Incy Wincy Spider, Page 2

  Chapter 1

  Sydney - Tuesday: September 22

  "Someone is here to see you, Louie," Maria's stern voice woke me from my midday nap.

  "Uh?" I answered, as I stirred from a reclining position. My mouth felt like a microwaved gym sneaker, my brain somewhere between dreamtime and the worse hangover of all time. "? Err ? Maria, I'm much too?too," I searched in vain for the right words. Suddenly, one lonely neuron sparked and I found them. "Err ? too busy right now." Satisfied, I leaned back and prepared myself to return to dreamland.

  "It's a client, Louie," Maria said impatiently, emphasis on 'client'. She knew the current state of my workload and bank account - both of us had gone without pay for a couple of weeks.

  "Client?" I repeated, startled. What an unusual idea!Thinking like greased lightning, I said, "Okay Maria, please give me a few minutes to? err? finish up here."

  "Sure thing, Louie," I could sense in her tone the unspoken "dream -on buster". She knew what I had to do.She had seen my office when she had come in this morning.I had entertained a bunch of the guys from the old days. We had been playing poker all night and had not stopped until sunrise. Now, if you think that you can imagine the result, do not even try. It was bad, very bad: it would need a new word in the English language, something lower down on the scale than 'putrid' might work.

  But, always an optimist, I knew that I had it in me to succeed.I sprang up from the old desk chair as if I was on speed. The sudden impetus almost broke it in half. Undaunted, I looked around at the mess in deep thought. I moved around in a circle a bit, as dogs do, when looking for just the right position to curl up and lie down. Decision made, I quickly shoved everything, clean or dirty, rubbish or not into the bottom drawer of the filing cabinet - sometimes, my own brilliance even surprises me!

  I sprayed a bit of that Aeroguard stuff around while I grabbed a file at random from the top drawer of the very same filing cabinet: "always give the impression you are extremely busy" is my motto.

  I took off my three-day-old T-shirt and shoved it in a desk drawer; I had a quick shower-in-the-can with some Gillette Super-Dry and donned a reasonably fresh, microfiber short sleeve shirt over my jeans.

  I was good to go! Thirty seconds max, what a performer!

  I pressed the intercom, "Maria, I am all finished here, please show them in," I said, proudly assuming a very professional tone.

  "You are?" She asked incredulously, "okay, if you say so, Louie."

  A few seconds later she opened the office door, poked her head in to check for herself on the state of the office. Her eyes widened in disbelief. Did I note a hint of admiration? She pushed the door open fully and then ushered into my office a young woman, probably in her late twenties.My new, soon-to-be-client, wore a navy blue silk suit that fitted her like a second skin. A string of pearls adorned her neck, the necklace and her large brown eyes were highlighted by matching pearl earrings. She was tall, but not too tall, with a slim body having subtle curves that moved and shifted under the silk in all the right ways. Her face was reminiscent of the kind of rare beauty of a young Elizabeth Taylor. Her auburn hair was naturally wavy, glossy and thick. It had been expensively styled so that it complemented her face perfectly. In short, she was a knockout.

  "Louie, please meet Mrs. Lidia Harrison." Maria announced in her official tone, "Mrs. Harrison, Louie Breccia," she added presenting me as if she had just performed a magic trick and conjured me from thin air. Introductions done, she looked at me once more. Her expression told me not to stuff this up and then she retreated to her office, closing the door behind her.

  Lidia Harrison seemed to be stuck in the middle of the room, uncertain what to do next. Her expression told me that I had not been what she had expected. I am thirty-seven years old, but through a quirk of genetics, I look as if I am barely out of my twenties. About six foot tall and two hundred pounds, with a dark complexion - I have been told that I remind people of a young, sun burnt, hirsute Gene Hackman on steroids,but I am sure they were just being kind.

  "How do you do, Mrs. Harrison," I said offering my hand across the desk, making her next move easy for her. She moved toward me and placed her small hand into my huge and scarred paw. It was soft and cool but her grip was firm. I noticed that she wore no rings and that her nails were spotlessly manicured. A young girl's gold bracelet was on her left wrist, perhaps a remnant of her teenage years.

  "Please, would you take a seat," I continued, pointing to the better one of the two old chairs that inhabits the space in front of my desk. She looked down uncertainly, probably wondering if she was likely to catch something terminal, like from a toilet seat. Bravely, she carefully lowered herself onto the lip of the chair - minimum contact might keep her safe from old chair coo-tees.

  As she sat down, her short skirt rose up alarmingly high, revealing perfectly formed, bare legs. With some effort, I dragged my eyes up and smiled innocently at her. "How can I help you, Mrs. Harrison?" I asked, wondering if those were brown panties I glimpsed or maybe, no panties at all?

