Текст книги "Defending Pacer"

Автор книги: T. J. Hamilton

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Текущая страница: 3 (всего у книги 13 страниц)

CHAPTER FIVE

 

 

Groggy, heavy eyelids … struggle to open. Fuck Pacer’s red wine voodoo yesterday. Holding my head and moaning, I stumble my way to the shower, bouncing off the walls along the way like a Hollywood zombie in a Brad Pitt movie.

I had to drink yesterday. Yes I did. It was necessary! It was the only way to loosen up, and not be so fixated on Pacer. Running over the sequence of events from the afternoon, I pray I didn’t say anything that sounded too much like a teenage girl with a crush on her idol, because that’s what this feels like. It’s bullshit! I’ve worked so hard to get to the position I’m in, and now I feel totally out of control with it.

Finally making it to the bathroom, I grip onto the porcelain of the vanity sink and slowly raise my head, daring to look at myself in the mirror.

“You are a mess, girl.”

I have one job to do, and that’s keep Pacer Fratelli out of prison. That’s right; keep saying his full name. It keeps it professional. Because … “Heez aaaay cl-iiiii-ent,” I groan.

I sound like a puppet from Sesame Street.

He’s a client. He’s a client.

Repeating those words over and over, I turn the shower on, ready to wash away the layer of Fratelli filth that’s come to a rest on my skin.

It takes me a little longer to function this morning. Washing and blow-drying my hair, then meticulously smoothing it all back into a bun, feels as if it’s done in slow motion.

A coffee from Lou’s will fix everything. It always does.

The twenty-minute walk to work starts just as slowly. I still have two hours before I meet with Pacer, so this morning can be slow for once. I might even try and eat a bacon and egg roll at Lou’s, to absorb the alcohol still remaining in my system.

“Chelsea, you look a bit rough this morning, love. You got a fella keeping you up all night or somthin’?” A toothless smile greets me just before I get to my favourite coffee shop.

“Hi Larry. No, no man in my life. I’m still waiting for you, remember?”

Larry, one of my many homeless friends in the neighbourhood, laughs loudly. I take a step sideways, trying to avoid the spit that usually flies from his mouth whenever he laughs. I really don’t need that this morning.

“Better clean me act up then, aye?” he bellows as I walk into the coffee shop.

“I’ll be back with your roll. I just need to get some caffeine into me before I die. Where’s Don and Mick?”

“They’re comin’. Just had to get their dose the s’mornin’.”

Dose. Done. Methadone. There are a few names for the program that helps with the majority of the homeless people’s addiction to heroine. Most of them are on it. There are a few, like Larry, who aren’t addicts, but he’s got a whole barrel of mental health issues to deal with instead. Until our government and the medical departments decide to do something about both the drug and mental health issues of our nation, we’ll always have this problem in the city. The methadone program is an out-dated way to fix heroine addiction, and most of the users stay on it longer than they were on heroine. It’s not until you scratch the surface of a city like Sydney that you see where the real issues are.

The screeching sound of milk being heated is almost unbearable this morning.

“Morning, Chels.” Tahnee, daughter of the shop’s owner strains her voice so that she can be heard over the milk, “The bacon rolls are just being made for the boys.”

“Could you make an extra one for me, please?”

“Big night?” She winks.

What’s with everyone thinking I’ve been fucking someone all night? Do they all know how long it’s been too?

I shrug off the suggestion. “Just work.”

It is just work. Just work. The more I repeat my mantra this morning, the easier it’s feeling to keep it all in perspective.

Tahnee slides the takeaway coffee onto the counter and disappears to the kitchen, where her Dad is no doubt making the rolls for my friends.

The hot coffee burns my lips slightly, but I don’t care. I need it to slide down my chest and fill my veins with the burst of caffeine that I so desperately crave right now.

“Dad’s just making yours now.” Tahnee returns with three white takeaway bags, a bacon and egg roll in each. “That’s fifteen dollars, thanks.”

“You didn’t charge for the extra roll.”

“Dad said not to.” She smiles.

Lou brings the final package out and smiles. I brace myself for his big, bellowing voice. Even my brain feels as if it’s wincing.

“This one’s on me, Chels. It’s the least I could do. You buy each of those guys a roll every bloody day. They don’t appreciate it, you know.”

Lou has never approved of me buying the three homeless guys a bacon and egg roll every morning on my way to work, but I don’t care. It’s my money.

“They do appreciate it, or else they wouldn’t be here every morning, waiting for me. At least this way I know they’re getting a decent breakfast. Breakfast is important.”

