The Heat (20 page)

29

Rafael Halperin had told Leah he was going stir-crazy, but that was only the half of it. He missed his wife and son, missed New York, hated this brain-dead beach resort he'd found himself in. People slopping along the street or the beach, shopping, eating. That's all. Not a coherent thought between them.

Nodding to the doorman, he stepped out of the Flamingo Gate apartments and headed to the national park. Leah had been adamant, don't show his face for a few days, but that was easier said than done. Besides, the national park was for the slightly more serious holiday-maker. Walkers, joggers and so on. He'd be unlikely to encounter anyone who recognised him: Minto and Sten were down on the Gold Coast, Leah was running around Noosa buying and selling real estate, and the private detective was waiting to ambush the fall guy.

As he toiled up the first slope and down to Tea Tree Bay, Halperin weighed the pros and cons of leaving now, tonight. A flight to Sydney, Qantas direct to LAX and home to New York. The painting securely crated in the hold.

Finally, safely home, arrange the sale of the painting. He'd had a pretty good nibble from an Antwerp gallery director, and veiled interest from another in Frankfurt. Once the price was confirmed and the handover was done, place the money in an offshore account and put his feet up. Practice proper law again.

But Leah Quarrell and her uncle were dangerous people. He wouldn't put it past Leah to red-flag his name with travel agents, the airlines, luggage handlers, customs officials or airport police. He stopped, patted his pants absently, realised he'd left the pistol tucked behind a sofa cushion.

He walked on. Too risky to bolt now. Better to stick with the plan, stay on a couple more weeks, keep Leah Quarrell happy, get rid of her later.

How, though? After today, she would stick to him like glue, and when the time was right, follow him to New York, imagining some kind of life ahead. The sex was fine, but Rafi didn't think that would last more than a few months. Anyway, it was hardly likely she'd play second fiddle to his wife.

His wife. If he'd told Leah about Dana they might not have gotten involved and there wouldn't have been a plan to steal the painting—and he'd have gone home to his debts and anxieties. But by not telling Leah he was married, he'd got himself saddled with a crazy woman who would surely hurt him if she found out.

Could he shoot her? He slapped at his pockets for the gun again.

Finding a water fountain beside the track, Halperin drank deeply. He stepped down onto the sand of Tea Tree Bay and perched on a rock under a straggly tree. Teenage girls sunbathed on huge towels, women read paperbacks and men stared at the water and wished they were young again. The sun glinted on the horizon, but closer in the water was choppy and a howling powerboat was leaping across the wave tops, a dozen terrified tourists holding on in the back. What kind of life was it, chasing five-minute thrills in the sunshine? Halperin wore shorts, sandals and a T-shirt so he wouldn't stand out from the locals, but all he wanted was to dress himself properly again—Armani suit, blue Oxford shirt, the Hermès tie with the ranks of tiny elephants across it—and argue points of law in a courtroom.

He stood, slapped the sand off his pants, and walked back to the park entrance. He was heading past information boards set among the trees when he smelled coffee. A tiny kiosk beside a souvenir shop, one guy working the machine. One thing Halperin would say for Australia, the coffee was okay. He ordered a double-shot latte and a blueberry muffin, raising his voice over the football commentary barfing from a portable radio behind the guy, and was counting out a couple of the local gold-coloured coins when a newsflash cut in.

Shots fired on Iluka Islet.

Keeping his voice amiable, affectless, he said, ‘Sounds like a Hollywood movie.'

‘You got that right,' the barista said, busy with his milk-frothing machine. ‘All I want is to listen to the game, and they keep breaking in with updates. Updates, my arse. Same thing over and over again.'

‘Yeah?' said Rafi Halperin.

‘Some guy took a coupla pot shots at the cops, there was a car chase, he got away. End of story.'

‘Any arrests? Anyone hurt?'

‘Dunno,' the guy said, distracted by the roar and splutter of his machine.

Rafi returned to his apartment and turned on the TV. Footage of Ormerod's house, a broad description of a gunman, people standing around a wrecked police car.

Bad idea to call Leah's mobile. The wrong person could get his number. Halperin called the main RiverRun Realty number instead. When the receptionist answered, he adopted his father's old country accent and said, ‘Yes, I am at house but Miss Quarrell she not here.'

