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“You know the guy a little. Reach out to him,” I suggested. “Find out if he has connections with the Triads.”
“He must have. But he won’t like us probing.”
“No, he won’t,” I replied. “But he needs reminding if he wants us to find his son’s killer that we have to have everything he can give us – not just about Chang, but about himself too.”
She nodded and looked straight into my eyes.
“You okay with that, Mary? The Triads are not nice.”
“Oh, please! I’m a big girl and I thrive on ‘not nice’.”
Chapter 19
THE NEW SOUTH Wales police morgue was part of a modern building in Surry Hills, a couple of miles from the CBD. It was like all morgues everywhere – pristine, clinical, and it stank of chemicals and death.
A tall, well-built man with a graying beard and wearing round tortoiseshell spectacles met us in a small, overlit ante-room. A pass was pinned to his lapel – photo and name, Dr. Hugh Gravely.
He was friendly enough and showed Justine and me into the main part of the morgue. It was low-ceilinged, fluorescent strips. The stink was much worse here.
Stacy Friel lay on the slab. Gray skin, wet hair pulled back, a red, crudely sown up Y-shaped incision dominating her upper half. She would have been a very handsome woman yesterday, I thought. And suddenly a horrible pain hit me in the chest. I almost let it show, but reined it in. I knew what this was. I had been to a very similar morgue … after the crash. I had to see Becky and Cal. But later, I wished I hadn’t.
“Victim was thirty-nine,” Dr. Gravely said, his voice emotionless. “Died from multiple stab wounds. Two distinct thrusts to the thoracic, two more to the lumbar. Each one deep. The knife had a serrated blade approximately eight inches in length. It punctured her liver and right kidney. The lumbar penetrations perforated the large intestine. The victim almost certainly died from heart failure precipitated by shock.”
Justine stepped forward and inspected Stacy’s lower half. “You’ve removed the banknotes.”
“They’ve gone to Police Forensics along with the woman’s clothes, jewelry – everything on her person.”
Justine nodded.
“I did examine them first, of course. But you’ll know about them from the police … right?”
“No,” Justine and I said in unison. “What about them?” I added slowly.
“Well the fact they’re fake notes … photocopies.”
Chapter 20
THE MOMENT THE woman in the $900 Jimmy Choo shoes walked into the offices of Private, I knew something interesting would come of it. I noticed things such as expensive shoes and I knew that women of this type didn’t come to places like Private unless there was something serious on their minds.
Before she said a word, I’d profiled her. Lower North Shore Yummy Mummy, maybe Eastern Suburbs, but she looked a little too cool. Professional – once upon a time. Maybe a lawyer back in the day before the kids came along. She’d probably parked a BMW X5 downstairs, almost certainly had a personalized number plate. Kids would be at Shore School or Redlands. Husband … let’s think, either a stockbroker or a senior exec at one of the big banks.
She exuded confidence as she crossed the floor toward me. “Hi, my name’s Pam Hewes,” she said, smiled briefly, a New Zealand twang to her voice. “I need advice.”
“Well, you’ve come to precisely the right place. Craig Gisto.” I waved her toward the conference room.
I pulled up a chair for her and walked around the table, sat down, my back to the window, waited for her to start.
“Oh God! I don’t know where to begin!” She broke eye contact. “My husband … his name’s Geoff. He didn’t return home last night. There’s no response to his cell or his office numbers. He didn’t show up at home this morning. I went to his office in the CBD. No one’s heard from him.”
“I imagine this must be unusual or else you wouldn’t be here.”
“Well, yeah. Geoff works hard, and … he plays hard. I knew that about him before we were married. Quid pro quo and all that, but he’s always kept some sort of balance – even if it was only for the sake of the kids. He has always come home each evening and if there was some emergency and he has to go somewhere suddenly he always calls.”
“And you haven’t heard a word from him?”
“No.”
“You haven’t contacted the police. Why?”
