Death Beneath the Covers: Foxy Mysteries, #1

By Fiona Tarr

A high-class escort turns amateur detective to find her friend's killer.

 

Liz Jeffreys went from runaway to Madam the hard way. She thought she had everything she ever wanted. Wealth. Power. Influence. But she can't un-see her friend's lifeless body. Now she's compelled to infiltrate the investigation and find the killer. There's only one problem, and his name is Detective Jack Cunningham.

 

She knows Jack doesn't want her sticking her nose into his investigation, but she's determined her unique skillset can help solve the case. Her looks and contacts might open doors, but what she'll find could kill her.

 

Liz uncovers corruption and political turmoil far more dangerous than she could have imagined. She's operating out on a limb, walking a tight rope that could fall out from under her, leaving her next on the hit list.

 

• Language: English
• Publisher: Fiona Tarr
• Release date: May 31, 2021
• ISBN: 9798201923440

Book preview

1

Liz reached for the largest wine glass in her overhead cupboard and placed it on the glistening white stone bench with a sigh. She took a deep breath and poured the Pinot Grigio all the way to the rim. She knew there was no way she was going to be able to lift the stemless glass until she slurped at least an inch from the top, but she didn’t care. Here, there was no audience, no one to judge her, no one to impress.

Becca hadn’t called in yet, but it was not unheard of for one of her girls not to check in when she had finished with a client. But Becca was fastidious. She never missed texting Liz to let her know she was home safely.

Violent clients were rare, however, they did exist. Liz was always careful. She vetted all her clients thoroughly using a verification company. Most were wealthy, powerful men who were used to getting their own way. Still, the menu was set before the girls accepted the jobs and violating the terms would mean the client would end up on a ‘no-go’ list with her verification agency. Most weren’t willing to take that risk. They’d be banned from nearly every reputable establishment, even internationally.

Liz lifted the now less-than-full glass to her lips and took a long, slow sip. She opened the fridge and pulled out the left-over Thai from last night. Reheated leftovers never sat well with her stomach—and even less now that she was getting older—but she was hungry and she couldn’t be stuffed cooking or ordering more take away. Instead, she put the satay back in the fridge and grabbed some antipasto. Nothing like a platter of cured meats and olives with cheese to go with a glass of wine anyway.

She began cutting cheese on a wooden board, smiling to herself as she recalled the first time she ever heard the word antipasto. Where she came from a platter of cabana and cheese were nibbles and that was as fancy as it got—no stuffed olives, no sun-dried tomatoes, no pickled artichokes or cabanossi and definitely no pâté. Sunday night was snatch and grab night in her childhood household. Sometimes it was sardines and tomatoes on toast, soaked with white vinegar and others, it was nibbles. Liz still loved a plate of nibbles.

She took the prepared platter and her glass of wine out onto the balcony. The warm summer evening soothed her soul as she pulled out a chair from under her glass patio table and took in the spectacular view from her balcony. She wondered if her mother would be proud or appalled at her multi-million-dollar apartment. She could hear her rough northern suburbs pommy accent in her head. ‘You’re still a slut! Money don’t make you anymore proper.’

‘No mum, it doesn’t, but it sure as hell makes life a lot easier.’ Liz pulled out her phone and checked the screen. Her smart-watch hadn’t indicated she had a missed text, but the nervous feeling she had in the pit of her stomach wouldn’t go away, even with a very full glass of wine almost gone.

She tapped on the screen, ‘Call me when you’re done Becca.’ and hit the little arrow to send the message. She placed the phone on the table and took a handful of cheese from the white Versace platter. She sighed again as she took in the view, trying to focus her nerves on something more productive. Becca would call when she was ready. Her client must have just decided to go over time. That’s all. She reassured herself as she watched twilight settle over the River Torrens.

