The receptionist interrupted again, this time for a call.
Eliza held out her hand for the phone and covered the mouthpiece.
‘I’ve put together a list of places Dad goes, where and when he was born, where he lived, anything that might help.’
As she took the call, I flicked through the two-page document. It made Moss sound like a saint.
‘No trappings of wealth despite the potential to command millions in salary.’ I read further. ‘Drives an eight-year-old Toyota four-wheel drive.’
Eliza put the phone on the table with a thump. ‘Dad has never gone more than a few hours without calling back. No matter where he is. If he’s on a training exercise, he has a satellite phone with him.’ She bent lower to lock eyes with me. ‘Something’s really wrong.’
Clomping heels rapidly approached. Another young woman tapped a clipboard and Eliza nodded.
‘I’d appreciate if you keep me informed, regularly. Is that all?’
I was taken aback by the curt end to our conversation. She’d just raised the issue of foul play involving her father then closed off any chance of further discussion. As I stood and pushed my chair back in, she remained seated. A queen holding court with minions at her disposal.
‘Thank you, Mr Gisto,’ she said, shaking my hand.
I was unceremoniously dismissed.
Chapter 11
BACK AT THE office, Darlene had managed to restore all computer function. The virus had been isolated to the reception computer, which was lucky in the grand scheme. The new glass was fitted and Collette had cleaned the foyer. It was as if the morning’s distractions had never happened.
I found Johnny in his office. The check on Louise Simpson was straightforward. An insurance company was stalling on compensation for an industrial accident that killed her husband, Vincent, eight months ago. She had two kids and lived modestly in Killara, in a home with a mortgage currently paid by her late husband’s parents. She was a cleanskin, without even a parking ticket to her name.
My one concern was the group where Louise Simpson advertised.
‘What about the surrogacy site the Finches found her on?’
Johnny flicked through some papers. ‘It has a firewall up, so I couldn’t find out who runs it. If you want me to, I can, but it’ll take more time.’
‘There must be legitimate organisations you can run it by.’
Johnny was already ahead. ‘I contacted the two best known surrogacy groups, whose reps work with state governments on clarifying the laws on overseas surrogacy that at the moment differ in every state. They both vouched for the content and advice on the site.’ He pulled it up on his 24-inch screen.
‘Apparently it’s the only one that offers to connect people with altruistic surrogates in this country. It also connects couples to agencies overseas that deal in commercial pregnancies and navigate visas, birth certificates, documentation of legal parents, and other bureaucratic nightmares. From what I can see, the hopeful parents are pretty vulnerable every step in the process.’
I wondered if the Finches had been burnt overseas, which was why they were turning to a local surrogate. Either way, it didn’t matter. Johnny could send through the information he’d collected and invoice the Finches. We need have nothing more to do with them or their life choices.
I was relieved. At least something today had been straightforward. I needed Mary on the Moss case right away. We’d start at Contigo’s city office in Martin Place. If Lang Gillies had lied about the resignation, Eric Moss’s disappearance had just become our top priority.
Chapter 12
THE WALK TO Martin Place was quick and silent. On our way to the MLC Centre, Mary stopped short of the revolving door and looked back at a memorial to the victims of the 2014 siege.
She had been directly across at the Channel Seven studios interviewing a client, an hour before the gunman entered the café.
‘You couldn’t have changed the outcome,’ I said, ‘if that’s what you’re thinking.’
She shrugged and pushed through the door.
Contigo Valley’s central office was on the sixty-fourth floor of prime Sydney real estate. Prominent legal chambers, international finance corporations, a Russian bank and the US Consulate all shared space in the building. It was a stone’s throw from State Parliament as well.
We were greeted at reception by Eric Moss’s personal assistant. In his mid-twenties, Oliver Driscoll was around 170 centimetres with hair shorter at the sides than on top and dark-rimmed glasses. He quickly led us to an outer office with an interconnecting door.
‘This is where we work.’ He opened double doors into a larger room. A white shag-pile rug filled some of the void between a nondescript desk and sofa. The desk was conspicuously clear apart from a closed A4 portfolio diary in its centre.