Ant wasn’t home from work yet, so Caleb spent a bit of time pacing the kitchen, then retrieved Frankie’s box of junk from the car. If she’d gone to the trouble of following him back to the Bay, there was a good chance her mystery object was actually in there. And God knows, he needed something to distract him.
‘Slow it down.’
There was no need to panic. If Kat wanted to end it, she’d end it. He’d just made a few assumptions, thought they were further along the road than they were. ‘Slow it down’ just meant an easing on the accelerator.
Probably.
He emptied the box onto the coffee table. The contents didn’t look any more promising than last time: notepads and batteries, a stapler, a desk phone, glue sticks, pens. He leafed through the notebooks again – nothing, unless Frankie had managed to incorporate code into legitimate case notes. Not impossible but unlikely. Whatever she’d hidden had to be small, maybe even a microdot. Which would make it almost impossible to find.
‘Slow it down.’
What did that mean? Not sleeping together? Not seeing each other as often? At all?
Focus: Frankie. Get inside her head.
She’s got something important; she’s nervous about carrying it but wants to keep it close. So she hides it in the office. Somewhere it will be safe from casual discovery, not just by strangers but by him.
The phone. It was the only thing Frankie could guarantee he wouldn’t touch. A voice message? A secret compartment? He examined it. No loose panels or buttons, nothing taped to the underside, but one of the screws on the casing was slightly burred. He got up and grabbed the old screwdriver set from the kitchen junk drawer, set to work on the screws. The overhead lights flicked on and off as he started on the last of them – Ant warning him that he was home. Caleb raised a hand in greeting and pulled the back off the phone – nothing but wiring. Damn.
Ant sprawled on an armchair. He made a lazy circle in the air with one finger, shorthand for, ‘What the hell are you doing?’
‘Looking for something Frankie left behind.’
Ant stared at him. ‘You’re talking to Frankie? She’s OK?’
‘Talked. Once. She wants –’ He broke off, almost smiled: he knew where Frankie had hidden her treasure. He grabbed a screwdriver and pried apart the casing on the receiver, and there, nestled in the wiring, was a silver key. Stubby, with a square head and a cap of yellow plastic. He slipped it onto his keyring and shoved it in his back pocket.
‘What’s it for?’ Ant asked.
‘No idea, but Frankie wants it pretty badly.’
Ant nodded, less engaged than Caleb would have expected for the level of intrigue. He was looking tired and cranky, tapping his fingers on the arm of the couch. Caleb hesitated. Of the long list of topics they avoided, Ant’s addiction was right up there. But questioning him about the local drug trade would be difficult without mentioning drugs.
‘Just say it,’ Ant told him.
‘Who should I talk to about the drug trade in the Bay?’
Ant stilled. ‘What? Why?’
‘I want some information. Who should I talk to?’
‘What information?’
Damn, Ant could do this all day if he was trying to avoid something – bounce question off question, never answering any of them. Childhood experience had taught Caleb that the only ways to end the cycle were either to involve Ant or to give him a cripple nipple. He should probably start by involving him.
‘It looks like the blond guy who attacked Portia is connected to some kids who are dealing. So who should I be talking to about it?’
‘No idea.’
‘The Copperheads?’
‘Yeah, you should definitely front up to a bikie gang and ask about their drug-dealing connections. Why don’t you ask to see their stash of weaponry while you’re at it?’
Fair point. ‘What about your old dealer? Think he’d know?’
Ant shrugged.
‘What’s his address?’ Caleb asked.
‘He won’t speak to you without an intro.’
Ant didn’t answer.
Last try, then it was time for the cripple nipple.
‘I don’t want to drag you into it – I just want to know who I should be talking to.’
‘Mate, it’s not me I’m worried about. If you go stumbling around asking questions, you’re going to get yourself squashed.’
Stumbling. Acid soured his stomach.
‘Guess I’ll have a chat with the Copperheads, then.’
He was halfway to the door when something flew past his head and landed on the floor: a cushion.
‘You’re an arsehole,’ Ant said. ‘You know that, don’t you?’
‘Yeah, but at least I can throw.’