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I jogged back to my car through the rain, and recognised a council-issued penalty notice wedged under the driver’s side windscreen wiper. I removed the sodden mass of paper and it instantly liquefied in my hand. After I’d washed the sticky residue from my fingers in the storm run-off and pondered the futility of bureaucratic red tape, I called Peaches brothel.
The madam told me Alyssa had left and went to the Gentlemen’s Club on York Street. She said if I found Alyssa, she owed them six hundred bucks.
I walked the five blocks to the Gentleman’s Club and went downstairs, where a man of Middle Eastern appearance, wearing a red silk shirt and gold neck chain, manned the counter.
He greeted me with friendly eyes and asked if I was interested in seeing the most beautiful ladies in the city. He reeked of Drakkar Noir.
“Is Alyssa here?”
He nodded. ‘She’s available for private one-on-one lap dances for sixty-five dollars.’
‘I’ll get one of those.’
He checked his gold watch. ‘Entry after six is twenty dollars. Please don’t tip with real money. We have pretend money—each note is one dollar if you’d like to give the ladies tips. How many would you like to get? I suggest twenty to get you started, and you can always come back and see me if you’d like some more. You can also purchase packs of ten from the bar.’
I put eighty-five dollars of Lyon’s money on the counter, and wondered how I’d list this expense on the itemised account.
Inside, the place smelt sweet and salty. Neon blue covered most of the walls and the bar, and several low tables with poles had the capacity for eight people. I counted nine patrons and two dancing girls, a typical Monday dinnertime crowd. I took up a position at the bar and ordered a schooner of Reschs.
A woman in matching red bra and briefs gripped my bicep on the second sip. ‘Did you book Alyssa, honey? You’re up.’
She led me by the hand to a red-lit room, ushered me in, and closed a curtain.
Soon a woman with spiky red hair, nose ring, and tattoos sashayed into the room as sexily as she could.
‘Alyssa,’ I said. ‘Before you start, I’m not a cop and I don’t want trouble. My name’s Kowalski.’ I held up my licence.
She groaned and said, ‘Shit! The fuck?’ Her shoulders slumped, and her arms fell loose at her sides like cooked strands of spaghetti.
‘You don’t have to dance,’ I said. ‘Take a seat.’
‘What’s goin’ on? I ain’t carryin’.’
‘I’m not here to bust you. Consider this a paid break.’
I stood and indicated the couch and she plopped down in the very place I’d been sitting.
I said, ‘I’m looking for a young woman named Tamsin Lyons. She’s twenty years old, long straight brunette hair, pretty face. Have you seen her recently?’
She blew air out the side of her mouth. ‘What’s in it for me?’
A fifty changed her attitude. ‘Bitch saw Pricic about two weeks ago. That’s all I fucken know.’
‘Who’s Pricic?’
‘He’s the man who can get you shit.’
‘Such as?’
She tried to smile sweetly, but it looked ugly on her face. ‘A new life.’
‘How do I get in touch with him?’
‘DM the man on Instagram. At pricic. If you check out, he’ll DM you back.’
‘I want to see him face-to-face like a normal human being.’
‘If you got money, he’ll see you for real. How much you got?’
I opened my wallet. ‘About eighty-two bucks.’
She snorted. ‘Shit, homes, come back when you got some real dough.’
‘If I come back with the money, can you hook me up?’
She nodded, bored. ‘D’you want me to dance now, or what?’
***
I left Sydney in a damp fugue, with the de-mister set to high. The flesh under my left collar bone ached whenever I turned the steering wheel, and I checked the gauze at every red light.
I’d hoped someone other than Malouf had seen or heard from Tamsin after Wednesday, 11 March. I seriously considered shirt-fronting Malouf and question his one-sided obsession for Tamsin, wheelchair or no wheelchair. There was a good chance for a shakedown, and a high probability of getting other names, but the idea never motivated me.
I even considered re-visiting Edmondson, but the risk of exposure was too high, and I realised I was grasping at straws.
By the time I’d unlocked the front door, slipped my shoes off, and re-heated a plate of frittata, the microwave clock said 8:15 PM. I went into the bathroom, carefully took off the oversized shirt, and peeled off a corner of the bandage. The wound had congealed only slightly around the edges. I sucked in some air and ripped it off. A cluster of chest hairs went with it. The cut appeared to be about four centimetres wide, but not deep, the innermost end aligned to the outside edge of my breastbone.