Lou shakes his head. “You’re a good girl Chelsea. There should be more of you and less of them.” His head flicks in the direction of the front window where the two other homeless men have joined Larry, sitting on upturned milk crates.

Collecting my change from Tahnee, I toss it into my purse and grab all of the packages and coffee and make my way out to the homeless guys.

“Morning boys. Here’s your rolls.”

Don grumbles, “I’m not hungry this morning.”

Mick punches Don’s arm from his seat on the crate next to him. “Don’t be so fucking rude to Chels and eat your fucking roll. You’re never hungry after your dose; I’m sick of hearing about it.”

“I’m going to join you this morning.”

I instantly regret my decision as soon as I say it. Between the toothless slurping and pieces of food that I know will fly as soon as they all start eating, I realise I should’ve thought this through more. The three men look nervously at one another as I slide a crate over.

“What’s wrong?” I ask.

They still stare at one another until Larry eventually speaks. “We just never had you join us before. We don’t have much manners, you know. So ’scuse the way we eats.”

I burst into laughter and they all laugh with me. “And here I was thinking I was going to be eating like royalty around you three.”

We continue to laugh and Don finally gets out of his drug-induced bad mood. “You’re one of a kind, love.”

A bacon and egg roll eaten in silence amongst my homeless friends is just what I need to put my head back into the right frame of mind today. Normality keeps me grounded.

Surprisingly, I’m the only one who ended up with sauce on my jacket. Luckily for me, it’s black.

***

I’ve been doing pretty well on all accounts this morning. My hangover has all but disappeared, I’ve found a couple of faults with the police’s investigation into Sean Collins’s murder, and Pacer has been comfortably put back into the professional part of my brain.

This positive self-analysis manages to fall apart the moment I walk into the foyer of my office and see Pacer. His standard of dress is impeccable. You just don’t see guys dress this way anymore. The gloves. Fuck! The gloves. Every goddamn time.

I swallow louder than intended and lean in to greet him with a kiss on either cheek. I nail the double kiss, but my breathing is still an effort.

“Shall we go then?” My voice also decides to fail on me, and it sounds more like a crackle. I clear the bubble stuck in my throat as Pacer waves for me to walk in front of him.

The elevator ride is equally as excruciating, and I’m sure Pacer just caught my attempt to look in his direction. Thankfully, the elevator stops on level ten and three people step into the lift. I gladly step back, which gives me the prime position to check Pacer out without him catching me on the overt ogle. Brown leather shoes, tailored navy suit, white shirt with a high collar. Can’t see what type of tie he has on from here, but the fabric of the suit looks so amazing. Rich and lux, and I just want to touch it. He shuffles onto his other foot and his hand leisurely drops out of his pocket with the change in his position.

Brown leather glove. Sigh.

Pacer glances back and smirks. He heard me sigh? Great!

But what was with that smirk?

Now looking down to the ground, I beg for the rest of the ride to hurry up. It may be mid-winter, but I’m heating up in here.

The moment the doors open, the cool fresh air beyond the elevator encourages my core temperature to regulate back to normal.

“I hope you don’t have too much of a headache this morning.” Pacer slides his sunglasses on as soon as we hit the footpath. And just when I think he couldn’t look any better, the preppy sunglasses. He’s like an intimidating hipster.

I hate hipsters. The whole city is teeming with them. There’s any wonder why I’m single.

“Nothing that a bacon and egg roll couldn’t fix,” I finally reply with a smile.

Maybe he’s more like the old gangsters of Chicago and New York, but a modernised twist with his tattoos and unshaven face. If he weren’t part of a crime gang, he’d just be a beard or a man bun away from looking like a full-blown hipster. Thank God his personality is the polar opposite to the modern version of the 90s yuppie.

***

The police station is at the corner of the street, and the moment we walk in, the young constables at the front counter starts a Mexican stand-off of stare-downs. They know exactly who we are, and I wish I was used to it, but I’m not. I’m one of them, a loyal citizen. I want to roll my eyes but they all treat me like a criminal as it is, so I keep my cool and give them my best cosmetic smile.

“We’re here to see Detective Inspector Lawson.”

The young female constable doesn’t reply, the arrogant little shit. I hear the heel of Pacer’s shoes clip away, and follow his direction. Leaning against a metal shelf that holds all the information brochures about domestic violence and victim support units, I watch as all the police move in to get a better look at us. More police walk past the front counter, all looking in our direction as they pass. I frown at their blatant curiosity directed at the two of us. It doesn’t intimidate me, if that’s what they’re trying to do, but it is really annoying. I let out a breath of frustration. Pacer, on the other hand, takes it all in his stride and scrolls through his phone, paying no attention to the parade in front of him. They all seem to want a glimpse of the infamous Pacer Fratelli. A criminal who seems more like a celebrity than a callous murderer.

