Half-an-hour later, Gary parked outside the apartment block in Drummoyne and looked up at its sparkling apartments. Doubt assailed him. Maybe, instead of searching the cutlery drawer, he should go home. Nope. He'd have too many regrets. Find the file and make Trewaley suffer.
He strolled towards the front entrance wearing a sweatshirt. To defeat the CCTV camera, he put the hood over his head and pulled the string tight until most of his face was covered.
He used the swipe card Madeline Arnott gave him to enter the small lobby and caught a lift up to the tenth floor. Not surprisingly, the front door of apartment number 104 - Tony Tam's apartment - was crisscrossed with crime scene tape. However, the door of 103 - Patrick Arnott's apartment - had none.
Gary used the key Madeline gave him to gently open the door and slip inside, wondering if he acted hastily when he threw the pistols off the bridge. Maybe, despite being wounded in the shoot-out, Baldy decided to search the cutlery drawer for the flash drive. If so, the thug might be in the apartment right now.
The apartment was dark and he waited, back against the wall, for several minutes until the living room turned grey, with lots of lines and shadows. To make sure he was alone, he slid through its two bedrooms, bathroom and laundry, and encountered no-one. While heading across the living room towards the kitchen, he passed the coffee table and reading lamp that were upturned when Patrick Arnott struggled with the thugs. Something brushed his leg and he jumped straight up. A dark blob screeched and zipped into a bedroom. Only the cat, thank God.
Heart thumping, he carefully stepped into the kitchen. Nobody there. He relaxed and turned on the light. A pair of rubber kitchen gloves was draped over the sink tap. He put them on and started opening bench drawers until he found the cutlery drawer. He rummaged through it. No flash drive. Shit. He rummaged again. Definitely no flash drive. Crap.
A long window above the sink overlooked a small cove. He scanned the twinkling apartment blocks spread around it and the ghostly yachts bobbing at their moorings, and wondered what to do next. Maybe Baldy beat him to the cutlery drawer and souvenired the flash drive. He seriously doubted that. Baldy was wounded and his employer dead. Why bother? So it looked like Patrick Arnott lied when he told Merton he hid a flash drive holding the Trewaley file in the cutlery drawer. Gary was impressed that, with his life on the line, Arnott lied so smoothly. He didn't think Arnott had that sort of nerve.
He remembered the yellow flash drive Arnott showed him at the coffee shop in Paddington. What happened to it? Arnott certainly didn't have it when the thugs took him to the beach house. He must have disposed of it. When? Where? Gary had no idea and sensed his search for the file had reached a dead end. Maybe he should stop looking for it and start the next chapter of his life, if the Homicide Squad let him.
He was about to leave when he heard a loud "meow" and looked down. The skinny tabby cat had slunk into the kitchen and sat on its haunches, staring at him. On a night filled with death, it was nice to see a living creature, particularly one so unconcerned about human affairs. What did Patrick call him? Oscar. "Hello, Oscar."
The cat just stared.
He checked the food and water bowls he filled up earlier that day. Each half empty. If he left the cat in the apartment and didn't come back to feed it, it would probably die from thirst or starvation. He didn't want to come back and didn't want it to die. The only other alternative was to take it with him. At first, he was reluctant to do so. Then he realised it would be rather nice to share his apartment with a cat. He'd never owned a cat, but had always liked them. Dogs slobbered and barked all the time, and demanded to be taken on walks. Cats had more self-respect and looked after themselves.
There had to be a cat carrier somewhere in the apartment. He searched the bedroom wardrobes until he found one under a pile of books. He took it back to the kitchen and found the cat scoffing away. When the cat paused for breath, he scooped it up and dumped its screeching form into the carrier. "Sorry, Oscar, you're being kitty-napped."