She loved her apartment. Fully restored in one of the oldest buildings in Adelaide, it held the charm of the city, known for its old churches and green parklands. Inside, the apartment was ultramodern and spacious, offering luxury and history in one package. From her penthouse, she could see the parklands, the botanical gardens, the river and the Festival Theatre. The Art Gallery and Adelaide Museum were only steps away. Being in the centre of the cultural hub of town was exciting, interesting and most of all—Liz knew it wasn’t exactly emotionally healthy—but living here made her feel somehow worthy.

Adelaide was her home. She’d grown up in the Northern Suburbs, taking the old red rattler train with the manual doors and windows to town to escape the housing-trust dwellings and vandalised streetscape any chance she got. She used to hang out in Rundle Mall and Hindley Street, stealing coins from the buskers and visiting Downtown to play arcade games with the spoils and if she was lucky, a huge burger at The Feedbag.

Liz popped an olive in her mouth and smiled as she recalled her infatuation with ballet. If it weren’t for her grandma’s annual gift, she’d never have been able to enjoy the many weekends she’d spent attending dance classes just over the river in North Adelaide.

She’d wanted to be a Prima Ballerina from an early age and thought making friends with other girls who shared her dream would be wonderful. But the girls had snubbed her, or maybe they’d snubbed her background. Most came from affluent families where their mummies drove BMW’s and their daddies worked late hours banging their secretary, but she didn’t know that then. Back then, she had been innocent of the world she now knew intimately.

Liz picked up her glass, telling herself that alcohol was not going to dull the pain, but she shrugged off the thought and gulped the last of her wine before walking to the fridge to get another.

She returned to the balcony and the balmy summer night and grabbed her phone from the table. Still no text. Staring at the screen, she decided to stop worrying and dialled Connie.

‘Hey sweetheart. How’s your night been?’

‘Good Liz. The Doctor was lovely and the exhibition was more interesting than I thought.’

‘That’s great Connie. Did you remember to make a few contacts? You never know when you might need a good word to get that transfer into med.’

‘Oh Liz. You worry too much. I’m enjoying the work. I’ve been thinking about it a lot lately.’ Connie paused and Liz cringed. She knew what was coming next and prayed Connie hadn’t succumbed to the same temptation so many of the girls did. ‘I’m thinking med school is over-rated. Why should I crank up a student debt when I can make a few thousand a week working part-time already?’

‘Because this life doesn’t last forever Connie. You can still be a doctor in your seventies. The jet-setting and dinner parties get old after a while and the body can only take so much. How many girls in our game are still going at that age?’

‘You do alright Liz. I know you’re not seventy, but your story is inspiring.’

‘No sweetheart, my story is tragic.’

2

Liz flicked her thick fury tongue on the roof of her mouth and screwed up her nose as she stretched to greet another day. ‘Too much wine you stupid woman.’ Reaching for her phone, she tapped in the code to open the screen. Still no text from Becca. She flopped back into her soft pillow and sighed. There was no way she was getting back to sleep now.

She jumped out of bed, started the shower running and sent a quick text message to a friend in the police force to see if he knew anything. Ten minutes later, she flicked a group text to the girls, applied her tinted moisturiser and lippy and was out the door and on her way to Becca’s apartment. She left her heels at the door, instead, opting for her gym wear and running shoes to walk the four blocks to Becca’s.

She strapped her smartphone to her arm, put in the earbuds and zoned out, deciding to run the distance for fitness. Her thoughts drifted to the sound of eighties music, her favourite for workouts and running. Flock of Seagulls belted out I Ran and Liz smiled to herself. Seriously who names their band Flock of Seagulls! Another one-hit-wonder of the eighties, like Soft Cell with Tainted Love. A few blocks down and her brain switched to her missing friend.

Becca had been her friend for nearly twenty-five years. She was one of her first rescues—that’s what she called the girls who’d been saved from abusive relationships or pulled from the red-light district. She only wished she could save them all. The work she did wasn’t without danger and it wasn’t reputable in the eyes of society, but it was better and safer than being a housewife to an arsehole like Connie had been or working for a street pimp like Becca used to.