‘I'm afraid Miss Quarrell is, ah, occupied for the rest of the day. May I suggest you call back on Monday and reschedule.'

‘Is pity,' Halperin said, cutting the call.

He tried Leah's landline in Tewantin. A male voice said curtly, ‘Leah Quarrell's phone.'

Mangling his accent again, Halperin said, ‘Yes, pliss, I am confirm Miss Quarrell shoes ready be picked up.'

‘I'll be sure she gets the message,' the guy said, sounding amused.

Halperin pulled on a business shirt and trousers and left the apartment again, walking down to Hastings Street and hailing a taxi. ‘Gympie Terrace in Noosaville.'

‘Gunna take a while.'

‘Is that a fact.'

‘We had some drama here this afternoon.'

‘Oh?'

‘They could stop and search, so be warned.'

One stop and search, at Quamby Place, the police taking one look at Halperin and waving them through. ‘Guess you passed the test,' the driver said.

Then down towards the water and along Gympie Terrace, the cab creeping over the speed bumps. When they drew adjacent to Quarrell's real estate office, Halperin chanced a quick glance. A uniform in the foyer, another outside the front door, a police car at the kerb. He settled back and a short while later said, ‘Sorry, change of plan, take me back to Hastings Street.'

‘Your dollar,' the cabbie said.

Dropped at the roundabout, he walked west until he'd found a travel agent. One seat available, 3 p.m. to Sydney, but it was 2.30 now.

‘Nothing later today?'

‘All booked out,' the travel agent said. She sounded pleased. ‘End of the school holidays, everyone's flying home today and tomorrow.'

There was a Monday 7 a.m. to Sydney; a wait of several hours for the LA flight, however.

Halperin thought about it.

‘How about Singapore?' Singapore was a hub. He could fly anywhere from there. Direct to London and across the Atlantic to home. So long as he could leave Australia—leave Queensland—unobserved.

Yes, she could do Singapore.

In the end he smiled, said he'd think about it, and walked out. He could hire a car and drive to Sydney. But still, there was the long reach of Leah Quarrell and her uncle. Wishing he had fake ID, Halperin returned to the Flamingo Gate apartments. If he flew anywhere, his name would appear on a database. Ditto if he applied for customs approval to ship the painting out of Australia. Proof of purchase, proof of ownership, approval from the authorities…And a similar routine when he got to the States.

He'd been relying on Leah Quarrell for all of that, and now he was stuck. What he needed was some other way to profit from the mess.

Passing a newsagency, he saw a heap of newspapers. The
Courier-Mail
, with a banner headline that meant nothing to him: ‘Hear the Lion Roar'. He walked on. He doubled back, bought a copy, carried it to his apartment.

The owner's late husband had evidently had a taste for found objects. Halperin took down one of his ‘artworks', a piece of particle board painted pale blue and stuck with seashells and a dusty scrap of fishnet, and hung Hannah Sten's painting in its place. He stationed a stiff-backed chair under the painting, stood the newspaper against the back of the chair, so that the headline and date were clear, and took several photographs with his phone.

He composed a terse ransom demand and texted it to Minto, signing the name ‘Wyatt'. If nothing else, it would muddy the waters. Best-case scenario, he walked off with a hundred grand in his pocket.

30

Wyatt waited his hour in the Noosa Junction cinema, then hobbled out to find another payphone.

And Minto was spitting chips. ‘What the fuck are you doing?'

Wyatt waited. Minto would get to it.

‘You cunt, you're ransoming the painting now?'

‘I don't have the painting.'

‘That last call was to cover yourself before you text me a ransom demand?'

Wyatt said, ‘I told you, I don't have the painting.'

‘Well, the police certainly haven't but what do you know? I get a text from
you
, demanding money in return for the painting.'

‘You're not listening to me,' Wyatt said.

‘You signed it, you sent a photo of it. Meanwhile, both Leah and Trask are in police custody, and I'm betting you're behind that, too.'

Wyatt didn't bother arguing that he'd be all kinds of fool to do the things Minto was accusing him of. The broker wasn't thinking clearly. He was panicking. Wyatt wasn't. He was cold as ice as he worked it out.