  "Mr. Breccia, my husband is Ian Peter Harrison Jr. Does that name mean anything to you?" She said, completely ignoring my inner victory of self-control.

  "Ian Harrison of Harrison Industries?" I asked. Panties forgotten, as I mentally reeled back: Harrison Industries were to manufacturing like Coles is to retailing? a very big company, a very rich man. "Why me?" I wondered, inwardly. "Why choose a no-frills detective agency, with all her money?"

  "Yes, Mr. Breccia, the very same," she confirmed.

  "I see ? err ? what brings you here, Mrs. Harrison, to see me?" I asked.

  "A friend recommended you, I mean recommended your firm, to me ? err ? John Richards from Richards, Hawthorne and Cheng? the law firm?I believe you have worked for them in the past?"

  "Yes I have" I said. I had met Richards when I had worked for his large law firm just once. Fortunately, I had resolved their security problem to our mutual satisfaction.

  "I see," I said, but of course, I did not, not yet, "Mrs. Harrison why don't you tell me how I can help you?" I added, helpfully.

  "Mr. Breccia, my husband is dead. He was shot, sometime on Sunday. The police will see me as the main suspect. I need you in my corner to prove to the Police that I had nothing to do with his murder." She spoke in short quick sentences, like from a Gatling gun, keeping her tone flat and sharp. She paused, out of ammunition.

  She picked up her expensive looking purse and found a gold cigarette case, extracted a cigarette with trembling fingers. I jumped up to light it for her, fishing in my pocket for my trusty, but not gold, Bick lighter. I sat down again, looked for and found an ashtray in the top drawer of my desk. I carefully emptied the many butts it struggled to restrain, into the bin next to me. I moved it toward her on the desk.

  She was trying hard to look calm and in control, but the tremor of her hands had let her down. Even her lips trembled a fraction as they parted for the first puff. She inhaled deeply. I must admit that I had lost some of my cool too. Her words had been entirely unexpected. I had been mentally prepared for some sordid divorce work, especially considering how rich Ian Harrison was. In my long career as a detective, I have found that people with lots of money often have the time and opportunity to play up, and they do so, invariably.

  But I had not been mentally prepared for murder. I took a few minutes to regroup my thoughts: I followed her queue and looked for a smoke. I found a crumpled packet in the back pocket of my jeans with just a couple of sticks bent and squashed left in it. Carefully extracting one of them so that the paper would not crack open, I placed it in my mouth and lit it up, inhaled deeply and assumed a wise expression, trying not to cough and spoil the moment. Lighting a smoke is always a good cover when your brain is taking a short break.

  "I am really sorry for your loss, Mrs. Harrison," was the best I could do after a few moments of deep thought. I paused while she acknowledged my condolences and then I pressed on. "You are right; the immediate family and f
riends are always the first on the list of suspects. That's just how the statistics of murder turn out to be. Please don't take it personally," I said. I paused again; trying to think of some more words to reassure her but, could find none.

  "First off, Mrs. Harrison, you'd better tell me everything that happened leading up to your husband's ? err ? death. Everything you did and, as far as you know, everything your husband did ? leave nothing out, no matter how insignificant it may seem to you," I said and feeling proud of myself, I sat back in my chair, adopting my 'I am just like a doctor, you can trust me' expression.

  She, on the other hand, was not impressed. For a moment, she seemed startled at the mere thought of it. Then she shook her pretty head. "Surely, you must be joking, Mr. Breccia. That will take hours. I have another appointment in fifteen minutes?" she said, stabbing her half-smoked cigarette into the ashtray to punctuate her statement.

  I knew it was too good to be true! It was time to turn the pressure on. I thought for a moment or two, "I understand completely," I lied, shaking my head in turn. I then stood up and offering my hand, I continued. "Well, it has been a pleasure meeting you, Mrs. Harrison."

  She hesitated, not understanding what was happening.

  "You will help me?" She asked, looking confused.

  "I am very sorry, Mrs. Harrison, but no, I can't help you." I paused for effect, "you see, Mrs. Harrison, I can't take a case where I am working in the dark from the get-go," I added in a tone that reflected how truly sorry I was. Moreover, I was sorry - the job would have paid a motza! "Look, Mrs. Harrison? if at present you have more important things to do, well?" I paused thoughtfully, "perhaps you can give me a call, after the police arrest you?" I finished, speculatively, tongue-in-cheek.

  Was that a killer move or what?

  Again, she hesitated. I guessed that the idea that I would refuse the job was not one she could have imagined, let alone considered as a reality. An uncomfortable silence followed. I stood there looking down at her and said nothing, still holding out my hand, as if time had frozen us in this moment of indecision.

