Contents
About the Book
About the Authors
Also by James Patterson
Title Page
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Chapter 51
Chapter 52
Chapter 53
Chapter 54
Chapter 55
Chapter 56
Chapter 57
Chapter 58
Chapter 59
Chapter 60
Chapter 61
Chapter 62
Chapter 63
Chapter 64
Chapter 65
Chapter 66
Chapter 67
Chapter 68
Chapter 69
Chapter 70
Chapter 71
Chapter 72
Chapter 73
Chapter 74
Chapter 75
Chapter 76
Chapter 77
Chapter 78
Chapter 79
Chapter 80
Chapter 81
Chapter 82
Chapter 83
Chapter 84
Chapter 85
Chapter 86
Chapter 87
Chapter 88
Chapter 89
Chapter 90
Chapter 91
Chapter 92
Chapter 93
Chapter 94
Chapter 95
Chapter 96
Chapter 97
Chapter 98
Chapter 99
Chapter 100
Chapter 101
Chapter 102
Chapter 103
Chapter 104
Chapter 105
Chapter 106
Chapter 107
Chapter 108
Chapter 109
Chapter 110
Chapter 111
Chapter 112
Chapter 113
Chapter 114
Chapter 115
Chapter 116
Chapter 117
Chapter 118
Chapter 119
Chapter 120
Chapter 121
Chapter 122
Chapter 123
Chapter 124
Chapter 125
Chapter 126
Chapter 127
Chapter 128
Read on
Copyright
Private (with Maxine Paetro)
Private London (with Mark Pearson)
Private Games (with Mark Sullivan)
Private: No. 1 Suspect (with Maxine Paetro)
Private Berlin (with Mark Sullivan)
Private Down Under (with Michael White)
Private L.A. (with Mark Sullivan)
Private India (with Ashwin Sanghi)
Private Vegas (with Maxine Paetro)
Along Came a Spider • Kiss the Girls • Jack and Jill • Cat and Mouse • Pop Goes the Weasel • Roses are Red • Violets are Blue • Four Blind Mice • The Big Bad Wolf • London Bridges • Mary, Mary • Cross • Double Cross • Cross Country • Alex Cross’s Trial (with Richard DiLallo) • I, Alex Cross • Cross Fire • Kill Alex Cross • Merry Christmas, Alex Cross • Alex Cross, Run • Cross My Heart • Hope to Die • Cross Justice (to be published November 2015)
1st to Die • 2nd Chance (with Andrew Gross) • 3rd Degree (with Andrew Gross) • 4th of July (with Maxine Paetro) • The 5th Horseman (with Maxine Paetro) • The 6th Target (with Maxine Paetro) • 7th Heaven (with Maxine Paetro) • 8th Confession (with Maxine Paetro) • 9th Judgement (with Maxine Paetro) • 10th Anniversary (with Maxine Paetro) • 11th Hour (with Maxine Paetro) • 12th of Never (with Maxine Paetro) • Unlucky 13 (with Maxine Paetro) • 14th Deadly Sin (with Maxine Paetro)
Step on a Crack (with Michael Ledwidge) • Run For Your Life (with Michael Ledwidge) • Worst Case (with Michael Ledwidge) • Tick Tock (with Michael Ledwidge) • I, Michael Bennett (with Michael Ledwidge) • Gone (with Michael Ledwidge) • Burn (with Michael Ledwidge) • Alert (with Michael Ledwidge)
NYPD Red (with Marshall Karp) • NYPD Red 2 (with Marshall Karp) • NYPD Red 3 (with Marshall Karp)
Sail (with Howard Roughan) • Swimsuit (with Maxine Paetro) • Don’t Blink (with Howard Roughan) • Postcard Killers (with Liza Marklund) • Toys (with Neil McMahon) • Now You See Her (with Michael Ledwidge) • Kill Me If You Can (with Marshall Karp) • Guilty Wives (with David Ellis) • Zoo (with Michael Ledwidge) • Second Honeymoon (with Howard Roughan) • Mistress (with David Ellis) • Invisible (with David Ellis) • The Thomas Berryman Number • Truth or Die (with Howard Roughan) • Murder House (with David Ellis, to be published September 2015)
Torn Apart (with Hal and Cory Friedman) • The Murder of King Tut (with Martin Dugard)
Sundays at Tiffany’s (with Gabrielle Charbonnet) • The Christmas Wedding (with Richard DiLallo) • First Love (with Emily Raymond)
Miracle at Augusta (with Peter de Jonge)
The Worst Years of My Life (with Chris Tebbetts) • Get Me Out of Here! (with Chris Tebbetts) • My Brother Is a Big, Fat Liar (with Lisa Papademetriou) • How I Survived Bullies, Broccoli, and Snake Hill (with Chris Tebbetts) • Ultimate Showdown (with Julia Bergen) • Save Rafe! (with Chris Tebbetts) • Just My Rotten Luck (with Chris Tebbetts, to be published October 2015)
