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  I felt a tap on my shoulder and turned to come face-to-face with the dead kid.

  Chapter 27

  THE YOUNG GUY gripped my shoulders and turned me from the sight of the weeping Ho Meng. I realized it must be Dai, Chang’s brother. They were so alike it was spooky. I caught Mary’s eye and we crept away across the office, back out into the corridor. Dai led us into one of the living areas I’d seen earlier. He closed the door and indicated we should sit on a sofa, pulled up a chair and leaned forward.

  “I’m sorry you had to see that.”

  I started to reply but he lifted a hand.

  “Please. I’m sorry because my father would have been so ashamed if he knew you were there. I’m sorry for him, for me.”

  I nodded. It wasn’t the way I would have thought, but I understood what the guy meant – from his cultural perspective.

  “We didn’t mean to intrude,” Mary said.

  “What is it you want?”

  “We hoped to talk to your father about your brother’s murder.”

  “He’s told me all about the Triads. I grew up with them as a dark presence in our lives.”

  There was a sound from the doorway. Ho Meng was standing with the light from the hall breaking around him. He strode over as Mary and I got up from the sofa. He gripped my hand and then pecked Mary on the cheek. He had transformed from the grief-stricken father in the home theater, and was once again the upright businessman. But he couldn’t completely hide the pain. I saw it in his eyes.

  “Please everyone, sit,” he said. “I heard what my son told you, and it is absolutely true. The Triads have hung over our lives like a dark shadow, and they still do. In fact their shadow has grown darker.”

  “Meng, this morning I could tell you were holding back. If you want us to work with you in hunting down your son’s killers you have to tell us everything,” Mary said.

  He held her gaze unblinking. “You are right. The fact is I am convinced my wife, Jiao, was murdered by the Triads twelve years ago, soon after we came to Australia. She was last seen in Chinatown, in the middle of the day. Next morning her headless body was discovered in Roseville. The police were convinced it was the work of a psycho killer, connected it with two similar unsolved murders from three years before. But they never caught the killer.”

  “And that is why you don’t trust the cops,” I said.

  Ho merely nodded. “They have consistently let me down. First Jiao, then Chang. I reported him missing. They did nothing. Then he died.”

  I felt like saying that the police could not be everywhere all the time, but thought better of it.

  Then Mary said, “But Meng, what I don’t understand is this. If you are convinced the Triads killed Jiao, surely when Chang was kidnapped you knew they would be serious about killing him if you didn’t agree to work with them?”

  Dai went to speak, but his father silenced him with a look. “You’re missing the point, Mary. The members of the Triads are not honorable men. They would have killed Chang either way. They would have kept him until I fulfilled my side of the bargain, then they would have slit his throat – he knew too much about them to live. Now, perhaps you begin to understand why I don’t trust the police. It was thanks to them I was put in that terrible position.”

  Chapter 28

  I WAS WITH Johnny again in my office at Private, the door open. We heard voices from reception – Colette talking to a man. Without looking up, I heard Johnny shuffle in his chair, then sensed rather than saw him freeze in surprise.

  “What is it?” I glanced up from the papers on my desk and saw a man in the corridor staring at us. “Well, well!” I said.

  Micky Stevens was quite a bit shorter than I imagined he’d be. Weird how fame and success puts on inches. He was maybe five-eight and looked every bit the globally famous rock star he was. But he seemed jaded. He was wearing a black suit jacket and T-shirt, leather pants and boots. He hadn’t shaved for a couple of days and looked like he had used a little too much gel in his spiky jet black hair.

  Next to him stood his bodyguard, a massive, bald Maori in a tight-fitting suit. I guessed he weighed over three hundred pounds and had a chest measurement of at least sixty.

  “You must be Craig Gisto,” Micky Stevens said taking a step into my office. He had a light, jaunty voice, and I could hear one of his songs in my head as he spoke.

  “How did you work that out?”

  “Got the biggest office,” and he glanced around. “You’re obviously Top Dog here.”

  I smiled.

  Johnny shook Micky Stevens’ hand and was still staring at the pop star with awe. Then he turned to the bodyguard.

