Oh good, a nice-looking boy by Nana standards. Ally swallowed. But she wouldn’t back out now. She was ready—no, overdue—for a change.
Jess leaned toward her and muttered in Ally’s ear, “You’re nuts. I hope you know what you’re doing.”
Ally just shrugged. “Who knows. This Paul guy might be the man of my dreams.”
Chapter Five
A soft violet twilight was falling through the trees when Nate pulled his car up to the curb. He cut the engine and inspected his house. At least he was starting to think of it as his house now and not Robbie’s.
As he stepped out, a bunch of young teenagers cruised by on their skateboards, eyeing his silver Maserati. They wore regulation ripped jeans and baseball caps, their moods sullen. The last boy idled past on his skateboard, flipping Nate the bird as he insolently drifted round the corner.
Nate shook his head. Kids. He’d been just the same at that age. Worse.
His dress shoes skidded slightly on the damp grass as he made his way to the house. After his farewell party he hadn’t bothered to change out of his business attire. He’d left the steel-and-glass tower in the middle of Sydney and come directly down here, keen to draw a line between his old life and the first chapter of his new one. He was down for only a few days to prepare the house in readiness for his final move. Then it was back to Sydney to pack up his apartment before he returned here for good.
A dry voice crackled out through a frangipani tree as he walked past. “Back again, are you?”
Nate peered through the branches and spied a wrinkled, disapproving face surrounded by a flannel turban. “Evening, Mrs. Bennett.” Cheeks like slabs of mottled putty weighed down the elderly woman’s head. A floral housecoat billowed over massive shoulders. The wooden fence hid the fluffy slippers Nate was all too familiar with. When he’d come to live here with Robbie, Mrs. Bennett had already been the horrible old monster next door, and the passing years had just left her more scaly and grumpy.
“You’ll be seeing a lot more of me,” Nate said. “I’m moving back permanently.”
“Moving back? You? That’ll be the day.” She snorted derisively and rested a ham-sized forearm on the fence, causing the wooden planks to creak. “You’d better not be causing trouble like you used to.”
Nate raised his eyebrows. “That was a long time ago.”
The old lady harrumphed. “I remember it like yesterday. You were a right hooligan, and your brother didn’t lift a finger to stop you. Shameful it was, the way he egged you on.”
Shut up about Robbie, you old dragon. Nate bit off the retort just in time. He wanted to get along with his neighbors, even vinegary Mrs. Bennett. And she had a point, he had to concede. He’d stolen her prize pumpkins, played pranks on her, teased her dog, and generally shown no respect toward her. And she was right about Robbie, too. Not once had his brother ever tried to discipline him. In fact, he’d taken vicarious pleasure in Nate’s misdeeds, had once even shut the door on Mrs. Bennett when she’d come to complain. That had been a crappy thing to do to an old lady, even if she was a sourpuss. Nate frowned. That wasn’t how he wanted to remember his brother.
“I’m not here to cause any trouble.”
A furious yapping broke out on the other side of the fence. Mrs. Bennett bent down and reappeared with a mangy little mutt clutched to her vast bosom. The dog bared his teeth at Nate, a low growl vibrating his fur. The old lady had always kept a succession of ugly, snarling lapdogs, and this one seemed no exception.
“You’d better not, or I’ll set Porkchop on you,” Mrs. Bennett warned. “If there’s any loud parties or street racing like there used to be, I’ll call the police. This is a nice, quiet neighborhood now, and I want it to stay that way.” She lumbered off, the garish pink flowers of her housecoat glowing in the dusk.
So much for neighborliness, Nate thought as he let himself into the house and began turning on the lights. There’d definitely be no street racing, and no parties like Robbie used to throw. At the time, he’d thought his brother so cool for the wild ragers he’d indulged in. Thumping music, flowing alcohol, raucous friends, fast women. But now, when he looked back, it seemed more than a little sad the way his brother had greedily chased after stimulation yet never seemed to find any real satisfaction. As Robbie had gotten older he’d sought out wilder, more dangerous thrills, until he’d crashed his car at a hundred-and-fifty kilometers per hour and paid the ultimate price.
