“Some place, bro!” the cabbie hooted, torn between envy and entrenched resentment of the Super Rich. “It’s a bloody disgrace, all them lights.” He spoke like a man committed to having the issue addressed a.s.a.p. “Looks like the Q.M.2 at sea, don’t it?”
Bruno had to agree. The Lubrinski mansion was ablaze. Even he, close friend of the Lubrinskis, had to drop his eyes. He reached in his wallet, took out a couple of crisp fifty-dollar bills. “Keep the change.” He put the notes into the man’s outstretched hand. “You wouldn’t expect them to hold a big charity bash in the dark now, would you?”
“That’s what it is then?” The cabbie acknowledged the size of the tip by landing a friendly punch on Bruno’s shoulder. “Thank you kindly for that, bro!”
“That’s what it is most of the time,” Bruno said, stepping out of the cab without further damage to his person. “These people are among the biggest philanthropists in the country.”
“Yeah?” The driver wasn’t about to let it rest. “All to do with their tax, I reckon. Okay, bro, enjoy yourself now. Me, I have to get back to the grind.”
“Take care, bro!” He stood for a moment in the golden gleam of the street lights, watching the cab driver perform a perfect U turn, and then scoot off with a friendly wave. The guy was right. The house did look like a liner at sea.
He was late. Couldn’t be helped. He’d got caught up with an old University friend he’d made a bundle for, allowing his friend to pay off his mortgage. There was satisfaction in that. He liked helping people. Just like his dad. As he made his way up the broad flight of stone steps he could see guests milling around the huge brilliantly lit entrance hall. They formed a living, moving kaleidoscope of multicoloured gowns, emerald, scarlet, amethyst, silver and gold, set off to perfection against the sea of black dinner suits. It all looked sensational. People had been known to fight for Marta Lubrinski’s invitations. Often it came down to hissy fits.
Beautiful music was issuing from the living room, soaring above the hubbub of voices and laughter. It conveyed a broad spectrum of human emotions, joy, love, sorrow, hope. He hadn’t started out life as a classical music lover though he’d been fed a lot of Italian opera in the womb, Puccini, Verdi.
He loved jazz. He had a big collection of the world’s greatest jazz musicians. It was Marta, his self-appointed honorary aunt, who had taken charge of his classical music education, starting with A for Albeniz, the great Spanish virtuoso pianist and composer. He was still working his way through the B’s. Bach. Beethoven. Brahms. Marta had unloaded one hundred CD’s on him, exhorting him “Play them, darlink. Listen, Listen. Give your soul wings!”
Tonight was one of Marta’s famous “dos” with wonderful music and equally wonderful food and wine. It was taken for granted he would attend, especially as he had been, and still was to a certain extent, her husband, Ivor’s protégé. Ivor Lubrinski had started his new life in Australia, as a seventeen-year-old Lithuanian emigrant with ten pounds in his pocket, an unshakeable belief in his destiny and an incredibly astute business brain. Ivor was also notoriously society shy. He rarely attended his wife’s grand soirees. It was Marta who had control of that side of things, as brilliant in her fashion as Ivor was in his.
Bruno was devoted to them both. Their philanthropy was legendary when he happened to know Ivor was as careful with a dollar as his own Scottish-born dad had been. Neither man ever forgot their roots. Hungarian Marta had to a mind-blowing extent. Marta had the craving for luxury lodged in her very being.
As he stepped into the Rococo-on-steroids entrance hall with its glittering travertine floor, his eyes gravitated automatically to the magnificent Bohemian chandelier at its centre. The hundreds and hundreds of crystals bounced light off every surface. If it ever fell it would surely kill anyone directly beneath it and injure those in the vicinity. It had been his suggestion to place a large library table beneath it to bear the brunt in such an eventuality. Marta had come up with an extraordinary ebonized and parcel gilt centre table with really weird claws for feet.
The table now held a great pyramid of flowers. It must have been arranged in situ. No one could have walked with it. He guessed it was the masses of Asian lilies, pink and white, showing off their beautiful dusky pink faces that gave off the heady perfume that tickled his nose.
Eventually he was able to move through the throng into the voluminous living room as big as a football field. A series of open arched and shuttered French doors gave onto a brilliantly lit pool side terrace. It too was paved in travertine and beyond that a magnificent panoramic view of Sydney Harbour, the most beautiful harbour in the world and he had seen them all in his travels.
Along his way he received choruses of hellos; claps on the shoulder, air kisses from the women, some grasping his hand with faintly glazed eyes. He had to know he was one of the most eligible bachelors around. It wasn’t a good position to be in. In fact, he hated it. Being a bachelor didn’t trouble him at all. He had turned thirty, was coming at thirty one. Being vigorously pursued by young women and determined cougars did his head in. He was in no hurry to get married. He hadn’t met the woman of his dreams. In truth he was beginning to wonder if he ever would. He did have dreams, but they were locked away somewhere inaccessible even to him. It was too damned hard for him to forget the disastrous breakup of his parents’ marriage and the way his staggeringly beautiful Italian mother had taken off and left him and his dad, an incredibly nice guy, to fend for themselves.
He well remembered the waves of grief that had come crashing down on them. They had adored her. Even now he couldn’t think about his mother without feeling a deep, angry hurt. Those early years had been bad, missing his mother. It wasn’t until he turned twelve that he had really toughened up.