  “Oh, this is Hemi,” Micky Stevens said. “Looks really mean, yeah? But only with the enemy … otherwise, he’s a pussycat. Aren’t you, Hemi?”

  “What can we do for you?” I asked.

  He spun on his heel, lowered his voice. “Can we go … somewhere?”

  We walked into reception. The pop star gave Colette a brief, professionally flirtatious smile. She’d been chewing the end of a pen and staring at the young man with a lost expression on her face.

  I took Micky and Hemi along the hall and indicated to Johnny he should come with us. “We’ve a comfortable lounge through here,” I said. “Coffee?”

  “Got anything stronger? Hemi’ll have water … sparkling if you have it …”

  I left the odd couple with Johnny and went back to my office. I had a bottle of Bourbon in a small bar against the wall.

  “Great choice, man!” Micky Stevens said as I came back, sat on a sofa opposite and watched him pour a generous measure.

  I waited for him to take a sip, but he downed it in one. Meanwhile, Johnny had found a bottle of San Pellegrino and a glass. He handed them to Hemi.

  “That’s better.” Micky Stevens smacked his lips.

  I decided to wait for him to start talking, but he seemed a bit confused. “Not used to this sort a thing,” he began. “Feels like we’re in a Raymond Chandler novel!”

  I was a bit surprised by that and must have shown it.

  “I’m a big reader. Hated it at school, of course, but on tour there’s only so much drinking, snorting and screwing you can take … gets boring.” He produced a megawatt smile. “Anyway.” His face straightened and he looked quickly at Hemi who was pouring water carefully into a glass held in sausage fingers. “I’m here about Graham Parker.”

  Both Johnny and I looked at him blankly.

  “My manager. He’s quite well-known, dudes!”

  “Sorry,” I said. “I’m not really …”

  “No probs.” Micky had his hands up. “You got another?” He flicked a nod at the Bourbon.

  “Sure.” I refilled his glass. “So what is it about Mr. Parker?”

  Micky knocked back his second big Bourbon, wiped his mouth and said, “Well, you see, it’s like this. Graham Parker’s trying to kill me.”

  Chapter 29

  I HADN’T EXPECTED that. Was the guy high? Was he crazy? Drug damaged maybe? I looked into his face. He seemed stone-cold sober, which was pretty amazing since he’d just drunk about a fifth of Bourbon. Actually he looked pretty cool, reminded me of Robbie Williams. Hemi seemed comfortable, hands in lap staring at the art. I was glad about that at least.

  “Okay, Micky. What makes you think that?” I asked.

  “I’m worth more dead than alive.”

  “That doesn’t mean …”

  “The bastard’s bent. I’ve been with him for three years. He picked me up when I was at my lowest point after leaving my old band. He’s a ruthless mother. You need that in a manager, but I know he wants me snuffed out.” Micky clicked his fingers in front of his face.

  “If you really think that, why don’t you leave him?” Johnny asked and glanced at me for affirmation.

  Micky laughed. “Wish I could! Really wish I could. But I’m bound by a watertight contract. Parker has me by the balls.”

  “There must be …” I began.r />
  “Listen, Craig, you’ve gotta understand. Forget it … There’s no way out of the contract.” He drew a deep breath. “Look, man, it’s all about Club 27.”

  I flicked a glance at Johnny. He stared back, shrugged.

  “What is Club 27?” I asked.

  “Christ! You don’t know?”

  “Sorry.”

  “Almost every dead pop star checked out when they were twenty-seven.”

  “Really?” I turned to Johnny who seemed suddenly animated.

  “Actually, yeah, that’s right,” he said.

  “Kurt, Jimi, Janis, Jim Morrison, Amy Winehouse … it’s a mighty long list, man,” Micky added.

  “So?” I said.

  “Dude … I’m twenty-six.”

  Chapter 30

  “WELL WHAT DO you make of that?” I asked Johnny as the doors of the elevator closed on Micky Stevens and Hemi.

  “Seems genuinely scared, boss.”

  We walked back into reception and saw Colette on the phone. She did well to disguise the fact that she was telling a friend about what had just happened. I frowned and she quickly hung up.

