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“Twenty thousand dollars on anything that doesn’t serve a functional purpose is frivolous.” She’s nursing her beer, bringing it to her lips every so often but not taking more than the barest of sips. Eventually the waitress will try to move us on, so they can seat customers who’ll drink more. But for now, we have time to wait. And watch.
Thankfully this spot is out of the way of the other tables. It affords us some privacy to talk, while keeping an eye on the building. Apparently Matt is going out today, and we’ll tail him to see if we can dig up any more information.
“So, what did you say?”
“I told her that you’d promised me something special for my birthday and I was interested, but that I wouldnotbe purchasing my own present.” She rolled her eyes. “I sounded like such a tool.”
“You stayed in character then, that’s a good thing.” I grab one of the corn chips sitting on a platter between us and dunk it into the guacamole. “Shitty thing about this job number four hundred and two: most of the time we have to pretend to be awful people.”
She nods. “Every morning I have to remind myself ‘who’ I am, you know. Like this—” she gestures to her hair, tight black jeans and low-cut silk blouse “—isn’t me. The woman who expects her husband to buy her whatever she wants, no matter the price tag.”
“You got something against rich people, Hannah?” It’s come up a few times now, her discomfort with money.
“It’s not that. I just...” She shrugs. “My dad worked his ass off for very little, always taking overtime and doing the unsociable roster to bump up his pay. My brothers and I were grateful to have him home so we could eat a meal together, never mind buying a game console or designer jeans. I guess it seems sometimes when people have a lot of money they think ‘stuff’ is the end goal. Status symbols, keeping up with the Joneses. To me, that’s not the stuff that matters in life, you know? I want quality relationships. Not money.”
For a second I’m rankled by how easily she references her desire for relationships. The way she talks about her family is a thorn under my skin. It’s easy to say relationships are important when you’ve never had the people you love ripped from your arms.
But this conversation isn’t one I want to have with her, and work is the perfect excuse to avoid it. “What about Matt? Did Celina mention that she saw us in the hallway when they were arguing?”
Hannah grabs a corn chip and scoops up some guacamole. “I actually brought it up, pretending I was embarrassed we’d heard them arguing but reassuring her that all couples go through it.”
“Good move.”
She crunches down on the chip. “Apparently they had a ‘passionate and turbulent’ affair. She said two personalities that big are bound to clash.”
“Did she say why they broke up?”
“Not exactly. Only that he got in with a bad crowd. Which is exactly what I heard at the barbeque. But that could mean anything. Drugs, maybe. Gambling. Regular deadbeats of the non-criminal variety.”
“But Rowan and Dom are not ‘the bad crowd’ then?”
Hannah shakes her head. “I didn’t get that impression. My gut tells me they’re not involved, unless he’s using the gallery in some way.”
“I agree.” Nothing about Rowan or Dom raises any red flags. They appear to be open books, decent blokes. I’ve met a lot of criminals in my time and I don’t get that vibe from them. “I haven’t turned anything up.”
That was the frustrating thing;noneof them had a criminal record. After feeding information back to Max and the team at headquarters, Rowan, DomandMatt were cleaner than a freshly scrubbed shower. They didn’t even have any shitty misdemeanours on them. Nothing.
“Something is staring us right in the face, but we can’t see it yet.” Hannah wrings a napkin in her hands.
As if on cue, a figure exits 21 Love Street. It’s Matt, wearing a dark bomber jacket, jeans and boots. His head is bowed and he’s tapping away at his phone.
“See that?” Hannah asks subtly, as she leans over to grab another chip.
I love watching her slip into work mode. There’s a sharpening of her attention, a laser-like focus that comes to her big brown eyes.
“Got it.”
From where he’s standing, Matt can see straight into the pub windows. It’s a plus for our visibility, and also a minus. If we watch him too closely and he looks up at the right moment, he’ll catch us. If he does, we’ll wave and make out like we’re calling him to join us.
“Suspect is crossing the road,” she says softly. “Approaching the pub. He’s entering now.”
A few seconds later, the front door of the pub pushes open and Matt strides in, heading straight for the bar. There are two bartenders—a man and a woman. Matt approaches the man, who’s covered in tatts—a sleeve on each arm, and one that stretches up the right side of his neck. He’s got a gauge piercing in one ear and a chunky set of rings on one hand. The kind of rings that would bust up a face in a fistfight.
Hannah has lost visibility now, as her back is partially to the bar. I turn, pretending to lean into her all while giving myself a better view of the suspect. “He’s talking to the bartender, but he’s not sitting. Now he’s taking something out of his jacket.”
She raises a brow. “What is it?”
“Envelope. Possibly cash.”