I Funny (with Chris Grabenstein) • I Even Funnier (with Chris Grabenstein) • I Totally Funniest (with Chris Grabenstein)
Treasure Hunters (with Chris Grabenstein) • Danger Down the Nile (with Chris Grabenstein) • Secrets of the Forbidden City (with Chris Grabenstein, to be published September 2015)
House of Robots (with Chris Grabenstein) • Robots Go Wild! (with Chris Grabenstein, to be published December 2015)
Kenny Wright: Superhero (with Chris Tebbetts)
Homeroom Diaries (with Lisa Papademetriou)
The Angel Experiment • School’s Out Forever • Saving the World and Other Extreme Sports • The Final Warning • Max • Fang • Angel • Nevermore • Forever
Confessions of a Murder Suspect (with Maxine Paetro) • The Private School Murders (with Maxine Paetro) • The Paris Mysteries (with Maxine Paetro) • The Murder of an Angel (with Maxine Paetro, to be published October 2015)
Witch & Wizard (with Gabrielle Charbonnet) • The Gift (with Ned Rust) • The Fire (with Jill Dembowski) • The Kiss (with Jill Dembowski) • The Lost (with Emily Raymond)
The Dangerous Days of Daniel X (with Michael Ledwidge) • Watch the Skies (with Ned Rust) • Demons and Druids (with Adam Sadler) • Game Over (with Ned Rust) • Armageddon (with Chris Grabenstein) • Lights Out (with Chris Grabenstein)
Daniel X: Alien Hunter (with Leopoldo Gout) • Maximum Ride: Manga Vols. 1–8 (with NaRae Lee)
For more information about James Patterson’s novels, visit www.jamespatterson.co.uk
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This eBook is copyright material and must not be copied, reproduced, transferred, distributed, leased, licensed or publicly performed or used in any way except as specifically permitted in writing by the publishers, as allowed under the terms and conditions under which it was purchased or as strictly permitted by applicable copyright law. Any unauthorised distribution or use of this text may be a direct infringement of the author’s and publisher’s rights and those responsible may be liable in law accordingly.
Epub ISBN 9781473518322
Version 1.0
www.randomhouse.co.uk
1 3 5 7 9 10 8 6 4 2
Century
20 Vauxhall Bridge Road
London SW1V 2SA
Century is part of the Penguin Random House group of companies whose addresses can be found at global.penguinrandomhouse.com.
Copyright © James Patterson 2015
Excerpt from Murder House copyright © James Patterson 2015
James Patterson has asserted his right to be identified as the author of this Work in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.
First published by Century in 2015
www.randomhouse.co.uk
A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.
Hardback ISBN 9781780893914
Trade paperback ISBN 9781780893921
BRANCHES FROM THE eucalypti and blue gums cracked as they whipped the electrically charged air.
A storm from the east would hit soon and cover his tracks through the dense bushland. The cabin was isolated and close to a river, with a 270-degree vantage of the valley below, but that was in daylight.
Every sense on heightened alert, he scanned the doorframe with his night-vision goggles for the two strands of hair he’d positioned in the jamb days before. Locating both, he exhaled as the door eased open.
The urn over the fireplace was exactly as he’d left it too, the tiny notches in the wood lined up precisely with its rim. He checked his watch. Ninety seconds.
He unscrewed the base of the urn and located the USB device, which he secured inside his zippered jacket pocket.
His watch buzzed with a slow pulse. Someone had infiltrated his perimeter. With no road access from the north, they had to be on foot.