  Johnny settled himself back into the chair he’d been in before the rock star visitation. I sat behind my desk, put my feet up on the walnut.

  “Refresh my memory,” I said. “I was never a big fan. He was in Fun Park, right? Before he went solo and became a massive star.”

  “Yeah, granddad,” Johnny replied with a grin.

  “I’m more a Nirvana and Chili Peppers kinda guy.”

  “Fair enough. Fun Park were big. Three No. 1 singles, a hit album. They’ve just reformed without Micky.”

  “But his solo career eclipsed his old band, right?”

  “Definitely. He is … was, huge.”

  “Was?”

  “Gone off a bit recently. Last hit was well over a year ago.”

  “Which is an eternity when most of your fans are five- or six-year-olds!”

  Johnny laughed. “A bit of an exaggeration!”

  “Okay,” I said suddenly serious. “Could he just be delusional? He obviously has issues.”

  “I guess we have to take him seriously,” Johnny offered.

  “We do? Why?” I paused a beat. “Look, okay. I get it. He’s Micky Stevens … megastar and, I dunno, he seems like a pretty nice guy. But do we believe him?”

  “We obviously need to know a lot more about his manager.”

  “Alright,” I said firmly and lowered my legs from the table. “Let’s take Micky seriously – at least until we know otherwise.”

  Johnny seemed to be lost in thought.

  “I reckon this one’s for you, Johnny.”

  “Me? On my own?”

  “Most definitely. Right up your alley.”

  He gulped. “Okay, boss … well … thanks … I guess!”

  Chapter 31

  Twenty-four Hours Ago.

  GEOFF HEWES HAD told himself years ago that he should never show that he was impressed by anything, especially rich men and their big houses. Most especially when those rich men in big houses were the ones he did business with. But whenever he went to Al Loretto’s palatial home in Point Piper it was a struggle.

  A real English butler led him through to a vast conservatory at the back of the house. It overlooked a fifty-yard pool surrounded by palm trees. From each end six-foot-long gold-plated dolphins spewed water, a giant marble mermaid rose up on a plinth in the center of the pool. Loretto was sitting in one of a pair of vast wicker chairs at the far end of the glass-walled chamber. He was wearing a silver colored silk robe and reading the Sydney Morning Herald. The butler retreated leaving Geoff standing a couple of yards from Loretto. Aside from the water-vomiting dolphins, the room was silent.

  Loretto lowered the paper saying nothing, forcing Geoff to speak first.

  “You wanted a chat, Al.”

  “Not happy, Geoffrey. Really not happy.”

  Geoff flicked a glance at the other wicker chair. Loretto saw the gesture and ignored it.

  “May I?” Geoff asked and pointed to the seat.

  “No, you may not.”

  “Okay,” Geoff drawled. “What’s up, Al?”

  “What’s up Al?” Loretto mimicked, putting on a silly voice. “I’ll tell you what’s fucking up, Geoffrey. You are lucky I’m even talking to you. I should have just had you popped in the head.” And he made the appropriate gesture with his fingers at his left temple.

  Geoff knew what he was talking about. He’d known what this was about when he received the call from Al Loretto’s assistant’s assistant that afternoon.

  Loretto was out of the chair, his nose a foot from Geoff’s. “Don’t fuck with me.” He punctuated each word with a finger poke to Geoff’s shoulder. By the third one, it hurt, but Hewes couldn’t show it. “You didn’t take the cameras out my brothels.”

  Geoff took a deep breath, feeling sweat bleed from his pores.

  “I wanted to talk to you …”

  “There’s nothing … got that? Nothing to talk about, Geoffrey. The salient point here is that I asked you very nicely to take the cameras out of the brothels and you did not acquiesce.” Another harder finger poke.

  Geoff pulled back, eyes blazing, went to grab Al Loretto’s hand and missed. The finger stabbed him in the neck.

  “Fuck you!” He took a swing and found himself pinned to the ground by two hundred and fifty pounds of security. He hadn’t even seen the guy appear.

