The Big Smoke Page 5

  'I need to talk to her. It's important. About a case.'

  'It is hard enough for her to manage her internal world, without you muddying the waters.'

  The door to Mira's room opened and Vee emerged. Reece groaned, and felt rather than saw Felicity's warning glance. Vee smirked at him, minced across in her — his/their — knee-high pumps.

  Tran stepped back as Mira's understudy reached them, as though Vee radiated cold.

  Vee looked as though he/she/they had come out of a freezer: short hair frosted silver, eyebrows shaved to the skin, eyelashes and lips silvered, a figure-hugging sheath of white PVC. Sexless, no tell-tale bumps anywhere. Bluish fingernails glinted like shards of ice.

  Pale malamute eyes regarded Reece, the unblinking gaze settling on his throat, his wrists, his groin. 'Back again, Hunter? Getting thirsty?'

  Reece's hand was on his sidearm before he realised it, closely followed by Felicity's restraining hand.

  'We're late,' she said.

  'In trouble again, are we?' Vee asked, feigning ignorance.

  'I'll be back,' Reece said. 'Mira is my bludger, after all.'

  'Bludger?'

  'Host.' Reece savoured his minor jargon win over Vee.

  'Was your "bludger", I think you mean,' Vee replied, unabashed. 'The Hospitaller has declared isolation. There are no visiting hours. For anyone.'

  Tran added: 'Regardless of who they are; or were. It's for her own good, and that of her visitors. Someone in bedlam cannot be expected to react rationally.'

  Campbell sauntered over to eye Reece over the top of his narrow, frameless glasses. He didn't stand too close to Vee, either. 'Don't they want you upstairs?'

  Felicity tugged on Reece's arm, mumbled, 'Better not keep the Old Man waiting.'

  'Nice seeing you, Hunter Reece.' Vee smiled, a corpse-like grin.

  Felicity pulled Reece into the lift and hit the button for 13. Boardroom. His last view was of Tran, Campbell and Vee watching him leave, like Macbeth's three witches, all but rubbing their hands at his impending fall from grace.

  Reece breathed out, trying to relax the tension in his muscles. 'I hate that fucking mutant.'

  'Your prejudice is showing, old man. I think Vee's the most honest person in the building.'

  'How's that?'

  'Vee's all vampire. Not male, not female. Just vee.'

  'Well, I still don't trust he/she/vee; whatever.'

  'With Mira out of commission, Vee is Strigoi.'

  'That freak's no Strigoi.'

  'Someone's got to do the mojo.'

  The door chimed open. 'Bend over, here it comes,' Reece said, and she slapped his arm; then she straightened her jacket as they walked side by side into the reception.

  'Go in,' the red-eye Familiare behind the desk said. His uniform patches showed him to be one of Maximilian's, loyalty all but guaranteed by shared blood. All the board members had such lackeys, although younger members such as Treasurer Tony Campbell preferred to call them personal assistants — a sign of the gulf between the bright young things and their ancient leader. Reece imagined it must be frustrating for the up-and-comers; what was the retirement age for a vampire warlord?

  The boardroom was utilitarian: a long table, a blank wall with a retractable projection screen, a side door to a kitchen area, another to the toilets. Another wall was taken up with a framed tapestry of knights butchering pagans in a dark forest under the banner of a black cross. Wide windows looked across the river to the mountains in the west; traffic pulsed over the bridges and along the riverside expressway. On South Bank, the sightseeing wheel rotated in a slow blur of colour. If only the wheels turning inside Thorn were so brightly illuminated.

  Hochmeister Maximilian von Schiller stood statue-still, arms clasped behind his back as he took in the view. He was five-foot-six, as solid as a brick shithouse, with no neck to speak of. His jumper hung to his mid thigh; combined with his bowl haircut, it gave him a certain monkish air, but the man's demeanour always reminded Reece of a member of the Inquisition. He could imagine Maximilian extracting confessions with hot pokers and cages of rats. It made his own Special Branch interrogation techniques seem incredibly amateurish. The man's eyes were reflected green dots in the window and Reece could feel them shift their focus to regard the two of them.

