Cross Off (6 page)

Shelley Lamb was tall and slim with a heart-shaped face and a pile of curling blonde hair. Later, Vance decided that it was her hands that had attracted him first. Shelley's hands were pale, with long slender fingers and carefully tended nails, painted pink. Not like Ava's meaty paws with their scarlet nails, often chipped. She wore no rings, Vance noted that straight off. She looked to be about twenty and she wore a tiny gold cross on a chain around her long neck.

Vance started lying to her immediately. He told her the flowers were for his mother. Shelley smiled, showing small, white teeth. She caught her tongue between them as she made out the docket. Vance felt himself get hard as the pink tongue was clamped by the white teeth. He looked down the front of her
smock and caught a glimpse of a white cotton bra. After twenty-five years almost exclusive experience of black and red, silk and lace, peek-a-boo lingerie, Vance found the sight powerfully erotic. He had togged up to take Ava out to lunch—suit, silk shirt, haircut—he knew he looked presentable. He asked Shelley to have dinner with him and she agreed.

It started then, a slow and elaborate courtship that involved a great deal of ingenuity and deception on Vance's part—the flat in Dover Heights, the phoney business cards describing him as an 'Importer', the seriously ill mother requiring much of his time, the frequent interstate trips. Shelley's sweetness allowed her to accept it all. She shared a house in Paddington with two supermarket checkout girls who did no housework and were slow in coming up with their share of the rent. Vance went to one of the girls and persuaded her to make life in the house intolerable by being abusive, slovenly and constantly broke.

'I'll make it well worth your while,' he said. 'I love Shelley. I've got to make her come and live with me.'

After a month of this campaign, which cost Vance six hundred bucks, Shelley moved into the Dover Heights flat. She kept her job which she loved on account of the flowers and, as she said, 'I like meeting such a lot of interesting people, like you, darling.'

'You never met anyone like me before,' Vance said.

Shelley agreed and they made love for the second time in an hour. Vance was enraptured by her slimness, her smoothness, her paleness, and, at first, her inexperience. He had never felt so manly. Business wasn't good and Ava appeared to understand that it
occupied increasing amounts of his time. Ava had her own interests, it seemed to Vance, mainly shopping, gossiping, smoking, drinking and recovering from hangovers. Vance gave up smoking because Shelley didn't like the smell. She didn't drink so he drank less. He began to watch his weight.

'Maybe you should jog,' Shelley suggested.

'I get enough exercise with you. Come here and let me smack your bottom.'

'Vance!'

'You like it. You know you do.'

'I do
not!
'

But she did. He was teaching her other things, too. She still went to mass, but not as often. It pleased her vaguely that Vance was a Catholic, however lapsed. She had been a virgin when she met Vance but she now had a good deal to confess. Too much, really. She was an only child of separated Catholic parents. Her family ties were minimal and she showed no interest in meeting Vance's chronically ailing mother. She watched television and read Mills & Boon novels. Her job, Vance and their games were enough for her. Then she got pregnant and everything changed.

7

B
ushmill insisted that the cost of the golf go on his bill. Dunlop protested for form's sake but was secretly relieved. This expedition was going to cost enough as it was, and possibly cause awkward questions from the accounts people. He hung back discreetly, finding something to talk to the doorman about, and allowed Ava and Bushmill to precede him. They went in the direction of the Malibu wing.

'Silver bullets,' Dunlop said aloud.

'I
beg your pardon?' A woman standing nearby, dressed in the resort uniform for females of starched whites with blue piping, looked puzzled as Dunlop spoke.

He smiled at her. 'Nothing. Touch of the sun.'

She returned the smile. She was an attractive woman—slim, dark hair, deep tan—and in other circumstances Dunlop might have tried to build on the exchange. Proximity to Ava was making him feel something like randy. But not now. He bought a copy of
Time
at the stand in the lobby and settled down in a courtyard where he would see Ava as soon as she emerged from Bushmill's room. He
found it hard to concentrate on the articles in the magazine. His head drooped.

'Can I be of any help to you, sir?'

It was the dark-haired woman again, bending over, smelling fresh and clean. Dunlop's pulse raced. He
was
randy.

'I don't know,' Dunlop said, putting the magazine aside. 'What's your job here?'

