20

My sister, Liz, was like the invisible woman. Here one minute—poof—gone the next. Had she merely bumped into a new group of protesters and marched off into the sunset, all primed to right another wrong? Or was there something more sinister to her second disappearance after talking to Bob Germaine?

As we drove from the hospital to Kenny Gilbert’s place, I gazed out the car window at the water trickling along the gutters into drains, at the tarmac still wet from the storm of yesterday, and tried to compare a picture of the present Liz with the baby sister I’d grown up with and loved. Images of Liz at six with a bloodied nose after intervening when a bully twice her size had tied a tin can to the tail of one of the local cats. The bully had pulled her hair and punched her in the nose but although busy letting off a series of earsplitting screams, Liz had still managed to untie the can before the cat took off up the nearest tree. I sighed. Guess my little sister had always tried to right life’s wrongs. And yes, I loved her but was no closer to finding her.

However, this time I had a lead.

“Drop me off at the track,” I told Ben as we turned into the road which led past the Port Augusta Greyhound track. “While you collect your dogs from Kenny’s, I’ll have a chat with Bob Germaine. See what he can tell me about Liz’s visit.”

“Want me to come in with you?”

I tutted, rolled my eyes, and punched him lightly on the arm. “Ben, I’m a big girl. I can have a conversation with another man without you flexing your muscles in the background and putting the poor guy off his morning tea. Just go pick up your dogs. I’ll meet you out the front of the track in half an hour. Okay?”

“And if you’re not there I’ll dress up in a sheriff’s outfit and come galloping to the rescue.”

“Hmm…you’d look sexy in a Stetson,” I said.

“Just a Stetson?”

“Well…perhaps I’d let you wear your gun belt too.”

“And my cowboy boots?”

“Okay, but that’s the limit. Anything else and it would spoil the picture.”

“What about spurs? Cowboy boots are no fun without spurs.”

“Go!” I said waving him off with a laugh.

“Maybe tonight?” With a grin so hot it would leave old maids swooning and even centenarians reaching for their vibrators, he drove off, leaving me standing on the footpath outside the dog track.

Mind and body reacting to the image of a near-naked Ben with silver spurs fastened to his embossed cowboy boots, I closed my eyes. Gulped a cooling breath of fresh air. There’d be time for naked cowboy games later—like tonight. My mission at the moment was to grill a suspect without him realizing he was under suspicion. Before I barged in on Bob Germaine, I needed to prepare a suitable list of questions to ask him. Like what was his connection to the slow dog scam? Did he kill Jack Lantana and shove him in the fridge? Did he steal Stanley? Was he involved in Liz’s disappearance and if so, where the hell had he hidden her?

All posed in a subtle manner topped with my inimitable PI charm—of course.

However, as I trekked across the car park, I was unable to stop myself from staring at the crime scene tape strung around the corner of the park. Scott had come very close to dying in that spot. I shivered and pulled my coat closer around my body. Was it a case of attempted suicide because of guilt—or attempted murder by an unknown villain?

The race track itself was empty, except for a grey-coated, track maintenance guy revving a noisy tractor on the far side of the raceway near the 400 metre starting boxes. Not bothering to check with him, I headed for a small brick building marked Office, pushed through the wooden glass fronted doorway and pinged the little silver bell at the front desk.

“Hello, anyone around?”

No office worker poked her head around the corner or jumped up from behind the copying machine. No cleaning lady came at me waving her mop or broom. No suspicious interim-secretary shot out of his cubby hole with a gun or dagger. Okay. So…what would Stephanie Plum do in this situation? Opt for a chance to search for clues in the empty office or beat a hasty retreat? Hmm. Probably choose the option that didn’t involve the likelihood of being caught and charged with burglary, trespass and countless other criminal offenses. Although come to think of it, our favorite bounty hunter always had Ranger or Morelli to pull strings for her when she bombed out.

I smiled. Felt a tickle in my knickers. Why should I be envious? I had my semi-naked cowboy.

From my position in front of the enquiry counter, I could see a small room leading off the main office with SECRETARY etched on the glass door. The door was open. The room was empty. Undecided, I licked my lips and swayed from side to side. Maybe I could take just a tiny peek inside and if anyone found me, I could say I was waiting for Bob Germaine. Unless of course it was Bob himself who found me and I happened to be nose deep in one of his open desk drawers at the time.