The pulsing sound doubled. Now two people headed towards the cabin. Cleaners. Men whose job it was to clean up mess and make sure nothing was left behind.
It confirmed he was a priority. If they had made it here, a hell of a lot of manpower was being invested in hunting him down.
He snatched his backpack and headed for the bedroom. Sliding back a rug at the foot of the bed exposed the trap door.
With the alarm pulsing on his wrist, he grabbed a bowie knife from his pack and dug it into the narrow space between the hatch and floor, dislodging caked dirt.
Summoning all his strength, he grunted and yanked. The hatch gave way. He squeezed through and lowered himself feet first. With a hook and wire he’d screwed into the cavity years before, he reached up, replaced the handle in its recess and repositioned the rug before lowering the hatch.
Sweat dripped from his forehead. He checked his watch again and listened.
No other sensors had been tripped. Instinct told him there were still just two men out there.
On his elbows and stomach the fit was tight, but at least he could propel backwards. After a few metres he removed a rope and screw-top tin from his pack. He unwound the line of rope before topping it with a thin layer of magnesium powder.
Fifteen more metres back and his boots should reach the removable panels at the rear of the wood shed.
The sound of feet clomping inside the cabin was suddenly paralysing. There were two male voices, then glass smashed.
He lit the rope and reverse commando-crawled as fast as his elbows, toes and knees could manage.
Flame ripped along the tunnel to the base of the cabin. As he kicked out the shed boards and escaped the tunnel, yelling pierced the night.
By the time they’d dealt with the flaring caused by the water, he’d be long gone.
Goggles fixed and backpack secure, he jogged along one of the paths he’d previously mapped out, careful to stay close to the gully on his left.
Fifty metres along, one of his motion detectors was attached to the base of a tree. It had already saved his life and could come in handy next time.
As he bent down and unstrapped the cord, something brushed his right wrist. Instinctively, he slapped it hard with his other gloved hand before pocketing the device and running on.
Within minutes, pain tore through his wrist, like a nail had been hammered into it.
He could hear voices in the distance.
Sweat poured from his face as the burning in his wrist intensified. Nausea rose in his gullet but he had to keep moving. He was light-headed.
Wind howled as the storm moved in. The sooner it came, the less likely they’d find him before daylight. He headed off again and stumbled on a rock formation. Reeling back, he staggered, unable to maintain his footing. He reached for something to grab. Anything.
Agonising pain shot through his side as he hit the rocks below. The world went black.
THE EARLY MORNING temperature was crisp as I stretched aching muscles. Even a punishing run couldn’t lessen the grief that today brought. I watched the flaming sun rising above the north and south heads, as a mammoth cruise ship glided into Sydney Harbour. It took me back to my honeymoon when Becky and I sailed home from Noumea.
The spectacle of passing through those heads as the sun lit the city was one of our most treasured memories. It was the moment she told me she wanted to be known as Mrs Craig Gisto.
It had been eight years now, and a song, a smell, even a sound, could still trigger a volcanic release of pain from my core.
If Cal had lived, he would be eleven today.
The car accident that took their lives trapped Cal as an eternal three-year-old and me as a widower. I wondered why there was a word for children who lost parents, but not one for parents who had suffered the greatest loss of all.
After a quick shower and breakfast, I was comfortably heading to the city in my Ferrari Spider. On Military Road, I stopped at the traffic lights just before the turn-off to Taronga Zoo. Cal’s favourite place.
Memories of him hanging off a gorilla statue were interrupted by a call. Jack Morgan. It had to be late morning on the west coast.
‘Hi, Jack, what can I do for you?’
The LA-based owner of Private spoke quickly. ‘Craig, I’m on a helicopter so we may lose connection. I’m asking for a favour. Eric Moss is the CEO of a company named Contigo Valley.’ The background noise made it difficult to hear.
‘You’re fading,’ I said into the hands-free microphone.
He shouted over the din. ‘He and his daughter are old friends. Moss was at the top of his field and disappeared two days ago. Emailed a resignation with no explanation.’
‘Do you suspect foul play?’
Jack gave directions to the pilot then returned. ‘This is a billion-dollar company with international contracts. It needs Moss.’