  Maximilian's second-in-command stepped from a patch of darkness between two downlights. Preceptor Heinrich had a reputation for blending with the shadows, despite being a full head and shoulders taller than Maximilian and even wider in the chest. He wore a shiny jacket open to reveal a tight shirt, his narrow waist sporting sword and sidearm.

  'This had better be good,' Heinrich said.

  What irked him more — the mess at the tattoo shop or the fact they were late — was impossible to know. Reece didn't bother apologising for either, just gave his report as succinctly as possible. A rumour of Kevin Matheson in town, provided by a snitch, now dead, along with her tattooist boss; Reece thinking to follow the grease monkey to see who his connections were, the Viscounts wrecking the plan.

  He didn't mention the Needle or the girl the gang leader had sent to meet Matheson. Dangerous to withhold information, but worth the risk.

  Maximilian turned, his intense eyes sweeping across them like a searchlight's beam from his long, thin face.

  'Definitely this "grease monkey" from the outback?'

  Reece slid a hard copy of one of the photos he'd taken across the table. 'It's him, all right.'

  'And no sign of Danica?' Maximilian stretched her name out, Daneetza, as though tasting some exotic honey, a complicated flavour of love and hurt, confusion even.

  'Just Matheson.'

  Maximilian touched the image, one finger pressing it into the timber as though he could draw information from the ink itself.

  Heinrich asked, 'Who killed the tattooist?'

  'The Viscounts, presumably. Johnny Slick was down from a headshot when we arrived, but he was gone when we returned. Flash had turned off his security cameras, but it's a good bet the gang cleaned house while we were trading pleasantries out the back.'

  '"Presumably". And what are you presuming now?'

  'That someone tipped off the Viscounts, and they saw a chance to get a leg up.'

  'The tattooist?'

  'Unlikely.'

  'Why was Matheson there?'

  'We're looking into that.'

  Heinrich snorted. 'Unfinished business, Lieutenant Reece?'

  'It's not something I'd rule out.'

  'Unfinished business,' Maximilian said, studying the photograph again before turning his attention to Reece. 'With you? With my daughter?'

  'It's an avenue of investigation we're considering.'

  'Do that. And the killing of the tattooist and your informant; tracks are being covered?'

  'So it would appear.'

  'The way forward?'

  'Johnny Slick. Find out who pointed him in Matheson's direction.'

  Heinrich nodded his approval, his meaty lips pressed tight as though still tasting the plan for hidden flavours.

  Maximilian's hand closed slowly, nails scraping on the table as he scrunched the photograph. He loomed huge, those eyes filling Reece's vision, like staring into a landslide.

  'And now, the thing you're not telling us. The reason you didn't mount a full operation to secure the mechanic.' He held up the ball of paper. 'Even though you knew it was he.'

  Felicity licked her lips and said, 'We may have a leak, my lord Hochmeister.'

  'A leak?' Heinrich said, as though they had just shat on his shoe. 'You'd better have bloody good evidence before accusing anyone in this operation of treachery.'

  Felicity swallowed, then continued: 'We think someone, accidentally, or on purpose, told the Needle about Jasmine Turner setting up her farm; and the Needle told Bhagwan. Bhagwan didn't want to compete against Turner — he was afraid of losing his special privileges as a supplier of cattle blood to us — so he told Taipan, who hated Jasmine Turner. Taipan oblig
ingly went Rambo on Turner's operation before it was up and running.'

  Reece added, 'Of course, it didn't work out quite as Bhagwan hoped. His farm was destroyed and Jasmine took his head.'

  Maximilian stared at the scrunched photo in his palm. Quite the debacle, wouldn't you say, Hunters? Turner is dust and our bovine supply chain shattered; Danica is still at large; Mira is in bedlam. And now the agent of this destruction is here, in my demesne.' His eyes flicked up, settled on Reece. What do you make of that, Hunter?'

  'With all due respect, I'm not a Hunter anymore, my lord.'

  'And yet, you still hunt. Not well, as it happens. You failed my daughter, and now you let this boy escape again.' He brandished his fist. 'This boy who has a link not only to my former consort, but to my daughter as well.'

  Maximilian thrust the photo into his pocket. 'How do you know about this chain of communication?'