Pushing that chilling thought aside as too stressful to waste time on, I slipped into the office and glanced around the room. What was I expecting to find? A pale pink writing pad in the middle of his desk showing a detailed map of where he’d stashed my sister? Geez…what was I even doing here? I didn’t know for certain whether Liz had managed to query Germaine about the slow dogs. Maybe she’d been distracted and taken off with another group of professional protesters all steamed up about some hundred-year-old gum tree that needed saving. Maybe Germaine was telling the truth and Liz hadn’t got around to seeing him. There again, maybe he was lying through his perfectly aligned, expensively-maintained teeth and he’d squirrelled my baby sister away in an unused shed on the track grounds because he was the mastermind behind the scam with the slow dogs. Or maybe I needed to go home and rest up, take a couple of Panadol Forte and calm down. After all, I had a team of racing dogs waiting for me, and Liz had looked after herself without my intervention since leaving home five years ago. Why start now? I gritted my teeth and intensified my search—because my little sister might be in trouble.

The papers on the desk seemed to be mainly racing nomination forms so after quickly flipping through them, I wriggled the flashing red mouse beside the computer until the screensaver disappeared. And did a double take. Oh boy! I grabbed a quick breath and closed my mouth with a snap. Three naked women lay entwined on a bed—and they sure weren’t sleeping. I blinked and felt a headache coming on. Who’d have thought a camera could see that far up…

Bemused, I dragged my eyes from the graphic images and clicked on History. More explicit sites—plus similar breeding websites to the ones I found on Jack Lantana’s computer. What was the significance of greyhound breeding websites displaying the names of racing dogs with their sire and dam and litter mates? Was it a curious coincidence that Bob and Jack shared the same interest in the breeding of racing dogs—or a hot clue? No time to figure that out now. I took a deep breath. Would Stephanie take out her a nail file and open the suspiciously locked top drawer of Bob Germaine’s desk or would she examine the contents of his waste paper basket?

As I wasn’t a nail file carrying sort of person, I upended the waste paper basket onto the floor and surveyed the contents. Screwed up papers, several unwanted brochures, a couple of empty McDonald’s packets and a revolting piece of rubber that looked awfully like a used condom.

“Can I help you, Katrina?”

I froze. Surrounded by incriminating evidence, I grabbed a quick breath and slowly turned around ready to run if necessary.

Oh, God. Half-in, half-out of the doorway, virtually blocking my exit, stood the man I’d come to question, Bob Germaine. As usual, his smile displayed perfectly aligned teeth, but the coldness in those unnerving black eyes reminded me of a snake eying off the tasty live mouse he’d selected for breakfast.

He raised his bushy eye brows. “Tell me, Katrina, is examining other people’s rubbish a bizarre idiosyncrasy of yours—or are you looking for something in particular?”

“Bob?” Even my voice sounded like a squeaky mouse ready to bolt for the nearest mouse-hole. Except the only hole big enough for me to dart through was the doorway and the big bad snake had claimed that one.

“Katrina?”

“Um…” I stared down at the polished wooden floor where a dollop of ketchup had leaked from the remains of a Big Mac packet and left an ugly red stain that could have easily passed for blood. I closed my eyes and asked the Universe for a perfectly good reason to be standing beside this man’s desk surrounded by his detritus. “Well, you know me, Bob,” I said with a self-derogatory shrug, still panning the Universe. “I’ve always been a bit of a klutz. What happened—I was waiting to see you and-and—somehow tripped over the waste paper basket, and tipped it over.” Phew! I got down on my knees and reached for a mangy half-chewed biscuit that had skittered under his desk. “Don’t worry though, I’ll pick it all up.”

All except that revolting rubber thing…

Bob Germaine moved three steps closer. I knew it was three steps because with each stride his shiny black loafers slapped against the wooden floor and sent vibrations skittering up through my knees.