I knew some of the work the company did with safety and medical equipment. So the CEO resigned on Friday and hadn’t been heard of over the weekend. He could have been drinking away his sorrows or celebrating with a young fling.
I braked as a BMW cut into my lane on the approach to the Harbour Bridge.
‘Is the daughter high-profile?’
Most of Private’s clients were either famous, wealthy, or both, and wanted scandals kept out of the tabloids.
‘She’s special, Craig. I’m asking you to do this for her. Her name’s Eliza Moss. She owns Shine Management.’
The phone crackled again.
‘I’ve been a big supporter of Eric Moss,’ Jack continued. ‘Trust me, this isn’t like him. Eliza and the company are his life. He wouldn’t walk away without a fight. And he’d never do this to his only child.’
I wondered what sort of daughter panicked when her father didn’t contact her over the weekend. But if Jack thought it worth looking into, I’d do it, despite this week’s heavy workload.
‘Thanks, Craig,’ he finished. ‘Let me know if I can help in any way.’
When the line went silent, I replayed the conversation in my mind. Jack mentioned Eliza was special to him. I wondered how special.
After pulling into the car park just after seven am, I took the stairs to street level.
First thing I saw was shattered glass.
The ground-to-ceiling door to Private had been smashed.
I STEPPED PAST the two young men working on the glass repairs and was greeted by our receptionist thrusting forward a handful of messages. Collette Lindman hadn’t been with us long, and seemed overly eager at times, but had skills that I believed would come in handy one day.
‘These are the important calls on the machine. And there’s a married couple waiting in your office. They were supposed to see Johnny at eight but came early to beat the traffic and had a good run. I couldn’t leave them in the waiting area with all that broken glass and without the door, it’s been pretty breezy –’
Collette barely drew breath. First thing was the door, which she still hadn’t explained.
‘What happened? I didn’t get a call.’
‘Oh, that? I didn’t want to bother you. The security company phoned me at home and said our door had been smashed by vandals. Anyway, I rang the glass repairers, who came straight out. They said other businesses had breakages too. I hope it was the right thing to do. Before you ask, the door was shattered but unopened. No one got inside.’
Given the amount of high-tech equipment in the place, that was one positive. It was difficult to take it personally when other businesses had been affected.
I stepped further inside so the workmen couldn’t hear. ‘Who exactly are the people in my office?’
‘Mr and Mrs Finch. It’s heartbreaking what they’ve been through. I didn’t think you’d mind, under the circumstances.’
Getting to the point was not Collette’s strong suit. ‘That’s fine. What are they here for?’
‘A background check. I assured them the name “Private” means their information stays that way, ’cause they seemed pretty nervous about confidentiality.’
I felt a pounding in my head. ‘You did the right thing, Collette. The police will need the security footage from last night. We’ll have good images of the door being hit and who did it.’
She hesitated. ‘That’s another thing I didn’t want to bother you with yet.’
‘Tell me now.’
‘The computers are down. I mean, that might be why there isn’t actually any vision of what happened overnight.’ She touched my arm. ‘Don’t worry, I’ve called the technicians. They’ll be here in a couple of hours.’
Technicians would take far too long. Without computers we couldn’t work.
‘Get Darlene to come in early. If she can’t fix the problem, she’ll know who can.’
I took stock of Monday morning so far: a favour for Jack Morgan, a smashed door, no computers and an anxious couple in my office, all by seven am. Cal’s birthday was shaping up to be one hell of a day.
I COULD SEE the pair through the glass wall to my office. The man paced while his wife sat twisting the rings on her left hand.
I entered, introduced myself. The husband was late forties. The cut of his suit, along with the white shirt and pale blue tie, suggested middle management, or a small business operator.
‘Gus. Finch.’ He shook my hand vigorously. ‘And this is my wife, Jennifer.’
I greeted the woman, who wore a crimson silk shirt with a black skirt. She had to be at least ten years younger than Gus.
I took a seat at my desk. Finch sat next to his wife and held her hand.
‘How can we help you?’ I asked.
‘We want a background check on someone. A potential employee.’
With the computers down, I opened a journal and started taking notes as Finch began rattling off his requirements.
