Hotel Miramar was really quite flash. Palace might be stretching things, but it was an attractive building—smooth Art Deco lines, curved windows. A row of flags adorned the roof. With a fine set of marble steps at the entrance, it was the kind of establishment where you could imagine the guests arriving by limousine. We arrived in my dusty Toyota Corolla, my thighs firmly sweat-stuck to the car seat.
I parked up the street a bit: probably best to save the concierge any indecision over whether to offer me valet parking or boot me out. Only 10 am, but already the heat was beating down on the pavement, our heads, everywhere. We scurried up the hotel steps into the welcome cool. Clopped over the tiles towards reception.
Not a lot of people in the foyer. Two white leather couches. Sitting in one of them, a young woman in dark glasses, wearing big headphones over a crocheted beanie. Well, it was a little chilly inside.
While I spent a quick moment considering how best to find Peluso, Vern just walked boldly up to the young bloke at the desk. He was dressed in a white shirt and black vest, pinstriped trousers. Dark hair, straight, pulled back into a man bun. Dark blue eyes. Pale skin, almost vampire pale. A badge on his lapel said Hayden.
‘Got a meeting with Nic Peluso at ten-thirty,’ said Vern, casually putting his arm on the desk. ‘He said go on up, but he forgot to give us his room number, the dill.’ Vern let out his lawnmower laugh.
Hayden pursed his lips. Great. We were moments away from being kicked out. Thanks, Vern. Hayden looked down at a sheet of paper. ‘You’re with Dailan Lambert?’
‘That’s right,’ said Vern.
‘It doesn’t say here that anyone else is coming.’ Hayden’s forehead furrowed.
‘That’s Nic for you. Forget his head if it wasn’t bolted onto his neck.’ Vern chuckled.
‘So you’re with the council as well?’
A queue was forming behind us: a grey-haired couple with a million bags, a young woman with a somewhat unseasonal fur coat draped over an arm.
‘Too right. Anyway, don’t want to hold you up. Prob’ly best if you just direct me to them.’
‘Well, I’m not entirely sure…’
I glanced around, preparing for a rapid exit.
Vern’s eyes narrowed. ‘Hayden. Mate. Can I offer a little advice?’ He paused. ‘The name’s Vern Russotti, second cousin of Catarina Martello. May I suggest you make up your mind, pronto? I’d rather not have to trouble Cat.’
‘Oh.’ Hayden’s skin was way too pale to turn white, but it looked like it wanted to. ‘You’ll, ah, find them by the pool.’
‘Excellent.’ Vern made a minor groin adjustment and then set off, me trailing along behind him.
‘Catarina Martello?’ I whispered once we were out of Hayden’s hearing.
‘Yeah, the Martellos own this joint.’
‘And you’re related?’
But Vern just gave me an enigmatic and deeply annoying smile.
I spent a moment wondering about that. So if Vern was part-Italian, did that mean he’d lost the arm in Italy? Some ghastly shark attack in the Adriatic that he’d never mentioned? Assuming they had man-eaters in the Adriatic. Or maybe it was a Mafia thing and Vern was in hiding—a witness protection program and they’d somehow selected Rusty Bore. I’d have to ask him when I got a moment.
We marched along a path through a rose garden towards the pool. Opened the white metal gate.
There was a young and beautiful woman in the languid blue-green water. She swam slowly to the edge of the pool then pulled herself up over the side—a smooth, graceful movement, with no hint of struggle or grunt. She stood, swished her long blonde hair to one side and grabbed it, squeezing, so the water fell onto the concrete with a splat.
‘I’m looking for Nic Peluso?’ I said.
Lovely face; frightened-looking eyes. She pointed to the loungers under a row of palm trees where two men reclined. Long drinks beside them, cigars held in plump hands. I’ve never been fond of palm trees. In my opinion, the palm is a tree that fails miserably at its basic essential service: shade.
One of the men was fat—extremely so. His sun lounger was about three times larger than the others in the row: specially commissioned, probably. Thick grey hair, smooth tanned skin, maybe two shades darker than the woman’s skin. A line of grey hairs ran down from his chest to his black Speedos.
Palm trees and Speedos. The day could only pick up from here.
The other man was in office clothing: white shirt, black trousers, a loosened tie at his neck. He took a puff on his cigar, then coughed.
‘Mr Peluso?’ said Vern.
The fat man looked up. ‘Who’s asking?’
‘Tim…Rogerson,’ said Vern, holding out his hand to shake Peluso’s.
Peluso just looked at him. He had a huge signet ring on his little finger. Silver, with a picture of what might possibly be an eagle.
‘Yes. We’ve just come from, ah, Mallee Environmental,’ I said.
He raised an eyebrow.
‘Here on behalf of ASIC. Need to ask you a few questions, if you don’t mind.’
He sat up.
Well, at least I had his attention. ‘Is there somewhere we can chat? Somewhere a little more…private?’ I glanced at the other, clothed man. Presumably Dailan Lambert. His eyes were blue and round, and getting rounder.
The woman from the pool was now reclining on a lounger, flicking through a glossy magazine, pretending she wasn’t listening.
Peluso’s mouth turned down. ‘You can’t come barging in here…’
‘You didn’t receive our email?’ I clicked my tongue. ‘Oh dear, I do apologise if this is an inconvenient time, Mr Peluso. Still, I’m sure you’re very keen to assist with ASIC’s enquiries. It’s always a much smoother process for people who comply.’
‘Is that a threat?’ He stood up. The tiny Speedos looked even more ridiculous on his huge body now he was upright.
I smoothed down my skirt. ‘ASIC does not threaten, Mr Peluso. We have no need.’ I smiled a stretched-plastic smile.
‘I’d like to see some ID, thanks.’
‘Of course.’ I handed him a business card, one of the many I keep in my handbag—it’s amazing what you can whip up via the internet. Elise Morrison: Forensic Accountant. I like to keep a few goodies to hand, along with my can of pepper spray. For use against wild animals, it says on the label. It’s illegal to carry pepper spray in Victoria, of course. We can’t have women defending themselves. Still, there was no need for the law to be troubled with the contents of my handbag.
‘It doesn’t say ASIC on this card.’ Peluso gave me a glare from beneath his heavy black eyebrows.
‘Outsourcing, Mr Peluso,’ I waved a hand. ‘Budget cuts. Streamlined processes et cetera. These are not easy times for government.’
A moment’s hesitation from Peluso—a long moment, during which I tried not to sweat—and then finally, he spoke.
‘OK. Wait here, Lambert. This won’t take long.’
Lambert nodded.
‘This way.’ He pointed towards the hotel, then wrapped an enormous beach towel around his waist and started walking, Vern and me following along behind.