“And to what do I owe the pleasure of this visit, Katrina?” His voice mocked me and I didn’t need to look up to feel his eyes boring through the top of my head. “If it’s photo-copying or a nomination query, you’re too late. My staff went home earlier, as soon as the Sunday morning trials finished. In fact, there’s no-one here but me.” He paused and the air chilled several more degrees. “Even old McKenzie out there has finished grading the track and gone home to lunch.”

On my knees I stared up at the man I thought I knew. He’d been a fellow greyhound trainer before giving up to work as a temp on the Greyhound Control Board. From my vantage point on the floor, Bob Germaine appeared seven feet tall and although his smile didn’t shift, the stillness of his mouth made him even more menacing. Butterflies staggered around in my stomach like a mob of drunks. This man may be a killer and I was alone with him. Damn! Why the heck didn’t I let Ben come with me when he offered? My cowboy wasn’t due for at least another fifteen minutes and by that time my chopped up body could be packed and stored in the canteen’s refrigerator.

I stumbled to me feet, dropped the half-eaten biscuit into the bin and wiped my hands on the seat of my jeans. Oh well, if I was going to be murdered I wanted some questions answered first. “Bob, what did my sister tell you when she came to see you on Friday?”

His smile slipped and confusion clouded his eyes. “Your sister? I didn’t know you had a sister, Katrina. I thought you were checking out what I watch on my computer.”

“Bob, I couldn’t care less if your eyeballs exploded from watching threesomes perform in bed. I’m here about my sister. Her name is Liz. A hippy type. I believe she tried to give you information she’d overheard about how slow dogs were winning on country tracks.”

“That’s your sister?” His look was almost sympathetic. “That ditzy dame that causes trouble everywhere she goes?”

Yep. Sounded like Liz. I nodded.

He dragged a hand through his hair without disturbing one immaculate strand. Amazing. Must be gelled to within an inch of its life. “Look,” he said, “I’ve already told that other troublemaker, Scott Brady, I haven’t seen his pesky girlfriend since she tagged along with him and tried to create chaos, claiming we were racing greyhounds against their will—which is when I told her if she stepped on the track again I’d ring the police and have her charged with trespass and causing a disturbance. So… I’m sorry, but if your rabble-rousing sister has disappeared, I say, good riddance.”

“But she came to see you on Friday.” I crossed my fingers behind my back. “I have proof.”

His smile vanished which was good because the perpetual sight of those whiter-than-white shark teeth was doing my head in. “What do you mean…you have proof? Who told you that fruitcake came here?” His snake eyes turned into sharp pebbles. “You can’t prove a thing. It’s their word against mine.”

Aha. So I was right. Liz did talk to Bob Germaine about what she’d overhead regarding the slow dogs winning. Thing is—after their conversation, did Liz walk away from his office and then take off with another bunch of professional protesters—or did Bob Germaine make sure she couldn’t walk anywhere again?

He stepped closer. So close, I could see the ring of sweat forming under his armpits and smell the strong odor of his musky aftershave. “And what if she did come in here with some cock-and-bull story about how there was a betting scam going on?” he growled. “I told her what I’m telling you—keep your nose out of what doesn’t concern you. Long priced dogs pop up every day of the week, from here to Timbuktu. It’s the fickleness of the game. As long as the winning dog’s swab comes back negative, it’s all above board.”

“But—”

“Now, if you’ve finished sifting through my trash and checking out my computer—I think you’d better go.”

“How much money did you win on the slow dog that won today, Bob?”

“I said, you’ve outstayed your welcome.”

“Are you in league with the scammers, Bob?”

“Are you deaf—or just as thick as your idiot sister?”

“Does that mean you know where my sister is?”

“I have nothing more to say to you, Katrina.” His anger almost palpable, Bob’s mouth twisted and his face, now coated in sweat, came close to touching mine. I cringed away from the sweat and the barely controlled rage, both hands cradling my stomach where butterflies lurched into the air, crashing and bouncing off the walls. “So, do I have to pick you up and throw you out—or are you going to leave on your own two feet?”

There was a shuffling movement near the door and the distinct sound of jingling spurs. “Am I in time for morning tea? If so, I’ll have a strong black with three lumps, please.” Ben swaggered into the room, a borrowed Stetson jammed hard on his head. “And unless you’d rather those lumps were beaten into your head with my fist, Germaine—I’d move away from my girlfriend. Right now.”