Recently, her girls were career women, more often than not, those who had boring office jobs making bugger all money. She chuckled to herself. Who would have thought being a high-class escort could be considered an empowering career path, but the numbers didn’t lie. More clients preferred to pay beautiful women to attend events, listen to their fears and basically counsel them through life than find long-term partners. Some were married. Some were very powerful politicians and CEO’s but a lot were just single men, high income earners who didn’t want the hassle of long-term relationships or fights over prenuptial agreements. The trend was growing. 

‘Hi Larry. Have you seen Becca?’ Liz smiled at the doorman as she approached the serviced apartment block and removed her earbuds, placing her phone in her backpack.

‘No Liz. Not this morning. I’ve only just come on at six though.’

‘Thanks Larry. I’m going to go up and check on her.’

‘Big night last night?’ Larry smiled as Liz scooted past him and up the two long stairs to the foyer entrance.

‘It wasn’t supposed to be Larry.’ Liz frowned and Larry’s brow furrowed in recognition. The doorman knew what Becca did for a living. Not all Liz’s girls lived in serviced apartments, but all the rescued ones did. Liz paid the doormen extra to keep an eye on them. It kept them safe and helped her sleep better at night. As Connie would say, she worries too much.

Liz took the elevator, swiping her card and tapping the tenth-floor button as the doors closed. ‘You had better be sleeping in girl.’ She spoke aloud to her reflection in the smoky grey glass mirrored walls and took a deep breath as the elevator dinged and the doors opened.

The midnight blue carpet was beginning to show some wear. The little diamond pattern that was scattered all over it looked more like stars as the edges were worn from years of traffic. Liz remembered the day she and Becca had come to the open inspections, just after the building opened. Becca had been working for Liz’s agency for a few years. She’d been living with Liz for most of that time, as many of the new rescues did, but it had been time for her to get her own place.

Liz had done all she could to boost the girl’s confidence, provide her with the means to look after herself both emotionally and financially and Becca had finally been ready to jump at the chance.

Liz swiped the card at Becca’s door and opened it quietly, hoping beyond hope that her friend had just had a huge night and passed out, but the feeling in her stomach said that wasn’t likely.

‘Becca! You home?’ Liz walked through the living area and past the long kitchen bar. It was wiped spotless except for a brochure for some apartment building being erected a few streets away. She’d heard all the hype about it being the tallest building Adelaide had ever seen and how prestigious it was. It was well out of Becca’s price range though, making Liz wonder why she had the flyer at all. There was no handbag on the kitchen counter, where Becca always left it. At least there was nothing messed up or out of place. That was a good sign.

She carried on down the hallway past the guest bathroom. Liz didn’t need to open the bedroom door, it was wide open and the bed was still made. ‘No. Becca! Where are you?’ Liz pulled out her phone again. There was a text from Chris, the police officer. He hadn’t heard anything.

She dialled his number. ‘Chris.’

‘Yep.’ Chris answered in his usual casual manner.

‘I’m at Becca’s. She’s not been home. We need to file a report. Do you know who I should speak with?’ Liz made her way to the living area and tapped her fingers on the kitchen counter—right next to the apartment building brochure—as the silence grew.

‘How do you know she didn’t just stay overnight with her, you know, client?’ Chris had never been comfortable with what her girls did, but he knew she didn’t care about his discomfort. The brother of one of her graduates—those who had left the game and gone on to mainstream work—he knew how much the girls meant to her.

‘No Chris, not Becca. Besides, the girls don’t do sleepovers, you know that.’

‘What about a boyfriend?’ The sound of muffled voices disappeared as Chris must have put his hand over the receiver.

Liz took a deep breath, forcing her emotions down. Chris really knew how to piss her off at times, but he was her best connection to the Adelaide City Police. ‘Can we leave the interrogation to the detective I report this to Chris? I don’t need the third degree from you before we even get started.’

‘Yeah, okay. I’ll get the detective to give you a call.’ He sounded distracted and Liz fought to stay calm.