After washing it and applying some new gauze, I booted up my laptop and updated my case notes to include Heather Morrison’s name. I added Malouf to the timeline—March 11—along with Zara—March 9—and wrote ‘book’ with a question mark next to it. I added:
Tamsin’s life in danger. Gav involved. Life threatened at brothel numerous times.
Heather – Tamsin’s friend: more than friend? Confidante? Lover? Girlfriend?
Relationship based on – common interests? Backgrounds? Heather rich? Or she knows Lyons family?
I brought up the brothel’s website and clicked on the ‘Ladies’ menu. All names were listed alphabetically. I scrolled to Candy and clicked the hyperlinked name. A new page opened with a small paragraph on Candy’s talents, along with three photos that loaded vertically.
The first showed a toned woman from behind wearing only briefs. Straight platinum blonde hair fell to her lower back, and her size eight body went wide at the hips but stayed thin at the waist. Her triceps showed defined musculature, as did her glutes. In the second photo, she faced away from the camera and knelt on a bed. Her legs were kicked up at the knees, muscled calves popped, and light shone on the curve of her posterior.
In the final image, she wore a red garter belt and matching fishnet stockings. She stood in high heels with one leg raised and the foot resting on the edge of an old-fashioned lover’s seat. She had her head turned very slightly and the outline of a cheek, the end of her chin, and part of her nose could be seen peeking out from behind her hair. Barely noticeable at first glance, I discerned a tiny dot of silver on her left nostril. I enlarged the screen to two hundred percent and used the horizontal scroll bar to pan to the left.
I saved the photo to my desktop, re-opened it, and zoomed in four hundred percent. I scrolled until I found the silver dot. Despite the grainy picture quality, I could see it was in fact a star-shaped nose stud.
I searched for Candy on Sydney escort websites and filtered down until I found a profile that had the same photo from the Lotus website, her foot on the lover’s chair, and listing Lotus as an alternative to seeing her.
There were the usual half-nude photos and plenty of cleavage shots, along with the standard list of things she did and didn’t do. In the one photo that showed most of her face, she came across as confident, but her eyes were sad and didn’t match the suggestive smile.
Unusually for a sex worker, she’d included links to Instagram, and at least five other social media platforms. A large red apology to her clientele said she no longer worked out of Sydney but may return for limited runs in future.
The frittata and wine came back to haunt me, so I took some antacid, stretched, and returned to the laptop.
I searched Heather Morrison on Facebook, and twenty-seven matches appeared. I scrolled down and carefully examined each profile picture. The twelfth appeared to be a match. The photo showed a young woman with straight blonde hair with a single pink highlight through it. She had her face at a downwards angle to highlight her large brown eyes. Large fake eyelashes provided a strong focal point and commanded you to look. The little makeup she wore highlighted her round cheekbones, bright red lipstick matured her in a flattering way, and....
A star-shaped stud decorated her left nostril.
In the ‘Intro’ section, it said she lived in Port Douglas, Queensland. I clicked on ‘Photos’ and three albums appeared. In ‘Profile’ pictures, twenty-five publicly viewable photos loaded in a grid. They were mostly selfies taken in the mirror at various gyms, on beaches, or out and about in cafes, with the occasional dreaded food shot.
Heather appeared alone in all of them.
I went to her wall and scrolled down. She posted videos of dogs doing silly things, quotes, and the occasional meme. She’d post a selfie only two or three times a month. Scrawling back through two years of posts I noticed a link to an Imgur site in one of her posts. I clicked the link and an entire webpage of random videos, memes, and photos loaded. I scrolled past unrelated videos and jokes until, after twenty minutes, my eye immediately went to a small, pixelated photo of two girls. I clicked on it and it opened in a new screen.
Tamsin and Heather lay together in bed. Tamsin wore a grey tee shirt and had an arm draped casually over Heather’s chest. Heather wore a pink chemise dotted with bananas. They both smiled sleepily into the lens. ‘Carpe Noctem’ had been added to the photo in green font.
Heather had taken the photo.