‘You should check she is healthy, no mental illness, has no criminal past, and that includes charges for DUI. I don’t just mean convictions in case she got off on some technicality, I’m talking charges, any history of affairs …’ He ticked off the list on his fingers. ‘Doesn’t abuse drugs or alcohol, is clear of any sexually transmitted infections, has a mortgage to show she’s committed to staying locally and isn’t in more than $200,000 debt.’
This was clearly no ordinary pre-employment check, unless the job was for a childcare worker. The mortgage question threw me. Not many nannies in Sydney had paid off mortgages to the last $200K. Nannying jobs were something students or new graduates sought.
His wife added, ‘And we have to know she’s a good mother.’ She squeezed her husband’s hand, pale grey eyes boring into mine.
‘Yes,’ Finch confirmed. ‘If we’re going to trust her with our children.’ The inflection in his voice went up a notch at the end of this comment. He was lying, and he wasn’t very good at it.
Today, I didn’t really care to know why. ‘Agencies routinely do employment checks and they charge a lot less than us. To be honest, you’d be better going through one of them.’
Finch slapped an envelope on the table. Hundred-dollar notes spilled out.
‘We want you, not anyone else, to do the check. You guarantee confidentiality.’
I didn’t like people assuming I could be bought. Not everyone has a price. Whatever they wanted kept secret didn’t sit right.
Maybe it was just my mood, but it didn’t seem worth the hassle.
‘That isn’t how we do business, Mr Finch. I’m afraid we can’t help you.’
I stood to usher them out the door.
They remained seated.
‘Walk away and you’ll regret it,’ the man said calmly. ‘You do the right thing by us and we can boost your business. Turn us away and I can guarantee Private will suffer.’
I SWUNG AROUND. This guy had picked the wrong day to tick me off. ‘I don’t answer to threats.’ I took a step forward. ‘Or deal with liars.’
Finch now stood and his wife quickly stepped between us. The guy was volatile and she knew it.
‘I’m sorry,’ she interjected. ‘We’re not being truthful. I – we – can’t have children so we’re looking at a surrogate.’
Suddenly the couple’s questions made sense. I relaxed a little.
Finch’s bluster evaporated. ‘We didn’t know if you’d agree to help us if we told you the truth. We have to know if she’s likely to extort us for more money, and that we won’t be dragged into legal fights down the track.’
This was obviously difficult for them, but there was no point continuing the conversation. Commercial surrogacy was illegal in every Australian state. Carrying a baby out of kindness, known as altruistic surrogacy, was permitted but fraught with potential legal complications.
‘We didn’t mean to threaten you,’ she added. ‘It’s just that there are many of us in the same situation and we could bring you a lot of business. Most of us would pay whatever it took to have our own children.’
‘We work closely with law enforcement,’ I explained, ‘and what you’re proposing is illegal. You’re obviously planning on paying for this baby. I’m sorry.’
‘Mr Gisto.’ The woman touched my arm. ‘Do you have children?’
The question stopped me cold.
‘I’ve had eight miscarriages and we had a daughter, Caroline …’
‘Stillborn,’ the husband almost whispered.
She held my gaze. ‘We’ve tried everything natural, multiple rounds of IVF. And now my husband’s too old at forty-eight to adopt. This isn’t a whim. We can give a child a wonderful life.’
It was impossible not to feel for what they had been through, but I was responsible for this business. I certainly couldn’t let emotion sway my decision.
She paused. ‘Doctors have told us it isn’t possible, so we are turning to a surrogate who says she just wants medical costs covered. That’s all.’
A stranger becoming pregnant and not wanting anything in return sounded risky.
‘We could have gone to somewhere like India or Thailand, but that doesn’t seem right.’
Not to mention the practice was outlawed there now too, I thought. We moved back inside the office. ‘How did you hear about this woman?’
‘Her name’s Louise Simpson. She advertised on a surrogacy website. We just want to know if she’s genuine.’
A background check could only give her credit rating and criminal history. She would have to approve of them accessing her medical information, and I told them that.
‘We understand. But this is our last chance,’ Mrs Finch pleaded.
Despite reservations, I agreed to help.
HE WAS WOKEN by burning in his wrist and forearm, and a deeper, bone-like pain in his right shoulder. He took a gasp and inhaled smoke, as sun peeked through the canopy directly above.
