Deadly Tide. Sandy Curtis
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the marine authorities can tell if they're trawling in marine parks or closed areas. It's satellite surveillance.' He ground his cigarette stub into the ashtray. 'The surveillance team watching Kosanovos has been assigned to a more urgent case, so we won't be getting any more info about him.'
Before Chayse could ask anything else, his mobile rang. When he heard Sam's voice he was tempted to get out of the car and talk privately to her, but he stayed seated. After they'd finished talking, he slipped the phone back onto his belt and sat in silence for several seconds. Then he turned to Peter.
'Sam wants to show me around town,' he said. 'Says I should do the tourist things like visit the rum distillery.' He waited for the smirk to appear on Peter's face, but this time his supervisor had the tact to stay poker-faced.
'I'm acting like a bloody teenager,' Sam muttered to herself as she parked her car in Quay Street near the river. Her phone call to Chayse had caused her a lot of butterflies and her stomach still hadn't improved. She glanced at her watch. Only three minutes until she had to meet him in front of the Post Office. Plenty of time.
A man walked down the Post Office steps just as she arrived. He glanced at her, hesitated, then hurried past.
It hit her like an avalanche. The smell. That's what her memory had blanked out on the night of the attack. The smell of garlic and a peculiar aftershave on her attacker.
She whirled around. The man was walking towards the riverside car park. She looked back to the Post Office corner. Chayse was nowhere to be seen. She paused only briefly, then walked swiftly after the man who smelled like her attacker.
Chayse strode down the main street, barely glancing at the acacia and tropical frangipani trees dotting the wide paved footpath. He reached the corner opposite the Post Office, a beautifully restored heritage building. As he stepped onto the pedestrian crossing, he saw Sam. She was running along the footpath, away from the building. A tall, muscular young man about ten paces in front of her suddenly dashed into a large old-style concrete building. Sam followed.
What the hell was she up to? Playing detective out on the ocean was one thing, but following a man who looked like he spent most of his life in bar-room brawls was a different thing altogether. Chayse turned to follow her. A young girl walking towards him, arms laden with letters and packets, chose that same moment to change her direction, and collided with him.
Her mail flew all over the street.
Dominic Tully knew he'd been made. He didn't need to look back to know the quick clatter of sandals behind him belonged to the woman he'd tried to kill. Running into the Arts Centre had been done in the hope of escaping through a back door and losing the blonde bitch.
A woman seated behind the high, circular reception counter was on the telephone, eyes averted as she scribbled notes. He strode quickly past, glanced at the corridor to his left that led to the men's toilet, then strode to another doorway he could see halfway down the long, spacious gallery.
Peering around the corner, he spotted an emergency exit door at the end of a short corridor. To his right was an open area, and beyond that an office. A young woman came out from behind a desk, a bundle of brochures in her hand. She walked into the open area as another woman emerged from an alcove near the exit, coffee mug in hand. Dominic drew back. And cursed under his breath as the women met and began to discuss the brochures. He couldn't afford to be seen. Fury mounting by the second, he strode swiftly back to the corridor to the men's toilet.
Enormous landscapes vied with equally huge impressionist paintings on the white walls. Several sculptures sat in the middle of the floor. Sam felt their imposing presence as she glanced around. The gallery was light, spacious ... and, apart from the receptionist who was busy on the telephone, empty. The thick carpet absorbed the sound of her sandals as she walked forward. The old building had once been a bank, and she knew from previous visits that the doorway to her left led into a small, windowless room that had been the vault and was now used to house unusual art displays. A quick glance inside revealed a collection of old portraits.
She glanced down the short corridor to the men's toilet. Had he gone in there? Should she call the police? Remembering the man's peculiar smell wasn't exactly evidence, but perhaps the police could find more. Like a bruise near his groin, for a start. And he was the right height and build.
But ... what if she was making a mistake? The peculiar smell might be coincidence. She walked slowly forward. To her left, the corridor branched into a small alcove leading to the ladies' restroom.
Fear-tinged adrenaline shot through her. Her palms became slippery with sweat, and she rubbed them down her jeans. Perhaps she'd better call the police now. Let them handle it.
She hesitated at the door to the men's toilet, then made up her mind.
As she turned around, pain exploded in her head and she crumpled to the floor.
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