“Are they seriously all coming past to check you out?” I speak under my breath, just loud enough for Pacer to catch.

His brow crinkles. Only his eyes look up to me, his head remaining still. “They can’t help themselves. I guess I’m an interesting kind of guy.”

He continues casually scrolling through his phone again. He must be so used to this. If it’s not the police all watching him, it’s the media. I knew him well before he knew me. His photo and a sensationalised story about him are splashed across the front covers of newspapers at least once a month. No wonder he hates the idea of having an ankle monitor strapped to him. It’s just another way for every person in the city to watch him. It must feel claustrophobic.

The side door opens and a strikingly beautiful blonde stands tall and intimidating in the doorway. She looks pretty much exactly how I imagined she would when I spoke to her over the phone this morning.

“Pacer and Chelsea, come through.” Not a hint of emotion in her words.

I follow behind Pacer and the Detective Inspector to an elevator at the rear of the building. Police that pass us glare. It’s now laughable how many stare at us.

None of the buttons inside the elevator have numbers. I guess it’s to slow people down from finding the right floor straight away. I wonder how many cops get it wrong? Of course the Detective Inspector doesn’t hesitate to punch in the correct button and we swiftly arrive at the level where her private office is. She opens the door and we walk in.

“Take a seat.”

“That was rather a warm reception down there,” I snidely reply as I take my seat.

“We have to use up a lot of resources to watch someone like Pacer when he’s allowed to roam the country. Don’t expect to get too much pleasantry from around here.”

It’s strange to listen to the way the police look at someone like Pacer—an expense in resources. I’ve never really considered it from a business perspective. He must cost the police force a fortune, and they still haven’t managed to put him in prison. Going off their investigation, I can see why. One slight word changed or missing from their statements and someone like me can bring the whole case apart.

It takes all of ten minutes for Pacer’s tracker to be fitted and we’re out of the police station, heading back towards my office building.

“Since I have this on me now, I won’t be venturing far from my house. Only to do the necessities like reporting to the dogs, and to attend your office for a meeting. Any meetings outside of your office will be done at my place, okay?”

His bluntness throws me off sometimes, but the thought of being at his house is a little more exciting than I’d care for, and I have to bite back the smirk.

“That sounds like a good idea. So are you going to be okay to attend the station on your own tomorrow morning?”

“Where will you be?” he fires back.

“It’s Saturday, Pacer.”

“So?”

“So, I don’t work Saturdays.”

“I see.” He pulls out a cigar and flips his lighter.

“We’ll meet first thing Monday morning. Try to stay out of trouble this weekend.”

He says nothing. I can’t read a damn thing about him, either.

“Do you have any plans for the weekend?” His smirk is back as he talks.

Wait! What? He’s asking me about my weekend?

“That’s a little personal, don’t you think?” That sounds better than admitting that I have no plans, because I have no life.

He sniggers and waves out. A big black Audi four-wheel-drive that’s parked up the street pulls out and stops kerbside, next to us.

Smoke drifts from his mouth. “See you Monday then, Miss Tanner,” he says my name with animosity.

Making his way to the car, he gets in the passenger seat and doesn’t even give me a sideways glance as the car pulls away.

Not even once.

I find myself standing on the crowded footpath, alone and with more sexual frustration than I know what to do with.

CHAPTER SIX

The weekend means one thing—acting like a teenager at my parents’ house on the hill. I call it a house, but it’s so big that sometimes they don’t even know I’m there. My terrace feels suffocating at the moment, or maybe it’s the situation I’m in. Whatever it is, I feel the need to escape. And the best place to escape to is Dolorous. Yes, the big, bricked beauty has a name.

As soon as I open the front door to my childhood home, I feel at ease. For years, my Dad was the Supreme Court judge, the highest position of law in the country, so I grew up with excessive security at our fortress on top of the hill. Dolorous overlooks the city on one side and the beach on the other.

My Dad is the single most intelligent person I have ever met. He’s debated with me all my life.

When I was drunk, I’m sure I remember Pacer mentioning my job being in my blood. It was an accurate assumption. It is in my blood. Since I am an only child, my Dad has focused every lesson and expectation on me, and me alone.

Aren’t I lucky?

I’m guaranteed a solid grilling this weekend from Dad, for taking Pacer Fratelli on as a client. But I’m prepared for it, and maybe I need it. There’s no one else on the planet who can snap me back into reality like my Dad does.