Disorientated, he struggled to sit up. Sweat dripped off him. He cradled his right arm, which provided some relief. The shoulder was out of its socket, down and forward. Then he remembered something had brushed him when he’d reached for the sensor device.
Peeling off the right glove, he saw the curled-up body of a spider. A centimetre long, black with a red patch on its back. A red-back.
The welt on his wrist was unlike anything he’d experienced before. Hospitals had antivenom, but it had to be administered quickly to be effective. That wasn’t an option given the nearest hospital was two hours by road. He moved his other limbs and ankles. The shoulder had taken the brunt of the fall. It had to be put back in place. Then he could at least get to safety and take his chances with the bite.
The sound of a distant siren echoed in the valley. The cabin had gone up in flames and the flames must have spread to surrounding bush. The ‘cleaners’ should be long gone, but the area would be swarming with locals and emergency services volunteers, and the police.
He pulled himself to his feet and took some breaths. It was now or never. With all the strength he could muster, he ran and slammed his shoulder into a tree. Pain exploded through his shoulder and arm as he suppressed a scream. A few seconds later, it eased. The shoulder was in place but he could feel the lymph nodes under the arm were swollen and tender. The poison was spreading.
Using a spare shirt as a sling, he struggled to recall everything he’d ever learnt about red-back spiders. No one had died from their bite in years. But if the toxin didn’t kill, it could debilitate and affect nerves for up to a week.
Either way, the odds of making it through today were worse than even he’d imagined.
WITH THE FINCHES sorted, I could concentrate on more pressing issues. Johnny Ishmah had begun trying the computers and backup systems, starting at reception.
The young investigator was completing a degree in criminal psychology. Brought up in a rough part of the western suburbs, his school mates included the son of a leading underworld figure. Those contacts had proved helpful more than once.
Dust swirled into the entrance as two men manoeuvred a large pane of glass towards the door.
I asked Johnny what he had so far.
‘I ran a virus scan on the entire system. Nothing showed up. The cameras didn’t record because Collette’s computer was shut down.’
The video feed was accessed on her station. One of her tasks was to fast-forward through the footage each morning.
I turned to Collette, who was anxiously picking at bright red fingernails.
‘Could you have accidentally shut it down instead of logging off last night?’
‘No. I did what I do every night. Log off.’
Whatever happened, the footage didn’t exist.
Next to arrive was Darlene Cooper, her usual immaculate ponytail and wrinkle-free shirt and jeans replaced with a baggy top and crinkled pants. Nothing about today seemed routine.
‘Sorry, boss. I came as quickly as I could.’
I explained the situation and she told us not to turn anything on until she’d had a chance to update the virus library. Meanwhile, I went to find Mary in her office. She could start on the Finch job.
After filling her in, I suggested she use her phone until online access was restored. Instead, she stood, arms folded across her chest. The former military police officer and kickboxer was formidable at the best of times. The stance emphasised her biceps and was designed to intimidate. ‘You can get someone else.’
Her reaction took me completely by surprise. My most experienced investigator and right hand in the business, Mary Clarke pulled more than her weight in the agency.
‘Today’s not started well. We need to function even more efficiently as a team. None of us gets to pick and choose cases. The others are tied up with the computers –’
She stood, arms still folded, like a bouncer blocking a nightclub entrance. ‘You don’t need to remind me about teamwork.’
That was true. Mary had put herself on the line many times, including for my safety. I closed the door so we could speak in private.
‘Is there something going on I need to know about?’
‘I don’t want to be a part of this. Johnny can do it.’
Darlene interrupted with a knock. ‘Thought you’d want to know. I updated the virus library and tracked the source to Collette’s computer. Going through the log files, the system shut down at midnight.’
‘It was programmed to switch us off in the night?’ I asked.
‘Could have been in an email attachment or a bogus web link. I’m still running diagnostics, so if you give me an hour, I’ll do a full sweep of the backups too.’
I wondered how long it would have taken if Darlene wasn’t on the job. And what sort of thrill led people to design viruses which destroyed strangers’ computers. Our business relied on confidentiality and with high-profile clients we needed to guarantee information security.
