can fix it himself."
Terry grimaced. "I feel sorta naked without my mobile."
"I don't care. It's fucking bad manners. Didn't your mother ever tell you that? It also stops you finding your Higher Self."
Terry sorrowfully slipped his mobile into a desk drawer. "I hope you appreciate the sacrifice I'm making."
Angelo's cafe had black walls, polished floorboards, and metal tables and chairs. It was crowded with mobile-toting businessmen, trophy wives, day-trippers, Nordic backpackers, struggling writers, wannabe film-makers and other middle-class bohemians.
Sitting near the door were two catwalk models called Rose and Ivy, drinking soy lattes, nibbling iceberg lettuce and talking drivel to fill their empty days. Gary had stuck his head into their chatter a few times and almost died of boredom.
Near them was a gay couple, Jeff and Rick, wearing matching fishnet singlets, leather pants and suntans, as if nobody had told them gay chic was passé. They argued a lot, because Jeff wasn't even sure he was gay and they were trying to get a camp musical off the ground. Gary nodded in their direction and they waved back.
He also passed two muscular men in dark suits and vaguely recalled arresting one when he was on the Narcotics Strikeforce. Was the guy still dealing? Their eyes met and the guy glanced away. Yep, still dealing.
Gary and Terry sat at a table near the kitchen. Their usual waiter took their usual order.
As he departed, Terry said: "How's business?"
"OK. Just talked to a woman who wants me to find out who topped her coke-dealing son. That means finding his kooky girlfriend."
"Sounds interesting. Tell me more."
Gary described his conference with Barbara Thompson.
When he'd finished, Terry whistled. "Wow. Sounds like the killer was a real pro."
"Agree."
"Who deserves a vote of thanks for rubbing out such a low-life."
"You approve of what he did?"
Terry leaned forward aggressively. "Bet your arse."
"But you're a lawyer. What about due process and all that shit?"
Terry frowned. "Look, because I'm a lawyer I know the legal system doesn't work. Real bad guys never get punished. That's why citizens should take the law into their own hands. I believe in vigilante justice - an eye-for-an-eye. I know I'm not supposed to talk like that, but I don't give a damn. That's how it is."
Hard to believe that, a few minutes ago, Terry was talking about finding his Higher Self. He obviously had a long way to go.
Gary said: "Well, Barbara Thompson doesn't want to give the killer a hug - she wants revenge. Mothers are amazing, aren't they? Doesn't matter how awful their kids are, they still love them."
Terry sighed. "I know. That's why my life's a mess right now. Margaret's going through hell because of Alison."
Terry had a chequered marital history. His first wife was an alcoholic and his second a shopaholic. Despite that, he recently married Margaret, who already had two children: Alison, thirteen, and Angus, nine.
Gary said: "What's happened?"
"Alison recently got sick of living with us and ran off to stay with her dad, in Gosford."
"What's he like?"
"A prick. Doesn't even like Alison. Just using her to hurt Margaret."
"Can't you get Alison back? I thought Margaret got custody."
"She did. But that doesn't mean much, because Alison's a teenager. Judges don't enforce custody orders against teenagers. No point: the little buggers will do whatever the hell they want."
"Has Margaret tried to get her back?"
Terry rolled his eyes and sighed. "Of course. Keeps ringing up the little brat and begging her to return."
"That hasn't worked?"
"Of course not. She's just giving her even more power: the kid knows she's got her mum over a barrel and loves all the attention."
"What should Margaret do?"
"For a start, stop begging Alison to come back. In fact, she should tell her to stay with her dad. When the kid realises she's going to be stuck with her dead-shit dad in the boondocks, she'll race home."
"Margaret won't take your advice?"
"Of course not. So, at the moment, a spoilt thirteen-year-old is ruining our lives. Take my advice: don't have any kids - they cause nothing but pain."
The waiter put a couple of cappuccinos and friands in front of them. Terry poured a satchel of sugar it into his cup. "Anyway, enough of my problems. I hope your new client paid in advance."
"Of course."
"Good. I always demand money upfront. I tell my clients that the presumption of innocence doesn't start until they've put money in my trust account."
"And it ends when the money runs out?"
"Of course. You've studied law, have you?"