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THE $900 SHOES Pam Hewes had worn to the office fit the rest of her lifestyle nicely. The Hewes’ home, 20 Simeon Street in Neutral Bay on Sydney’s Lower North Shore, was what many people would call a mansion, but it passed for a middle-to-largish house in this neighborhood. Most of the people who lived around here were lawyers, accountants and businessmen.

  A path led through a neatly manicured garden to the front door. I spotted a black Porsche Cayenne on the drive. I’d been close when I’d guessed at a BMW X5.

  Pam met me at the door. She was in some sort of diaphanous caftan and ethnic sandals. Her longish blonde hair was pulled back and she was only wearing a touch of make-up. “Good to see you, Mr. Gisto,” she said. “Come in.”

  I walked along the wide hall, an impressive staircase swept up to the next floor. Passed a room on my right. Two kids in school uniform sat at a pair of laptops.

  “They have to get on with homework as soon as they’re home,” she said lightly, “or they’ll never do it.”

  She led the way into an expansive living-room – polished wood floor, massive gray sofas, a couple of huge paintings. I recognized them as Kudditjis, ten to twenty grand a piece.

  “So, I’m assuming your husband is still AWOL?” I said sinking into one of the sofas. Pam sat in the other, a bleached oak coffee table strewn with Italian Vogue and Harpers between us.

  She nodded and looked at her clasped hands. “The bugger hasn’t so much as called. I’m getting frightened now.”

  “And you definitely don’t want the police involved?”

  “No. I’m sure my husband’s mostly legit. But I could be doing the worst thing for him if I told the police he was missing.”

  “Have you remembered anything specific about his businesses?”

  “He works a lot with Al Loretto.”

  “The Al Loretto?”

  “Yeah, billionaire, investor, gangster, property developer … whatever …”

  “What does he do?”

  “For Loretto? Probably wipes his ass,” Pam replied, then shook her head. “Sorry. I’m just so bloody angry! I pray Geoff isn’t dead in a dumpster somewhere, but when I see him next …”

  “Okay, Loretto is a start. But I can hardly turn up unannounced at a billionaire’s home and start asking questions without a really good reason. If Geoff is acquainted with him, he must know lots of other interesting characters.”

  She nodded. “He does. Keith Newman for one – a retired lawyer – actually, he’s a seedy little shyster, but from what I gather, Geoff does a lot of business with him.”

  “Okay, I’ll pay him a visit. See what I can find out.” I paused for a second. “I’ll be straight with you, Pam. If your husband is mixing in those circles, he’s up to his neck in things that are certainly not legit. You understand that, right?”

  “Of course I understand it!” Pam snapped. “Don’t treat me like some ditzy bimbo, Mr. Gisto.”

  I looked away, staring at one of the paintings. “I’m sorry,” I said, placatingly. “I just think we have to be brutally honest with one another. From what you’ve told me so far, I think your husband is in very deep trouble.”

  Chapter 54

  I LEFT THE house with a list of names. It was like trying to get blood out of a stone, but I knew the poor woman didn’t actually know much about her husband’s life.

  I’d seen relationships like it before. Usual story: a rather average guy who’d never grown up, fancied himself as a player, seen too many episodes of The Sopranos. The wife? She was usually the genuinely better half, the one with the straight career, or “home-maker”, bringing up the kids, worrying, trying to keep it all together. It transcended class.

  Pam had told me I’d find Keith Newman at a pub in Darlinghurst called The Cloverleaf. He held court there.

  I Googled him on my iPhone. Over the years, Newman had worked for half a dozen prominent Sydney underworld figures. He was a good lawyer, saved the bacon of some key crime figures in the late seventies. Made a fortune in the eighties … sources unknown. He then invested it with some former clients whose business activities were what might be called “nebulous”.

  Newman’s investments had paid off – he’d turned his nest egg into a golden hen and retired to a mansion on Chinamans Beach on the Lower North Shore, a place known to Sydneysiders as Ka-ching-mans Beach.

  The Cloverleaf was exactly the sort of dump a wealthy businessman with a yen for the “dark side” might frequent. It stank of beer, lighting low, lots of slot machines.

