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Rain pattered my head by the time I made it back to my car, and as I dug out my jacket and slipped it on, my stomach told me I needed strong coffee and some food.
I left the university grounds on foot, and crossed Broadway at the closest lights. The experience with Edmondson hadn’t endeared me to the academic life, and I pitied his students. A Ma and Pa café called Luciano’s sat inconspicuously between a tattoo parlour and a trendy real estate agency, and its dilapidated awning barely kept the rain out. I ordered a long black with eggs hollandaise on sourdough, and occupied a nook by the front window. Everything arrived promptly, and the homemade food satiated my hunger pangs.
My bank account remained stagnant, which told me Reggie hadn’t paid me for February, so I created a reminder in my phone to corner him once I was back in the office. Google confirmed what Edmondson said, as a subsidiary webpage featured photographs of Allianz staff members with their relevant job titles. The photo above Ari Malouf’s name showed a man in his early thirties, with dark skin and close-cropped dark hair. His unsmiling, deep chocolate eyes challenged the camera.
The title ‘Sales Executive’ was italicised under his name, along with an email address.
I launched my Gmail account and drafted an email:
My name’s Matt Kowalski.
I’m a private detective looking for Tamsin Lyons.
She’s gone missing. Maybe you can help. I’d like to talk to you today.
The ‘Send’ button lit up under my thumb.
The rain turned heavy as I mopped up the last of the hollandaise with some bread and swirled the rich coffee around my mouth. People dashed between gaps in the storefronts in vain efforts to stay dry. With a large cut of state taxes diverted to the UN and associated peacekeeping activities, traffic struck the same water-logged potholes, no doubt a boon for car mechanics.
Refreshing the browser proved a futile gesture in hastening a response from Malouf. I downed the last of the coffee and considered travel options to North Sydney, the business sector of the city. If I wanted to confront Malouf, I faced a thirty-minute drive over the Sydney Harbour Bridge in normal traffic. The rain would add another twenty. Trains left Central Station every six, so I resigned myself to leaving my car at the university, and joined my fellow pedestrians half walking, half running the three blocks to the train station.
It didn’t matter which train I caught, there always seemed to be a kid wearing white ear buds pumping out loud tinny music the whole carriage could hear. The 2:46 PM out of Central was no different. I wondered if the Transport department had hired my sullen neighbour to deter people from catching public transport. When the train spat out of an underground tunnel and coasted over the Harbour Bridge, my phone sang an alert.
I’d received a response from Malouf:
Unfortunately, I am in meetings for the remainder of the day.
He provided a phone number and advised me to call to arrange an appointment to meet.
The weather reflected my mood. The spires on the bank of North Sydney skyscrapers vanished into low, slow-moving cloud, and the churning harbour looked like fur rubbed the wrong way. As I climbed the steps out of North Sydney station, a squall blew the rain into my face and forced me to sprint east along the highway and down to the Allianz building, a pink, all-glass affair built at the height of eighties corporate power.
Once through the rotating door, I shook myself off and penned a response to Malouf:
Tamsin’s life is in danger.
Every second counts.
I’m in the lobby if you give a shit.
I hated pretexting, making things up to get people to talk to me, but the revelation Tamsin dabbled in sex work introduced fresh concerns and unexpected angles. It exposed a double life with a world of blurry lines, of people who didn’t always play by the rules. I took up a seat by the lobby of elevators and rested my knees. By the time I turned my phone off and caught my breath, a man matching the online photo emerged from one of the elevators in a wheelchair.
He wore a black suit and a red tie over a thin frame. I called out and his head snapped in my direction. As he got closer, I noticed his hands were smooth, his fingernails polished to a sheen. When he spoke, his voice came out as a harsh whisper. ‘I don’t appreciate being accosted at my place of work.’
‘Accosted is a harsh word, Mr. Malouf. I merely initiated contact via email and suggested a friendly chat.’
‘Which is now saved on our backup server, and which directly implicates me with Tamsin.’
‘When I find her body, you can have the server wiped.’
He tilted his head. ‘What are you talking about? Is this some sort of sick joke?’
I shot him the Kowalski stare. ‘Not in the slightest.’
He blinked and relaxed back in the chair.
I said, ‘I’ve been told you’ve seen Tamsin recently?’
‘I don’t recall agreeing to answer any of your questions. Do you have any identification? If not, please leave, or I will call the police.’
‘No, you won’t.’
I pulled out my phone, opened the leather case, showed him my licence, and told him I was working for Jeff Lyons. That got his attention. ‘As I said, Mr. Malouf, I’ve heard you’ve seen Tamsin recently.’
‘You said that. Who told you this?’
‘I can’t name my sources.’
He regarded me admonishingly. ‘Are you using this information as leverage over me? Is that what this is? How am I supposed to trust you?’
I took out one of my business cards and passed it to him.
He filched it with snappy fingers.
‘That’s everything you need if you ever wanted to sue me,’ I said, pointing to it. ‘I can only give you my word that I’m acting in Tamsin’s best interests. It’s up to you to determine if I’m a man of conviction, but to put it bluntly, Mr. Malouf, we don’t have time to be sensitive. I’ve only learned today that Tamsin undertook sex work, and it’s added an extra dimension to my investigation. Rest assured, discretion is paramount in my interactions. I’m not going to divulge anything as personal as this. It’s not in my interests.’
