Wanderlust (Luke Bales Mysteries, Book 1) by Simon Foster

Author:Simon Foster [Foster, Simon]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Published: 2015-12-04T22:00:00+00:00

I was on my fourth or fifth tinnie, the ball game long replaced by a bass fishing tournament, when my mobile rang.

“Hello?” I said.

“Luke. It’s Bertha.”

“Gidday, luv,” I said. “We missed you tonight.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“You would have loved it. The joint was a real circus. SWAT teams, reporters, the whole kit and caboodle.”

“I know, Luke. I was there.”

“Bullshit.”

“I was outside, with the media. Listen, where are you?”

“Trump Tower.”

“Come on, Luke. I’m serious.”

“Inside the bar.”

“I’m outside.”

“Can’t you read? We’re closed.”

“Come on. Let me in. We need to talk.”

“Don’t you have a home to go to?”

“Just a studio apartment with a foldout bed and a hungry cat. Come on, Luke. Let me in.”

I sighed. “Hold on a tick.” I hung up, walked over to unlock the front door, then rolled up the shutter far enough for her to bend underneath. Then I rolled it back down again. As she straightened up, she grabbed at her lower back.

“Shagger’s back?” I said.

“I wish. Old age. I’m not cut out for these long days any more.” She nodded at the closure notice taped to the front door. “Sorry to hear about that.”

“Yeah, well, as my Dad would say, all good things must come to an end.” We gravitated towards the light at the far end of the room. “Beer?”

“Woman’s not a camel.”

“What’s your poison?”

“Anything, as long it’s not another one of those Wanderlust things. I was turned inside out by that stuff. Tabasco,” she said, shuddering at the thought.

I grabbed two VBs from the fridge. The ivory statuette of the woman riding an elephant watched me from the back bar. Roger had reckoned that the trunk raised in the air would bring me good luck. Good luck, my ass. It hadn’t done me one iota of fucking good.

I handed Bertha a tinnie and we plonked ourselves down in front of the telly. “So you saw everything tonight?” I said.

“I didn’t say that. It was too crowded — plus I was stuck behind a Post photographer most of the time.” She took a taste of VB and nodded with approval. It was a good honest domestic brew from Victoria. “The cops tipped off the media about ten minutes before the raid. That’s not unusual in high profile cases like this.”

“Everyone’s got an angle,” I said.

“Indeed. In fact, I’ve just come from a media briefing. The police commissioner is holding up Anchor’s arrest as a solid gold triumph for New York’s finest.”

“No doubt.”

“I spoke to Malone afterwards. Off the record, he says they have Anchor bang to rights.”

“He would reckon that,” I said, “but I reckon it’s bullshit. They’ve just chosen an easy target, that’s all. The bloke has a criminal record, used to be a vagrant, lived on the Bowery. He’s a soft touch.”

“Not so, apparently. Tomassini at Forensics has confirmed that Anchor’s pocketknife matches a defense wound found on Polly Jean Anderson’s hand.”

I shook my head, incredulous. “Why would anyone use a pocketknife to chop up a girl? It would take hours.”

“They’re not saying that.

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