carpet…’
‘Most burglaries are attended by damage,’ Batten said, ‘but our burglar went a step further—and I’m telling you this in the strictest confidence, Ms Quarrell—and assaulted Ms Ericsson.’
Leah’s jaw dropped. ‘That’s awful. Poor Tanya.’
‘Of course, it’s not the first time a burglar has assaulted a householder,’ Batten said.
‘You’d think they’d avoid an occupied house,’ said Leah, pissed off with Ericsson for returning home unexpectedly, pissed off with Wurlitzer for not backing out.
‘Or have better intelligence.’
What did he mean by that? ‘It’s just awful,’ Leah said.
‘A statistic that might interest you,’ Batten said. ‘A rise in burglaries on unoccupied houses over this past year in the greater Noosa area.’
‘Really?’
‘Specifically houses that have been put up for sale or auction.’
Her mind racing, Leah said, ‘I do seem to recall at least two of my properties being burgled in the past year.’
‘Four, in fact,’ Batten said. ‘Of course, yours is not the only company affected. That would look most suspicious. Other real estate firms have been hit, too.’
‘I hope you catch this guy,’ Leah said.
‘You’d have a fair idea of the local scene, Ms Quarrell? You shoot the breeze with colleagues from rival firms, swap stories, put buyers and sellers in each other’s way?’
‘Sure,’ said Leah, not moving a muscle in her face. Then she put on a pretty frown. ‘But you’re not suggesting one of my colleagues is feeding information to this…this person?’
Batten held his arms wide in appeal. ‘Could be.’
‘If I hear anything, I’ll let you know…’
‘This guy,’ snarled Batten, with the face of a hanging judge, ‘is going to kill someone if he’s not stopped.’
When he was gone, Leah shrieked at the receptionist. ‘You let someone just wander on back here?’
The receptionist chewed her gum and thought about it. ‘He was police.’
‘I know he was police. That’s not the point.’
‘Have you done something wrong?’
‘ You have,’ Leah said, ‘and if you don’t lift your game, you’re fired.’
Angry, frustrated, she called Rafi Halperin and said she was coming right over.
‘I thought we were supposed to keep a low profile.’
He was teasing her. She said, ‘Low is where I want you.’
She had Hannah Sten’s lawyer stashed in the Flamingo Gate apartments on the hill overlooking the national park and the Noosa main beach. An exclusive place, panoramic views, with its own doorman, and Leah coming and going without question because RiverRun Realty was selling the top-floor apartment. The vendor, the widow of a Hobart accountant, simply wanted it off her hands.
‘Cancel all rental bookings,’ she’d told Leah, not troubling to remove her late husband’s amateur artworks from the walls. ‘Return all deposits, sell the furniture, paint the place, clean the carpets, fix the leaking taps. Sell.’
She was not about to fly up from Tasmania to view the apartment, meaning it was Leah’s for the next few weeks. Not even her elderly partner knew about it. So who was going to question the presence of a suave New York lawyer? As long as he kept his head down for the next week or so.
She parked her VW under the building and took a lift to the foyer, where the doorman greeted her with a little carnal shiver. ‘Afternoon, Miss Quarrell.’
‘Afternoon, Troy,’ Leah called, her voice smoky, her eyes heavy-lidded. That, and an extra hundred bucks a week, was enough to keep young Troy loyal and vigilant. He’d alert Raf if anyone came snooping around asking about the man in the top-floor suite, and then he’d alert her.
She took the lift, and there was Raf, waiting for the door to slide open, coolly cosmopolitan and as unlike the men she usually dealt with—fat Australians with dried-out skin, sloppy clothes and dim expressions—as you could get. Lean, suave, dressed in a crisp white shirt, sleeves
‘Most burglaries are attended by damage,’ Batten said, ‘but our burglar went a step further—and I’m telling you this in the strictest confidence, Ms Quarrell—and assaulted Ms Ericsson.’
Leah’s jaw dropped. ‘That’s awful. Poor Tanya.’
‘Of course, it’s not the first time a burglar has assaulted a householder,’ Batten said.
‘You’d think they’d avoid an occupied house,’ said Leah, pissed off with Ericsson for returning home unexpectedly, pissed off with Wurlitzer for not backing out.
‘Or have better intelligence.’
What did he mean by that? ‘It’s just awful,’ Leah said.
‘A statistic that might interest you,’ Batten said. ‘A rise in burglaries on unoccupied houses over this past year in the greater Noosa area.’
‘Really?’
‘Specifically houses that have been put up for sale or auction.’
Her mind racing, Leah said, ‘I do seem to recall at least two of my properties being burgled in the past year.’
‘Four, in fact,’ Batten said. ‘Of course, yours is not the only company affected. That would look most suspicious. Other real estate firms have been hit, too.’
‘I hope you catch this guy,’ Leah said.
‘You’d have a fair idea of the local scene, Ms Quarrell? You shoot the breeze with colleagues from rival firms, swap stories, put buyers and sellers in each other’s way?’
‘Sure,’ said Leah, not moving a muscle in her face. Then she put on a pretty frown. ‘But you’re not suggesting one of my colleagues is feeding information to this…this person?’
Batten held his arms wide in appeal. ‘Could be.’
‘If I hear anything, I’ll let you know…’
‘This guy,’ snarled Batten, with the face of a hanging judge, ‘is going to kill someone if he’s not stopped.’
When he was gone, Leah shrieked at the receptionist. ‘You let someone just wander on back here?’
The receptionist chewed her gum and thought about it. ‘He was police.’
‘I know he was police. That’s not the point.’
‘Have you done something wrong?’
‘ You have,’ Leah said, ‘and if you don’t lift your game, you’re fired.’
Angry, frustrated, she called Rafi Halperin and said she was coming right over.
‘I thought we were supposed to keep a low profile.’
He was teasing her. She said, ‘Low is where I want you.’
She had Hannah Sten’s lawyer stashed in the Flamingo Gate apartments on the hill overlooking the national park and the Noosa main beach. An exclusive place, panoramic views, with its own doorman, and Leah coming and going without question because RiverRun Realty was selling the top-floor apartment. The vendor, the widow of a Hobart accountant, simply wanted it off her hands.
‘Cancel all rental bookings,’ she’d told Leah, not troubling to remove her late husband’s amateur artworks from the walls. ‘Return all deposits, sell the furniture, paint the place, clean the carpets, fix the leaking taps. Sell.’
She was not about to fly up from Tasmania to view the apartment, meaning it was Leah’s for the next few weeks. Not even her elderly partner knew about it. So who was going to question the presence of a suave New York lawyer? As long as he kept his head down for the next week or so.
She parked her VW under the building and took a lift to the foyer, where the doorman greeted her with a little carnal shiver. ‘Afternoon, Miss Quarrell.’
‘Afternoon, Troy,’ Leah called, her voice smoky, her eyes heavy-lidded. That, and an extra hundred bucks a week, was enough to keep young Troy loyal and vigilant. He’d alert Raf if anyone came snooping around asking about the man in the top-floor suite, and then he’d alert her.
She took the lift, and there was Raf, waiting for the door to slide open, coolly cosmopolitan and as unlike the men she usually dealt with—fat Australians with dried-out skin, sloppy clothes and dim expressions—as you could get. Lean, suave, dressed in a crisp white shirt, sleeves
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