Fatal Liaison (6 page)

He reached his destination without further incident, pulling into
the driveway behind Sam’s car. Clambering out of his own, he made his way down
past the carport and onto the path leading up to the front veranda’s chipped
and cracking concrete steps. Nothing had changed since his last visit, but
hoping against hope, he rapped his knuckles on the solid front door and called
out.

One of the two keys on the ring in his hand fitted the back door,
but he hadn’t thought to try the other key in the front door when he let
himself out last time. He turned the key and felt the lock-assembly yield. The
thought of scaling the side fence again would’ve been too much to bear.

The door swung inwards, the air colder inside than out. As he
stepped into the entrance hall, he looked down at his feet and realized he
hadn’t removed his shoes. Out of force of habit, he crouched down and undid his
laces. If he’d stopped to think about it, traipsing dirt through the house was
the least of his worries.

He stood and shut the door, closing out the outside world. The house
was silent and a hint of mustiness hung in the air. He padded down the hall,
glancing in each of the rooms he passed. When he stepped into the kitchen, it
was more than evident Sam hadn’t been home since Sunday. The original single
coffee cup still sat in the sink, along with the mug he’d used and rinsed. The
dishes were still in the dish-rack and the coffeepot was sitting on the edge of
the range where he’d left it cooling.

Remembering the dinner dating agency’s brochure, he made a beeline
for the fridge. He rescued the glossy trifold from the jaws of a purple plastic
crocodile and, perching on the table edge, studied it. The glib promises and
posed photos might have charmed some, but certainly did nothing for him.
However, that wasn’t important. What he really needed was a phone number. He
turned the brochure over to where the company’s contact details, including a
website, were listed.

He dropped the brochure face down on the table and plonked down on
one of the wooden chairs. He then drew out his BlackBerry and dialed Dinner for
Twelve’s business number. It rang half a dozen times before a toffy female
voice answered the phone.

Hiding his angst, Greg kept his voice low, and speaking in carefully
measured tones explained who he was and that his sister, one of their clients,
had not been seen or heard of in some days. “Obviously, this is causing her
family some concern. Especially since it’s so out of character for my sister to
take off without telling anyone her plans. It’s imperative that I speak with
the man she made a connection with at one of your company’s functions.”

“I’m sorry,” said the woman whose name he hadn’t caught, “but I’m
afraid I’m not in a position to help you.”

“Please. Our mother is extremely unwell. I need to find Sam before
it’s too late.” A slight exaggeration but needs must. “She described the guy as
‘tall, dark and drop-dead gorgeous,’ if that helps.”

“I’m sorry, Mr Jenkins. I do understand that you are concerned about
your sister, but the Privacy Act prevents me from passing on any information
about our clients without their consent.”

Any pretence at civility promptly vanished. “You have to be joking!
The Privacy Act? This could be a matter of life and death and you’re sprouting
the Privacy Act at me?”

“I really do apologize, but unless you have a warrant, I can’t help
you. Thank you for your call.”

Then the line went dead. The heat already suffusing Greg’s face
intensified, his jaw dropping in sheer disbelief. She’d hung up on him.

He dropped his BlackBerry on the table and glared at the brochure
for a few moments. Only common sense prevented him from venting his rage on
what was really an inoffensive piece of marketing hype. In reality it was more
than that; it was his only lead to Sam.

All the pent-up tension in his body made it impossible for him to
remain seated. He scraped back his chair, stood and began to pace within the
kitchen’s confines. Circling the kitchen table, he voiced his thoughts. Talking
aloud helped him to think.

“Sam, tell me what I’m supposed to do now. Call the police? No, you
wouldn’t want me to do that. Or would you? Shit, I don’t know!” He paused,
roughly rubbing the palms of his hands over his face. “Did you leave willingly
or unwillingly? There’s no sign of a struggle and…” He came to an abrupt stop,
his voice trailing off as he suddenly remembered the handbag on the floor in
Sam’s bedroom.

