Rimis made a bad job of parking his car in the loading zone in front of the newsagent. He grabbed a copy of the Sydney Morning Herald and looked at the front page. The media had reacted quickly, just as he had expected, and were milking this for all it was worth.
ART FRAUD TURNS TO MURDER.
The body of a 58-year-old woman was found in a warehouse in Chatswood yesterday morning. The deceased was Zella Winfred, an eastern suburbs art gallery owner and socialite. She was also at the centre of an undercover police investigation into an art fraud racket operating in Sydney. Her business associate, Mr Dorin Chisca, found her body. Anyone with information is asked to contact Chatswood Detectives…
Under the headline was a photo of the warehouse, in the background, Chisca’s Bentley. Rimis knew if he could be bothered to turn the radio on, he would hear the full story on the seven a.m. news. He walked into Chatswood Station thirty minutes later feeling that it was going to be another frustrating day. He threw the newspaper onto his desk and turned to the back pages, tore out the day’s cryptic crossword and clipped it to the others in the top drawer of his desk. That damn clue was still on his mind. Fifteen down. He couldn’t even begin to think of starting on another crossword until he’d solved the one he was working on.
At eight-thirty, his phone rang. He had thought about switching it to voicemail when he’d arrived this morning, but he’d been distracted and forgotten all about it.
‘Rimis,’ he barked down the line. He leant forward and listened carefully to what the caller was saying. A few minutes later, he stood up from his desk and grabbed his jacket.
Brennan tapped on the door.
‘Boss, I was —’ She had a black ring file in one hand and a cup of coffee in the other. She was about to sit down but she must have noticed the look on his face.
‘Not now, Brennan. I’ll be back in a few hours. Come and see me then.’
She followed him out of his office.
‘Brennan. There you are,’ Rawlings called down the corridor. Luke Rawlings was a snappy dresser. Today he was wearing a dark navy Oxford jacket, a white cotton shirt, and a pale blue silk tie. ‘We’ve flipped for it. It’s your turn to get the coffee.’ He looked at the cardboard cup in her hand.
‘Oh, come on Luke. I did the coffee run yesterday. And anyway, what’s wrong with the coffee from the canteen? I’m drinking it, aren’t I?’
‘Don’t know how you can drink that dishwater. Come on, be a good sport.’ She looked up at him. He smiled at her. He was tall and shambling. His wavy blonde hair was expertly gelled; he smelt of expensive after-shave and he had the deepest blue eyes she had ever seen. No wonder he had a reputation with the female officers.
‘Don’t forget, I like my cappuccino extra hot and with lots of chocolate on top,’ he said, before heading back into the main incident room.
Five minutes later, Jill was on Archer Street. It was a warm morning, the traffic was heavy and the footpath was crowded with the usual mix of shoppers and office workers. She walked into Cafe New York. The cafe smelt of fresh coffee, toast, melted cheese and bacon. She placed the order, with Luke's requests. As an afterthought, she ordered two almond biscuits for herself. She leant against the counter while she waited.
‘Jill.’ The coffees were on the bench next to the cash register. The young woman behind the counter smiled at her. She was tall, with long honey-blonde hair; Jill had her pegged as a university student. Jill remembered her own university days and the financial struggle, the study and the shift work as a Coles checkout chic in Maroubra.
‘Coffee.’ Jill announced five minutes later, placing the cardboard carrier on her desk in the incident room.
‘Thanks.’ Morrissey winked at her and grabbed his extra-large macchiato. He creaked the plastic lid off his coffee.
‘We should get a decent coffee machine, Sarge. It would save on unnecessary down time.’
‘You’re probably right, Brennan. I’ll speak to the boss about it; see if we’ve got anything left over on this month’s budget. Money’s tight right now with the overtime we’ve all been putting in.’
‘Speaking of the boss, any idea where he went this morning in such a hurry?’ Jill asked.
Morrissey looked at her. ‘Haven’t got a bloody clue.’