For the first time in several days, Gary thought about his search for Trixie Powell. He'd done little to earn the $10,000 advance that Barbara Thompson gave him. It was also possible the bomber was searching for Trixie. So he decided to visit Barbara Thompson to explain his lack of progress and see how she reacted to news of the bombing.
She lived in Maroubra, a beach-side suburb to the south. It was a blue-collar enclave until twenty years ago, when hordes of yuppies arrived in their baby-Beamers, waving wads of cash and did some socio-economic cleansing. However, some working class residents, like her, stayed put. She lived in a small Californian bungalow about two blocks from the beach.
Gary turned into her street as the light faded. He hadn't rung ahead. So when she opened her front door and saw him, she looked surprised. "Mr Maddox. What are you doing here? Have you found Trixie?"
"No, I'm afraid not. Can I come in?"
"Of course."
A man loomed up behind his client. He was in his late twenties, with a long boney nose, tight mouth, heavy jaw and close-set eyes. His leather vest was open wide to reveal corrugated abdominals covered with a rough tattoo of a naked woman. It was the sort of tatt you could only get in prison.
Barbara Thompson nodded towards him. "This is my second son, Alex."
Gary knew Alex had done two shifts in prison for armed robbery. They shook hands.
Alex stared at him. Whatever happened behind his eyes didn't happen often and didn't happen fast. "You're the private eye, right?"
"Yes."
"Found Trixie yet?"
"No. That's what I've come to talk about."
Barbara Thompson turned to her son. "Alex, I want to talk to Mr Maddox alone. Go away."
Alex bit his lip. "But Mum …"
"Do what you're told?"
"Mum …"
"I said, go."
She obviously called the shots, because Alex reluctantly nodded and disappeared back up the hallway.
She looked at Gary and sighed. "Sorry about that. Alex is still upset about Tony's death. They were very close."
The living room had a 1960s décor. Above the fake-brick fireplace was a wooden mantelpiece lined with family photos. Two green vinyl couches faced each other on a worn tartan carpet.
Gary sat on a couch and rested his left arm on a frilly white antimacassar.
His client sat on the couch opposite, looking unhappy. "So, you haven't found Trixie yet?"
"That's right. I'm afraid I've had some misfortune."
"What?"
"Someone planted a bomb in my apartment. When it exploded, I was very lucky to survive. I've spent the last few days in a hospital."
Gary studied her closely. Her surprise seemed genuine. "My goodness, do you have any idea who was responsible?"
"No. But it's possible - just possible - it had something to do with my search for Trixie."
"Why?"
"I think someone else is looking for her."
"Really? Why do you think that?"
"When I went over to your son's apartment, I found someone had already broken in."
"Maybe a burglar."
"Maybe. Or maybe someone else is looking for Trixie and that person planted the bomb to stop me finding her. Did you tell anyone I'm looking for Trixie?"
"Only my sons and they wouldn't tell anyone."
It occurred to Gary that, if someone else was looking for Trixie, that person might have bugged this house, including the room they sat in. He got up, went over to the phone and picked it up.
"What are you doing?"
"Do you have a Phillips screwdriver?"
"Yes," she said uncertainly.
"Please get it."
She went into the kitchen and returned with a Phillips screwdriver, which he used to take the baseplate off the phone. He was no expert, but the little device attached to the wires inside definitely looked like a bug. He pulled it out and held it up.
A nervous frown. "What is it?"
"A listening device. Someone bugged your phone."
"My goodness. Why?"
"I'd love to know. Just wait here. I'll be back soon."
Most bugs send a signal to a relay transmitter hidden nearby. So Gary strolled out onto the patio and casually looked up and down the darkened street. Parked cars lined both sides. But a Ford Falcon, about fifty metres away on the other side, caught his attention because someone sat behind the wheel.
He stepped off the patio and strolled up his side of the street. When parallel with the Falcon, he darted towards it. But he'd forgotten about his broken ribs, which exploded with pain. He screamed and slowed to a hobble.
The Ford Falcon roared into life and sped off down the road with its lights off. It was too dark to identify the driver or get the licence number.
Gary limped back to the house and found Barbara Thompson standing on the patio.
She said: "Who was in the car?"
"Don't know. But someone else seems very keen to find Trixie."