Defending Pacer - Hamilton T. J. - Страница 9

“Pacer and Chelsea, come through.” Not a hint of emotion in her words.

I follow behind Pacer and the Detective Inspector to an elevator at the rear of the building. Police that pass us glare. It’s now laughable how many stare at us.

None of the buttons inside the elevator have numbers. I guess it’s to slow people down from finding the right floor straight away. I wonder how many cops get it wrong? Of course the Detective Inspector doesn’t hesitate to punch in the correct button and we swiftly arrive at the level where her private office is. She opens the door and we walk in.

“Take a seat.”

“That was rather a warm reception down there,” I snidely reply as I take my seat.

“We have to use up a lot of resources to watch someone like Pacer when he’s allowed to roam the country. Don’t expect to get too much pleasantry from around here.”

It’s strange to listen to the way the police look at someone like Pacer—an expense in resources. I’ve never really considered it from a business perspective. He must cost the police force a fortune, and they still haven’t managed to put him in prison. Going off their investigation, I can see why. One slight word changed or missing from their statements and someone like me can bring the whole case apart.

It takes all of ten minutes for Pacer’s tracker to be fitted and we’re out of the police station, heading back towards my office building.

“Since I have this on me now, I won’t be venturing far from my house. Only to do the necessities like reporting to the dogs, and to attend your office for a meeting. Any meetings outside of your office will be done at my place, okay?”

His bluntness throws me off sometimes, but the thought of being at his house is a little more exciting than I’d care for, and I have to bite back the smirk.

“That sounds like a good idea. So are you going to be okay to attend the station on your own tomorrow morning?”

“Where will you be?” he fires back.

“It’s Saturday, Pacer.”

“So?”

“So, I don’t work Saturdays.”

“I see.” He pulls out a cigar and flips his lighter.

“We’ll meet first thing Monday morning. Try to stay out of trouble this weekend.”

He says nothing. I can’t read a damn thing about him, either.

“Do you have any plans for the weekend?” His smirk is back as he talks.

Wait! What? He’s asking me about my weekend?

“That’s a little personal, don’t you think?” That sounds better than admitting that I have no plans, because I have no life.

He sniggers and waves out. A big black Audi four-wheel-drive that’s parked up the street pulls out and stops kerbside, next to us.

Smoke drifts from his mouth. “See you Monday then, Miss Tanner,” he says my name with animosity.

Making his way to the car, he gets in the passenger seat and doesn’t even give me a sideways glance as the car pulls away.

Not even once.

I find myself standing on the crowded footpath, alone and with more sexual frustration than I know what to do with.

CHAPTER SIX

The weekend means one thing—acting like a teenager at my parents’ house on the hill. I call it a house, but it’s so big that sometimes they don’t even know I’m there. My terrace feels suffocating at the moment, or maybe it’s the situation I’m in. Whatever it is, I feel the need to escape. And the best place to escape to is Dolorous. Yes, the big, bricked beauty has a name.

As soon as I open the front door to my childhood home, I feel at ease. For years, my Dad was the Supreme Court judge, the highest position of law in the country, so I grew up with excessive security at our fortress on top of the hill. Dolorous overlooks the city on one side and the beach on the other.

My Dad is the single most intelligent person I have ever met. He’s debated with me all my life.

When I was drunk, I’m sure I remember Pacer mentioning my job being in my blood. It was an accurate assumption. It is in my blood. Since I am an only child, my Dad has focused every lesson and expectation on me, and me alone.

Aren’t I lucky?

I’m guaranteed a solid grilling this weekend from Dad, for taking Pacer Fratelli on as a client. But I’m prepared for it, and maybe I need it. There’s no one else on the planet who can snap me back into reality like my Dad does.

“Hello … Anyone home?”

I gently drop my keys into the bowl on the antique hall table in the wide wood-panelled foyer. I wouldn’t dare damage any of Mum’s precious antique furniture. She has devoted her entire life to restoring the house back to its original glory of the early 1900s.

“In the kitchen, dear,” Mum calls from the lower half of the house.

Depending on which street entrance you drive into, there are two grand entries, one on the top level and one on the lower half of the residence. Because the house is on a sloping hilltop, the entire property is split into two levels, with two acres of sprawling grounds surrounding it. Dolorous is so fancy. Even her name is fancy. Dolorous. Yes, she is grand, and I will grow old in her, just as my family before me has.

My great-grandfather started one of the very first newspapers in the country, and he built this house to pass on to his children. My grandfather then took over the newspapers and went on to introduce colour television into Australia, so he was given the house. When my Mum was one of the first female editors and started one of the first women’s magazines, she also inherited the house. She got it over my Aunt Patrice because she was the oldest, and most successful. Success means everything to my family. Mum is my Dad’s perfect match. She’s equally as witty and comes in a close second to Dad’s sharp intellect, but most importantly, Mum’s powerful family approved of Dad when they started dating in their early twenties.

Growing up in a house with a family full of ground breaking high achievers has been exhausting. The added pressure of being an only child is the perfect recipe for a lifetime of greatness, or a lifetime of utter despair. Luckily for me, I inherited Dad’s desire to challenge everyone and everything in life, so ambition drives me more to succeed without accepting failure as the result. Plus, I’ve always been independent so moved into my terrace at the age of eighteen, to be closer to law school. It’s helped to keep me separate from this life.

Finally reaching the kitchen, I find Mum sitting at the chef’s table on the far right. An oversized kitchen bench spreads from one length of the kitchen to the other. Marcel is in the middle of it preparing dinner, as he has done all my life. I’ve never seen my Mum cook … not even once.

Mum’s hair is immaculate as usual. A light brown bob, her signature look since the 60’s, is silky smooth. She doesn’t believe in cosmetic surgery, so she is one of the rare women in the area who actually has wrinkles. She is still so beautiful though, and the wrinkles suit her natural beauty.

“So I was just talking to Marcel about whether you will be here this weekend. You know your father is going to have something to say about the photos in papers today.”

“What papers? What photos?”

“You’re on the front page of all the publications. Where have you been all day, under a rock?”

A loud sigh escapes my lips as I slump into the square booth on the opposite side to Mum.

“Yeah, I kind of have. I’ve been under a case file that’s the size of a rock.”

“I see that. I also see you’re enjoying the subject matter.” Mum’s tone is full of judgement.

I wish I had stopped to see the news today.

Why didn’t Sienna, or anyone else at the firm, show me the paper?

“Okay. Cough up. I need to see this newspaper.” I hold my palm out, expecting a copy any minute.