“Hello … Anyone home?”

I gently drop my keys into the bowl on the antique hall table in the wide wood-panelled foyer. I wouldn’t dare damage any of Mum’s precious antique furniture. She has devoted her entire life to restoring the house back to its original glory of the early 1900s.

“In the kitchen, dear,” Mum calls from the lower half of the house.

Depending on which street entrance you drive into, there are two grand entries, one on the top level and one on the lower half of the residence. Because the house is on a sloping hilltop, the entire property is split into two levels, with two acres of sprawling grounds surrounding it. Dolorous is so fancy. Even her name is fancy. Dolorous. Yes, she is grand, and I will grow old in her, just as my family before me has.

My great-grandfather started one of the very first newspapers in the country, and he built this house to pass on to his children. My grandfather then took over the newspapers and went on to introduce colour television into Australia, so he was given the house. When my Mum was one of the first female editors and started one of the first women’s magazines, she also inherited the house. She got it over my Aunt Patrice because she was the oldest, and most successful. Success means everything to my family. Mum is my Dad’s perfect match. She’s equally as witty and comes in a close second to Dad’s sharp intellect, but most importantly, Mum’s powerful family approved of Dad when they started dating in their early twenties.

Growing up in a house with a family full of ground breaking high achievers has been exhausting. The added pressure of being an only child is the perfect recipe for a lifetime of greatness, or a lifetime of utter despair. Luckily for me, I inherited Dad’s desire to challenge everyone and everything in life, so ambition drives me more to succeed without accepting failure as the result. Plus, I’ve always been independent so moved into my terrace at the age of eighteen, to be closer to law school. It’s helped to keep me separate from this life.

Finally reaching the kitchen, I find Mum sitting at the chef’s table on the far right. An oversized kitchen bench spreads from one length of the kitchen to the other. Marcel is in the middle of it preparing dinner, as he has done all my life. I’ve never seen my Mum cook … not even once.

Mum’s hair is immaculate as usual. A light brown bob, her signature look since the 60’s, is silky smooth. She doesn’t believe in cosmetic surgery, so she is one of the rare women in the area who actually has wrinkles. She is still so beautiful though, and the wrinkles suit her natural beauty.

“So I was just talking to Marcel about whether you will be here this weekend. You know your father is going to have something to say about the photos in papers today.”

“What papers? What photos?”

“You’re on the front page of all the publications. Where have you been all day, under a rock?”

A loud sigh escapes my lips as I slump into the square booth on the opposite side to Mum.

“Yeah, I kind of have. I’ve been under a case file that’s the size of a rock.”

“I see that. I also see you’re enjoying the subject matter.” Mum’s tone is full of judgement.

I wish I had stopped to see the news today.

Why didn’t Sienna, or anyone else at the firm, show me the paper?

“Okay. Cough up. I need to see this newspaper.” I hold my palm out, expecting a copy any minute.

Marcel’s kitchen-hand, Ed, brings a small stack of newspapers from the chef’s pantry. He grins as he places them in front of me. The first newspaper, my family’s old newspaper, has a big grainy close-up of Pacer and I in what looks like a loving embrace on the footpath outside my terrace, with the headline that’s reads:

Love’s Fight For Freedom: Fratelli and Tanner, more than just a courtroom debate.

I frown. We never kissed like this. This photo was caught as he kissed me on the cheek, but the angle makes it look so much worse.

“Mum, you should know better than anyone that this is all bullshit.”

She nods, “I know that dear, but I don’t think your father’s going to be too impressed. You know what he’s like. And what were you doing out with your client anyway?”

“I had a meeting and he offered to walk me home, that’s all. Something that was an innocent and polite offer has now been turned into some bullshit tabloid story.”

“I’ve made a call and this won’t be happening again.” Mum sips on her clear spirit; gin no doubt.

“I didn’t need you to do that. I can handle this myself.”

“It looks like it.”

I scoff at her judgement. “Ed can you please make me what ever Mum is drinking. If she’s on the hard stuff, then I need to be too. Dad is going to have my balls.”

“Chelsea Elizabeth Blythe! Your mouth!” Mum always adds on the Blythe when she really disapproves. I’ve never used my full name, though. One middle name is enough. I sound like bloody royalty if I use my full name.

“Come on, Mrs T, we all know Chelsea has a bigger set than most men,” Ed adds.

