her busiest days, showing clients around, attending auctions. Her blonde hair was pulled tightly back, her face was narrow, her teeth angled, reinforcing an impression of sharpness, tension and angularity, as if she lived on her nerves. Or she’d been stripped of flesh by exercise and dieting.
Then she was flowing smoothly across the room, offering her hand. Wyatt shook, the contact of her fingers brief, cool, firm. For the benefit of the receptionist she offered a huge smile and said, ‘Mr Warner, how nice to put a face to the name.’
Immediately releasing her grasp, she turned sharply on her heel. ‘Let’s talk in my office.’
The receptionist ignored the familiar routine but eyed Wyatt covertly. Wyatt could feel it, an assessment, and although he wore the suit, and had mustered a genially neutral look, just another businessman and easily forgotten, it didn’t work. She caught his eye, saw the hardness there, swallowed and returned feverishly to her keyboard. Her phone rang. ‘RiverRun Realty, how may I help you?’ she said into her mouthpiece. ‘Mr Reece is on another line. Would you care to hold?’
Mr Reece? Wyatt walked past her, a little on guard now. Leah Quarrell had reached the end of the corridor and stood waiting for him at an open office door opposite a closed one. The light was dim. He tested the air, but nothing tingled in him. He turned for a last look through the plate glass that fronted the street. All he saw was a couple of cars easing over the Gympie Terrace speed bumps. The grass, trees and exercise machines beyond.
All of this took a couple of seconds, a reassurance. Then he was in Quarrell’s office, closing the door, and she was standing right there in front of him, saying, ‘So you’re Wyatt,’ a faint challenge in her voice. ‘Uncle David’s been telling me about you for years.’
Wyatt had nothing to say to that. All he thought was: too many people associated with this job know my real name. ‘Who is Reece?’
‘My boss.’
‘I thought your uncle owned the business.’
‘Silent partner,’ Quarrell said. ‘Mr Reece is the respectable face of the business, okay? He doesn’t know about my uncle or how we’re related or what I do for him. He’s just a nice old geezer with a heart condition and emphysema.’
She pointed Wyatt to a chrome and leather chair and stepped behind her desk, which was set in the corner, looking out into the room, partly framed by the window. Taking charge like that altered her. Her size put her at a slight disadvantage in the foyer, but here, in her own domain, she was boss. She didn’t have time for questions or time-wasting.
She swivelled in her chair, her eyes intent. There was a folder on her desk. She slid it across to him. ‘Floor plan and some more photographs, including the security keypad. I had hoped to brief you with my uncle yesterday, but…’ A shrug.
Wyatt heard resentment in the tone. She wants to be front and centre, he thought, not just her uncle’s helper. Using a pen to open the top flap of the folder, he saw interior shots of a house.
‘How did you get these?’
‘Charity function at his house recently,’ she said airily. She frowned, drummed her fingers on the desk, a busy woman. ‘Now. Tactics.’
She had a lot to learn. One, her office might be bugged. Two, he was not her employee. Wyatt stared at her. David Minto had made it his business to know taxi drivers, waiters and office clerks; accountants, doctors and real estate agents; lawyers, judges and police inspectors. And burglars, gun dealers and hold-up men. They all provided a service for him, sold him information, influenced outcomes. Just as a stablehand might know which horse had been doped in the 3.30 at Randwick, or a traffic officer how to fix a parking fine, someone like Leah Quarrell would have inside information on the inner world of real estate. But she was also his niece, and possibly thought that gave her certain rights.
‘Later,’ Wyatt
Then she was flowing smoothly across the room, offering her hand. Wyatt shook, the contact of her fingers brief, cool, firm. For the benefit of the receptionist she offered a huge smile and said, ‘Mr Warner, how nice to put a face to the name.’
Immediately releasing her grasp, she turned sharply on her heel. ‘Let’s talk in my office.’
The receptionist ignored the familiar routine but eyed Wyatt covertly. Wyatt could feel it, an assessment, and although he wore the suit, and had mustered a genially neutral look, just another businessman and easily forgotten, it didn’t work. She caught his eye, saw the hardness there, swallowed and returned feverishly to her keyboard. Her phone rang. ‘RiverRun Realty, how may I help you?’ she said into her mouthpiece. ‘Mr Reece is on another line. Would you care to hold?’
Mr Reece? Wyatt walked past her, a little on guard now. Leah Quarrell had reached the end of the corridor and stood waiting for him at an open office door opposite a closed one. The light was dim. He tested the air, but nothing tingled in him. He turned for a last look through the plate glass that fronted the street. All he saw was a couple of cars easing over the Gympie Terrace speed bumps. The grass, trees and exercise machines beyond.
All of this took a couple of seconds, a reassurance. Then he was in Quarrell’s office, closing the door, and she was standing right there in front of him, saying, ‘So you’re Wyatt,’ a faint challenge in her voice. ‘Uncle David’s been telling me about you for years.’
Wyatt had nothing to say to that. All he thought was: too many people associated with this job know my real name. ‘Who is Reece?’
‘My boss.’
‘I thought your uncle owned the business.’
‘Silent partner,’ Quarrell said. ‘Mr Reece is the respectable face of the business, okay? He doesn’t know about my uncle or how we’re related or what I do for him. He’s just a nice old geezer with a heart condition and emphysema.’
She pointed Wyatt to a chrome and leather chair and stepped behind her desk, which was set in the corner, looking out into the room, partly framed by the window. Taking charge like that altered her. Her size put her at a slight disadvantage in the foyer, but here, in her own domain, she was boss. She didn’t have time for questions or time-wasting.
She swivelled in her chair, her eyes intent. There was a folder on her desk. She slid it across to him. ‘Floor plan and some more photographs, including the security keypad. I had hoped to brief you with my uncle yesterday, but…’ A shrug.
Wyatt heard resentment in the tone. She wants to be front and centre, he thought, not just her uncle’s helper. Using a pen to open the top flap of the folder, he saw interior shots of a house.
‘How did you get these?’
‘Charity function at his house recently,’ she said airily. She frowned, drummed her fingers on the desk, a busy woman. ‘Now. Tactics.’
She had a lot to learn. One, her office might be bugged. Two, he was not her employee. Wyatt stared at her. David Minto had made it his business to know taxi drivers, waiters and office clerks; accountants, doctors and real estate agents; lawyers, judges and police inspectors. And burglars, gun dealers and hold-up men. They all provided a service for him, sold him information, influenced outcomes. Just as a stablehand might know which horse had been doped in the 3.30 at Randwick, or a traffic officer how to fix a parking fine, someone like Leah Quarrell would have inside information on the inner world of real estate. But she was also his niece, and possibly thought that gave her certain rights.
‘Later,’ Wyatt
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