Private Oz (Private 7)

She saw the name on the screen – GRETA. Stabbed the green button.

The first thing she heard were sobs.

“Greta! What is it?”

Something unintelligible.

“Hey, sis … slow down.”

More sobs. Finally a sentence. “Oh, Justine. One of my friends has been murdered.”

Chapter 13

JOHNNY AND I were in my office going over the police report on the Ho kid.

Johnny’s only twenty-three, not much older than the victim. Born in Lebanon, he came over here with poor immigrant parents when he was three. Could have ended up a criminal or dead, but he was far too bright for that. He got out of the ghettos of Sydney’s Western Suburbs ASAP, found a legit job and took a Psychology degree in his spare time. He was still working on the Psychology degree. I trusted him, and trust is always top of my necessity list when it comes to the job.

“There are two Ho boys, right. Chang’s the younger by three years,” Johnny said. “Mother died when he was five. Rich businessman father … probably never home.”

I nodded. “Severely disturbed by his mother’s death?”

“Definitely. His deafness made him determined to prove to his father he’s every bit as good as his older brother, Dai.”

The phone rang.

“Justine …” I began and she cut over me. Johnny could see my expression darken and raised a questioning eyebrow.

“What!” I exclaimed. “How long ago? Alright, we’ll go to the Thorogoods’ place together. I’ll pick you up in five. The Citadel Hotel, right?”

“What’s up?” Johnny asked as soon as I clicked off.

I was already out of my chair. “A murder in Bellevue Hill, friend of Justine’s sister, Greta.”

“Christ!”

“The cops are all over the street. The woman was found in a car just a few yards down from the Thorogoods’.”

Chapter 14

I EXITED THE garage and pulled onto George Street. It was almost dark, still hot. Checked my watch … 6.57. The city was aglow, shoppers bargain hunting in the January sales.

The traffic wasn’t great and it took me more than the promised five minutes to reach the hotel. Justine was waiting in the drive-thru outside the main doors. She looked amazing in white linen pants, a tight top, her hair flowing over her shoulders, slightly damp at the tips.

We merged with the highway traffic. “Did your sister offer any details?” I asked, and tried to put out of my mind the intoxicating smell of perfume wafting from the passenger side.

“She was a mess. The victim is a family friend, apparently. Known her for years.”

I drove east down Park Street and onto William Street, and we fell silent. I could hear a siren far off and the rush of air in the sticky night.

Bellevue Hill is mostly old money with a sprinkling of nouveau business gurus and gangsters. From William Street we took New South Head Road, drove about three miles, then hung a right into a wide, leafy street, Stockton Boulevard.

The Thorogoods’ house was an ultra-modern place that backed onto the Royal Sydney Golf Club. Its wide, glass-balustraded balconies offered views east toward the ocean.

Justine led the way up the granite path.

Greta, eyes moist, mascara run, opened the door before we reached it, and beckoned us in.

“So what happened?” Justine asked as her sister fell into her arms. We walked into a vast living-room and sat in a horseshoe of low-slung white leather sofas.