Nate left the house to retrieve his luggage and a bag of groceries from his car. As he approached the Maserati, he noticed the interior light was on. He frowned at his forgetfulness before realizing the passenger door was slightly ajar. He definitely hadn’t done that. He broke into a run. Reaching the car, he yanked the half-open door wider and peered inside.
“Shit!”
The groceries were lying scattered all over the passenger seat, tins and bottles scratched and leaking onto the ochre leather seat. But that wasn’t why he had sworn. His briefcase was gone. He opened the trunk and checked that his weekend bag was still there. Fuming, he scanned the street both ways, hoping to spot some suspicious behavior. Nothing. No passing traffic. No suspects loitering in the shadows. In the houses across the street, televisions glowed behind drawn curtains. Faint sounds of children playing drifted on the cooling air. Just a typical evening in suburbia. He swore again. The mundane quietness of the streetscape seemed to mock him.
Why had he forgotten to lock the car? Because he thought he was safe here in his old neighborhood.
He had to get his briefcase back. While it contained a few items of value, the thing that meant the most to him—his framed photo of Robbie—was in it. It had sat in his office for years, and he wanted—no, needed—it here in Burronga. To remind him of why he was here.
And now it was gone.
He pulled out his mobile phone and put a call in to the local police station. The operator on the other end didn’t seem too excited by his news. Friday night was always a busy one for the police, he was told. They would get to him when they could.
Frustrated, he carted the rest of his belongings into the house and prepared himself for a long wait. Sometime later a police car finally appeared. Two grizzled and jaded-looking policemen got out, paunches straining against their blue shirts. The older of the two, a bear of a man with a graying buzz cut, flipped open his notebook and eyed Nate.
“What make is that?” He nodded toward Nate’s car. “A Porsche or something?”
“A Maserati. A Gran Turismo.”
The policeman sniffed and scratched his neck with his pen. “All right for some.” He asked for Nate’s driver’s license and jotted down the details. “Hey, I know you.” He squinted closer at Nate. “You used to live around here. In this house, if I remember correctly.”
“That’s my new address,” Nate said. “I’m moving back.”
“Uh-huh.” The cop screwed up his eyes. “Yeah…I used to get calls about you all the time.” He turned to his partner. “Hey, Wozza, you remember the complaints we used to get about Nate Hardy?”
“Heh, do I ever. Got caught for shoplifting, didn’t you?”
Nate felt the back of his neck grow hot. It seemed like another lifetime when he’d stolen three video games from an electronics store. When his stepfather had discovered those games, he’d reacted in typical fashion: pulled off his belt and thrashed Nate black and blue, until Nate was nauseous and thought he’d received enough punishment, but still his stepfather continued, laying into him with maniacal glee. Until something in Nate had snapped, and he’d grabbed the belt and lashed it across the brute’s face before dashing out of the house and running all fifteen kilometers to Robbie’s place.
“The judge sentenced me to six months’ community service,” he said.
The two cops exchanged looks. “Huh. Community service.” The second cop spat in the dirt.
He should have gotten more, considering his long history of misbehavior, but Robbie had turned up at court and spoken for him. When he wanted to, Robbie could be quite persuasive, and he’d drawn the magistrate’s sympathy with his detailing of Nate’s dismal home life.
The first cop folded his arms across the barrel of his chest. “So you say your briefcase has been stolen. Any valuables in it?”
“Yes. About five hundred dollars in cash, a Rolex watch, a Mont Blanc pen, as well as some confidential business papers.”
“A Rolex and a Mont Blanc pen. Fancy shmancy.”
“Also a picture.”
“What, like a Picasso?”
Nate gritted his teeth. “A photo of my dead brother.” These two were enjoying taking the piss out of him, and he doubted they’d do anything about finding his stolen property. “Look, when I arrived I saw a bunch of teenagers loafing about on their skateboards. They looked like locals. Maybe one of them decided to come back to see what he could pinch.”
“So you got an eye for troublemakers, eh?” The cop pretended to scribble something into his notebook. “Well, we’ll certainly look into that, won’t we, Wozza?”