I watch Mum’s reaction and burst into fits of laughter. He couldn’t get away with that if Dad was around, and he wouldn’t dare test it either. But Ed and I have been friends from the very first day he started here, fifteen years ago. He’s always been the same smart ass, too. We’re the same age. He left school to become a chef. I was still finishing my High Schooling when he started working at Dolorous, and we became instant friends. I’ve always felt like I’ve had more in common with Ed than I have with all the jerks in my social circles.

“But why did you have to kiss him?” Mum starts up again.

I roll my eyes. “He’s Italian! It’s not what it looks like.”

Mum’s sigh is loud enough for me to hear.

Great. Just great. This weekend is going to be real fun.

***

Dad makes a grand entrance just as we take our seats at the dinner table in the smaller of the two dining rooms. The other dining room is saved for larger banquets with friends.

From the sound of the Elvis tune that he’s belting out, he’s been at the golf club for the afternoon. Hopefully he’s inebriated enough to be in a jovial mood. He spots me on the other side of the table and squints in my direction. Brace yourself, Chelsea.

“So they’re saying if you pull a rabbit out of the hat with this Fratelli guy, then you’ll be offered a place in the partnership.”

He doesn’t waste a moment to get straight to the point. Not even a ‘hello, how are you?’

“I figured as much. It’s nice to see you too, Dad.”

He shakes his head. “I just hope you know what you’re doing, Chelsea. What have you got so far?”

Bonnie, the head housekeeper, places plates with our dinner in front of us. I gulp down the extra strong gin that Ed made me.

“I’ve bought all the files with me, Dad. But I’m leaving it for the night, and I’ll get into it tomorrow afternoon with you. I’ve spent the last forty-odd hours studying the case; I need a break from the intensity of the whole trial.”

Truth is, I need a break from Pacer.

I sneak a glance towards Mum and see uncertainty and anticipation on her face. From her darting eyes and pursed lips, I can tell she’s waiting for Dad to react to the paper’s photos of me. From his pleasant mood, I don’t think he’s seen them yet, so I’ll just let it slide and hope he misses it altogether.

Mum seems to share the same thought as me and also leaves the subject alone. “Have you heard from Logan? Are they coming up here this weekend?” Her question is directed at me.

I shrug. I haven’t heard from my cousin all week.

“Speak and I shall appear!” Logan spreads their arms out wide, and dramatically waltzes into the dining room just as dinner is being served.

They’re wearing combat boots, black jeans with a rip in the knees, and a black leather motorcycle jacket. Their hair is bright blonde and shaved at the back with a big fringe that falls over one side of their face, hiding one half of the oversized round reading glasses they’re sporting. I say ‘their’ because Logan doesn’t identify as male or female. Logan is ‘gender fluid’ as they call it. When we were kids, she was a girl. Our Mums always dressed us in matching sickly sweet pink ruffles and frills, and our blonde curls were always in bows. Logan was the prettiest little girl, so much so that I be jealous because everyone would mention how beautiful she was. But then they’d mention how we were more like sisters than we were cousins because of our closeness and similar features, and my little heart was mended once again.

You never know if Logan is a guy in heels or a chick that looks like a dude. Truth is, they have a style of their own. Some days she feels like her and other days he feels like him and, when that’s the case, I am allowed to call them a him or her. As confusing as it sounds, it’s really quite simple. Tonight, he’s more he than she, but you don’t see too many guys with bright red lipstick and eyelashes as long as wings. Logan is just Logan. But tonight he’s ‘he’.

“Gee, the papers gave you a bit of grief today with those pictures. I bet you sorted them out though, hey Aunt Tilly?” Logan sits casually on his chair, keeping one foot on it, knee up to his chest and pops a piece of bread in his mouth.

“What pictures?” Dad glares at all three of us.

Thanks Logan. Trust you to open you big mouth.

“It’s nothing to worry about, Dad. My client was being polite by walking me home after a late meeting, and someone snapped some pics of what looks like us kissing. But as you know, they make it worse than the actual reality of it.”

“What do you mean it looks like you were kissing?” His tone had dropped. He’s pissed.

“Pacer was giving me a kiss on either cheek, like all good Italians do, and the one picture they’re all running with looks like I’m kissing him back. But trust me, Dad, it couldn’t be further from the truth.”

The thick vein on Dad’s forehead starts to surface, as it always does when he’s angry. “Why do you call him Pacer?”

“Because that’s his name?”

“It’s also very informal for a client, Chelsea.”

Rolling my eyes and shaking my head, I can’t help but feel annoyed at this whole thing. Thank fuck no one can actually read my thoughts; then I would really have some explaining to do.

‘Sorry’ Logan mouths from across the table to me.

I shrug in return. This grilling was bound to happen.

What a fucking mess … and this is just the start.