Right now, that was at risk.
‘Can you double-check for spyware? We can’t afford to have anyone access the systems.’
Darlene looked from Mary to me, obviously sensing the tension. ‘On it.’
I thanked Darlene and watched her leave.
Mary’s finger was already poking my chest.
‘You ever dare question my loyalty again, I’m out.’
She pushed past me and slammed the door.
MARY’S REACTION LEFT me stunned. She was the calm, measured one of the team.
I followed her into Kent Street where she continued to weave through workers heading to their offices.
I just missed colliding with a man in a suit, eyes down on his phone. ‘What’s really going on?’
She kept walking. ‘I won’t be a party to buying and selling babies.’
‘What the hell is that supposed to mean? It’s one background check, an hour’s work, maybe two.’
The pedestrian lights went green and we crossed, passing behind a taxi blocking the intersection. She stopped at the other side.
Frustration mounting, I tried to understand her problem. ‘What am I missing here?’
‘You let Cal affect your judgement.’
Mary could hit hard, and with precision.
We stood on the kerb in silence as a wave of people swept past, juggling coffees and briefcases.
Mary spoke first. ‘I know today is his birthday.’
We were on the corner outside the Queen Victoria Building’s Market Street entrance. A homeless man with a cardboard sign sat begging for spare change.
‘I’m not seeing your point, Mary.’
‘This couple come to you with a sob-story about wanting a child. Like they have a God-given right to breed.’
So that was it. Mary had a problem with surrogacy.
A woman with twins in a double stroller approached. We stepped out of the way, beside a cart that sold snacks and magazines. I ordered two coffees and some fruit.
Mary wasn’t finished. ‘What happens if the surrogate is carrying twins? These people target poverty-stricken women in South-East Asia. They act like it’s mail order, and they have every right to a refund if the result isn’t to their liking –’
I’d never seen Mary so worked up about a single issue, and she hadn’t even met the Finches to form an opinion of them.
‘I get it. And it’s tragic when that happens. Sometimes you have to trust your instincts and believe in the good in people. A woman is volunteering to become pregnant, for no profit. Isn’t that between her and the Finches?’
‘Do you really think a stranger will risk her health and her own family for nothing? This is baby trading no matter how you spin it.’
‘OK. You don’t agree with what the couple is doing. But if we only accepted clients whose life choices we agreed with, we’d be out of business.’
‘Today you let emotion override reason. Once you start doing that, Private will suffer.’
‘Mary, this is one background check.’
The vendor handed over the coffees. Mary took a cup, a concession of sorts towards peace.
‘I just hope this one doesn’t come back to bite us.’ She had the final say and headed back to the office.
I gave the other coffee, banana and apple to the homeless man and looked up Eliza Moss’s company on my smartphone. She worked just a block away.
I decided to make a detour there before facing any more complications at the office.
SO FAR, I hadn’t found much on Eric Moss, CEO of Contigo Valley. The name sounded more like an orchard than a development and training organisation. From a quick search, again on my phone, there were no public scandals. Moss had never married.
I headed into the Market Street building, scanned the directory and took the elevator to the thirty-fifth floor. Inside double doors to the left was a glass desk with a twenty-something woman poring over photo proofs.
Behind her was a giant canvas print of female rock climbers, giving those below a hand up.
The young woman looked up.
‘I’m here to see Ms Moss.’
‘You must be the private detective.’ She gave a megawatt smile as she came out from behind the desk. ‘Eliza’s working in the conference room. At the end there. You can’t miss it.’
I moved to where she’d pointed. In the room, two women sat at one end of a long wooden table surrounded by computers and diaries. The one at the end spoke assertively into a phone.
‘There is no way the budget can reach to ten! Eight thousand or we’ll have to cancel.’ After a pause, she nodded and gave the thumbs up to her colleague, who smiled. ‘Ramone, you are a genius. I’ll make sure all our members know how incredible you are.’
I wondered if Ramone would stay in business long if he dropped his prices so easily.
Off the phone, the pair high-fived and paused when they saw me.
I entered the room. ‘Craig Gisto. Jack Morgan said we should speak?’
The negotiator tapped the other lightly with a finger. ‘Can you give us a few minutes?’