  I strode in and immediately spotted Keith sitting at the bar. It was still only five o’clock, early for most of the pub’s clientele by the look of it. There were half a dozen guys in the room.

  “Mr. Newman?” I said, pulling up a stool and glancing at the bartender. “Fosters please.”

  “And you are?”

  “Sorry, Craig Gisto.” I extended a hand. Newman ignored it. “I’m actually looking for Geoff Hewes.” I withdraw my hand. “Heard he likes this pub.”

  “Why?”

  “Why?”

  “Yeah, Craig. Why do you wanna see Mr. Hewes?”

  “I’m a journalist. I wanted to get his take on the new lending tax the government’s slapping on the industry.”

  Newman’s jaw tightened. “I saw him yesterday. Should be in later.”

  I nodded.

  “So which paper did you say you worked for?” Newman added, studying my face.

  “I didn’t …. But it’s the Sydney Morning Herald.”

  A song came on the jukebox. The Moody Blues, Nights in White Satin. I’ve always hated it.

  “So you must know Larry pretty well? Larry Pinnard?”

  I smiled. “We don’t work in the same department. I’m ‘Features’.”

  “Sammy, then? Sammy Taylor? He interviewed me a couple of months back.”

  I beamed. “Indispensable. Sam the Man!”

  Keith lowered himself from the stool. He was much shorter than I’d guessed. He flicked a glance at the bartender who’d been listening as he poured the beer.

  A guy appeared at the end of the bar. I couldn’t quite work out where he’d sprung from … and he wasn’t easy to hide. Six-five, six-six, shoulders like a bull, a face like a sow in labor, shock of jet black hair.

  “Patrick,” Keith said, quietly. “Could you escort this gentleman from the premises please?”

  The goon rolled over, grabbed my arm.

  “Did I offend you in some way?” I asked.

  “Yeah, buddy, you did,” Keith Newman snapped. “Sammy Taylor died a year ago, God rest his soul. I hate liars and I hate nosy parkers. So piss off …” He nodded to Patrick. I was yanked from my seat and dragged across the stinking, beer-sodden carpet.

  “I wouldn’t bother putting up a fight,” Newman announced. “We call my big friend here ‘Borg’… ‘Resistance is futile’!”

  Chapter 55

  BUT I DID resist, couldn’t help myself. And in return, I got a smack to my right ear that made me feel as though my brain was shaking in my cranium. Maybe it was.

  The huge guy they called Borg had literally lifted me off my feet with one hand. Stomping across the room, he smashed open a side door with his free palm. Together, we crashed into the blazing sunlight in the back alley behind The Cloverleaf.

  “That was pretty stupid!” Borg growled, then laughed as I tripped over a bin and went sprawling into a pile of rubbish.

  I picked myself up, brushed off some wilted lettuce from my shirt and started to walk away.

  “What you after with Geoff Hewes then, bud?”

  I stopped in my tracks, turned. The bouncer was standing in silhouette a few feet in front of the closed door to the pub, legs slightly parted, hands on hips. Couldn’t make out his expression.

  “Doesn’t matter.”

  “Might to me, fella,” the giant said and took two steps out of the shadow.

  I saw a long scar running from the man’s brow to his upper lip. But I also couldn’t help noticing his i
ncredible green eyes that weren’t totally malevolent. “Why?”

  “I’m no friend of Geoff Hewes. In fact I think the guy’s an absolute asshole.”

  “So you know where he is?”

  “I didn’t say that now, did I? Just said I don’t like him. Plenty of others I know don’t either.”

  “Okay.”

  “Look … Couple of my buddies were doing some building work for him – property in Seaforth. They’d agreed cheap rates, right? So what does the shit go and do?”

  I stared straight into his eyes.

  “He doesn’t pay ’em for weeks … that’s what he does. So, they down tools, right? Next thing we know, one of my pals gets a petrol bomb tossed through his living-room window … Coincidence? Don’t think so!”

  “Has he hurt you, personally?”

  Patrick blanched.

