“Really?” Osborne had a strong desire to hit him. “What about Ann, did she have a steady boyfriend?
A butterfly passed in the garden, showing off its coloring. Julian made a helpless gesture. “I don’t know. She liked men, that’s all.”
“Yes, she did, but you’re lying.”
“No. Why?”
“This was found in her house,” he said, taking out the ring he had found hidden in the Chinese puzzle box. “It must be worth about ten or twenty thousand dollars. Not exactly Ann’s style, I would have thought. Who gave it to her?”
“How should I know?” Julian said—but he was blushing like a teenage girl.
“You knew Ann well,” Osborne went on. “Can you explain how a girl like her, from the wrong side of the tracks, ended up hobnobbing with the upper crust of the city?”
“She was doing well as a model.”
“And what else? Were you sleeping with her?”
“No, we were just friends.”
“Did she sleep with your father?”
“No!” Julian tried hard to flatten himself at the bottom of the armchair, but it was no use.
“Even for people like you,” Osborne said, “a ring like that is a lot of money for a fling. Not to mention that Ann preferred buying things for her mother rather than spending her money on pointless luxuries. And besides, a ring is more of an old man’s gift. Don’t you think so?” He was clenching both fists now.
“I don’t know,” Julian replied.
No more butterflies in the garden, no more bikini-clad girls under the palms: all that was left was his face, red with embarrassment, and the impression that he was losing his nerve.
“It was your father, wasn’t it?” Osborne said. “Did he buy Ann her car too? He was here just now, telling you to keep your mouth shut about their affair while he sorted things out with the cops. Because you knew about their affair, didn’t you? Not your mother, oh no. Protecting your father, that’s nice, I guess,” he said ironically. “Though come to think of it, being the accomplice of a criminal father, well, it’s almost like a Greek tragedy, don’t you think, Julian?”
Crimson-faced, the prodigal son continued to keep silent. Osborne didn’t need his confession. He left the property without a glance at the girls fanning themselves under the palm tree.
* * *
The Phoenix didn’t open before eleven, and it was now ten forty-five. Osborne walked up to the entrance, feeling distinctly nervous. The only information he’d gleaned from this lousy day was that Sam Tukao wasn’t a full member of the Tainui tribe but belonged to a hapu, a subtribe.
Osborne recognized the alley that led to the club, but he didn’t recognize tonight’s doorman. With the nose of a defeated boxer, and arms like trunks under his dark suit, the guy had all the grace of a bodybuilder.
“It’s private here,” he muttered.
He wasn’t Maori but Tongan.
“Where’s the usual doorman?”
“Will? He’s taking some time off.” He gave this nosy pakeha a suspicious once-over. “What do you want with him?”
“I just want to see him,” Osborne replied, flashing his badge.
The man didn’t look impressed. “This is a private club,” he said.
“I don’t give a shit.”
Osborne planted his .38 caliber in the man’s broken nose. The barrel sank into it as if into butter. “Open this door.”
For Doug, this was a casual job. He had never met the owner of the club, and barely knew the manager. He was paid for his talents as a bouncer, not to stop bullets. He did as he was told. Osborne closed the door behind him and pushed the Tongan toward the counter. Behind the counter, the blonde girl from the other night was getting the costumes ready. She jumped with surprise when she saw him—this guy was with Ann Brook the night she . . .
“Is Will here?”
“N—no,” she stammered, flustered at the sight of his gun. “He’s away.”
She hadn’t yet put on her fifties pinup costume, but she still looked like a Marilyn Monroe who’d been doped up to the eyeballs.
“How long has he been away?” Osborne insisted.
“Er . . . Since Friday.”
Just after Ann Brook’s death.
While Doug was quite calm, the blonde’s hands were shaking.
“When’s he due back?”
“Monday.”