‘Arrested together or separately?'

‘Fucked if I know. All I know is, Trask is spilling his guts and my darling niece has asked for witness protection.'

The police will come for you next, thought Wyatt. He cut the call and returned to the hotel. He sensed elation on the streets. Apparently the Lions had won the grand final.

At 7 p.m. he tuned in to the ABC news. First up was the football. Then more football, then Wyatt learned that he was still at large, believed armed and dangerous. Minto's murder came late in the news. Police arriving to serve an arrest warrant had found the prominent Gold Coast businessman dead of gunshot wounds. Prominent businessman with underworld connections, hinted the newsreader, without spelling it out.

Wondering if he was next on someone's hit list, Wyatt limped downstairs to the dining room. He was ushered to his table; he was tended to. But nobody saw the man, only the leg and the crutches. It was better this way, a room-service delivery would mean contact in close quarters, a conversation, eyes darting around his room, wondering about a woman or a man in his life.

As he dined, his mind worked restlessly. Arrest warrants were never issued on a whim. It was possible Minto had already been under investigation—maybe under surveillance, so Wyatt thanked his forethought in going to see the man disguised. It was also possible his niece had cut a deal, giving the police sufficient information on which to issue a warrant on short notice. In that case, he thought, she's also fingered me.

But how smart was she? If she had any sense, she'd spin it out over days, even weeks of questioning, until she knew what the police knew or suspected, knew what she could hide, knew what lies to tell. She'd play with her interrogators, tease them, offer titbits one at a time until she had the protection of a good lawyer, a worthwhile deal, and news that her enemies, real and imagined, had been neutralised.

Her play for witness protection. She's claiming her life's in danger from me and from her uncle, he thought. Where would they put her? Probably not protective custody in a cell somewhere. Probably a safe house or apartment. Relative comfort.

Who had shot Minto?

The broker had plenty of enemies, but the timing was instructive: within hours of the Ormerod fiasco. And if not Trask or Quarrell, who else? Hannah Sten? She was staying nearby. But that supposed she was willing and able to act quickly, or hire someone.

Something else was going on.

He returned to his room and thought some more.

Start with the painting. Leaving aside who owned it or wanted it, he'd been hired to steal it. And it existed, he'd seen it with his own eyes, a few days ago, in the house where Minto had said it would be. And today he'd entered the house successfully. All of that was clear. What he'd found then was an empty hook.

He could withdraw now, keep the down payment for his trouble. But then he'd never know what happened or exactly how he'd been crossed. That was a wrong that couldn't be redressed. He needed to see it through. He'd been hired to steal and deliver a painting, and that's what he'd do.

He thought about the cops in the house, on the nearby streets. A coordinated operation, and presumably part of the double-cross, the result of a tip-off. He gave some thought to Ormerod. The man had no demonstrable taste in art: the Teniers painting was an aberration in his collection of art-show gumtrees and sheep-droving scenes. Perhaps Hannah Sten's story was a lie or only part of the truth and other people were lurking, waiting to stake a claim to the painting.

Wyatt played with the idea that Ormerod had been tipped off in advance. Not by Minto, he thought. Minto would know I'd come after him. Maybe Quarrell or Trask had been after something from Ormerod. Money, some kind of favour. Maybe Quarrell or Trask were working an insurance scam with him. Ormerod retains the painting and claims the insurance, meanwhile sending a fake ransom demand to Minto to throw him off the scent.

But would they also tip off the police? Unlikely, Wyatt thought. They couldn't be sure I wouldn't turn around and name them, cut a deal for myself; they couldn't be sure I wouldn't escape and come after them.

Nothing Wyatt could do about Ormerod, not yet. Perhaps the Thailand flight was some kind of ruse? Meanwhile, the police would become curious about him, and his house would continue to be a crime scene.

Tomorrow, thought Wyatt, is another day.

At 10 p.m., the day's grime showered away, he mocked up the bed—most of the pillows tucked under the covers to suggest his sleeping form—and stretched out on the carpet on the far side of the bed from the door, a final pillow under his head, gun in reach. Listened to the news, learned nothing, and switched off the radio. As he fell asleep he thought about who had come for Minto. Who might come for him.