  “He’s ruined me. That’s why I’m working here.” He flicked a thumb toward the pub. “I had a little business – tool-hire shop in Mascot. Borrowed a bit from Hewes to get it started. The business didn’t do well. I ended up owing the bastard three times what he’d lent me. Had to sell my house. Wife left …”

  “I see,” I muttered. “So, what does Hewes actually do? I can’t get a handle on it. Even his wife’s half in the dark.”

  He laughed. “Course! Wifey’s always the last to know. It’s simple, our Geoff’s a snake-oil dealer … a classic … Does up houses on the cheap and sells them on to gullible folk for a fortune. He lends money at ridiculous rates. He deals a bit.”

  “Drugs?”

  “Weed, coke.”

  That surprised me. “Pretty low rent, isn’t it?”

  “He needs money. Kids in private school, hefty mortgages, car leases. He gets cash from wherever he can.”

  “Okay.”

  “He’s also right up the asses of some of the richest, nastiest criminals in Sydney.”

  “Doing what?”

  “Works for ’em? Makes himself indispensable. It’s a trick all these small-time crooks pull. Work your way in with the big boys. Make ’em think you’re the hottest thing in town. Gives him access, ready cash, contacts.” He counted them off on his fingers. “Plus, no one shits on you … Connections, see?”

  I saw. I’d witnessed it all before.

  “His latest scam is managing Loretto’s brothels.”

  “Go on.”

  “About a dozen of ’em around Sydney.”

  “That’s interesting, but …”

  “But, that’s not the whole story, buddy.” He relaxed a little, took a couple of steps toward me. “Hewes is a cocksucker, oversteppin’ the mark, like, big time. He’s either stupid or he has balls bigger than a gorilla’s.”

  “Meaning?”

  “Loretto’s No. 1 whorehouse is in Chester Street, Mosman, okay? Smart place. Gets a better class of customer! But what does the moron go and do? He only double-crosses the Johns!”

  “How?”

  Patrick took another step forward and leaned against the wall. “He’s set up cameras in the bedrooms, right? Records the goings-on. The girls are in on it. He pays them to keep quiet. Clients include bankers, lawyers, traders, a few judges, politicians … usual suspects!”

  “So you think Geoff’s in serious trouble?”

  “You could say that. I actually reckon right now he’s the main course for the fishes … at the bottom of Sydney Harbour. At least I hope he is!”

  Chapter 56

  SHE WATCHED THE woman walk across the parking lot behind the supermarket. A warm breeze swept innocently over Bellevue Hill.

  The woman’s name was Yasmin Trent, five-nine, dressed in designer jeans and a singlet, nice, even tan, jeweled Rolex on her left wrist, bunch of jangling Tiffany on the right.

  Julie O’Connor was standing a few yards from the back door of Yasmin’s Toyota LandCruiser, merging into the background. She could sense the fear in the neighborhood and reveled in the fact that it was all her doing. In a local shop she overheard women talking about the “serial killer”. It was thrilling but dangerous – she knew she would have to tackle this next kill differently.

  Yasmin Trent touched the remote, the car bleeped and flashed. She pulled herself into the driver’s seat, shut the door. Julie jerked herself into the back.

  Yasmin started to turn, screamed.

  “Don’t move, bitch!” Julie hissed and Yasmin felt something hard and cold at the nape of her neck. She screamed again.

  “Once more and I’ll slice your pretty head off … got it?”

  Yasmin shut up.

  She could see the figure in the back reflected in the mirror. It was a woman in a hoodie, bleached, crispy blonde hair protruding from under the fabric, no eyebrows.

  “Drive,” Julie said quietly.

  Yasmin had frozen.

  “Okay,” Julie said a little louder. “I get you’re terrified. But you will turn the key. You will pull out the parking lot. And you will drive along the road or I’ll not only slice you up, I’ll come back for your kids.”

  Julie felt Yasmin jerk and the engine fired up. The car pulled out of the parking space. Julie kept the eight-inch blade she was holding tight up against Yasmin’s slender, tanned nape.

  “Good,” Julie hissed. “Very good.”

  Chapter 57

  “WHAT IS THIS all about?” Yasmin said. She had calmed down enough to speak coherently, but there was still a tremor to her voice that Julie found gratifying.

