Thicker Than Water. Lindy Cameron

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      "But you said the Cathy detective was in charge," Brigit reminded her.

      "Yeah, but Chucky's in charge of her and, ultimately, everything."

      "Except Marek," Del pronounced.

      "Except Marek. Thank um," Kit hesitated. Who? "Thank the Police Commissioner; may she reign forever more."

      "Is she one of us?" Brigit asked.

      "Who? The Police Commissioner?"

      "No, Kit," Brigit frowned. "The Cathy in charge."

      "I've no idea Brigie. She only gave her name, rank and that's it. She didn't offer any other credentials and I didn't ask."

      "And you couldn't tell?" Brigit was astonished. "Kit, I do hope that being in love is not affecting your gaydar."

      "Brigie honey, a woman in uniform is a woman in uniform - a fine sight to behold whichever direction she may head after work," Kit smiled.

      "Yeah, of course," Brigit agreed, "unless she's got a face like a twisted old boot or the back end of a bus. Then even a uniform isn't going to help."

      "Bite your tongue Brigit Wells."

      "I won't," Brigit declared. "Del, I don't care what you think, I refuse to kowtow to the kind of political correctness that denies me my aesthetic sense. Not to mention..."

      "But you're going to anyway," Del interrupted.

      Brigit gave her woman a snarly look. "Sooner or later we have to face a simple fact of nature that some women are just plain ugly. And accepting that, doesn't mean they can't be our best friends, unless they're ugly on the inside too in which case we don't have to like them at all. But, damn it, if I can admit that I'm fat, then Barbara bloody Juniper can admit she's really fucking ugly."

      "Who is Barbara Juniper?" Kit queried

      "Don't ask, Kit," Del sighed. "And don't go there, Brigit. I do not want to hear it again."

      Brigit pouted but gave Kit an 'I'll tell you later' nod. "So, what can we do to help Angie?"

      Kit shrugged. "The cops shooed us all out and told Angie to go home. She'll ring if she needs us, but Julia is due back from her Dad's tonight so I think Angie will be fine, for now."

      "Good," Del said. "And what about you?"

      "Me?" Kit was puzzled. "I'm okay."

      Her friend's head shake was supremely patronising. "Your coffee's having its own private breakdown then, is it?"

      Kit looked at the mug in her right hand and discovered, to her surprise, that it was vibrating. Must be post tram and traffic rage, she thought. "Curious," she said.

      "Curious my arse," Brigit noted. "You're in shock."

      "From what?" Kit was genuinely clueless.

      "You are hopeless, Katherine O'Malley," Del laughed. "The things you've been through lately would do a normal person's head in. And now you've just spent the arvo with another violently murdered person and you don't know why you have the shakes."

      Kit held her empty hand out in front of her. Ooh, it was shaking.

      "I spent the afternoon with Angie, Marek and the Scooter gang, minus Scooter, not the dead guy."

      "That's not the point and you know it," Del said, standing so that all six-foot of her loomed over Kit. "Come on, you're coming home with us tonight. At least for dinner."

      "Good plan," Brigit agreed.

      "It's a lovely plan - both of you," Kit agreed, "but I can't. I'm meeting Enzo for dinner."

      "What? Just Enzo?"

      "Yes, Brigie, just Enzo. Alex is still in Sydney."

      "There is a high level of weirdness in your current relationship, Kit," Brigit noted.

      "Tell me about it," Kit nodded, getting up to take her mug and plate over to the sink to rinse them. Having a couple of Immigration Agents tailing your new girlfriend's new husband and therefore, quite often the girlfriend as well, was bad enough. But trying to carry on some semblance of a courtship with the new girlfriend, while accommodating her new husband's predicament was confusing and frustrating. None of which had anything to do with why she was meeting Enzo for dinner tonight, but would no doubt - for a change - confuse Bill and Ben the Feral Feds who didn't seem to want to give up their suspicions about the divine Lorenzo McAllister not being a genuine husband to the gorgeous Alexis Cazenove.

      "Yo, Kit!" The name calling was obviously a repeat performance.

      "Sorry, Brigie. What?"

      "Why are you dining with Enzo, if Alex is not even in town?"

      "Why not?" Kit asked. "Also, he might have a job for me." Kit raised a finger. "And, before you ask, no I don't know what it is yet."

      Brigit closed her mouth.

      Enzo McAllister, a picture of sartorial splendour in a Sean Connery-in-a-tuxedo kind of way, sat elegantly in a Windsor Hotel armchair deep in conversation with a spindly, skinny-nosed woman who was wearing too much jewellery and not enough lipstick.

      Enzo's slightly receding, dark with flashes of grey collar-length hair, his soft brown eyes and lilting Scottish-from-Lincoln accent gave him an air of distinguished trustworthiness. A historian and genealogist by occupation, he was also a concert pianist who preferred playing Broadway tunes and cool jazz - which he did, four nights a week at Dorothy's Caviar Bar. A Scottish-Italian, wannabe-Australian, recently married gay man, Enzo was also one of the most warm-hearted and honourable blokes Kit had met in a long time - in fact, ever.

      She watched from a distance as he schmoozed his latest client by oh-so-respectfully charming her into feeling like his favourite aunty. Having never seen Enzo in action before, Kit was enviously fascinated by his technique. Actually she'd never considered there'd be this kind of in-action aspect to being a genealogist, but now that she knew better she wondered whether he'd give her lessons in the genteel art of sucking-up.

      Not that she couldn't be all grace and politeness if she had to, she just couldn't maintain the charade if her heart wasn't in it. Any client who entered her world on their own pedestal of self-importance, because of wealth or power or other related misconceptions of worth, would discover pretty bloody quickly that any kind of attitude would be ignored. After they'd signed her contract, of course. She'd give any rich bastard a chance, but expectations of more for less would be given short shrift; they'd get no more time or effort than she ever gave Joan Pinter, the pensioner next door, who regularly hired Kit to track down her no-good son.

      All that being thought, she was prepared to behave herself for Enzo's benefit. She looked down at her bottle-green silk shirt, black trousers and sensible leather shoes, and was therefore rather glad she'd decided not to challenge the old-fashioned sensibilities of the regular Windsor patrons - this client-one in particular - by wearing her purple leather pants and runners.

      "Ah, Kit," Enzo said, standing as she approached. He took her hand in his, kissed each cheek and then turned back to Mrs Skinny-Nose to make the introductions. СКАЧАТЬ