Page 21 of Rough Stock

Izzy rolled her eyes. She was no one’s doll. And Alistair Mancini was no one’s darling. Not with a dietary habit of pasta loaded with parmesan cheese, usually leading to red pasta sauce splattered all over his work ties. Alistair had a thing for parmesan cheese the way people had a thing for certain wines or cigars. But he was the only one she trusted. Which was strange when she’d gone up against Detective Alistair Mancini a few times in court and had stripped him down so badly he’d hated her for it. But over time an unexpected friendship had developed.

It wasn’t her fault she was good at her job that got her into this mess, being made to hide out in the middle of the outback.

‘Do they know I’ve gone?’

‘Someone tossed your apartment the other week, so yeah, doll, I’m pretty sure they know you’ve bolted.’

‘How bad is my place?’ Why hadn’t he told her sooner?

‘Trashed it. Your boss is speaking with the insurance company to see what he can do.’

‘Good.’ After all, this was her boss’s fault. ‘No—not good. When can I go home?’ Where she had her morning routines to keep her brain under control, and didn’t have to rely on her ex-husband to calm her down. She had a life. She had a damned good career, and a sweet apartment that had a glimpse of Sydney Harbour Bridge—if you stood on the couch at a certain angle and craned your neck you could see it.

And she had a pot plant, called Brian, who’d survived her many, many mood swings—either trying to kill it with kindness and overwater it, or forgetting to water it altogether. Or she’d spill champagne on Brian’s leaves like a leaf polish when sharing a toast with her pot plant for winning her latest case. She had no one else.

And the saddest thing was she’d never learned what plant variety Brian was. ‘Did you take Brian?’ Even though she’d stolen him from one of the mean girls at the office in the first place, she had asked Alistair to rescue Brian.

‘Huh?’

‘The pot plant.’

‘Jeez…’ He mumbled something under his breath. ‘I kill plants, so I gave it to your neighbours.’

‘Are they nice people? Will they take care of Brian?’

‘They had lots of house plants already, do videos about plants for social media. Don’t you know your neighbours?’

‘No. How come you do?’

‘I did a doorknock for information. It’s normal protocol. You know all this, Isobel, especially police procedures for a break-in.’

‘Yeah...’ She tapped her fist against her head, trying to knock some sense into herself. She understood police procedure, because she’d pick it to pieces to help find holes in their investigations. ‘What are you doing?’

‘Wasting my time talking to you.’

Ugh!Frustrated, she raised her fist to the clouds, imagining it was Alistair’s face. ‘We know it’s Everlight Energy.’

‘Knowing that they’re involved in illegal activities isn’t proof they ordered someone’s murder, doll. But I know they won’t stop looking for you, not after what they did to your assistant.’

The reminder of her assistant’s murder made her inhale sharply. She’d been so close herself. ‘Can’t we just pretend they’re busy underworld criminals who work hard? Surely, they’ll forget about me.’ She sounded so dumb! And dumb, she was not.

Unexpectedly, she gave a nervous giggle at the helpless irony of her situation as she watched a police van pull into the neighbouring police station. They were the good guys, who wanted Craig’s help, while she got paid the big bickies to fight the good guys, who were now trying to do their best to protect her. Or were they? ‘Is there anything I can do, Alistair?’

‘No. Sit tight, doll. I’ll call you if there is an issue.’

‘I’ll be out of range.’ Again.

‘I can email you.’

‘That’ll have to do, I guess.’ She was not going to share Craig’s number. The more she distanced herself from Craig—on paper—the better.

‘How come no one knows about him?’

‘Who?’

‘Your husband.’

‘It’s no one’s business. Do you tell criminals about your obsession with parmesan cheese?’

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