'Anything that comes along. D'you mind if I sit down?'

She sat on the bench next to Dunlop, removed her sunglasses and looked at him almost accusingly. 'In fact, I'm on the security staff of the resort.'

'Are you?'

'Yes. Ann Torrielli.'

'How do you do.'

'Would you mind telling me why you're sitting here watching that room.'

'I'm disappointed,' Dunlop said. 'I thought you might be interested in me.'

'I'm interested in what you're doing.'

Dunlop briefly debated the matter internally but he knew what he was going to do. Why should Ava have all the fun? 'Can you show me something to prove you're what you say you are, Ms Torrielli?'

She opened her bag and showed him a laminated card with her photograph on it. The card carried the resort logo, several signatures and described Ann Torrielli as a 'security officer'. He saw a walkie-talkie and a .32 pistol in the bag. Soul mates.

'I'm attached to the National Bureau of Criminal Investigation,' he said. 'The woman with me is a protected witness in a major criminal case.'

'Same as you, I'd like to see some proof.'

'I don't carry cards or badges. I could let you see my gun. It's in the golf bag here. But that wouldn't prove anything.'

'You're right. It wouldn't.'

'I can show you something in my room, but I can't leave this spot just now.'

'When can you leave?'

'When Mrs Browning goes back to her room to sleep off . . . the effects.'

'I'll wait with you.'

'Could you use the two-way to get us some coffee, Ann? I'm just about falling asleep here.'

'Mrs Browning proving a handful?'

'You could say that, yes.' Dunlop smiled, turning on the charm, partly to keep her on side, partly because he found her very easy to smile at. 'She's teamed up with one of your guests, a Mr Kenworthy Bushmill.'

One of Ann Torrielli's thick, dark eyebrows shot up. 'You seem to give these people you look after a lot of rope.' She spoke briefly into the handset.

'It's an important case.'

'I don't think the management would be too happy about this arrangement.'

'I'm hoping you won't tell them.' Dunlop leaned towards her intently. 'It's perfectly safe for your other guests. Nothing's going to happen. I think she'll get tired of the place in a few days and we'll be on our way.'

Ann said nothing but continued to study Dunlop, who sat still—a picture of reliability. A waiter arrived with a coffee pot, cups, milk and sugar on a tray. Ann signed the chit. Dunlop poured.

'Black with one,' Ann said. 'I'm a bit sleepy, too.'

'Do you get much excitement in the job?'

She shook her head. The shining dark hair bounced. 'No. The odd domestic. Some trouble with drunks. The occasional wallet lifted. That sort of thing.'

They drank a cup of coffee each and chatted for several minutes. Dunlop learned that she was a university graduate whose qualifications for her present position were her looks and a certain proficiency in martial arts. She planned to keep the job for as long as it took to save enough money to travel for a year.

'Where to?' Dunlop asked.

'Asia. Look! Is that her?'

Ava was leaving Bushmill's door. The departure entailed a long kiss.

'Do you enjoy doing this?' Ann said.

'No.'

Dunlop shouldered his golf bag. They let Ava take the first turn towards Caribbean and followed at a distance.

'She moves pretty well,' Ann said. 'Getting fat though. She should exercise.'

'She gets plenty of exercise.'

'I mean out of doors.'

Ava walked past Dunlop's door and entered her room. Her shoulders drooped and she looked tired. Dunlop unlocked his door and ushered Ann inside. He parked his clubs against the wall, crossed to his overnight bag and unzipped an inside compartment. 'I've got an NBCI card. If you're still not happy you can send a fax to . . .'

The adjoining door flew open and Ava took two steps into the room. She was naked apart from
shoes, stockings and a garter belt. She carried a bottle of champagne in one hand and a lighted cigarette in the other. Her belly bulged; her face and arms were pink from the sun. She stopped when she saw Ann, threw back her head and let out a raucous laugh. Flesh wobbled as she turned and went back into her room, slamming the door behind her.

Ann barely glanced at the card in Dunlop's hand. 'I believe you,' she said.