He’d got the hang of cleaning the house, shopping and preparing meals for him and his dad. His mother had been a wonderful cook. He had watched her often enough, so he soon became a dab hand with pasta, al dente of course, matching the right pasta to the right sauce. It’d got to the point when one evening after a great dinner of spicy calamari followed by Linguini Al Frutti di Mare his dad sat him down asking very seriously. “Do you want to become a chef, son? You know whatever you want to do I’ll back you.”
A chef! A great job certainly if one had a mind to it, but he was on course to secure a place at University. He wanted to finish with a double degree, Master of Laws and Bachelor of Commerce. He could do it in five years, working part time. He was smart. What a good laugh they’d had when he’d explained his ambition. His culinary skills had been inherited from his mother; Italian blood and the love of good food. That was it! Another area where he had shone, was organizing the household accounts. He saw they were paid on time. He even found better alternatives. He managed the budget far better than his dad. He had made his mark at school, both in the classroom and on the playing field. His father had told everyone who would listen he was meant for big things. Nothing had mattered more than his dad be proud of him. They were survivors. Mates.
Taller than most, his eyes ranged easily over the heads of the usual crowd, the movers and shakers, the society crowd, the hob-nobbers and the fringe dwellers. He recognised the piece the quartet Marta had hired were playing. Borodin. The Polovtsian Dances. The reason he knew was the Polovtsian Dances had opened the Winter Games in Sochi. He, Ivor and a couple of Ivor’s cronies had been witness to the dazzling opening ceremony when a beautiful Russian girl had flow across a winter dreamscape to that music. He recalled how the works of Russia’s greatest classical composers had filled the stadium, rousing every heart, including his, with a highly emotional Ivor in unashamed floods of tears. The same beautiful Russian music was now being generated in the Lubrinski living room. The musicians were very good as was expected.
The work came to an end. The applause began. He moved further into the monumental room that certainly had the wow factor if you didn’t shy away from opulence. Sumptuous silk-taffeta gold curtains with tasselled tiebacks swept the floor, a pair of antique Italian chandeliers hung from the elaborately plastered ceiling, a huge portrait of a striking looking woman stood on a gilded easel. Marta allowed people to think it was a portrait of her great grandmother. Of course it wasn’t.
Loads of Louis XVI furnishings were mixed in with the plush modern stuff. Not Louis-style, the real McCoy. Marta had a gimlet eye for such things. It made a praiseworthy balance, since Marta was as devoted to her charities as they were rightly devoted to her.
He was getting his first clear view of the musicians of the group, first and second violins, viola and cello. He started to lift his hands to join in the wave of applause, only they fell back to his side as shock took over. He couldn’t believe his eyes. He probably would have given vent to a gasp only his breath was lodged in his throat.
The focus of his attention was the cello player, a young woman in her early twenties. He knew the group from other occasions. An attractive, plump young woman showing a lot of bosom played viola. The second violin was a tall, earnest young gent with a mop of unruly black curls, a pronounced Adam’s apple and black rimmed glasses to lend a bit of gravitas.
The cellist was new. A replacement for the evening. She could even be a graduate from the Con. She was that young. In a huge room, surrounded by many attractive even beautiful women, she stood out as a single red rose would be a standout in a bouquet of carnations. He had no interest in other members of the quartet. His sole focus was the girl. He was staring, when staring wasn’t his style. Not that he was the only male caught out looking his fill. He didn’t think he had seen anyone as sexy as this beautiful girl with a gleaming cello propped between her long slender legs. The length from the knees was tantalizingly on view as the sheer top layer of her long black skirt fell away. Not that she gave off any overtly sexy aura. She looked chaste. Absolutely. Ultra-refined, very romantic. The princess in a fairy tale. A magical creature.
Curling masses of titian hair flowed away from her face, and over her shoulders. Her porcelain skin, face, throat, décolletage were shown to priceless advantage against the black lace of the sleeveless V necked bodice. She would be above average height when she stood up, and willow slim. She had light eyes. At this distance he didn’t know if they were blue or green. He was prepared to bet they were green if only because he had seen a blown-up photograph of a large bravura portrait of this girl’s double. People did have doubles in life, he reminded himself, only he had the certainty this girl had Hartmann blood.
A Hartmann, for God’s sake!
He was so certain, his nerve endings were doing a slow burn.
A seminal moment in your life, McKendrick.
Through his late father, Ross McKendrick, a private investigator and a former ex-chief of detectives, he had developed a fascination with the so called “cold cases’; the mysterious disappearances of certain individuals, male and female, that were never solved. The old Hartmann case was one his dad had laboured over to the point of obsession. It was as much a mystery today as it had been twenty years earlier.
Not anymore.
Tonight had opened up a powerful new lead. The young woman he had under close observation had to have Hartmann blood in her. That was his gut feeling and he trusted his gut feelings.
At one time of his life, after the untimely death of his father in a hit-and-run accident—the culprit never found—he wanted to crack the case if only to finish the job for his father and give closure to the Hartmann family. Other ambitions had got in the way. He now ran his own wealth management company, The Fortuna Group. His company was getting bigger by the day. He was very good at whatever he did. Consequently he was doing extremely well. An increasing number of other people were doing well because of him. To be a success had always been expected of him. No way was he going to let his dad down. He honoured his memory.
It’s her.
She who had been lost is found.