‘No. You know I don’t give out my personal number and I don’t want to give him my agency number. That will set the wrong tone for taking Becca’s disappearance seriously. I’ll call him. Who is it?’

‘How the hell should I know?’ Chris snapped. ‘I don’t work Missing Persons. I’ll have to look it up....’ Liz heard the police radio in the background and another voice. ‘Hang on a sec.’

‘What?’ Liz resisted the urge to bite her fingernails. There was no point. The damned acrylics were as hard as rocks and she wore them because her real nails were a mess.

‘I’ve just seen a new report flash up on my car computer screen and the police radio is going nuts.’ Liz heard Chris’s partner get in the car and slam the door. ‘I’m gonna have to get back to you Liz. Let’s go Mick.’

‘No Chris, just give me the name of the detective...’ The receiver went dead before Liz could finish. She barely contained her anger, the temptation to throw her phone across the room was almost too much. Instead, she left Becca’s apartment and took the elevator back to street level. There was no point checking for a car, Becca didn’t use one. All her clients were seen in the five-star, swanky hotels of the CBD and she took a taxi, the tram or walked to each appointment.

‘Larry, let me know if Becca comes home.’ The doorman nodded as Liz handed him a fifty dollar note and rushed off. The police station in Hindley Street was her best bet. Someone there would be able to take her report. It was only a block away, so Liz walked through the alley onto Hindley Street and started down the road. Her mind raced as she tried to stay calm. Who was Becca’s client last night anyway?

She pulled her phone out of the front pocket of her backpack and slung it back over her shoulder before opening her diary. Each of the girls had a different colour on her day planner, Becca’s was purple. She had two appointments, one was a lunch date with a visiting executive. He had some fancy lunch he needed to bring a ‘date’ to.

Liz flicked past him, he was one of Becca’s regulars anyway and likely not a threat. He rarely slept with her, instead, he just liked to make a good impression and nothing said success like a beautiful woman on your arm.

The next appointment made Liz frown, but she put her phone away as she entered the police station. She felt like a fish in a bowl, with all the glass that surrounded her. She moved to the counter and jumped sideways as a tall guy with tattoos down his arm was escorted out of the front door by a uniformed officer.

Liz watched the guy leave, no cuffs to be removed, no rough handling by the officer. An informant or a sleep-it-off visit maybe? She couldn’t help but speculate. Understanding people, their body language, their facial expressions. It was all an intricate part of her work.

‘May we help you?’ a young female officer asked politely from behind the desk. Liz was dressed in the latest eco-friendly Nimble shelf bra-tank and three-quarter pants. She knew her casual clothes didn’t hide her affluence, even to those unaware of leading fashion. Her nails were impeccable, her hair style top-shelf and her leather backpack clearly labelled Prada. She couldn’t help but wonder if the officer was always so polite.

‘I want to report a missing person please. Do you have a detective I can speak with?’ The young officer smiled.

‘We take the reports Mrs...’

‘Ms, thanks.’ The officer nodded in that understanding kind of way all women did when you insisted on the Ms title. ‘I’d prefer to speak with a detective.’

‘Of course, Ms...’ She waited but Liz didn’t offer her name. ‘But the detectives don’t handle missing persons cases straight up. We report them, many are found to be just staying over with friends or something like that.’ The girl smiled, but Liz pursed her lips, causing the officer to rush on in explanation. ‘If the report is escalated, a case officer and detective will then be appointed.’

Liz fixed her gaze on the young girl before her. She was tempted to argue but the girl was just trying to do her job. As if reading her thoughts, the officer continued on in a rush. ‘It’s very worrying I’m sure. We’ll take the report seriously of course. I’m just trying to say, well, you know, don’t worry. Most missing person cases are often not missing at all.’ She forced a bright smile.

An older officer who had sat back listening to the conversation moved forward. I’ll take it from here thanks Kylie.’

The girl looked worried, like she’d done something wrong, but the officer smiled encouragingly. ‘I need you to help Jones finalise that last report. You know what he’s like with paperwork.’ The officer nodded to the back of the station and the