The kiss on the driving range told Tate everything he needed to know. It was his habit to assign nicknames, based on physical characteristics, to associates of his targets when he didn't know their real names. Slim was the boyfriend and Nuggetty was the minder. Tate would have preferred it the other way around—Slim looked less like trouble. He followed the party to the pro shop and up through the gardens to the hotel. Nuggetty was hanging back, which was encouraging, but when Tate saw him take up his position in the courtyard he knew that he was dealing with someone who knew his business. Tate fiddled with his camera. A woman in uniform approached and sat down next to Nuggetty. This was a turn-up. Tate was even more surprised when she produced some kind of ID card and spoke into a two-way. The job was looking tougher all the time.

The target, whom Tate was already thinking of as 'the slut', went to her room in the Caribbean wing with Nuggetty and his coffee-drinking companion tagging along. At least he had the rooms pegged now. He waited a few minutes until the woman in uniform left. He followed her at a distance back to
the lobby, where she entered a door marked 'Security'. Tate was surprised that the Federal cop, which was what he had to be, near enough, would confide in a member of the hotel staff. Insecure, that was. But perhaps he had no choice. She looked like a pretty smart and efficient woman, reminding Tate of the Eritrean freedom fighters he'd seen during a brief stint as an explosives adviser to the Ethiopian Dergue. He had no misapprehensions as to the fighting capacities of women.

Tate bought a copy of
Car and Driver
at the newsstand and sat in the lobby to ponder his next move. Ten minutes later Nuggetty came into view, wearing fresh clothes and with his hair wet and slicked back. He glanced at the door leading to the security section but carried on to the part of the reception desk that handled tour bookings. Tate strolled across to stand nearby, thumbing through a collection of brochures.

'Dunlop, Room 20, Caribbean. I'd like to book a trip to Cooktown for tomorrow, please.'

'Yes, Mr Dunlop. Just for yourself?'

'No, Mrs Browning as well.'

'The morning ferry leaves at ten a.m. from the marina. A bus will pick you up here at nine-thirty. Or would you rather go in the afternoon?'

'No, the morning,' Dunlop said. 'How long does the trip take?'

'About an hour and a half. You have two hours in Cooktown to have lunch and a look around. The ferry leaves at about one-thirty. Be careful not to miss it or you'll have to wait for the afternoon service to return. That's not until six p.m. or so, and if it's fully booked you might have trouble getting back.'

'Okay.'

'Be sure to take a hat and plenty of block-out. The cost of the trip goes on your bill, but you have to pay for your own drinks on the boat and for your lunch in Cooktown.'

Dunlop accepted two vouchers and a brochure. 'Sure. Thank you.'

'Thank
you
, Mr Dunlop.'

Tate waited until Dunlop had moved away before approaching the desk and booking his own passage to Cooktown on the morning service. He paid for the trip on the spot, explaining that he'd be checking out in the morning. He discarded the brochures except the one he had been given about Cooktown. He glanced through it as he went back to his room. A hick town, one main street and bugger-all else. Scruffy-looking beach. Fishing port. Lots of Abos. The place was surrounded by promising-looking bush. Tate tested his blood sugar and found it was slightly too high, the result of a relatively inactive afternoon. He went out for a long walk to bring the level down before the evening meal. Tomorrow there'd be plenty of activity, and the adrenalin rush tended to force the blood sugar down anyway.

Vance Belfante was shocked when Shelley gave him the news. He'd got her a prescription for the pill and she'd assured him that she'd followed the instructions exactly.

'It can't fail,' Vance said. 'You must've fucked up somehow.'

'Don't use that sort of language, Vance,' Shelley said firmly. Her pale hands were clenched into tight
little fists. 'There's a small percentage of error and it looks like we're it.'

Her mouth was a firm hard line and her jaw was set. Vance hadn't seen the determined side of Shelley before and he wasn't sure how to take it. He'd been disappointed when Ava had told him she couldn't have children, but he'd grown used to the idea. There were too many kids in the world anyway, although Ava should have told him
before
they were married. A man didn't like to be short-changed on anything. But having kids with your wife was one thing, having them with your girlfriend was another. He'd seen a lot of blokes get themselves into the shit that way—dirty, expensive divorces, paternity suits, maintenance payments, court orders.

Vance put his arms around Shelley and stroked her narrow back. He liked the way her bony hips dug into him. He didn't want her swelling up, getting fat. That was Ava's department. 'Well, it can't be far along,' he said. 'It won't be a problem. It's routine nowadays. We'll go away for a weekend afterwards.'