Scooting through the kitchen door into the hall, he headed straight
for the master bedroom. The black leather handbag was exactly where he recalled
seeing it on Sunday – on the floorboards beneath the far window. He stepped
into the room feeling decidedly uncomfortable about invading his sister’s
personal space.

Over at the window, he stooped and without moving the unlatched bag
from its spot on the floor, fossicked through it. There were only a few items
in the bag: a small lumpy yellow and white zippered pouch he guessed probably
contained lipstick and the like; a green cardboard packet about the size and
shape of a matchbox – mouth fresheners according to the label; an expired train
ticket; a dangly gold earring; half a small pack of cellophane wrapped tissues;
and finally, jammed in the bag’s bottom corner, the mate for the dangly gold
earring. There was no sign of a purse or wallet nor a mobile phone. But that
was good. It meant she’d taken them with her when she left the house. That, at
least, was some consolation.

He retreated to the kitchen, dropping down onto the chair he’d
earlier vacated. Hunched forward, his hands hung in an upside down prayer
between his knees. His forehead descended to within a centimeter or two of the
table. He let it fall further, bouncing his forehead on the tabletop in
frustration.

When he’d done beating himself up, he sat upright again and picked
up Dinner for Twelve’s brochure. That woman had been more than evasive. Privacy
Act be damned. There had to be another way.

He sat motionless, eyes open but unseeing, running the options – both
feasible and unfeasible – through his mind. He needed to do whatever it took to
find his sister. He had no choice; the time had come to alert the police. Face
to face was the best approach, he thought. First, there was something else he
needed to do.

Although he was confident the police would make every effort to help
him, they didn’t stand to lose anywhere near as much as he did. He just wasn’t
prepared to abdicate the responsibility. For God’s sake, she was his little
sister, an unworldly and gullible country girl. He refused to dwell on the
possibility that some bastard had preyed on those traits.

Clearing his throat, he picked up his BlackBerry and hit the redial.
The same snooty bitch answered the phone, but he had been prepared for that.

“Good morning. I would like to join up with your agency.” He’d
deepened his voice, hoping it would be enough to disguise his identity.

“Certainly, sir. We can complete most of the formalities over the
phone, but we still require you to come in for an informal, obligation-free
interview. That way we get to know you and your expectations and you get to
know us. Perhaps we can start with your name?”

He didn’t falter. “Harris, Justin Harris.” It was the first name
that came to mind. Justin and he’d been great mates in secondary school, but
then Justin’s family had moved across the country to Perth. They still
exchanged the occasional email, but it had been years since they’d actually
seen each other.

Dinner for Twelve’s next function, drinks and finger food at some
inner city bar he hadn’t heard of, was scheduled for that Friday evening. That
suited him better than a formal sit down dinner. He had been dreading the
thought of being stuck at a table and being compelled to play the part of a
single man looking for love. The single part was right, but the last thing he
needed in his life was so-called love.

He’d found out the hard way that love was for fools. Even now, after
nearly a year, his chest still constricted when he thought about the crushing
way Karina had left him after seven years of what he blindly believed had been
wedded bliss. The idiot he was, he’d had no inkling that it was looming. She’d
ridiculed him that fateful day, telling him she’d never loved him. By the time
he pulled himself together and thought to ask why, she’d walked out of his life
forever. To this day, he remained none the wiser.

After a hectic
week, Megan had been looking forward to Friday evening when she could unwind.
Unfortunately, she’d broken her promise to herself and agreed to accompany
Brenda to another of Dinner for Twelve’s functions, a cocktail party.

Brenda and she arrived together, though Brenda soon became
distracted by Lawson Green, who was standing at the bar, staring into his beer.

“Drink?” Brenda asked.

Megan squeezed in half a nod before Brenda bolted, leaving Megan to contemplate
her surroundings. The crowded bar was a far cry from the so-called restaurant
that had been her introduction to the world of lonely hearts clubs. Her nose
wrinkled, the air thick with heavy-handed cologne mixed with desperation. That
hadn’t changed.

