Bleeding Hearts. Lindy Cameron

      

      BLURB

      Poison pens can draw blood. And that is exactly why TV presenter Rebecca Jones hires private eye Kit O'Malley to investigate the threats against her. But the trouble with being tenacious, tough, and too smart for her own good is that everybody else wants her on their team.

      As if trying to keep Rebecca alive and on the air wasn't enough, Kit is beset by a clutch of other people's catastrophes that require her very particular skills to resolve.

      And, as Kit is the detective who can't say no, before she knows it she is up to her eyes in the worst that Australia's criminal minds can throw her way.

      Money laundering, sordid sexual shenanigans, abduction, political sleaze, and murder among Melbourne's movers and shakers threaten to swamp Kit as she picks her way through the morass of double-dealing, treachery, and outright greed.

      As if that's not enough, the beautiful and sexy Alex Casenove sweeps back into her life, reminding Kit that love is almost as deadly as hate and that murder never happens at a convenient time.

      Bleeding Hearts, the sequel to the highly acclaimed debut Blood Guilt, is a tightly plotted romp through the dark underbelly of Australia's most-cultured city, vibrantly demonstrating that even the heartless bleed.

      CHAPTER ONE

      Count Dracula was making his move on another group of unsuspecting victims. Kit could have done something to stop it but she enjoyed watching the confusion he caused. The tourists and trendies from other parts of town always assumed he was part of the street theatre - until it was too late.

      Most of them for instance hadn't realised that the slap down, drag out domestic argument on the corner earlier was fair dinkum and not a piece of performance art played out for their entertainment. Kit supposed it was hard to tell though, coming as it did between the fire-eating clowns and the trio of a cappella drag queens who were now singing The Impossible Dream.

      So the group of Professional Things, dining al fresco on Brunswick Street while they debriefed each other after a hard day around the photocopier, presumed the impossibly tall cadaverous gentleman dressed in a high-collared, black velvet cloak doing the rounds of the tables was part of the show. They weren't to know he wanted something from them until he lurched into the only vacant chair at their table and skulled the contents of every glass within his reach, before reaching for the bottle of Chardonnay.

      The scattergun reaction amongst his victims was nearly always the same; beginning with laughter at the audacity of this street artiste till, one by one, it ended in righteous indignation with the realisation that a roving drunk had just relieved them of most of the alcohol on the table.

      When one of the Professional Things decided it was his job to be more righteous than his colleagues Kit realised a bit of stepping in had to be done.

      By the time she weaved her way through the other tables the PT was doing a fine impersonation of a bantam rooster, with his chest out and using his finger as a pecker. Kit put her hand between the PT's thirteenth point and Drac's chest and tried to smile sweetly.

      "At last," the Thing exclaimed, "I hope you're going to deal with this bum."

      "Deal with him? What would you like me to do?" Kit asked.

      "I dunno. Call the cops. Throw him out."

      "We're already out. Where do you suggest I throw him?"

      "I don't bloody know. He drank everything," the Thing complained, waving his arm to include every table in sight. "Just get rid of him."

      "But he lives here," Kit stated.

      "Lives here," the Thing snorted. "Where?"

      "I'm not sure exactly. One of the doorways around here. Right Drac?" Kit said, looking down at the Count, whose eyes had been swivelling between her and the Thing as if he was watching a tennis match.

      "Third one on the left, O'Malley, you know that," Drac replied, getting to his feet.

      "Well," the Thing stuttered, "I trust we're going to be recompensed for this."

      "Recompensed?" Kit repeated, with a raise of her eyebrows. "By whom?"

      "By him. By the establishment."

      "I doubt it. You let him drink with you," Kit said, trying to sound reasonable.

      "Let him? We thought he was part of the entertainment around here. He's just some drunk."

      "And you're not, I suppose."

      "Not what?"

      "Drunk," Kit replied.

      "Hey! We..."

      "You thought he was part of the entertainment and you all applauded when that very large woman beat the crap out of her boyfriend over there," Kit said, referring to the earlier domestic. "Did you think that was done for your edification as well?"

      The Thing's companions were trying to get him to sit down and even his own left brain, judging by the confused look on his face, was trying to tell him it was the sensible thing to do. But, dammit, that old right brain beast was fairly straining the buttons of his snappy Pierre Cardin shirt.

      "This situation has to be fixed," the Thing demanded.

      "Justin. Sit down," two of his friends chorused.

      He glared at them and then back at Kit. "Look, you work here, you have..."

      "I don't work here," Kit said simply.

      The Thing called Justin looked mighty confused. "You mean you're just sticking your big nose in other people's business?"

      "There's no need to get personal," Drac said. "Besides, most people would call her nose petite."

      "You shut up," Justin said. "And you..." His right hand was making and unmaking a fist.

      "Who are you going to hit first?" Kit asked. "A unarmed woman, or a drunken vampire?"

      "Justin," his chorus urged again.

      "Okay, okay. I'm sitting. But if I hadn't already ordered, I'd be outta here. This place sucks."

      "Look who's talking," said one of his more eloquent companions.

      "I'll see if the management will throw in a serve of garlic bread for your trauma," Kit offered as she took Drac by the elbow and headed back to her table.

      "Some people," Drac muttered. "He called me a bum."

      "You are a bum, Drac," Kit said.

      "Yeah," he acknowledged, waggling his head so he could wipe his chin with his shoulder. "But only to my friends."

      "Well, do this friend a favour, will you, and have something to eat." Kit squeezed five dollars into his hand. "Go get a souvlaki from Stevie."

      "Thanks O'Malley. And you really don't have a big nose."

      "I know."

      Kit slumped back into her chair just as Adrienne, the owner of the never-a-dull-moment Doolally Cafe, materialised with a glass of red and set it down in front of her.

      "You handled that well," she said.

      "No I didn't. I was being a smartarse. And he was drunker than I realised."

      "Who, Drac?"

      "No, the dreaded-customer-who's-always-right."

      "Well, you got him to sit and he didn't leave without paying."

      "I'd much rather have strangled him," Kit said, "therefore I think my incredible powers of self-restraint deserve some, let me think, salmon risotto."

      "Now?" Adrienne asked.

      "No. I'm actually waiting for a prospective client to turn up."

      "That would be me," said the voice belonging to the mosaic of bad dress sense that stood behind Adrienne.