  'Something Bhagwan said. Before Jasmine dusted him.' Reece ignored Felicity's sudden tensing, trusted to his forty-odd years of bullshitting to vampires and humans alike to gloss over his lie. 'A hunch, my lord. I'm still looking for the proof.'

  'Then keep looking, Hunter. Find Slick. Find the traitor who betrayed my daughter.' He turned back to the window, meeting dismissed.

  'My lord?' Reece asked.

  Maximilian regarded him over one shoulder.

  'Matheson. He could lead us to Danica. Danica could cure Mira.'

  'Which is the real reason you went after him alone, is it not? The favourite, attempting to protect his mistress.' Maximilian turned away once more. 'Loyalty is admirable, but results speak louder.'

  Heinrich showed them to the door. 'Who have you told about this supposed leak, Lieutenant Reece?'

  'No one, my lord Preceptor.'

  'Keep it that way. Now, do what the Hochmeister has ordered. Both of you. Find this leak. And most importantly: find Matheson. The Strigoi's life — your lives — depend on it.'

  Felicity looked paler than usual as they waited for the lift. 'Did he mean it?'

  'About offing us? We're red-eyes. Parasites. Tools. We don't have a lot of longevity.'

  She leaned against a wall, arms crossed.

  'You're young,' Reece said. 'You've got time to recover from this.'

  'Yeah, right. Any thoughts about where to find Slick? Surely he'll be so far underground—'

  'Come back to my room for a minute.'

  'Reece—'

  'Business, Flick.'

  She rolled her eyes, but accompanied him down to 3. He wondered how long it would take Human Resources to shift him, now that he was no longer under Mira's protection. She had secured him this private room, as close to hers on 2 as she could get. And while GS officers, as he now was, were allocated a room to themselves on this floor, there were higher ranks that would kill for his balcony. The view wasn't great, but you could smoke out there without fear of setting off an alarm.

  'You have any joy working out who was in on the Jasmine Turner plan?' he asked once they were inside his quarters with the door shut.

  'It was Jensen's op; he's head of logistics, so that makes sense. But all the board knew about it, which means their Familiares and staff.'

  'Just them, huh.'

  'Yeah, you wanna bring them in for questioning?'

  He frowned, as though considering it, and she shook her head to show he wasn't fooling anyone.

  'So which of them had something to gain by throwing a spanner in the works?'

  'Who didn't?'

  'Dead end, then.'

  'Unless you can lean on a Familiare and keep their bludger from knowing about it long enough to prosecute.'

  He smiled at her use of his old police slang for a pimp — as good a term for a vampire running red-eyes as any other; dealer, maybe? The small satisfaction that he was rubbing off on her couldn't overcome the frustration of trying to investigate people who were untouchable. 'So we're back to Johnny Slick.'

  While his laptop booted, he poured generous shots of Bundy, hers on the rocks, the ice cubes about the only thing in the bar fridge.

  She turned away from his small collection of pulp fiction paperbacks and a row of CDs that were his music to drink by, as he handed her the glass. They clinked once and he took the chair in front of the computer.

  'You're going to google Slick?' She stood behind him; close enough to feel her heat against his shoulder.

  She put down her drink and shed her jacket. 'Warm,' she said. Ice cubes rattled as she retrieved her rum. The hard drive whirred. 'You need an upgrade.'

  'Tell me about it.'

  His back felt cold where she'd moved away. Her subtly floral fragrance lingered. He took a big sip, and then punched the keys in his two-fingered style. She was right; it was hot in here. He loosened his tie while the screen filled with the results of his search.

  'This one.' He looked at her over his shoulder, quietly triumphant, just a little desperate. 'I guarantee you Johnny Slick will be here.'

  'Roller derby?'

  'Not only do the Viscounts play the half-time show, but Johnny Slick's moll is a star player. No way will he not turn up.'

  'I heard his band play, once. Technically, not bad.'

  'But no soul?'

  Typical vampire problem: good at replication, not so good at innovation. Except in scheming. Of animal cunning, they had no shortage.

  Felicity kneeled down, one arm across the back of his chair, breast pushing against him, her scent wrapping around him. She pointed at the screen with her glass. 'This next match, it's tomorrow night.'