  Finally, she huffed in annoyance. She briefly searched her Gucci purse, extracted a slim mobile phone from it, and then pressed a speed-dial digit. Her call was answered immediately; she spoke with a very annoyed tone. My extended hand drifted slowly to the desk's surface as I listened.

  "Park the car somewhere Henry. I am going to be a while. Could you please call Dr Singh and postpone my appointment for this afternoon? Thanks, and Henry, you might as well go and get some lunch or something?I will call you when I am ready. Right. Thanks."

  She then looked at me with the typical pissed-off-female body language working overtime. I was impressed.

  "Satisfied?" She asked, arching a beautifully shaped eyebrow over her long brown lashes.

  I retracted my hands from the desk, and with a sort of embarrassed gesture of peace-making I said in a tone dripping with apology, "look , Mrs. Harrison, I am sorry, that we seem to have started off on the wrong foot?I do apologize if I have offended you. Please understand that my job is one that centres on information. Without it? there is no job," I explained, sitting back down. I leaned over the desk looking at her with all the sincerity I could muster so early in the day, and without a drink. "Mrs. Harrison, I have been doing this sort of work for a long time. I was a cop in homicide for a few years and then a private investigator for a few more? trust me when I say that minute details are the lifeblood of this business. So, please bear with me and I'll try to be as quick as possible," I said, trying to soothe her bruised feelings.

  "I am sorry, Mr. Breccia, of course? I understand. This, this? it all seems like a nightmare," she said. Her lovely body trembled briefly, as if a shiver had just journeyed down her back.

  "Please, there is no need to apologize at all, Mrs. Harrison; I cannot begin to understand how hard this must be for you. Please do relax, and think about the last few days. Meanwhile, if you don't mind, I would like to ask Maria, my assistant, to come in and take down some notes as you talk. Is that okay with you?" I asked. She seemed to relax a bit more and nodded her assent. I pressed the intercom, "Maria could you please join us?"

  "Sure Louie, I'll be right in. Anyone want something to drink?" She asked and I looked up at my guest.

  "Would you like a cup of coffee or tea ? err ? water?" I asked. I could not hold back a small tremor in my voice as I spoke the last choice.

  "Would you have ? something a little bit stronger? I think I am going to need it," she answered.

  "JD and Coke, pre-mixed ? will that do?" I said, sub vocalizing a silent prayer.

  "That will do very well, thank you," she said with relief in her voice

  "Did you hear that, Maria?" I asked, while thinking to myself: 'There IS a God! And He wants me to have a drink!'

  "I did," she said.

  "Thanks," I said.

  After a few moments, Maria entered the office carrying her steno pad, many sharpened pencils, three cans of JD and Coke and three frozen-cold glasses. She poured quickly and efficiently three drinks and placed them on my desk. She sat down and looked at me with the female expression of, "Well? What are you waiting for?" I nodded in obedience. To show some measure of independent thinking paused to take a long, cold pull at that glass. Thankfully, a few billion brain cells finally woke up. My client greeted her drink with the same apparent sense of relief.

  "Well, Mrs. Harrison, why don't you start right at the beginning? A short history, you know?how you met your husband. The kind of marriage you had ? err ? any affairs, yours or his and finish off by telling us about the last few days in as much detail as you can?" I said to her, encouragement oozing from my tone. At first, she seemed a bit unsure where she should start. She looked into her lap for a few moments and then began her story.

  "I met Ian?" and then she talked for about two and half hours. Occasionally, Maria or I would interrupt the telling, if we needed clarification of certain aspects of her story, but for the most part, it was just her show.

  "?. and that's about it, Mr. Breccia. Do you think you can help me?"She concluded.

  "I'll certainly do my best for you, Mrs. Harrison.Give me a little time to find out what I can from the police. Meanwhile, if you do not already have a good solicitor experienced in criminal law, you need to get one right away. If the police decide to question you some more, and they will, and soon, you must say nothing, without a solicitor present." I admonished.

  "Can? can you suggest anyone? I have never needed a criminal solicitor before? I really don't know if John Richards does that sort of thing," she said. I smiled inwardly at her terminology: 'criminal solicitor'; what they charge is certainly criminal!

  "No, his firm deals with just commercial law and the like. You need a specialist. One of the very best I know is a lady by the name of Sandra Pavlakis. She can be a real thorn for the police, as I know from bitter experience. Would you like Maria to make an appointment for you?" I said.

  "Would you please?" She asked, looking at Maria with puppy eyes.

  "Of course, Mrs. Harrison? I will go and do it right now. Please excuse me," Maria reassured her. Fortunately, she did not pat her on the head on her way out.