  She didn’t reply. Just looked out the window at the shops lining New South Head Road flash past. They were driving along the main thoroughfare from the Eastern Suburbs toward the business district. Following Julie’s instructions, Yasmin pulled the LandCruiser off at the next junction, through a toll booth and onto the freeway, heading west.

  “What is this about?” Yasmin repeated.

  “About you and me, babe.”

  “What does that mean?”

  Julie chuckled. “It’s about power, Yasmin, POWER!”

  “I don’t …”

  “You don’t understand? Doh! Maybe you are as stupid as you look.”

  She didn’t know what to say. Just kept driving. She was trying to rationalize it all.

  “So, the Rolex, Yasmin?” Julie said slowly.

  Yasmin touched her wrist involuntarily.

  “How many blow jobs did that take, eh?”

  Julie could see Yasmin’s pretty, confused face in the mirror. “Everything costs, Yas, everything costs …”

  “Is that it? You want my watch? Here, have it …” She reached for the clasp.

  “No, you stupid, stupid bitch! I do not want your shitty watch … although I might keep it as a memento after I’ve drained you of blood.”

  The car swerved.

  “Careful, honey,” Julie mocked. She was pretty sure the woman didn’t have the guts to do anything radical.

  The car swerved again. This time it was deliberate. Julie pushed the tip of the blade a fraction of an inch into Yasmin’s neck making her squeal.

  “STOP DOING THAT … NOW!”

  The car swayed once more. Horns blared. The LandCruiser crossed lanes. Cut in front of another car. More horns, screeching tires.

  Julie pulled her mouth up close to the woman’s ear. “I will take your twins from preschool, Yasmin. I will take them somewhere very private …”

  Yasmin abruptly slowed the car, brought it back under control, went to pull over.

  “Don’t …”

  She saw Yasmin’s face in the rear-view mirror, white as dead flesh. She was staring fixedly at the road ahead.

  “You’re the killer!” Yasmin murmured, barely able to believe it, even now.

  Julie felt a stirring of pride in the pit of her stomach. “Just drive,” she said. “Not much further now. It’ll soon be over.”

  Chapter 58

  MARY PULLED UP a chair as Darlene turned away from the monitor to face her. They were in the lab.

  “I could tell by your tone on the phone you�
��re disappointed,” Mary said. Darlene shrugged. “Look, perhaps we were hoping for too much.”

  “Alright, forewarned.”

  She noticed Mary’s bandaged hand. “What happened?”

  Mary glanced down. “Oh, silly accident.”

  Darlene gave her a skeptical look, stood and beckoned Mary over to a large stainless steel-topped counter, objects spread across it – a pile of blood-stained sheets, take-out cartons, cigarette stubs, pieces of paper, a TV remote – all collected from the deserted Triad apartment in Parramatta.

  “The blood on the sheets matches Ho Chang’s of course. His prints are all over the bedding, on the food cartons, chairs in the kitchen.”

  “What about other fingerprints? The guys who abducted him?”

  Darlene paced back to her work station, Mary in tow. She tapped at a keyboard. The image on the monitor changed to show several sets of prints.

  “I’ve found four distinct sets in the apartment, excluding Ho’s. I’ve also separated out three samples of DNA.”

  “That’s great … yeah?”

  “Not really, Mary. One set of prints and one DNA sample belongs to the plumber who’d worked in the apartment a few weeks back. He had a record – petty theft in 1990, meant he was on the database. Another set of prints belongs to the manager’s wife, Betty Griffin.”

  “Could she or her husband be involved?”

  “She died last month. Cancer.”

  Mary snorted. “And the other two?”

  “According to my analyzer the DNA comes from two different Asian males.”

  “And?”

  “That’s it … no matches on any databases. Same for the prints.”

  “So we’ve narrowed it down to what?” Mary declared. “About a billion men?”

  “Actually, nearer two billion.”

  Chapter 59

  “HERE’S TO GRETA!” Brett Thorogood said lifting his glass of vintage Verve. He clinked it with Greta and their two closest friends, Claudia and Marcus. The doorbell rang.

  “I’ll get it,” Greta’s son, Serge, called as he ran from the playroom, his younger sister Nikki close behind.