The idea behind this function, Brenda had told her, was that
everyone could circulate freely and get to know each other in a less
restrictive environment. No delegated seats. No boy-girl-boy-girl table
arrangements. No being cornered without some form of escape route.

Nevertheless, she felt self-conscious standing alone just inside the
door, her name encased in plastic and clipped to her jacket marking her as one
of them. Against the far wall, almost obscured by a huge gnarled potted Yucca,
she spied a high upholstered bench seat – the ideal vantage point to watch the
goings-on, yet remain relatively inconspicuous. Weaving her way through the
carousing crowd, she recognized a couple of familiar faces, but most were
foreign to her.

Once ensconced on the bench seat, she scanned the bar and spied a
face she hadn’t seen earlier. Nick – the man she’d hardly exchanged two words
with – sat at one of the tables near the bar. Deep in a conversation with a
bare-shouldered woman, he didn’t notice Megan. Her gaze continued past the
couple to the bar.

It came as no surprise that Brenda had chosen to order drinks from
the spot right next to where Lawson had taken up position. What was remarkable,
though, was there was no sign of Mata Hari, aka Linda. Had Linda and Lawson
already fallen out? That’d certainly explain Lawson’s despondent demeanor.
Megan watched as Brenda sidled up beside Lawson and spoke to him. Without
lifting his head, he glanced at Brenda, said something and returned to staring
into his drink. Brenda spoke again, turning side-on to the bar, facing Lawson
as she laid her hand gently on his shoulder. From where she sat, Megan could
only glimpse the tips of Lawson’s fingers as he reached up and patted Brenda’s
hand before dropping his own back down onto the bar.

Brenda’s mouth pursed in a triumphant smirk, reminding Megan of
Brenda’s comment about all being fair in love and war. However, Megan thought,
love on the rebound is dangerous territory. She ought to know. When Brenda
returned with the drinks, Megan would remind her of that. That’s if she ever
did. Ordering drinks was evidently the last thing on her mind.

Megan glanced across the room, just in time to see Mr Ginger
Moustache swagger through the door and head for the table to sign in and
collect his name badge. Instinctively, she averted her eyes, avoiding any
accidental eye contact.

Pauline Meyer had yet to make an appearance. Maybe they wouldn’t be
graced with her presence tonight. She imagined Lawson would be more than a
little grateful about that. The way she fussed over him it must’ve felt like
having your mother tag along with you on a date. Now that was a scary thought.

Pauline chose that moment to make her entrance. Carrying herself
with great aplomb, she waltzed through the room greeting her clients with a
fixed smile and cursory nod as she glided past. Like a queen and her subjects.

Megan had been so engrossed in watching Pauline that Brenda was
almost at the table before she noticed her. Brenda’s face was fixed in
concentration as, balancing two full champagne flutes, she negotiated her way
through a conglomerate of elbows and backs. Immediately behind her, with his
dark hair flopping over his eyes, followed Lawson looking no less glum than
before.

Shuffling sideways across the bench, Megan made room for the pair.
She’d have to wait until later to remind Brenda what had happened when she’d
become involved with a man on the rebound. After all, Brenda had been the one
to pick up the pieces.

In one sense it seemed as if it’d happened a lifetime ago, but in
another it felt like it had only been yesterday. Megan had foolishly believed
Darryl when he told her he no longer had any feelings for his ex. She’d
unwittingly thrown herself body and soul into the relationship believing he was
the one. When Darryl suggested they move in together, she’d been ecstatic. Life
was finally coming together for her. Then less than a month later, with no
forewarning, her world imploded. His ex was pregnant, or so he said. For the
baby’s sake, his child, he had to be there. Surely she could understand that.
The low-life had been sleeping with both of them. He even had the gall to
pretend he still loved Megan.