‘Of course.’ The colleague collected some paperwork and excused herself. ‘If you need anything …’
‘We’ll let you know.’ Eliza remained sitting and gestured for me to have a seat. There was no hint of despair or anxiety about her father.
‘Thank you for coming. Jack speaks highly of you.’
‘He mentioned you were concerned about the whereabouts of your father.’
She stroked the face of a diamond-encrusted watch on her left wrist. The only other piece of jewellery was an infinity ring on her right hand.
‘He is supposed to have resigned – by email – last Friday and hasn’t been seen since. He would never leave Contigo. He turned it from a handful of search-and-rescue volunteers into a multibillion-dollar organisation with an international reputation.’
I studied her face as she spoke. Blonde, shoulder-length hair with a cowlick on one side of her fringe, pale green eyes, enough make-up to look natural but highlight her fine features.
The woman from the front desk interrupted us with a document in hand. ‘I’m sorry, but the florist wants to know – Singapore orchids dyed blue or violet?’
Eliza Moss waved her in.
‘Blue.’ Eliza initialled the page and clicked off her pen. ‘We recruit for over a thousand companies, working to increase women’s representation at executive and board levels.’
‘Dyed orchids?’ I asked.
‘We’re holding a major charity fundraiser at the Park Hyatt tonight and I need to make sure it’s a success. A lot of people are taking note of how we do.’
Being the boss meant travelling a fine line between delegating and micromanaging. I wondered if she was an overly protective daughter or justified in raising the alarm.
‘Is it possible your father simply went away for a few days? Wanted to have some time out after making a rash decision? Or maybe spend time in a new relationship?’
The list of possibilities was endless, especially with middle-aged men who had resources at their disposal.
‘There’s no woman.’ She was adamant. ‘He’d have told me. His work is everything. He even sleeps at the company base, near the Blue Mountains.’
I sat forward. ‘Does he have any medical history or a condition that worries you if he goes without treatment? Physical or –’
‘Why does everyone assume someone who commits themselves to work is either lonely, depressed or suicidal?’
I suspected she was referring to comments made about her. ‘You’ve already flagged this as aberrant behaviour, for him. We need to know his routine before pinpointing when and what changed.’
‘And how to find him. I’m sorry. This is just … He’s very private. We both are.’
In my business, private was a euphemism for keeping secrets. Eliza obviously idolised her father. If I started digging …
‘I need to explain something before we start. In the course of an investigation, we may discover information you didn’t expect. It could change your impression of him and possibly alter your relationship.’
She thought for a moment and came back to the watch.
‘He knows I’d worry, so do what you have to. Keep me completely informed. I’ll pay whatever it takes. Just find him.’
‘I’LL NEED MORE than we have so far,’ I said as there were further interruptions by staff. I wanted her complete focus. ‘Is there anywhere quieter we could speak? To clarify personal details.’
‘Here suits me better,’ she said, matter of factly. ‘I can handle any last-minute issues. Like I said, tonight’s important.’
I didn’t have a choice. Over the next half-hour, punctuated with queries about song lists and raffle items, I gained a picture of Eric Moss. An only child, focused and driven by the desire to excel in his field.
I was surprised to learn that Contigo Valley was a non-profit organisation. And tax exempt. There weren’t many with turnovers in excess of hundreds of millions. Greenpeace was the only one that came to mind.
Funded by donations, loans and occasional government grants, Contigo raised revenue by developing and selling new trauma devices, safety equipment and retrieval vehicles. They were awarded large supply contracts both in Australia and overseas.
‘Bushfires, tsunamis, floods, landslides, man-made disasters. My father increased survival rates for victims and emergency service workers. A device for giving life-saving fluids to injured soldiers has changed protocols in emergency departments and the combat field. Contigo even trains soldiers from China and the USA.’
I could see why Jack Morgan, a former US marine, had invested in the company. It was a cause close to his heart. Still, I needed more about Eric Moss the man.
According to Eliza he was fit aside from a few extra kilos, didn’t smoke or drink and only reluctantly attended work functions. He avoided the media, leaving that to the chairman of Contigo’s board, Sir Lang Gillies. It sounded as if Moss enjoyed his own company more than other people’s. At fifty-eight, he was a workaholic.