  She pushed on his chair to rotate him toward her, put her glass down, then stepped back and slipped out of her shoulder holster. 'How about we take the rest of the night off?'

  TEN

  It didn't take long to get to Mel's apartment building in New Farm. The suburb was tucked inside one of the river's meander bends, and the dilapidated concrete monolith was set back from the water, surrounded by a mosaic of fenced-off development sites and exhausted homes waiting for the right offer to end their misery.

  Crumpled beer cans glimmered among the sparse stalks that passed for lawn. Graffiti made camouflage patterns on the stairs and walls. Timber doors opened on to a foyer, heavy with mustiness and cat piss. Corridors stretched off but Mel led him to an ancient lift. A yellowed sheet of paper said the outer doors had to be shut for the lift to work.

  'Where's Greaser taking the Monaro?' he asked.

  'There are a couple of empty garages. It'll be safe.'

  He kept his silence as the lift wheezed to a halt. A dim bulb showed initials cut into the wood, graf swirls, chewing gum like zits. She hit the top floor: 7.

  'Lucky number,' she said, 'if you believe in such things.'

  He grunted, not knowing what he believed in any more. A chip packet lay on the floor. Cigarette butts. A sign said No Smoking.

  'It takes its time,' she said, 'but it's much nicer than the stairs. Besides, it's not like we're in a rush, is it?'

  Vampire time. He hadn't got used to it, found it maddening. Those weeks in Cairns, learning what he could from Danica, trying to be patient, to not think about the years — the decades, the centuries — ahead. Trying not to wonder how a man filled those days without dropping dead from boredom. Assuming he could drop dead, of course. What was the vampire equivalent? They'd not got to that in his month of Undead for Beginners.

  And Kala, she'd become so distant so quickly. He'd expected their relationship to grow stronger, him being her maker and all. Maker. Everyone had a different word for it, but he still hadn't found one that suited him. Violator, maybe. Whatever you called it, it hadn't brought them closer. Sure, he'd saved her life by bringing her across. But all she'd done with immortality was shack up with a couple of human leeches, doing to them what Taipan had done to her, trading their blood for hers. The ultimate recycling program; but, as in the mundane world, the number of cycles was limited. Human flesh could take only so much. Reality could only be held at bay for so long. Death
would have its way.

  'We're here,' Mel said.

  Kevin jerked himself out of his thoughts; he'd been deep in the bloodwalk, the moments of his recent past so well defined in his memory it was almost as though they were happening again. He silently cursed his lapse — it was dangerous, to be distracted in the presence of strangers — and followed her out; hearing the lift door shut, the floorboards creak, televisions behind doors, voices, a baby gurgling. Hallway lights, more out than on, made a hopscotch of light and shade on the worn carpet.

  'I know you're afraid of bedlam,' she said as they walked, 'but delirium is also a risk. The vacuum of your own life will suck you down as surely as the cacophony of others.'

  'Just got distracted,' he said.

  'You need fresh input — fresh dreams. Meals, not snacks.'

  'Between Greaser and Ambrose, I've had enough to keep me going.'

  'This is me.' She took a key from her purse; a deadlock thunked.

  In the small entrance, she balanced like a stork as she pulled off her boots and threw them against the wall. He followed her down a hallway. Newspapers covered a small dining table. Crammed in among the furniture was a keyboard — 'easier than bringing a piano up here, as much as I'd love one' — big TV, a stereo and turntable. Books and CDs and DVDs were scattered all over, as though a willy-willy had hit a music store.

  'Check out the view.' She opened curtains to reveal a picture window. A strip of red-tiled roofs separated them from the river; the far bank was a cliff lined with mansions lit like a small town. Upstream, the river curved around a well-lit behemoth that Mel told him was a theatre repurposed from a defunct power station.

  'There's a handy ferry terminal near the theatre,' she said.

  And all the time, his heart jack-hammered as he waited for the other shoe to fall. Greaser had his car, his weapons in the boot.

  'Music?' she asked.

  He nodded, and regretted it as the stereo pumped hip hop.

  'Maybe something softer,' she said, thumbing a remote. A rippling piano tune filled the space.

  An iPod, he realised, jealously.