Read Online Feeding the Demons by Gabrielle Lord - Free Book Online Page B

the business card, incredulous. Gemma shook her head.
    ‘But you never know,’ she said. ‘I like to keep my list of experts up to date.’
    The woman pulled a flat wallet out of her briefcase and found a card. ‘Here,’ she said. ‘That’s my address back home and my email. But I’ll be here for another two weeks. Visiting other states and Canberra. I’ll be collecting messages on this number.’ She scrawled a number on the back of the card and passed it to Gemma. Gemma saw that her surname was ‘Firestone’. On one of her fingers, large diamonds winked and Gemma noted the red ink favoured by the expert. ‘Thanks,’ she said, and the American smiled then walked back to rejoin her companions, now chatting in a group with some of the Physical Evidence staff.
    A few minutes later, Angie walked down with her to the foyer. ‘What was all that about?’ she asked Gemma.
    Gemma shrugged. ‘Private business,’ she smiled, tucking the card into her own wallet. Just before the double doors to Goulburn Street, Gemma turned to her friend, no longer smiling. ‘Angie,’ she said, ‘what if he knows who I am? He might have gone through my things.’
    Angie patted her on the arm. ‘Let’s hope the Physical Evidence people can give us something useful,’ she said. ‘Did Lance do the DNA analysis?’ Gemma nodded. ‘Then he can give the Institute a sample to match. Although there’s no doubt in my mind it’ll turn out to be the same offender.’ The doors opened automatically and Gemma left, waving goodbye.
    ‘I’ll be in touch,’ Angie called after her.
    •
    Late afternoon sun slanted through the plane trees as Gemma went back to her vehicle and drove to Potts Point and the Tusculum Hotel. She showed her ID to a bored woman at Reception. No, she was told. She’d have to come back at night if she wanted to know about the night staff. She herself only worked office hours and she’d heard nothing. Gemma left and crossed the road to the front courtyard of number 34. She rang the bell on the wrought-iron gate. A small fountain played in the tiny garden, splashing into a miniature pond. From the dark interior, an elegant woman in her fifties appeared. ‘Can I help you?’ she asked, her voice slightly forced, like a bad actor’s.
    ‘I was hoping Shelly might be here,’ said Gemma. ‘I’m a friend. Gemma Lincoln.’ The woman unlocked the wrought-iron grille door and stepped back to let Gemma inside, then relocked it behind them. ‘I’ll see. She may be with a client.’
    ‘There’s no hurry,’ said Gemma.
    The woman raised an eyebrow and smiled. ‘Take a seat,’ she said. She disappeared up a narrow flight of stairs and Gemma looked around the bar and lounge area. The large front room was comfortably furnished wth leather lounges and occasional tables, vases of flowers, ashtrays and magazines. A bad painting of a nude woman hung on the far wall.
    Gemma turned as Shelly, wrapping a shortie black satin robe and tying it with a gold rope, hurried down the stairs and came over to kiss her.
    ‘Want to earn some extra money for Christmas?’ Shelly teased.
    Gemma laughed. ‘Not right now, Shelly.’
    Shelly twisted her tawny hair up into a knot and clipped it in a tortoiseshell comb, lit a cigarette then sat back on one of the leather armchairs with her legs stretched out on a smokey glass table. Her scuffed gold sandals and the brilliant, chipped nail polish on her toes reflected in the tabletop. She cocked her head inquiringly towards Gemma.
    ‘I was wondering if you’d heard anything about a weirdo,’ Gemma asked. ‘A man who does things with women’s clothes.’ Shelly inhaled deeply and blew smoke out of her nostrils in two jets like a small dragon.
    ‘Take your pick,’ she said. ‘Most of them are weirdos. What sort of things?’
    Gemma told her about the incident at the Tusculum Hotel and the Maroubra murder. Shelly stood up, agitated. ‘You’d be better off asking around the street