  "Mrs. Harrison, my rate is a thousand dollars a day, plus expenses. Do you have any problems with that?" I asked, my hands under the desk, fingers crossed.

  "No problems at all, Mr. Breccia?will this do for now?" She asked extracting a cheque, which she must have written in advance, and handing it to me? it was for five grand!

  "It will do fine, thank you," I smiled, hiding my relief the best I could. I stood up and extended my hand, "Maria will give you our standard contract to sign. Mrs. Harrison, please don't worry, you will be in good hands. Sandra is great. Meanwhile I'll be doing my best for you as well ? and, again I am really sorry for your loss," I added.

  "Thank you, Mr. Breccia, you have been very kind?" she said standing up in turn and extending her delicate hand.

  "Please, Mrs.Harrison,
call me Louie?" I said smiling, taking care not to squeeze her hand too hard.

  "I am Lidia? thank you again, Louie," she turned around and went to see Maria in the outer office. I watched her walk away from me and she looked just as good going, as she had looked coming.

  I sat back in my chair and went through her story step by step in my mind. I would be doing it again with Maria and her detailed notes, but the feeling I had at this stage was that beautiful Lidia had lied to us, which was not good news.

  It was a straightforward tale: old-money-catholic-girl meets self-made-man. They fall in love and then they marry, in spite of vigorous parental prohibition. The love must have gone elsewhere at some stage in the marriage, because right now, she did not seem to be too broken-up by her recent loss. I wondered why she had lied. Could she be guilty?

  Maria entered my office without the need to knock, she sat down with her notes in her lap and still nurturing the same drink, but she had brought me a fresh one. She is a true gem.

  "Thanks," I said taking a drink and lighting up the last smoke, "so, what did you think?" I asked.

  "She is lying," she said.

  "Yeah, I think so too. Do you think she lied about all of it?" I asked.

  "It's hard to tell where the truth ended and the lies began," she said.

  "What do you reckon?" I asked.

  "Dump her."

  "Just like that?" I asked, surprised.

  "Yes, we can't have a client who lies to us. We'd be chasing our own tails like a stupid puppy," she said.

  "I see," I said.

  "But I know you won't dump her. I saw you looking at her legs, her boobs, her eyes? you are really hopeless," she said, shaking her head, in mock despair.

  "We can't dump her. She signed a contract, right?" I pointed out, not denying any of her observations.

  She said nothing.

  "And she has agreed to a thousand a day plus expenses," I announced and then I played my ace-card, handing over the cheque.

  "In that case she is definitely a keeper," she said, quickly changing her mind. "At least I'll get paid soon?" she added wistfully.

  "We will both get paid." I agreed, and smiled.

  "So, where do you want to start?" She asked turning the pages of her notebook to where she thought would be a good place to start.

  "Any suggestions?" I asked, taking the bait.

  "Well, while you were still dreaming about her bra-less boobs, I phoned Steve and found out that he is the lead detective on the Harrison case? lucky for you, uh?" She said.

  "Very," I said. Detective Sergeant Steve Lucas had been my partner when I was still with the Force, about three years ago or so. He is still my best friend. A friend like Steve comes around once every three lifetimes, if you are real lucky.

  "You two are having a late lunch, liquid or otherwise, in about two hours, at the usual spot," she added, with a smile. She knew that I was always keen to have a drink with Steve.

  "Excellent. Will you join us?" I asked.

  "No. I have something that needs taking care of?" she said and her tone changed, the smile had gone from it. "You two talk better when alone," she added to divert the focus away from herself.

  "Right," I lied, disappointed and alerted that something was not at all right.

  "I may not be here, when you drag yourself back? I need to leave early. Anyway, you'll be too pissed to think straight after a lunch with Steve. You'll probably want to take a nap," she predicted with the confidence based on experience but her body language was awkward, a little artificial: as if her true emotions it were being suppressed.

  "Right," I repeated, like an idiot. While a strange and unpleasant, feeling descended on me like a cold, wet blanket. Trouble? Was she having some kind of trouble?Was she afraid of something... someone?

  "Trouble? Can I help?" I asked, starting to worry, "I want to? anytime, you know that," I continued with the empty-stomach feeling growing in me.

  "I know, Louie," she said, nodding. When she looked into my eyes, I knew that she was in trouble and at the same instant; I realized that she was not going to tell me about it. "But there is no trouble, get along now or you'll be late." She added diverting her eyes.

  I slowly got up and ambled to the door with no enthusiasm; I hesitated at the door. I was looking for something to say, but there was nothing. Nothing that would have convinced her to open up to me. She noticed my hesitation and nodded in my direction

  "I am okay, Louie, really. Go on or you'll be late," she repeated forcing a smile. I nodded in turn and left the office, all the while knowing, that I should have insisted.