  A fist landed in Geoff’s face smashing his nose. A second blow hit him in the cheek so hard he thought his head was about to split open. Then he was being pulled up to his feet and Al Loretto was smiling at him.

  “Geoffrey, Geoffrey … why are you doing this to yourself? Just when I thought we were becoming such good friends.”

  Blood streamed down from Geoff’s nostrils, ran over his lips, dripped to the floor.

  “Take him to the basement,” Loretto hissed.

  Chapter 32

  STACY FRIEL’S HUSBAND, David, had a very smart office on the forty-fifth floor of Citigroup Tower in the CBD. Greta had eased my path with a call earlier in the day. A secretary showed me in. David Friel got up from his desk and offered a firm handshake. He was tall and athletic, graying at the temples and wearing a conservative tailored suit. I hadn’t met him before, but he had the aura of a man who had aged ten years during the past forty-eight hours.

  “You haven’t taken compassionate leave, Mr. Friel?”

  “I was offered it of course,” he said, his voice a smooth baritone. “But I didn’t see the point. Why would I want to kick around the house? If I’m working I can focus on something other than …”

  “Makes sense.”

  Friel was in a daze I realized, no inflection in his voice, face expressionless. It was a state I recognized immediately.

  “I’ve given a full report to the police. Not sure what more I can …” He trailed off again.

  “Look, Mr. Friel, I know this is tough, but I have to ask some personal questions. I need to get some background. I appreciate it’s a raw time. I understand.”

  “You do?”

  I looked around at the white walls, a Balinese wall-hanging softening things a little. “I lost my wife and son three years ago.”

  He stared into my eyes, his expression still vacant.

  “An accident,” I added. It felt strange speaking about it with a complete stranger. It was something I never discussed. Perhaps it was simple empathy. I really could feel what the poor guy was going through.

  He shrugged. “Ask away.”

  I paused for a second. “Were you happily married, Mr. Friel?”

  “As far as I’m concerned, I was. I think Stace was … And, I’ll save you asking, Mr. Gisto. I wasn’t having an affair, and I’m pretty sure my wife wasn’t either. I do realize this is your first port of call. It would make life easier if she had been … or if I was, I guess.”

  “Okay, sensitive question No. 2. Money. Everything al
right?”

  He waved a hand around. “I’m third in line to the throne.”

  Seeing my puzzled expression, he added, “Sorry, in-joke. There’s the boss, Max Llewellyn, then his son, then me. I pull down a seven-figure salary.”

  I thought how that didn’t necessarily mean everything was cool, but moved on. “It may sound ridiculous, but can you think of anyone at all who may have hated your wife?”

  “Stace was a normal wife, a normal mom, Mr. Gisto. She cared for the kids, had her book club, her gym class. Who would hate her enough to murder her … it’s nuts.”

  “You’re absolutely sure? Within your social circle? Any grudges? Any big bust-ups recently, ever?”

  He was shaking his head. “No. We are … we were part of a big social circle – golf club, yacht club, neighbors, work colleagues.” He stared straight at me. “But nothing … we were … rather boring, actually.”

  “What about you, Mr. Friel? Do you have any enemies?”

  His expression changed for the first time. A bleak smile. “Me? Mr. Gisto, in my business I’ve acquired so many enemies, if I lined them up, they’d stretch from here to the Harbour Bridge.”

  Chapter 33

  “WELL IT COULD be a lead,” Justine said. She’d met me at my apartment in Balmoral. I’d called her while driving home from seeing David Friel and she was now sitting on one of my sofas cradling a cup of coffee and looking, I thought, exquisite.

  “I guess these money guys live close to the edge … plenty of wars.”

  “And there’s also the symbolism of the money … the fake money.”

  “Of course. All a bit vague though, right?” I said.

  “Oh, totally. But we have to start somewhere, don’t we?”

  “You’ve talked to Greta. Anything?”

  “Just confirmation of what we already know. My sister is part of the same social scene. There’re always silly feuds between the moms … the usual thing, rich women, bored, overindulged; husbands never there. They crave excitement so they invent problems between themselves. Same in LA, London, anywhere.”