glumly aware that Wurlitzer wasn’t likely to appear before midnight. After checking the rooms, cupboards, drawers, nooks and crannies, he settled in to wait, the Glock in his lap. Watched a couple of DVDs, sank a couple of beers, listened to music.
Bored, needing to stay awake, he poured his third beer down the sink and drank coffee. Tried to psych himself up.
Trask first met Wurlitzer not long after he first met Leah Quarrell. Leaving the police force under a cloud, Brisbane too uncomfortable for him, he’d headed to Noosa and part-time investigative work for a P.I. agency. Mainly shit work, then one day Leah had knocked on his door, saying, ‘You come recommended.’
Trask stared and waited.
She said, ‘There’s a house at Noosa Heads I want to buy.’
‘So buy it.’
‘The owner doesn’t want to sell,’ Leah said, shoving a thousand bucks into Trask’s shirt pocket.
Trask began a campaign of harassment: bricks through the recalcitrant owner’s window, Facebook whispers, cocaine planted in the spare-tyre well of his Range Rover, followed by a tip-off to the cops.
The owner caved, Leah bought the house on behalf of a client. Then she called by to thank him. That might have been that except he’d looked twice at this slip of a woman, and she had looked twice at him. Back when Trask was a cop, love had meant a hand job in return for tearing up a red-light ticket. Fast, nasty, regrettable. This was different.
He started hanging out with Leah, and through her met David Minto, who kept him in work when the agency sacked him. Leah meanwhile needed help with her real-estate activities, and Trask found himself passing out auction brochures, hammering FOR SALE signs into front lawns, handbagging Leah whenever new male clients wanted to view an unoccupied house in a secluded location. ‘You’re my big boy,’ she’d say, coming in close and wrapping him in her little arms—when she wasn’t shrieking at him for some misstep.
One day, early to a showing at Peregian Beach, they heard crashing sounds in the backyard. Trask raced around there and discovered a thin, hyped up forty-year-old man tangled in a tomato trellis along the laneway fence. Bleeding, jeans torn, whimpering in panic, he’d shielded his face, saying, ‘Don’t hurt me.’
Then Leah appeared. She said, ‘Shoot the prick,’ her eyes gleaming, wanting it.
The guy cringed further, trying to shrink into the ground. When nothing happened, he removed his arm from his face, recovered his composure. ‘My dog ran in here,’
he said, looking around the vast garden.
‘Shoot him, Al,’ Leah said.
‘Don’t be ridiculous,’ the guy said, getting to his feet.
Leah poked Trask. ‘ Shoot him .’
‘Like you’ve got a gun,’ the guy said.
Trask reached under his shirt and pulled out his licensed .38.
‘Let me rephrase that,’ the guy said.
Trask stared at him, Leah stared at him. Then Leah, a touch of humour in her voice, said, ‘Did you do any homework for this job, or did you just wander in off the street?’
Silence. The guy seemed to come to a decision. Finally he shrugged and said, ‘I always do my homework.’
‘Yeah? Prove it.’
‘I know you’re the agent selling this place.’
‘You’ve been watching me?’
‘Yep.’
‘What else do you know about me?’
‘I know who your uncle is.’
That surprised them. Trask nearly shot the guy then. ‘Does he know who you are?’
‘Doubt it.’
Leah brooded on that. ‘When you’re watching someone,’ Leah said, ‘how do you do it?’
‘I use my car.’
‘Moron,’ said Trask. ‘One day someone’s going to think, strange car, guy sitting in it, better call the cops or write down the plate number.’
‘Hasn’t happened yet.’
Leah looked the man up and down. ‘Are you good at what you do? I don’t mean the preparation, which clearly you’re crap at. Picking locks, getting through windows and up drainpipes?’
‘Best north of Brisbane.’
Trask eyed
Bored, needing to stay awake, he poured his third beer down the sink and drank coffee. Tried to psych himself up.
Trask first met Wurlitzer not long after he first met Leah Quarrell. Leaving the police force under a cloud, Brisbane too uncomfortable for him, he’d headed to Noosa and part-time investigative work for a P.I. agency. Mainly shit work, then one day Leah had knocked on his door, saying, ‘You come recommended.’
Trask stared and waited.
She said, ‘There’s a house at Noosa Heads I want to buy.’
‘So buy it.’
‘The owner doesn’t want to sell,’ Leah said, shoving a thousand bucks into Trask’s shirt pocket.
Trask began a campaign of harassment: bricks through the recalcitrant owner’s window, Facebook whispers, cocaine planted in the spare-tyre well of his Range Rover, followed by a tip-off to the cops.
The owner caved, Leah bought the house on behalf of a client. Then she called by to thank him. That might have been that except he’d looked twice at this slip of a woman, and she had looked twice at him. Back when Trask was a cop, love had meant a hand job in return for tearing up a red-light ticket. Fast, nasty, regrettable. This was different.
He started hanging out with Leah, and through her met David Minto, who kept him in work when the agency sacked him. Leah meanwhile needed help with her real-estate activities, and Trask found himself passing out auction brochures, hammering FOR SALE signs into front lawns, handbagging Leah whenever new male clients wanted to view an unoccupied house in a secluded location. ‘You’re my big boy,’ she’d say, coming in close and wrapping him in her little arms—when she wasn’t shrieking at him for some misstep.
One day, early to a showing at Peregian Beach, they heard crashing sounds in the backyard. Trask raced around there and discovered a thin, hyped up forty-year-old man tangled in a tomato trellis along the laneway fence. Bleeding, jeans torn, whimpering in panic, he’d shielded his face, saying, ‘Don’t hurt me.’
Then Leah appeared. She said, ‘Shoot the prick,’ her eyes gleaming, wanting it.
The guy cringed further, trying to shrink into the ground. When nothing happened, he removed his arm from his face, recovered his composure. ‘My dog ran in here,’
he said, looking around the vast garden.
‘Shoot him, Al,’ Leah said.
‘Don’t be ridiculous,’ the guy said, getting to his feet.
Leah poked Trask. ‘ Shoot him .’
‘Like you’ve got a gun,’ the guy said.
Trask reached under his shirt and pulled out his licensed .38.
‘Let me rephrase that,’ the guy said.
Trask stared at him, Leah stared at him. Then Leah, a touch of humour in her voice, said, ‘Did you do any homework for this job, or did you just wander in off the street?’
Silence. The guy seemed to come to a decision. Finally he shrugged and said, ‘I always do my homework.’
‘Yeah? Prove it.’
‘I know you’re the agent selling this place.’
‘You’ve been watching me?’
‘Yep.’
‘What else do you know about me?’
‘I know who your uncle is.’
That surprised them. Trask nearly shot the guy then. ‘Does he know who you are?’
‘Doubt it.’
Leah brooded on that. ‘When you’re watching someone,’ Leah said, ‘how do you do it?’
‘I use my car.’
‘Moron,’ said Trask. ‘One day someone’s going to think, strange car, guy sitting in it, better call the cops or write down the plate number.’
‘Hasn’t happened yet.’
Leah looked the man up and down. ‘Are you good at what you do? I don’t mean the preparation, which clearly you’re crap at. Picking locks, getting through windows and up drainpipes?’
‘Best north of Brisbane.’
Trask eyed
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