His face went tight. ‘I’m in no position to discuss any of this here.’
‘Then I suggest we take the conversation off site. Know any pubs close by?’
‘I’m extremely busy today, Mr. Kowalski.’
‘I’m sure the business world won’t miss you for twenty minutes, Mr. Malouf. That’s all I need.’
He shook his head. ‘Please leave. I have nothing further to say to you.’
I gripped his arm and lowered my voice. ‘I’m going to have to be direct. You’ve been accused of killing her.’
He pursed his lips and frowned.
I let go of his arm but kept my hand there. ‘A witness saw Tamsin enter your house on March 12, and they didn’t see her come out.’
His stoicism slipped, and his voice softened. ‘Oh God.’ He put a hand to his mouth, eyes wide. ‘Have you found her body?’
‘She hasn’t been found. It’s the reason I’m looking for her. Come on. Talk to me. This might be the opportunity to clear your conscience.’
After a moment, he let out a long breath. ‘Do you know the Union Hotel?’
‘I can find it.’
‘Meet me in the main bar in half an hour.’ His face hardened again. ‘I would also appreciate your complete and utter discretion with this matter. I won’t have the likes of you discrediting my reputation.’
‘Absolutely, Mr. Malouf. Wouldn’t hear of it.’
The Union Hotel hugged a corner of the Pacific Highway, its art deco brickwork no doubt a welcome sight for soldiers returning from service, but the pressed tin decals clashed with the old school hardwood of the main bar. I ordered a schooner of Pale Ale and sipped it slowly, until Malouf made his entrance, ordered a middy, and joined me at a low table positioned under a collection of wartime beer posters. Now that we were in mutual territory, I noticed he wore both expensive clothes and a smell to match.
‘I’ll admit Tamsin was in my house on the twelfth,’ he said. ‘But I swear to God I haven’t seen her since. You have to believe me.’
‘Okay, but I’ll need to ask a few questions. What’s the arrangement between you?’
‘I call her. She comes. Sometimes she comes with another girl. They do a show for me.’
‘Do you know the other girl’s name?’
He shook his head.
‘Is it a routine? Do you see Tamsin and the other girl on a regular basis?’
‘I usually book Tamsin only every Wednesday night at 11:00 PM for an hour. Sometimes I beg.’
‘Why?’
His face softened and became almost boy-like. ‘You wouldn’t understand.’
‘Try me.’
‘I’d rather not. I know how ridiculous it sounds.’
‘I’ve heard lots of things in my line of work, Ari. If you don’t mind being on a first name basis?’
He shrugged. ‘Up to you.’
After taking a long pull on his beer, he smiled for the first time, but only slightly. ‘I’ve fallen in love with her.’
I swallowed a large slug of beer to hide my face.
He scoffed and stared at the table. ‘There it is: the condescending judgment.’
‘I don’t judge you, Ari.’
‘Please don’t pity me. I’m sick of it.’
‘I don’t pity you, ether.’
‘Bullshit. This society is built on old principles established by a conservative patriarchy that frowns on the bourgeois. Society is not the individual, it’s a scared machine who judges without compassion.’
I let it go. ‘Does Tamsin feel the same way?’
His bottom lip quivered, and his eyes turned glassy ‘Please, call her Anastasia.’
I nodded. ‘Okay, fine. Anastasia. Is that her... working name?’
He sighed. ‘I said you wouldn’t understand.’
‘Make me understand.’
He ran a hand over his face and readjusted himself. ‘When she’s with me, Tamsin disappears. Tamsin is a lost little girl who looks up to her father as if he’s a god. Anastasia is a woman. Anastasia is independent, sexy, voracious, comfortable in her own skin. Anastasia is a woman free of her domineering father, free of society’s boxes and labels. When we’re together, we have a connection. When I look into her eyes, I can almost see what she’s thinking. Sometimes, we’ll just lie together and talk, and she has a habit of saying things a certain way. She’ll say, ‘Da Vinci’ when she means ‘Dali,’ or ‘Barack Obama’ when she means ‘Osama Bin Laden.’ I know what she means, but she doesn’t always mean what she says.’
‘Does she advertise on campus?’
‘God, no. She has a page on Sydney backpages.’
‘Could you show me?’
Ari took out a rose gold iPhone, tapped the screen a few times, and turned the screen to me.
A photo showed a young woman dressed in a black teddy, taken from the neck down. She stood in a low-lit bedroom, and the camera focused on her breasts squeezed into a black lace top, and the front of the teddy was opened to reveal a toned midriff. I scrolled past the FAQs and found a sentence that said Anastasia worked weekends at the Lotus brothel in Surry Hills. I made a note of it.
‘How has she been?’ I said. ‘Has she become withdrawn, or the same, or...?’
He sighed again. ‘She’s been very stressed lately, maybe a little bit distracted. She told me she wanted to take some time to think about her future—you know, with university... where she wants to be, what she wants to do, that sort of thing. That brought her down a little bit. You have to understand—I only want what’s best for her. If she needs a break, I respect that.’
‘Did she say that to you?’
‘In not so many words. She called me the next day.’
‘What did she say?’
‘She said she was very sorry, but we couldn’t see each other again. She said goodbye and hung up.’
