him, too, noting the slight build, the upper-body strength. He said, ‘You need better intel.’
And so they put Gavin Wurlitzer to work. Leah fed him the information, Trask monitored the police radio, and so far they’d made a hundred grand between them. Trask paid off his Kawasaki and his steroid debt, took Leah to expensive restaurants and had saved almost twenty grand.
And now it was time to pull the plug on the guy.
Trask drank his coffee and waited and thought. Leah liked to say Trask shouldn’t think, thinking was bad for him. But sometimes he was pretty sure it was good for him, and right now he put some thought into Leah, her uncle, the painting and the New York lawyer. He’d liked Rafi Halperin, but then the client had flown to Australia and sent Rafi back to New York.
Finally it was midnight. Letting himself into the garage, Trask gloved up, removed a blue tarpaulin from the Jeep and left the house. He watched and listened briefly, then crossed the dewy grass to a dark corner beside the back fence, where the light was a tricky play of moon shadow, nearby street lamp and shapeless forms: the shed, a jacaranda tree, the fence itself.
At one o’clock he sensed rather than heard Wurlitzer arrive. Then he spotted the guy, a crouched shape darting down the side path from the driveway. Trask waited. He heard tearing sounds, Wurlitzer removing strips of sticky tape from a roll and pasting them over the glass above the back door handle. Before Wurlitzer could break the glass, Trask stepped from the shadows and shot him in the side of the head.
A faint pop and hiss and Wurlitzer dropped without a sound.
Trask went to work. He rolled Wurlitzer onto the tarp, hosed the blood from the door and the grass, knowing both areas would dry swiftly, loaded the body into the Jeep and drove to a tangled, untrodden corner of a wooded area near Eumundi. He buried Wurlitzer, drove back and put the tarp and his clothes through a laundromat in Tewantin.
Almost called in on Leah, tell her it all went okay, but she’d bite his head off, so he went home. On the way he dumped the tarp, the gloves and his clothing at several separate charity bins. Wurlitzer wouldn’t be found any time soon.
When he was, the narrative would go something like this: a man like Wurlitzer, with convictions for burglary and sexual assault, had enemies who’d finally caught up with him.
9
Wyatt used his Sandford ID to stay in a Gold Coast motel, used it again to hire a Budget Mazda on Saturday morning, saying he’d need the car for two weeks. Dressed in a lightweight suit, shirt and tie, he headed north to Noosa, where he drove around to familiarise himself briefly before parking along a side street in Noosaville. He headed down to the river and then along Gympie Terrace until he spotted RiverRun Realty, in a block of shops opposite a stretch of lawn set with palm trees and outdoor exercise machines. Mad people toiling by in Lycra. The street on one side, mangroves, boat hire shacks and the river on the other.
He used a convenience store payphone to call Leah Quarrell. She named a cafe, but he said no, figuring that a man who walks into a real estate office draws less attention than a man who meets a woman in a cafe. People wondering about their relationship, whether one or both had something to hide. People wondering about him. He didn’t want anyone thinking about him at all.
‘Your office,’ he said.
She gave him directions and he strolled up and down the river for ten minutes, looking for unusual activity at RiverRun Realty, then walked in. A small waiting area, set with chairs, coffee table and magazines, a receptionist at a desk in the corner. Potted ferns and a young woman standing at the entrance to a short corridor at the rear.
She was mid- to late-twenties, small, slim, dressed in a sleeveless cotton top, a knee-length skirt and sandals with heels: an expensive look, which Wyatt put down to the work she did. Saturday would be one of
And so they put Gavin Wurlitzer to work. Leah fed him the information, Trask monitored the police radio, and so far they’d made a hundred grand between them. Trask paid off his Kawasaki and his steroid debt, took Leah to expensive restaurants and had saved almost twenty grand.
And now it was time to pull the plug on the guy.
Trask drank his coffee and waited and thought. Leah liked to say Trask shouldn’t think, thinking was bad for him. But sometimes he was pretty sure it was good for him, and right now he put some thought into Leah, her uncle, the painting and the New York lawyer. He’d liked Rafi Halperin, but then the client had flown to Australia and sent Rafi back to New York.
Finally it was midnight. Letting himself into the garage, Trask gloved up, removed a blue tarpaulin from the Jeep and left the house. He watched and listened briefly, then crossed the dewy grass to a dark corner beside the back fence, where the light was a tricky play of moon shadow, nearby street lamp and shapeless forms: the shed, a jacaranda tree, the fence itself.
At one o’clock he sensed rather than heard Wurlitzer arrive. Then he spotted the guy, a crouched shape darting down the side path from the driveway. Trask waited. He heard tearing sounds, Wurlitzer removing strips of sticky tape from a roll and pasting them over the glass above the back door handle. Before Wurlitzer could break the glass, Trask stepped from the shadows and shot him in the side of the head.
A faint pop and hiss and Wurlitzer dropped without a sound.
Trask went to work. He rolled Wurlitzer onto the tarp, hosed the blood from the door and the grass, knowing both areas would dry swiftly, loaded the body into the Jeep and drove to a tangled, untrodden corner of a wooded area near Eumundi. He buried Wurlitzer, drove back and put the tarp and his clothes through a laundromat in Tewantin.
Almost called in on Leah, tell her it all went okay, but she’d bite his head off, so he went home. On the way he dumped the tarp, the gloves and his clothing at several separate charity bins. Wurlitzer wouldn’t be found any time soon.
When he was, the narrative would go something like this: a man like Wurlitzer, with convictions for burglary and sexual assault, had enemies who’d finally caught up with him.
9
Wyatt used his Sandford ID to stay in a Gold Coast motel, used it again to hire a Budget Mazda on Saturday morning, saying he’d need the car for two weeks. Dressed in a lightweight suit, shirt and tie, he headed north to Noosa, where he drove around to familiarise himself briefly before parking along a side street in Noosaville. He headed down to the river and then along Gympie Terrace until he spotted RiverRun Realty, in a block of shops opposite a stretch of lawn set with palm trees and outdoor exercise machines. Mad people toiling by in Lycra. The street on one side, mangroves, boat hire shacks and the river on the other.
He used a convenience store payphone to call Leah Quarrell. She named a cafe, but he said no, figuring that a man who walks into a real estate office draws less attention than a man who meets a woman in a cafe. People wondering about their relationship, whether one or both had something to hide. People wondering about him. He didn’t want anyone thinking about him at all.
‘Your office,’ he said.
She gave him directions and he strolled up and down the river for ten minutes, looking for unusual activity at RiverRun Realty, then walked in. A small waiting area, set with chairs, coffee table and magazines, a receptionist at a desk in the corner. Potted ferns and a young woman standing at the entrance to a short corridor at the rear.
She was mid- to late-twenties, small, slim, dressed in a sleeveless cotton top, a knee-length skirt and sandals with heels: an expensive look, which Wyatt put down to the work she did. Saturday would be one of
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